Since You've Been Gone (30 page)

“I'll speak to the concierge,” Clay said. “We'll try to do better, your ladyship.”

Rebecca burst into laughter. “I'm being bitchy, aren't I?”

“Choleric, grumpy, peevish, irascible. Not bitchy.”

“Thank you. And I'm going to start consulting you instead of a thesaurus.”

“Does that mean I get to help write the next book?”

“If there is one. I'm not making much progress. I've haven't written one sentence of the synopsis of my second
book. I haven't even
thought
about it. I'll never get another contract. I'll probably be a one-book writer.”

“Please stop,” Clay said shakily. “I'm going to cry.”

Rebecca almost laughed again. “I deserved that one. You don't let me get away with much.”

“I suppose I should spoil you after what you've been through.”

“Okay, then do me a favor.” Clay looked at her. “We're about a quarter of a mile from Shady Mount Cemetery. Please stop there before you take me home.”

“What for?”

“I want to check the family mausoleum.”

Clay frowned. “Rebecca, I'm not teasing now. This seems a little morbid.”

“When I was able to drift off to sleep a few times last night, I kept dreaming of Jonnie. He was at the mausoleum—”

“He
is
at the mausoleum.”

“In the dream he was alive. He wanted to tell me something.”

Clay sighed. “Oh, Becky, I don't know—”

“Clay,
please.
I promise I'm not cracking up. I know his ghost isn't going to be lurking around to pass on secret messages.”

“Then what are you expecting?”

“Nothing. It's just that I haven't visited the mausoleum since I've been back. I feel a need to go there today and leave these flowers I bought in the gift shop before we left the hospital.”

Clay seemed to relax. “Well, that doesn't sound bad. I guess it would be all right. But it's going to be a short visit.”

Last night's storm seemed to have blown away all murkiness to leave a cool, saffron sun glowing in a sky the color of thistle. The air at Shady Mount smelled of flowers and new-mown grass, and a flock of robins strutted around inspecting the moist ground for hapless earthworms brought up by the rain.

“I'd forgotten how pretty it is out here,” Clay said. “For a cemetery, that is.”

“You don't find cemeteries pretty?”

“Depressing.”

“Maybe. But they're a fact of life. The cemeteries in New Orleans look so different. There's one only a block from my house. There everyone is buried above ground because the city is below sea level.”

“So mausoleums like the Ryans' aren't such an oddity.”

“Well, I've never seen one quite like ours. It's sort of grand.”

“And black.”

Rebecca smiled. “Grandfather Ryan was rather dour. Only he would have chosen polished black granite. He was also a show-off.”

“I'm not a connoisseur of mausoleums. Or graves. I don't like thinking what's going to happen after I die. Maybe it was cutting up all those cadavers in medical school.” Rebecca made a face. “I'm going for cremation myself. Quicker. Space-saving. None of that nasty rotting stuff going on.”

“Oh, Clay, that's so gross.”

“Death is gross. You spend all your life trying to learn, trying to better yourself, then you drop dead and become food for the worms.” He paused. “I'm not making you feel a whole lot better about visiting the family mausoleum, am I?”

“I'm trying not to listen to you.”

“When I turn philosophical, that's usually wise.”

“I didn't find your pronouncements deeply philosophical. Just creepy.”

“I never claimed to be Plato or one of those guys who sat around and thought all day. I'm just a poor working slob.” He slowed. “Well, here we are at the Ryan shrine to the dead. I feel like we're standing in front of the Taj Mahal.”

“I think we're supposed to.” Rebecca walked up the
steps and pulled the handle on the wrought-iron door. “Damn, I forgot the place is kept locked.”

Rebecca looked down at the slender bouquet of six red roses she'd found in the gift shop. When she bought them, she hadn't noticed the “Get Well Soon” written in gold on the white ribbon. She could be guilty of bad taste and leave on the ribbon, or take it off and have the roses scatter in the bronze vase mounted on the wall of the mausoleum. She opted for bad taste.

“No prayers?” Clay asked as she turned away.

“I don't think the dead really need prayers. It's the living who need help.” She frowned into the sun. “Here comes Mr. Hale.”

Avram Hale walked briskly toward them, dressed in a suit and tie. He was in his late sixties, six-three with perfect posture, an African-American with startling white hair who had owned the cemetery for thirty years. He smiled and shook hands with Rebecca, who introduced him to Clay.

“Oh, one of that exclusive Bellamy clan.” Mr. Hale grinned. “None of them buried here; have their own private cemetery out on the farm. But I'm sure you're a good fellow anyway.”

Clay smiled. “Actually, I find the family cemetery downright scary-looking. I think I'd rather break with tradition and be buried here, sir, if that's all right.”

Avram laughed softly. “That's fine with me, young man. Got a real pretty spot overlooking a little brook.”

“He wants to be cremated,” Rebecca said.

“That's all right, too. We'll just bury his urn. He'll take up less space that way.” Mr. Hale looked at Rebecca. “You wanting to get in the mausoleum, Miss Ryan?”

“Rebecca, and yes, but I don't have my key.”

“I could get mine, but it's back at the office and we're just about to begin a funeral for Skeeter Dobbs.”

“Here?” Clay asked in surprise.

“Right over there.” Mr. Hale gestured toward a small gathering of people standing near an oak tree. “Mr. Edgar Moreland is paying for his funeral. Now isn't that a nice
thing? 'Course it's a real simple little service. Just Father Brennan saying a few words and my wife Chloe singing a hymn. Would you like to join us?”

Rebecca glanced down at the bandages on her wrists, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, I don't think—”

“Yes, we would,” Clay interrupted. “Come on, Rebecca. Let's say good-bye to Skeeter and hear Mrs. Hale sing.”

Clay wasn't going to let her be embarrassed, to shy away from people as she had during her teenage years. He took her arm and walked to the graveside. The coffin was metal, which Rebecca knew was cheaper than wood, and topped with a blanket of daisies. Only three small baskets of flowers rested near the coffin. Five people stood in a group as if huddling for moral support. Rebecca didn't see Bill, but she had a feeling he was around. She recognized Edgar and Helen Moreland. Mr. Moreland had been in the accounting department of Grace Healthcare since her grandfather's reign.

Matilda Vinson looked small and frightened in a pale blue dress that hung on her. Her blue eyes kept darting at Rebecca, making her uncomfortable. The woman had found Skeeter's body, which would have been a shock. And she'd probably heard about the attack on Sonia at the library. Those incidents could account for her nervousness, but certainly not for the wildly haunted look in her eyes. Rebecca had known the older woman casually most of her life and she was certain Matilda was no timorous soul. Something had her spooked.

At the end of the service, Chloe Hale sang “Amazing Grace” in her rich voice. Tears filled Rebecca's eyes when she thought about long ago, before Skeeter was afraid of her, when she'd told him stories in the park about the constellations.

Chloe's voice soared through the clear air and Avram looked at her proudly. They had been married for forty years. Many people claimed Avram's great-great-grandfather had been a slave of Sinclair's founding family, the Lelands. Leland descendants hotly denied their aneestors
would have ever sanctioned slavery. Avram wisely said nothing on the subject.

After the service Rebecca spoke briefly to the More-lands, complimented Mrs. Hale on her singing, and began to walk away from the grave. In a moment she felt cold fingers pluck at her upper arm. “Rebecca? May I speak with you?”

Rebecca turned around and looked down into the panicked eyes of Matilda Vinson. “Yes, Miss Vinson. What is it?”

“Well, I probably shouldn't trouble you with this. I know you've been through a lot. And maybe I'm exaggerating. Or even imagining. I just don't know anymore. These last few days have been so awful and—”

“Miss Vinson, please calm down and just tell me what's bothering you,” Rebecca said kindly. “Would you be more comfortable talking to me alone?”

Miss Vinson glanced at Clay. “Well, I don't mean to be rude, but maybe that
would
be best.”

“It's not rude at all,” Clay said. “I'll just wait over here.” He took a few steps away, fumbled in his pocket, and withdrew a peppermint drop, becoming deeply absorbed in unwrapping it.

Rebecca looked at Miss Vinson and said gently, “Please tell me what's bothering you.”

Miss Vinson twisted her hands. She had short nails, no rings, and dry skin from constant washing. “I'm not a busybody. I believe in people minding their own business. I know other women my age who are bored and like stirring up trouble. Well, actually I haven't known many. But I'm not one.” She took a deep breath and lightly patted her chest as if it felt tight. “I shouldn't tell you this unless I'm absolutely certain. But I'm mostly certain and I just can't live with it all anymore. I keep thinking if I'd said something earlier, Skeeter would be alive and if I keep quiet, maybe someone else will get killed …”

Sun and exhaustion and the trauma of last night's events were making Rebecca feel slightly dizzy. She had an urge
to shake Matilda and yell, “Just say it!” Instead she smiled encouragingly. “I understand that you're trying to be precise, but please just tell me what's wrong.”

“Yes. All right. I realize I'm babbling.” She blinked rapidly. “It all started Saturday night. I saw someone in the window of Klein's attic—”

“Where Todd was?” Rebecca blurted.

“Yes. I didn't realize there was anything wrong at the time. I saw someone at the window, but the light was dim and the figure was in silhouette and I didn't really see clearly at
all.
I thought maybe it was Mr. Klein. But Skeeter saw something odd, too, and he went to the police and well, we don't know he was murdered because of what he saw, especially because he thought he saw his grandfather, the sweet, frustrating fool—Skeeter, not his grandfather. Anyway, maybe Skeeter
was
murdered by someone who thought he saw more than he did. Maybe the person in the attic killed Skeeter because he thought Skeeter could identify him, and in that case, he could think the same about me because I saw someone in the attic, too, only I
didn't
see a face!”

“But the person saw you?”

“Well… yes, I'm fairly certain. Someone came to the door of the drugstore and tried to get in. Stealthily, not like a regular customer. I reported it to the police, but that young deputy acted like I was an old fool and…” Matilda's voice came rapidly with no breaths between words. Rebecca was afraid she would hyperventilate. She also knew a clumsy response might stop Matilda from divulging things she felt were important but had been too frightened to tell Bill. Rebecca knew she had to get as many details as possible. She glanced at Clay and was relieved: She could tell he was listening intently, although he gave the impression of being completely absorbed in his candy and perusing the sky.

“Just slow down and take a deep breath,” Rebecca said calmly. “You're probably getting all worked up over nothing. That's right. A slow, deep breath. Good.” She placed
a comforting arm around Matilda's thin shoulders. “Now go on.”

“Last night,” Matilda continued, “I suddenly remembered I hadn't returned two videos.
The English Patient
and
Titanic.
If I didn't turn them in before nine, I would have had to pay nearly five dollars in late fees! I left Lynn in charge and decided to take the shortcut through the alley that runs between the video store and the library—”

“The library?” Rebecca echoed.

“Yes. You know where I'm going with this, don't you? Well, I was just walking along, hurriedly, and then someone came charging down the alley, bumped right into me, nearly knocked me down—”

Matilda's gaze snapped to the right. The little bit of color left in her face fled and her pale lips parted.

“Miss Vinson?” Rebecca asked. “What's wrong?”

The woman's gaze remained fixed, her face frozen into a mask of pure fear. Rebecca turned to face the tiny chapel located at the top of a knoll about forty yards away. She saw a blur disappear behind the chapel, then nothing. “Miss Vinson?”

Matilda's throat muscles worked. Her breath grew even more rapid. She swayed. “Clay!” Rebecca called. He rushed toward her. “I think Miss Vinson is going to faint.”

“Let me help you to this bench over here and take your pulse,” Clay said calmly. “Then I want you to concentrate on breathing slowly and deeply. You're going to be fine.”

“I have to go.” Miss Vinson shook his hand off her arm. “I have to go!”

“But you're not well,” Rebecca protested. “Please rest for a few minutes.”

Matilda Vinson's eyes grew huge and terrified. “I have to go!” she shrilled.

“Miss Vinson, who did you see on the hill that scared you?” Rebecca pleaded. “Please tell us. There are two of us here—Clay and me. We'll protect you.”

“I thought I'd be safe saying something out here in the open, but I'm not. Don't you dare try to keep me here!”
Her voice rose to a shout. “I don't even
know
you! I didn't see
anything!
What are you talking about?”