The Grave Soul (8 page)

Pushing through the front door, Guthrie found a heavyset older woman in a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt and pearls standing behind the bar. “Is Kevin around?” he asked.

“Sorry.”

“How about his daughter, Kira?”

“Nope.”

“You're sure.”

“One hundred percent.” She wiped a cloth across the counter.

“You one of the regular bartenders?”

“Hell, no. I sub from time to time, when Kevin makes it worth my while. This ain't exactly my idea of a great time, if you know what I mean.” She winked.

“When will Kevin be back?”

“He said he'd be here to close up on Sunday night.”

“Do you know where he went?”

She leaned against the counter. “I don't keep his social calendar, son. Can I get you something? A beer? A bump?”

He eased down on one of the stools. “Just information.”

“Might cost you more than the booze.”

He wasn't sure if she was kidding or if she meant it. “Look, I'm trying to find Kira. She's my girlfriend. She's not at her grandmother's place. I know she has an uncle in town. Doug Adler. I don't suppose you know where he lives.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. We're neighbors. It's called the Jack Pine Trailer Park. If you drove into town on Highway 30, head back out that way. You'll see a sign about six miles out, on your left. Can't miss it.”

“How do I find his trailer?”

“It's white with rust-colored trim. Only one there with those colors.” She leaned an arm on the counter. “Course, if you're looking to find him, he's not there. I talked to Laurie—that's his wife—yesterday morning. She said they were planning a little weekend getaway.”

“With the rest of the family?”

“No idea.”

Guthrie held on to the edge of the bar to steady himself. “Kira has an Aunt Hannah—”

“The doctor. Yeah.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Nope. Me and her don't run in the same social circles.”

Guthrie opened his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill.

“I was kiddin' about that,” said the woman.

“No, I appreciate your time and the information.” He left it on the counter. As he rose to go, he stopped. Turning back, he said, “Do you have a phone directory for New Dresden?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She reached under the bar. “Here you go.” She shoved it across to him.

He quickly found Hannah Adler's name. “1459 Ogden Avenue,” he said, repeating the address out loud. “You know where that is?”

She gave him directions, said it wasn't far.

A few minutes later, Guthrie pulled his car to the curb outside a one-story stucco bungalow. It was a nice enough middle-class neighborhood with large, ancient elm trees, though the houses were all small, as were the yards. Cutting the engine, he trotted up the front walk and rang the bell, noting that, at the doctor's house, the driveway and walks had all been shoveled. When no one answered, which, by now was what he expected, he banged for almost a minute, taking out his frustration on the door.

“Damn it,” he shouted, whirling around. He scanned the street, then turned back and examined the front picture window, which was covered by a heavy curtain. Opening his cell phone, he was about to punch in Kira's number when the garage door opened and a black Lexus backed out. As it eased into the drive, the passenger-side window lowered.

“What are you doing here, Guthrie?” Hannah's expression was impatient on the way to being pissed.

“How come you're still in town?” he asked, trotting down the steps. “Why aren't you with the rest of your family?”

“Right, like I want to spend the next few days getting yelled at. Answer my question. Why are you here?”

“I need to see Kira.”

The car continued to back toward the street. “Have you heard of an amazing little device called the cell phone? Works wonders for general communication.”

“She won't answer.”

Hannah stopped the car. “Then give her some time and she will.”

“Where are they? What's going on?”

“None of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got patients to see in Eau Claire.” With that, she closed the window, backed out onto the street, and drove away.

 

12

Jane carried an old dusty box of Christmas ornaments up the stairs from the basement, amazed to think that she hadn't opened it in more than fifteen years, not since her longtime partner, Christine, had died. Ever since that time, she'd spent Christmas at her father's house or at Cordelia's. This year, she'd made the decision to host Christmas at her home. It was all part of the decision she'd made to live life at a more respectful pace, to stop and smell the roses, and all that.

Coming into the living room, she found Cordelia bending over the tree base, filling it with water. Bolger Aspenwall III, Hattie's part-time nanny—also in his final year of an MFA program at the university—stood on a ladder attempting to affix a glittering gold star to the top of the tree. Hattie was on her knees in front of the fireplace, perched between Jane's two dogs—Mouse, a brown lab, and Gimlet, a miniature black poodle. All three were staring raptly at Bolger.

“Make sure it's straight,” said Cordelia, helping Jane set the cumbersome box down on the couch.

Hattie scrambled to her feet as Jane removed the cover. “Ooh,” she said, touching the red tissue paper surrounding all the delicate ornaments. “Can I help put them on the tree?”

“That's the plan,” said Cordelia. “You work on the bottom half and I'll do the top.”

“And I'll string the lights,” said Jane, standing back to assess the tree. “I can't believe you talked me into buying such a big one.” A seven-foot Scotch pine was now enthroned in her living room, in front of the picture window.

“I forgot to bring my extra lights,” said Cordelia, grumbling as she dug through a paper sack.

“No worries,” said Jane. She lifted out three flats of ornaments to reveal what was at the bottom.

Cordelia peeked inside and turned up her nose. “I don't like those larger bulbs. They're old fashioned. I like the tiny new ones.”

“Not me,” said Jane. “I've even got a string of bubblers that Christine bought for our first Christmas together.” She removed the lights and began to untangle them.

“Can I assume,” said Bolger, climbing down the ladder, “that you're preparing some spectacular edibles for the party?”

“I'm still working on the menu,” said Jane, though in truth, she hadn't had time to give it much thought.

“Who all's coming?” asked Bolger, lifting the ladder away from the tree.

“Cordelia, Hattie, and me,” said Jane. “And then my father. I doubt he'll bring a date.”

“And me and my boyfriend,” said Bolger. “That's six.”

“And Daddy Radley,” said Hattie with a delighted cry.

Radley Cunningham had been number seven in Octavia Thorn-Lester's extensive husband collection. Octavia was Cordelia's sister—Hattie's bio mom—though Cordelia had been the constant in Hattie's life. Radley was an Englishman, a movie producer who had formed a strong bond with the little girl during the time he and Octavia had been together. He liked to take Hattie on location shoots when it didn't interfere with her schooling. A charming, decent, gentle man, Radley was the closest thing to a real father in the little girl's life.

“I think Radley's bringing his sister this trip,” said Jane.

“What about Octavia?” asked Bolger, retrieving the bottle of pinot from the mantel and pouring everyone more wine.

“She's making the rounds of casting couches in Hollywood at the moment,” said Cordelia. “And I mean that in the literal sense.”

“What's a casting couch?” asked Hattie.

“Oh, sweet pea,” said Bolger, scooping her into his arms. He straightened her black satin cat outfit, which she insisted on trying out before her auntie's New Year's Eve bash. “Auntie Cordelia was just being silly.”

“Couches aren't silly,” said Hattie, poking the cleft in his chin.

The doorbell rang, causing the dogs to bolt into the foyer.

“You expecting someone?” asked Cordelia, sitting down on the edge of the couch to unwrap the ornaments.

“Not that I know of,” said Jane. When she drew back the door, she found Guthrie outside.

“Uh, hi,” he said tentatively, removing his watch cap. “I'm sorry to bother you like this, out of the blue. Do you have a second? I really need to talk to you.”

“Sure,” said Jane. He was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, and he looked so frazzled, so wired, that she couldn't turn him away. “Come in. Can I get you something? Water? A glass of wine?”

“I'm fine,” he said, though he clearly wasn't.

Jane was glad now that she'd filled Cordelia in on Guthrie's situation over lunch. Cordelia had known Guthrie almost better than Jane had because she'd employed him so often to staff her legendary theatrical soirees back in the late nineties. Cordelia might see herself mainly as a theatrical diva, and yet another persona she claimed was Earth Mother. In that capacity, she felt it was her duty to listen to anyone with a problem, especially romantic problems, which Guthrie seemed to have in abundance as a younger man. Cordelia freely dispensed what she considered to be golden advice.

“Guthrie,” cried Cordelia, sweeping out of the living room and nearly lifting him off his feet with in a hug. “Oh, my poor boy, how are you? Jane has told me all.”

“She has?”

“You look terrible. Come sit by the fire and let Auntie Cordelia help.”

Guthrie started for the living room, but stopped when he saw the tree. “You're decorating your Christmas tree. This is a family evening. I shouldn't be here.”

“Oh, blither,” said Cordelia, dragging him over to the rocking chair by the fireplace. “Sit,” she ordered.

He sat stiffly as the dogs sniffed his hands before moving on to his pants and shoes.

“They're very friendly,” said Jane.

He gave a weak smile.

“Not an animal lover, are we?” asked Cordelia.

“No, they're fine.”

Jane introduced Bolger and Hattie to Guthrie. “Hey, Bolge,” said Jane as she joined Cordelia on the couch. “Could you take the dogs and Hattie downstairs to the rec room? You'll find lots to eat in the refrigerator, and ice cream treats in the freezer. There's an entire wall of games and movie DVDs. Help yourself.”

“Treats?” repeated Bolger. Both dogs whipped their heads around, pricking up their ears at a favorite word. Since he was still holding Hattie, he clapped a hand to his thigh and ordered the dogs to follow.

“I feel awful about interrupting your evening,” said Guthrie, stuffing his watch cap in his pocket, then holding his hands closer to the fire.

“Stop with all the apologizing,” said Cordelia, “and tell us why you're here.”

“Well, see, after you left the teahouse this morning, Jane, I decided to drive to New Dresden. I had to talk to Kira in person, see her face when I told her what I'd learned. But she wasn't at her grandmother's farmhouse. I eventually figured out that the entire family had gone off for a few days. Nobody knew where. I called Kira and begged her to call me back. That was around three. I still haven't heard from her.” Leaning forward, pressing his hands together, he said, “I don't understand it. She's never been like this before. It's like she's been sucked into a black hole.”

Jane and Cordelia exchanged worried glances.

“So, why are you here?” asked Jane.

His shoulders sank. “I called that guy, Tom Foxworthy, the PI you suggested. He wouldn't take the case unless I paid him five hundred dollars up front. I don't have that kind of money. I know you said you don't have any time to work on the case. I'm not even sure what you charge, or if you'd let me pay it off slowly.”

“Fear not,” said Cordelia, puffing out her ample bosom. “You have my word. Jane and I will do what we can.”

“Cordelia?” said Jane.

“We'll leave for New Dresden in the morning. Spend the weekend digging.”

“Are you a PI, too, these days?” asked Guthrie.

“I'm”—she put a finger to her lips—“covert. I keep a low profile.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“We'll come up with something,” Cordelia assured him. “I've always been the brains behind Jane's cases. She probably didn't tell you that.” She paused. “Well?” she said impatiently. “Did she?”

“Um, no?”

“Doesn't surprise me.” Slapping her knees and standing, she said, “We better finish trimming the tree. I've got to get home and pack my trunk.”

“You probably won't need a trunk for only a couple of days,” said Guthrie.

Jane figured she might as well give in. Two days, in the scheme of things, wasn't all that much to ask. Besides, she hated to admit it, but she'd become fascinated by the mystery. It was the way it always started, the reason she often said yes when she should have said no. “We'll take my CR-V. That way, even if you decide on two trunks, we'll have enough room.”

“Good thinking,” said Cordelia. Towering over Guthrie, she added, “I like an adventure every now and then. Gets the juices flowing.”

At least, thought Jane, she hadn't said anything about going into “sleuthing mode.” Jane needed to be grateful for small mercies.

 

13

The crack of dawn, for Cordelia, was somewhere between ten and noon. Thus, at ten after ten on Saturday morning, Jane sat in her SUV outside Cordelia's fortress, waiting for one of the help to drag out the various trunks. Cordelia and her sister had hired a “house man,” James Merriman, when they first moved in. He was a retired actor, and though he radiated a certain gravitas, thanks mostly to his resemblance to Ian Richardson and his penchant for spouting verse, he was so beset by arthritic back problems that it was more a charity hire than actual employment. Just to be “subversive,” as he termed it, he'd taken to wearing an Edwardian butler's uniform, a la
Downton Abbey
. Actual Merriman sightings were rare, as he stayed mostly in his third floor lair. On his good days, however, Jane would sometimes see him moving gravely through the house wearing white gloves and touching tables and vases to make sure they were sufficiently dust free.