Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  Janet rolled over on her back. “I guess. But Wilson’s here, what, one day? And Michael’s already up to his armpits in alligators. You should have heard him on the phone when I called the funeral home to talk to him about going to Carlton. He sounded like a decrepit old man running on his last leg. I’m worried about him.”

  “Maybe so, sis, but I don’t think you can blame that all on Wilson. It’s not his fault Michael wound up with that big service. I’d probably sound decrepit, too, if I had all those people swarming my place.”

  “I don’t think it’s just about the crowd. I mean, Michael and I haven’t had a chance to really talk since Wilson came over to the house last night, but I’ve got a feeling something happened while he was there.”

  “Did Wilson give ya’ll any idea why he came back now? Or hell, why he left in the first place?”

  “Not that I know of. He didn’t say anything in front of me. I’d bet rocks to rats, though, it has something to do with money.”

  “You think?”

  “Yep.”

  Theresa shook her head thoughtfully and pulled a silver clasp out of the back pocket of her shorts. “You know it’s too bad Michael’s an only child,” she said, clipping her long hair back into a ponytail. “At least with a brother or sister around, he could kind of spread some of the Wilson load around.”

  “Nah, it’d be worse.” Janet sat up. “Then Michael would worry about the brother or sister, too.”

  “That’s true.”

  “It’s pathetic. Nobody should have to put up with some of the stuff Michael’s had to deal with—especially from a father.”

  “I don’t think there’re many people who get by without dad issues,” Theresa said. “Ours wasn’t exactly Saint Peter.”

  “But Dad was boring, not manipulative and greedy.”

  “Maybe. Guess it’s all perspective.” Theresa zipped up the suitcase and lugged it over to the bed. “All done. This should hold Heather for a couple of days.”

  Janet cocked an eyebrow. “Couple of days? You’ve got enough clothes in there for four weeks.”

  “You’ll be in the woods. She’ll get dirty.”

  “You’re such a hen.”

  “Cluck, cluck.” Theresa grinned and sat on the edge of the bed. “You sure you want to head out there alone with the girls? Wouldn’t you rather wait to leave with Michael?”

  Janet leaned over and stretched, not so much to get the kinks out of her back as to delay answering her sister’s question. Michael hadn’t been all that thrilled about her driving to Carlton alone with Ellie and Heather when she’d talked to him about it earlier. But she’d convinced him, shamelessly using Ellie’s anxiety about possibly missing the fair. After her strange encounter with Anna Stevenson, Janet decided that no matter how much she disliked staying at the cabin, they were going, with or without Michael. Anna’s strange warning might have been prompted by the grief of losing her own daughter, but it played in harmony much too well with the trepidation Janet had been carrying around for the last two days. Fortunately, Bertha Lynn had been able to collect her crew of pinochle cronies to cover the shop, and Laura’s brother, Seth, had been more than happy to earn a few dollars making flower deliveries.

  “It’ll be all right,” Janet finally answered. “Besides, if we wait for Michael we wouldn’t be able to leave until tomorrow, and even then, he wasn’t sure what time he’d be able to take off.”

  “Why? Is it a two-day service?”

  “Just one. But he said the family wanted to do the entombment at dusk today, so it’ll be late when they finish. Then there’ll be clean up, preps for the next day, not counting if he gets any other calls.”

  Theresa scowled. “That man works too hard, girl. It makes me tired just thinking about all the stuff he puts up with.”

  “Me, too.” Janet leaned over and rested her arms on her knees. “That’s another reason why I’m leaving today. I don’t want him worrying about getting us to the cabin. He’s got enough on his mind. Summer Fest starts tomorrow morning, and I know he wouldn’t want Ellie to miss it. There’ll be plenty to keep the girls occupied until he gets there.”

  As though on cue, the sound of small, running feet and squeals of laughter rumbled down the hall, and Ellie and Heather burst into the room at full tilt.

  Six-year-old Heather waved a yellow nightgown over her head like a victory flag. “Look, Aunt Janet, Mama said I could bring my new ‘jamas!” She proudly stretched the gown out in front of her, revealing a large picture of Barbie on the front.

  “Gorgeous,” Janet exclaimed.

  “Now we can be twins,” Ellie declared. “All except mine’s blue.”

  Heather nodded in agreement and handed the nightgown to her mother. Giggling, the two girls linked arms and skipped back out of the room.

  “No more clothes,” Theresa called after them, then said to Janet, “Jesus, if I try to fit one more thing into her suitcase, it’ll pop.”

  “Mm,” Janet said.

  Theresa hunched over to match her sister’s posture and stared at Janet.

  “What?” Janet asked.

  Theresa tapped a finger between Janet’s eyes. “Your divots are showing.”

  “My what?”

  “Ever since you were little, when something really bothered you, your divots showed up.” She traced a short vertical line between Janet’s eyes with a finger. “There. Two deep lines.”

  “Gee, thanks. What are you going to let me in on next? That my ass cheeks twirl when I sneeze? How come you never told me about these divot things before?”

  Theresa shrugged. “Guess it’s just one of those things that’re there, but you never pay much attention to, like a wart.”

  “Warts, huh?”

  “Okay, so bad analogy. But I do know the more you worry, the deeper those divots get. Right now, they look like dry riverbeds.”

  Janet rubbed briskly between her eyes. “Great.”

  “If it’s any consolation, they usually go away after you’ve talked through whatever’s bothering you. They’re still there, though. So I’m figuring there’s more on your mind.”

  Janet rested a cheek on a fist and looked at her older sister. “When’d you get so smart?”

  ‘The day you were born.”

  “Yeah?” Janet chuckled.

  “So, you going to tell me?”

  Dropping her hands between her knees, Janet puffed out her cheeks, then exhaled loudly. “I don’t know, T. Just a gut feeling I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “Like?”

  “Like something bad’s going to happen.”

  Theresa frowned. “Then maybe it’s best you don’t head out to Carlton with the girls.”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with Carlton. I feel it has to do with something here. Maybe the funeral home. Maybe Wilson. I don’t know for sure. It’s this . . . you know how the weather gets right before a hurricane? How the sky turns this funky gray-white color, and the air gets too still?”

  Theresa nodded.

  “That’s sort of how I feel inside.”

  “Well, that’s understandable, don’t you think? With Wilson back in the picture? He’s always been bad news one way or another.”

  Janet glanced over at the top of the bureau with its lace doily, bottle of Passion perfume, pink keepsake box in the shape of a heart, and a silver frame that held a picture of Theresa, her husband, Mitch, and Heather.

  “You’re probably right,” Janet said after a while.

  But it didn’t feel right. Not at all. Her internal barometer measured something a hell of a lot bigger than Wilson Savoy. Something much, much bigger.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Michael elbowed his way through the people sandwiched together in the lobby of the funeral home, all of them waiting to pay their last respects to the Stevenson girl. Around shoulders and above heads, Michael watched helplessly as Sally and Chad tried to stop Agnes Crowder, his cleaning woman, from barreling her way out of the building.


  He couldn’t blame Agnes for wanting to leave. It was barely past noon, and the place looked like a disaster area. Hordes of people had rotated through the building all morning, most of them puffing on cigarettes. Some carried in kettles of stew or platters of roasted meat, and rum, tequila, and high-dollar bourbon had been hauled in by the case. Men, with hairstyles and clothes more suited for the ‘70s, brought guitars, tambourines, and musical contraptions that resembled large wooden fruit with strings, which they played in drunken harmony.

  Control became impossible as the multitude grew. Everyone Michael spoke to about maximum occupancy laws or no smoking ordinances either couldn’t understand him or could and didn’t care.

  Michael reached the back hall just as a cornered Agnes shoved a finger in Chad’s face.

  “You better back yourself up, little man, or else!”

  “But you can’t leave,” Chad said desperately.

  “For heaven’s sake, Agnes, all you have to do is pick up the trash,” Sally said. “It’s not like we’re asking you to sanitize the place.”

  The buxom black woman slammed her hands on her hips and glared at Sally. “And who died and made you queen? You best take that smart ass mouth and—”

  “Don’t you talk to me like—”

  “That’s enough,” Michael warned. Fortunately the women’s sparring ground was near the embalming room, the one area the Stevenson group seemed to have little interest in exploring.

  “She started it,” Sally fumed.

  Agnes’s nostrils flared. “Why you skinny—”

  “Stop,” Michael demanded. He lowered his voice. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got a viewing going on. You want everyone to hear you?”

  Agnes glared at him. “It ain’t gonna make no difference if they do ‘cause not a damn one of them gypsies speaks American anyway.”

  “Shows what you know,” Sally said. “Their name’s Stevenson. Gypsies don’t have names like that.”

  “Look here, Miss Thing.” Agnes held up a warning finger. “It’s you don’t know nothin’. They just usin’ names like that so nobody turns ‘em out. But wait, you gonna see. Juju. That’s what they workin’ in here, plain and simple. I can feel it.”

  Chad grimaced. “Really? How—”

  Sally huffed. “Agnes, the only black magic going on around here is you trying to disappear from work.”

  Michael pushed himself between the women just as Agnes’s hands curled into fists. “I said enough.” He glanced behind him to make sure no one else was close enough to hear, then turned back to his employees. “I don’t care if the Stevensons are pygmies from Zimbabwe. We have a job to do.”

  Agnes folded her arms, tucked them under her huge breasts, and snorted. “Doin’ my job don’t mean pickin’ up no dirty diapers, a mountain of paper plates half-full of food, or no used women’s plugs. It’s wall to wall elbows and butts in here, and not a damn one of ‘em knows how to use a trashcan.”

  “Women’s plugs?” Michael asked.

  Chad leaned into him and whispered, “Tampons. They found one in the women’s bathroom sink. Used, just like she said.”

  “Jesus,” Michael groaned.

  “Jesus ain’t gonna pick ‘em up either,” Agnes said with a snap of her head.

  Sally matched Agnes’ stance. “Michael, you have to get us more help. There’re too many—”

  “Too many people,” Chad finished for her.

  “And they’s all crazy,” Agnes added. “Every last one of ‘em out there. You—”

  “Wait a minute.” Michael held up both hands, wanting time to think. The last thing he needed was a mutiny. “Sally, have Richard man the phones while—”

  “He left,” Chad said.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Mason left about a half hour ago.” Chad shrugged. “Said he wasn’t being paid enough to deal with this mess.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Sally muttered.

  “Smart man,” Agnes said with a nod.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Michael asked. “Maybe I could have—”

  “Tell you?” Chad shook his head. “I couldn’t even find you. I’ve been doing everything to—”

  “Okay, okay, so he’s gone,” Michael said, rubbing his left temple. “Let’s just keep this simple. Chad, you keep an eye out in the viewing room. Make sure they don’t trample one another in there. Sally, you answer the phones and give people directions to the bathrooms and lounge. And, Agnes, would you please stay and at least keep a path cleared between the lounge and reception area?”

  Agnes eyed him suspiciously. “That’s all I gotta do?”

  “That’s all. We’ll worry about the rest when this is over.”

  She puckered her lips as though considering the task ahead, then said, “Yeah, I guess I can do that. But what you gonna do?”

  “Right now? Find aspirin.”

  Michael headed for his office, making his way past a wall of chattering women in ankle-length, multi-colored dresses. All of them were bedecked in heavy gold jewelry and acknowledged him with a cautious eye when he excused himself and sidled by.

  By the time Michael finally entered his office, he’d squeezed past so many people it felt like his suit was on backwards. He closed the office door, brushed the twists out of his jacket sleeves and pant legs, then went to his desk.

  He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a second. Too much, he thought. I should have Dad locked up for ever agreeing to—

  Michael’s eyes flew open. He’d been too busy to realize he hadn’t seen Wilson around all morning. As frantic as his father had been last night, logic said he should have been sitting on the funeral home steps by five this morning, waiting for an answer about the money.

  “They’ll kill me, Michael. I swear to God they’ll kill me.”

  Sudden worry fueled Michael’s headache to near migraine intensity. He unlocked his desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and grabbed a bottle of aspirin. Shaking out three, he tossed them into his mouth and chewed the bitter tablets. He thought about the creep at the gas pumps, the one Janet had told him about yesterday. Was he one of Wilson’s investors? Had they found his father? Could Wilson really be in danger?

  Michael considered going out to look for him, but quickly dropped the notion. He couldn’t leave with a funeral home full of people and too few employees.Maybe he should call the police and ask them to start a search.

  Just then, Michael’s office door opened, and Wilson strutted in like a crippled rooster.

  “Full house, I see,” Wilson said.

  Relief and anger swirled through Michael until his hands shook. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Wilson’s eyebrows peaked into twin steeples. “Why? You missed me?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “And I asked you one.”

  Michael gritted his teeth. He wasn’t up for an argument. He relocked his desk and stood. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, and stormed toward the door.

  “What?” Wilson reached for Michael’s arm as he passed by, but Michael pulled away. “Well I’ll be damned,” Wilson exclaimed.

  Michael whirled around. “For once you’ve got something right.”

  Wilson chuckled. “Yeah, maybe, but that’s not what I meant. Now hold up, hold up.” He stepped in front of the door before Michael could open it. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”

  “Move.”

  “You were worried about me, weren’t you?” Wilson asked. “And that pissed you off.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “You don’t have to admit it, but I can tell. Saw it in your eyes when I first walked in.”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  “No it’s not.” Wilson reached out to touch Michael’s arm again, but pulled his hand back before they connected. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I went to see your Aunt Dora in Metairie this morning. Left early but I got caught on the Pontchartrain coming back. Some deliv
ery truck caught fire. Shut down both lanes for hours.”

  It took Michael a moment to recollect the face of his father’s only sister. The last time he’d seen Aunt Dora was twelve years ago, at his mother’s funeral. The polite thing would’ve been to ask about her welfare, but Michael’s anger bypassed the courtesy.

  “So what’d you do? Swipe her Social Security check?”

  Wilson’s face clouded. “No, Michael. She has cancer. Thought I’d get in one more visit while she was still around.”

  Michael looked away and shoved his hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what else to do with them. He suddenly felt like a jerk. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, well—” Wilson cleared his throat, then jerked a thumb toward the door. “Sure looks like those people are getting their money’s worth, huh?” When Michael didn’t respond, he shifted from one foot to the other. “Talking about money . . . have you . . . uh . . . have you decided about—”

  “I can’t do anything about money,” Michael said.

  “But—”

  “If you’re really in some kind of danger, I’ll go with you to the police. That’s all.”

  Something sparked in Wilson’s eyes, and he pounded fist to palm. “The police can’t take care of shit, Michael. I’ve already told you, these people aren’t playing around!”

  “Neither am I.”

  “So that’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say? You just want me out of the way, don’t you? You want me dead.”

  “Stop being melodramatic. It won’t work.”

  Wilson turned away sharply and scratched the back of his neck. When he faced Michael again, tears pooled against his lower lids. “Look, there’s got to be something I can do to—”

  “Yes, there is something you can do,” Michael said, opening the door. As familiar as he was with his father’s antics, he felt his resistance slip. He couldn’t get used to the tears. “I’ve got a building full of people, and we’re short staffed. You need to help.”

  “Sure, sure, but wait,” Wilson pleaded. “You can’t just leave. Give me another chance, son. That’s all I’m asking for. With that money I can set things right again. Pick up the pieces and make things different with this family. Look, see here?” He pointed to the picture of Ellie on the windowsill. “I’ve got a granddaughter I don’t even know. Help me out. Give me a chance to get to know her. We could be a family, Michael. A real family.”