“Now, where do you suppose her heart is?” said counterpart asked.
Betty White? She was going for Betty?
Instinctively, my hands shot up to cover her. She was so fragile. So vulnerable. And Mrs. Beecher wanted to jab her with an ice pick? Not on my watch.
The woman jumped back in surprise, and I started to scramble toward the stairs when a weight comparable to a cement mixer landed on my back.
“Oh, that’s good, sugar pie. You hold her there. Now, where’d that ice pick go?”
Harper lunged forward, intending to knock Dewey off me, and was surprised when she flew right through him.
Damn. I should have told her. It was hard when people didn’t know they were dead. The realization sent them into a state of shock, and sometimes I wouldn’t see them again for years. But I really should have told her, because the stunned expression on her face as she turned back and reached through Dewey’s head broke my heart.
She locked gazes with me. “I’m dead?” she asked, her voice hoarse with emotion. She sank to the ground, her expression a thousand miles away.
I strained against the weight of Dewey, wondering what the heck his grandmother fed him but thrilled she’d lost the ice pick. “I’m sorry, Harper.” I could barely get out the words. “I wanted to tell you.”
“What?” Mrs. Beecher asked.
“I called the police,” I said, craning my neck. “They’re on the way.”
She scoffed and turned her back to me. “I need more light. Where could that thing have got off to?”
“They killed me?” Harper asked, still in a daze.
I reached out to her and put my hand on her knee. “Yes. I’m not sure who exactly. Do you remember what happened?”
“She’s talking, Grandma.”
“Well, sit harder.”
He took her advice and bounced, and all I could think was, Oh. My. God. Where was Uncle Bob when I needed him?
Feeling like I was in a horror movie, waiting for evil clowns to appear from under the stairs, I tried to focus on surviving this freak show.
“What are you doing?”
I turned to my other side to see Angel. He wore a scowl of disapproval.
“I’m trying to breathe,” I said, trying to breathe. But darkness crept into my periphery.
“Why is that guy sitting on you?” Then he saw Harper. “Oh, hey.” He nodded an acknowledgment, but she was still in shock. She raised her hands and looked at them, turning them over and over.
“I don’t suppose you could push this guy off me?” I asked him.
“I guess I could try.”
“So, like, soon?”
Angel frowned, then focused on Dewey and concentrated. After a few seconds, he pushed. And Dewey went head over heels.
Sweet potato pie.
I scrambled for the stairs again while fighting the tilt of the Earth. It kept throwing me against the wall, and I realized I probably had a concussion. Unfortunately, Dewey recovered and reached over the stairs, grabbing my leg and pulling it out from under me.
This was going to hurt.
Yep. My chin hit a step, clashing my teeth together. This was so much like a thousand horror movies I’d seen.
Dizziness played a huge part when I tumbled right back down the stairs.
I held up my hands and said, “You need to calm down.”
That was when Dewey wrapped his large hands around my throat. Someday I’d realize telling people to calm down had exactly the opposite effect.
“Hold her still, sugar. I can’t find that danged ice pick. I’ll have to use the skillet.”
“You need to stop thinking like a human,” Angel said.
“You are not helping. Go get Reyes.”
“I’m here,” Reyes said from a corner. “Watching you get your ass kicked. Again.”
His thick black robe undulated around me, not helping at all with the sudden onset of motion sickness. This was definitely the incorporeal Reyes. The Beechers couldn’t see him.
When Dewey’s grip slipped for a split second, I said to Reyes, “Do something.”
“Can I break her neck?”
“No.”
“Can I break his neck?”
I had to think about that one.
Mrs. Beecher was headed my way, skillet at the ready.
“You have to … save … Fred and Barbara,” I said. With Dewey’s hands around my throat, I sounded like a cartoon character. A fact that could not possibly be appealing. Really, how long was he going to let this go on?
“I’m trying to let you come into your powers.”
“Fuck my powers. Do something.”
Reyes dematerialized and rematerialized beside me. I heard the sing of his blade; then Dewey’s grip relaxed, his expression morphed into surprise, and he fell to the floor. Reyes had severed his spine, though it would take the doctors a little while to realize it. There would be no outside trauma. Reyes cut from the inside out.
Mrs. Beecher stopped, her face just as shocked.
“Mrs. Beecher,” I said, coughing and sputtering like a Yugo, “put that frying pan down this instant.”
19
When life hands you lemons say,
“Lemons? What else have you got?”
—BUMPER STICKER
Uncle Bob showed up in his own sweet time and ordered a team of investigators as soon as he got to the Beechers’ house and saw me wrestling with Mrs. Beecher. That woman was so much stronger than she looked. Reyes kept wanting to sever her spine, and Angel kept telling me to stop thinking like a human, whatever the hell that meant.
After watching Uncle Bob tackle her to the ground—an image I would cherish forever—I gave my statement to him; then he drove me to the Lowells’ mansion. Harper was in the backseat, still stewing in her own astonishment. Two patrol cars followed behind us, and another detective from Ubie’s precinct was en route to the scene. The Lowells were about to be scandalized.
I still wasn’t exactly sure who had done the terrorizing—Mrs. Beecher or Dewey on Mrs. Beecher’s orders—but it didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Neither would be able to do it again.
Uncle Bob put a hand on mine. “Now, just tell them that Dewey told you where the boy’s body was, okay?”
“You say that like I haven’t done this a thousand times,” I said, cringing at the sound of my own voice. It was odd what a crushed larynx did to the midtones.
“I know. Sorry, pumpkin.”
“It’s okay. Harper says she remembers where the suitcase is. The only place it could be. Dewey had started a new garden when they got back. It has to be there.”
He turned a worried expression on me. “This is not going to be pretty, hon. If you need to leave—”
“Oh, hell yeah, I’m leaving. The minute Harper shows us the grave, I’m out of there.”
“So this is it,” Harper said, coming to terms with her demise.
I turned around to face her. “I’m so sorry you’ve passed, hon.”
“Have you known this whole time? That I was dead?”
“Yes. It’s what I do.”
“So, no one else can see me? I’m—I’m a ghost?”
“I’m afraid so. But you can cross through me whenever you’re ready. Your family is waiting for you on the other side. Your mother. Your grandparents. They’ll be so happy to see you.”
She nodded. “I know. I think I’ve known they were waiting for me this whole time.” Her voice cracked. “I wonder how long I’ve been dead.”
“Well, you came to see me two days ago, but Mrs. Beecher knew you’d been gone longer than that. That’s how I knew she did it. But your psychotherapist said the last time he saw you in his office was almost two weeks ago. So it had to be—”
“That’s it.” She stared in thought. “I was in a session with Dr. Roland and I was telling him about a trip I was going on. He asked me what color my suitcase was, and everything came rushing back. Dewey killing that boy. Mrs. Beecher putting h
im in that red suitcase.” She covered her mouth. “What kind of people do that? She lived with us for over two decades. How could we not know?”
“I was a little floored myself when I figured out she was involved. I think she is very good at fooling people.”
We pulled up to the speaker box. “Whatever you do,” I told Uncle Bob, “do not order a taco. They’re very sensitive about that.”
He nodded, flashed his badge, and said, “Open that gate. I have a warrant.”
And the gate opened. Just like that. No haggling or bartering. I totally needed to become a real cop. It probably paid better.
Mrs. Lowell met us on the steps to her house, as did her son, Art. He was dressed in a nice suit and tie, and Mrs. Lowell had been spit-shined herself. She wore a long evening gown and pearls. Clearly we’d interrupted their evening plans.
“Now what?” she asked as I got out of Ubie’s SUV.
He hurried around to intercept.
Despite their duds, they seemed upset. I got the feeling they’d been arguing when we arrived.
“Mrs. Lowell, we have information about a missing child. He’s been gone for over two de cades, and we believe he is buried on your property.”
She huffed, indignant. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Your former house keeper,” I said, interrupting her tirade before she became too invested in it, “buried him here, knowing no one would look on your property. Why would they? The boy was from Peralta.”
She paused and ogled me like I’d lost my mind. I looked from her to Art, knowing he would take Harper’s death hard.
“Can we go inside?” I asked him.
“I can’t get ahold of Harper,” he said as he waved Uncle Bob and me inside. “She hasn’t returned my calls for over a week. Have you talked to her?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That’s the other reason we’re here.”
Two hours later, I found myself hiding in the Lowells’ bathroom as the digging crew lifted a red suitcase out of the turned earth. It was exactly where Harper had said it would be, under a patch of garden that Dewey had tended for over twenty years. Unlike Mrs. Beecher, Dewey’s actions would speak of remorse and regret.
An entire team had been dispatched to the scene, and along with it came camera crews and reporters galore. I almost felt bad for Mrs. Lowell. This definitely would taint her image, no matter how innocent of wrongdoing she was. But when Uncle Bob told her Harper’s body had been found, the hard shell she’d encased herself in shattered. Her shock was so complete, so devastating, the pain of it almost doubled me over. She really did care for Harper. There was no denying it.
And I also knew she had nothing to do with that little boy’s death or the subsequent cover-up. Her surprise was utterly genuine.
Art took Harper’s death hard. He ensconced himself in a room upstairs, but even the thick walls of the Lowell mansion could not block the waves of agony that poured out of him.
And I stood hiding in a bathroom, fighting for air among the fragments of a broken family. Their suffering was only beginning, and even though I was still not allowed to see Mr. Lowell, I felt his pain spill down the stairs like a heavy fog.
“I can’t be here anymore.”
I turned to Harper. She stood looking out the bathroom window, watching the workers excavate the grounds, a dozen officers surrounding the taped-off area.
“I need to go before I can’t go at all,” she said.
I couldn’t feel emotions off the departed as I could the living, not until they crossed, but the anguish on her face spoke volumes. She looked up toward the second floor, and I realized she was worried about Art.
“He’s in love with you,” I said.
She looked at me in surprise before a sad smile thinned her lips. She really was beautiful.
“He told me he was your contact.”
She nodded. “Yes. We’d kept in contact the whole time. He even flew to the island to visit me a few times.”
“Why didn’t you guys ever hook up for real?” I asked her.
“We did. Kind of. When I came back, Art insisted that we get married, but I couldn’t get past the fact that according to society, we were brother and sister. I hurt him so bad when I said that I wanted to wait.”
“I’m sorry.” Family was so important. If I’d learned nothing more these last three days, it was that.
Harper walked toward me, purpose in her eyes, and with one last glance toward Art, she crossed. I didn’t see the pain and fear she’d suffered through all those years. I didn’t see her being terrorized or the nightmare she suffered through from her time in the mental asylum. What I did see was her father picking her up and carrying her on his shoulders as she pointed out his route through the trees behind the house. I saw her dog, a golden retriever named Sport, who would lick her toes until she couldn’t stand the tickling any longer. And I saw the first time Art kissed her. She was in high school, watching him at a basketball game. He’d been hurt and was in the locker room. She hurried to check on him. Gasped when she saw him being strapped onto a stretcher. Almost fainted when she saw the odd bump of the arm secured at his side, the bone straining to break through the flesh.
He’d covered his eyes with his other arm, hiding his anguish. She rushed forward, and before she knew what was happening, he wrapped his hand around her head and pulled her down until her lips were on his.
And then she was through.
Ever the romantic, the agony of lost love was my undoing. I let a series of sobs quake through me, and when I felt I could face the world despite the obvious swollen eyes to match my swollen jaw, I stepped out of the bathroom and asked an officer to drive me home. The Lowells would have a lot to deal with in the coming weeks, and I could only hope Art would be okay. According to Harper’s memories, he hated chocolate, but I chose not to hold that against him. No one was perfect.
But really? Chocolate?
As I was getting into the officer’s car, I heard a familiar female voice. “Charley Davidson.”
I straightened and turned to Agent Carson as she walked across the driveway toward me. It figured the FBI would be here. It was a missing persons case, after all. “Hey, Agent Carson.”
Before she could respond, Uncle Bob walked over to us. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, Uncle Bob, you remember Special Agent Carson.”
She took his hand. “Detective. Your niece has a knack for solving cold cases.”
He smiled proudly. “Yes, she does.”
“I’m impressed, as usual. Someday you’ll have to share your secrets,” she said to me.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Fair enough. I was wondering if you’d look over a couple of cases for me. One is very old and is as yet unsolved and one is my own personal one-that-got-away.”
I shrugged. “Sure, as long as you don’t get your hopes up.”
“My hopes never get out of hand, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then you can bring them by—” I was about to say my office, but realized I no longer had one. “You can bring them by my apartment.”
“Or her office.”
I turned to see Dad walking over to us. He stopped to stand beside Uncle Bob, his expression sheepish but hopeful. Ubie must’ve called him when he realized I’d been injured, but I wasn’t sure I could handle Dad’s presence at that moment. My heart hurt bad enough. And my head hurt. And my eyes were icky and swollen.
He put his hands in his pockets. “Are you okay?” he asked, and I wondered what Ubie had told him.
“Good as gold.”
“I’m glad. And I’m moving you back into your offices. Pretending I can keep an eye on you, no matter how ridiculous the notion, will give me peace of mind. And you can glare at me and make faces behind my back and hate me forever, but when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be there. Without judgment and without a hidden agenda.”
I looked out over the Lowells’ vast estate. “If I
make faces at you, Dad, it won’t be behind your back.”
He nodded. “I’ll come for your stuff this weekend.”
Agent Carson’s brows rose in interest. “Perfect. I’ll drop the files by next week, if that’s okay?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, ducking into the patrol car. Dad wanted to give me a ride home. I could feel his intentions thick in the air, his eagerness to be with me, but that was a cake I’d have to take in small bites. Still, I thought of Harper. The memories of her dad despite her stepmother’s seeming indifference. I had a feeling Dad and I would be best friends again someday.
I looked back at Carson. “How goes the bank job?”
Uncle Bob grinned at her. “You’re pulling bank jobs? Isn’t that a little against the FBI code of conduct?”
She grinned. “What? There’s a code of conduct? Nobody told me.” She handed me her card. “And this case is turning out stickier than I’d hoped, but you were definitely right about the inside guy. Now to prove it.” She nodded toward the card. “Use that if you hear anything else.”
I winked at her, then closed the door before anyone else could walk up unexpectedly and wrench my heart into pieces.
Cookie called on the way home. I picked up and said, “No cast iron in the house. Ever.”
“Got it. Making a note now. How was it?”
“Exhausting. And Mrs. Lowell isn’t quite the monster I imagined her to be.”
“Maybe Denise isn’t either.”
“Seriously?”
“Okay, I’m putting these feet to bed. Let me know if you need anything. Like an ice pack.”
I jumped in alarm. “Did you say ice pick?”
“No.”
“Because no ice picks in the house either. Ever.”
“Got it. Making a note now.”
The officer, who remained silent all the way home, thank the gods, dropped me at my front door. I offered the most grateful smile I could manage, then set out in search of a long, hot shower and a strong cup of java. But, naturally, the minute I stepped out of the patrol car, I was hit with all kinds of dark emotions that I’d learned to associate with dark people. Feral people. Possessed people.
Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (Charley Davidson) cd-1 Page 28
