A Penny for Your Thoughts (27 page)

I headed for the bathroom and a hot shower, letting the water pound away the thoughts from my brain. I knew that part of my problem was sheer exhaustion, and I thought back over the most recent run of cases I had worked. While my canoe sat mostly unused and dusty in my shed at home, I had jetted off to five different states in the last three months. Usually, extra work like that gave me an escape, a way to distract my mourning heart. But I think this time I had pushed it all too far. Between my fatigue and the events of this particular case, I was near the breaking point. The only place I really wanted to be right now was out on the water with an oar in my hand, paddling along the Chesapeake. Instead, I was a prisoner of Pennsylvania with an ongoing murder investigation as my only distraction.

After my shower, I took extra care applying my makeup, fixing my hair. Going through the motions was somehow soothing, and I felt myself lulled into a sort of numbness, my best defense when all else failed.

Once I was done, I looked at the clock and realized I still had nearly two hours before it was time for the funeral. After my sleepless night, a nap would’ve been a good idea, but I knew my brain was spinning far too much to let me fall asleep. What I really
wanted was to spend that time doing something physical like swimming or jogging. I decided, instead, to use this time to take a look at the things that were stashed behind the radiator. I pulled out the paper bag from Sidra’s cabana and the blank pad of paper and the paintbrush that I had swiped from Judith’s suite.

It was a normal brush, about four inches wide, and I studied the base of the bristles for any trace of red fake blood. Though I couldn’t see any, I went into the bathroom, filled the basin with a little water, then pressed the brush under the water, working it against the side of the sink. After a moment, my suspicions were confirmed: The water turned from clear to vaguely pink.

I wrapped the brush in a towel, then carried it to the closet and stuck it down among my dirty clothes. Carlos, Derek, and I knew that Judith was the one doing these things to Sidra. The question that remained now was
why?

I reached for the blank pad from Judith’s room, wishing I had access to an ESDA. Electrostatic Detection Apparatus was just a fancy name for an instrument that let you analyze sheets of paper for writing indents, sometimes as deep as 20 sheets into the pad. Instead, I would have to rely on the old-fashioned method—a pencil rubbed lightly across the paper.

It didn’t take long, and what I found was rather disturbing. Once I was finished, I held the paper in front of me and read it again, to be sure: It was information, jotted in a row down the page, about
me
. It started with my full name. Under that was my license plate number, and under that was the make, color, and model of my car. I continued reading my age, my job title and place of employment, where I went to college and law school, and my current home address. That was it, all in a row, Callie Webber in a nutshell.

I was still studying the page when I was startled by a knock at the door. I shoved the pad into the paper bag, slid it under the bed, and went to the door.

I opened it to see Angelina holding out a big FedEx box.

“Hi, Callie,” she said. “You have a phone call. And this came for you.”

I took the box and put it on the bed, seeing Eli’s return address in the corner. The old rascal had sent me a box of goodies despite my telling him not to. He must’ve called Harriet at the office and gotten my current address from her.

“Where should I take the call?” I asked.

She motioned for me to follow her, and she led me down the hall to the lovely sunlit alcove at the end. It held an upholstered window seat, and next to the seat was a recessed shelf in the wall, with a telephone.

“Thanks,” I said, taking my seat. As I picked up the receiver, Judith came out of her room and headed for the stairs, giving me a vague smile and a wave as she passed by.

“This is Callie,” I said into the phone.

“Callie Webber?”

The voice was muffled and high pitched, though I couldn’t quite tell if it was a man or a woman.

“Yes?”

“I need to speak with you.”

“Who is this?”

“That’s not important. Can you meet me in an hour?”

I hesitated, and after a moment the person spoke again.

“I have information that you’ll be interested in. Something important I need to tell you.”

“Why do we have to meet?” I asked. “Why can’t you just tell me now over the phone?”

“I have to show you something. One hour. Meet me in the cemetery, next to the Smythe family plot.”

Now my interest was piqued. What could this person possibly need to show me there?

“The funeral’s today,” I said. “There will be people around.”

“Funeral’s at 11:00,” the voice said. “Meet me at 10:00.”

“How will I—”

“Just be there.”

The line clicked and my caller was gone.

I hung up the phone and returned to my room, sitting on the side of the bed. I should leave now, I decided. If Eli had taught me anything, it was that you don’t ever head into a situation like this unaware. If we were meeting at 10:00, I would get there at 9:15 and scope the place out first.

I thought about calling Duane Perskie for backup, but I hated the thought of taking up any more of his time. I would be fine, I decided. In a place that public, what could happen?

Bending over, I slid my stash from under the bed and returned it to the better hiding place behind the radiator. Then I went to the closet, pulled out the same black clothes I had worn to the wake the night before, and slid them into a bag with some shoes and stockings. I grabbed Eli’s box and headed out, knowing I could change clothes in the bathroom of the funeral home after my meeting at the gravesite of Wendell Smythe.

Thirty

It was another gorgeous day with the sun shimmering in every direction and the new fall colors just peeking from the trees. The cemetery wasn’t far from the funeral home, and I found it easily, turning between two large marble posts at the entrance. The place was lush and expansive with the rolling hills dotted with memorials and tombstones that ranged from the incredibly ornamental to the tastefully simple and everywhere in between. It looked as if Wendell’s wasn’t the only funeral here today; there were several funeral awnings set up throughout the cemetery. Wendell’s, however, was the only one teeming with activity at this time. A funeral home van and a florist’s truck were there, and about five men milled about the gravesite setting up chairs and bringing out flowers.

I drove past the site and continued on as the road looped around the far side of the cemetery and back again. When I was near a mausoleum, I turned my car around and pulled over to the side. I could see Wendell’s gravesite in the distance, though I was far enough away that I doubted any of them would notice me. I turned off the car and reached for Eli’s box, slicing the tape with the point of my key. Knowing him, there would be a pair of binoculars in there—just what I needed. I finished ripping the tape, flipped the lid open, and looked inside.

“God bless him,” I whispered, reaching inside and pulling out the items one by one. Eli had sent a pair of binoculars, some handcuffs, a miniature camera, and a digital voice recorder. For my protection he had also included a billy club and a can of pepper spray, but no gun. Despite my training and proficiency, Eli knew I didn’t like handling guns and hadn’t since my brother had been shot in the line of duty years ago. Michael’s accident had totally thrown me for a loop, and though he eventually recovered, I found that I was never comfortable around guns and ammunition after that. Besides, I swung a pretty mean club. For now that would have to be enough.
Leave it to Eli to take care of me from a thousand miles away
.

I put everything back in the box except the binoculars, which I pulled out and pressed against my eyes. They were small but very powerful, and through them I could easily observe the goings-on at the gravesite. I studied the men who were there, watching as they went about their duties without much conversation. Mostly they just went back and forth, back and forth, pulling out chairs, setting them up, going back for more chairs. I put the binoculars down and just watched them with my naked eye until about ten minutes before ten, when I saw a new car pull into the cemetery.

I put the binoculars back up to my face, watching as the car came to a stop near the gravesite. It just sat there for a long moment, though I couldn’t see inside because the sun glared off of the windshield. Finally, a man got out and I gasped, recognizing him as the same fellow who had followed me through
Philadelphia, the young man with spiky hair who lost me outside of the jewelry store.

He wasn’t driving the red pickup now, but a plain blue sedan of some sort. As I watched, he crossed over to talk to one of the workers and handed him a piece of paper. When he was finished, he got back in his car and drove off.

I waited until ten o’clock sharp before I started up my car and drove it to the gravesite. I got out and made my way over to the green AstroTurf that had been spread on the ground under the awning. I hesitated, wondering what to do next, when the same workman I had seen interacting with “Spike” came over and asked me if my name was Webber.

“Yeah,” I said, my right hand cradling the canister of pepper spray deep in my pocket. “That’s me.”

“I got a note. Some guy left it here for ya.”

He handed me a piece of paper, which was folded with my name scribbled on the outside. I took it gingerly and opened it.

It said,
Too many people here for us to talk. Meet me at the first canopy, by the big tree
.

I slid the note into my pocket, glad that Duane Perskie had given me a fingerprinting kit.

I got back into my car and headed toward the front of the cemetery. I knew the place the note was talking about—it was another funeral site, with the requisite green awning and ground-covering AstroTurf, but this one was devoid of any activity. I parked nearby, grabbed the billy club and the pepper spray, and then walked down the hill toward the awning, noting the absence of the blue sedan and the man who had been in it.

I reached the awning and stepped onto the carpeting, looking around cautiously. Something about this bothered me, perhaps the fact that this spot was so much more isolated than the other had been. I stood in a sort of valley, hidden from the Smythe gravesite by a short hill that rose up between us. I was wishing now that I had called Perskie after all, and I walked the place off, headed for the relative safety of the big tree that bordered the cemetery plot.

I had to walk past the freshly dug gravesite to get there, and as I went past, I couldn’t help but glance inside.
Graves are always so much deeper than we expect them to be,
I thought absurdly. Then, before I could even take another step, I heard sounds and saw movement, and suddenly I felt a body thrust against me and fling me forward. Then I was flying down, through the air, into the empty grave. I screamed as I fell, hitting the dirt at the bottom with a heavy thud, pain searing into my right side.

I opened my eyes, looking up to see dirt walls—dirt walls a mile high, with blue sky beyond. Then I closed my eyes, waiting for more dirt to fall in on me, for me to be buried alive. But nothing came. I stilled my breathing and listened, but I couldn’t hear a sound.

“Help!” I yelled. “Help!”

I felt terror rising up in my throat as I realized that no one could hear me. The dirt walls simply sucked in all the sound I could make.

I was in a grave. A freshly dug grave. Pushed in here by the same man who had been following me the day before.

“Stupid!” I yelled at myself, then I grimaced at the pain that my outburst caused. I had let myself be ambushed, I realized, by a man who had been hiding behind a tombstone. A lot of good my weapons had done me; I’d never even had a chance to use them. Carefully, I sat up, reaching around to feel my right side with my left hand, running my fingers down my arm, pressing gingerly against my ribs.

I didn’t think anything was broken. I tried leaning forward, leaning to the left, and though it hurt like heck, I could still do it. I pulled myself up to my knees and tried to catch my breath, forcing away the panic that sat at the back of my throat.

I don’t know how long I sat there before I saw the paper on the ground. It was a plain sheet of white paper, pressed into the mud
as if I had landed on it when I fell. Hands trembling, I lifted it by one corner and turned it over. It was a note, typed, to me.

Welcome to the grave,
it said.
Drop this case and go home, or next time you’ll visit one of these in a casket
.

I let go of the note, watching as it softly fell to the ground. Whoever had done this had made a big mistake. Little did they know it, but they had crossed the wrong person now.

I stood carefully, feeling an aching throb in my back. Looking upward, I analyzed my situation, wondering how I was going to get out. I pressed my hands against the walls, testing the dirt, finally deciding that the only choice would be to dig some hand- and footholds out of the wall and climb up. I used the billy club to start digging, gouging out holes at two-foot intervals. When I had dug as high as I could reach, I tested the holes. I pulled myself up a few feet before the dirt collapsed and I landed back on the ground. Ouch.