The Grave Soul (19 page)

“The kid could be a terror.” Riley began to trim. “She'd lie. Steal. She was seven years old, but she threw tantrums like a two-year-old. Delia would tell her to do something and Grace just ignored her. Absolute defiance.”

“Sounds pretty tough,” said Jane.

“Delia told me the kid never stopped crying when she was a baby. Drove her nuts. Gracie didn't like to be touched. Just strange all around. She was pretty—small, delicate, curly copper-colored hair, little turned up nose. I thought she was adorable, though I never wanted to spend any time with her. Delia asked me to babysit once. I made up some excuse. Five minutes with that kid and I wanted to strangle her. I know Delia kept working, even when Kevin said she didn't need to, just to get away from the house. She'd bring the kids over to Evangeline's place and dump them. Let Kevin pick them up and bring them home after work and put them to bed. It was an awful situation. Raising a kid like Grace must have put a terrible stress on their marriage.”

“What about the other little girl? Kira?”

“Nice kid. Gracie tormented her. She'd steal her toys. Pick fights. It was constant drama in that house. Seemed like Delia was always yelling at Gracie about something. Like … I mean, I remember this one time when Delia told Grace that she didn't want her riding her bike in the street. She explained that it was dangerous, said all the appropriate parental stuff. Next day, she came home to find Grace two blocks away … you guessed it: Riding her bike in the street. Like I said, total defiance. Only thing that seemed to settle Gracie down was TV. She'd sit in front of the thing like a zombie. Not that I blame Delia for the amount of time she let that kid watch it. Thing is, I always felt like the younger one got lost in the shuffle. Gracie was such a holy terror that nobody paid much attention to Kira.”

This was all news to Jane. She had no idea if it was connected in any way to Delia's murder, but this was exactly the kind of information she'd been hoping to find about Delia's life in the days before her death. “And then Delia died.”

Riley shook her head. “I mean, think about it. How do you fall off a deck? She was alone. Explain to me how that happens.”

“You think it was suicide?”

“No way. Delia wasn't depressed. And one other thing: It never made any sense to me that she was out there when it was so cold out. Of course, Kevin said she'd been drinking, so I suppose that could explain it.”

“Did she often drink in the morning?”

“Not that I ever knew. The day she died was her day off. She told me she was planning to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. She loved Christmas. She was all excited about it. Kevin always got Kira up and took her to kindergarten. Gracie didn't have to be to school until later, so she'd take the bus. The only free time Delia would've had that day was from nine until three. So why start drinking? Sure, Delia liked a few cocktails, but not like that. She drank to add fuel to a good time. She didn't drink just to drink.”

“Are you saying you don't believe her death was an accident?”

Moving around to the front of Jane, Riley said, “I wasn't there, so how could I know? It's just—” She stopped working and looked away. “The one thing Delia was terrified of more than anything else was fire. She was in a house fire when she was a kid and it left some major emotional scars. She would never—and I mean never—have wanted to be cremated. And yet that's what Kevin said she'd asked for. Nope, I don't believe that, not for a minute. The family didn't even give her a funeral. It was all private. I mean, the woman had friends. People who cared about her. What a crock.” She returned to Jane's hair. “I shouldn't get so hot and bothered about something that happened so long ago.”

“But you cared about her.”

“Yeah. She had her flaws, but who doesn't? Look, don't tell Kevin we had this conversation, okay?”

“Sure. It's none of my business.”

“I don't think he'd be happy to hear people were talking about his personal life.”

“Are you saying you're afraid of him?”

“Of course not. Just, you know … best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

 

27

That afternoon, the tavern's customers seemed to be sliding toward the spirit of New Year's Eve, even though it was a few days off. After the lunch crowd had cleared out, people kept coming in—some in pairs, sometimes as a group ready to mix and mingle. They didn't just order one beer either; they would, over the course of an hour, order two or three. The laughter skidded from merriment toward raucous and back again.

An older man kept feeding the jukebox in the corner of the room, and because of his age, all the tunes that came through the speakers were oldies, the songs Jane thought of as Vietnam War-era music. Kevin obviously knew his customers and had selected a mix of recent pop, a few country classics, all mixed together with a heavy dose of pop/rock nostalgia.
Angel of the Morning
had been the first selection, replaced by
Honky Tonk Women
, then
Love Her Madly.

As Creedence Clearwater Revival's
The Midnight Special
began to play, Jane noticed another woman she recognized from Guthrie's photographs come through the door. Laurie Adler, Doug's wife, looked older than she had in the snapshot. Her once-dark brown hair was shot through with gray. Rimless glasses couldn't hide the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and yet she was still an attractive woman, one who stood erect and carried herself with the ease of an athlete.

Stepping up to the bar, Laurie asked, “Kevin around?”

“Sorry,” said Jane.

“Do you have any idea when he'll be back?”

“He's closing up, so I'd think by midnight.”

Laurie nodded as she scanned the room.

“Can I get you something to drink? A beer? A soda? Something to eat?”

“You're Kevin's new hire.”

“Jane. And you are?” She didn't want to advertise her prior knowledge.

“Laurie Adler. His sister-in-law.”

“Oh, yeah. The one who worked here before me.”

“He tell you about that?”

“Just that you quit. So what do you say? Can I pull you a beer?”

Laurie had the kind of eyes that seemed to be asking something—a question she could never quite bring herself to say out loud. She dug out her wallet and looked inside. “It sure smells good in here.”

“It's my new lunch special. Grilled cheese and ham. Since he's got a flat top out here, I thought I'd put it to use.”

“I should probably pass.”

She was either really frugal, didn't have much cash on her, or she was broke. Jane bet on the latter.

“You like to cook?” asked Laurie.

“Guilty,” said Jane, stepping over to the grill and tossing one of the already-prepped sandwiches on top. As it fried, she pulled Laurie a beer. “Put your money away. It's on the house.”

“I'm not sure Kevin would like that.”

Jane gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Kevin's not here. I'm not going to tell him. You gonna tell him?”

Laurie smiled. “Thanks.”

Making sure the cheese was perfectly melted and the bread was browned and crisp, Jane grabbed a paper plate and dished it up.

Biting into the grilled cheese, Laurie closed her eyes. “This is wonderful. I didn't have much for breakfast.”

“A little garlic salt does wonders.”

“What's in the pot on the grill?”

“I found a few number-ten cans of tomato soup in the back pantry.”

“Oh, yeah, someone brought those over last summer. They came from a restaurant that was going out of business. Kevin wasn't sure what to do with them, so he just shelved them.”

“I've used the product before. It doesn't taste very good, but if you sauté up some onions, celery, and carrots, toss in a few herbs, and then add some whipping cream to the mix, you get a pretty decent result. And soup, even with those few additions, is almost pure profit. I think there's enough left for a small bowl. Want to try it?”

“Sure,” said Laurie.

Jane tipped the kettle and ladled out the dregs. Setting the bowl in front of Laurie, she said, “I'm not trying to turn the tavern into a restaurant, but I thought a couple of lunch choices might spice things up a little.”

“This soup is great,” said Laurie. “Kevin got lucky when he found you.” She wiped her mouth on a napkin. “I suppose you're curious why I quit.”

“Nope. That's your business.”

“It was personal stuff. I sure do miss the money though. Come the new year, I'll have to look for something else.”

“Kevin said you used to be a teacher.”

“English. I taught at the middle school until it closed. It was in bad shape, would have cost the town a ton of money to repair it. It was easier to close it down and bus the kids to another middle school. Honestly, that was my dream job. I loved working with kids.”

“You have kids of your own?”

Fingering her wedding ring, Laurie said, “No. I wanted them. Just wasn't in the cards.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“What kind of job will you go looking for?” asked Jane.

“Not much to choose from. Trying to make a decent living from the available jobs in the area is an exercise in futility.”

“Did you ever think about moving?” asked Jane. “I'm sure you could find another teaching position.”

“Doug—that's my husband—his family lives here. Neither of us wants to leave them.” Finishing the soup, she added, more than a little bitterly, “So we live in a trailer and try to make ends meet. Another losing battle.”

Jane was puzzled by the response.

“I know what you're thinking.” She drained a good third of her beer. “You think his family should have encouraged us to leave, to make a better life for ourselves somewhere else.”

“The thought did occur.”

“Never going to happen.”

“Why?”

“I mean, I get it. I do. Everyone has sacrificed to stay together. How can you not love people who are so, basically … decent?”

Decent
was hardly the first word that leapt to Jane's mind.

“It's one of the reasons Kevin is gone from the bar so much when he can find a backup bartender. I don't know this for a fact, but I'll bet that right now he's out working a construction job somewhere. He can make more as a builder than he can on weekday afternoons standing where you are. He needs both the construction work and the bar to survive, so he burns the candle at both ends. He's tired all the time. It's not fair. Not for any of us.” Realizing she might have said too much, she cracked a smile. “I don't really mean that. I had a fight with my husband this morning. Nothing new in that, but it kind of set a negative tone for the day.”

“Sure,” said Jane. Before she could probe the subject a bit more, the front door flew open. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “No, no, no.”

“What?” asked Laurie, turning around to see what had caused the reaction.

There, framed in the doorway, stood Cordelia. Her heavy, six-foot frame was covered by a black shirt and fringed leather vest, a red bandana at her neck, cowboy boots that added another two inches to her height, and a black ten-gallon hat that added maybe four more. The finishing touch? Leather chaps. Her thumbs were curled around a wide leather belt and her stance fairly shrieked gunslinger—minus, of course, the guns. As she assessed the interior, her eyes narrowed and glinted.

Jane watched every eye in the place turn and stare. She might have pointed out that one of this odd woman's core beliefs was that clothing and costume were essentially the same thing. Thus, the concept of “normal attire” didn't apply. But because that fact was already obvious, and Jane had no desire to call any more attention to Cordelia than Cordelia had already done herself, she let it slide.

“Who on earth is that?” asked Laurie.

“Sheriff Matt Dillon looking for Miss Kitty, I expect,” said Jane.

“Excuse me?”

Cordelia sidled on up to the bar. “Afternoon, ladies,” she said, touching the brim of her hat. Her gaze locked on Jane. “I suppose you're wondering what brung me to these-here parts.”

“I'm wondering,” said Jane, “if you've lost your mind.”

“Ah don't darken the doors of many saloons these days, darlin'. Thought it only proper to dress the part.”

“Can you lose the Texas drawl?”

“You're no fun at all, Miss Jane. No damn fun
at all
.”

“Would you excuse us for a few seconds?” Jane said to Laurie.

“Sure,” she said, looking up at Cordelia with nothing short of awe.

Motioning for Cordelia to follow her, Jane headed back to the small kitchen behind the bar.

“Now, before you go getting all pissy,” said Cordelia, fingering a container of green olives on the counter, “let me speak my piece.”

“Yes, please do that.”

“You need ma help.”

“You said you couldn't get away from the theater.”

“I cancelled a few meetings, had a few moved until after the new year. I am here,” she said, lightly slapping Jane's cheeks, “until the stagecoach leaves midday tomorrow. So, give me an assignment. I'm all yours.”

Jane needed to sit. Sometimes Cordelia had that effect on her. Pulling up a chair, she drew a finger through the fringe on her friend's vest. “Where did you find this … this getup?”

“Actually, I had everything in my closet—except for the bandana, which I found at Target on the way out of town. You like?” She twirled slowly so that Jane could see her from every angle.

“Investigators usually try for anonymity, Cordelia. They don't like to call attention to themselves.”

“Not part of my personal idiom.”

“You prefer the flashing-neon-sign form of research.”