Grave Intent (4 page)

“Miss Vicky won’t care if we’re late,” Ellie
said. “She’s a good dancing teacher. When Lexie’s late, she doesn’t
get mad at her.”

There was a convenience store with fuel a
block and a half away. Janet kept her fingers crossed they’d make
it that far. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, honey.” She looked back at
Ellie with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I just don’t
like being late.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

The engine coughed, and the Caravan
shuddered, then jerked forward.

“Oh, Jesus, please,” Janet begged. The store
was only half a block away now.

“You praying, Mama?”

“Yes, Mama’s praying.”

“’Cause you don’t want Jesus to make you run
out of gas?”

“Uh-huh.” Janet let the van coast into the
store’s parking lot and pulled alongside the nearest fuel island.
Exhaling loudly with relief, she switched off the engine and
fumbled through her purse for her Visa card. Once she found it, she
turned to Ellie. “Stay put, all right? I won’t be but a
minute.”

“Okay, but I want to help pump the gas,”
Ellie said. She tossed her crayons on the seat and tugged at the
seat belt.

“Not this time,” Janet said, already out of
van. “Next time maybe. Just finish the kitty for me.”

Her daughter’s face crumpled.

“You know,” Janet said. “I’ll bet Miss Vicky
would love a picture of a cat. Maybe she would even let you do a
show-n-tell, like in your kindergarten class.”

Ellie’s face brightened. “What about I get a
real kitty? Then I could bring it for a real show-n-tell. Jason
brung his turtle—”

“Brought his turtle,” Janet said as she
lowered the driver’s side passenger window, then closed her
door.

“
Brought
his turtle to school, and
everybody got to touch it. I want to bring . . .”

Sticking her credit card into the payment
slot of the fuel pump, Janet nodded and said absently, “Um-hmm.
We’ll see.” She unscrewed the fuel cap on the van, shoved the
nozzle into the metal hole, then checked her watch again.

“Then Casey brung her . . .
brought
her Beanie Babies after that. Her Beanies had clothes. Can I get
one with clothes, Mama? I want to get the . . .”

“They sure can talk, huh?”

Surprised by the male voice, Janet snapped a
look over her shoulder. A man stood on the opposite side of the
fuel island, thrusting a nozzle into a bright red Suburban. She
hadn’t heard his vehicle pull up alongside them.

Smiling politely, Janet nodded. “They sure
do.” She looked back at the total registering on the pump display.
Not even five dollars yet. Today she had to pick the slowest
pump!

She turned her head as though to study the
hood of her van and caught a peripheral glimpse of the man moving
closer to her. Janet squeezed the nozzle harder, trying to coax the
fuel through faster. The guy didn’t look dangerous. A bit over
middle age with a V-shaped patch of white hair on top of his head
and crooked, overlapping teeth. His sunglasses made it hard for
Janet to see his eyes. Dressed in gray slacks and a gray and white
striped shirt, he looked more like an office worker than
trouble.

“You’re Savoy’s old lady, aren’t you?” he
asked.

Something about the old slang and the way his
mouth worked around the words made Janet move closer to the van.
“Excuse me?”

“Wilson Savoy’s boy, Michael? The one who
runs the funeral home now. You’re his old lady, right?”

“Yes . . . Michael’s my husband,” she said,
trying to remain calm and polite. “How do you know him?”

The man laughed like someone holding a
delicious secret. He stepped up to the Caravan. “Don’t know him so
much as his old man. Wilson and me go way back. Business
associates, you know? The name’s L. Vidrine by the way, but you can
call me Lester. Anyways, I hear he’s back in town. Thought I’d pay
him a visit.” He sidled up to her, and his approach carried an
abhorrent sense of intimacy.

“I see.” Janet removed the nozzle and screwed
on the fuel cap.
S
tay calm.
She glanced around the
parking lot, looking for potential backup. Two kids were
investigating something under the hood of a Jeep Cherokee at the
front of the store, and a frail old man in a blue tunic sprayed
down the concrete with a water hose. He didn’t look strong enough
to wrestle his way out of a spider’s web.

“So—so how do you know me?” Janet asked.

“I seen you in the funeral home a few years
ago. Went there to collect—I mean, pick up some stuff from the old
man, and you were there. He’s the one told me you were his
daughter-in-law.”

“Oh.” It was all Janet could think to
say.

“Yeah, I’m good with faces like that. Never
forget one. I would’ve recognized you anywhere.”

She attempted a smile, but the effort fell
flat.

“So you seen him?” he asked. “Know where he
is?”

Janet resisted licking her dry lips. “Who?
Michael?”

“No, his old man. Wilson.”

She shook her head.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You
sure?”

“Positive.”

The man looked away and snorted. “Figures.”
He took a step back. “Hey, cute kid.”

Janet’s breath caught as the stranger leaned
over to peer into the open window at her daughter.

“What’re you doing?” he asked Ellie.

“Colorin’ a kitty for my teacher,” Ellie
said. She held up her coloring book to show her progress.

“That’s a nifty cat,” he said. He cocked his
head to one side, and his eyes locked on Janet.

“What’s your name?” Ellie asked. “My name’s
Ellie, and I’m five. How old are you? Do you have a little
girl?”

“Honey, finish your picture,” Janet said,
returning the nozzle to the dispenser. She had one eye on her
daughter and the other on the stranger. The nozzle slipped out of
its cradle and fell to the concrete. She didn’t bother to retrieve
it.

The stranger leaned against the side of the
Caravan so his back was to Ellie. He edged closer to Janet and said
in a mild, conversational tone, “You’re sure a good-looking thing.
With all that dark hair and everything, enough to send a man to his
knees.”

Janet felt her face harden. “Get away from my
car.”

The man held his hands out in front of him as
though in surrender. “Just wanted to pay a compliment. You can’t
blame a guy for trying, right?” He moved closer to her. “No harm,
no foul, right?”

“Get away from me or I’ll yell for help.”

“Help from what, lady? I ain’t done
nothing.”

“Mama?”

Janet glared at him. She heard Ellie call her
again but was afraid if she took her eyes off the guy, she’d miss a
move, a twitch that might warn her of—what?—an attack?

“Mama?”

The man grinned and backed away. He turned to
Ellie and wagged an index finger. “Take it easy, kiddo.”

Janet saw worry and confusion swim through
her daughter’s eyes as the man moved toward the pumps. He leaned
against one of them and grinned at her again. Janet hurried into
the van, locked the doors, and raised the back window.

“Was that a bad man, Mama? Are you mad at
him?”

Cursing under her breath, Janet started the
van and tore out of the parking lot.

“Huh, Mama? Was he?”

Tires squealed as Janet turned right, barely
slowing for a stop sign. Worse than the lecherous come-on from the
man at the store was the knowledge he’d left with her. Michael’s
father, Wilson, was back in town. And if ever there was a reason
for her to intuit trouble, he was it.

CHAPTER THREE

Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata played softly
overhead as Michael inspected Mr. Rasmussen’s burial suit. His
apprentice stood nearby, chewing on a fingernail.

“So how’d I do?” Chad asked.

Michael straightened Rasmussen’s tie, plucked
a speck of fuzz out of his hair, then leaned over the coffin to
check the nostrils for stray nose hairs. “Not bad. Just watch the
shirtsleeves. An inch past the jacket sleeves always looks best.”
He tugged lightly on the shirt’s cuffs. “See what I mean?”

Chad nodded solemnly. “Christ, you’d think
after eight months of working with you I’d remember.”

“Inch and a half’s actually better,” a man’s
voice said behind them.

Michael and Chad turned in unison.

“Could never get my boy to do it right,
though,” the man said with a sardonic grin.

Michael blinked as if someone had just thrown
a handful of sand in his eyes. “Dad?” The person standing just
inside the viewing room barely resembled the man Michael had last
seen three years ago. Back then his father had been a formidable
figure, even at sixty-three years old. Six-foot two, one hundred
eighty pounds, only a touch of gray in his sandy brown hair near
the temples. This man looked like a freeze-dried version of the
original. Dressed in a faded black suit, he stood stoop-shouldered
and penny-nail thin. He hobbled toward Michael.

“Been a while,” Wilson Savoy said, his voice
a smoker’s croup. He held out a knotted, shaking hand when he
reached his son.

Michael shook it reluctantly, conscious of
the heat rolling up the sides of his neck. “Yes, it has,” he said,
still staring at his father’s flour-white hair. He couldn’t think
of anything else to say. Time, the supposed healer, had chosen to
keep a selection of memories stored away until this moment. Now,
like hell-bent kamikazes, they flew to the forefront of his mind
where they crashed, burned, then immediately resurrected.

Much to his relief, Chad stuck out an
enthusiastic hand, which Wilson barely grazed. “Mr. Savoy, nice to
finally meet you. I’m Chad Thibodeaux, the apprentice.” Chad
flashed him a smile.

“Thought as much,” Wilson said. He motioned
toward the coffin. “You do the casketing, Mr. Thibodeaux?”

“Yes, sir. But please call me Ch—”

“Head’s too low, Mr. Thibodeaux. Body needs
to be angled slightly. You’ve got him looking like a sardine in
there.”

Chad’s smile collapsed, and he took a step
back.

“The body’s fine,” Michael said, glaring at
his father.

“Too low,” Wilson countered.

“Any higher and he’d roll out.”

Michael’s blood pressure rose exponentially
as he waited through the ensuing silence. From the corner of his
eye, he spotted Chad inching his way out of the room.

Eventually, Wilson lowered his eyes. “Is that
all you have to say after three years?”

Michael struggled to keep a groan locked
between his lips. Three years? Was that all his father thought they
had to catch up on? Make amends for? Thirty-six was more like it.
Every year since his son’s birth. What number of words could
possibly accumulate in a person’s head and heart over that period
of time? Millions? Trillions? Possibly none. Some heartaches simply
had no vocabulary.

With a thrust of his chin, Michael motioned
his father to the door. “We’re expecting a family any minute. I
think this is better discussed in my office.”

Wilson looked up sharply. “Just answer
me.”

Michael clenched his teeth. “I
said
in
my office.” He stormed out ahead of his father, and as Michael made
his way down the hall, he tried to block out the sound of shuffling
steps attempting to keep up behind him.

When they were behind closed doors, Michael
took a seat behind his desk and waited while his father studied the
urn display against the wall.

“No need for us to start off on the wrong
foot,” Wilson said, finally settling into a chair at the small
conference table.

Michael noticed a slight bobbing of his
father’s head.
Parkinson’s?
He shook the thought away. “Why
are you here?”

“Is that any way to talk to your father?”

“Okay. Why are you here,
father?
”

Wilson pursed his lips, reached into the
inside pocket of his jacket, and after a few fumbled attempts
pulled out a cigarette and an old Zippo. After flipping the lighter
open, his right thumb quivered over the flint wheel, then missed it
altogether. “Damn thing must be broken.”

As though on autopilot, Michael got up from
behind his desk and went to his father. He took the lighter from
him. “No smoking in here,” he said, then lit the Zippo.

Wilson puffed his cigarette to life and
signaled for Michael to sit beside him. “I’ve got a business
proposition for you,” he said. “Figured it’s time we get stuff
straight. I’m not getting any younger you know.”

Michael stared at him in disbelief. A
business proposition? Didn’t the man possess even a thread of
common decency? What about an apology? Some explanation for his
desertion? Couldn’t he even share one goddamn reason why he’d left
his son alone to face lawyers and bill collectors and near
bankruptcy?Michael knew, however, that if his father were to say
those things, he’d have to ask for DNA testing to confirm Wilson’s
identity.

“I—” Michael began.

“Not now,” Wilson said. He got up and tapped
his ashes into the empty wastebasket near Michael’s desk. “You’ve
got a service about to start, and I don’t want you running out when
we’re only half through the conversation.”

“I’m not handling it,” Michael said
reluctantly. “Chad is. So say whatever it is you need to say.”

“You’re letting an apprentice take care of a
family? Dumb move. He’s a baby.”

Michael bristled. “He’s twenty-eight and
competent, and why the hell does it matter to you? You didn’t give
two shits about this place when you cleaned out the bank accounts
and disappeared.”

“I did give two shits, really,” Wilson said,
returning to his seat. “Something came up that needed my attention,
that’s all.”

“Yeah? What was it? Number ten coming in in
the seventh?”

“I’m not messing with the horses anymore,
Michael. Gave that up a while back.”