The Ghost's Grave (10 page)

When his customers thanked him for his generosity, he had said, “Whoever did this robbed us not only of our animal shelter, but also of our community spirit. It's tragic, that's what it is. Tragic!”

Much of the money was in one-hundred-dollar bills. The rest he exchanged over a week's time for more one-hundred-dollar bills until that was all he
had. He bundled the bills securely, locked them in the small metal box he'd bought, and then used the ideal hiding place.

The crime was never solved, so eventually people quit talking about it and went about their business. The police had meth labs, drunk drivers, and assaults to deal with each day. With no clues to go on and no suspect, the theft of the Cash for Critters money slid gradually into the “unsolved” category, where the case was ignored.

The money was not forgotten by Mr. Turlep. Each day at closing time, as he
X
ed out the date, he thought of the difference the box of cash would make in his life. Without it, his retirement years would be meager. With it, he could live out his dream.

He should not have had to resort to theft in order to have a comfortable retirement. After years of living frugally and saving his money, Mr. Turlep's dreams had been crushed by a corporate scandal that cost him, through no fault of his own, all his savings. Unscrupulous officers of the company where Mr. Turlep's pension was invested had bilked the shareholders of millions. The money he had counted on for his retirement vanished.

When the news sank in that he had lost his personal savings and his bank pension, which were
invested in the same place, Mr. Turlep changed. Overnight the man who had always been a mild-mannered, law-abiding banker became a bitter, cold-hearted criminal.

He knew his Social Security income wouldn't buy the coveted condo on the beach, nor would it be enough to pay for weekly deep-sea fishing trips. The life he'd dreamed of for years had been within his grasp, and then it had vanished—until he'd planned and pulled off the perfect crime.

Who had been hurt by his theft? Nobody. It wasn't as if he'd taken food from starving children or medicines from cancer patients. Oh, sure, a few hundred dogs and cats were left to fend for themselves each year instead of getting food, veterinary care, and loving homes. No big deal about that. They weren't any worse off than they'd always been around here.

Mr. Turlep had worked hard all his life; he deserved a happy retirement. Now, with only one more day to go, the time was almost here. Tomorrow—Friday, June 19—he would make the last
X
, leave the bank for the last time, and make his final drive to the Carbon City cemetery.

Tonight he would finish packing. Tomorrow he would dig up his money and head for Florida. Those fish were waiting for him.

F
lorence's screaming woke me at sunrise. Instead of pulling the blankets over my head and blocking my ears, I got up, dressed quickly, and propped the note on my pillow.

I planned to grab an apple to eat along the way and tiptoe out of the house without waking Aunt Ethel, but when I got downstairs, she stood in the kitchen with mixing bowls and measuring cups lined up on the counter.

“You're up early,” she said.

“So are you.”

“I have a cake customer today. She requested carrot cake, and I want to get the carrots grated and the baking done while the kitchen's still cool.”

I took an apple from the refrigerator.

“I've been thinking about that stray cat,” she said,
“and I decided you were right. You should feed it and tame it and take it to the vet to be neutered. That's what Florence would have done. Then we can try to find someone who will give it a good home.”

“Thanks,” I said. “She really seems hungry.” I decided not to mention any kittens quite yet.

“If you keep the food out by the tree house, the cat probably won't bother Florence.”

“OK. That's what I'll do.”

“I can drive you to Carbon City to get some cat food this afternoon after I finish my cake.”

I couldn't tell her it wasn't necessary because I had already bought cat food. At the rate Mrs. Stray was gobbling the food, I'd need more soon, anyway. I could send my first letter and see if there was any mail for me today. Now that my summer was so exciting, I wasn't as mad at Mom and Steven for sending me here. I wanted to hear from them, to know how they were doing.

I knew they were eager to hear from me, too. I thought about the letters I'd written about the bat, the peacock, and the ghost. Would Mom and Steven worry too much when they read those reports? Maybe I should add a few lines about Mrs. Stray and the chocolate cake, just to let them know I was really OK.

“I'm hiking up the river this morning,” I said. “I might not be back until after lunch.”

“No hurry. We'll go to Carbon City when you return.” She started scrubbing carrots with a brush, then stopped, leaning against the sink.

“Is something wrong?”

“I think I'd better sit for a minute. I feel a bit dizzy.”

I took her arm and helped her to a chair.

“My energy gives out now and then,” she said. “Inside, I still feel like a schoolgirl, but sometimes my body can't keep up with what I want to do. When that happens, I have to rest a bit.”

Although I wanted to get on with my plan, I didn't want to leave if she needed help.

“I'll scrub the carrots,” I said. I picked up the brush and turned on the faucet.

When I finished, Aunt Ethel said, “Could you shred them for me, too? I'm feeling better, but I don't have the strength I used to have.”

Using her old-fashioned grater, I shredded all the carrots, managing to nick my knuckle once.

Aunt Ethel stood and began sifting flour. “I'm fine now,” she said. “You go ahead on your hike.”

I watched her measure and stir ingredients for a few minutes, to be sure she didn't have another dizzy
spell. Then I slipped on my backpack and headed for the tree house.

Birds chittered in the treetops, greeting the sunshine. I walked quickly.

As I approached the tree house, I saw Mrs. Stray eating breakfast. I stopped moving and watched. I could tell she saw me, but she continued to eat.

“Hello, kitty,” I said. “Good kitty, kitty. Nice Mrs. Stray.”

Her tail swished back and forth, but she kept eating. A sudden movement in the bushes behind her caught my eye. A small orange kitten trotted out of the undergrowth, followed by a black-and-white kitten. Last came a third kitten, who looked exactly like Mrs. Stray. The kittens nudged their faces under her belly and began to nurse.

I waited, wondering if there were more, but the kitten parade ended. How was I going to tame and rescue four cats? One had been enough of a challenge.

“You going to stand there watching them cats all morning?”

Willie leaned out one of the tree-house windows. The cats scattered when he spoke, so I knew they could hear him. I wondered why animals could hear him when most humans couldn't.

“Hi, Willie.”

“I saw your spade and the flowers. Good idea, bringing the flowers.”

I picked up the bucket of daisies and the spade, then headed toward the old railroad trail. Willie floated along beside me.

“I'm sorry I can't help you carry those,” he said. “ 'Course, if I could manage a shovel, I'd have dug the leg up myself long ago and wouldn't be bothering you about it.”

“I don't mind,” I said.

“I look able-bodied, but the truth is, it's all I can do to pick up a book, and I had to practice two years before I could manage that. At first my hands went right through the pages. I've got the hang of it now, and I can move an object or two before I run out of strength.”

I didn't answer; I was too jittery for conversation. The closer we got to the cemetery, the more I worried someone would see me and call the police.

I spotted another railroad spike, which I worked loose and put in my backpack.

We reached the Y and turned toward the cemetery.

Soon I stood at the edge of the graveyard, looking carefully in all directions. It was as empty and still as it had been the day before. No cars on the street, no people anywhere in sight. Even the birds were silent.

I planted Florence's flowers first. I walked straight to her grave, then stomped on the shovel. I worked quickly, removing a twelve-inch circle of sod, then digging up the soil inside the circle. I dug down about four inches, then stuck a clump of daisies in the hole. Kneeling beside them, I patted the loose dirt around the roots. I stood, then poured some of the water from the bucket into the indentation around the daisies.

So far, so good.

My heart started to race as I went toward the grave of Willie's leg. My stomach did handsprings, threatening to give back the apple.

When I reached the small
W.M.M.
stone, I hesitated, looking around and listening for any approaching vehicles. I saw no cars and no people. Except for a fly buzzing around my head, I heard nothing.

I had assumed Willie would want to watch, but he had disappeared. I hoped he was keeping his promise to act as my lookout on the street, ready to alert me if anyone came this way.

I removed the brown towel from my backpack and spread it on the grass beside the grave.

I licked my lips, took a deep breath, and plunged the spade into the dirt. I removed a bigger circle of sod this time, but when I tried to dig deeper into the
soil, the tip of the shovel clunked against something hard. A rock? I moved the shovel over a couple of inches and tried again.
Clunk!

I jabbed the spade into the dirt several times, moving it an inch or two each time, but the result was always the same.
Clunk. Clunk
. It was a metallic sound. Willie had told me his leg's little casket was made of wood, not metal, and surely it would have been buried deeper than this. Each time I tried to dig, my shovel stopped when it was only four or five inches below the surface. If I was hitting a rock, it was a big one, more than a foot across.

I continued to poke the spade into the dirt, moving it farther from the center of the circle, until it went straight down without clunking.

I angled the shovel to take out shallow scoops of dirt. It took only a few minutes of digging to uncover a smooth gray metal surface about eighteen inches long and six inches wide, topped with a handle.

The metal box did not look old. It was enclosed in a heavy plastic bag that had been stapled shut. I didn't know when plastic bags or staplers were invented, but I was fairly certain it was later than 1903. I realized someone else had dug here after Willie's leg was buried and had left this box in the grave.

“Willie?” I said. “Are you here?”

No answer.

I pulled apart the bag where it was stapled and opened the plastic so I could grip the box's handle. I yanked as hard as I could, but the box stayed securely in the ground.

Abandoning the spade and digging with my fingers, I loosened the dirt around the metal until I could lift the box out of the hole. I tore away the rest of the plastic bag. The gray metal box looked like the small fireproof box that Gramma kept the deed to her house and other important papers in. A brass lock held the top closed. I wondered who had the key.

The box fit in my backpack so I stuffed it in and continued to dig. About two feet farther down, I came to chunks of rotted wood. Kneeling in the dirt on the side of the grave, I picked the pieces of wood out of the hole and tossed them aside.

The hole smelled like rich garden soil after a rain. I hoped there were no worms. I've never minded handling worms when I go fishing, but this was different.

Gritting my teeth, I thrust both hands into the damp dirt at the bottom of the hole.

My fingers closed on something solid. I swallowed hard, then pulled it up. I tried to remember the names of human leg bones. Tibia? Femur? Which was the big one?

All I knew for sure was that I held part of Willie's leg in my hand. I didn't bother to brush off the dirt that clung to the large bone. I laid the bone on the towel and stuck my hands back in the hole.

Nervous sweat soaked my shirt. If anyone had sneaked up behind me and whispered, “Boo,” I would have fainted and toppled headfirst into the open grave.

I
wiggled my fingers in the dirt, feeling it jam up under my fingernails. I found another, smaller bone and then a whole group of bones so little they might have been chicken bones. Willie's toes?

I laid all of the bones together on the towel and kept searching. When I had dug with my hands for several minutes without finding any more bones, I used the spade to turn over the dirt at the bottom of the hole.

I unearthed more hunks of rotting wood, but no bones.

I decided I must have found them all. I folded the towel tightly around them and put the bundle in the backpack. I tossed all the rotten wood back into the hole, then threw in the torn plastic bag. I didn't
know what else to do with it. I couldn't leave it on the ground, and I had too much in my backpack already. I shoveled most of the dirt back into the hole, leaving enough space for the rest of the daisies.

I stomped the dirt down hard all around the clump of daisies before I emptied the rest of the water from the bucket. Breathing hard, I looked in every direction, relieved to see I was still alone.

I left the bucket at the edge of the cemetery. There was no need to carry it up the hill and back; I'd pick it up on my way home.

I considered leaving the metal box, too, since it added a lot of weight to the backpack, but I suspected that whatever was in the box had value. Otherwise, why would someone go to so much trouble to hide it? I didn't want to leave it sitting around unguarded, even in the empty cemetery.

As I walked away from the graveyard, I felt energized. No one had seen me. The dangerous part of my mission was finished.