Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  “Mrruf,” he said. “Mrouw.”

  “You’re right,” I told him, slowing my pace. “I’m being silly. Paranoid, even. It’s a beautiful day. I’m in a public place a block from home. No one is chasing me or even watching me. Watching you, maybe, since you were just nose-to-nose with a dog and that’s a little odd, but I’m fine.”

  We rounded the corner to Winter Street. Did I catch a motion behind the giant Civil War monument on the corner? Was someone standing behind that chestnut tree? Had that silver van driven past me twice?

  Maybe I’m not so fine after all.

  “Come on, cat,” I said, getting a firm grip on my popcorn bucket and breaking into a jog. “Let’s run to the front door.”

  Once safely upstairs, locked and bolted inside my apartment with the cat de-leashed, I sat by the window, checking first to be sure it was still locked and that there was no white cat on the fire escape and took a deep breath. Meddling or not, I was scared. Pulling my phone from my pocket I texted Pete.

  CHAPTER 24

  I didn’t exactly tell Pete that I was frightened, but must have managed to sound urgent enough to prompt him to call me within five minutes of my text.

  “What’s going on, babe? You’re upset.”

  “I am,” I admitted. “I keep thinking about Aunt Ibby’s theory that Dowgin killed Emily. That he’s threatening me because . . . because why? I don’t know anything about the man. I’m literally walking around looking over my shoulder and you know that’s not like me.”

  “I know.” His voice was calm. Comforting. “We’ll have him in custody soon. I promise. He’s used a credit card to buy gas, so we’ve sent his photo around, alerted gas stations to be on the lookout for him.” He paused and I could almost see the frown. “Walking around where?”

  “Oh, I took O’Ryan for a walk. Down to the cemetery and over to the Common.”

  “The cemetery again?”

  “Uh huh. We visited the grave rubbing guy. Dakota Berman. Seems nice.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s cut down on the random walks for a bit, okay? Dowgin is just a missing person at this point you know, but no sense tempting fate.”

  “Tempting fate. You sound like River,” I said. “I’ll be careful. How’s your card reading working out anyway? Any deceptions, obstacles or unpleasant news yet?”

  “Lee, I’m a cop. I deal with deception, obstacles and unpleasant news every day. But no, nothing unusual. I’ll come over after work today, okay? And I have tomorrow off so maybe we can do something.”

  “That’d be great,” I said, meaning it with all my heart. I didn’t want to be alone and I knew that he knew it. What a guy. We made plans to catch an early movie, have fried clams at Dube’s and spend the rest of the evening at home. Then we’d think up something fun to do on Sunday.

  Things were looking up. My afternoon was blessedly uneventful, with barely a thought of murder to interrupt the mundane Saturday chores like dusting and catching up with laundry. Aunt Ibby finished her Bookmobile shift and we played a game of gin rummy for pennies at her kitchen table. She won. (Two dollars and three cents.)

  By the time Pete arrived my frame of mind was so much improved that I felt a little embarrassed about having sent that semipanicked text. I’d changed into skinny black jeans, a super-soft baby blue cashmere sweater and black leather booties with three-inch heels. A black leather vest would keep the evening chill away and for once my hair behaved so I didn’t feel as though I should hide it under a hat. I could tell by the look in Pete’s eyes and the long, lingering kiss he greeted me with that he approved. I wanted to ask him about the broken wineglass and the pink bubbles I’d seen in my vision, but why break the mood? Visions could wait.

  I won our ritual coin toss at Cinema Salem and got to pick the movie—the newest Jason Bourne. I’d already had enough popcorn for one day, so I settled for a Mounds bar. After the movie the fried clams at Dube’s were fabulous as always. It was still pretty early so we took a ride along the shore road, which took us past the wild woods.

  “Pretty quiet here tonight,” Pete said. “But Monday morning when the heavy equipment trucks and the protesters face off—oh boy—that’ll be some fireworks.”

  “I’ll bet. Hey, look. There are lights on in one of the buildings. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah. We’ve had a few calls about those lights being on in there lately. The water has been turned on again too. Checked it out. The owners have permission to see if there’s anything in there they want to salvage before they start to demo the places next week.”

  “Looks like it’s the Wypee-Dypee building. Did I tell you my Mom used those diapers on me?”

  “I’ll bet you were the cutest little red haired baby in Salem! Ready to go home now? Or do you want to take one last stroll in the wild woods?”

  “No thanks. I’m still allergic to poison oak. Ready to go home.” I looked at the clock on the dash. “We can catch the late news if you want to.”

  We pulled into the driveway next to the garage. Pete locked his car and took my hand as we walked along the path past the garden and up to the back steps. I sneaked a quick glance toward the tall fence at the edge of our property, half expecting to see the white cat. She wasn’t there. When we got upstairs she wasn’t at the kitchen window either.

  Am I glad she isn’t there? Or do I miss her?

  I didn’t mention the white cat, or the lack of her, to Pete.

  I didn’t even stay awake for the late news and I don’t think Pete did either.

  * * *

  I awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of Tammy Wynette singing a “somebody done somebody wrong” song on the radio. Two sure signs that Pete was in the kitchen. I joined him at the counter and poured myself a cup of the lovely stuff.

  “Is there something special you want to do today?” He passed me the half-and-half. “Or shall I be tour director?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Ever been to the Topsfield Fair?”

  I smiled at the thought of it. The memories. “Not since I was a kid! What a great idea!”

  It was a great idea. Topsfield is only about ten miles north of us, and though Salem is every bit a city, Topsfield looks and feels like a small country town—complete with cornfields and cows. The fair, one of America’s oldest, was every bit as wonderful and magical as I’d remembered it. We got there early, saw draft horses and baby goats, watched the tractor pulls, marveled at the giant pumpkin contest. (Saw one that weighed 1,992 pounds!)

  We were at the funnel cake stand for the second time when Pete said, “Don’t turn around now, but after a minute or so, take a look over toward the fried Oreos. There’s a guy over there wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers shirt. Anyone you know?” It wasn’t in a cop voice, but sounded like cop words. I tried very hard to be totally casual about it, and looked in the direction he’d indicated. Got a good look at the man. About six feet tall. Tanned. Balding. Thin.

  “Never saw him before in my life,” I said. “Why?”

  “He’s been with us since the parking lot. Driving a maroon Ford pickup.” He frowned. “I didn’t notice him following us from Salem, but he could have. Ran the license plate. It’s a rental.”

  “Following me?” My voice sounded squeaky. “Couldn’t he just be coming to the fair? Maybe he likes to see the same things we do.”

  “Maybe. Got your phone?”

  “Sure.”

  “Make believe you’re taking my picture but zoom in on him.”

  “Okay.”

  Pete faced me, smiling a big fake smile. I made sure Pittsburgh guy—who wasn’t smiling—was in the frame and clicked off a couple of shots, then sent them to Pete’s phone.

  “Good. Come on, let’s go to the bee and honey exhibit.” He took my hand. I dragged along behind him like a little kid. I like honey all right but bees are not my favorite creatures. The bee and honey thing didn’t take up much space and there weren’t a lot of people gathered
around it. The man was there though, leaning against a fence just across the way from the honeycomb table and pretending not to see us.

  I almost giggled. “Pete,” I said, “if he’s tailing us he’s not very good at it, is he?”

  “He isn’t,” Pete agreed. “Come on. Let’s ditch him. Want to see the ax women loggers from Maine?”

  “Sure.”

  We cut around the edge of a field where the ox pulling contest was about to begin, ducked behind a parade of thirty-two Royal Canadian Mounted Police and wound up in some good seats for the ax women loggers. The girls were awesome and Pittsburgh guy apparently missed the show. It was nearly sunset when we went back to the parking lot. The maroon Ford was gone.

  Maybe he wasn’t following me—or us. Maybe he just likes funnel cakes and giant pumpkins and baby goats and bees.

  When Pete dropped me off at home, it was still fairly early so I knocked on Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door, knowing she’d like to hear about the fair.

  “It was just as I’d remembered it,” I told her. “But maybe bigger and with more weird food. Did you ever have fried Oreos?”

  “Never. But I’d try one. Did you?”

  I admitted that I had, and told her about the Royal Mounties and the baby goats and the giant pumpkin and the girl loggers from Maine. “Something odd happened while we were there,” I said, knowing that the possibility of our being followed around the fairground would worry her—but wanting her thoughts about it.

  “What did he look like?” she wanted to know.

  I pulled out my cell. “Look. I have a picture.” I pointed. “See. He’s behind Pete. Right there.”

  She reached for her glasses and peered at the screen. “The fellow in the Steelers shirt?”

  “Yes. That’s him. You don’t recognize him do you?”

  “No. But the Steelers shirt interests me.”

  “Huh?”

  “I did a little more digging into that Dowgin person’s background. He’s originally from Pennsylvania. Edgewood. A very nice suburb of Pittsburgh.” She scowled. “A coincidence?”

  “Maybe. There are lots of Steelers fans around.” I said, hoping for coincidence but anticipating something more ominous. “Do you think Pete knows about the Pennsylvania connection to Dowgin?”

  “I’m pretty sure he must. It wasn’t very hard for me to find.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “Do you want to see what else we can find out?”

  “Right now?”

  I nodded. “Right now.”

  CHAPTER 25

  I followed my aunt into her office. She sat at her computer and I pulled up a chair close beside her. “I’m going to log into my library account,” she said with a sly smile. “That way I won’t be exactly breaking my word that I’d keep my research limited to the confines of the library.”

  “We promised to tell him everything we learn though, so we’ll have to do that.”

  “Of course.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard and within what seemed like seconds we were looking at the page of a yearbook. She zoomed in on a photo of a young man. A young H. James Dowgin. No doubt about it. “Jimmy Dowgin. Class of 2003 University of Pittsburgh.”

  “That must be where the degree in Environmental Science came from. I wonder how he wound up in real estate.”

  “There could be many reasons for that. I’m guessing it was financial. Probably more money in sales than in consulting right now.”

  “Makes sense. But if the alligators didn’t eat him, and they obviously didn’t, how did he become a missing person?”

  She spread her hands apart. “Don’t know. What do you think?”

  “The falling into the water scenario was staged. But did he stage it? Or did somebody else?”

  She gave me a long look. “You’re thinking if he staged it himself, he’s hiding from something.”

  “Or somebody.”

  “And if somebody else did it, they’re hiding something.”

  “Right.” I tapped my fingers on the edge of her desk. “But now he’s come out of hiding and it has something to do with me. Something I don’t like.”

  “I don’t like it either, but as you say, he’s come out of hiding so it won’t take long for the police to find him. You’ll see.”

  “I think you’re right. And Pete seems confident too, although he warned me about taking random walks around Salem,” I said. “Tempting fate, he calls it.”

  “Sounds like River.”

  “I know. I’m going to talk to her about the Steeler guy. That really puzzles me.”

  “Oops. Look at this.” She tapped the screen. “I searched the team name and see what popped up. Monday night football. The Pats and Steelers are playing an early season game in Foxboro tomorrow. That probably explains the presence of your mystery man in the area.”

  “Whew.” My whole body relaxed. “Of course. You’re right. He’s here for the game along with lots of other Pittsburgh fans. And that’s why he’s driving a rental. What a relief.”

  “Sometimes the simple answer is the best one.”

  “Makes me feel a lot better. Guess I’ll just run along upstairs and go to bed. Thanks for helping.”

  “Thanks for meddling, you mean?” She smiled and shut down the computer. “Good night, dear. Sleep well.”

  “Good night. Where’s O’Ryan?”

  “He went upstairs right after you came in. He must be waiting for you in your place.”

  I climbed the curving front staircase up the two flights and unlocked my kitchen door. Aunt Ibby was right about O’Ryan. He sat on the windowsill, facing through the glass, nose to nose with the white cat on the fire escape.

  He turned and jumped down onto the floor, skittering across the tiles to greet me with the usual purring and ankle rubbing ritual. I picked him up, holding him close while looking past him toward the white cat. She opened her mouth in a silent meow and cocked her head to one side, not moving away from her position at the window. O’Ryan looked up at me, giving my chin a lick, then squirmed to get down. He returned to his spot on the windowsill.

  “Do you think she’s hungry?” I asked him.

  “Mow.” He said, which had a positive sound to it.

  “Okay. I’ll give her some of your kitty kibble. Is that what you want?”

  “Mmlik,” he said.

  “All right. Milk too.”

  I took two bowls from the cabinet and filled one with kibble, the other with milk. I unlocked the window, lifted the sash and placed them on the iron rails outside. She certainly appeared to be hungry, hunched down over the food. I smiled, gave her head a tentative pat and began to lower the window.

  That’s when I noticed a Ford pickup driving down Oliver Street, passing right beneath a streetlight. Was it maroon? I couldn’t tell. I wanted to call Pete but what would I say? A pickup truck just drove past my backyard? Big deal.

  I wasn’t going to sleep very well after all. To make things worse, Wanda’s late weather forecast promised a rainy morning, so there went our hoped for photogenic ground fog. I blasted an e-mail to all of the class, telling them we’d meet at the usual time at the Tabby and to hope for misty weather on Tuesday.

  Monday dawned just as Wanda had promised. There’s usually nothing romantic or attractive about a rainy day in Salem, Massachusetts. The sky turns a uniform mouse-gray, there’s a chilly dampness permeating everything and people get grouchy. The rain fell straight down giving the city a relentless pummeling. With an inward resolution to punch the first person who chirped, “We really needed the rain,” I donned a hooded yellow slicker, jeans and Patriots sweatshirt, pulled on rubber boots and headed out. I paused on the way and tapped on Aunt Ibby’s door. “If you see a white cat in the yard, and she’s getting wet, I think it would be okay to let her in,” I said. “See you tonight.”

  I slogged my way to the garage, stamped muddy feet vigorously before stepping into the ’vette, backed out onto Oliver Street and drove extra carefully to the Tabby—assuming
that all the other drivers on the road felt as crabby as I did.

  Things seemed better within the warmth of the diner, as I joined the twins at the counter. The rest of the class hadn’t shown up yet and I hoped none of them had missed my late night e-mail and gone to the cemetery after all.

  “Good morning, Ms. Barrett,” Ray greeted me. “Nice weather.”

  “For ducks.” Roger completed the cliché. “Good morning.”

  “Hi guys,” I said, taking a vacant seat next to Ray. “What’s new?”

  “Not much,” Roger said. “Did you have a good weekend?”

  “I did. Pete and I went to the Topsfield Fair. Ever been to it?”

  They beamed identical smiles. “We go every year,” Ray said.

  “Every year,” Roger echoed, his smile fading. “Is everything going okay for you? I mean, any worries?”

  I made the quick decision to tell them about the Steelers man, gave a quick rundown of what had happened and showed them the photo on my phone. “He drives a maroon Ford pickup with rental plates.” I didn’t mention the truck I’d seen from the kitchen window.

  “Can you zoom in on that guy and make us a couple of prints? I’ve got an idea.” Ray poked his brother with an elbow. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Rog?”

  “The game?”

  “Right. The game.”

  I looked from one to the other, bewildered. “Game? What game?”

  “Pats and Steelers. They’re playing tonight. You follow football?”

  I pulled the Velcro closing of the slicker open, revealing my Patriots sweatshirt. “Sure. Why?”

  “They usually put on extra security in Foxboro for Steelers games,” Ray said.

  “Steelers fans. Rowdy bunch,” Roger offered. “The Pats like to hire ex-cops. Like us.”

  “So if you two are working the game, you can look for this man.” I thought about that. “There’ll be thousands of people there.”

  “Yeah. But we can watch the gates, the concession stands, we can walk the whole stadium.”

  “Ray knows the photographer who puts shots on the JumboTron,” Roger said. “He’ll scan different sections for us. We’ve done it before.” He gave his twin another poke in the ribs. “Ray thought his girlfriend was there with another guy.”