Embrace the Grim Reaper (7 page)

Chapter Ten

After lunch Casey walked upstairs to put her dirty laundry in the basket Lillian had loaned her. On her way out she stopped in the doorway to look back at the room. There was nothing to say she even existed. Her bag was stashed away, her bathroom supplies were in the medicine cabinet, and the bed was as smooth as if it had just been made.

“I don’t understand why you don’t have any pictures.”

Casey ground her teeth. “I wish you’d stop sneaking up on me like that.”

Death leaned against the doorjamb, sucking on a lollipop.

“And what’s with all the junk food lately?”

“What? You afraid it’s going to kill me?”

Casey bit back a reply and pushed through the doorway.

Death stepped out of her way. “So why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Have any pictures?”

Casey stopped at the top of the stairs. “I don’t need pictures. I have all the images I need.”

“They can’t be very nice ones.”

“They’re fine.”

“If you say so.”

Casey looked back. “What do you want me to do? Sit around all day and stare at photographs? Wish they were back here, with me?”

Death pushed off of the doorjamb, meandering down the hallway, looking at the antiques spaced along the wall. “You already wish that.”

“Of course I do. Having photos would just be worse.”

“If you say so. Where are you going, Casey?”

Casey looked at the laundry basket. “Where do you think?”

Death peered into the pile of dirty clothes. “About time, too. I was beginning to think I’d have to keep my distance because of the smell.”

Casey started down the stairs. “Why don’t you go bother someone else for a while?”

“Aw. I’m beginning to think you don’t want me around.”

“I would’ve gone with you willingly before. But you obviously have other plans in mind. Now you’re just annoying.”

“Casey?” Lillian’s voice floated up the stairs. “Are you talking to me?”

Casey looked up toward the second floor. Death gave a small, mocking bow, and walked back into Casey’s room.

“No,” Casey called down. “Just talking to…the cat.”

The fat cat stared at her from a bench on the stair’s landing, whiskers twitching, eyes wide.

Lillian came into view. “Oh, that’s Solomon. He likes to get to know our guests. Don’t you Solly?” She ran a hand over the cat’s head, and he nipped at her hand. “What’s the matter with you, boy?”

Casey indicated the laundry basket. “Thought I’d get this started, if that’s okay.”

Lillian left the cat. “Of course. Right through here.”

She led Casey through the living room—a huge flat-screen TV set incongruously on the far wall, amongst Victorian furniture—into a sunny room at the back of the house. Painted yellow and surrounded by large, uncovered windows, the room pulsed with life and light. A door led to the outside and stood open, letting in the cool afternoon air. Casey blinked at the brightness.

“Everything you need is above the washer in this cupboard.” Lillian opened a little door to reveal various bottles and jugs. “Use whatever you like.”

“Thank you.”

Casey waited for Lillian to leave, but the older woman sat on a small chair in the corner. Casey set her basket on top of the dryer and began tossing her clothes into the washer, the silver HomeMaker symbol on the glossy white finish catching her eye.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Lillian said. “With Rosie.”

Casey stopped, a shirt in her hand. “Like I said before. Nothing to be sorry about.” The shirt joined the rest of the clothes in the washer.

“This past week has been very difficult for her. For the whole town, of course, but Rosie’s taken it very hard, and she tends to wear her heart on her sleeve.”

“Were she and Ellen close?”

Lillian didn’t respond, and Casey turned to see her staring out one of the windows, her hands clenched in her lap. Casey went back to sorting.

“We offered to keep the children, you know,” Lillian said. “Ellen’s parents aren’t in the best of health, and we have plenty of room. But everyone thought it better if the kids weren’t…if they were with their own family.” Her voice was brittle.

Casey finished up with the darks, measured out the detergent, and began the cycle. “Eric VanDiepenbos—do you know him?—was pretty close to her.”

Lillian’s head jerked away from the window. “Oh. Oh, yes, poor boy. He’s had a hard time of it all. We had hopes… But with his family being what it is, there wasn’t much chance of anything happening.”

Casey opened her mouth to ask what she meant, but Rosemary bustled by the windows of the room and burst in the door with a handful of flowers. “For our table. Aren’t they lovely?”

Lillian’s face lit up. “They are. Let’s go find a vase.”

And Casey’s chance for questioning was gone. She followed the women into the kitchen, where Lillian was pulling a vase out of the china cupboard.

“I’m going to take the bike downtown, if that’s okay.”

Rosemary looked up from her flowers. “Of course, dear, you go right ahead. It’s in the shed out back. The door handle sticks a little, so you have to jiggle it.”

“Thanks.”

Casey actually had to jiggle the handle quite a bit to get the door open, but she eventually won the struggle. The bike, an old Schwinn three-speed, sat enmeshed in cobwebs and trinkets, and she had to work to rescue it from what looked like the detritus of many years. Perhaps from before these women had even owned the place.

By the time she had the bike in the yard she was smeared with grease and dust, and spidery silk clung to her clothes. She left the bike in the shade and went back inside.

“Oh, my,” Lillian said.

“Yes. Would you have a rag I could use?”

Rosemary laughed. “And a bucket for soapy water. You’ll find everything you need in the garage.”

“Not the same shed?”

“No. We actually use the garage. Just go in the side door.”

Casey followed her directions and went into the garage. She flipped on the light. And stood staring at the shiny Pegasus Orion. One of those supposedly hybrid SUVs, huge on promise, not so big on follow-through. Twice as big as the company’s cars. Black, with brand new tires and not a speck of dirt, the SUV squatted there, like a predator. Casey pressed back against the door. In all of her dreams, she’d never have thought those women inside would have something like this…

Standing in her spot, she tore her eyes from the vehicle and searched for the promised bucket. There it was, on a shelf, just down the wall. She scooted sideways for several feet, until she could reach out and snag the pail. Inside it were a jug of car wash, a sponge, and Turtle Wax. She didn’t think she’d be waxing the bike, so she took out the little container and tossed it back on the shelf.

A few steps back along the wall she could feel the door behind her. Turning the knob, she spun out of the garage, and stood outside, breathing deeply. She let out a nervous sound, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. The idea of Rosemary, with her bright red robe and orange hair, at the wheel of the Orion was enough to give her something to think about for a while, something to take her mind off the idea of a Pegasus vehicle so close to hand.

The bike cleaned up pretty well, and Casey was able to get the grease stains muted, if not completely off her pants, and the spider webs removed from her shirt. She rinsed out the bucket with the hose and set the sponge in the sun to dry before walking the bike down the lane and toward town. She hoped the tires would survive the trip, as flat and old as they were.

They did, and she found a free air pump on the side of the filling station, a ten-minute walk from the B & B. The rest of the bike needed a little attention, however, and she spent a few dollars for a can of WD-40 to spray the chain, paying the middle-aged attendant who seemed to be manning the station on his own, and squeezed the brakes several times to loosen them up. She took a couple of minutes to ride slowly around the parking lot, and was soon convinced the bike was ready to roll.

The town was quiet, as it was the evening before. The occasional car passed Casey as she pedaled around the streets, but she saw only two people outside, both walking briskly, with their heads down. No young parents occupied the playground—probably taking the opportunity for their children’s afternoon naps—and Casey met no other bikes.

Casey rode past Home Sweet Home, even stopping to peer inside, but the interior was dark. There were still a couple of hours until Eric and his crew would be getting ready for their subdued dinner crowd.

The church down the street stood just as silent as the day before, and Casey didn’t stop. Instead, she continued down the block of shops, where she found a bike stand. She parked the bike, considering briefly that she didn’t have a lock for it, and scanned the stores. Only a few of them seemed to actually be open for business. The bakery, of course. And the antique shop. And, on the corner, Wayne’s Pharmacy.

She went in.

A bell tinged when she opened the door, but no one came running. The check-out counter stood empty. She assumed someone was actually watching the place, but from the looks of it she was pretty much alone. Slowly she walked up and down the aisles of wrapping paper, Willow Tree angels, and summer toys on clearance. Eventually she found the personal items aisle, where she stocked up on sunscreen, toothpaste, and Band-Aids. The pharmacy section had the vitamins she used, and she grabbed a small bottle.

By the time she made her way back up front to the check-out, the cashier was behind the counter.

“Becca?”

The woman she’d last seen at play rehearsal glanced up from wiping the glass countertop. She smiled, looking surprised, but pleasantly so. “Casey, right? So you didn’t leave town?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m glad. You’ll be at rehearsal tonight?” She looked down at the countertop, then back at Casey, obviously trying not to appear too eager.

Casey sighed. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Becca’s shoulders relaxed. “Great. I’ll be there, too.”

“A smaller role?”

“Bigger one, actually. Just a different kind. I’m going to be the stage manager.”

“Oh, good. I was wondering about that. I didn’t see one last night.”

“We had one. But she quit. She and Thomas didn’t get along.”

Casey grunted. “Imagine that.”

“He’s not all bad.” Becca grinned.

“I guess there’s always hope.”

The bell above the door dinged again, and Casey watched as a man in a suit hustled into the store. He nodded at Casey, but continued toward the back, where the actual drug part of the pharmacy stood behind a tall counter.

Casey paid for her items, and Becca was bagging them when the man got in line behind her.

“See you tonight, then?” Becca said.

“Seven-o’clock.”

Becca turned to the man. “Hello, Mr. Willems.”

Casey hesitated, then took her time checking out a rack of cards at the front of the store. Could this be Karl Willems? The CEO of HomeMaker, who had laid off all of those people at Christmas, and planned to do the same to the rest of them? Casey peeked around the display to check him out.

Handsome in a business kind of way. Gray hair, trimmed close. Tanned skin. Face beginning to show signs of age. Taller than Casey, by at least several inches.

“Yes, good afternoon,” he said to Becca.

Becca glanced outside. “Looks like a nice day out there. Is it warm?”

“What? Oh, yes. Warm enough.”

Becca rang up his purchase and slid it into a bag. “Will there be anything else today? One of those candy bars you like?”

“Hmm?”

“A Hershey bar with Almonds?”

“Oh, yes, I do like those. How did you know?”

Becca’s smile looked forced.

“I don’t need one today, though,” Willems said. “Thank you.”

He took his bag and left, again nodding to Casey as he passed her. Casey stepped out from behind the display.

“He never remembers who I am,” Becca said, not looking at Casey. “You’d think after all the times he comes in here…”

Casey shrugged. “Some people are like that.”

“Yeah, I know. But it makes it even harder…” She broke off, and went back to rubbing her rag on the countertop.

Casey tried to finish the sentence. “Harder to see him fire people, when he can’t even remember their names?”

Becca kept up her scrubbing for a few moments before dropping her hand and looking at the floor. “Not only names. It’s the faces, too. He doesn’t even remember them.”

Casey looked at Becca’s face. It was a pretty one. Not one she’d think men would forget so quickly.

But then, some people had a hard time seeing past their own.

Chapter Eleven

Karl Willems was driving away in a black Cadillac STS when Casey got outside. She watched the car turn right at the stoplight, heading out toward The Burger Palace and The Sleep Inn. It was also the direction of HomeMaker. She remembered seeing the building as she and the trucker had driven into town.

Casey strapped her pharmacy bag to the back of her bike with a bungee cord she’d brought from Rosemary and Lillian’s garage, and swung her leg over the seat. The factory wasn’t far; she’d walked much farther in the recent weeks, and she could use the exercise. Her laundry was probably ready to be switched back at The Nesting Place, but it could wait. She pushed off from the curb and headed out of town.

Once she’d made the turn and gotten close to the hotel she began to see cars. People, too, lunch boxes dangling from their hands as they walked toward her. Their clothes were uniform, each light blue button-down sporting a HomeMaker patch on the left breast. Casey assumed their names were the cursive splotch below the company’s emblem.

She eased to the side of the road and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to check the time. Just after three. Change of shift. She returned the phone to her pocket and resumed riding toward the factory, scanning the faces of the people as they passed. No one she knew, of course.

As she got closer the factory loomed large and white. Not depressing, actually, as she’d expected. The HomeMaker sign on the side of the building—blue and red—shone brightly. No letters with burned-out bulbs. No weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement. She circled the building, skirting the edge of the massive parking lot, avoiding the main flow of the exiting traffic. Well-maintained grass surrounded the building, mature trees lined the borders, and a manmade pond, complete with fountain, graced the open space toward the highway.

The traffic dwindled. Those taking over this shift had already begun work, and most of those leaving were on their way home. Casey braked to a stop close to the front door, studying the cars in the parking lot. American cars, mostly, with a few Hondas and Toyotas thrown in. None of the Pegasus hybrids. Only a few parking spaces held vehicles in the upper echelon of the car world, and those were the ones up front in the reserved spots. The ones designated for Karl Willems—his Cadillac STS—, the Senior VP—a shiny Indian motorcycle—, and the Executive Assistant. That space held a new-looking Acura Integra. Not hugely expensive, but more than the assembly line workers could afford.

The front doors whooshed open and Eric VanDiepenbos exited, his eyes on the sidewalk as he strode toward her.

“Eric?”

He jerked to a halt, his tight expression easing as he recognized her. “Casey? What are you doing here?”

She gestured to the bike. “Trying out my new wheels.”

He checked out her ride. “Nice. Where’d you get it?”

“The place I’m staying.” She got off the bike and pushed down the kickstand. “I have to tell you your hotel recommendations are now suspect.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Pretty gross, huh? But that bike doesn’t belong to The Sleep Inn.”

“No. I found a nice B & B.”

A smile flickered on his face. “The Nesting Place?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’ll like it there. I didn’t recommend it last night because it was so late and because…well, you said you wanted something cheap. Are the ladies cutting you a break since you’ll be there for a while? At least I hope you will, since the play won’t be done for over a month.”

Casey bit her lip. “Actually, we haven’t gotten around to talking about the price. With me getting there in the morning, and them being busy…”

Eric laughed. “Sounds like them. But you might want to find out the price before you get too settled.” He held up a hand. “Not that they’ll cheat you or anything. It’s just…” He swept a hand at her.

“I know. I don’t exactly look like a high roller, do I? But their place is so nice. Clean, even.”

He grinned. “It would be.” He studied her some more. “I’m sorry. You just don’t look like a bed and breakfast kind of person.”

She winced. “You know you can’t judge a book by its—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m being incredibly nosy and rude.”

She smiled. “That’s okay. I won’t take it personally.”

“So, in the vein of nosiness…why are you here? At HomeMaker?”

“Just curious. I’ve heard so much about it since I got here yesterday. I wanted to check out the big, bad wolf.”

His face clouded. “I guess it’s hard to be in Clymer and not hear about it.”

“It’s like any big business. They sort of…take over.”

“You sound like you’ve had experience.”

“Some.”

They stood quietly, watching as mist blew across the pond from the fountain.

“I hear a happy birthday is in order,” Casey said.

He kept his eyes on the fountain. “Not sure how happy it was.”

“No. I guess not. But Loretta and Johnny felt good about getting you a cake.”

“Yeah, they would.” He turned to look at her. “I’m headed over there to get ready for dinner. You coming?”

“Is it time already?”

“Not quite, I guess. But sometimes Loretta and Johnny get there early. I want to make certain they aren’t burning the place down.”

“Sure, I’m coming.” She walked back to her bike, disengaging the kickstand.

“You want to put that in my car?” Eric said. “I’m pretty sure it would fit in the trunk.”

“No. I mean, thanks, but I’ll ride. It’s not far.”

“If you’re sure.”

She straddled the bike. “I’ll race you.”

He grinned. “You’re on.” He shot off, sprinting toward his car.

Casey took off down the parking lot, waving good-naturedly when Eric passed her in a dark green Camry. She followed him, catching up as he waited for traffic at the end of the drive, then cruising up onto the sidewalk, now devoid of people.

About a block from Main Street, trailing only by a few hundred feet, Casey ducked down an alley, which she believed would take her behind Home Sweet Home. Pausing at the cross streets to make sure she didn’t get hit, she bounced through the rutted, gravel lane, counting buildings and looking for the church steeple.

She found the church sooner than she realized, and skidded to a stop as the alley dead-ended at a cast iron fence surrounding the church’s back yard. The grassy area was barely visible through the branches of thick bushes, but Casey could make out some flowers and a pathway among trunks of larger trees.

The gravel lane angled sharply to the right, toward Main Street, and Casey turned her bike quickly in that direction, hoping she could still beat Eric to the kitchen.

“But it’s not fair!”

Casey froze at the words, the woman’s shrill voice traveling easily through the air, along with footsteps and the slap of the church’s back door. Casey leaned toward the bushes, squinting through the leaves into the church’s garden.

“I don’t like it either, Holly, but what was I supposed to do? Eric made it clear what he would do if I didn’t cast her. And we have to replace Ellen if we want to do the play.”

Thomas. The play’s director. Casey grimaced. And he was talking about her.

“What could Eric really do? Tell people about your little problem? Like they even care?” the woman, Holly, said. Casey couldn’t quite make out her face, but could easily imagine the pout that must have been on it. “You’ve got to tell her to go away.”

“I tried. You can try if you want, but you’ll get the same response. Everybody else wants to keep her.”

The two were close together, the woman’s arms crossed tightly over her chest. Thomas stood over her, his posture just as stiff.

“I don’t understand why you let Eric push you around so much, Thomas. He’s younger than you. And smaller. Why wouldn’t people believe you instead of him, no matter what he said? You should just show him who’s the boss. I mean, you are the director.”

“I know that, dammit! And he knows it, too. But I can’t change who his parents are, can I, or what he knows? Or why he’s come back to town?”

Holly snorted. “How about why you came back? Doesn’t that matter at all?”

They stood glaring at each other.

“I think,” she finally said. “That you’re just chicken. Like everyone says.”

Thomas reared back, his face a picture of shock and anger.

“Quite a pair, aren’t they?”

Casey jumped, whacking her foot against the bike’s pedal. Death stood on the back, feet on the axle and hands on Casey’s shoulders, like a ten-year-old catching a ride on a friend’s bicycle.

“Who’s there?” Thomas stalked toward the bushes, his face dark.

With a growl Casey pushed off, racing down the alley, trying to balance with Death’s weight on her back. After the short distance to Main Street she skidded around the corner and dashed the remaining half block to Home Sweet Home, hoping the church’s fence didn’t have a convenient gate for Thomas to find.

“Thanks a whole lot,” Casey said. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

Death’s eyebrows rose. “Who? Me?”

Casey shuddered. “You are so—”

“Casey?” Eric held open the front door and winked. “Glad you could join us.”

Casey stepped off of the bike and dropped it against the brick store front, hoping to squash Death against the wall. Death stood suddenly at the curb, shaking a finger at her.

“Yeah,” Casey said. “I got detoured.”

“Maybe next time. But then, I was driving a car.”

Turning her back on Death, Casey walked past Eric into the soup kitchen, taking a whiff of the same cologne Eric had worn the night before. This time it was replaced by the smell of pasta, rather than beef and vegetable soup.

“Macaroni tonight,” Eric said. “We had lots of government cheese to use up.”

Casey followed him to the kitchen.

“Thank you, Jesus! ” Loretta said. “Hallelujah! ”

“Pretty lady’s back!” Johnny skipped toward her, arms outstretched, a bundle of silverware in each hand.

Ducking to avoid losing an eye, Casey allowed Johnny to hug her, squeezing her so tightly she lost her breath, along with her sense of place.

It was at the funeral. The last time someone had hugged her like that. Not as hard, nor as joyfully. Her aching breasts had sent arcs of pain through her body. Full breasts, and tender, no longer the sustainer of life, but the reminder of life lost. Omar’s casket, so small in the receiving room next to the larger box.

Casey’s whole life, enclosed in two cases of pine.

“Let her go, Johnny.” Eric was laughing. “Ease up, my man.”

She almost fell from his arms, grabbing onto the counter for support.

Eric’s hand slid onto her back. “Casey? You okay?”

She took a deep breath, eyes focused on the bread knife lying on the counter. “I’m all right. It’s nothing.” She darted a quick look around the kitchen, expecting Death’s face. It was not there.

“Well, you look pale. Johnny, you’ve got to be more careful.”

“No.” Casey stood up, her hands flat on the counter. “It wasn’t his fault.” She attempted a smile. “He’s fine.”

Johnny stood chewing on his lip, his eyes twitching.

She tried harder at the smile. “I’m glad to see you, too, Johnny. Thank you.”

His tight face relaxed, and the smile returned. “See, Eric. You find nice ladies.”

“Yes, Johnny, I do.” He steered Casey toward a chair and pushed her down into it. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” She brushed him away and rubbed her face. “He just surprised me, is all. Now, what can I do?”

Obviously not convinced, he reluctantly set her to work doing what she had the previous night—arranging bread in baskets and cutting up just-past-ripe fruit. She could feel his eyes on her throughout their food preparation, and even when the guests began arriving.

“Eric.” She waved him over to the kitchen door from his spot in the dining room.

“What is it? Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. Really. Now pay attention to them, not me. Okay?”

Color rose in his cheeks, and he looked away.

“I appreciate it, Eric, but really, they need your attention more than I do.”

He let out a breath. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. You don’t really need help from me, do you?” Without looking at her again, he set to work welcoming the diners.

Casey did what she could to serve, scooping out macaroni, taking away garbage, and refilling water glasses. As she worked and watched, it became even more apparent, this second night, that food was only partly why the people came. The time here in Home Sweet Home served another, perhaps even more important, function. More than filling their bellies.

These people’s lives were hard. They’d lost jobs. They’d lost dignity. They’d lost Ellen Schneider. This fellowship, this time together, underscored the reality that they weren’t alone. They weren’t the only people suffering. Here, in this room, was proof that others were as badly off as they. Some even worse. It wasn’t their life, alone, that had been affected.

But this realization wouldn’t come through conversation. The people were as quiet as the night before, speaking only when they needed something passed, or to offer a quick thank you after being served. But they were together. They understood each other.

And they had Eric.

Casey watched Eric as he mingled with the people. He, out of everyone, was the central figure. Not in a showy way. But everyone in the room seemed aware of him, turning toward him, searching him out, as one searches out any item of comfort. His concern for the people was evident on his face as he moved from one to another, listening, talking, putting an arm around a shoulder.

What exactly was his connection here? While Eric had questioned Casey about her presence at HomeMaker, she hadn’t asked why he was there. Was he an employee? Had he been visiting someone? And what had those other two—Holly and Thomas—meant in the church garden? Who were Eric’s parents? And why did they think he had the upper hand?

“Praise God, here are the cookies!” Loretta handed Casey a tray with cookie plates, filled with a variety of day-old goodies from the bakery.

Casey took the tray and walked around the tables, leaning in to deposit dessert every so often. The people whispered thank yous, but didn’t look up and meet her eyes. She wondered how long she would have to work there before they would be brave enough to acknowledge her presence.