Caskets & Conspiracies Page 5

  “Hey sunshine, hold on a second. I have news.”

  “Do I have to open my eyes?”

  He chuckled at my failed attempt at humor. “Just your ears. You were right.”

  I loved hearing those words. I kind of hated saying those words because it meant the inverse was true, but I loved hearing them.

  “About what?”

  “We vetted the valets at the first restaurant. We found one that had worked at both restaurants on different days. He was on probation for drug possession. His locker belonged to the restaurant owner, so it was easy to get access. We found epoxy key-making kits. Not just one but six.”

  “He was planning more killings then?”

  “Absolutely. It didn’t take long in interrogation before he gave up his partner. Want to guess where he worked?”

  “The water park?”

  “And the hotel where the fundraiser had been held.” He exhaled, and it fuzzed up the sound on the phone for a second. “They met in a chat room—not the savory type—and found out they had similar jobs. I guess it evolved from there. Makes you wish you could scrub the Internet clean, doesn’t it?”

  I scoffed a little at his naïveté. “There isn’t enough soap in the world.” I yawned and rolled over. “Glad you got your guy.”

  “Chief wants you to come in. He’s paying you for your consulting. He says you clearly solved the case.”

  That perked me up.

  Shane continued, “He says he wants to talk to you about becoming an official consultant with our department.”

  I became a little wary. “What does that mean?”

  “No clue,” admitted Uncle Shane, “but you could stand to have a little stability in your life, Lindy.”

  Just one of the many aspects of my life my uncle harped on.

  “Fine. I’ll be down later.”

  He stopped me before I could hang up. “A guy has been coming in and asking about you. His name is Ryder Billings. You know him?”

  I groaned. “Asking about me specifically?” I had worried Marco Huston might ask about me. I was glad it was not Marco, but still, it was not actually good news.

  “No, not by name. I think he tried to file a missing person’s report, but he didn’t have a name let alone a phone number or address. I think he wanted us to look you up for him.”

  I put his mind to rest. “I’m not missing. I’m not dead. I’m just avoiding him. How did you know it was me anyway? Maybe it’s a real case, someone else he met.”

  I could hear the laughter behind Uncle Shane’s words. “No, it was you. His description of you, especially your personality, was pretty accurate, but the sketch was what convinced me.”

  “Sketch?” I was suddenly much more awake.

  “Yeah. He had a sketch of the woman with a $200 reward posted. I recognized you immediately. He’s one heck of an artist.”

  I did not care if he was Vincent Van Gogh reincarnated. It was crazy. “Let me guess. You want the reward money. Have you already turned me in? Is he going to be at my door in minutes?”

  “Easy, little tiger. I didn’t tell him anything.” He chuckled easily. “But Stella’s birthday is coming up, and she has her eye on a pretty pendant at the mall.”

  I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Hey now, what is the problem with this one? He’s a good-looking guy!”

  “Then you date him,” I said as I hung up the phone.

  **********

  I stopped by the Laurel Community Church on my way to the station. It was out of my way, but I needed to get a feeling for the entire situation. I thought that maybe if I stood on the grounds, I could receive some sort of impression. It was a little crazy but worth it.

  The church was at the end of a long dirt road in the country. It looked like something out of an old movie: white paint, gray shutters, and a tall steeple with a cross at its lofty peak. I half expected children in petticoats and breeches to burst through the doors to go play kick the can. The area was quiet and void of movement. Go figure. Church was not a happening place at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday.

  I backed up my car to turn and drive back down the driveway and head to the station. The wind whipped up some green leaves and swirled them in front of my hood. As I glanced in my rearview mirror, I could see the church, though far more ominous than before. Dark storm clouds framed the roof and steeple. Through the trees to my right, I could see an old cemetery. A few graves looked fresh, or was it my imagination? I shook off the chills that rattled my nerves and pressed on, eager to get whatever had spooked me in my distant past.

  **********

  The precinct was not huge. It was a small town. But it was still an impressive building. I pushed open the glass doors and set my sights on my uncle’s desk. As I signed in at the front desk, a picture caught my eye. Tearing it from the wall, I stared in disbelief. Gail, the gal that ran the front desk, began to snicker. I glared at her and held up the drawing of my own face with the word “Huckleberry” written at the bottom.

  “Gail, this is harassment. Why are you laughing?”

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Aw, honey. It’s a good drawing. You look nice. Plus, $200 is a nice reward for you. It’s a little romantic, don’t you think?”

  I crumpled the poster into a ball and tossed it into her trash.

  “Is Shane in?”

  “I buzzed him when I saw you walk in. He’s waiting for you.”

  As I walked through the office, I found three more Huckleberry posters and tore them from the walls as well. I had a paper wad the size of a baseball when I finally made it to Uncle Shane’s desk. He already had the check extended toward me even though he was on the phone.

  “Yes, that’s right. But you better hurry,” he said into the receiver.

  I tried to pull the envelope from his hand, but he tightened his grip on it. Covering the mouthpiece of his phone, he said to me, “Chief is waiting to see you in his office.”

  I yanked the envelope from him and walked swiftly to the chief’s door. After knocking twice, I heard Chief Saunders tell me to come in, and I pushed open the door.

  “Miss Johnson, good to see you. Come on in. Take a seat.” He was surprisingly jovial, and it made me on edge. He had not always approved of my help in the past, and if I had to guess, I would have suspected he did not like me in general. This new behavior likely meant that he wanted something.

  I sat on the wooden bench that bordered the room. Comparing my seat with his plush swivel chair, I had to wonder if he made people uncomfortable on purpose, like a subconscious torture device.

  “Miss Johnson,” he cleared his throat, never one to beat around the bush, “Lindy, I wanted to talk to you about becoming a more permanent consultant for the department. This last case was challenging to say the least, and yet you made connections none of my officers made. I was very impressed.”

  Humility served me well in these situations. I learned that the hard way in the past. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lindy, you have been pretty influential on these cases. Your uncle said you tried to join the force when you first moved to Washington. What happened there?”

  I wanted to flee the room. He knew what happened, but he never seemed to tire of the tale.

  “I have a Section 10 on my record.”

  “Right. The auto theft.”

  Suddenly his memory was stellar.

  “Joyriding,” I corrected, but at least I remembered to tack on “sir” by the end.

  “That won’t technically stop you from joining the force.”

  I had tried to join the force in California, and it had not been pretty. The officer giving the interview had focused on it and ran circles around that blemish on my record until my story became convoluted, and it looked as though I had lied. Lying was an automatic fail. Because of that instance, not only did my Section 10 for joyriding follow me, but there were also a few notes from my previous interview that sealed the deal as well. I
t was not supposed to happen, but it did.

  I straightened my shoulders and tried to look strong and humble all at once. Not an easy feat.

  “I enjoy my work as a private investigator, sir.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though he were trying to distinguish a lie from the truth. Lines were chiseled into the corners of his eyes, evidence that he had been in the business long before I was born.

  He weighed his words carefully, aware of the implications they carried and certainly aware that when he put those words out there, there was no way I would be willing to let him take them back.

  “Lindy,” his hound dog jowls shook slightly as he spoke, “I want to offer you a position of sorts, but you need to understand that there will be some stipulations set forth in order for it to all work.”

  I narrowed my eyes and asked, “What sort of stipulations?”

  The chief rocked back and forth in his chair a couple of times before he came to a stop. His uniform was tight, the spaces between the buttons puckered in a few places like little mouths that cried out, “Help us! We’re going to burst!” I had to suppress my chuckle at the thought of his shirt in distress.

  Somehow he sensed my pleasure, and it did not please him. “You will need a full physical with your primary care doctor,” he paused for dramatic effect, “and your neurologist. Your uncle had some concerns for your health.”

  I clenched my jaw as I realized my uncle had told him about my disease against my most ardent desires. It was not what I would consider common knowledge. On the contrary, it was very privileged information. Still, the terms were not unreasonable, and I was due for a checkup anyhow.

  “Fine,” I agreed. “Anything else?”

  “You have to follow the rules, Lindy. That means you obey protocol. And what I say is law.” His bushy gray eyebrows rose more than an inch, or at least I felt like they had.

  “Do you know me to be any other way?” I asked with a smirk.

  He was still not amused. “Before I take you on, you have to meet with the department psychologist. I want her official word that you are stable.”

  “What?” The previous requirements made sense, but this one was unreasonable. “You’re making me see a shrink?”

  His bushy eyebrows rose slightly again, drawing attention to the proximity of the two hairy caterpillars.

  “I think you demonstrated right there why the meeting with the psychologist is necessary. You have issues working within a team. You have a problem with rules and authority,” his smile was thin as he made his final point, “and I have to admit that I enjoy making you jump through hoops so that you remember you do not run this precinct.”

  I sucked my cheeks in and clamped my teeth down on the soft tissue to keep myself from responding. If I wanted the job, I would keep my mouth shut.

  His grey eyes watched me, slightly narrowed at the edges once more, deep wrinkles of challenge chiseled into his leathered skin. I could not give him the pleasure of watching me fight back and lose. Working as a consultant was rare, beyond rare, and it was a gift worthy of swallowing my pride.

  “Any questions, Miss Johnson?”

  With control and determination, I matched his expression and squared my shoulders. “No, sir,” I replied.

  One of those fuzzy eyebrows twitched slightly as if to say, “There might be hope for her after all.”

  I did not feel as though I could breathe again until I was beyond his doors. I searched the open sea of desks and blue uniforms until I spotted my Uncle Shane leaning against his desk on the far side of the room. As I neared, I noted that he was counting a wad of bills. I might have wondered where he had gotten such a stack, but the answer came quickly as I saw the guilt in his eyes.

  “You didn’t,” I accused in disbelief.

  “Your aunt has her eye on this little pendant. Don’t you want me to get it for her?” Shane replied as he smoothed the stack of twenties in his hand.

  I paused at his desk for a moment, ready to deliver one of my mother’s many guilt trips I had memorized over the years. “That doesn’t give you the right to give up my identity to Ryder.”

  Uncle Shane smirked a little. He knew what was coming. He had grown up with my mother after all. “Hey, I only told him you were here. It’s your fault if you get caught.”

  My mouth puckered as if I had just bitten into a lemon. With an aggravated groan, I snatched a twenty off the stack and stomped away. I did not even pause as I said, “Call it a finder’s fee.”

  I could still hear him laughing as I pushed through the doors into the lobby. At first glance there was no sign of Ryder. Perhaps he had gotten bored or found a much more suitable target to chase. My hand grasped the cold door handle that opened to the outside world. Just as I was about to depress the bar, I heard the words, “Hey there, Huckleberry.”

  Small towns and my profession did not seem to mesh well, at least not when it came to the male species. It was too easy for them to find me within the city limits of Ferndale. I heard the bench creak as he rose to his feet. There was a moment when I thought about shoving open the door and making a mad dash for freedom, but I did not like to run from anything if I could help it.

  I kept my hand on the bar, not willing to turn around as I spoke to him. After all, I had not ruled out the idea of running. “I thought in your little scenario,” I baited him, “that you were going to be the huckleberry.”

  My trained ears could hear his smirk as he spoke. “Oh, I’ll be your huckleberry anytime you ask, darling. Honest, I don’t care who the huckleberry is so long as I get to take you out.”

  I wanted my words to sink in, so I faced him. My resolve wavered for a second. I had downplayed his features in my memory, and reality was hard to reconcile. Thick, dark, wavy hair no longer matted from his skullcap. Bright white teeth behind a disarming smile. And deep brown eyes that watched me with the same cunning that I turned on the entire world. His clothes were simple, jeans and a wool sweater, but I could tell by the way they clung that they were designer and fitted, possibly even tailored.

  He was wealthy. I suppose other girls might have found this to be a reason to stick around, but I was not like other girls, and I had no time for Ryder and his antics.

  “No. It will never happen,” I clarified, happy that he could not read my thoughts that rattled on about how gorgeous he was and how amazing he smelled.

  He showed no disappointment, not even a hesitation. I had said that phrase many times before, and I had always seen some sense of loss. But not with Ryder. It was as if I had told him the weather outside rather than brutally crushing his hopes.

  He cocked his head as he spoke. “You’re realizing by now that I’m pretty persistent, aren’t you?”

  My shoulders fell as I exhaled and turned to leave when I caught a glimpse of a flyer tacked to a bulletin board. The words “Laurel Community Church” leaped off the page. There was going to be a memorial for some patron named Milton Penley. Pinching the bottom of the sheet, I ripped it from the wall and pushed open the front door of the building, cold air blasting my face as I exited.

  “Someone else might want to read that one, Huckleberry,” Ryder called after me. I only lifted my hand so that he knew I had heard him. I just was not going to continue the conversation.

  My phone buzzed wildly in my pocket. A job offer from PI Net flashed across the screen: simple surveillance for the night only. I wanted a quiet night at home, but I knew I needed the money. My finger found the accept button, and I was back on the clock.

  Chapter 6

  Surveillance was simple and uneventful. Normally I might feel a little snubbed for missing the action, but it had been a busy week. Getting paid to watch a warehouse for six hours and track anyone coming or going was right about where my energy level was. That night I typed up my report as I chowed down on a cup of rehydrated soup. I gave myself a shot of medication, grabbed an ice pack, and slipped off to sleep.

  Ever since I could remember, I was prone t
o nightmares. They were not persistent, but rather like the tides of the sea, increasing to a high tide, and then easing away to a low tide of peace and rest for awhile. Sometimes they were snatches of old memories. Other times it was as if I were remembering someone else’s life. But each one was terrifying: drowning, choking on water as it sucked me under, or strong arms and violence, the kind of pain I saw every time I went on a call with Uncle Shane. My years with multiple sclerosis seemed to amplify these dreams as if some wall had been knocked down in my mind, and the night phantoms were given full access to terrorize at will. I woke up late the next day, tired from a bad night’s rest and found that I slept through a round of whose-bid-is-it-anyway on PI Net, but I was worn out, and I did not care.

  After leaving a message at my neurologist’s office, I tried kickboxing on the back porch. When my muscles would not respond the way I wanted them to, I gave in and did a half-hour of yoga in my living room followed by twenty minutes of meditation.

  Typically meditation is code for a cat nap on the floor while new age music lilts over me, but in this case it was trying to draw my mind away from the week’s happenings. Thoughts of Stella’s possible case, the chief’s judgmental looks, and Marco Huston smashing in my taillight were all far too difficult to press from my thoughts.

  The worst though, the absolute worst, was Ryder’s face popping in from the darkest corner where I had stuffed him. The grin that was just arrogant enough to be attractive but endearing enough that I could not hate him for it. Those dark brown eyes that hinted at all the mischief we could find if I were willing to play along. And most addictive of all was that voice of his: deep and soul-rattling, as if it emanated from the depths of the earth itself.

  I peeled myself from my yoga mat and away from thoughts of handsome strangers. Just like exercise was not an option for me, rather a way of life, relationships were not an option at all. At least not in my world. Maybe if I had been in a committed relationship when I had been diagnosed or if a cure was something people actually considered, but neither circumstance was the case.