The Grave Soul (6 page)

“Good,” he said, his smile fading as he sat back down. He folded his hands over a manila envelope.

Since he didn't have anything to eat or drink on the table, she asked if she could get him something.

“No thanks,” he said. “I was sitting here wondering if coming to see you was the right thing to do.”

“Can I help in some way?”

“Could we go back to your office? There's something I need to show you.”

“Sure,” she said. He seemed so hesitant that she glanced over her shoulder a couple of times as she led him down the hall, thinking that he might simply run off and never tell her why he'd come. Once she took her seat behind the desk and he'd chosen one of the chairs opposite her, she said, “What's up?”

He ran a hand over the stubble on his face. “I'm planning to ask my girlfriend to marry me on Christmas Eve.”

“That's wonderful news.” So why the long face, she wondered. “Who is she? How long have you known her?”

“Her name is Kira Adler. She's a nursing student at the U, will graduate next year. She's from a small town in Wisconsin. There's no doubt in my mind that she's the one for me. I am totally, one hundred percent, head over heels in love.”

Jane nodded, grinned. “She feel the same way?”

“Totally. I met her family about a month ago at Thanksgiving. We drove to New Dresden and stayed at her grandmother's house for a couple of nights. I'd known that Kira's mother had died when she was quite young. She fell from the deck of their house. The thing is—” He paused, tugging nervously at his shirt—“Kira's had this dream—a nightmare really—for most of her life. Recently it's been getting worse. Two days before we left for New Dresden, she finally told me what the dream was about.” He paused again, pulled at a small rip in his jeans. “See, in the nightmare, Kira sees her mother being strangled.”

“Wow,” said Jane, sitting up straight. “That's intense. Is there any way it could be true?”

“She says absolutely not.”

“So who committed the murder in the dream?”

“It's always someone in her family, but the identity of the person changes.”

“Huh. Strange. Nobody ever wondered if it was suicide?”

“Sure, they wondered, but since they had no proof one way or the other, they decided to come down on the side of accidental. Kevin, that's Kira's dad, got home earlier than usual that day. He was working construction at the time. When he couldn't find his wife, he went to see if her car was gone. It wasn't. And her purse was on the kitchen table. I don't have all the details, but the body was eventually found. The deck Delia fell from overhangs a ravine. That's where they found her. It was December. Below-zero temps. She had some injuries, but most likely died of exposure.”

“How old was Kira when this happened?”

“Five. She was in kindergarden. Her older sister, Gracie, was seven.”

“New Dresden has its own police department?”

“I called, talked to the patrol officer on duty. He said that besides the chief, they've always had four full-time officers and two part-time.”

“Did you ask for a copy of the police report on Delia's death?”

“The guy looked but couldn't find anything. Since it was ruled accidental, he said the attending officer might not have filed one. And because it wasn't a crime scene, he doubted any photos had been taken. The only information I could get my hands on was Delia's death certificate, which was useless. I read it over and learned nothing. I mean, I already knew the cause of death.”

“But you think there's some truth in Kira's nightmare?”

“I didn't. But—” Guthrie explained about the late-night conversation he'd overheard between Kevin and Doug. “They were talking about Delia's death. These were Doug's exact words: ‘We covered our tracks. End of story.' Kevin disagreed. He said the story would never end. He also said that Kira was clueless about what happened. And then Hannah walked in—that's Kira's aunt. She asked what they were talking about and Kevin said, ‘The usual.' Am I wrong, Jane? Seems to me those three know a lot more about Delia's death than they've ever said. I asked a few simple questions about Delia's passing and Doug got all hot and bothered—thought I was interrogating him and Kevin. I mean, come on.”

“Did you tell Kira what you overheard?”

He looked down, shook his head. “How am I supposed to tell the woman I love that there's a chance her family did have something to do with the death of her mother? Especially, when I have no proof. That is, until a few hours ago.”

“What happened a few hours ago?” asked Jane.

“This.” He handed her the envelope. “Came in the mail.”

Jane drew out a stack of five-by-seven photos. Stuck to the top photo was a yellow Post-it note. In black ink someone had printed:

Proof Delia Adler was murdered. Stay out of it or the same thing will happen to you.

There was no return address. The postmark read Henderson, Wisconsin. Flipping quickly through the stack, Jane found that each photo showed a woman in dark slacks and what appeared to be a red ski sweater. Her body lay halfway down the edge of a steep ravine, caught between several large boulders and a clump of leafless birch. She was on her back, legs bent at unnatural angles. The shots were all taken from above.

“I wonder if the police did take photos.”

“No idea,” said Guthrie. “All I know is, someone wanted me to see them and hoped it would stop me from any digging any further.”

“The problem is,” said Jane, flipping through the stack a second time, “I see nothing here that proves Delia was murdered. And even if she was, these photos can't tell us who did it.”

“But … see … that's where you come in,” said Guthrie, shifting forward in his chair. “I heard that you're a licensed PI now. You work part time with another guy—an ex-homicide cop.”

“He's retired.”

“Right. So, what if I hired you? The Adlers know who I am, but they don't know you. Maybe you could spend some time in New Dresden, investigate them. Figure out what went on all those years ago.”

“You really want to pay me to prove that someone Kira loves is a murderer?” By the look on his face, he obviously hadn't thought that one through.

“I guess … maybe—” He scratched the side of his cheek. “Maybe I should tell her what I overheard. Show her the photos—”

“You think she'd want to see her mother like that?”

“Okay, I won't show them to her unless she wants to see them. But I can tell her about them and show her the note. If she wants to pursue it, then … we will. If not, I guess I wasted your time.”

“I have to tell you,” said Jane, putting the photos back into the envelope, “even if Kira agrees to the investigation, I'm not taking any new clients right now. I'm buried in work here at the restaurant.” Guthrie looked so crestfallen that she added, “If you want, I could show the photos to my partner, A. J. Nolan. If, after you speak to Kira, you want to go ahead with it, he'd already be up to speed.”

“Is he any good?”

“He's the best,” said Jane.

Guthrie considered the idea for a few seconds. “Yeah, that sounds perfect. Go ahead and show him the pictures. I'll talk to Kira tonight, when I get home.”

He wasn't going to let it go. Jane stood up and offered her hand. “Good luck,” she said, thinking it unlikely that Kira would give such an investigation a green light.

 

9

Jane drove by Nolan's house on her way home that night. Several lights burned on the first floor, so she parked her Mini on the street and headed up the walk, the photos tucked safely in the inner pocket of her leather jacket.

She rang the bell and was surprised when he answered it almost immediately. “Jane, what a surprise,” he said, maneuvering his way back into the living room using two canes.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“I love your nocturnal visits, especially when they interrupt a football game.” He sat down heavily on his La-Z-Boy and switched off the sound on the TV, nodding for her to sit on the couch across from him.

Nolan was a big, strongly built, African-American man in his mid sixties. He'd taken a bullet while saving her life several years back, which was why he now walked with the help of two canes. It was a major step up from the wheelchair he'd been in for the first year out of rehab. Even before he'd taken that bullet, Jane had grown to love him like a father. Sure, he could be prickly and demanding at times. Roses come with thorns, he liked to say when he knew he'd crossed a line. And then he'd smile sweetly and raise his gray eyebrows at her.

Glancing at a suitcase by the front door, Jane asked, “Going somewhere?”

“Glenda and I are hitting the road in the morning. We'll spend a couple days in Chicago with her daughter, then head to St. Louis for Christmas with my family.”

Glenda was Nolan's neighbor. Early in the friendship, he could barely stand to be in the same room with her. In his opinion, she never shut up, and what she talked about bored him silly. She'd won him over, little by little, with her homemade pies. These days they played Scrabble together several nights a week. Jane had wondered for months if a romance might be in the cards. Nolan, being Nolan, refused to comment.

“Then I guess my reason for stopping by is moot,” said Jane.

“Let me guess: A new client.”

“One I was hoping you would handle.”

“Okay. Tell me about it.” He picked up his beer bottle and sat back, ready to listen.

Jane detailed what Guthrie had told her, ending with the note and the pictures.

“Let me see them.”

She handed the photos over.

He flipped through them quickly, then reached over to an end table and removed a loupe from a small drawer. Switching on the lamp next to him, he examined the photos more closely, taking his time, making lots of “mmm” sounds.

With nothing else to do, Jane watched the silent football game on the flat screen.

Finally, Nolan gave a satisfied grunt.

“What?”

“Come over here and look at this.”

Jane got up. “You think they're police photos?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They're all taken from one angle: directly above. The police shots would have been taken from many angles.”

She should have thought of that. Nolan always told her she had good instincts, but she still had a lot to learn. Thankfully, she had a great teacher.

“The officer your friend talked to was probably right. If it wasn't a crime scene, no photos would have been taken.”

“So who took these?” asked Jane. “And why?”

He handed her the loupe and one of the enlargements. “Look closely at her neck. Squint if you have to.”

“Oh my God,” said Jane. What she'd dismissed as a shadow now looked like a series of dark bruises.

“The woman was strangled,” said Nolan. “No other way to get that kind of discoloration. It was a homicide all right. In a case like that, the husband would likely be the primary suspect, at least initially. But since it was ruled accidental, nobody was ever investigated. Which makes no sense at all. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“The officer who was called to the scene couldn't have missed all the bruising around the woman's neck.”

“You're saying the police were part of a cover-up?”

“Had to be. I'm not suggesting the entire police force was in on it, but the officer who showed up sure was.”

“Then why document the murder scene with photos?”

“Good question. I'm just guessing here, but I'd say those shots were taken from the deck, the place she fell from.” He held one of the pictures closer to the light. “See here? There's a slice of white at the edge of this frame. I'll bet it's part of the deck rail. Somebody photographed the scene, then tucked the evidence away.”

“Why?”

“An ace in the hole? Leverage? Or to use in some future blackmail scheme? However you look at it, this investigation isn't going to be a simple case, Jane. If you take it—”

“I don't see how I can.”

“Well,” said Nolan, leaning back in his chair, “maybe that's for the best. If you ask me, that family's been keeping some mighty big secrets for an awfully long time. That kind of stress can distort people, make them do things they never thought possible. I'd bet money that one of them took those photos.”

“And now passed them on to Guthrie.”

He shook his head. “Tell him to call Thomas Foxworthy Investigations. He loves a good dysfunctional family saga. Me, I'd rather track a nice, straightforward, gangland hit.”

 

10

When Guthrie inserted a key into his apartment door that night, his palms were sweating and his stomach was churning. He'd stayed at the teahouse later than usual, thinking through the conversation he needed to have with Kira. He knew what he felt needed to be done, but wasn't at all sure they'd be on the same page.

Three evenings a week, Kira worked as a health unit coordinator at Cedar-Riverside hospital near the university. She mainly answered phones, helped the staff as needed, and directed visitors to various waiting rooms. She rarely got home before ten. Since it was going on eleven, Guthrie assumed he'd find her in front of the TV, drinking a glass of wine and snacking on her usual cheese and crackers. Tonight, however, the apartment was dark and quiet.

After turning on a couple of lamps in the living room, he went into the bedroom. The bed had been made and all the dirty clothes had been picked up and dumped in the hamper. He hadn't seen or talked to Kira since morning. He'd showered as usual and then wolfed a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Before leaving, he'd gone back into the bedroom to give her a kiss good-bye. She wasn't asleep, just dozing, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. Sometimes he wished he was the kind of guy who allowed himself to chuck his duties, put his desires ahead of his responsibilities. He wanted so badly to crawl back under the covers with her. As usual, his one and only superpower—Dependability Man!—took over and guided him out the front door. Long days were the norm for both of them.