Finn-agled

by Kristine Raymond

  Enough about Jeremiah. I’m here to locate Mable’s grave, not lament the passing of a man I hardly knew. Stopping at the entrance to the cemetery, Lance’s headlights illuminated a nine-foot-high, wrought-iron fence encircling the graveyard. A heavy padlock – locked, of course – hung from the clasp on the gate, necessitating the use of the bolt-cutters I didn’t bring. Up and over, then.

  I am not wearing the right shoes for this.

  Once on the other side – how long it took me is not pertinent to the story – I played my flashlight beam over a row of headstones. “Row 8, row 8. Six, seven – there it is! Row 8. Okay now, Plot 16.” One would assume the plots to be laid out in a grid-like, orderly fashion. One would be wrong. Zig-zagging across the field like Monty Halloran after a few too many at Darby’s, I finally located Mable Larabee’s eternal resting site in Row 9, Plot 14. Guess some of the tenants got sick of Port New’s humid summers and relocated.

  Contrary to popular belief, cemeteries are anything but quiet and peaceful at night. Creaks, groans, screeches; a rustling of wings set my nerves on edge. Where’s a vampire slayer when you need one?

  A twig snapped to my right, goosebumps breaking out along my skin. Swinging the flashlight in that direction, a pair of eyes glowed in the dark. Poor raccoon. I think I scared it more than it scared me.

  Okay, back to business. The possibility that I’m trespassing never occurred to me, so I didn’t bother to whisper. “Hello, Mable. Sorry to disturb you, but I really need to know how you figure into all this.”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”

  My blood froze on the spot. Spinning around, the beam from my flashlight bounced off the gun pointing straight at my heart before illuminating the face of a russet-haired man.

  “Hello, Miss Bartusiak. Nice to see you again.”

  Chapter Eleven

  You know how people say your life flashes before your eyes as you’re about to die? What flashed before mine was Spencer ending up as JoJo Halpern’s third husband. Or, would it be fourth? Since there’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen, I need a plan. The trouble is, it takes time to formulate one; time, I’m afraid, I may not have. My eyes snapped to the steel barrel aimed at my chest.

  This one time, I ate a green banana, and every molecule of saliva in my mouth evaporated. That’s what happened now. Not to mention, fear turned my feet to lead. Amazingly enough, my lungs still functioned, encased as they were in figurative cement, but terror robbed my voice of sound. So much for screaming.

  I scanned the vicinity for signs of life; human, preferably, though, at this moment, an appearance by the undead wouldn’t be unwelcome. Just my luck; not a soul – living or otherwise – in sight. Having traversed more than half the width of the field in search of Mable’s plot, from where I stood, I could barely make out the parking lot – or the light-colored car parked next to Lance. What are the odds it’s a white Corolla?

  “You’ve been following me!” I choked out the words, hoping I wouldn’t have to repeat myself because they barely squeaked out the first time. “Why?”

  “Why do you think? I knew, sooner or later, you’d lead me here.” His chuckle sent chills down my spine. “After all, you did find the code. I knew you had to have it when it wasn’t in that damn box.”

  “So, you did steal it on purpose! I knew it! I told Zara that, but did she believe me? No. Of course not. ‘Finn’s being paranoid.’” Curiosity overcame fright. “Wait a sec. How’d you know about it in the first place?”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.” A shovel landed at my feet. “Pick it up and start digging.”

  Focused as I’d been on the gun, I failed to notice the gardening implement and duffel bag the russet-haired man had brought along. Uh oh. Not items one likes to see at a potential crime scene. My future’s looking bleaker and bleaker. Stalling, for no other reason than I’d seen the tactic utilized dozens of times on cop shows, I asked, “What’s your name?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Russet Man’s eyes glittered ferally in the flashlight beam. What? I have to call him something. My brain hurts; don’t judge. “You’re not going to live long enough to tell anyone anyway. Now, dig!”

  Nice going, Finn. You’ve ticked him off. On the bright side, dying in a cemetery is convenient. Think I’ll get points for that?

  Okay, take a breath and use your head. There has to be a way out of this. Oh, why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going? Spencer suspects but doesn’t know for sure, and it’ll be hours before you’re missed anyway because he said he wasn’t calling until later. And what if he decides on a whim to catch a Broadway play before he leaves town? By the time the performance is over, he’ll think it’s too late to call, and he’s considerate enough to let me sleep in tomorrow morning, and by then I’ll be dead so it won’t matter.

  Who’ll take care of Garfunkel when I’m gone? And, Mom and Dad and Grandpa Andrzej and Grandma Lena? How will they make it through Monday night dinners with an empty place staring back at them? On the other hand, there’d be more gołąbkis and pierogis and rice pudding to go around. That’ll save on the grocery bill.

  Maybe I should think about something else.

  The topic was decided for me when cold steel pressed into my belly. “If you don’t pick up that shovel in the next three seconds, I’m going to shoot you dead and bury you next to old Mable here. Move!”

  Those menacing words spurred me into action. Balancing the flashlight on the headstone – I can’t shovel one-handed – I shuddered as the spade sliced into the sod, sending a silent apology to the dearly departed for defiling her resting place. I hope she forgives me because if by some miraculous miracle I survive this ordeal, it’ll be a drag to be haunted for the rest of my life.

  The ground was hard, and it took me several attempts to turn over the first scoopful of dirt. Not to mention, digging up a grave is creeping me out a little. If for no other reason than to take my mind off what I was doing, I asked the first of what was to become a series of questions. “You killed Victoria, didn’t you?”

  “Who’s Victoria?”

  “The woman who was with you when you visited my shop last week. You strangled her, then came back and strangled me.”

  With the gun in his right hand, Russet Man lit a cigarette with his left. The tip glowed as he inhaled, the only bright spot in my seemingly dismal future. Way to stay positive, Finn. Exhaling slowly, he said, “Oh, you mean Darcy. Yeah, she was becoming more of a hindrance than a help. Outlived her usefulness, you might say.”

  His pointed reference hit home. I shoveled faster.

  As I dug, he continued his monologue. You know, captive audience and all. “I must say it surprised me to find you there at that hour. I figured you’d be long gone by then, especially with the place locked up and dark like it was. The plan was to slip in, find the box, and get out without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you.”

  Hey, my snark is returning. That’s a good sign.

  Russet Man snorted. “Didn’t trouble me in the least. My fingers were still itching after doing in Darcy. What’s one more body?”

  My snark vamoosed.

  “You made it easy for me, leaving that priceless heirloom out on the table like that. If it hadn’t been for that damn mutt of yours, I would’ve smashed it to smithereens right then and there. Save me the hassle of following you all over town for a week.”

  “You destroyed that gorgeous antique?” I think I’m going to cry. I wonder if he still has the pieces. Maybe I could glue it back togeth…wait a minute. What did he say?

  “What did Garfunkel do?”

  “Who’s Garfunkel?”

  “My dog. You said he interrupted you. Or rather, you intimated.”

  “You use a lot of big words for someone who doesn’t have many of them left.”

  “Yeah, well, might as well use them while I can.” Gallows humor. Cute, Finn. Irritate the bad man a little more, why don
’t you? “I’d really like to know how Garfunkel foiled my impending and inevitable demise. Heroics aren’t really his thing.”

  “Yeah, well, he sure showed his stones that night. If I hadn’t left my gun in the car, it would’ve been a different story. Damn mongrel snuck up behind me and bit me on the calf.”

  “He what?” My jaw dropped. I’d believe Garfunkel pooped gold bars before I’d believe he bit someone. Which reminds me. I think he’s overdue for his rabies vaccination. I need to make an appointment with the vet tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow. Well, of course, there’ll be a tomorrow. I’m just not sure I’ll be here to see it. You’re rambling, Finn. Focus. “He really, truly bit you? Wow. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  “Enough stalling.” So much for my proud Mama moment. “Just because I haven’t shot you yet doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  “You know, that threat’s getting a little old. We both know you’re going to kill me once you get what you want.” Saying it out loud stopped me cold. I’m going to die tonight on this very spot – I mean, I am sort of digging my own grave – at the hands of a stranger for reasons completely unknown to me. I don’t think that’s fair, do you? “Will you at least tell me why I’m digging up Mable? Is she a relative of yours?”

  Russet Man snorted. “I don’t know this old broad from the Pope. It’s not her body I want. It’s what’s interred with the coffin.”

  “You mean I’m digging up buried treasure?”

  “Something like that.” He dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “Hell, might as well let you in on it. Like you pointed out, you’re not going to live to tell anyone.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  “My pal, Murph, and I were in it together. We’ve been doing this for years, moving from town to town, scoping out the big score. It’s a long con, not some get rich quick kind of deal. Once we identify a mark, I find a way to get close, integrate myself into his or her life while Murph plans the lift. Let me tell you, old man Newcastle was a pushover.”

  “Wait. You’re saying you conned Jeremiah Newcastle?” I shook my head. “That’s impossible. There’s no way you got close to him. He hated people.”

  “Believe it or not. It’s the truth.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you killed him, too.”

  His silence verified it.

  My stomach plummeted. I don’t want to hear any more, I really don’t, but I have to know the rest. “He’s been in Peaceful Waves since leaving the hospital after his stroke two months ago. You expect me to believe you conned the staff into thinking you were a long-lost relative?”

  “Better than that.” An ugly snigger drifted across the night. “I conned them into thinking I was a nursing assistant. Easy enough to forge a license, and I can be quite charismatic when I need to be. Arrived in town the day he left the hospital and moved into that convalescent home. It was kismet.

  “The stroke was a wake-up call for Ol’ Jerry. It scared him to think of dying alone. He wanted a friend, and I was more than happy to step in and fill that role. Me and him, we had some meaningful conversations over the course of six weeks. He told me about his fortune and how he traveled all over the world, buying up pieces of junk…”

  “Antiques are not junk!” Some people just don’t appreciate the historical value of things.

  “Whatever. With no family to speak of, I guess he needed to spend his money on one thing or another. And, as it turned out, Jerry and I had a little something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was a criminal, just like me.”

  My task forgotten, I leaned on the handle of the shovel, completely engrossed in the tale. “Jeremiah was a con man?”

  “Nah. A thief.”

  “Now you’re making stuff up. I’ve known Jeremiah Newcastle my entire life. While he wasn’t the friendliest sort–” that’s putting it mildly “–he didn’t break the law.”

  Russet Man lit another cigarette and took a long drag. I’ve never smoked a day in my life but was tempted to ask for one – you know, just to try it. It’s not like it’s going to kill me. “People don’t show you all of their sides. They keep one or two hidden; secreted away. We’re all enigmas. I bet you have a few skeletons in the closet you don’t want anyone to know about.”

  A skeleton idiom in a graveyard. How original. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’m an open and honest person.”

  “Really? I’ve had you under surveillance for a week, remember.”

  How did I become the topic of conversation? “What does any of what you’ve told me have to do with the writing box and message?”

  “I’m getting to that. Keep digging.” I overturned a few more shovelfuls of dirt to satisfy his demand. “Seems old Jeremiah pulled off quite a heist in his day. Broke into some oil tycoon’s mansion in the northern part of the state and made off with a rather decent haul of precious gems.”

  “The Ellwood robbery. I was just a kid then, but I vaguely remember it was the talk of Port New for the better part of a year. It even made national news, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. And guess where he hid the loot?”

  Horrorstruck, I looked down at the partially-unearthed grave.

  “Creative, right?” Russet Man swept his arm in a wide arc. “Used the cemetery as his own personal safety deposit box.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “It’s ingenious. You’re not digging.”

  Hope of ever getting out of this situation fled, with probability hot on its heels. I knew too much now. Me and my damned inquisitive mind. I couldn’t leave it alone. I just had to decode that message, didn’t I? The message! “How did you know there was a code hidden in the box. And how did you know about the box in the first pla- oh.”

  “Give the lady a gold star.”

  “How did I not figure this out before now? Your pal, Murph, is Beady Eyes. Zara said there’d been a burglary at the Newcastle estate. He lifted the box and then sold it to me for quick cash. But why not just give it to you?”

  “That’s where the story gets interesting.”

  It hasn’t been interesting up to this point? Oh, boy.

  His second butt joining the first, Russet Man shifted the gun into his left hand, flexing the fingers of the right. Wouldn’t want the poor guy to get a cramp. He might miss when he shoots me. The idea to run sprang to mind, leaving as quickly as it appeared. I harbored no misconception that Russet Man – “Will you please tell me your name? What’s it going to hurt?” – wouldn’t fire regardless of which extremity grasped the firearm.

  “My name’s not important. Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?”

  “I do. Please continue.”

  “Our grift had two parts. As I said earlier, I was in charge of getting close to the mark while Murph figured out the logistics. Where to unload the goods for the most cash, how to get away, etcetera. We had no contact with one another during a con to avoid anyone making a connection between us. It seemed like a good arrangement when I thought it up.

  “Anyway, with Jerry so graciously sharing details about the priceless antiques he’d blown his fortune on – though why he didn’t hold onto his cash in the first place is beyond me. It would’ve made things a helluva lot easier – Murph cased the house and filched a few pieces at a time, selling them in different towns around the state. You know, so no one would get suspicious.”

  “But someone obviously did. Why else was he in such a hurry to sell the box?”

  “Some local paying respects last week saw him leaving the house. Knowing the place was supposed to be vacant, the good Samaritan called the cops. Murph barely got away, stopping by your place on the way out of town to unload the merchandise.”

  “But, why stick around that long? Why not take it with him?”

  “It’s a risky proposition either way, but if he’s caught crossing state lines in possession of stolen property, that brings the Feds into it, and since the cops
were already looking for him, it made more sense to get rid of it here.”

  “Interesting.” If I survive this night, I have the plot for Spencer’s next book. “But that still doesn’t explain the code.”

  “I’m getting to that. How’s that hole coming along?”

  “Getting there.”

  “Murph and I agreed on a rendezvous point ahead of time. He’d wait twenty-four hours for me to show, we’d split the cash, and part ways until our next job. When the con went south, he left word that he’d had to hightail it out of town–”

  “I thought you weren’t in contact with one another.”

  “Not directly, but we left messages via a voice drop, in case things got hot. About the time he was leaving one for me saying he had to split, Jerry was filling me in on his system for locating his stash. It seems the old man had a fondness for ciphers, so he coded the coordinates of various hiding places and stashed them in some of his treasures. Just for fun. Murph had no way of knowing he’d sold a literal fortune for pennies.”

  “Pennies! A thousand bucks isn’t pennies!” Maybe I should’ve kept that indignation to myself. “So, you had to get the box back to retrieve the code. Where’s Victori…uh, Darcy fit into all of this?”

  “She was someone I called on now and then when I needed cover. Would you have unlocked the door that night for a single man?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. But a couple, well, come right on in.”

  I hate that I’m that transparent. “But why kill her?”

  “As I said earlier, she outlived her usefulness. Which you’re about to do if you don’t keep digging.”

  An hour passed and the mound of dirt next to the burial plot grew larger. It’s amazing how much one can accomplish when properly motivated. Each time I checked, the gun was pointed in my direction, though at a different angle now that I was a few feet below ground. If that’s not incentive to keep excavating, I don’t know what it.

  “Jeremiah didn’t happen to mention how deep he buried this thing, did he?” Okay, yes; I’m cranky. My arms ache, my legs ache, and I’m tired of standing in this hole, on top of poor Mable, no less. How well do caskets from the ’30s hold up, anyway? My foot’s not going to go through the top, is it? Ewww.