Grave Secret (21 page)

“Yeah,” Tolliver said, as startled as I was. “That’s almost word for word. I was surprised, because we’d never talked about her love life before. We weren’t that close, and she didn’t like to talk about personal stuff, either. You know the cop she was seeing?”

“Yes,” Flemmons said. “It was me.”

Neither of us had anything to say, or any idea how to respond, when we heard that.

Flemmons was there for at least another quarter hour, and he asked Tolliver about twenty more questions, getting every detail of the conversation he’d had with Victoria, but Tolliver never elaborated on what Victoria had told him. I was surprised—and not a little worried—that Tolliver was playing the situation so close to the vest.

I told Rudy Flemmons about the mysterious person at my door the night before, the person who’d knocked before room service came. I didn’t really think that person had been Victoria Flores, but I wanted to tell someone that the little incident had occurred.

At last, Detective Flemmons got up to leave. I felt incredibly relieved when I’d shut the door behind him. I waited, listening, and after a moment I heard him go down the hall to the elevators. I heard the ping of the arriving elevator, and then the whoosh of the doors as they opened and shut. I even opened our door and looked around to make sure no one was there.

I was getting paranoid as hell, but I thought I had good reason.

“Tell me,” I said. Though Tolliver was looking very tired and got up laboriously so I could help him back to the bed, I was determined to hear what he’d been about to say when Rudy Flemmons had come to our door.

When he was flat on his back, Tolliver said, “She asked me if I believed the Joyces really wanted to find the baby Mariah Parish carried, or if I thought they wanted to kill the child.”

“Kill the child,” I said, stunned. Of course, I got the idea right away. “A Joyce baby would inherit at least a fourth of the estate, I guess. An heir of the body, isn’t that the phrase? If the lawyer who drew it up used that phrase, the kid would inherit whether it’s legitimate or not. I don’t suppose there’s any question of Rich Joyce marrying Mariah on the sly?”

Tolliver shook his head. “No, he would have married her legally, not in some made-up ceremony. He was a four-square kind of guy, according to Victoria. And if the baby was his, he’d own up to it. If he’d known about it.”

“She was sure about that?”

“She was sure because she’d interviewed a lot of people who’d known Rich Joyce, people who’d been close to him. They all told Victoria that Lizzie Joyce is like her granddad, no-nonsense and basically honest, but Kate and Drex are all about the money.”

“What about Chip, the boyfriend?”

“She didn’t mention him.”

“Victoria’d found all of this out already?”

“Yeah, she’d been busy.”

“Why’d she tell you all this? I’m guessing it wasn’t because she thought you were cute, since she was thinking about getting back together with Rudy Flemmons.”

“Because she thought one of the Joyces had shot me. That’s why she told me.”

“Okay, I’m still not following.”

“They all think you know more about Rich Joyce’s death than you said at the graveside. They’re upset because you identified Mariah’s cause of death and raised the question of the existence of a baby at all. They’re afraid, I guess, that you’ll find the baby’s body.”

“Victoria didn’t think the baby was alive? She thought someone had killed the baby?”

I felt sick inside. I’ve seen and heard of bad things, evil things, because of this “gift” the lightning left me. In the past, so many babies died; so many things could go wrong, things that are rare now. I’d stood on many tiny graves and seen the still, white faces, and it never failed to be a sad moment. The murder of a child was the worst of crimes, in my book, the absolute rock bottom of evil.

“That’s what she was assuming. She couldn’t find any birth record. So maybe Mariah had the child by herself.”

“Oh, what kind of woman doesn’t go to the hospital when she feels her time’s there?”

“Maybe one who can’t,” Tolliver said.

I felt my lips compress with disgust and horror. “You mean someone wouldn’t let her go to the hospital? Or simply allowed her to die of neglect?” I didn’t need to say that was cruel and inhuman. Tolliver shared my feelings.

“It’s possible. That’s the best explanation for her having died after childbirth, and there being no record of the child or a hospital stay for her.”

“And if it wasn’t for me . . .”

“No one would ever have known any of this.”

Put that way, I guess it was no surprise that someone wanted me dead.

I
ran in place on the treadmill in the “exercise room,” the hotel’s token nod to fitness. At least it was in an enclosed area, which right now meant “safe.” I’d woken up early, and I could tell by his breathing that Tolliver was deep in dreamland.

I had a better picture of why all these awful things were happening around me, but I didn’t have any idea what to do about it. I had nothing to take to the police, nothing, and the Joyces were rich and connected. I didn’t know if all of them were involved, or if the shooter and the murderer (I considered both the deaths of Mariah Parish and Rich Joyce to be murders) were one and the same and acting alone. The three Joyces and the Joyce boyfriend were all capable people with guns, almost undoubtedly. Maybe I was stereotyping, but I didn’t think a western rancher like Rich Joyce would teach his granddaughters how to ride rodeo and neglect to teach them how to shoot, and Drex would have to learn as a matter of course. The boyfriend, too. I knew the least about Chip Moseley. He looked like a good match for Lizzie; he was just as lean and weather-beaten, and he looked competent and down-to-earth. He was skeptical of my claims, but he could join most of the people I met in that respect.

I was drenched with sweat when I began my cooldown. I walked for ten more minutes, then I dried my face with a towel and went back to the room. I was beginning to hate hotel rooms. I wouldn’t have thought there was much of a domestic gene in me, but I wanted a home, a real home. I wanted a bedspread that wasn’t synthetic. I wanted sheets that only I had slept on. I wanted to keep my clothes folded in a drawer; I didn’t want to fish them out of a suitcase. I wanted a bookcase, not a cardboard box. We had those things in our apartment, but even the apartment didn’t have any air of permanency. It was just a nicer rental than the hotel rooms.

In the elevator, I took a deep breath and shoved all those thoughts into a bucket in the corner of my mind. I put a heavy lid on the bucket and weighted that lid down with a rock. Lots of imagery, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t distracted at this crucial time when someone was gunning for us. I had to be extra strong with Tolliver sidelined.

Rudy Flemmons was standing outside the room, raising his hand to knock.

“Detective,” I called, “hold on a minute.”

He stayed in position, one hand raised in a fist, and I knew from the way he was standing that something was very wrong.

I came up to him and examined his face, or at least his profile. He didn’t turn to look at me.

“Oh, no,” I breathed. “Listen, let’s go in the room.” I reached past him to unlock the door, and we entered. I flicked on the light, hoping I wasn’t waking Tolliver, but then I saw that the light was on in the bathroom and I knew he was up. I knocked on the door. “Hey, you okay in there? We’ve got company.”

“This early?” he asked, and I knew he’d had a bad night.

“Honey, just get out here,” I said, and hoped he got the message.

He did, and in thirty seconds he’d come out and made his way over to the seating area. I could tell by the way he was moving that he wasn’t feeling good. I hurried to bring him some orange juice from the little refrigerator. There wasn’t any point in offering some to Rudy Flemmons, who was sunk in a state that I assumed to be misery or extreme apprehension. I didn’t know him well enough to tell exactly; I just knew it was bad.

It must have been an unpleasant way for Tolliver to start the day, but he eased back on the couch.

“Tell us why you’re here,” Tolliver said.

“I think Victoria’s dead,” Rudy Flemmons said. “Her car was found this morning, in a cemetery in Garland. Her purse was in it.”

“But you haven’t found her body?” I said.

“No. I was wondering if you would come take a look.”

This was sad, and it was also professionally awkward. In view of his obvious misery and our friendship with Victoria, I wasn’t even thinking about money. I was thinking about the rest of the cops out there who would decide that my arrival on the scene was Rudy Flemmon’s anxiety taking an extreme form.

But there wasn’t much I could say except, “Give me ten minutes.”

I jumped into the shower, soaped up and rinsed off, brushed my teeth, and pulled on my clothes. I put on boots; not high-heeled fashion boots, but flat, waterproof Uggs. The weather had been intermittently rainy, and I didn’t want to get caught by surprise. Though I hadn’t watched the forecast that morning or checked the paper, I noticed Rudy was wearing a heavy jacket, and I bundled up accordingly.

There was no question of Tolliver coming. That idea suddenly hit me in the face when I was ready to go out the door. Sloppy weather, cemetery conditions: not ideal for someone recovering from a gunshot wound.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said, with a terrible pang of anxiety. “You don’t do anything. I mean, get back in bed and watch TV. I’ll call you if anything happens, all right?”

Tolliver was as stricken by the belated realization that I was going out on a work call alone as I was. “Get some candy out of my jacket pocket,” he said, and I did. “Don’t do anything that’s going to hurt you,” he said severely.

“Don’t worry,” I said, and then I told Rudy Flemmons I was ready to go, though that was far from the truth.

On the ride through the misty rain, in the heavy morning traffic, we were silent. Rudy called someone on the radio to tell them we were on the way, and those were the only words spoken in fifteen minutes.

“I know you charge for this,” he said suddenly, as he pulled in behind a long line of cars on a road through a huge cemetery, the modern kind that forbids headstones. I was being bombarded by the vibrations of the corpses, coming from all directions. They were all intense, since this was a relatively new burial ground. I thought the oldest was maybe twenty years in the ground.

“Not an issue. Please don’t mention it again,” I said, and got out of the car. The last thing I wanted to do was debate prices while I was looking for this sad man’s girlfriend.

You would think that if I knew the person it would be easier, but it isn’t. Otherwise, I would have found my sister long ago. The dead clamor for attention with equal intensity, and if Victoria was out here somewhere, she was simply part of the chorus. It was hard to avoid the graves that called for my attention, and it was incredibly painful to be here without Tolliver. I had no anchor.

Common sense,
I told myself. I went as close to the abandoned car as I could. One technician was peering at the tire treads, in a desultory way that told me the major work had been done. There were cops searching the landscaped graveyard, which was on rolling ground. It was a common layout for a modern place: there were areas defined by the tall statue in the middle, like an angel garden or a cross area, to help visitors navigate to the correct gravesite. I had no idea what method was used, whether the plots radiated out from the central sculpture or if you got to pick your site within that area. The place was looking pretty full—lying room only. There was a care-taker’s shed in the distance and a chapel in the middle, a sizable marble structure that probably held a mausoleum and a columbarium. Across the width of the grounds I could see a funeral taking place as the search for Victoria Flores went on around me.

Hoping profoundly that no one would notice me, I closed my eyes and reached out. So many signals to sort through, so many clamoring to be recognized; I shuddered, but I persevered.

Freshest. Freshest. I needed something brand spanking new. That is, someone who’d passed over yesterday or even a few hours ago. There, out in front of me. I opened my eyes and walked to a grave still strewn with funeral flowers. I closed my eyes again, reached down.

“No,” I muttered. “Not her.” I was not surprised to find the detective at my elbow. “This is Brandon Barstow, who died in a car wreck,” I told him. I reached out again. I felt the pull coming from the care-taker’s shed. Very fresh.

“Here we go,” I said, to the air in front of me, and I began walking. I watched my feet, because when I was tracking, it was easy to forget where my feet were going. Rudy Flemmons was right behind me, but he didn’t know how to help me. That was okay; I could make it by myself.

The grass was wet and the pine needles made the ground slick in some spots. I knew where I was going; now there was no more uncertainty.