He pulled over at a rest area north of Keavy, Kentucky, the town nearest tiny Blue Goose on the eastern edge of the mountain range. Using his laptop he pulled up the white pages for Keavy, plugged in Helm, and came up with six entries. Called all, nobody knew Virgil. Back to the white pages for Summerville. Seventeen matches. None of them Leah Grace, L.G., or any variation. Explanation: Leah Grace no longer had need of a phone.
He started calling again, the first of the two initialled Summervilles with Blue Goose in the address. And struck pay dirt on the first try. A woman, not young. She formed her words slowly, every syllable trembling. “I do. I do know Grace. I knew her well. Might I ask the nature of your inquiry?”
“Actually, I am trying to locate her son. I believe he went by the name of Virgil.”
The woman took a long time to answer. When she spoke, her words were more certain. Absent the slow delivery, the tremolo quickened. “Why, he passed away over there in that war. I’m sorry to inform you.” She hung up before he could ask another question.
He tried the same number again, but this time received no answer.
Next stop, the cemetery.
EIGHTY-NINE
The town of Blue Goose lay at the bottom of a shallow valley surrounded by fields and second-growth forest. DeMarco entered at the southern end and drove slowly past a half-dozen mobile homes and small houses, then, on both sides of the road, a tight grouping of early-twentieth-century and older two-story buildings that had once housed prosperous businesses, but now either stood empty or had been converted into low-income necessities—a laundromat, Dollar Store, drive-through beer distributor, plumbing business, Rent-A-Center, styling salon, urgent care center, drive-through bank depository and ATM, plus several mom-and-pop enterprises with apartments on the second floor, including an eatery called Donna’s Dinette. Homes on wide yards were spread out on streets behind Main, more than he expected to see in a place called Blue Goose.
Having long ago eaten the tomatoes and cucumber acquired from the roadside stand that morning, plus a peanut butter PowerBar from Jayme’s snack stash in the RV, DeMarco took a side street and parked the RV in the gravel lot behind Donna’s. He climbed out, knees stiff and shoulders sore, to the scents of grease and garbage, the first emanating from the clacking vent fan mounted on the rear wall, the second from the overflowing Dumpster beneath the fan.
If this were a Hollywood movie, he told himself, Donna would either be a seductive blond in her thirties, or a world-weary yet golden-hearted fading beauty who dispenses sweet nuggets of wisdom with the best coffee in the county. Either would be welcome after five hours at the wheel.
Three customers, all old men, sat alone, hunched over their plates, in three different booths. They all looked up as DeMarco entered, as did the woman visible through the open window behind the short counter. She gave him a little nod then went back to scraping the grill.
He chose the center stool of the five at the counter. Music from somewhere in the kitchen came softly through the window, a female singing “when she saw them together, she said goodbye to forever…” He turned the thick, enameled coffee cup right-side up and studied the menu on the paper placemat.
A minute later the woman from the kitchen came toward him, glanced at his cup, then grabbed the carafe from the coffeemaker. Her hair was black going gray, hips wide, fingers as thick as a man’s.
“Grill’s closed,” she said as she filled his cup. “But I can do you a bowl of chili and a cold turkey sandwich if you want.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said, and smiled.
If she had any smiles, she kept them to herself. “Mild or hot?”
“Ma’am?”
“The chili.”
“Leaning toward hot,” he said. “Lettuce, tomato, and mayo on the sandwich?”
“Wouldn’t serve it no other way.” She looked past him then. “You boys all right?”
Two of the old men nodded; one lifted his cup. “I could use a refill when you get a chance.”
“What’s left in the pot is for him,” she said, and jerked her chin toward DeMarco. “You had enough already.”
DeMarco said, “I don’t mind if he—”
“I do,” she said. “He’d set there all day if I let him.” She turned sharply and went back to the kitchen.
DeMarco shrugged, sipped his coffee. It was strong, astringent, with an undernote of burned. So much for Hollywood, he thought.
The chili, when it arrived, was too greasy for his taste, but he ate it anyway, along with the white-bread sandwich with its thick slices of dry turkey breast. Individually his three courses verged on unpalatable, but together they worked perfectly, the chili coating his mouth with a lingering film and slow-burning fire, the sandwich soaking up the grease and cooling the fire, the coffee scalding his mouth clean so that he could start over and do it all again.
Fifteen minutes later, hunger sated, DeMarco glanced at his bill—$10.42. He placed three five-dollar bills beneath his cup. He wiped his mouth, stood, and said to Donna, who was seated in an empty booth now, staring out the window and smoking a vapour cigarette, “That was excellent. Thank you.”
She gave him half a nod and faced the window again.
DeMarco said, “Can any of you fellas point me in the direction of the cemetery?”
Now Donna turned away from the window. “Who you looking for?”
“An old buddy from the army.”
“What’s his name?”
Before DeMarco could come up with a response, the old man who had asked for a refill scuffled out of his booth. “I can get you there,” he said. “I’m going that way myself.”
Donna said, “He wants you to drop him at the bar. Don’t you do it.”
The old man said, “What’s it any of your business where I go?” He shuffled past her and up to DeMarco. “It’s just a couple minutes up the road.”
“I’m warning you,” Donna said. “The minute you’re out that door, I’m calling Chelsea on you.”
The old man grinned, raised his hand in the air, and pretended to pull a train whistle. “Toot toot!” he said. “All aboard!” Then he was out the door and headed for the sidewalk.
“Don’t you dare give him any money,” Donna said to DeMarco.
“Have a good day,” DeMarco said.
NINETY
“You live in this thing?” the old man asked. He seemed childlike in the captain’s chair, dirty brown loafers barely touching the floor mat.
“Part of the time,” DeMarco said.
“Looks like you got plenty of room here. A little castle on wheels, you ask me. How many beds you got?”
“Just one.”
The old man turned in his seat, scanned the interior. “What about that nice couch there?”
“What about it?”
“Somebody could sleep on that easy enough.”
“I guess somebody could. If I were looking for company. Which I’m not.”
“I wouldn’t be asking you to marry me,” the old man said.
“What about Chelsea?”
“Chelsea’s a pain in the ass.”
“Your wife?”
“Granddaughter. Barely thirty and thinks she knows what I need and don’t need.”
“You live with her?” DeMarco asked.
“Her and Numbnuts. Plus two squealing babies don’t do nothing but eat and shit and sleep.”
“Sounds like a nice little family,” DeMarco said.
“You wanna switch rooms, just say the word.”
DeMarco smiled to himself.
“Cemetery’s up there on your left. You can drop me up the road a piece.”
“We’ll talk about that,” DeMarco said, and flipped on the turn signal.
As he drove slowly down the asphalt lane onto the cemetery grounds, he glanced in his side mirror, hoping
to see a vehicle following. Nothing yet. “So this person I’m looking for,” he said. “Last name Summerville. First name Leah Grace.”
The old man chuckled. “Buddy from the army, my ass. Old flame of yours?”
“You don’t recognize the name?” DeMarco asked. As he drove he scrutinized the names carved into the memorials closest the road.
“Summerville, you say? She go by Leah or Grace?”
“Which one is familiar to you?” He turned to look out the passenger window, and caught the old man eyeing the coins and crumpled bills stuffed into one of the console’s cup holders.
The old man looked up at him. “Lemme think on it a minute or two.”
DeMarco pulled the RV onto the shoulder and shut off the engine. “I’m going to get out and walk around a bit. You’re welcome to join me, or to stay put.”
“I’m sorta in a hurry to get on up the road there. Won’t take you more than two minutes.”
DeMarco smiled and said, “I’m sorta in a hurry to find Leah Grace.” He popped open the door and stepped down. Just then a blue compact came wheeling into the cemetery, moving slowly at first, then making a beeline toward the RV.
The old man, again eyeing the cup holder, said, “You won’t be needing this loose change in here, will ya?”
DeMarco turned back to him. “It’s for toll roads,” he said.
The old man grinned. “None of those to worry about around here!” he said, and stuffed his hand into the holder.
The mud-splattered blue car pulled up behind the RV then. DeMarco turned to walk back to it. A young woman in gray sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and pink flip-flops jumped out, loose brown hair, petite frame, no makeup, brow furrowed and lips pursed. Twin babies were strapped into car seats in the backseat, one of them screaming. The woman left her door hanging open.
“He’s sitting up front,” DeMarco told her.
“Has he been drinking?” she asked.
“Just coffee, as far as I know.”
The young woman’s expression relaxed. “Last time put him in the hospital for three days. And we got a high deductible.”
DeMarco smiled. He held out his hand. “I’m Ryan DeMarco. You must be Chelsea.”
She took his hand, but cautiously. “Donna said you looked like a rich doctor or something.”
“I should have left her a bigger tip.”
She smiled. “I’ll get him out of your vehicle for you. Sorry for any trouble he caused.”
“No trouble,” DeMarco said.
She went around the passenger side and popped open the door, startling the old man. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he said.
“Come on, Paps, let’s go. Miley’s already crying and Miranda’s about to start up any minute now.”
The old man climbed out, slowly easing himself down from the high seat. DeMarco waited at the rear of the RV.
Chelsea smiled as she walked past him. “Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure.”
The old man paused beside DeMarco, showed the money clutched in his gnarled hand. “You gonna want this back?”
“No toll roads around here, right?”
The old man grinned and shuffled toward the car.
“Be safe,” DeMarco told him.
The old man looked back as he stuffed the money into a pocket. “What’s the fun of that?” he said, and kept chuckling to himself as he climbed into the blue car.
NINETY-ONE
DeMarco asked himself, Is it weird that I’m enjoying being in a cemetery again?
He had been walking for twenty minutes or so under clearing skies, the sun warm on his face and arms, his hand squeezing the silver locket. The battleship-gray clouds had all drifted north, leaving behind a smoky patina that gentled the sun’s glare and tempered the heat by a few degrees. The newest part of the cemetery was the farthest from the highway, a full hundred yards from the RV, and within a stone’s throw of a stand of tall, thick hardwoods. Here, for the last few minutes, he had been kneeling close to a pair of small, beveled gravestones, each no bigger than a large boot box, identical but for the words and images inscribed on the polished face.
The one to his left read Leah Grace Summerville, Beloved Mother, 1959–2011. Two angels had been carved in the upper corners. The marigolds somebody had planted in front of the stone were no longer in full bloom, with several brown or dying flowers mixed in with the yellow and orange, but were not so old as to appear neglected. DeMarco slipped the locket back into a hip pocket, then cleaned away the spent flowers and leaves from the front of the gravestone, careful not to disturb the healthy ones.
He had passed other Summerville markers on his way to finding these two, but all were much older, some of them by as many as a hundred and fifty years. He guessed that these two had been installed only a day or two after Leah Grace had passed away.
The ground in front of the second stone showed no signs of mounding, no indication of having ever been excavated. The stone read Emery Elliott Summerville, Beloved Son, 1977–. The top corners were decorated with matching engravings of a guitar.
DeMarco brushed a dusting of dirt off the top of the stone. “Hello, Virgil,” he said.
NINETY-TWO
On his way out of the cemetery, DeMarco passed the caretaker’s equipment shed and noticed the spigot on the side of the building. He paused there to rinse the dirt from his hands. Tacked to the locked door was a laminated card listing both the caretaker’s number and the address and number of a company that supplied gravestones. He used his phone to take a picture of the information, and returned to the RV. Along the way he double-checked his phone for a text or voice message from Jayme. Nothing.
He opened the RV door to let the interior cool while he called Trooper Morgan back in Pennsylvania and asked him to contact the military’s National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis. Morgan was the least talkative of the troopers back home, the one least likely to ask questions. “I heard you were working a case down there,” he said. “What do you need—a DD 214?”
“Correct,” DeMarco answered. “Last name Summerville. Emery Elliott.”
Then he called the number listed for the caretaker, who answered on the third ring. Unfortunately the caretaker had no access to the records of plot purchases; those were held by the cemetery association, which had no office. The files were stored in the home of the secretary, a Shirley Wynkoop, who was currently on vacation with her family at Epcot Center.
He had better luck with the manager of Pogue Memorials in Keavy. “I probably should ask for some proof you are who you say you are,” the man said after DeMarco’s introduction.
“I can give you the number for the Kentucky State Police,” DeMarco told him, “or my station commander back in Pennsylvania. Both if you want them.”
“That’s all right then,” the man said. “Give me a minute to pull up the purchase order. Summerville, you said?”
“Correct. Two stones. One for Leah Grace, one for Emery Elliott.”
He listened to the man typing. Then, thirty seconds later, “Got it,” the manager said. “A matched pair of the small slants. Paid for in cash. What do you need to know?”
“Is there an address for the purchaser?”
“Yep. Emery Elliott Summerville. RR 2, Box 12, Blue Goose, KY, 40738.”
“Box 12, 40738,” DeMarco repeated. “How about a phone number?”
“Nope. Like I said, he paid in cash.”
“By any chance, do you remember him?”
“Purchase order was initialled by Nancy. She’s not with us anymore. Husband got a job up north.”
“Okay. The address will have to do. I appreciate your assistance.”
“Have a good one.”
DeMarco’s cell phone guided him to a run-down cottage two miles east of Blue Goose on a pot-holed macadam road. The house sat at an
angle to the road, with three wooden steps leading to a tiny porch and wooden door. The door, like the rest of the house, was a chalky white much in need of a new paint job. The roof shingles were buckled, the lawn overgrown, the wider front porch blocked by what appeared to be three or four houses’ worth of used hot water heaters, water filters, and furnace parts. Two dogs, one an overweight beagle and the other a German shepherd mix, both chained to the front porch, watched him as he climbed out of the RV and approached the side door. Soon the beagle broke into a shrill, yodeling bark.
The door sprang open just as DeMarco raised a foot to the first step. A barefoot, bare-chested man in baggy jeans stood on the threshold, wiping grease-stained hands with a paper towel, a dark, thick smudge of grease across his left breast. He was maybe fifty years old, wore thick black-framed glasses held tight to his head with a red Croakie.
“Afternoon,” DeMarco said. “I’m looking for an old army buddy of mine by the name of Emery Summerville.”
The man scratched his chest, leaving another black smudge. “No Summervilles around here for a while. I bought this place from them most of six years ago.”
“You must have bought it from Emery,” DeMarco said. “His mother died in 2011, I believe.”
The man sniffed, looked away, looked back. “That sounds about right.”
“Any chance you’d know where Emery is now?”
“Not a one.”
“He didn’t leave an address on the seller’s contract?”
The man grimaced; cocked his head. “Who’d you say you are?”
“Old army buddy. We served in Iraq together.”
“Truth is,” the man said, and looked away again, out toward the RV this time, “I don’t really recall ever meeting the fella. Seems to me some lawyer or real estate agent handled the whole transaction.”
“That sounds unlikely,” DeMarco said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. His gaze came back to DeMarco. “Well, however it sounds, I can’t help you any. I got stuff to do.” With that he stepped back and closed the door. A dead bolt clicked into place.
Walking the Bones Page 24
