Embrace the Grim Reaper (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Casey awoke to birdsong. It sounded awfully close, as if the bird had gotten into her room. She squeezed her eyes shut and raised her arm to cover her exposed ear. The trilling pierced her stuffy head, and she considered taking the clock from the night table and flinging it toward the feathered trespasser.

And then she remembered.

She opened her eyes, a struggle, as they felt puffy and sore. The campfire was out, only a thin line of gray smoke escaping from underneath the ashes. Casey’s face was cool, but the rest of her remained surprisingly warm. Upon taking stock, she realized that not only was she warm, but her head lay on a pillow, and she was covered with a heavy blanket.

She sat up. The picnic basket and its contents were absent, as were the hot dog sticks. The stumps still sat by the ring of stones, but no one occupied them, and Death had gone off to wherever Death went after leaving Casey. To make someone else miserable, Casey figured.

Casey’s shoes were lined up beside the blanket, and she tugged them on before slowly standing and folding the blanket. Holding the blanket and pillow, she took a deep breath and let it out, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. She gritted her teeth.

Damn Death, anyway.

She picked her way through the yard to the laundry room, where she eased the back door shut and left the pillow and blanket on the table beside the basket of her clean, folded laundry. Either Lillian or Rosemary had finished up the clothes she’d forgotten about. She winced. She’d have to have them add a little to her bill.

A look out the back window showed the campfire ring looking almost cheery, with the speckled sunlight dotting the stumps, and the grass surrounding it. She rubbed her eyes, picked up the laundry basket, and stepped into the kitchen.

A note, folded and propped on the counter, had her name scrawled in sparkly purple pen: Casey, dear, sorry we couldn’t carry you in. You’re too much for two old ladies! Help yourself to breakfast, whatever you like. We’re out grocery shopping! Lillian and Rosie

Shopping? How late had she slept? A glance at the clock assured her it wasn’t yet even eight-o’clock. The women, she guessed, were early risers.

From the color of the ink and the swirl of the script on the note, Casey figured Rosemary had done the writing. And there was no bill accompanying it. With a small smile she left the note, set down the laundry basket, and opened the refrigerator to see if they stocked any orange juice. They did, and she drank a small glass. Somehow food just didn’t seem inviting.

After placing her glass in the sink she gathered her laundry and went upstairs, where Solomon the cat sat at her door, waiting for her arrival.

“Well,” Casey said. “What do you want?”

He blinked slowly, like he’d just been awakened from a nap.

“You want to go in my room to sleep some more?” She turned the knob and pushed open the door, but Solomon stayed sitting. He stretched his neck as far as he could from his spot, ears angling, whiskers twitching.

Casey stuck her head in the door, half-expecting to see her usual visitor, but Death was either hiding or absent. “No one there, cat. Go ahead, if you want.”

But Solomon brought his head back and huddled on his haunches, blinking up at her.

“Fine. You can’t say you weren’t asked.” She went into the room and closed the door.

The bed, still perfectly made, looked inviting after her night on the ground, but Casey stepped past it to the wardrobe, where she found a pair of shorts, which she exchanged for her jeans. She used the empty space in the room to do her morning calisthenics, and was soon sweating, dripping onto the nice carpet. After her three hundredth sit-up she allowed herself to pace the room, stripping as she made her way to the bathroom. A shower was definitely in order.

After a long time under the steaming water, Casey felt at least partially rejuvenated and put on clean clothes, again avoiding the temptation of the bed. Although what she was to do until two-thirty, when Eric would be picking her up, was beyond her.

She spent a few minutes putting her clean laundry in the wardrobe, but was soon at a loss for further chores, so she grabbed her jacket and opened the door. Solomon, hunched on the floor, made a move to go into her room, but stopped at the threshold, hissed, and turned, trotting down the stairs.

Casey watched him go, wondering if Lillian and Rosemary would have the same reaction. Rosemary had come up with her the day before and all had seemed fine, but Death had yet to visit. It would be interesting to see what happened when the women came up to tidy the room.

Casey followed Solomon’s path downstairs, but the cat was out of sight by the time she got to the landing. She shook her head and went out the front door, avoiding the campfire area on her way to get her bike.

When Casey mounted the old Schwinn, the tires squished alarmingly, having deflated overnight. She hopped off. Ride, or walk? And where was she even going?

Not wanting to destroy what was left of the tires, she pushed the bike back to the gas station, where she again made use of the air pump. She checked out the tires as she did so, and decided that if she was really going to use the bike as her transportation, she should invest in a new set. She wondered if the garage attached to the gas station had any bike tires, or if she’d have to have Eric take her somewhere that afternoon.

“Hello?” She stood in the little store section of the station, surrounded by cold drinks, packets of candy, and cigarettes. No one manned the cash register, and she couldn’t imagine anyone could hear her calling with the radio as loud as it was, pulsing out an amplified hip-hop beat. A door led to the garage part of the building, and she stepped through it, her fingers in her ears.

Workboot-clad feet stuck out from the bottom of a rusty Ford F150, tapping to the rhythm of the song. No one else appeared, so Casey took a look around the space. Tires adorned the far wall, among them a few that looked like they might fit Rosemary and Lillian’s old bike.

Taking the chance of scaring the mechanic, she walked over to the side of the car where his head should be and squatted down. “Hello?”

Still no response.

Getting up, she went to the other side of the car and tapped one of the protruding feet with her shoe.

Both feet shot up, banging the thighs of the man on the undercarriage of the car. In a moment, he scooted out from underneath, on his wheeled lorry.

“Sorry,” Casey mouthed at him. Then, “Aaron?”

The man—or kid, really—grinned up at her, then leapt off the pallet with surprising grace. He held up a greasy finger and trotted over to a shelf, where he punched a button on the sound system. The silence in the garage was staggering.

“Hey, Casey.” He sauntered back toward her, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sorry about the music. It helps the day go quicker.”

“Sure. But can you hear afterward?”

He laughed. “Most days. Although sometimes I pretend not to hear when Mom asks me to do something really nasty.”

“Um-hmm.”

“You’re not going to ask me to do something really nasty, are you?” He looked suddenly like a child, waiting to be told he must clean out the litter box.

“Absolutely not. All I want are some bike tires.”

“Oh.” His relief was palpable. “That’s easy.” He walked over to the wall, gesturing for Casey to follow. “What size do you need?”

“Not sure. But I have the bike outside.”

“Let’s see.” He changed directions, headed toward the front of the shop, and outside. His eyebrows rose at the sight of the bike. “Not exactly brand-new, is it?”

“Nope. It’s just what Rosemary and Lillian had in their shed.”

Understanding lit his face. “No wonder, then. But the tires are standard. Why don’t we bring it on in.” Grabbing the handlebars, he steered the bike into the garage and put it up on a rack. In no time at all he’d placed a tire iron under the rubber and stripped the tires from the rims. “Rims look good. The tires are just worn out. Rubber and tubes.” He glanced at the clock. “It’ll only take me a few minutes, if you want to wait.”

“That would be great. Unless you need to fix the truck first.”

“Nah. This won’t take that long. Have a seat…” He looked around for something not occupied by tools, papers, or greasy rags. “Hang on.” Disappearing into a small office, he returned with a battered folding chair. “It’s not pretty, but it’s clean.”

Casey smiled. “If only I could say that much for myself.”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “I don’t know. You look pretty clean to me.”

Casey barked a laugh, and Aaron turned to pick new tires off the wall, which he held up to the bike. “Look good?”

“Perfect.”

He set to work, whistling.

“So have you worked here long?” Casey watched his black-smeared fingers, marveling that she hadn’t noticed them at rehearsal.

“Since I graduated from high school.”

“And that was what? Last year?”

He glanced back at her. “How young do you think I am? I’ve been out three years.”

“And you came here right away?”

His ears reddened, and Casey could see his jaw bunching. “Pretty much. I’d thought about college…” He shrugged. “But that didn’t exactly work out.”

Casey wanted to ask why, but wasn’t sure she should be that personal. After all, she’d known the kid a total of two days. If you could call the little she’d seen him “knowing.”

“And Jack? He’s your brother, right? A year younger?”

“That’s right.”

“Does he work here, too?”

He was quiet for a moment as he spun the front wheel of the bike. “No. He works down at HomeMaker.”

“Really?”

He stopped the tire and moved to the back one. “For now, anyway. We were surprised he lasted through Christmas.” He turned to her. “You heard about that?”

“I heard.”

“Well.” He was back at the tire. “Somehow he got missed when the lay-offs happened. His whole section did. But it really doesn’t matter. He’ll be out of a job come a month or two, anyway.”

“Any ideas for where he’ll go next?” Not college, apparently.

Aaron shook his head and gestured at the garage. “Not here. The owner can barely afford me, let alone another guy. It’s just me and him, and when he’s not here…” He shrugged. “We do what we can. It’s not like folks have the money to be doing work on their cars unless they absolutely have to, anyway.”

All of which explained the unmanned cash register at the front, and the one guy she’d found at the station the day before.

“Do you get other customers? Other than from town?”

“Some.”

“People who work at HomeMaker?”

He looked at her sharply. “A few.”

“The CEO?”

He snorted. “Karl Willems bring his car here? I don’t think so. He’d never trust us smalltown hicks with his precious Cadillac.”

“What about Rosemary and Lillian? Do they bring their car here?” The Orion in the garage looked undriven, but that could’ve been from the care.

“Their old Civic? When it needs it. But they don’t drive that much, and Civics don’t need a lot of work, so…” He plugged an air compressor onto the back tire’s air valve and gave it a pump. In a few seconds he was done and swinging the bike down from its perch. “Good as new.”

Casey wondered about the Orion, but didn’t want to bring it up in case the ladies did, indeed, take it elsewhere for service. “Thank you, Aaron. What do I owe you?”

Aaron wheeled the bike back to the front of the garage and stepped behind the cash register, where he scribbled on a receipt pad. “Two new tires, plus installation.” He ripped off the sheet and held it out to her.

She pulled some bills from her wallet and placed them in his hand. “Keep the change, okay? I am allowed to tip you?”

He blinked. “I guess. No one’s ever tried before.”

She smiled. “There’s a first for everything.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you. Now I won’t have to come down to the air pump every morning.”

“Too bad. I could use the company.”

She mounted the bike, enjoying the feeling of the firm tires. “Just because I won’t need air doesn’t mean I can’t come by.”

“Sure. And I’ll see you at rehearsal tonight, anyway. Right?”

“Right. Now—” She tilted her head toward the garage. “Back to your hip hop.”

He grinned. “Until the next customer scares me to death.”

She waved, and pedaled the bike out to the road.

When she looked back, Aaron was gone. She could already hear his music.

Chapter Sixteen

Casey took her time riding down the town’s streets, unoccupied as they were by cars or people. The architecture was impressive—or, it would’ve been a hundred years earlier. Her tour made it clear that The Nesting Place wasn’t the only pretty Queen Anne in town. Just the only one whose owners could afford to refurbish it. Many of the houses she was seeing appeared to be divided into multiple apartments, with more than the town’s fair share of undrivable cars sitting either in driveways or corners of yards. Even if a home was single-family, it lacked the finished look of Rosemary and Lillian’s inn.

That’s not to say there weren’t homey touches. A pot of flowers here, a tarnished Welcome sign there… The people of Clymer may have been hurting—financially and otherwise—but they hadn’t forgotten those little details. She couldn’t help but wonder how it was Lillian and Rosemary could afford to have their place looking the way it did.

Casey pulled up to a stop sign, where she dutifully stopped and looked both ways. She held her position, waiting for the cop car, coming from her right, to either pass or make a turn. Instead, it pulled to the side of the road, and a middle-aged man got out of the driver’s side.

He nodded and sauntered her way. “Nice day for a bike ride.”

Casey got off of the bike and put down the kickstand, freeing her hands and balancing herself on the balls of her feet. It wasn’t that she expected the police officer to attack her, but sitting on her bike felt too precarious. Although she probably could take him if he came after her, as he wasn’t any too young and she would have the element of surprise. Besides, he was tiny. She had an inch and twenty pounds on him, at least.

The cop looked her over, from behind what looked like prescription sunglasses. “May I ask your name?”

“Casey Smith. I’m staying at The Nesting Place.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

Like he hadn’t known that.

Casey remembered the articles she’d read about Ellen’s death. “The chief of police, I assume?”

“That’s me. Denny Reardon. Grew up here. Probably’ll die here, too.” He angled his head toward the cruiser. “I was out for a little ride myself. Checking things out. Don’t suppose you’d care to join me on a little jaunt?”

She glanced at the car. “No, I wouldn’t.”

His eyebrows gravitated upward.

“But thank you.” Casey put a hand on the bike’s handlebars. “I prefer bikes.”

“I see. Any particular reason?”

“Saves gas.”

“Um-hmmm.” He jingled something on his belt as he made a show of looking down the street. “Something you’re finding interesting in our town, Ms. Jones?”

“Smith,” she said. She tried to gauge his tone. Was he accusing her of something? Or just naturally curious? Or paranoid? “I’m just traveling through.”

“But getting awfully involved, meanwhile.”

“The play, you mean?”

He took off his sunglasses, pulled out a handkerchief, and cleaned the lenses, breathing onto them and smearing the fabric across the glass. “Sure. Sure, that’s what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, that just sort of happened. I wasn’t planning on staying in town that long.”

“I see. And you know people here? Eric VanDiepenbos? The ladies at the bed and breakfast, perhaps?”

“Not before two days ago.”

He nodded some more. “And where did you come from two days ago?”

“Detroit.”

“Motor City. Tigers fan, are you?”

“No. I like the Rockies, myself.”

He looked at her sharply. “You’re from Colorado?”

“No, but they’ve got lots of young, handsome players.”

He kept his eyes on her, sucking his cheeks to his teeth. Eventually he said, “So you like handsome young men?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “There’s some who say you came to town for Eric.”

“Really?”

“And some who say you came to town for HomeMaker.”

“HomeMaker? Why?”

“I suppose you’d have to tell me.”

She frowned, wondering who exactly the chief had been talking to. She asked him.

“Oh, just this person and that person. You know. A variety.”

“So there must be more theories.”

He grinned a little. “Of course. You’re FBI, come to check out our failing factory, or you’re the opposite, and wanted by the FBI. You’re a traveling journalist, documenting your experiences, you know, like that guy, what’s his name, Charles Kuralt. Some even say…” He gave her a steady look. “You’re the long-lost sister of Ellen Schneider, come to get revenge for her death.”

Casey swallowed. “But I thought she killed herself.”

“That’s right, but something had to drive her to it, isn’t that right?”

“I guess.” She picked at the wrap on the bike’s handlebars. “Any chance she didn’t kill herself?”

The chief gave her a long look, then slowly placed his sunglasses back over his eyes. “It’s been officially ruled a suicide, Ms. Smith. The autopsy confirmed she died of an overdose of her own sleeping pills. She sat down with a few cups of coffee and just about emptied the bottle. No bruises saying someone forced her to take them. No needle marks saying someone shot her up with something. All of the evidence points away from there being anyone else involved.”

“No fingerprints?”

He snorted. “Been talking to your friends at The Nesting Place, have you? They’d like me to call in favors from the governor to get Ellen’s entire house taken apart and analyzed.”

“But fingerprints are simple.”

“Yeah. And these simple prints are telling us no one else was involved. I really don’t think there’s any point in bringing her death up again, questioning how it happened. People here have enough to worry about these days, without thinking that maybe Ellen was murdered.” He held up a hand, forestalling her response. “I wish to God she hadn’t done it, Ms. Smith, but facts are facts. Nothing we can do will change them, and it’s not worth getting everybody all riled up over something that’s not true, or even likely.”

“Her kids might think differently.”

“Her kids are ten and seven. I really don’t think it matters to them one way or the other, does it?”

“You don’t?”

“Either way, they’re orphans.”

“Yes, but one way she chose to leave them, and the other she didn’t. I’d say that matters a lot.”

“Ms. Smith, that might matter to some people. Her family, sure, I can give you that. Her friends, like your hostesses at the bed and breakfast. They’ve made no secret of their feelings. Her boyfriend…” He looked at her meaningfully. “But somehow, Ms. Smith, I don’t see that it should matter a whole lot to you.”

“But—”

“Good day, Ms. Smith.” He began the trek back across the street, but stopped when he reached his cruiser, turning to her as if struck by a sudden thought. “And you know, I find myself hoping one last theory about you is true.”

“Really? And what is that?”

“That you’re a gypsy, and you can only stay in one place a few days at a time, or poof!” He splayed his fingers upward. “You evaporate.”

Casey watched him, her mouth open, as he opened his car door and slid into the seat. With a slight wave he accelerated through the intersection and drove off.

“Now that is a rude little man.” Death stood in the middle of the street, drinking a Slurpee and watching the police car turn a corner and disappear from view.

Casey crossed her arms. “So. Will I?”

“Will you what?”

“Evaporate?”

Death walked over and pinched Casey’s cheek with fingers icy from the drink. “Hardly. Chief Reardon doesn’t know anything about gypsies.”

“Really? And you do?”

“Of course. And gypsies do not evaporate.”

Casey sighed. “So much for that idea.”

Death took another loud slurp and took off the drink lid, stirring the ice with the straw. “Gypsies do, however, get arrested and convicted of crimes they did not commit.”

Casey jerked her head in the direction of the police car.

When she turned back around, Death was gone.