Fortunes of the Dead

by Lynn Hightower

  “So you were just planning to keep it on the barn as decoration, is that what you want me to believe?”

  “I don’t want you to believe anything. I stuck it there till I could take it to the dump. Note the overflowing trash cans, in case you’d like to haul them off yourself.”

  Cory looked away again, then pushed off from where he had been leaning against the side wall, walking past her, passing close enough to shove her to one side when she did not move out of the way. “I’m going for a walk.”

  He headed down the steep driveway with the sweater still in hand. Kate watched him till he was out of sight, then climbed the ladder to the hayloft, so she could look out the little window and see where he went. But there were too many trees in the way, and she could no longer see him through the woods.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  That night, Kate was asleep on the couch in front of the wood-burning stove when Cory tiptoed by. She opened her eyes, and saw from the satellite television box that it was almost two A.M. She had not expected Cory would stay the night; had been puzzled when he did not leave.

  Cory held his shoes in one hand and moved with great stealth. Kate pretended to be asleep, keeping her breathing normal. She had the impression he had stopped to look at her. It took everything she had to stay still. The feeling passed. A creak of wood told her he was taking the lower staircase to the basement. He would go out the back door, so she would not wake up. It was suddenly hard to imagine that she and Cory were man and wife. Legally, she supposed, they weren’t.

  Kate wondered where he was going. She wondered if she cared. Her stomach dropped and her eyes grew hot with tears. She held them in, in case he could hear. It was real now—her marriage, her fake marriage, was over. Two hours ago she would have said good. Now she was panicked, wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake, and she had to bite her knuckles and shove her face into a pillow to stop herself from running after him, from begging him to talk to her, to work things out.

  Why sneak out in the middle of the night? To meet another woman? Why do that here, why tonight? Kate untangled herself from the comforter and scrambled for her shoes. It took time to lace up her boots. Her hands trembled, making her fingers clumsy, and she felt an overwhelming and urgent dread.

  Wood coals glowed orange-red behind the glass door of the woodstove—goblin eyes, Leo called it.

  Kate walked softly down the stairs to the basement. The sliding door was open a crack. She thought of the utility bill, then laughed. The account was in Cory’s name.

  The bulb in the security light behind the house had burned out, and it was dark, and hard to see. The woods in winter were drained of color. Kate was afraid—primitive fears, childhood obsessions—whatever it was, she did not want to go alone into the woods. She stood where she was, listening, aware of the thud of her heart, her own quick breaths, and the slide of gravel and boots on the driveway to the house. Cory. She moved slowly, trying to be silent, wincing whenever she dislodged a rock or cracked a twig. She kept to the edge of the tree line, and saw him, finally, a shadowed figure, heading down the drive.

  Kate laid a hand on the rough bark of a tree, taking a moment to catch her breath. He was a stranger, this dark figure moving in the shadows. There was nothing familiar about him at all.

  She moved forward, tripped, caught herself, then moved on. He had gone off the driveway and into the woods, making his way alongside the fence to Sophie’s paddock. Heading to the pond. Kate moved faster.

  The pond was halfway down the drive, and Kate had chased odd-looking trespassers away from it more than once. The owners swore you could fish there, though Kate had her doubts. But it was pretty. There was a small wooden dock; an upside-down canoe with a hole in the bottom rested in the weeds on the far side of the pond. She saw Cory walk out onto the dock.

  He was facing her, though he couldn’t see her. He had something in his hands. He stood for a long time, looking down into the water, a man in a world of his own. Then he glanced over one shoulder, and started wandering through the marshy weeds beside the water. Looking for something. Kate wondered what.

  Cory moved slowly, carefully. Kate guessed that the mud was frozen and slippery. Once in a while he bent over and examined something on the ground. At last he straightened, holding on to a tremendous slab of rock. It was heavy enough that he carried it with both hands to the dock, setting it down on the slats of wood.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Kate watched, and then got it. He was tying something around the rock, something like a shirt, something with sleeves. The dirty little mud-stained sweater. The one she had hung on the barn. Cory lifted the rock that was bulky now, with the sweater tied securely around it, and heaved it out into the pond. Kate heard the splash, ever so faintly, from where she stood on the hill.

  And she knew. The sweater belonged to Cheryl Dunkirk. The stains were blood, not mud. Even the dog had figured it out. Cory had killed that pretty girl, that intern. Why, she wasn’t sure. There were so many possibilities, boiling down to one simple thing—Cheryl Dunkirk had gotten between Cory and what he wanted.

  Kate did not even feel surprised. It was as if she had always known, from the day her mother called from Kentucky, as if she’d been falling and had finally hit the bottom of the well.

  Cory stood on the dock, watching the ripples in the water; he seemed deep in thought, and Kate wondered why he stood so still and for so long.

  Her back ached and she was cold, and she turned away and headed for the house.

  Kate shed her muddy boots in the tack room and curled back up on the couch, staring at the woodstove without seeing it. She thought about Lena Padget and whether or not she should call. She could be jumping to conclusions. The sweater might not have had anything at all to do with Cheryl Dunkirk. She would call Lena tomorrow and ask what the girl had been wearing when she disappeared. Then she would know.

  And as if to confirm her observation, the baby monitor crackled, and Kate heard voices from the barn.

  A man and a woman. Hard to catch exactly what they said. A creak and a nicker from Sophie. Whoever it is, they were going into Sophie’s stall.

  “Are you sure he won’t stomp us? That’s happened to people when they got around horses.”

  The male laughter was familiar. “She not he. And this horse is so old you could push her over if she bothered you.”

  Just try it, Kate thought. Sophie will knock you on your ass.

  Kate felt cold all over, and a slow anger flushed her cheeks. She could hear them, going into the loft. Her personal sanctuary.

  “Do you think she knows?” the woman said. She sounded very young.

  Cory’s voice was hard and businesslike. “She’s got no earthly idea.”

  If the monitor had been a two-way, Kate would have screamed in his ear.

  “You sure?” the girl says. “She found the sweater. She’s not dumb, is she?”

  “She has two things on her mind, horses and kids. In that order.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Don’t worry about it, it’s gone for good.”

  “It was cashmere,” the girl said sadly.

  “It was trouble, Mel, and you know it. Now com’mere.”

  “No.”

  “Okay then. You can go on back.”

  “No.”

  Cory laughed and Kate heard noises, and turned the monitor off. At least now there would be no more doubts, no going back and forth, and no more guilt about family unity. She would wait until Cory left, then pack up and go. She could get on with her life; she could go back home to Kentucky. It was that image that gave her a measure of peace. She curled up under the comforter, and began planning her new life.

  But it was hard to concentrate, because she was wondering who the woman was, and if she was the first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I walked through the maze of cubicles to Joel’s desk at the Lexington Fayette County Police Department building on Main Street. It was rainin
g and chilly, and traffic was picking up. I nodded to a few detectives I knew. As always, the noise level was muted, though everyone behind the desks looked alert. I was not sure why Joel’s office always made me feel sleepy, but it did.

  Joel was at his desk, coat jacket hung on a brass stand that I’d found in the same antiques store where we’d bought our table. I liked seeing it here. It made me feel like I’d put my mark on Joel’s office.

  He was studying a computer printout, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up one and a half turns each. He’d loosened his tie. A coffee mug sat on the edge of his desk. An open folder spilled pictures of Cheryl Dunkirk, her apartment, and her car.

  “Hey, you.”

  Joel looked up and smiled faintly. From Joel this was equivalent to confetti and balloons. He rose to his feet and gave me a quick hug.

  I have seen family pictures of Joel. At first glance, this slender man with tired eyes looks nothing like the sturdy toddler who stands between two proud parents, mother’s skirt caught in the small fist. But look carefully and you will find the familiar expression, the focus, the look of wariness and speculation. It is as if the child knew what was in store—that some of it would be very bad and some of it would be very good. That he was bracing himself, and ready.

  From the first moment I saw Joel Mendez in the carpeted maze of partitions where Lexington detectives work, I thought of him as the man with the tired face. I reached out and touched his temple, and he closed a hand over my wrist and shut his eyes. Gently I traced the lines of fatigue with a fingertip, as if my touch could erase the life experience that had put them there.

  Joel shows a private face to the world, and until this case had never shut me out. I was the chosen one, and Joel always seemed to gather me close, as if he balanced his distance from the rest of the world by allowing no barriers between the two of us. I realized that this, more than anything else, had been what I missed.

  “I have good news.”

  Now that I was here, in Joel’s office, I wondered why it had taken me so long to make the decision to come. There had been no alternative. I was happier about it than I’d expected.

  Joel smiled at me, with a calm acceptance that was somehow kind, and I felt like we were coming together again.

  “I talked to Kate Edgers a while ago.”

  “She called you? Why?” He looked at me steadily, and I decided not to share any of the details of my trip to Tennessee to see Kate on the top of her mountain. And as quickly as that, we were miles away once again.

  “She saw her husband with a pink cashmere sweater that may well have had bloodstains, and it sounds very much like the one Cheryl was wearing the night she disappeared.”

  Joel leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Interesting. But it’s hearsay and she can’t testify against him.” He reached for his coffee. “Lena, can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Why don’t you get yourself a whole pot? Are you asleep?”

  “A spouse cannot testify against a spouse in court.”

  “You think?”

  No response to the remark.

  “Joel, listen. Kate saw him wrap the sweater around a rock, tie the sleeves in a knot, and throw it into a pond that sits about halfway down the driveway on their property.”

  Joel thought for a moment. “You believe her?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If it’s true … what an idiot. Cops make some of the worst criminals. Okay, even without Kate’s testimony, if it’s Cheryl’s sweater, on his property, that will nail it. The body will likely be close.”

  Joel leaned across the desk, put his hands on the side of my face and pulled me close. He kissed me hard, then turned to the phone.

  “One other thing.”

  He stopped, hand hovering over the dial pad. “What?”

  “You can have Kate’s testimony. Cory Edgers never divorced his first wife, Amy McAlister. I double-checked, this is straight up. Kate and Cory Edgers aren’t legally man and wife.”

  Joel frowned at me. “How long have you known that?”

  I stared at him for a long moment. “That’s the only thing you think of to say to me?”

  “How long did you sit on that piece of information?”

  I turned and walked away.

  I was still in the lobby of the police building when my cell phone rang. The caller ID said Miranda Brady.

  “Lena? It’s Miranda.”

  I went through the double doors out onto the sidewalk. The wind was blowing, which made it hard to catch everything Miranda said.

  “It looks like we’ve got him, Miranda.”

  “Him?”

  “Your sister’s killer.”

  “How? Who?”

  “It’s Edgers. There’s no doubt.”

  “But Cheryl wasn’t seeing him, she would have told me.”

  “Look, there are still a lot of details to put together. But it’s him. With any luck he’ll tell us where she’s buried and you can put her to rest.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Odd question. “Yeah.”

  “How? Have you found some physical evidence?”

  “The police have the sweater. The one Cheryl was wearing when she died.” They’d have it soon, anyway. “I’m sorry, Miranda, I can’t go into it. Just trust me on this. He’s nailed.”

  She was silent for a long moment.

  “Feels weird, I know. You think you’re going to be so happy, but you’re not. It gets better, I promise. Do you want me to call your father?”

  “No, I’ll do it. He’s been on the phone every night wondering if you’d come up with anything. This should give him some satisfaction.”

  “Tell him I’ll put together a report, and call with details when it’s pulled together.”

  “Great. Well done, I should say.”

  “Thanks,” At least somebody appreciated me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wilson tilted the wooden chair back against the wall and picked up his beer mug. His hand was sticky with barbecue sauce but it was pointless to clean it off because he was still eating. He figured he could handle one more beer before he’d have to switch to something nonalcoholic. Two at most. It was prom night and he was the host so he had to stay reasonably sober.

  Nobody was falling-down drunk, but he was keeping an eye on the old guy sitting next to the woman with red hair. The two of them had put away a lot of beer. The guy got up to head for the men’s room, and Wilson watched to see if he’d stagger. The man was amazingly sure-footed.

  The entire group was spread out among ten tables, in groups of twos and threes, with one big group near the cash register. Twice, other customers had looked in the door, then turned around and walked out.

  Billy’s Barbecue was the perfect kind of place for this sort of gathering. Low-key, informal, wood booths along the back or a step down to the tables on the lower level. Wilson had just settled at an empty table near the men’s room, which was not a coincidence. Wilson was a prom night veteran. He’d socialized his ass off, and was taking a break. Keeping tabs on the level of intoxication. Prom night DUIs were frowned upon.

  It was going well. The locals loved prom nights; dinner and beer on the ATF, and a chance to discuss the case, trade opinions, war stories, theories. Ruggers had suggested it and authorized the expenditure and taken it out of the Nashville district budget. It happened often enough—a case solved when everyone got together in the same room to shoot the shit. Someone would come up with something he thought everybody else already knew. Sometimes it was the right push in the right direction, and enough cases were aided and abetted by prom night to make it a standard operating procedure.

  Times like this made Wilson feel smug and superior to the FBI. You would never catch those guys having beers with the locals. You’d for sure never catch them picking up the tab.

  Wilson picked up a barbecued rib, teeth scraping the bone to get the meat off. He was full but still eating. They didn’t have barbecue like this in
California.

  He thought of Sel, and how much she would love this place. How she would have a healthy appetite for the barbecue and cobbler. Sel had grown up in Michigan, and currently worked as a chef in a bistro in Woodland Hills—a job she loved. She cooked, she surfed, she walked her dog. She talked about opening her own restaurant, but worried that it would take too much time away from the beach. In a town full of people who were never happy with how they looked and pursued the impossible dream of physical perfection, Sel was exotic in her personal contentment, and her seemingly oblivious lack of awareness of the California Code of Appearance.

  Wilson dreamed of helping Sel run a barbecue place in Marina Del Rey. A southern barbecue place.

  He looked across the room, watching Mendez. They’d met for the first time the day before in the muted but busy Lexington PD office. Mendez was different from the other locals. More reserved, watchful, giving the impression of a man who was tightly wound. Not a guy who took advantage of casual Fridays.

  Mendez had been cordial, wary, but very open with the facts of the case. He had answered every question Wilson posed, addressed every issue head-on, no apologies, no fluff. The man was slender, and dressed very well. His tie was tight, even now, when everybody else was coming apart at the seams. His hair was a mix of black threaded with silver; he had brown eyes, and a faint white scar on one cheek. He did not have a hint of the resentment or inferiority complex Wilson occasionally found with locals.

  It was funny, Mendez didn’t talk much, get loud, or tell jokes, but somehow he put his detectives at ease. Maybe they were always at ease. They were southerners. Wilson noticed that Mendez listened a lot while making sure everybody had beer and barbecue. Besides Mendez and three other Lexington PD detectives, there were two local ATF agents there.

  A few minutes before the gathering started up, Wilson had gotten a call from Nashville. An attorney representing Cory Edgers had been in touch—Edgers wanted to come in, to talk, to cut a deal. Wilson had been hoping the prom night discussions would give him a glimmer, something to burn Edgers with during the negotiation. No body made the whole thing difficult. But so far, nobody had come up with anything new. The barbecue had been great, the beer had been cold, and the case facts and theories had been the same old shit.