Tombstone (4 page)

CHAPTER I

Tombstone studied the woman standing next to his client, and he realized that she was taller than he had expected.
 
Her unguarded expression was meant to look cool, but even from the distance, he could see the wary, nervous irritation in her dark eyes.
 
The black knit creation she was wearing stretched over her voluminous breasts, curved to her waist, and then blossomed over generous hips.

A few times she shifted her weight from one black stilettoed heel to the other, drawing his attention to her legs.
 
The seam in her black nylons outlined the curve in her calves and thighs, begging to be followed under the short hem of her skirt and over her rounded bottom.
 
Claudine was the complete package, and so accustomed to displaying herself as such it never entered her mind just how shockingly inappropriately she was dressed for this occasion.

Tombstone leaned against his small backhoe, crossing his long legs and studying the crowd of mourners surrounding the casket.
 
He glanced at the marker resting in the rusted bucket and let his leather gloved finger trace along the grooves of the etched lettering.
 
This had been a rush job, as all of those that catered to his specialty were.

The curious line of work suited his talent, and his reputation spread quietly through a select group of people.
 
They appreciated the time Tombstone took to speak with them, to garner a full understanding of the loved one they lost… and the woman responsible for their death.
 
Tombstone had amassed a fortune that was larger than some of his patrons’, even after he poured a significant amount into equipment and the building housing his displays.
 
A fraction of his wealth was used for purchasing granite and marble for the headstones.

His current client, Donald Strickland, wore the tired lines of sleepless nights on his grief stricken face.
 
Tombstone had a personal connection to this situation.
 
Donald held the mortgage for the private cemetery land and had arranged the custom alterations to the caretaker’s house.
 
In return, Strickland had received a vested interest in Tombstone’s club and was permitted full membership to the displays, even though Donald did not own a mannequin.
 
At least, not until now.

Tombstone watched Donald grip the widow’s arm, holding Claudine close to his side and forcing her to acknowledge the result of her folly.
 
Donnie had been his only son, pampered through life and never developing the strong qualities necessary to take over the business.
 
Donald was okay with that.
 
His brothers and nephews inherited the shrewdness to safely ensconce the family legacy.
 
He was not ‘okay’ with Claudine.

“Shit,” Claudine hissed.
 
She reached to loosen the steel grip on her arm.
 
What the fuck does he think I’m going to do?
 
Throw myself on Donnie’s coffin… or bolt from the cemetery?
 
“Ease up a little, Donald.”

The preacher had ranted for half an hour, and now various friends and relatives were droning on.
 
After a two-hour presentation at the funeral home, she assumed the service at the graveside would be quick.
 
Her feet were throbbing and her legs were beginning to feel the strain of the constant attempt to balance and shift while her spiked heels sank into the soft dirt.
 
Fuck the reception afterwards.
 
She was anxious to sink into the Jacuzzi as soon as they returned to Strickland’s estate.
 
Hell, the damn funeral is lasting longer than our marriage.

As far as Claudine was concerned, Donnie had conned her.
 
Any affection she ever felt towards her husband had disappeared quickly after their vows.
 
Donald had cut his son out of the family fortune when he discovered Claudine had been married twice before.
 
She had made her former husbands miserable enough that they had settled large onetime lump sums to release them from their commitments.
 
Claudine refused to accept smaller monthly payments that would cease when she remarried, because she wanted to be free to move on to her next victim.

Donnie never mentioned his father’s decision when she dragged him to Las Vegas to elope.
 
Claudine had played her part too well, and the stupid fool had assumed that she was as in love as he was.

Donald decided to bring his son home after he was certain Donnie was over his infatuation and had learned his lesson.
 
In the meantime, Claudine was stuck picking up the tab for their expenses.
 
Donald liked twisting the knife and bleeding her funds.
 
Within weeks, Claudine began staying out all night and having affairs, preparing her next mark.
 
Donnie realized that his father’s warnings were validated, but after the scene he had caused to marry Claudine, he was too embarrassed to tell him what his new wife was doing.

Claudine was infuriated when she was told that because she was supporting Donnie, she might actually have to pay
him
if she filed for divorce.
 
She was already stuck paying all of the bills, and she watched her hard earned savings dwindle.
 
The sap continued to profess his love for her, and he tried to convince her they did not need his father’s money.

Claudine was frustrated and angry at a situation she was unable to resolve, and Donnie was subjected to her caustic, shrewish remarks during her infrequent evenings at home.
 
In drunken despair, Donnie had wrapped his sport car around a pole when he was searching for her one night.

Narrowing her brown eyes on the casket, amber sparks of excitement shot through their depths.
 
It was hard to believe that Donnie did not have
some
kind of trust or funds set aside in his name.
 
As his widow, she might be in for a healthy reward for her wasted time.
 
Claudine had no misconceptions that her ass of a father-in-law was going to let her remain in the mansion.
 
Donald had only let her move in for the funeral, and he would surely throw her out now that his son was planted.

Finally, the last of the long list of speakers was through.
 
Claudine silently seethed, held in place by her father-in-law’s grip.
 
People passed by her without saying a word, to grasp Donald’s hand or embrace him while they offered him their sympathies.
 
She did notice a few of the men seemed to be giving her appraising looks.

Claudine had a voracious sexual appetite, especially when she was grifting a new mark.
 
She was used to the effect her raw sensuality had on men, and their heated looks fed her vanity.
 
Donald’s friends were different, and rather than the pleasing rush of potential conquest dampening her panties, the look in these mourners’ eyes chilled her.
 
What a bunch of arrogant fools,
she decided.

Anxious to kick off the pinching high heels, Claudine turned towards the waiting limousine.
 
Donald continued to grip her arm and hold her in place, while he stared at his son’s coffin.
 
“Don’t we need to get going to the reception?” she asked irritably.
 
She could almost feel the warmth of the tub jets caressing her.

Donald turned her, and then, without saying a word, he guided her towards a man standing several rows away next to a small backhoe.
 
He was tall and powerfully built, and dressed in rugged work clothes with his face half-hidden by his cap.
 
It had not occurred to Claudine that they used machinery to cover the coffins.
 
Somehow, it seemed like cheating, and less traditional than picturing a man laboring for the rest of the afternoon with a shovel.

“Donald,” she protested, and she tried to pull away.
 
Claudine had put up with about as much of this farce as she could stand.
 
His grip became bruising as he tugged her along.
 
“Shit,” she muttered, and her free hand dug in her black purse for a cigarette.
 
Her angry shaking fingers snapped twice at the lighter before it ignited.

Tombstone pushed up from the backhoe, and took two steps towards Strickland.
 
The grief in the older man’s eyes was visible, but not as intense as the seething fury in his stare.
 
Donald glanced at the headstone lying inside the rusted bucket.
 
“That it?”

“Yes, Mr. Strickland.”
 
Tombstone walked the grieving man over to the granite plaque while the widow stood to the side and sucked her cigarette, puffing out angry bursts of smoke.
 
Strickland trailed his fingers along the etched trench.
 
“That’s the widow?” Tombstone confirmed in a low voice.

“Yes, that’s Claudine.
 
You’re positive there will not be a problem?”

“I guarantee my work, Mr. Strickland.”

Claudine twisted the toe of her shoe over the cigarette butt.
 
It reminded her how tight the shoes had become after standing for so long.
 
She watched Donald hand the laborer an envelope, presumably to pay for his services.
 
They were talking in hushed tones, but she was sick of all the depressing drama and began walking towards the parking lot.

Strickland asked, “How long before…”

“Two months, Mr. Strickland.
 
Delivery will be November 5
^th
,” Tombstone replied.

Donald Strickland stared at the bitch while she walked away without bothering to look at the headstone.
 
She had killed his son, and he intended to make her pay for the rest of her life.
 
“I expect what I’ve paid you for.”

“I told you, Mr. Strickland.
 
I guarantee my work,” Tombstone repeated.

Donald yelled, “Get your ass back over here and look at your husband’s memorial.”

Claudine froze when his voice rang out.
 
Admittedly, the man’s dislike of her was obvious, but Donald had never spoken to her that way.
 
The limousine they had arrived in was only car left in the parking lot, so she decided she had better follow his order.
 
She pasted on a smile and walked back to them.
 
“I’m sorry, Donald.
 
I thought you wanted a private moment.”
 
She pushed past the gravedigger.
 
“Excuse me.”
 
He crowded close behind her and she scowled into his shadowed features.
 
The man ignored her, so she glanced down at the piece of rock in the machine, planning an ambiguous compliment to get it over with.

Claudine’s mouth dropped open and she gasped.
 
Her trembling fingers reached towards the granite while she shook her head in shocked confusion.
 
She stared at the etched epitaph.
 
It had Donny’s name and dates, with some nonsense about being a loving husband and son.
 
This, she barely noticed.
 
The words circled by the entwined hearts and vines beside his name were what had caught her attention.
 
‘Claudine E. Strickland, July 1, 1977 - August 5, 2000’.
 
It was the same date that Donnie had died.

The man behind her leaned down, and Claudine felt his warm breath on her neck.
 
“Tragic, really.”
 
His words were barely a deep whisper.
 
“They were such a young couple, with so much happiness ahead of them.”

Claudine was stunned, and her fingers left the stone while she turned to look up at Donald.
 
His contemptuous smile froze any words she might have uttered, and she backed away from him into the gravedigger’s chest.
 
Claudine gasped, still too shocked to try to begin to understand what could possibly be happening.
 
She felt a sting and she looked down to see a needle being withdrawn from her arm.
 
The laborer capped it and dropped it into his shirt pocket while Claudine slid down his body to the ground.

Donald knelt in front of her and gripped her chin, staring at her with eyes burning such deep hatred that it caused a queasy cold slam to hit her stomach.
 
He dropped her head and rose to walk towards his car without looking back at her.
 
The last that Claudine saw before losing consciousness was the icy blue eyes of the gravedigger.

Claudine came to her senses in slow bursts of awareness.
 
When her eyes opened, she found herself staring into an oppressive pitch black.
 
There was a silky padded feeling under her hands and feet, which were folded behind her and wedged under her bottom.
 
As her head cleared, she realized that she had been handcuffed in the uncomfortable position.
 
There was foam in her mouth that muffled her screams, and she lifted her head until she encountered more of the slick padding.
 
Her eyes widened and she remembered the gravedigger.
 
Claudine shrieked in terror.
 
My god, I’m in a coffin.

She heard two rapid thumps on the lid, followed by a heavy bump and staccato bursts.
 
He’s burying me.
 
Claudine sobbed into the gag, and she began shaking so hard she was afraid she would vomit into the foam in her mouth.
 
Oh, my god, he’s burying me alive.
 
Claudine heard the shoveled dirt hit the top of her tomb, and she screamed around the foam when two more clumps hit the top of the coffin.
 
The sounds of the shoveled dirt faded and Claudine was left in the terrifying silent darkness.