Mimosas, Mischief, and Murder
Page 21
“It sounded like a cry, a yelp—something in pain,” I said, looking past the iron bars. “A cat, maybe?”
A metallic clank rang out through the blackness. On the far side of the fountain, a round light bounced as a very human voice cursed. The light went out. Mitch and I looked at each other as muted footfalls pounded away from us.
“Mitch, we should get out of here,” I whispered.
Mitch shook his head and hopped onto the brick part of the fence. “No, they’re gone now. Probably teenagers. I hope they weren’t tagging.”
If gangs were spray-painting their symbols on gravestones, that was about as low as you could get. “I guess that metallic sound we heard could have been paint cans. Are there gangs in Smarr?”
“There are gangs everywhere,” Mitch said as he gripped the iron bars above his head, placed one foot on the brick and boosted himself up into the air. “I’ll check and see. If they were tagging . . . then we need to call the police. Looks like they left something over there on the other side of the fountain.”
“Careful!” I said as Mitch swung himself over the iron points that topped the fence. He landed on the other side with a thud. He paused a moment, then said, “Been awhile since I’ve done that.”
He walked by the fountain and stopped.
I climbed up on the brick part of the fence. “Mitch, what is it?”
He muttered, “No way,” and continued to stare at the ground.
“Is it graffiti?”
“No.” He strode back over to the fence, pulled his phone out of his belt clip, and punched in three numbers, his face set and angry. “Someone was digging up a grave—Grandpa Franklin’s grave.”
Chapter Nineteen
While Mitch was explaining the situation to the 911 dispatcher, I walked along the fence, looking for a gate or a break. Unlike the hedge, there were no gaps here. I gave up looking for another way into the cemetery and shoved my purse through the iron bars. Good thing I was wearing jeans and not my little black dress. I climbed up on the brick portion, grabbed the iron bars, and tried to imitate Mitch’s vault over the sharp points at the top. He pulled the phone away from his face. “Ellie, what are you—no, wait—”
I didn’t come close to his graceful maneuver, but I made it over. I landed hard on my feet and felt the impact jar my legs. “I’m sure I’ll feel that in the morning,” I said as I stood up cautiously from the crouched position I’d landed in.
Mitch ended the call and came over. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you wait?”
I dusted off my hands and picked up my purse. “I wasn’t going to stay on the other side of the fence by myself. Classic horror movie stuff—creepy cemetery, two people separated. Then—bam!—before you know it, one of them disappears.” My tone was light, but I was only half joking. I had no desire to stand around on my own in the almost total blackness. “How long until someone gets here?”
“A few minutes.” Mitch put his phone away and we walked back around the fountain to where we’d seen the bobbing circle of light. “There isn’t a caretaker on site, so we’ll have to wait for the police.”
We both stopped a few feet from the disturbed grave. I squatted down to see better. “Look, they left a knife,” I said, pointing to—but not touching—a Swiss army knife.
Mitch pushed a large rectangle of fresh sod with his shoe. The edges were smooth. “They used it to slice through the grass,” he said, “and forgot to pick it up when they ran.”
I stood up and stepped around a long pile of dirt. “How long do you think they’d been here?”
“Maybe an hour. Looks like they only made it about a foot down.”
I looked over the mound of dirt and back to the shallow indentation in the ground. “To dig all the way down . . . to the casket . . . that would have to take hours, but what else could they have been doing?”
“Nothing. They had to be trying to get to Grandpa Franklin’s casket.”
“Are you sure it’s his?” I asked. The plaque had been ordered, but it wasn’t complete and hadn’t been installed yet. There was only a small numbered marker set in the ground.
“I’m sure,” Mitch said. “His grave was on this row, third from the fountain.”
I looked over and counted the rest of the headstones. This was definitely the third slot away from the fountain, and all the other graves had markers with names. The first police car arrived at the cemetery entrance, flashing bright pulses of light over the graves.
“You folks make a habit of walking in graveyards at night?” Detective Rickets asked.
“We weren’t walking in the cemetery,” I said sharply. Mitch pressed his hand into the small of my back and gave me a warning look.
Lights had been set up on stands, exposing the dark scar of fresh earth, which contrasted with the dry grass that covered the rest of the cemetery grounds. Flashlight beams bounced around the cemetery, sporadically illuminating the darkness, then skipping on to another patch of dead grass as officers moved about. It was one of these beams of light that hit Detective Rickets’s face and I thought I caught a glimmer of humor in his eyes.
“Get that light out of my eyes,” he barked. The light skimmed to the ground as someone said, “Sorry, sir.”
Was he teasing us? I peered through the darkness, trying to see his expression, but even with the ambient light glowing and flickering, I couldn’t clearly see his face. The extremely polite sheriff’s deputy who’d first responded to the 911 call was gone. As soon as Detective Rickets arrived, he’d sent the deputy packing and begun asking questions himself. I had my elbows tucked into my waist and my feet pressed close together in an effort to conserve all the body heat that I could. We were going on an hour being outside and the temperature had dropped. We were sitting a few feet away from the exposed grave on a chilly, backless marble bench.
“We’ve already told you that we were walking on the grounds behind Quincy House and only came over here when we heard noises and saw the flashlight,” I said.
Mitch moved his hand to my upper arm and squeezed, rather tightly. I swiveled my head toward him, trying to give him a significant look that I hoped the detective wouldn’t pick up on.
Mitch said, “Do you have any more questions, Detective? Anything else you need to clarify?”
“No, I think I’ve got the picture now.”
Mitch and I stood up. Detective Rickets pressed his hands deeper into his pockets, causing the fabric of his jacket to pull tighter over his shoulders. “I’ll have a deputy drive you back to your car,” he said as he escorted us away from the grave.
As we walked along the path behind the detective, Mitch asked, “Why do you think someone would dig up his grave?”
Detective Rickets stopped walking and turned to face us. “Well, as I see it, there are three possibilities. One, it could be a random thing. But since we haven’t had any problems with desecration of graves here lately—or ever—and, considering all the unusual events happening in the Avery family, I doubt this incident is coincidence. Two, someone believed that rumor that he had his money buried with him.”
Mitch said, “Grandpa Franklin wasn’t wealthy and he didn’t have anything put in his casket. You can check with Uncle Bud about the estate. What money Grandpa Franklin had was used to pay for the funeral and the rest was given to the family.”
“I know that. I’ve checked his bank accounts and the will. But what I’m saying is that the rumor mill in Smarr is running overtime and someone out there may think it’s true. Or, third, someone’s getting nervous.”
“Nervous?” I said.
“Nervous, as in someone’s afraid there’s something—evidence—that could incriminate them in his death and they were trying to get it.”
“But to try and dig up a grave in one night with a shovel . . . ,” I said.
“I didn’t say this person was smart. Obviously, it was someone without a lot of experience in working outdoors. You’d need a backhoe to get down to the casket quickly.”
“I know that’s not something your family would look favorably on. We’d only do that if there was no other way.” I was surprised at his kind tone. He turned and walked briskly to the gates of the cemetery where several sheriffs’ cars were parked.
“Detective Rickets,” Mitch said, “My grandfather . . . if he . . .”
The detective placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Son, your grandfather was a fine man and if someone . . . well . . . if someone gave him a shove into the hereafter before his time, I want to catch that bastard.” Detective Rickets glanced at me and said, “I may not have been so enthusiastic in the beginning, but I am now. If there’s anything that doesn’t add up, I’ll keep at it until I find out what really happened.”
He handed us off to a deputy and we were climbing into the car when Detective Kalra walked up. “Thanks, Peterson. I’ll take them,” she said to the deputy who was holding the back door open for us. She slid into the driver’s seat.
Normally, I would be half fascinated and half frightened to ride in the back of a sheriff’s car, but I was so surprised at Detective Kalra’s move that I was distracted from my surroundings.
“Sorry to leave you in the lurch like that at Mr. Avery’s house,” she said through the grill that separated the front seat from the back. “I got the call that Rickets was on his way out there and since Mitch was a suspect, I had to get out of there. Good thing you were in the clear,” she said to Mitch, “otherwise my life would be a lot more complicated.” She looked at me. “Does he know about it?”
“Ah—that Grandpa Franklin might have been . . .” I trailed off and Mitch ran his hand through his hair.
“Yes, she filled me in,” Mitch said. As Detective Kalra drove along the undulating road, the street lights flicked over us, a steady rhythm of light and shadow. I studied his face in the alternating light for a few beats. His expression was a mixture of resignation and determination. “Can you tell us anything about the investigation?”
“This stays between you two, okay?” I nodded quickly and she said, “Obviously, you’re not a suspect,” Detective Kalra said, making eye contact with Mitch in the rearview mirror for a second before focusing on the road again. “You already know that your aunt and the pharmacist are in the clear. Ditto Felicity and Dan. Both have alibis—not each other—for the night he died.”
“Really? That’s interesting,” I said, looking at Mitch. His eyebrows had shot up to his mussed hairline.
I leaned forward and said quietly, “What about Uncle Bud and the fire?”
“Nothing yet on that,” she said as she pulled into the parking lot of Quincy House.
“And Detective Rickets? He’s onboard now?” I asked, still surprised at his quick change.
“He’s onboard,” she said grimly and threw open her car door, muttering, “overboard, more like it.”
“I hope the kids didn’t wear out Aunt Nanette,” I said as we walked into the hotel lobby.
It was only nine o’clock, even though it felt like it was hours later. We’d had a fairly quiet ride back in the car and when Mitch put the keycard in the lock and pushed down on the handle, the burst of noise that hit us was a bit of a shock. Aunt Nanette was sitting in the middle of one of the double beds with a book in her hand, Livvy on one side and Nathan on the other. The kids were in their pajamas and their attention focused on the television, which was tuned to a kid’s game show that involved high-pitched screaming, slime, and lots of splashy graphics. The kids each had a bowl of ice cream on their laps and a ring of chocolate around their mouths. Queen had been curled up at the foot of the bed, but she sprang up and bounded over to us.
“They said they were allowed to watch this show,” Aunt Nanette said as she shifted around and crawled out of the bed. She pulled off her reading glasses and put them in her purse along with the book.
“Oh, they are.” Once you got past the slime and the graphics, the questions were actually educational.
Aunt Nanette said good night to the kids and hugged them, not in the least worried about getting ice cream or chocolate syrup smeared on her clothes. “Hope you don’t mind about the ice cream, but I promised them ice cream after we finished setting up at Book Daze.”
“How did that go?” I asked, wondering if the kids had behaved themselves. I knew Livvy could plop down somewhere and get lost in a book for hours, but Nathan, well, his attention span was shorter and it was hard to get anything else done when someone was demanding to be read to.
“They were brilliant. Nathan was happy to mark on boxes and Livvy found some books.”
“Sixteen, Mom,” Livvy piped up. “Can we go back and get them?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
Aunt Nanette called Queen to her side and said, “They’re on hold at the checkout if you want to come by and pick them up—or some of them,” she said with a wink. “You’ll want to be there early. Doors open at eight. So how was your dinner? Have a nice time?”
“Er—dinner was great, but afterwards . . .”
Mitch, who’d been rubbing Queen’s ears, straightened up and motioned for Aunt Nanette and me to follow him out into the hall. “There was an incident in the cemetery . . . ,” he said, and explained what had happened. “It looks like there will be a full-blown investigation of Grandpa Franklin’s death. The case will be reopened.”
Aunt Nanette buttoned her coat and said, “About time.” She saw Mitch’s surprised expression. “Well, there’s been all sorts of hinky things going on. About time someone got to the bottom of it. You’re both probably exhausted. I’ll let the rest of the family know and I’m sure that bald detective will be in touch with us tomorrow.” She clipped on Queen’s leash. “You have agreeable children, Mitch, dear. I’ll babysit them for you anytime.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Good night, Ellie.”
As we returned to the room, I said, “She took that better than I thought she would. Do you think the rest of the family will react the same way?”
Mitch frowned. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
Livvy’s spoon clinking into her empty bowl brought our attention back to the more urgent matter at hand, bedtime. While Mitch was supervising teeth-brushing, I set the empty ice cream bowls on the room service tray. My stomach rumbled as I placed the tray in the hall. Room service sounded pretty good. Between the microscopic servings at dinner and our rambling walk, not to mention the fence climb, I’d burned off all my dinner and was starving. Sadly, room service wasn’t an option. It was hard enough to get the kids to sleep in the cramped hotel room, and a room service delivery thirty minutes from now would keep them awake even longer. But the gift shop never closed.
I snatched a keycard from the dresser. “Mitch, I’m starved. Want anything from the gift shop?”
“Ice cream!” Nathan responded, and Livvy nodded her head in agreement around her toothbrush.
I shook my head. “You’ve already had ice cream. This is for me and Dad.”
Mitch looked up from wiping Nathan’s face and said, “Dinner was kind of light. Dove bar?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, and dropped a quick good-night kiss on Nathan’s and Livvy’s heads, then swept out the door before they could beg to stay up until I got back. I knew Mitch would have them tucked in bed before I returned.
The lobby was empty except for a woman standing at the high counter of the front desk. I went in the empty gift shop and perused all the chocolate offerings. They didn’t have Hershey’s kisses, my snack of choice, but they did have Hershey bars. And Twix bars. I picked up one of each. I’d exhausted my chocolate kiss supply days ago and n
eeded to stock up on chocolate, any kind of chocolate. It was an essential daily ingredient for me. I picked up a double chocolate Dove bar studded with nuts—might as well go all out—and emerged from the tiny gift shop. I deposited my loot across the counter of the front desk.
The woman was still there. She was gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that her knuckles were standing out in white relief on her already pale hands. “But it has to be here. They told me to come here, that you had it,” she said, and her voice was thick with frustration.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but we don’t have it. His sister picked it up earlier. You’ll have to get in touch with her—”
The woman released her grip and slapped her palm on the counter. “Weren’t you listening? I’m his sister. His suitcase couldn’t have been picked up earlier because I didn’t get into town until two hours ago.”
The desk clerk, a teenager with longish brown hair and a bit of acne on his chin, looked at the woman uncertainly. “You don’t have another sister? Because that’s who picked up his stuff this morning—his sister.”
“No. I’m his only sister. Are you saying that you handed off his personal belongings to some stranger?”
The desk clerk blinked, then began tapping keys on the computer monitor. “I wasn’t on duty this morning . . .”
“Did you ask for ID?” the woman asked as she ripped open her purse and pulled out a wallet. Her fingers were trembling so much that she had trouble with the snap, but she managed to open it and work her driver’s license out of the plastic cover. She smacked it down on the counter. “Because I’m Rochelle Anderson.” She jabbed the card. “Now, who picked up his suitcase? It certainly wasn’t me.”
I heard the name “Anderson” and looked at her more closely. She had the same heavy, rounded features of her brother. The desk clerk tapped more frantically on the keyboard, then flipped a few pages in a binder. He stopped, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Clearly, the manual didn’t detail how to deal with this situation. “I wasn’t on duty this morning . . .” he repeated, uncertainly.