The Grave Soul (27 page)

Parking at last a few doors down from Kevin's bar, she cut the headlights and the engine and then slipped out, looking both ways down the silent Main Street to make sure she wasn't being observed. The keys to her Honda were in her pocket. Approaching the small lot at the back of building, where she'd parked her car when she was living above the Sportsman's, she saw that the CR-V was buried in at least five inches of snow. Two other cars in the lot were free of snow, making hers stand out. Again, she didn't want to telegraph her presence, so she took her time, brushing off as little as possible to get the key into the lock. Carefully cracking open the door, she ducked inside and opened the glove box. Inside was a Smith & Wesson J-Frame, a .38 caliber revolver Nolan had urged her to buy and learn how to use. She loathed guns, but after listening to the case he made, she figured he was right. She traveled with it when she was on a job, but rarely took it out. She also removed a box of ammunition and a middle-of-the-back holster that she could thread through her belt. It made the weapon almost impossible to spot when she was wearing a jacket.

Closing and locking the door, she gazed up at Kevin's second-floor apartment for a few seconds. Lights were on behind the drawn shades, though she assumed he was still in the bar cleaning up. She would see him tomorrow—this time, on her terms.

*   *   *

The next morning, Jane found Guthrie seated on one of the couches in the front lobby. Before they got started, he passed her a small package filled with copies of the crime-scene photographs he'd been sent anonymously through the mail. They spoke little on the ride to the farmhouse. Jane was going over the potential outcomes of their encounter with Kira, and assumed Guthrie's mind was filled with the same issues.

As they pulled into the driveway behind Kira's Chevy Cobalt, Jane heard Guthrie give a sigh of relief.

“She's here.”

As she opened her car door, she was immediately assaulted by the high-pitched yips and barks of dogs inside the barn.

A moment later, Kira came out of the back door of the house with an old black lab tagging along behind her. She was about to toss a stick when she saw them. The lab turned and ran at Jane. At the last minute, he changed directions and raced around the front of the car to greet Guthrie.

“Hey, Sammy,” said Guthrie, reaching down to scratch the dog's ears. “Long time no see, fella.” As he straightened up, Kira rushed into his arms.

“Oh, God, it's so great to see you,” she said.

Jane took a moment to say hi to the old dog while the two young lovers embraced.

“But … what are you doing here?” she asked. She backed up a step and directed a hard look at Jane.

“We need to talk to you.”

“I need to talk to you, too. But not with her hanging around and not right now.”

“It's never a good time. We've traveled a long way, Kira. You can give us ten minutes.”

“Hannah and Father Mike are coming for a meeting.”

“Your family sure has a lot of meetings,” he said with a grin.

Jane figured he'd meant it as a joke. Kira obviously took it as a criticism.

“Don't be mad,” said Guthrie, reaching for her hand.

Sammy trotted back to the barn and sat by the door.

“What have you got inside there?” asked Jane.

“Our Airedale had a litter.”

“How many puppies did Foxy have?” asked Guthrie.

“Eight.”

“Evangeline raises them,” Guthrie said to Jane.

“I'd love to meet them,” said Jane, hoping a look at the pups might cause a thaw in Kira's general demeanor.

“Maybe later,” said Kira, eying Jane uncertainly. She motioned for Sammy to come as she led them up to the front porch. As they entered, Kira and Guthrie removed their coats and hung them on a coat rack. Jane left hers on. They all sat down stiffly in the living room.

Kira spoke first. Looking pointedly at Jane, she said, “I suppose I should tell you: I checked out the funeral home like you suggested. You were right. Nobody in my family ever picked up my mother's ashes. So I went and got them. I'll scatter them myself. I asked my dad about it. He said he just couldn't do it. You may not understand his reasons, but I do.”

Guthrie rose, moved hesitantly across the braided wool rug, and handed Kira the package of photos.

“What's this?”

“Take a look. You tell me what you think they are.”

“It's not my mother. It can't be. Someone's trying to play a trick on you.”

“Just look.” As he sat back down, the front door opened. A moment later, Father Mike appeared, sans coat and shoes. He was carrying a pair of slippers. “Hannah's going to be a little late,” he said. He stopped when he saw that Kira wasn't alone. “Oh. Hi. I wasn't expecting—”

“Neither was I,” said Kira.

The priest gave Jane and Guthrie an easy, practiced smile. “Perhaps I should busy myself in the kitchen.”

“No, stay,” said Kira, nodding to the spot right next to her on the couch. “Father Mike is a friend. There are no secrets here.”

Jane found the comment just short of ludicrous. She did, however, understand what Kira was doing—evening out the sides, two against two instead of Jane and Guthrie against her.

As he sat down, Father Mike said, “Nice to see you both again.”

For some reason, the comment unsettled Jane. She'd gone to the rectory on her last day in town. She had very little memory of what they'd talked about, though she doubted she'd learned anything new. The image of the priest's desk floated into her mind. A photo album open to a large photo of Delia Adler. Why had he been looking at it?

Kira opened the envelope and flipped through the photos. “Oh God,” she said, a hand flying to her mouth. “It is her.”

“I had a couple of the shots enlarged,” said Guthrie. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I realize this is a brutal way to prove my point, but you can clearly see marks around your mother's neck. It was murder, Kira.”

Father Mike stared hard at Guthrie. “Where did you get these?” he demanded.

“They were sent to me anonymously in the mail.” Taking a paper out of his pocket, Guthrie opened it and passed it to Jane, who passed it to Kira. “That's the note I told you about.”

Kira read it out loud: “Proof Delia Adler was murdered. Stay out of it or the same thing will happen to you.”

The priest leaned over to look at it. He pressed a finger to his lips. “Oh, no.”

“What?” said Kira.

“It's Doug's handwriting. He must have taken them and kept them all these years.”

Kira paused to collect her thoughts. “But this makes no sense. We know what happened. We know exactly how my mother died and why the family covered it up.”

Father Mike flicked his eyes to Jane and Guthrie. He took the photos from Kira to examine more closely.

“Maybe you'd like to explain it to me,” said Guthrie. “Since there are no secrets here.”

Kira shot him an angry look as she hunched back against the couch cushions, chewing at her lower lip.

“I think you owe me that much.”

She thought about it a moment more, then said, “If I agree to tell you, it can't leave this room.” Her gaze moved back and forth between Jane and Guthrie.

“I promise,” said Guthrie. “As for Jane, a private investigator is bound by client confidentiality.”

That was true, though Jane couldn't participate in anything illegal and still keep her license. A murder cover-up was an illegal act.

“My sister, Grace, and my mother never got along. The day my mom died, my sister stayed home from school. She was supposed to catch the bus in front of our house, but she never went. Mom apparently didn't check on her. That wasn't unusual.

“Dad didn't like my mom to smoke in the house, so she'd go out on the deck, have a cigarette, and then come back in. That day, as a prank, Grace locked the door and my mom couldn't get back in. In attempting to drop from the deck into a section of snow next to the ravine, she missed and fell to her death. My father and grandmother made a knee-jerk decision to cover it up. Grace was a troubled child. They thought this might damage her even more.”

“That is absolute crap,” came a voice from the doorway into the front hall.

Jane looked over to see a petite, dark-haired young woman in jeans and a Milwaukee Brewers baseball jacket. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses dominated her face. She held a baseball mitt in one hand and a baseball in the other. More importantly, she looked thoroughly enraged. “I never did that. No way. Who told you that crap?”

Kira jumped to her feet. “What are you doing? You shouldn't be in here.”

“Who's she?” asked Guthrie, adjusting his glasses as he rose up and stood next to Kira.

“Um,” said Kira, rubbing her arms and looking around.

“I'm Grace,” said the young woman, her eyes fierce. “You can't expect me to listen to lies and not call you on it. I never hurt Mom. I thought you knew what happened. We talked about it and you acted like you'd heard it all.”

Kira's mouth opened, but she couldn't seem to find any words.

“That's your
sister
?” asked Guthrie, his eyes wide with surprise. “The one you said was … dead?”

Jane stood, too. Would the Adlers' secrets never end?

“You want the truth?” Grace searched the faces staring back at her. “Well, here it is.”

“Grace, no,” said Father Mike. “This isn't the place.”

“I was there that day,” said Gracie, ignoring him. “That part you got right. I was hiding behind the big brown chair in the living room. Dad rushed in and began shouting. Mom shouted back. They went into the kitchen and I could hear them talking. I thought maybe things were okay. I was about to go back to my room when Mom ran out on the deck to get away from Dad and he ran after her. That's where it happened. He had his hands up around her neck. I closed my eyes because they were scaring me. When he came back into the house, Mom was gone. He went in the kitchen and called Gram. I could hear him crying. I spent most of the day hiding in my closet. Dad eventually figured out I was home, and that I'd seen the fight. Don't you remember? After we were put to bed that night I crawled in with you and told you what happened, except I never said who did it.”

“It was
Dad
?” said Kira, eyes fixed on her sister.

“Yeah, afraid so. Back then, all I knew for sure was that our mom was gone and she wasn't coming back. I didn't really understand death, not until years later. I wasn't sad. I wasn't sure where she'd gone, but I liked it better without her. And then I came to stay here with Gram and I didn't see you anymore, Kira. I loved being here, but I missed you. But now we're back together. It's all worked out.”

“I don't understand any of this,” said Guthrie, appearing completely confused.

Kira gazed at Father Mike with helpless eyes. “Did you know any of this?”

He shook his head. “They told me the same story they told you. Only thing is, I always knew it wasn't the entire story.”

“They're liars! All of them. Why couldn't they tell us the truth?”

It seemed clear to Jane what the primary reason was for keeping Kira and Father Mike in the dark. The family didn't want to make them accomplices.

Father Mike moved in front of Kira and spoke to Grace. “Hey, kiddo, you want to toss that baseball around a little?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Go on out to the barn. Find me a good mitt, okay? I'll be there in a sec.”

Before she left, Grace said, “You're Kira's boyfriend aren't you? She showed me pictures.”

Guthrie was still so stunned he could hardly speak. “Ah, yeah. I am.”

The puzzle pieces were finally falling into place for Jane. From her very first visit to the farmhouse, she'd felt something strange was going on. The day she'd looked around the living room at the family photos, she'd felt a presence. It had to have been Grace. But more importantly, she now knew who'd murdered Delia, though Kevin's motive was still a mystery.

What struck Jane most was that, even with Gracie's admission, there was still no real proof that Kevin had murdered Delia. Certainly, the testimony of a seven-year-old child was a gap in the case large enough for a good defense lawyer to drive a semi through. Grace had a childhood memory, sure, but most of what she knew was what she'd been told. Memories could be shaped by a family determined for her to remember something in a specific way.

After Gracie had left the room, Father Mike and Kira sat back down on the couch. “Listen to me for a minute,” he said gently, waiting for her to look at him. “I believe I know why your father told us that story. He didn't want to involve us in a cover-up. Covering up a murder is a felony, Kira. And—” He took hold of her hands, “Beyond that, I'm sure he was ashamed of what he'd done. Telling you—it would have been so incredibly painful.”

“So he's a coward.”

“Don't make any judgements right now. Give yourself some time to process this. Talk to your family. If you want, you can talk to me. All I know is, your dad loves you and Gracie more than anything in this world. You believe that, don't you?”

Kira lowered her head. “I suppose.”

Jane felt her phone buzz inside the pocket of her jeans. She took it out and looked at the caller ID. “Katie Olsen.” It took her a minute to remember who that was.

“I better get out to the barn,” said the priest. “Gracie's as upset as you are. I need to talk to her, too. Are you okay?”

“I don't know,” said Kira. “But go.”

Jane excused herself along with Father Mike. Ducking into the kitchen, she answered the call. “This is Jane.”

“Hi. Finally. Katie Olsen,” came a clipped voice. “You remember me? My father was Walt Olsen. You came to my house to talk to me about Delia Adler—and about my dad. You went to see him, didn't you? You spoke to him about Delia.”