She rose from the chair and ran her delicate fingers through his locks. “And I like your curls.”
“They’re getting long. I need a haircut.”
She finished toying with his hair, and he was sorry she stopped. “Not too short, okay?”
He had walked the two miles to Grant’s Texaco and then another half mile up the hill to the Springer house, hoping Nathan was home. Kennet needed to talk with him about all he’d learned the previous day, how Grinold had tricked him into cremating Ma, and that Flavia was up to no good by denying Putterman burial.
Nathan wasn’t home, but Christy was, and that turned out to be better than his original plan. He still couldn’t remember everything that was evading him, but he did recall O-L-A and wanted to brush up on his Morse code before he returned to the cemetery to cut the grass. Maybe the clanging on the flagpole was only a fluke, yet he wanted to be prepared.
He accepted the page from the printer and then Christy led him from her room down the carpeted front stairs and outside to the porch.
“You going to the party tomorrow night?” she asked.
“What party?”
“Didn’t Nathan tell you?”
“No. I haven’t seen him for a few days.”
“Another party in the field by Alex Keckler’s place.”
Kennet admired her clear skin glowing in the sunset.
“Well, are you going?”
“Maybe,” he said, turning toward the sun blazing through the shield of maples that descended the hill. “I don’t have anything else planned.”
“I’ll be there. With all my hair.” She gathered her long blonde strands and twisted them in her hands.
“Okay then, I’ll go, but I’ll have to leave my hair at home. Gotta wash it and hang it out to dry. Takes a long time to dry.”
She giggled and slapped his chest. “Seriously.”
“Sure. Can you pick me up?”
“All right. I’ll call you when we’re leaving. Won’t be before nine. Nate cuts grass till dark and then has to get cleaned up.”
“And splash on some cologne.”
“Keeps the insects away.”
“Kills them dead, if applied directly.”
“You’re funny,” she said as he took the first step down.
“Funny looking.”
She rested her hands on his shoulders. “I think you’re nice looking.”
“Just ‘nice’? Not dashing, debonair? Drop-dead gorgeous?”
She grabbed him by the earlobes, but gently. “Wouldn’t want you to get a swelled head. Your hair might pop off.”
This time, he laughed. Then he drew her in for a kiss. He wanted to take her back inside, but she kept it short and sweet. He gazed at her again, sighing with a smile. “Thanks for the computer time, Christy. I’ll see you tomorrow night. You and all your hair.”
She kissed him on the forehead and let him go, and when he reached the end of the driveway, he turned and waved.
• • •
At Good Shepherd Cemetery, Kennet cut and bagged the grass, ran the trimmer, and then cleared the walks with the gas-powered blower. His hands tingled from using the power equipment as he gathered up the remains of wilted Memorial Day decorations in the humid heat. The cemetery would soon be aflutter with American flags for July 4th.
His work done, he laced his fingers behind his neck and reclined beneath the tulip tree. As the sweat dried on his head, prickling his skin and hair, he drifted off to sleep, wondering why Putterman had to be cremated, why he was such a fool for giving in to Grinold’s wishes to take a stupid drink.
The sigh of wind through the spruce trees reminded him of the vision of his mother. Or was it some kind of hallucination induced by the alcohol? It seemed so strange, it couldn’t be real. But the power when she laid her hand on his head was so stunning, it couldn’t be mere imagination. And the weird presence that came flying out at him when he opened the crematory door. . . . He must have been hallucinating. Yet he couldn’t deny his inner pictures while raiding Mary Grace’s file cabinet.
The images—and that uncanny presence—had led him right to the details about his mother’s cremation. But how could he “avenge” her with this information? The damage was done, and if anyone needed to be avenged, he did. And what could he do for Putterman now?
He needed to figure that out but he was too sleepy to think about it at the moment.
• • •
When he roused, the wind was coming stronger, rustling the leaves above him. Dark clouds had blown in, and the sky was green over the woods behind Alex’s place. A storm was building.
Better get home. Just another minute to wake up before he tramped the mile back. A sudden gust struck him in the face, catching his breath away. At that moment, he remembered what had evaded him since yesterday.
The day after his mother’s death, the morning he cremated her unknowingly, he had toasted marshmallows over her ashes. He recalled darkness and panic, how he’d fought to draw his breath. How had she died? Suffocation. That’s what he remembered now. His mother had died of suffocation—not heart failure as Flavia said.
Kennet sat up straight, fully awake. The clanging on the flagpole started. He listened for a pattern and soon discovered it.
. . . L . . . A. The clanging stopped and then started again.
Tink-tink-tink-clang—V. Tink-tink—I. Clang, clang, clang—O. Tink-clang, tink-tink—L. Tink-clang—A.
V-I-O-L-A. Viola.
Hair rising on his neck and arms, Kennet stared at the newest stone in the old section of the cemetery. “Gone But Not Forgotten.”
Above the wind, whining. He rose to his feet. The black dog stood by the flagpole, stock-still, watching him intently with bright black eyes. When he reached the pole the dog took off.
When Kennet stepped around a juniper, the dog had disappeared. The trees behind the crown of mausoleums pitched furiously, and he sensed the preternatural presence with him again. Instinctively he stopped and closed his eyes. In the tintype vision, a figure hovered in the shadow of the Frost mausoleum. He opened his eyes and headed for the crypt of pocked granite, overgrown with Boston ivy.
The wind roiled in the deep shade there, dredging up dead leaves he had yet to rake from the undergrowth. They swirled in a cyclone that was suddenly filled with the wispy form of a woman, a beauty with flame-red hair and eyes that pierced like swords. She wore an old Air Force uniform not in style for at least thirty years. And she began to speak to him in verse.
“Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?”
When she finished, her image faded, and the wind died down. In the deathly stillness, Kennet shook until he wept. The last words were:
“Tell him for me. Tell him. . . .”
Chapter 30
Kennet tramped from the funeral home in the hot late afternoon sun, still wearing his sweaty yardwork clothes. The storm had blown over, but atmospheric tension lingered like oppression, and along the Youghiogheny the trees drooped, dusty and listless. At the care home he excused himself from joining everyone for dinner. Flavia regarded him coldly. Alex made no effort to hide his disgust at seeing Kennet as he pushed Sylvia Kryszewski’s wheelchair to the table.
Kennet turned down the short hallway next to the kitchen that led to the basement stairs, but he didn’t descend. Instead, he removed his work boots and socks quietly.
He waited until both Flavia and Alex sat down, and then slipped into the front hall and took the front stairs by two, placing his bare feet at the far ends to keep the steps from creaking. His heart was pounding by the time he reached the second floor, but he didn’t let it stop him. He continued up the narrow steps to the third floor where Flavia’s apartment was.
Sunlight filtered through the double windows in the alcove,
revealing dust motes dancing in the air. He cut through them across the old wool carpet, bristly on his tender feet, and fished a key from his pocket. Earlier, he had jogged directly from the cemetery to the funeral home to borrow the old skeleton key to the janitorial closet.
Please work. He inserted the key carefully, hoping it would make little noise. It twirled a bit, and he had to move it in and out until it caught. He gave it a slow twist. The lock drew back with a clack that seemed deafening. Was it loud enough to be heard all the way downstairs? Probably not over the chatter of lunch at the dining room table. He turned the knob and opened the door.
Flavia’s apartment smelled of potpourri and her spicy perfume. It was lavishly decorated. The deep-pile carpet was a dusty purple with hints of silver, the walls a deep gray eggshell. The draperies over the front window were a silky material of deep purple, and the sofa a textured pink and azure, gold and plum.
To his left was the bedroom. Same carpet and walls, with a four-poster bed and a dark blue coverlet that looked about a foot thick. A mahogany nightstand held a lamp and the intercom box where residents could buzz her during the night. Around the corner to his right was an efficiency kitchen, all in stainless steel.
What am I looking for? Some kind of file cabinet, or a place she kept records. She had no office on the second floor, so she must do her bookwork up here somewhere. There was no sign of any such business at the square dining table or in the living room.
He stepped into the bedroom where the scent of perfume grew stronger, almost suffocating. In the nook beside the door to her bathroom sat a small school desk with a tray full of papers and envelopes. Beside the desk stood a two-drawer oak file cabinet. He opened the top drawer and riffled through the folders there: utility bills, sickroom supplies, repair receipts, and the like. Nothing concerning residents.
He opened the second drawer and found folders for every resident, but all they contained were records of their prescriptions and telephone numbers for next of kin, an attorney if they had one, and doctors and specialists. No financial information. No folders for Putterman or his mother.
The middle desk drawer held stationery and writing utensils, a bottle of correction fluid, and paper clips of various sizes. He flipped through the items in the tray on the desktop, but it held only correspondence and current invoices.
Where could it be?
He rummaged through her closet, careful to put everything back in its place, yet all he found were shoes, clothing, and a few outfits like the one she’d worn when she was switching Ramirez the landscaper with her whip.
He checked the nightstand. K-Y Jelly, condoms, a pair of chrome police handcuffs, and a few sordid items he wished he hadn’t laid eyes on.
Nothing but unmentionables, hosiery, and lingerie lay in the dresser. The top was neat, her perfumes and jewelry box tucked back against the mirror.
He padded to the kitchen and went through all the cupboards, shifting the professional cookware carefully so as not to make noise, yet found nothing that he was looking for.
He was about to leave but stopped short. The dry bar cabinet between the front door and the kitchen entry had double doors with a brass-lined keyhole. The doors were locked. He tried the skeleton key, but it was too big.
What’s so important that you have to lock it up, Ms. C?
He closed his eyes and saw an image of her jewelry box, his hands opening it. He returned to the bedroom and opened the chest. He’d never seen so much gold in all his life. Bracelets, neckchains, rings, and earrings. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires.
Was it all hers? When did she wear any of it? Maybe Ramirez knows. She’d whipped the landscaper’s pale buttocks with flashing rings on each finger. He shuddered.
There it was, a small brass key, a miniature of the skeleton key, only an inch and a half long. He tried it in the lock of the cabinet and it worked.
Inside stood bottles of liquor. Bombay gin, Grey Goose vodka, Maker’s Mark scotch—his stomach lurched at the thought of it—Southern Comfort, and several fifths of Sambuca. He shifted the bottles around and then paused. A black box lay in the back.
He drew the box out and lifted off the lid. Inside lay a cloth-bound ledger book and half a dozen red folders. One was for Herman Kuntz. Another was for Rhoda Osgood. A third for Albert Putterman. And one for Virginia Singleton.
Jackpot.
Just then came a noise from downstairs. He clenched his fists to keep from carelessly shoving everything back in the box. He strained to hear over the drumming of his heart. When nothing more happened, he relaxed.
He’d come looking for Putterman’s records, but he opened his mother’s folder first. Her insurance papers lay inside. He scanned the computer printout. DEATH BENEFIT: $5000. What? Not $2000 as Flavia had assured him over the phone in Grinold’s office. Fresh anger erupted inside him.
He opened Putterman’s folder and found a copy of his friend’s will that stated where he wished to be buried: next to his wife in McKeesport and Versailles Cemetery, McKeesport, Pennsylvania, the County of Allegheny. Behind the will lay a deed to the burial plot. And insurance papers revealing a benefit of $10,000. More than enough to bury him in style.
Putterman was telling the truth.
He cracked open the ledger book. Only a few pages were filled. He scanned the names and entries there. Before Herman Kuntz, a dozen other names were penned in Flavia’s careful script, names Kennet vaguely remembered from his junior high school years. Ellis Macnamara had been an enormously obese man who became bedridden the last year of his life. He remembered Flavia giving Herman sponge baths, coming out all sweaty from wrestling him around the bed to wash him.
He noted entries for Rhoda Osgood, Putterman, and his mother. He guessed that some of the figures next to the names were the difference between what she had received from the insurance company and what she actually paid to cremate them. These entries were marked with the abbreviation INS.
The name Mirabella Firenza owned the most entries, one every month for the last five years. He didn’t know who she was, but the monthly amount was the same: $689. She must have died before he and Ma moved in. Each of her entries included a notation unlike the others. Not INS, but SS. Social Security?
He shut the book and was about to place it back in the box. In the bottom lay a vial of medicine, the kind used to fill hypodermic needles. Succinylcholine, whatever that was. And a cellophane packet labeled INSECTICIDE, half-filled with dull white powder. Strange stuff to keep in a box full of paperwork.
For a moment he considered scooping it all up and taking it to the police. Would stolen evidence be admissible in court? Yet what if she found out he was on to her before he had opportunity to report his findings? He could call anonymously, but there was a chance she could cover her tracks if an investigation began.
No, he wanted to gather evidence that would stick so that she would surely be brought to justice. For his mother. And Putterman.
The cogs of his mind churning faster, he put everything back in the box, replaced the box in the cabinet, and then arranged the bottles the way he’d found them. He locked the cabinet, returned the key to the jewelry box, and then locked the apartment door behind him. He eased himself down the stairs, all the way to the foyer. He tip-toed back the front hall and was about to turn the corner when Ms. Costa met him, carrying a serving dish smeared with the congealed remains of macaroni and cheese.
He froze and, after meeting her gaze, looked away. Her eyes were cold and bright.
“Still not hungry?” She tilted her head to get him to look at her.
He forced himself to raise his eyes. “No, ma’am. I’ll just grab a piece of fruit before I go, if that’s okay.”
“Suit yourself.” Her voice was icy silk. She studied him for a moment longer, and he sensed the wheels in her head match the speed of his own. Then he broke away and descended the steps to the basement, fearing she knew where he’d been.
• • •
When Flavia turn
ed off the water upstairs at the kitchen sink, Kennet stripped off his smelly work clothes and grabbed his towel. In the shower, warm water beat down on him from the crusty showerhead. He grabbed the soap from the metal dish screwed into the concrete wall and began to suds away the yardwork grime.
He contemplated all he’d experienced that day. The clanging of the flagpole, spelling Viola. The apparition of the woman in the Air Force uniform, reciting poetry as dead leaves swirled around her in the frigid shade of the crypt. Tell him . . . He had liked being a creamer because the dead didn’t talk back or order him around. Evidently, that was no longer the case. He’d buckled at the knees as she stood there speaking to him in her whispery etheric voice. But now he was tempted to believe he’d dreamed it while he was stretched beneath the tulip tree. Yet he’d sensed the presence as at other times, saw the figure in the tintype vision before she actually appeared. Was it real?
It had been real all the other times; he’d gone on to see with his eyes what he perceived in his mind. If he actually did see a ghost, a spirit—whatever it was—should he heed what she said?
Tell him . . .
Obviously, she was referring to Old Man Wilkes. But he couldn’t remember the whole poem. I have come by the highway home, and lo, it is ended. He should put Christy on the case. She was a whiz at finding information. So smart and fun and funny. And cute as heck. Her hair was so long and silky. It smelled good, and felt sexy in his hands. And her smooth thighs.
He turned the water cold for a few moments until he regained control of himself. He reached for the shampoo, listening to hear if anyone was coming down the steps. He shouldn’t dally. He must return the skeleton key to the funeral home tonight.
What had he seen in Flavia’s apartment? Evidence, naturally. But of what? Foul play, he was certain. Enough to convict her? He believed it would. She was foolish to store incriminating financial records and insecticide in the same box. Yet if she needed to ditch the evidence on short notice, it was conveniently all in one place. Maybe not so dumb after all.
Flavia was bilking residents for their insurance money. The Italian woman—something Firenza—had the same figure recorded nearly sixty times. Probably her Social Security check. What had happened to Ms. Firenza? He hated to think Flavia had killed her, but maybe she had. If a death certificate had been filed, her benefits would have ceased. If indeed Ms. Costa had killed the woman five years ago, she was either forging the woman’s signature on the back of the checks or, more likely, they were continuing to be deposited directly into the care home account. There were bank statements in Flavia’s in-basket. If he could match the amounts in the ledger to deposits listed on some statements, he’d know for sure.
Death Perception Page 17
