Beyond the Grave

by Judy Clemens

  “Maddy—Officer Justus—told me the other cops have been asking about you, saying they need to know to finish up the report. But she and I know where you are, and that’s enough.” He finished his coffee and looked around. “Where do the cups go?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Thank you.” He stood and brushed off the front of his suit, as if he’d been eating a donut.

  Casey glanced at her own shirt and realized he’d been giving her a hint. She stood, too, swiping at crumbs.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Spears said. “We may need you to come by, talk to a judge or lawyers or someone else official.”

  Great.

  “Can’t promise how long I’ll be sticking around,” she told him, “but you’ll be able to get me on my phone.”

  He looked like he wanted to follow up on that, but he didn’t. Instead, he stuck out his hand.

  Casey shook it. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be the one thanking you when this is all over.” He smiled suddenly, changing his face, making sense of the laugh lines.

  “You’re new in Beltmore,” she said. “Where did you come from?”

  His smiled vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Hell,” he said.

  And then he turned around and walked out of the store.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I did some checking.” Death left and was back in an instant, wearing a Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with the deerstalker hat and an electronic pipe. Casey didn’t even know such pipes existed. Fortunately, the smoke smelled of lavender instead of chemicals. Underneath Death’s coat, as the one non-period article of clothing, was a T-shirt plastered with a life-size photo of Benedict Cumberbatch’s face. Casey could appreciate that one.

  “Chief Spears came to Beltmore from Boise. Some really bad drug stuff went down there, and he was right in the middle of taking care of it. The mayor asked him to stay, but he wanted somewhere quiet and uneventful. Too bad for him you made an event.”

  “Those jerks were already making events. They just weren’t getting caught.”

  “True.”

  Casey wiped off the tablecloth and deposited the mugs in the dish tub. “It’s good to know he’s above-board. I was hoping Beltmore hadn’t gotten saddled with another corrupt cop.”

  “Excuse me?” Vern stood in the doorway, his forehead furrowed.

  Casey forced a smile. “Talking to myself.”

  Vern checked her black eye, as if wondering if she’d suffered a concussion along with it. “What did that guy want? Does he have anything to do with the cop who was here Friday?”

  “He’s the Beltmore chief.”

  “The chief? He’s not in collusion with the other cop, is he? Do you need me to talk to him?”

  “Boy, he’s getting all dad-like, isn’t he?” Death puffed on the pipe.

  “Actually, I think he’s okay. He wants to make things right and have those guys answer for it.”

  “Well, let me know if any of them bother you.”

  “Thank you.” Casey wasn’t sure how an old guy with a pot belly would do any better than she could herself, but she wasn’t going to turn down a friendly offer.

  The bell at the front dinged, and Vern glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you get some lunch? We had plenty left.”

  She was hungry, even after the donut. Plus, she never got protein after her workout, having been rushed off to church, of all places. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  Dottie was sleeping, or at least in her bedroom, so Casey had a quiet lunch of macaroni and cheese with ham before heading back to the store. She was reaching for the deli doorknob when someone pushed through backward from the other side. Casey grabbed the handle and held the door open for the woman, who had two gallons of milk in her hands. She wore a pair of blue scrubs, as if she had just gotten off a shift at a hospital, and a pair of Nike athletic shoes. Her hair was caught up in a messy bun, and her purse had slid down to the crook of her elbow.

  The milk she held was as white as her hair.

  Crap.

  The woman turned around, saying, “Thank you,” and froze. “You again.”

  “Me. Again.”

  The woman took a deep breath through her nose and let it out. “You’ve been talking to my daughter.”

  So Casey had been right about the woman’s relationship to Nell. “I wondered if she was yours.”

  “Because of the hair, right?” The woman let the door swing shut behind her. “I feel bad about that. Along with this hair comes skin that burns in a minute, and eyelashes that blend right into your face.” She smiled. “I’m Gracie Achabal. Sorry about the other time. Nell says she’s gotten to know you and you don’t seem crazy at all.” She laughed.

  Death’s head wagged side to side. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “You had every right to think I was strange. I had a bad morning on the train and wasn’t handling it the best.”

  “I’d shake your hand, but…” She held up the milk jugs.

  “No problem.”

  Gracie stepped toward a maroon Taurus. “So you’re staying with the Dailys?”

  “For now. Don’t know how long I’ll stay.”

  “You a relative?”

  “No. I was passing through and they offered me a place.” How many times had Casey given the same explanation in the past two days?

  Gracie’s gaze shot around the parking lot, as if she were looking for eavesdroppers. “So is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  Nell’s mom leaned a little closer. “That they have a bedroom in their basement set up for their daughter?”

  A chill ran up Casey’s spine. “But their daughter’s dead. They don’t have a living one, do they?” Casey hadn’t studied the shrine-like corner of the room any further after the first day. She’d either been too tired, or hadn’t thought to do it. She would have to rectify that after last night’s excursion to the cemetery.

  “Right. Stillborn baby, way back in the sixties, maybe? The story is they have a room for her, to keep her alive in their minds. Kinda crazy, right?”

  “Like you thought I was?”

  She tilted her head. “I think it’s a little more than that.”

  “It’s a nice guest room. I figured that’s all it was.”

  “But they never have guests. You’re the first in…I don’t know, ages.”

  A niggle of unease crept into Casey’s stomach. She wasn’t sure if it was the idea of Vern’s insistence that she stay with them, or standing in the parking lot discussing it with some woman she’d never really talked to before. “I wouldn’t know why it’s there or whether or not they have other guests. I’ve only been here since Friday.” This woman didn’t need to hear about the Noah’s Ark mobile or the wallpaper border of calliope horses.

  Gracie Achabal shrugged, unbothered by Casey’s reluctance to gossip. “One of those small town things, you know. Everybody thinking they know everything about everyone. Gets a little much sometimes.” She gazed across the street, but not like she was looking at anything in particular. “Well, nice to see you again. And thanks for being a friend to Nell.”

  “She’s a good kid. Did she tell you she helped clean up last night?”

  “After the movie? Doesn’t surprise me. She’s kind of a neat freak when it comes to other people’s stuff.” She smiled. “Her own room, not so much.”

  “No, I mean what that kid spray-painted.”

  Gracie frowned. “Not sure what you’re talking about. I’m just now going to pick her up from Dad’s, and I haven’t talked to anybody. Is Nell okay?”

  “She’s fine.” Casey explained what had happened, and how Nell had volunteered to help Roger eliminate the graffiti.

  Gracie’s expression remained serious. “Why would Lance do that?”

 
“Apparently he was dared by his friends. Why they wanted him to write that, I really don’t know. Do you?”

  Gracie stood for a moment, mouth open. “It’s one of those things I was talking about. Small town stuff. You know, old resentments, rumors that have never been addressed.” She held up the milk. “Well, gotta get Nell and head home to sleep. Nice to meet you for real.”

  “Yes, you, too.”

  Casey watched her get into her car and leave.

  “So what was she talking about?” Death wore scrubs, too, although these were white with brightly colored cats.

  “Don’t know. Vern and Dotty could have explained the stuff in the basement room, just like they could have let me in on the anonymous note, but they obviously don’t want to discuss either. And who’s going to give me town gossip? Roger?”

  Death snorted. “Not sure he can speak that many words in a row.”

  “I’m certainly not going to ask Nell. I approached her with it, but as far as I can tell she doesn’t know anything, which is only appropriate. I’ll wait and see if anything else comes of it.”

  “Make sure you don’t get caught in the middle.”

  Casey swung the door open and headed into the store. Death could very well say she shouldn’t find herself in the center of whatever controversy was brewing. But it was too late.

  By becoming a part of Vern and Dottie’s lives, she already was.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The remainder of Sunday passed quietly at the store, without incident and without any visits from unwelcome cops or vandals or crabby women. Most customers wanted simple things—Cheez-Its, Coke, or bread to make grilled cheese for Sunday supper. Vern shooed Casey out before ten and she crashed, still catching up from the previous night’s graveside visit.

  The next morning, Vern left her alone in the store while he took Dottie to a doctor’s appointment. Casey wasn’t sure how she felt about being in charge of the whole place, but he didn’t really give her a choice. Again, she wondered what he’d do if she wasn’t around. He could call Roger, she supposed. After Roger’s help Saturday night with painting over Lance Victor’s handiwork, and his quiet willingness to sit beside Dottie in church, Casey felt more confident that Roger was actually more of a help than a hindrance.

  In addition to her unease with the store responsibilities, Casey was surprised she was still in Armstrong at all. The events of the past few days straddled the whole interesting/too much trouble line, and she wasn’t yet sure on which side she’d fall. She hadn’t made any friends, unless you counted Vern and Dottie, or maybe Nell.

  Perhaps the most telling thing of all? She missed Eric. Casey pulled out her phone to see where he was. Once the image stopped spinning she saw the tiny, reassuring dot, along with an image of his face. He was in Clyde, where he said he’d be. The address placed him at his mom’s B and B. Maybe he was eating pancakes, or fixing something. Or sitting with his mother and her partner, wondering how he ended up back home. Casey missed his easy smile, his kindness, his sense of humor. The way his hair flopped over his forehead… Casey closed the app and slid the phone back into her pocket.

  What was she doing in this little Idaho town when her family, and her house, and everything that had ever been steady in her life was back in Colorado? Could she really not face life without Reuben and Omar? Or was she afraid that moving forward meant leaving them behind? She wasn’t sure anymore.

  Her injuries were healing faster than she dared hope. Her ribs, evidently not broken, had dulled to a chronic ache rather than sharp stabs every time she moved. Aches, she could live with. Her face, while pain-free, now sported a lovely yellow blotch. She could also live with that, because, really, who cared?

  Vern didn’t bring up the threatening note he and Dottie received, and Casey didn’t ask. For the time being she decided to forget it, and hope it didn’t happen again. She and Vern also didn’t speak about the graffiti, and she doubted they would. It better not happen again, though, or some teenagers in town were going to be hurting.

  Vern and Dottie also neglected to tell Casey what illness Dottie suffered from. She assumed it was something major, given the gentle kindness with which Vern treated her. Customers discussed it from the other side of the register, but seeing how their “knowledge” of Dottie’s disease ranged from a reprise of her German measles to lupus to chlamydia, they didn’t know any more than she did.

  Chlamydia? Really?

  She was stocking shelves with cheap Halloween masks and accessories when the mail carrier crossed the front window. She heard the mailbox lid slap shut and watched the woman stride away, digging into her bag for the next house’s letters—which Casey realized would be Vern and Dottie’s personal residence. Casey set down the orange-handled scissors she was using to open the boxes and stepped over a pile of plastic pumpkins to retrieve the mail, but a customer came in. She went behind the counter to help him buy lottery tickets. By the time she figured out exactly which tickets he wanted and how to sell them, she’d forgotten the mail.

  Not until a few hours later did she remember to grab what the letter carrier had brought. She took it to the office to sort, slitting the envelopes with the scissors, which she fetched from the Halloween aisle. The distribution wasn’t hard—bills on one pile, circulars on another, political ads straight to recycling.

  But what about plain white envelopes with no address?

  Casey’s stomach dropped. Could it be another anonymous letter? She turned it over. The envelope was not sealed.

  “Go ahead, you know you want to.” Death stood with an elbow on the customer side of the counter, dressed in a postal uniform. The name tag read, “Newman.”

  “It’s not my mail.”

  “How do you know? There’s no recipient listed.”

  “Because no one who would send me mail knows I’m here. Unless you told them.”

  Death’s hands shot up in a surrender gesture. “Not a word has passed my lips concerning your whereabouts. Not even to poor, dear Eric pining away in Ohio.”

  “He’s not really pining, is he?”

  Death made a “zip my lips” gesture. “I’ll never tell. Now come on. Open it.”

  Casey stared at the envelope. If it was another threatening letter, she wanted to save the Dailys. But if it wasn’t…

  “Then you pretend you didn’t see it,” Death said. “What harm could there be?”

  “It’s a felony to open someone else’s mail.”

  “Not if they don’t find out. Besides, the envelope isn’t sealed, so you’re not technically opening it.”

  “You’re going to get me sent to hell,” Casey said.

  “Not gonna happen. Who am I going to have take you there? I’m certainly not going to do it. And my yamadutas refuse to venture that direction. Not that I would ask them to.”

  Casey set the base of the envelope on the counter and gently bent the top apart, peering inside.

  “It’s a photo.”

  “Let me see.” Death swooped through the open part of the cashier’s window to hover beside Casey.

  Making sure no customers were approaching the store, Casey slid the photo out of the envelope.

  The picture was old and faded, the colors dim. This copy had been made from an original, as if someone scanned in an old Polaroid and printed it out. All of the images in the picture blurred at the edges, but Casey could still make out the subjects of the shot.

  The scene was a party. A Halloween party, specifically.

  Death gasped. “Do you think that is the Halloween party? The photo looks old enough.”

  A thrill of excitement shot through Casey. “Could be.”

  Everyone in the picture was in costume, seated on and around a couch. From what Casey could see, it was all women. She picked out Princess Leia, Wonder Woman, Lucy Van Pelt from Peanuts, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, several witches
, three rubber masks—Richard Nixon, wearing a suit and striped shirt; a clown, with a drooping trick carnation; and a devil, with a flowing red cape and horns—a nurse, not unlike Death’s rendition of Nurse Ratched, and the Bride of Frankenstein, complete with beehive. The photo could have been taken in anyone’s house, Casey supposed, although the orange-and-brown macramé artwork hanging to the left of the group was…original. It also placed the photo firmly in the sixties or seventies, because, macramé? Really?

  In black Sharpie underneath the picture words had been printed in block lettering:

  WHO ARE THE ONES WHO DON’T BELONG? I THINK YOU KNOW.

  AND I THINK YOU KNOW WHERE THEY ARE NOW.

  The bell dinged above the door and Casey smacked the photo facedown on the counter. After checking his ID she handed the young man a pack of cigarettes—much to her dismay—and sold three family-sized bags of chips, a bag of beef jerky, and an entire twenty-four-pack of extra-caffeinated Mountain Dew to the woman who came in after him. Casey felt just great about her role in degrading the health of Armstrong’s citizens.

  “So is one of them Dottie?” Death asked when the customers had gone.

  Casey turned the photo back over. “It’s hard to tell. She would be a lot younger here.”

  “Forty-five years younger, perhaps? Like in the anonymous note? Officer Whistler did say the party happened around that time.”

  Casey checked out the Wizard of Oz Dorothy because of the name, but that woman’s facial structure didn’t fit with Dottie’s narrow face. She scanned the rest of the group, but between the picture’s bad quality, the faded colors, and the obvious length of time since the photo was taken, she couldn’t pick out who might be the female half of her new landlords.

  “I do believe that’s old Flower Pants.” Death pointed at Princess Leia. “Since her hair is still that color, it makes it a little easier. Plus, she’s got that arrogant glint in her eyes. I can imagine her being the only one bold enough to wear that gold bikini top.”

  Casey could see it. But she couldn’t see anyone else she recognized. The sender, who had also scribbled “Who are they?” at the bottom of the page, could have been asking a few different questions. Names for all of the women. Those people whose faces were covered. Or maybe party-goers who were now unfamiliar, who moved away or had been visiting at the time. They could even be asking the identity of the party-crashers who threatened them and caused the woman to die, if the photo actually was from that fatal night. There was no way for Casey to know what was behind the question, but the sender obviously thought Dottie or Vern would be able to answer it.