by Libby Howard
“I’ll bet she was the cutest flying bottle of Pepto Bismol ever. Are they going trick-or-treating this year? There aren’t many children in the neighborhood, but people drive their kids in from the nearby developments to come around, so we all get candy to hand out.”
The last ten years I’d positioned Eli so he could see them from the front window. He’d loved Halloween. We’d had our share of parties and always enjoyed decorating the house for the kids that came by in their costumes. One year he’d even dressed up himself, hiding in a pile of leaves by the porch and jumping up to startle the older children.
“They’re a bit old for trick-or-treating,” Judge Beck replied.
“No one is too old for trick-or-treating,” I scolded. “Let them go if they want. There’s plenty of teens that come around. No one minds.”
“Henry might,” he said. “I’m not sure about Madison, but I’ll leave it up to them.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, they should be here soon. I better go throw that pizza in the oven.”
“And I better clean up the pumpkin guts.” I looked down at the stringy orange mess on top of the newspaper. “Do you all like pumpkin seeds? I can roast them.”
He wrinkled his nose. “And pick through all that goop? Isn’t it easier to just buy them at the store?”
It was. And the ones at the store never tasted quite as good as the ones made in your own kitchen. I waved him toward the door. “You get going. I’ll clean this all up and get the lights in the jack-o-lanterns. And if the kids want pumpkin seeds, I’ll make pumpkin seeds.”
Chapter 9
I was in the dining room, looking for a nice glass bowl to put the roasted pumpkin seeds in when they came out of the oven, when I heard the front door open and the excited voices of two teenagers.
“Kids, you head upstairs,” Heather called out. “I need to talk to your father for a moment.”
I grimaced, knowing that this was probably going to end up an argument, and here I was stuck in the dining room. Should I make a quick escape to the kitchen, where hopefully thick plaster walls would muffle any loud voices?
No. This was my house. If they wanted a private conversation, they could step outside. I knelt down to grab the bowl I wanted, rattling the glassware so the two in the foyer would know I was here. Over the noise I heard Heather’s mumbled words—something about money.
“I’m not paying you alimony,” Judge Beck snapped, loud enough for me to clearly hear the words.
“I can’t afford to keep the house on the child support alone,” Heather snapped back.
I could almost envision the judge’s shrug. “Then sell it. You can buy something cheaper in the same school district. And if you can’t, we’ll just use my address here to keep the kids in the same schools.”
“I don’t want to upset them by moving while they’re still at home,” she insisted. “Put aside that you hate me and don’t want to give me a penny more than you have to and think of the children.”
“That’s a low blow, Heather. Parents move all the time and those children aren’t psychologically damaged by a change in houses. I moved here, and Madison and Henry both love this house and the neighborhood. They’ll stay in the same school.”
“I don’t want to move now,” she insisted. “And I can’t afford the mortgage without alimony.”
“Well, maybe you need to get a job.”
“I’ve tried,” she retorted. “Do you know what sixteen years of being a stay-at-home-mom does for your resume? Add in the fact that I can’t do shift or weekend work and need some flexibility because of the kids’ activities, and I’m pretty much looking at making minimum wage.”
“You should have thought about that before you asked for a divorce,” the judge replied, his voice shaking with anger. “You want the money I bring home. You want the huge fancy home in the rich neighborhood. You want the country club membership. You just don’t want me. Well, guess what? You don’t get all those other things without me. Sell the house.”
I heard Heather choke back a sob. “Madison and Henry already hate me for the divorce. If I sell the house and make them move, they’ll hate me even more. Please, Nate. Just five years until Henry goes to college, then I’ll sell the house and live in a cardboard box if I have to. I’ll agree to let you have the additional equity. I’ll even let you take extra out of my portion when we sell. Just please let me keep the house for five years. Please.”
It wrenched my heart to hear her beg like that, to figuratively throw herself at her husband’s feet. We all liked to have nice things, and Lord knows I didn’t relish the idea of losing my home either when I was facing foreclosure after Eli died. I knew in my heart that Heather wasn’t being selfish here.
The kids did blame her for the divorce. She needed to regain their trust and love and moving wouldn’t help that. Neither would her taking so much money from her ex-husband that he couldn’t afford to live on his own.
“I wanted to buy my own place,” the judge countered softly. “You can’t get a loan by yourself on that huge house, and I can’t buy anything with my name still on the mortgage. And I can’t buy anything with a huge alimony obligation, either. You staying in that house means I don’t get to move on and get my own place for five more years. That’s hardly fair to me, especially since I’m not even the one who filed for divorce.”
I knew what he meant. He did like living here with me, and the kids did too, but it wasn’t the same as having his own house where, when the kids were with Heather, he’d feel comfortable bringing a date home to spend the night or feel comfortable wandering around in his underwear. I’d be more than happy to have him stay until Henry went to college. Having the kids live here, heck, having him live here, would be like a dream come true. But I wasn’t wanting to have a date spend the night or wander around the house in my underwear.
“Okay. I understand.” Heather’s voice was small and defeated. I heard the rustling sounds of her turning to leave.
“Five years,” Judge Beck suddenly announced, as if he were delivering a sentence from the bench. “No alimony, but I will pay the mortgage as well as any repairs on the house for the next five years. You’ll get half the profit based on the current appraisal, and I get any extra equity that has built up between now and when you sell it. And you need to list it the moment Henry leaves for college and make every good-faith effort to sell it at that time, or the house transfers to me.”
I heard her quick intake of breath even though I was in the dining room. “Thank you, Nate. And I…I’ll agree to your revised custody schedule in return.”
“Deal.” The judge grumbled something under his breath, something that sounded like “Five years. Kay is going to kill me.”
Heather laughed. “Hardly. I think she’ll be willing to put up with five more years of you.”
Put up with? I was ready to jump for joy at the prospect of it.
I heard the front door close and headed out of the dining room, holding the bowl I’d intended for our roasted pumpkin seeds. “I…um, I heard that,” I confessed to Judge Beck.
“I know.” He sighed. “Kay, I don’t want you to think you’ll be saddled with me for five years. I told you two, and I’m completely prepared to find something of my own once the divorce is final—an apartment or something.”
“You’re welcome to stay here for five years or longer if you want. I mean it. This is too big of a house for me to have by myself, and honestly, I need a renter in order to afford the mortgage. We get along. I love your kids. I really don’t want to wind up with some weirdo if you move.”
He laughed. “I’m glad I rate higher than some weirdo. Honestly though, if you start dating, and my being here is too awkward, just say the word.”
I rolled my eyes. “Didn’t we have this discussion over pumpkin carving? I’m grieving my husband. And I’m kind of looking forward being a single woman from here on out.”
“You say that now, but in a few years, you might change your mind. Just l
et me know and I’ll move. I don’t want to hold you back.”
“Likewise.” Before he could reply, I turned around and headed into the kitchen.
I’d just taken the pumpkin seeds out of the oven to cool when Madison came in and plopped down at the kitchen island. “Is that your dinner? We ate at Mom’s, but can I help?”
“I’m not having pumpkin seeds for dinner,” I teased. “But I am getting ready to make espresso chip scones and double chocolate muffins if you want to help with that.”
Madison jumped up from her chair and started pulling the ingredients out of the cabinets. I loved how she’d gotten to know my favorite recipes, and was always willing to help out.
Which reminded me….
“As soon as you’re done mixing up the scones, take a look at that recipe book on the table. I got it from one of the auction baskets at the golf tourney. There’s a short rib recipe in there that looks pretty good.”
“Can I make it for dinner one night this week?” she asked. “Ooh, but the dishwasher is still broken, isn’t it? I hate to cook anything that’s going to be too hard to clean up.”
I felt a stab of guilt over the dishwasher. “Yes, it’s still broken, but I don’t think this recipe is going to dirty any more dishes than hamburgers or Crock Pot chicken. Plus, we’ll clean as we go so there won’t be such a mess after dinner.”
Madison fired up the espresso maker and started in on her dough while I began melting chocolate for the muffins. “How about I make the short ribs on Wednesday? I can ask Dad to swing by the store on the way home from school for the meat and anything else we need.”
“I have a viewing Wednesday night for Olive’s uncle, so maybe Thursday? Unless you and Henry plan on trick-or-treating.”
“Olive’s uncle died?” Madison exclaimed. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Thursday will work, though. We don’t have practice that night, and I’m not going out. Maybe we can eat a bit later so I can help hand out candy? And that way if Henry goes trick-or-treating, he’ll be back in time for dinner?”
“Good idea.” She was such a mature, thoughtful girl. I glanced over at Eli’s ghost in his usual spot over by the basement steps and wondered if we would have done as good a job of parenting as Judge Beck and Heather. Both Madison and Henry were smart, kind, and such a joy to be around.
By the time we had the muffins and scones in the oven, my imagination conjured up a daughter and a son just like Madison and Henry, only Eli’s and my children would have been about fifteen years older. Actually, I would have had grandkids to spoil at this point, little babies to love on, to visit me for weekends.
But fate had other plans for Eli and me. My hope now was that Madison and Henry remained in touch as they grew, and that it would be their children I’d be spoiling in my older years.
Madison and I sat down to look at the recipe book, and especially the Kentucky short rib recipe. It looked fairly straight forward. The short ribs were boiled, then coated with the sauce and roasted in the oven to finish. The sauce was a combination of lemon juice, cider vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup, chili sauce, dry mustard, and brown sugar. We discussed the recipe, decided we’d only need a nice salad to go along with the short ribs, then wrote down the things she’d need to buy. We took the muffins and scones out of the oven and put them somewhere safe to cool where Taco wouldn’t eat them all, then Madison put some of the roasted pumpkin seeds in a bowl and went upstairs to where her dad was playing a video game with Henry.
I made myself a sandwich, let Taco inside and fed him his dinner, then headed into the parlor to do some knitting. Eli’s ghost followed me in, as always, but as I sat down on the couch, I noticed the second ghost forming on the opposite side of the room.
The woman’s ghost. I noticed she vanished whenever someone else was in the room, only showing herself when I was alone, but she didn’t seem to mind Eli’s spirit. She kept her distance, but the two ghosts were in the same room with me and Taco.
Taco glared at the woman’s ghost, sneezed, then left the room. The cat tolerated Eli’s spirit, but made it plain he wanted nothing to do with any other apparition.
“I don’t know what I can do to help you,” I told the ghost who wasn’t my husband. “I’ll do what I can, but it’s going to be up to the police to find your murderer.”
Who was I kidding? I continued working on the scarf, the two ghosts like sentinels at opposite ends of the room. I would help her, not because she was hanging out in my house, but because it’s what I did. A woman had been killed, her body hidden in the grave of a friend’s cousin. And that meant I’d do all I could to help bring the murderer to justice—for Olive, for DeLanie, and for this woman whose ghost hovered at the far end of my parlor.
Chapter 10
I was up to my neck in skip traces as well as some research on a potential insurance fraud issue when Miles popped into the office. His eyes immediately went to the basket of muffins and scones over by the coffee machine.
“Yes, they’re for you.” I laughed. “Go ahead and help yourself. J.T. is out of town this week, and I’m hardly going to eat all of those myself.”
“Heard you had some excitement after the golf tournament.” He grabbed two scones, then stuffed a muffin in his mouth, taking a huge bite and talking as he chewed. “I’m jealous.”
I waved at the muffin. “So, are you going to give me some information in return for my feeding you? The paper this morning didn’t have anything additional. All I know is that the body was female and apparently she was shot.”
He crammed the rest of the muffin in his mouth. “You didn’t hear this from me, but twenty-five-year-old white female. Cause of death at first look was gunshot wound to the chest. Bled out from what the responding guys are guessing. M.E. will do an autopsy and send away for labs, but from what the officers said it was pretty straightforward.”
I shook my head, sick that a twenty-five-year-old woman was dead. Shot. Thrown into someone else’s grave.
“Her name was Mary Allen,” he added.
“You already identified her?” I watched him chow down on one of the scones. “Did she have her license in her pocket or something?”
“Weirdly enough, yeah. Wallet with her license, twenty bucks, and an ATM card. We ran her prints just to make sure and she was in the system.”
I frowned, and not just because Miles was talking with his mouth full. “In the system? She’d been arrested at one time?”
“Arrested, charged, convicted, and served time. Although served time is a bit of an exaggeration. Possession. First offense. She did work release for six months and got two years’ probation.”
“Possession?” I stared at the deputy. “Drugs? Prescription drugs? Like Oxy?”
He nodded. “She was eighteen at the time. Clean since then from our records, but given that she was shot and dumped in an open grave, we’re thinking maybe she’d relapsed.”
“And maybe there was a connection between her and David Driver,” I mused.
“Who?” The word was barely intelligible. I glared at Miles but he swallowed, shot me a grin, and grabbed another muffin.
“David Driver. That’s whose grave she was dumped in.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. It could have just been an opportune place to hide the body. And no one would have ever been the wiser if they hadn’t been relocating that casket. Weird, huh?”
More than weird.
“Didn’t someone report Mary Allen missing? How could she just vanish and no one know about it?”
“Evidently her parents had moved out of state years ago while she stayed here. They did fill out a missing person’s report back in May, but a twenty-five-year-old woman with a history of drug use goes missing, we tend to assume the worst.”
“David Driver was buried six months ago,” I mused. “She had to have been killed then.”
“Yep.” He wrapped two muffins in a coffee filter and stuck them in his pocket. “And I’m doubting someone killed her and kept her
body sitting around until a handy funeral, so we’re assuming she was killed on that day.”
“So, what’s next?” I eyed the skip traces and insurance fraud files and knew they were about to wait.
“We interview her friends and family and try to find out what was happening in her life, who might have wanted her dead, if she was still on drugs or clean, if there was anything else going on that might point to who would kill her.”
“Keep me up to date?” I asked as Miles headed toward the door.
“Keep my belly filled with your baked goods and I’ll be happy to share anything nonconfidential with you.” He eyed the half-empty basket. “Lemon zest pound cake, and I might even share the confidential stuff with you.”
I laughed and waved him out the door, then helped myself to what was left of the muffins. I so wanted to go over to the cemetery, to meet with Melanie and try to figure out how a murder victim had come to be buried in with David Driver. I’d felt like I owed it to Olive and to DeLanie to find out the why, but now I was having second thoughts.
It wasn’t my business. They hadn’t asked me to look into this, and I was beginning to think it was more morbid curiosity on my part than the need to help them. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe David Driver’s grave was just a convenient spot to dump a body. I had work here to do, especially with J.T. gone for the week. The police were on this case. I needed to do my work and not go running off investigating something that might have nothing to do with DeLanie Driver’s son.
So, I spent the rest of the morning doing skip traces, and when lunch time came, I bundled up and drove into Milford to check out that used appliance store Suzette had told me about.
Berton’s Used Appliances was in the industrial side of town, across the street from the feed store and just down the street from the milk processing center. I had to cross over a set of railroad tracks and drive down a pothole-filled gravel lane to get to their parking lot. The building looked like it hadn’t been touched in the last fifty years. Cement block walls were thick with untold layers of yellowish paint. The glass entryway door had a metal grate bolted onto the frame and the linoleum on the floor was chipped and gouged. There were appliances lined up in three neat rows, organized by type. Closest to the door were stoves, and the ones I saw were most definitely the no-frills sort with actual knobs to turn the coil burners on and off, and little signs taped to the front to indicate whether they were self-cleaning or not.
