Final Grave

by Nadja Bernitt

  Meri Ann pushed past her and Becky slammed the door, the force rattling the big kitchen window.

  “Well?” Becky said, with the indignation of a parent with an out-of-control child.

  “Don’t get after me, Becky.” The revolver in Meri Ann’s backpack made a thud on the table when she set it down. “I’m in no mood, and you know what? Personally, I think you owe me an explanation.”

  Becky raked her fingers through her curly hair. “I guess Ron called you?”

  Meri Ann nodded.

  “Maybe I dozed just for a minute, ’cause his call woke me,” Becky said. “I wasn’t thinking too clearly. He started cursing and telling me he had to talk to you. It ticked me off. I caved, kid, gave him the number. But even if he hadn’t called you, I’d thought about doing it myself.”

  Becky still looked mad but not as mad. “Your clothes look slept in. Hair’s wet for Pete’s sake. What’d you do, jump in bed with him, then take a shower?” She exhaled, loudly. “He’s a cop and you barely know him, don’t even know his first name. That is so unlike you.”

  “I’m a cop, too and a grown-up, Becky. I didn’t sleep with Jack Mendiola the way you mean it—not that my sex-life is anyone’s business but my own—but I did fall asleep on his sofa. And I shouldn’t have done that when I’d promised you I’d be back early. I’m sorry. But I am glad I went there. I got to know him better and he’s an okay guy. Now I’m asking you, please, back off. I’m every bit as tired, frustrated, and upset as you are. Not just about Ron calling.”

  “What else, kid?”

  As much as she hated to even mention the photograph, she felt obligated. “It’s an uncanny coincidence but while I was looking for a hair dryer, I found a photo of his ex-fiancée.”

  Becky looked askance at her. “So, big deal.”

  “It’s Karen Harper.”

  Becky rubbed her forearms, then her stomach. “You got cozy with someone who’s been with the bitch. I’m gonna be sick.” She made a gagging sound, curled her upper lip.

  Lights flashed at the front of the house. Meri Ann started.

  “What’s that?” Becky said.

  The two of them sprinted to the workroom’s picture window. They peered at a set of red taillights.

  “It’s the deputy on patrol,” she said. The marked sedan slowly circled the cul-de-sac, then a second time.

  Becky started to cry. “I don’t feel safe anymore. I miss Meg.”

  “Wish I could make it go away,” she said. “But I can’t, not just yet.”

  She returned to the kitchen in a somber mood.

  Becky opened the refrigerator and took out a leftover piece of Sara Lee banana cake. “Want some?”

  “No thanks.” Meri Ann waited while Becky ate a few bites. “There’s more you should know about the tape on your answering machine. The voice was my mothers but it was spliced together. The killer wants me in Boise. Lieutenant Dillon thinks we can draw him into the open; convince him we accept the answering machine message as real. I’m to make a televised plea for Mom to call me back.”

  “You’re going to be a decoy? On Television?” Becky pulled a chair to the table, sat in it with one leg under her. “That’s crazy. You can’t do that.”

  “Well, I’m going to. Something’s got to bring this to a head.”

  “Oh, kid, I forgot. Your boss called. He says you’re not going to some conference unless you’re on the plane tomorrow morning. I think he said you might be fired.”

  “Pitelli said, fired?” Meri Ann buried her face in her hands briefly.

  “Come on, he can’t mean it.”

  She figured the sheriff had taken a personal affront to her missing the meeting with him. “We’ll see,” she said.

  “What a revolting mess. And I got a wedding on Friday. Meg is out of town.”

  Meri Ann cocked her head to the side. “Where’s the wedding?”

  “At Crane Creek Country Club. Why?”

  “Is the groom’s name, Scott?”

  Becky nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “He’s Mendiola’s friend.”

  “Wow. Small town, huh?”

  Meri Ann nodded, acknowledging the fact. No matter how much Boise had grown, it remained a small town in so many ways. She inhaled deeply and exhaled with a sigh.

  “You look worn to a frazzle,” Becky said. “You’d better get some sleep.”

  “Excuse me,” Renee said, her blade-thin frame pressed against the doorjamb, “but she needs more than sleep.” She scrutinized Meri Ann, as though she’d found the key to the universe. “Your hair,” she said. “Get yourself into the shop tomorrow. You seriously need a stylist.”

  # # #

  Upstairs, Meri Ann sat on the bed, leaning back against a stack of pillows, staring out the window at the black sky. How she yearned to crawl under the covers and not deal with her boss.

  Nonetheless, she called Pitelli.

  There was no surprise in his voice despite the early hour. “Maybe not fired,” he said. “But unless you are on a plane in the next twelve hours, kiss the promotion goodbye. Hell, kiss Criminal Investigations goodbye as well as the funding for your self-defense program. You’ll be back on patrol.” His words hung like funeral crepe.

  A transfer to patrol amounted to departmental suicide. She might never shake the stigma of a demotion.

  “But I can’t leave Boise yet. Isn’t there something you can do?”

  “The sheriff usually bends for me but not this time. He feels snubbed.” Pitelli sounded as deflated as she felt. “All I can say is I tried my best. I like you Fehr and your work. It’s a rotten break.”

  “I understand.” But the thought of losing her job in investigations blew her away. After a throat-clearing silence, they said goodbye.

  Her vocal chords ached and she rubbed her throat. She collapsed on the muslin quilt and closed her eyes. Let the Department rot. Her mother’s investigation was in her grasp, the reason she’d turned to law in the first place. She rolled onto her back, stared at the ceiling.

  “Dear God, let me find her killer.”

  A fantasy of what she’d do to him took over. She would grip his neck and squeeze until her fingers ached, until his eyes bulged and gurgling sounds came from his mouth. She couldn’t see his features, but she felt him squirm, heard him beg for his life.

  Perspiration broke out on her forehead as murder filled her heart. The depth of her hatred scared the hell out of her. The scene lingered in her head, like a paused DVD. It didn’t fade until she fell asleep.

  # # #

  Tina Wheatley removed a key from Robin’s ring while he was in the bathroom taking his morning shower.

  It resembled a small, nondescript luggage key. Yet it had secured their two pistols stored in a sturdy metal box in his first-floor study since her first episode with the analyst. He’d never mentioned locking them up or why he’d quit taking her into the hills for target practice. His was a silent message: You are too sick to be trusted with a firearm; ergo I hide them away from you.

  She pocketed the key, replacing it with a similar-looking one that fit her suitcase.

  Her nerves jangled as they had when she’d stolen a bottle of perfume from the Estee Lauder counter at the Bon Marche. The clerk had turned her back for just two blinks of an eye, enough for Tina. She moved like a deft magician, slipping the bottle into the cuff of her jacket. She’d done it for the rush, reasoning that if caught she could explain it away—but not so easy to explain the key in her pocket to Robin or its replacement on the ring.

  If he found it missing, he would instantly grasp her motive. He was trained to find flaws, to seek out structural weakness. Computers and mathematics enhanced his cunning. Yet he too had a fault, as deep as California’s San Andreas—the horrible weakness that he refus
ed to acknowledge—Joanna.

  The latch on the bathroom door clicked. She watched it swing open in the mirror. Robin stepped out, drying his hair with a towel. He looked distant and more preoccupied than usual. Nimbly, she nudged the key ring back to the place she had found it on the dresser. She picked up a lint brush and turned to him.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She nodded, brushing the front of her sweater as though it needed it. Oh, she could be crafty, too. “I worried about your staying out so late last night, your sprained ankle and all. Where were you?”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  As Meri Ann entered Chez Jay’s the silly trumpet recording played ‘charge.’ The place was packed, speakers pumped out rap and the air reeked of ammonia.

  “Hey,” Renee called. Her cheeks bloomed pink with blush. She still looked pale but exuded more energy than she had at four in the morning. “I’m just finishing up.” Her electric clippers buzzed along the neck of a twenty-year-old guy with freckles and neatly spiked hair.

  “Take your time.” Meri Ann scanned the room. “Is Jason here?”

  “Said he’d be in about ten.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “So would I,” Renee said. “We got into it last night before I went to Becky’s. I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  Meri Ann didn’t press for an explanation, merely offered a sympathetic nod and settled into a comfy stuffed chair. She picked up a Vanity Fair magazine but only skimmed the pages. Thoughts of Mendiola kept her preoccupied. She felt closer to him as much a friend as a fellow detective. And, though she hated to admit it, another facet to their relationship had surfaced on her part—sexual innuendo. She suspected he felt it too. At least she thought he did, but his business-like tone when he had called her an hour ago on his way to a staff meeting left her uncertain.

  There was still no word on Graber.

  She set down the magazine and glanced at Renee, who was applying the finishing gel to the fellow’s blond-tipped spikes. When she’d got it just right, she removed his cape with a Zorro-esque flourish, motioned to Meri Ann. “Next.”

  The stylists to Renee’s left and right were drying their client’s hair and the noise of the music and the dryers added to the salon’s frenetic fervor.

  “I had no idea you’d be this busy.” Meri Ann spoke above the hair-dryer’s buzz as she settled in the chair.

  “It’s always this way.” Renee adjusted the seat for height. “Jason has offered to cut your hair, by the way, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Actually, it’s a bonus. I’m very good, but he’s won national awards.” Renee patted Meri Ann on the shoulder. “Let’s get you washed.”

  Renee led the way to a row of porcelain sinks, bright fuchsia with gold fixtures. Meri Ann took the only empty chair in an assembly line of reclining men and women, each in various degrees of being washed, dried, colored or massaged.

  Renee tucked a towel around her neck and Meri Ann leaned back, enjoying the eucalyptus-scented shampoo. Renee’s fingers massaged in small relaxing circles. Suddenly she stopped.

  “I’ll finish here,” came a masculine voice.

  Meri Ann arched back and smiled at Jason. His black on black attire, unfortunately accentuated the dark circles around his eyes. “Good morning.”

  “Nice to see you.”

  “Jason,” Renee said. “About last night—”

  “No need to apologize. I’ve forgotten it.”

  But his troubled expression led Meri Ann to believe he remembered Renee’s every word. He removed his jacket and pushed the sleeves of his sweater half way up his biceps, revealing the tip of a tattoo. She tried to see what it was but he grabbed a towel and slung it over his shoulder, covering it up. A lot of people had them these days. Still it was hard to imagine fastidious Jason with his arm bared to an ink gun amid cartoon-like posters of dragons, snakes, and Celtic designs.

  He touched his temples. “My head’s pounding, Renee. Would you change the CD. Some jazz or Celine Dion, anything but that Eminem.”

  “Your office was locked,” she said accusingly.

  “Well, it’s open now.” He clipped his words. “Just do it!”

  Her bottom lip quivered and Meri Ann felt sorry for them both. Having just been through it, she knew all too well the tension that foretells the end of a relationship.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Meri Ann.” He gently centered her neck against the sink’s rim and began to rinse. “Seems I’m always hurting her feelings. God knows I’m stressed. Mother’s in terrible pain. I stayed with her most of last night. Sick as she is, she asked me to do her hair this morning. I’ve always done her hair.”

  “You must be exhausted. I’m sorry about your mother,” she said. “If this is too much—”

  “No. No, it’s not. I need this break. Just lean back and let me finish.” He lowered the water temperature and massaged her scalp. “It feels good to work.”

  The firm touch of his masculine hands relaxed her. After a few minutes, he turned off the water and wrapped Meri Ann’s head with a fresh towel.

  Eminem went silent. “That’s a relief,” he said. Three seconds later the music of a classical, steel-string guitar drifted through the shop.

  He led her back to his station, where the jug of piranhas sat on one end. “I almost knocked your fish over yesterday.”

  “My red-bellied Caribes.” He peered into the tank, then back at her. “Their teeth are so sharp that the ancient Amazon Indians used them as scissors. Not sure how but they probably used the lower jaw bone with them in it.” He continued admiring the fish while blotting her hair with the towel. “I find them fascinating.”

  “Then you wouldn’t want to lose them.” Meri Ann pointed to a brace beneath the marble shelf. “Looks like it’s pulling away from the wall.”

  “My handyman checked it out, says it’ll be fine till he gets here next week. Me, I’m worthless with a hammer. Funny, considering my father was a craftsman, a fine cabinet maker. He built furniture, among other things.”

  She wiped a drop of water from her forehead. “I love the smell of fresh sawn wood.”

  He nodded. “My father worked for the wealthiest families in Boise.”

  They chatted for a few minutes about old Boise. Then Meri Ann guided the conversation to Graber. “What can you tell me about Harold Graber?”

  “We’ll tackle that later.”

  Jason cradled her head in his hands and tilted her face upward. The high-intensity lamps had a pink tint that made her skin glow. “Feet on the floor, shoulders straight,” he said.

  She did as he asked, watching as he studied her reflection. “Classic features, straight, even. And your hair… It’s really very good hair.”

  Rolling a strand in his fingers, he said, “Mahogany striations in a deep, rich brown, very close to the texture and color of your mother’s.”

  It wasn’t unusual for people to say they remembered this or that about her mother. But she wished all the same that he hadn’t done it, driven home the fact that she’d forgotten the hint of red in her mother’s hair.

  “How much shall I take off?”

  “You be the judge.”

  He pulled back his jacket, as a gunfighter might, and reached behind him for a velveteen pouch that held a formidable pair of scissors.

  She broke into a smile at the gesture, his sensitivity to her dark mood. “Clever,” she said.

  “Thought you’d get a kick out of that.” He beamed for an instant, then started on her hair. The task consumed him and he didn’t speak till he’d finished. “Perfect, absolutely perfect.”

  And very, very short.

  He handed her an ornate silver mirror and swiveled her around for a view of his handiwork.
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br />   He pulled a chair up beside hers. “Ask me whatever you’d like.”

  “Let’s start with Harold Graber, Jr. I know it was a long time ago, but is there anything more you can tell me about his personality, his interests and habits?”

  Jason stroked his chin, the way people do when they’ve got a bone to pick. “You went to his place, didn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  His lips drew into a disapproving flat line. “After you left I wished I hadn’t been so outspoken about him. I’d feel responsible if anything had happened to you.”

  “I’m a cop, not Little Red Riding Hood,” she reassured him. “I needed to talk to him and still have questions for him. Last time I went up there he was gone. From the looks of his cabin, he left in a hurry. Any ideas on where I might find him?”

  Jason fidgeted with the scissors before returning them to the pouch. “He’s gone you say?”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said unconvincingly. “But, I… I wonder. I saw him in Boise about two weeks ago.”

  The timing sounded suspiciously close to the discovery on Table Rock and that piqued her interest. “Two weeks ago, you say. Can you remember the exact day?”

  “Wish I could but no.”

  One step forward, one back, she thought. “Harold’s got a shed full of stuffed animals and taxidermy equipment in the shed beside the cabin.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it, his father was a taxidermist. It fascinated Harold, watching him wrap flayed skins of animals over mannequins. I never saw him working, couldn’t have stood the stench of decaying flesh and blood. But that’s a moot point; I’d never have been allowed to watch him. Taxidermists are a brotherhood and keep their secret formulas to themselves.”

  “Think Harold, Jr. did more than watch? Did he work with his father? Did he know the chemical equations, proportions, the methods? From what you say, the gore didn’t bother him.” She stopped the barrage of questions which seemed to be overwhelming Jason. In a slower cadence she asked, “Just how weird is he?”

  Jason glanced away, as though reluctant to tell stories on a friend. He frowned and shook his head slowly. A memory obviously bothered him.