Final Grave

by Nadja Bernitt

  Becky’s footsteps retreated from the door.

  Meri Ann waited several seconds, a minute, but Becky said nothing else. She finally gave up, retreated down the apartment stairs and then outside. She entered River House through the kitchen door. Lamps and overhead lights shone in every room on the first floor. Becky had kept them on night and day since the prowler incident. Poor Becky, Attila the Hun would have made a better houseguest.

  On her way upstairs, Meri Ann glanced across at the cluttered dining room. In their haste to deliver the topiaries to the country club, they had left a mess. Silk flower stems littered the floor, pieces of ivy, sphagnum moss and clippers and awls. Suddenly it seemed important to tidy it up, to do something for Becky, no matter how meager. She set to work, boxing the unused flowers and greenery, tossing the trash, sorting and cleaning the tools. An hour later, she collapsed into the down-filled club chair by the window.

  God willing, Aunt Pauline would make room for her, because there was no alternative except a motel. River House belonged to Becky and she was no longer welcome there. She drew herself up from the chair, found a notepad and wrote a note telling Becky she’d stay at Pauline’s. Of course, that would be after her business with Graber—a fact she omitted. She left the note on the kitchen table, propped up against a salt shaker.

  She climbed the stairs to her room, sick over Becky, but relieved not to involve her. Strength comes from within, and a lone hunter covers more ground.

  The bedside lamp lit her room, making it easy to spot a yellow mailer addressed to her on the pillow—Becky’s gift. She tore the flap open and peeked inside. It held a cassette with a hand-printed label, “Old Favorites.” She rechecked the envelope, noted the postmark and wondered why it had been mailed to her. There was no return address. She stared at the cassette, thinking it must be songs from their high school days. Her friend’s thoughtfulness heaped still another layer of guilt onto her. She tucked it into her pocket. No way she had the heart to play it now; instead she set about packing.

  In a matter of minutes she had Meg’s sweaters neatly folded and the rest of her clothes hung in the closet. That done she tugged her black suitcase from under the bed and set it on top. She gathered her toiletries from the bathroom and the few garments she’d kept in the dresser’s top drawer. When the suitcase was packed, she turned her attention to the box with her mother’s things from Pauline’s basement. It would need to be sealed with packing tape. But first, she checked to make sure nothing inside was breakable.

  The photographs from her mom’s party were the first things she saw when she parted the lid. Wheatley’s letter the second. She sat on the edge of the bed and reread it. Tenderness poured from every line, every word on the page. He’d meant to start a new life. Meri Ann felt certain her mom had intended to be at his side. She must have told Graber, the birdman, who claimed, “Joanna was my life.”

  Meri Ann pictured him as a wild paranoid man with a sick psyche unable to cope with abandonment. So he’d killed her rather than lose her, a popular theme in the annals of crime. She had seen two such cases in her brief career. But Graber’s behavior went beyond a murder of passion. She brooded over the account of his dog staked over an anthill and eaten alive, the sinister crime scenes he’d set up with the bones.

  Her hands trembled, imagining the horror of her mother’s last moments, her last breath.

  She eased to the window and peered below. The street was still. Not a breath of wind moved the trees, no cars, nothing but black asphalt reflecting a waning three-quarter moon. The tangled woods beside Becky’s house made a perfect hiding place. He had used it before and might be using it again. He hadn’t made contact, yet.

  Her hands broke out in a sweat at the thought of waiting for him. No way was she going to stand by like a helpless lump, listening to the Regulator clock tick the minutes away. She’d draw him out, stand in the front of River House and call to him. If he didn’t show himself, she would know he was holed up in the cabin. She’d borrow Meg’s car for the last time and drive up the mountain.

  She checked the revolver in her backpack and confirmed it was loaded. “Thank you, Mendiola,” she whispered as she glanced around for her jacket. Meg’s coat might be warmer, but she wanted her own. She grabbed the lightweight windbreaker from a hook on the bedroom door and hurriedly slipped it on. But as she started down the hall, she noticed a bulge in the right-hand pocket—an envelope. Her name was on the cover, written in Becky’s scrawling hand and a note inside.

  Dear Meri Ann: You broke my heart, but it’s not so much your fault as mine. I thought you were different than the others. It will take me a long time to get over this, maybe forever. I don’t hate you, like I said. But I can’t stand to see you. Becky.

  The heartfelt message took Meri Ann’s breath. Had Becky left her this also? Two seconds later, she looked back at the room in shock as the realization struck her—the Old Favorites cassette was not from Becky.

  She grabbed it from her backpack and rushed downstairs to the music system. Her fingers trembled as she inserted it into the tape portal.

  Music filled the room, a primitive rock and roll beat, one she’d heard before:

  . . . All the little birdies on Jay Bird Street love to hear the Robin go tweet, tweet, tweet. Rocking Robin . . . .

  It was a song played at her mom’s party. One of those one-hit wonders that make the hit parade whenever fifties music is played. Rocking Robin? Robin Wheatley? Had someone wanted to incriminate him? Or might Mendiola have been right about him from the start?

  Meri Ann dropped into Paw Paw’s chair, stunned by the lyrics and what they might mean. Seconds later the phone rang.

  “Meri Ann? It’s Jason. Harold Graber is here.”

  She bolted up from the chair, the phone pressed tight to her ear. “Where exactly are you and where is he?”

  “I’m at the shop.” Jason took a deep ragged breath. “I was just locking up when I saw him sneaking around the hedge in the back parking lot. You said to let you know if I saw him. Well, he’s here and he’s got a shotgun.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Yes. I know his truck, and he’s got on that old, rag-tag range coat he wears every where.”

  Oh, yes. Meri Ann recalled the range coat, a range coat that looked like a long raincoat.

  “What can he want here—with me?”

  She wondered herself. Graber should be looking for her, not Jason, not an estranged friend from childhood. That is, unless Jason knew something that incriminated Graber beyond those childhood atrocities. As gross as they were, they had happened long ago and posed no legal threat. In any event, Jason could not be the only person who knew about them. If he had told her, then others must know too. “It doesn’t make sense to me either,” she said.

  “Okay, okay, so we don’t know why the maniac is here. What about me? What should I do?” His voice riveted up a notch. “Should I call 911?”

  She listened carefully to everything he said and also the way that he said it. He sounded afraid, anxious, and yet she detected a false note. Her sensors shot up, the part of her brain trained to question prickly feelings. She shook them off for the moment. The elation of knowing Graber’s precise location took precedence over all else. The call had answered that unknown—it had also sewn a small seed of doubt about what Jason claimed was going on at Chez Jay’s. For all she knew, he might be a hostage with Graber holding a gun to his head, forcing him to call her. The phone still at her ear, she removed the Rocking Robin cassette from the music system. Or perhaps something else was going on.

  “No. Don’t call them yet, not unless he enters the shop. And, Jason, lock the doors and stay put. I’m on my way.”

  # # #

  She hung up the phone, slowly, deliberately. Paw Paw’s gun cabinet and its formidable cache of weapons drew her eye—not that she needed another firear
m. But it got her thinking that there might be more creative tools in Becky’s workroom arsenal, something to cut glass with, or a tool to pick a lock when she arrived at the shop. She needed to create a diversion. She also needed backup, but not just yet. The desire to face her mother’s killer overrode her professional training. She steeled herself for what lay ahead.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Meri Ann viewed Jason’s Victorian house the way a climber views Mount Everest: with determination, respect, and great trepidation. She parked down the block from Chez Jay’s and approached from the back on foot. She searched the foliage, looking for a human form or a glint of steel in the moonlight. No sign of Graber, although his truck was there.

  The house was dark, except for what appeared to be a nightlight on in the main salon. She hugged the shrub line bordering the property and studied the back of the house, looking for motion lights or some other form of security system. She remembered cameras at the front and back doors but wondered if there were others. Lucky for her, there was nothing on either side of the house, not even flood lights.

  Next, she inspected the perimeter for access to the basement, but the only windows in the foundation were at the front of the house, which would make her a target. She circled around to the narrow side yard, where she spotted an old metal fire escape leading up to a third-story dormer. That would do, because if this person expected her to enter through the front or back door, he would be mistaken.

  The song on the cassette had confused her, as did Jason’s call. And right now she had no idea what was going on inside the shop or who was behind it. It couldn’t be good. Jason’s intentions might be straightforward, but if someone you believe kills for fun comes skulking around your house an hour before midnight with a shotgun, you call the cops—not a visiting detective.

  She had never suspected him, neither had the detectives. Still, her mother had kept weekly hair appointments with him. They shared gossip, jokes, and perhaps secrets. But then he shared secrets with dozens of women. His business mandated personal relationships. A deeply personal connection to her mother seemed remote. He preferred women like Renee, a totally opposite personality type.

  She reminded herself that he was in trouble. The lyrics of the tape, implying Robin Wheatley played in her head. But his car wasn’t in the parking lot. Harold Graber’s was. Before the night ended, she would know the point of the tape and who had sent it.

  She wore her backpack on her chest, which gave her easy access to the tools or revolver, as she needed them. She checked her watch. Her diversion would arrive in a matter of minutes. She hunkered down under the cover of an overgrown privet hedge, breathing the chill night air.

  Three minutes later, she spotted a Pizza Hut delivery car, heard the breaks screech to a stop. The car door opened and slammed shut, and she jumped to her feet, every muscle in her body taut.

  Footsteps hastened up the wooden porch stairs. The doorbell rang, rang, and rang; the absurd tune of “charge” repeated each time. Seconds later another car door slammed. Mama Mia’s Pizza had arrived, still another smokescreen.

  She started up the ladder, mentally patting herself on the back, listening to the second deliveryman’s footsteps pound up the front steps. Then the two angry male voices hot in accusation. One announced loudly he’d go to the backdoor. She hated to stiff them, but if all went well, she’d make it up to them.

  She was already six feet up the ladder, her head arched back. Thirty feet to go. Thank God she didn’t fear heights. The sturdy metal ladder held just fine. With each rung up she prayed to make it inside undetected.

  # # #

  Jack sat in his Blazer across from the Basque Center’s bar. He debated whether to go in and enjoy a nightcap or to head for home. He also considered calling Meri Ann, but there’d been no answer the last time. He figured she might have gone to her aunt’s, since she and Becky left the club separately. He felt sorry about that, and ticked off at Kari for dredging up trouble. Hell she was trouble. He frowned, just thinking of her, glad he’d escaped the reception without having her corner him. He sighed, glanced at the neon Miller sign in the window and decided to head inside. He’d visit with Pablo and watch a little football on ESPN.

  The bar was moderately busy and about what he expected for eleven o’clock on a Friday night. “Hey, Pablo,” he said as he crossed to his familiar stool at the far end.

  The bartender sidled up, slapped down a napkin and studied the tuxedo suspiciously. “All decked out and nowhere to go?”

  “Been there and back. My buddy got married today, joined the ranks of the country club set. So many people ass to elbow, you know what I mean? I needed to get the hell out of there.” He loosened his tie and undid the top button on his dress shirt. “So here I am.”

  “What’s your pleasure, Jack? Suds? Boiler maker? Johnny Walker? Jack Daniels?”

  “All good fellows.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lusting for all of it but tired of drinking too. He frowned. “Got any coffee?”

  Pablo grinned with his eyes and nodded. “Just put on a pot ten minutes ago.” He served up a cup in a grainy ironstone mug. “Sorry, we’re out of milk.”

  “No problem. I take it black and sweet.”

  Pablo rustled up two sorry-looking sugar packets, pushed them beside the cup. “I read where you found out who killed that woman back in ‘87. How’d you figure the killer was a woman?”

  Jack sipped the coffee and let the warm steam moisten his face. “Can’t talk about the details, yet. Trust me, it all worked out.” Yet something about the suicidal confession bothered him. There was no specific concern he could chew on or mention to Dillon. Still the miniscule increments of doubt piled up in his craw, and every now and then he wondered about Harold Graber.

  He stared at the big screen TV, watching the tail end of the LA Lakers tearing into Portland’s Trailblazers—no football tonight. He sipped his coffee, not really caring one way or the other about the score. His mind was on Meri Ann, wishing she were here so they could talk before she left. Maybe he’d drive by Becky’s and see her there. Not that he’d bare his misgivings about the case, but he just had a yen to say hi, see if she was okay.

  # # #

  The lock on the dormer window at the top of the fire escape was broken and the ordeal with a glasscutter unnecessary. Meri Ann opened the bottom sash slowly and slipped inside as quiet an entry as any second-story man. A streetlight cast a wedge of light across the pine plank floor, enough to see the room was used for storage and full to the brim with more collectibles: old cameras, stuffed animals, farm equipment and 78 rpm records. It smelled of old fur and camphor. She passed through quickly on her way to the hall and the stairs.

  Before venturing down, she adjusted the five-inch Bowie knife strapped to her leg. It would serve as backup—thank you, Paw Paw. She also carried a half dozen skeleton keys she’d found among the gun collection. On previous visits to Chez Jay’s, she noticed the old fashioned hardware and keyholes. No locked door would keep her out. Before opening the attic door, she removed Mendiola’s revolver from her backpack. The piece felt awkward, the grip too big for her hand. But what could she do? This wasn’t a church social, and she needed protection.

  Lucky for her the door opened without a squeak.

  Her adrenaline pumped, dilating her eyes to the point where she practically saw in the dark. She felt superhuman, a cross between a stealth machine and a predatory cat, and at the same time, a quaking, fearful child. It was like being two opposite people under the same skin, one ready to fight like a warrior and the other ready to bolt like a coward. Still she continued.

  She stopped at the second story landing, listening. She got down on her knees, placed her ear on the dusty plank floor and listened some more. There was movement below, the sound of wood scraping wood. She eased down two stairs and breathed in the acrid smell of cordite. Someone
had fired a gun.

  Chapter Forty

  Becky lay on the bed in the apartment flat on her back, hands folded on her breast like an Egyptian mummy. Sumbitch if she didn’t feel dead.

  Twenty minutes ago, Meg’s car engine rumbled to life. She’d gone to the window and watched Meri Ann take off, probably for Pauline’s but without any baggage. So what did that mean, that she’d leave her stuff and come back? Some nerve.

  Then another thought struck Becky. Meri Ann might have gone after Graber. If he was the murderer… if… then what were Meri Ann’s chances? She hadn’t even given her Renee’s cell phone. Becky’s belly ached from the thought, and it felt as if a Boise High linebacker had punched her in the gut.

  She rubbed her stomach and mumbled, “Who gives a rat’s tail what happens to her?”

  Yet her conscience nagged her. In her toughest times she’d turned to Meri Ann, told her things might make a priest cringe, things she’d stored in her soul, things she told God in her prayers. She had written Meri Ann into her last will and testament. They were sisters.

  Were sisters.

  Tears spilled from her eyes while she conjured an image of Meri Ann driving up to Graber’s in the black of night, her wide-set brown eyes flashing with venom. All that talk about finding him before she called in the law, and what if Graber knew that? What if he was lying in wait for her?

  Becky dried her eyes. She owed Meri Ann something; at least a call to Mendiola to tell him stupid-ass Meri Ann had taken off for parts unknown.

  She pushed herself up and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, face cradled in her hands. Mendiola’s number was in the kitchen in River House. It took her ten minutes to gather enough energy to get up and make her way down the apartment’s stairs and across to the house. Every step in that direction made her want to puke.

  Lies hurt worse than anything did, and Meri Ann had hurt her bad.