The Grave Soul (30 page)

“You had to have a reason.”

“I had many reasons.”

“So it wasn't just an impulse?”

“It was a total impulse. It was over before I even knew what I'd done. But that doesn't mean I was sorry. I wasn't. Not then. Oh, I was sorry enough for myself—for what it would mean for my life if I got caught. It's taken me years to realize how disastrous my actions were for everyone else—my family and all the people I love. Delia's death is the gift that keeps on giving, in more dreadful ways than I could ever have imagined.”

“But you still haven't said why.”

“Are you always like this? A dog with a bone?”

She sank her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Yes, pretty much.”

Pulling over a stool, he sat down, nodding for her to do the same. “It's been a long day.”

She drew one of the bar stools away from the counter. She didn't want to sit too close to him.

“You don't trust me.”

“No.”

“But you don't want to hate me.”

“What I want more than anything, Kevin, is to understand.”

“Won't change anything.”

“Why can't you just say it?”

Looking away, he said, “Because it's ugly. Deeply, irrevocably ugly.” Pressing his hands together, he gave himself a moment. “Right from the start, Delia and I had a stormy relationship. It was one of the things I liked. She was a party girl. I thought I was a party guy. She came from a military family and I was in the army when we first met. But then, after we married and I left the military, I dragged her back to the middle of nowhere to raise two kids she didn't even like. She couldn't believe she'd ended up in rural Wisconsin. I think she thought of it as almost a fate worse than death. We began talking about divorce. The kids were miserable.

“I'd started a construction company with a friend of mine, so I was gone a lot. She couldn't stand being alone, so she dumped the kids at my mother's place and found various waitress jobs. Because the kids were spending so much time at the farmhouse, and because Hannah was often there to visit, she got to wondering about Gracie, why she was the way she was. She did some digging, had some tests done, talked to a few doctors she knew at a couple of university hospitals, and eventually came to the conclusion that Grace suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome. It wasn't talked about—or even understood well—back in the mid nineties, not like it is today. I was always after Delia to stop the wine and beer when she was pregnant with Grace, but I know she still drank. She held her liquor well for such a small woman. Most people, if they didn't know her, wouldn't even realize she'd been drinking when she was high as a kite. Vodka was her go-to beverage if she didn't want anyone to know she'd been drinking. She thought people couldn't smell it on her breath. Thank God she was on the wagon when she was pregnant with Kira. Only problem was, she fell off it not long after Kira was born. I mean, maybe she wasn't an alcoholic. But she sure abused alcohol.

“You have to understand: The effects of alcohol on a fetus are devastating. It's like receiving a traumatic brain injury in the womb. Gracie had a very low birth weight. She didn't sleep well, or eat well. As she grew, there were other issues. Hyperactivity. Poor impulse control. She had trouble telling time. She'd fly into rages when she became frustrated. And the weirdest thing for me was, she never seemed to be able to learn from her mistakes.

“The morning Hannah came to the farmhouse to talk to our mom about it—to run the diagnosis past her and discuss how she should tell me—I was there. I was working in the barn, rehabbing it for my mom after my dad's death. I walked into the kitchen and heard part of their conversation. I asked what they were talking about. Hannah pretty much had to tell me. I listened, tried to take it in, and then I left, roared off in my car. I made it home in five minutes flat. Delia was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. I came in and started screaming at her. I mean, I lost it. Our daughter was suffering because of her drinking. Grace would struggle with these problems for the rest of her life because of Delia's selfishness. I followed her around the house. She said that Hannah was a quack, that she didn't know what she was talking about. That Gracie was difficult, sure, but it had nothing to do with her having a glass of wine every now and then. She just refused to hear what I was telling her.

“She tried to change the subject, she said she'd been to counseling with Father Mike, that he had such an obvious crush on her—wasn't that hilarious. She did admit that he'd helped her understand what she really wanted out of life. Her conclusion was that she did love me. She wanted to make it work between us. She went back into the kitchen, saying that she planned to spend the rest of the day making Christmas cookies. As she was emptying out the last bag, I noticed a couple of white boxes with pink lettering on them. I picked one up. It was a pregnancy test. I shoved it at her, demanded to know why she had it. She got all lovey-dovey, said that she had a really special Christmas gift in mind for me. I loved children so much, she thought we should have another.

“I started shaking. I asked her if she was already pregnant. She said she wasn't, but she'd been off the pill for several weeks, so it was only a matter of time.

“I don't even remember what I said after that. I think I hit her. We were running through the house at one point, and then we were out on the deck. I had my hands around her neck and I was squeezing and squeezing. I remember her going limp. How disgusted I was by the sight of her, how I just wanted to erase her. I must have dumped her over the railing because the next thing I knew, I was standing there, looking down at her body in the ravine. Reality eventually sank in. That's when I rushed back to the kitchen and called my mom. I told her what I'd done. She made me promise to stay where I was, said she'd be right over.”

Jane watched in silence as tears streamed down his face.

He scraped them away. “So now you know. Does it change anything?”

She shook her head.

“You can freely hate me.”

“I don't hate you.”

“You should.” He picked up the bar towel and wiped his face.

The copy she'd made of Walt Olsen's letter felt like a burning coal inside her pocket. Part of the reason he'd come clean with her so easily was that he was sure Jane had no proof that he'd murdered his wife. She reached into her pocket, touched the paper.

A loud knock interrupted them.

Turning around, Jane saw a police officer standing at the front door, the strobe lights on his squad car lighting up the dark street behind him.

“What did you do?” demanded Kevin, desperation filling his voice.

“Nothing,” said Jane. “Honestly. I have no idea why he's here.”

Wiping his face one last time, Kevin went to open up.

Jane strained to hear the conversation, but they were talking too quietly. After nearly a minute, Kevin closed the door and came back inside. “I have to go.”

“What is it?” asked Jane, moving off the stool.

“My brother. They've got him in the cruiser. Seems he was running around the trailer park where he lives, buck naked except for his hiking boots, knocking on doors and cursing people out.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Blitzed out of his mind.” He grabbed his coat off a hook by the cash register. Stopping before he reached the front door, he waited for Jane. “You know, this may be hard for you to believe, but except for that one horrible act—for which I know I should rot in hell forever—I'm the most normal person in my family.” His smile was sad. “The truth never sets anyone free. I'm glad you're okay, but I hope to God this is the last time I ever see you.”

All Jane could do was nod.

 

41

By six the next morning, Jane had loaded up her backpack and taken it down to her car, paid the motel bill, and was standing in front of Guthrie's room, knocking on his door. It took him nearly a full minute to answer. When he did, he looked tousled and sleepy, his robe loosely tied around his waist. He put a finger to his lips. “Kira's inside. She's still asleep.”

Jane was happy to hear that'd they'd been able to spend the night together. “Everything okay with you two?”

“More than okay.”

She smiled. “I'm leaving, driving back to Minneapolis.”

“So early? I though we could have breakfast together—the three of us.”

“I dug my Honda out of the snow last night. Had to leave your car in the lot behind Kevin's bar.”

“Kira can drive me over.”

She reached inside her coat and drew out Walt Olsen's letter. “I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“Proof that Kevin murdered his wife. Turns out, Walt Olsen left a letter. He told his daughter about it just before he died. She said she read it, thought about burning it—or turning it over to the police—but couldn't make a decision, so she gave it to me yesterday. It details everything that happened the day of Delia's death. The cover-up. What Walt did. What Brian Carmody did.”

Guthrie stared at it as if he'd just been handed the holy grail. “We should take this to the police.”

“Should we? Have you thought about the ramifications? Everyone in the Adler family, and that now includes Kira, is part of a cover-up. They could all do jail time.”

He wiped a hand across his mouth. “I've thought about all that. I don't think anything serious would happen to Kira. She hasn't known that long.”

“For your sake and for hers, I hope that's true.”

“I mean … a murder was committed.”

“That's right.”

“Kevin should pay for what he did.”

Everyone, thought Jane, had been doing nothing but paying since the day Delia died. “If that's what you believe, then turn it over to the police. But before you do, let me go home and write up my notes. You need the full story. In fact, I could come in right now and tell you both everything.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I need this time with Kira.”

“Fine. You should have my report in a couple of days.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you really saying to me?”

“I'm saying that … that you hired me to do a job. I did it, and this information is what I was able to dig up. It's up to you to decide what to do with it.”

“You're passing the buck, just like Walter's daughter.”

“Apparently I am.”

“That's not fair.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Guthrie, if you want fair, you're going to have to find yourself another planet.” She stuck out her hand. “Good luck.”

He shook it, and then said, “Thanks, Jane.”

The last thing she wanted for presenting him with that letter was thanks. As she walked back down the hallway, she couldn't help but think about Kevin, about the entire Adler family, and what kind of horror one tragic decision could create. All she wanted for herself right now was to get the hell out of the peace and safety of small-town America with some part of her heart and soul intact.

*   *   *

On her way out of town, Jane stopped at a QuikTrip. She needed to fill the gas tank, and also clean the CR-V's windows. As she worked, she hummed a particularly bad rendition of Three Dog Night's
Joy to the World.

Walking around inside the store, she found a section of sweets that looked like they might be homemade. A chocolate-frosted Rice Krispies bar caught her attention. After grabbing a cup of coffee, she moved up to the cash register and handed the man behind the counter her credit card.

“Beautiful day,” he said. “Blue skies and no snow in the forecast.”

“It's warmer, too,” said Jane. “At least, warmer than it has been the last few weeks.”

“Not really.” His hand hovered above the card reader, waiting for it to print a receipt. “It's been pretty much in the high twenties and low thirties. We won't even make it out of the teens today.”

“Huh,” said Jane, signing the receipt.

“Drive safe,” said the man, handing Jane her card.

Back in her car, she set the coffee in the cup holder and the Rice Krispies bar on the dashboard. She adjusted her sunglasses as she gazed up at the intense cobalt sky. She had no intention of sleeping at Cordelia's house tonight. After rounding up her dogs, she would spend her first night in weeks back in her own bed.

She started the engine. The heat flooding from the vents felt almost too warm. Easing out of the front seat, she took off her sheepskin jacket and tossed it across to the passenger's side. And then she climbed back in, put on her seat belt and smiled.

She was going home.

 

About the Author

ELLEN HART
, “a top novelist in the cultishly popular gay mystery genre” (
Entertainment Weekly
), is also a Lambda and Minnesota Book Award winner. The author of more than twenty previous mysteries featuring Jane Lawless, she lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. You can sign up for email updates
here
.