by Loretta Ross
On the top of the dresser was a lamp, an old wind-up alarm clock that still kept time when she set it, and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with dust-coated lenses. There was also a brown pill bottle and she picked it up eagerly, but it had been sitting in the sun and the name had long since faded from the label.
The sound of a door opening reached her and she froze, tilting her head and holding her breath. She half expected her mysterious dead artist to come in demanding to know what she was doing with his things.
“Yoo hoo! Wren! I know you’re in here!”
She relaxed and called back, “I’m up here, Doris! Hang on. I’m coming down.”
She hurried down the hall and stopped at the top of the grand staircase. Sam’s wife, wearing a flowered dress and a white sun hat and carrying a takeout bag from a local sub shop, waited in the formal entryway. Wren gave her a cheerful wave and slid down the curving bannister to join her.
“That looks like fun,” the older lady said. “I’ll have to come back and try it when I’m not dressed up.” She held up the takeout bag. “I thought we could have lunch together. Sam said you found some artwork you wanted to show me. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this place.”
“Lunch sounds great. Let’s eat in the dining room. What I found is an artist’s sketch pad with a study for a painting, I think. I’ll show you while we eat.”
The big table in the dining room was stacked with books and glassware, but Wren was able to push it together enough to clear off a corner. Doris set out the sandwiches and chips and a stack of napkins while Wren fetched cans of soda from the cooler she’d brought with her. Because she was always conscious of protecting the antiques she worked with, she also took two cheap cork coasters from a mesh bag tied to the cooler handles.
Before she sat down, Wren ran back into the parlor and got the sketch pad. Doris set her sandwich aside to take the pad and flipped carefully through it.
“Oh, my,” she said. “This is just gorgeous.”
“Does it look like anything you’ve seen before?”
“The whole of it, no,” Doris said thoughtfully. “But this—” She indicated the central figure, moving her finger as if she were tapping the drawing but taking care not to touch the paper. “I know I’ve seen this woman before.”
“Really? Where?”
Doris sighed, closed the drawing pad, and set it aside. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
They dug into their sandwiches. While they ate, the older woman looked around, taking in the furnishings and architecture.
“I’ve always wondered what it looked like in here.”
“Yes.” Wren nodded. “You said that before.”
“You know I grew up in this neighborhood?”
“No, I never knew that.”
“My father’s farm is off that way.” She tipped her head, pointing her chin back toward the southwest. “My oldest brother lives there now.”
“Is that Billy? The one with all the daughters?”
“Indeed.” She laughed. “He’s jealous of me because he wanted a son and I’m jealous of him because I always wanted a girl.” She took another bite of her sandwich and patted her mouth daintily with the corner of her napkin. “We used to walk right along that path outside the fence on our way to church when I was a child.”
“The Dead Guy Path?”
“Well, we never called it that, of course, but yes. We called it the Vengeance Trail and had great fun scaring ourselves with ghost stories. Especially if we were walking it in the dark, if there was an evening program at church for example. Or in the gloom of winter, when the sun came up late and night came early. And then, of course, we’d have to walk past ‘the gravedigger’s house’!”
“The gravedigger’s house?”
“That’s what we called this place. There was an old man who lived here all alone. He always wore a black suit to church on Sunday and he rarely spoke to anyone. Everyone referred to him as the gravedigger. I don’t know if he was, really, or if it was just us kids being morbid. Because he lived so close to the cemetery, you see?”
“I wonder if he could have been my artist. I don’t suppose you remember his name?”
Doris sighed and shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know if I ever even knew his name.”
“Would it be in the church records, maybe? I wonder what happened to them when the church was deserted? And how did it get deserted, anyway?”
“Sam and I left after we got married and moved into town.”
“I figured that.”
“Well, it wasn’t just that, exactly. We were married in that church, you know? And we honestly never thought of leaving. For the first couple of years of our marriage, we drove out here every Sunday.”
“What happened?”
“We switched to Northside Baptist after my cousin, Chloe, married the pastor.”
“Your cousin’s married to the pastor at Northside Baptist? I didn’t know that.”
“No, dear. My cousin married the pastor here.”
“Oh.” Wren frowned down at the tabletop. “I don’t understand.”
“Chloe is, how shall I put this? A difficult woman. She was always difficult, even as a child. When the rest of us were in Sunday school singing ‘Jesus Loves Me,’ Chloe was singing ‘Jesus Loves Me Best.’ She marries the pastor and all of a sudden, in her mind, she’s the lady of the manor and we’re all her vassals.”
“Ah. I think I see.”
“The last time I came to church here was for a work day, to get things ready for the church bazaar. It was supposed to be a committee meeting, but instead Chloe was handing out assignments. ‘You’re going to do that and you’re going to do this and I’m going to give everyone a list of exactly what I expect them to bring to the bake sale.’ Well, several of us took exception to her attitude. She just laughed, real condescending, and said, ‘A flock has to do what its shepherd says. My husband is the shepherd of this flock, so obviously that makes me the queen bee.’ I said, ‘Yes dear. And I think we all know just exactly what that B stands for!’ And I left, and the next Sunday Sam and I started looking for a new church.”
“So is that what happened, then?” Wren asked. “Cousin Chloe drove everybody away and the church had to close?”
“Well, she certainly didn’t help matters any. Sam and I weren’t the only ones who left because of her, and it was a small congregation to begin with. In the late seventies or early eighties a big storm came through and damaged the roof. When they started looking at it, they found a lot of wood rot and other structural problems and they simply couldn’t come up with the funds to fix it. I’ll admit, it makes me sad seeing it standing there in disrepair. I spent a lot of happy hours there as a girl.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. Things have to change. Time does march on. It always has and always will.”
“Do you have any idea what became of the church records when it closed?”
“No, I don’t. Chloe might know. I hate to have to contact her, but I suppose since it’s for a good cause, I could bite the bullet and call the old bee.”
They finished their meal in a pensive silence. Wren was fighting a yawn and thinking she needed more caffeine when Doris spoke again, suddenly.
“He died, you know.”
“Hmm? What?”
“The gravedigger. The man we called the gravedigger. He died, you know.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured he must have.”
“No, what I mean is, I remember when he died. It was while I was in grade school. The whole church turned out for his funeral. If we walked over to the churchyard, I bet I could find approximately where he’s buried. If we look for a grave of an old man with no close family who died in the mid-sixties, maybe we could find his name that way.”
“Doris! That’s a great idea!”
“Well, come on then! Let’s go right now!”
At the side of the dining room, a French door opened ont
o a cobbled terrace. Wren glanced out and noted a few dark clouds rolling in from the west.
“It looks like it might rain,” she said. “Let me run up and close the windows first just in case.”
They tidied up quickly, stuffing their trash back into the bag the sandwiches had come in, and then Wren ran up the stairs and down the hall to the room where she’d been working. The window in the north wall was stubborn and she had to wrestle it down. The east window went down easily and she stood for a moment, her hands still on the top of the windowsill, looking out across the countryside.
Off in the distance she could see a gray Jeep driving up the driveway to the vets’ camp. It stopped outside the main cluster of buildings and a pair of familiar figures climbed out.
Wren smiled to herself. She and Doris would pass by there on their way to the cemetery. Maybe they could collect some help in their search. In any case, they were going to see Death and Randy shortly.
Death always brightened her day.
_____
Warriors’ Rest was nestled in a slight dip between the hill with the Hadleigh house and the hill with the old church. A tidy office building stood at the head of the driveway. Death could see half a dozen tiny, rustic cabins scattered back in among the trees, and trails leading off into the underbrush suggested that there were more out of sight. He parked his Jeep between a sedan and a motorcycle on the gravel parking area, slid out from behind the wheel, and stood looking around.
Randy got out on his own side, yawned hugely, and stretched his long arms up toward the blue sky.
“You wouldn’t be tired if you hadn’t stayed up half the night texting your girlfriend,” Death teased.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Randy said. “She’s just a girl. Who’s a friend.”
“Sure she is.”
“Mind your own beeswax.”
“I love the way you’ve matured so well.”
A high-pitched, inhuman scream interrupted their witty repartee.
“Was that a horse?” Randy asked.
“There.” Death pointed. “It came from that old barn.”
The barn sat away from the office and cabins, inside a pasture ringed with the same shoulder-high fencing they’d run into in the woods the day they’d met Kurt Robinson. Death and Randy made a dash for the structure as another terrified whinny split the air.
Randy outpaced his brother easily, to Death’s dismay, but Death caught up as he was wrestling with the heavy board that secured the barn doors. He slid it aside and pulled the doors open and the two men stood for a second, blinking into the darkness and waiting for their eyes to adjust.
The main section of the barn was maybe nine feet in height, with a wide corridor separating a series of work and storage rooms on the left from the half dozen or so stalls that lined the right-hand wall. Sugar, the big gray horse that Death had fed apples to, was in the corridor facing them, fighting against a thin, scrawny man who was trying to force him into one of the stalls. The horse reared back, hooves flailing at the air. His nostrils were flared and he rolled his eyes in terror.
The man, just a silhouette standing with his back to them, cursed at the horse and slapped it in the nose, hard. Death recognized the voice.
“Blount? What the hell are you doing here and what do you think you’re doing to that horse?”
“You know this guy?” Randy asked.
“Oh yeah,” Death said grimly. “I’ve picked him up a couple of times when he’s jumped bail.” In addition to his work as a private eye, Death Bogart was a part-time bounty hunter.
“Well, I ain’t jumped bail this time,” Blount said, still fighting the horse. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be and what I’m doing is none of your damned business, so just get the hell out and leave me alone.”
Death hadn’t heard anyone else come in, so he jumped slightly when an angry female voice came from behind him.
“Hey! Weasel! What the hell are you doing with that horse?”
At the sound of the woman’s voice, Blount cringed, loosened his hold on the reins, and turned, shoulders hunched and chin thrust out defiantly. “I’m putting him back in his damned stall where he belongs.”
“Who told you to do that?”
“Nobody told me. I’m taking the initiative.”
A young woman pushed her way between Death and Randy and stormed forward to confront the petty criminal. “You don’t get ‘initiative’! You do what I tell you to and nothing else, do you understand?”
He muttered petulantly under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Yes! I said yes, okay?”
The horse was edging back, pulling at the extent of its lead and clearly anxious to escape the barn. Death, who knew fear and anxiety a little too well himself, made so bold as to tug the reins loose and lead the horse to the other end of the barn, where another open door led into a fenced paddock. Once outside, Sugar stopped in the middle of the yard, his flanks heaving. He was trembling. Death ran a hand down the animal’s neck, marveling at the sleek feel and the underlying muscles, and Sugar moved close and draped his head over Death’s shoulder.
The other three followed them out. Blount and the woman were still arguing.
“Well, I’m the one that has to go lugging feed and water out to him and there ain’t no sense in it. And it’s one more place that I gotta shovel horse crap out of. Make him go back in his stall where he belongs, and if he won’t then you oughta just shoot him. Damned old bastard’s crazy anyway. Always fighting me all the time!”
“He’s not crazy. He just doesn’t like you because you’re an ass. Now get the hell out of here and don’t let me catch you messing with him again.”
Blount stomped off across the paddock and Death studied the woman while she watched him go. She was just a little bit taller than Wren, fit and muscular, with dark brown skin and a head full of short, tight curls. She wore shorts and a tank top and a bright prosthetic that took the place of her missing lower left leg.
“There’s a reason Sugar doesn’t like that guy,” she said, turning around. She saw Death hugging the big stallion and smiled. “He likes you, though.”
“He’s nice,” Death said. “I’ve never been this close to a horse before.” He hooked a thumb toward Blount’s retreating back. “What’s he even doing here?”
“Community service,” she said drily. “Lucky us.” She studied Death, tipped her head. “So, what can we do for you, Jarhead?”
“Death Bogart. This is my brother Randy. We were looking for Kurt Robinson.”
“That’s my husband. He’s not here right now. He had to run into town. I’m Nichelle, by the way.”
“Like the lady from Star Trek?”
“Yes, I was named after her.”
Death gave the horse a final pat and turned to offer her his hand. She shook hands with him and with Randy, and then took Sugar’s halter off and opened a gate to release him into a pasture.
“So what branch of the service were you in?” Death asked.
“Corps of Engineers. You’re the detective, aren’t you? Are you here about Tony? Have you seen him? Is he doing okay? I mean, as okay as he can be. You know?”
“Yeah. I think he’s doing as well as can be expected. You know him pretty well?”
“He’s my husband’s best friend. He and Zahra and Kurt and I had a double wedding. Tony’s family.”
“What do you think of all this?”
“I think it’s crazy.” She turned and led the way back to the barn. Again they had to stop and let their eyes adjust from the bright sunlight. “I can’t believe he killed someone. I guess a part of me doesn’t believe it. I would have said that I was more likely to fly into a homicidal rage than Tony was.”
The first five stalls they passed each held a horse facing the wall, tails swishing idly as the humans walked past. At the far end of the barn, next to the door that Death and Randy had first entered by, the last stall stood open and empty.
Ra
ndy stopped beside it. “Is this the stall that Sugar was in when the dead guy stole him?”
“Yeah, and now he won’t go back in. Absolutely panics if you try to make him. Poor guy must have been really traumatized.”
Death stepped inside the small enclosure and looked around with interest. “This seems like pretty small quarters for such a big horse.”
“Yeah, we don’t normally keep them in the stalls. We just bring them in to feed them and groom them. They were only in that night because there was a severe thunderstorm in the forecast.”
“Do storms bother horses?” Randy asked.
“Not so much, but they bother Kurt. Reminds him of being under fire. He feels like he needs to protect everyone and everything around him.”
Randy gave her a sad half smile and stepped a little closer. Death ignored them both and studied the stall.
The barn was sturdy but the wood it was built from belied its age. It was old oak, dried by the years so that the sap had sunk away and the grain stood out in ridges like a topographical map. The stall itself was about five feet wide and eight feet long, not counting the manger against the wall. Since it was in the corner, it was darker than the rest of the room. Broad, thick planks separated it from the next stall over.
A contraption of leather straps and silvery bits hung from a wooden peg on the wall, and a shelf above the manger held an assortment of arcane tools and an empty beer can.
“Could you put one of the other horses in this stall and give Sugar theirs?” Randy asked.
“We tried that,” Nichelle said. “None of them will come near it without putting up a fight. Look at Dolly, in the next stall. See? She’s staying as far from this corner as she can.” She rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold. “To be honest, I’m not too crazy about this stall myself. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something about it just gives me the heebie jeebies.”
As she spoke, the hair rose on the back of Death’s neck. Randy made a strangled sound and pointed, and Death turned around.
On the shelf above the manger, the empty beer can was moving of its own accord.
