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Authors: P.J. Parrish

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BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)
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“Let’s go,” Phillip said quietly.
There were sixty or seventy tables set up in the tent. Each table held a pile of dirt and wood and one large clear plastic bag. The wood was what was left of the caskets, Louis guessed, the cheap boards now warped or waterlogged, some just in pieces. The bags held the bones and tatters of cloth. The few caskets that were still in one piece were stacked on plywood shelves at the back of the tent.
“How many graves are in the cemetery?” Louis asked.
“Over six thousand,” Spera said.
They followed Spera as he wove his way through the tables. Louis couldn’t help but look down as they passed. Each heap of bones had a tag attached, printed with two sets of numbers, Spera told them: the graveyard identifying number and a new number assigned by Spera. No names on any of them.
Spera finally stopped near the back of the tent next to a screened window. The outside flap was whipping against the canvas, and Louis was grateful for the fresh air.
On the table lay a pile of medium-size rocks, a scattering of dirt, and a few shards of boards dark with age and rot. The tag had the same number as Claudia’s grave marker—1304. Spera had given her the number 51.
Louis looked at Phillip. His skin was ashen as his eyes flicked over the pile of the rocks.
Louis cleared his throat to get Spera’s attention. “The graves next to this one were untouched,” he said. “Can you let us know when you get to them?”
Spera had to pull his eyes from Phillip. “I could do that.”
Louis had asked mainly for Phillip’s sake. He knew that the chances of Claudia’s remains being in a neighboring grave by mistake were almost nil. Even if Claudia’s remains were still in that cemetery somewhere, they could be in any one of those thousands of unnamed graves.
He touched Phillip’s arm. Phillip turned away and started wandering the rows of tables, peering down into each heap.
“Mr. Spera,” Louis said, “what can you tell me about the hospital?”
“Well, it’s been here forever,” Spera said. “It’s just something we’ve all gotten used to over the years. When we were kids we used to hear these stories about—”
Louis shook his head and Spera stopped himself, watching Phillip.
“I do know,” Spera said, “that out of all these graves, only twelve have been claimed by relatives. Seems most have been forgotten or folks just don’t want to acknowledge them.”
“What’s going to happen to those that aren’t claimed?” Louis asked.
“We send ’em over to county and they’ll rebury them somewhere else,” Spera said.
Louis turned back to Phillip. He had stopped at a plastic bag and was fingering the edge. Louis wondered if he had heard what Spera had said. But Phillip just walked away without looking up.
“Look, if you don’t need me anymore,” Spera said.
“Thanks, you’ve been a big help,” Louis said.
Spera left. Louis stayed for a few moments, his eyes on the pile of rocks. Thousands of people buried in that cemetery but only twelve had been claimed. It was beyond sad, almost grotesque.
He looked up and didn’t see Phillip. Then he spotted him over in a far corner of the tent. Louis started toward him and as he neared, he saw the white casket. It was sitting on a table by itself, apart from all the other decrepit wooden boxes. It was pearly white with gleaming silver handles. There was a tag attached to one of the handles on which someone had scribbled HOLD FOR P. LAWRENCE. Phillip was just standing there, staring at it.
“This was for her,” Phillip said. “This is the one I picked out.”
The cold air swirled in from the open tent entrance, the smell of decay eddying around them. Phillip reached out and put a hand on the coffin. He pulled in a deep breath that caught in his throat.
“Come on,” Louis said, taking his arm. “Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER 5
 
Louis stripped off his jacket, taking a second to stand under the ceiling vent to warm up. When he reached back to take Phillip’s coat to hang it on the peg next to his, Phillip was already heading to the kitchen.
Louis followed him. Still wearing his coat, Phillip veered off into the dark dining room. He opened a breakfront, pulling down a glass. He popped open a lower cabinet door and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Frances came in from the kitchen just as he was pouring the drink.
Her eyes went to the glass and then to Louis. “I was getting worried about you. How was the trip?” she asked.
Louis waited for Phillip to answer. When he didn’t, Louis gave it a shot. “Fine. It was very cold.” Louis nodded at the bottle still in Phillip’s hand. “Phillip, pour me one. I could use some warming up, too.”
Phillip took out another glass, poured a shot, and handed it to Louis. Louis didn’t like bourbon, but he hid his grimace as he took a drink.
“So where did you go?” Frances asked, her eyes still on her husband.
Phillip took a slow drink.
“Did you go visit your friend?” Frances asked.
“Yes,” Phillip said. “Louis and I were talking about him last night and I thought I’d take him out there.”
Louis looked down into his glass.
“Maybe I should come with you sometime,” Frances said.
“It’s an old army buddy, Frances. You know I don’t talk much about that.”
“You’ve never even told me his name, Phillip.”
Louis took a drink, wishing he was somewhere else. Jesus, this was awkward. Here they were, standing in a dark dining room, not able to look into each other’s eyes, pretending everything was normal.
“Where is this cemetery?” Frances asked.
Phillip turned the glass slowly with his fingers. He wasn’t going to answer.
“Irish Hills,” Louis said.
“Really? I’ve been there,” Frances said. “My parents took me out there once or twice. Is it still nice?”
No answer from Phillip again.
“We didn’t see much of it,” Louis said finally. “What we did see looked, you know, kind of run-down. An old amusement park, some old motels. All closed right now. Not much to see really.”
Frances was watching Phillip. “I would have liked to go anyway,” she said. “It’s been so cold and I’ve been stuck in this house all week. I’d like a nice drive.”
Phillip set the glass down carefully on the polished dining room table. “I better go get cleaned up,” he said quietly.
Frances’s eyes followed him out of the dining room. They heard the close of the bathroom door. Frances looked at Louis, and he saw something register in the bland prettiness of her round face, a slight tightness around her mouth. She picked up the empty glass, wiping the water ring with her sweater sleeve. She went back into the kitchen.
Louis stayed in the dark dining room. She knew. Wives always knew. Maybe Frances didn’t know
what
was wrong, but she knew something was. And it occurred to him that Phillip was probably oblivious of all the vibrations his wife was putting out.
Thirty-one years . . . that was how long they had been married now. Moods and quirks had become second nature, as easy to read as a children’s book. If Phillip had been behaving like this for several weeks, Frances would have to be blind not to know something was wrong.
Louis’s mind tripped to Joe, and he let the image of her face come, welcoming it even, as something to dwell on instead of Phillip’s secret. The chemistry born of their working a case together had deepened into something he had never expected. Was it love? He had no idea. Sometimes weeks could go by when he didn’t see her, yet as soon as he did, it was as if she had always been there.
Almost ten months . . . that’s how long he had been with Joe. And then, only on weekends, if they were lucky. But he always knew when something was bothering her. He could hear it in her voice. It would go just a hair huskier, and her speech just a beat slower. He never mentioned to her that he noticed. But he liked being able to tell.
Louis could hear Frances in the kitchen. He had to go in there. He just hoped she wouldn’t ask something he couldn’t answer.
The kitchen was bright after the gloom of the dining room. He went to the sink, poured out the bourbon, and rinsed the glass. He could feel Frances’s eyes on him as he went to the refrigerator and got a Heineken.
“Do you have plans for tomorrow?” Frances asked.
Louis heard the slight edge in her voice. Suddenly he was getting tired of playing word games that skipped along the edges of the truth.
“Not really,” he said, leaning against the counter.
Frances opened the oven and pulled out a pie. The kitchen was filled with the smell of pumpkin. “Will you be here for dinner?” she asked, without looking up.
Louis hesitated. He and Phillip had barely talked on the ride back from the Irish Hills. Phillip had pulled inward and had just sat there, head back, eyes closed. Louis had wanted to ask him questions, questions he needed answers to if he was going to figure out where to go next. But Phillip had deflected all his attempts to talk.
Frances set the pie down on the counter and turned toward Louis, clasping her arms across her chest, holding herself like she was cold.
“Louis, what’s going on?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“With Phillip. What’s wrong?”
Louis struggled to keep his eyes on hers. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Don’t tell me that. Is Phillip sick?”
“What?”
“That’s it, isn’t it? Is it something awful that he can’t tell me? Is that why he asked you to come home?”
Louis almost let out a breath of relief. “No, he’s fine. Please don’t worry about that.”
“Then what is it?”
Louis gave her a shake of his head. “It’s not my place, Frances.”
She turned away, toward the sink, head bowed. Louis heard the sound of running water and when he looked up, Frances was rinsing bowls, her arms pumping. Louis left the kitchen, going out to the den. He paused to switch on a lamp and when he looked up he saw Phillip outside on the back patio.
Louis opened the sliding glass door and stepped out into the cold. Phillip was smoking a cigarette, dressed in a clean shirt and an old sweater, his hair wet from his shower.
“Frances thinks you’re sick,” Louis said.
“What?”
“She knows something is bothering you and she told me she thinks you are sick and afraid to tell her.”
“Good God,” Phillip said softly.
Louis looked off into the bare trees of the backyard. He let out a long slow breath that spiraled up into the cold air. “Look, Phil, I appreciate what you’re going through here, but please don’t ask me to lie for you.”
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Phillip said. “I apologize.”
They were quiet. Phillip took a long drag on his cigarette, then bent down to snuff it out in the pail of sand that Frances always had kept on the patio as her one concession to his habit.
Phillip’s eyes went to the sliding glass door. They could just see Frances’s back in the kitchen from where they stood outside. Phillip reached into his pants pocket and pulled out another cigarette, and Louis knew it was just a ploy to buy them more time outside to talk.
“Tell me more about Claudia. How’d you meet her?” Louis asked, thinking that maybe if Phillip started with the good memories, it would be easier.
Phillip’s Zippo gave his face a sharpness as he lit the cigarette. He stuffed the lighter back in his pocket and drew on the cigarette.
“It was the summer of fifty-one, at a beach party, one of those things with a bonfire and kids passing around a bottle,” Phillip said. “I had a job at this country club over in Saugatuck to make enough to go back to Western. I had never seen her around town before that night on the beach. She was just there, sitting by herself, this little thing wrapped up in this big blue sweater. She had blond hair that smelled like lilacs. She was seventeen. Maybe that should have scared me off, but it didn’t.”
He paused to pick a bit of tobacco off his lip. “When she had to leave that night, I walked her home. Her family had one of those big stone fortress houses on Lake Michigan. We only had a week together. I went back to Western and she went home.”
“That’s the last time you saw her?” Louis asked.
“Oh no, no.” Phillip let out a low, sad laugh. “Turned out we were neighbors of sorts. The DeFoes lived in Grosse Pointe Farms. My folks lived in the less desirable part of the Pointes, a place everybody called the Cabbage Patch. We grew up less than ten miles from each other and a galaxy apart.”
Phillip had gone quiet again. Louis could see the glowing tip of his cigarette as he took another drag. It was a moment before Phillip spoke again.
“We saw each other on weekends,” he said. “She’d sneak out and her brother Rodney would drive her to the park by the lake and I’d pick her up on my motorcycle.”
BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)
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