by Nora Roberts
room of violent death. A room of secrets and shadows. His palm left a streak of sweat on the rail as he slowly started up.
There was pain, sharp and jabbing, like an icicle lodged in the pit of her stomach. It increased with each step. By the time she reached the door, her breath was whistling out of her lungs. She fumbled with the keys, then was forced to press one hand against the wall for balance as she rattled it into the lock.
“You have to face realities, Clare,” Dr. Janowski would say. “You have to accept them for what they are and deal with your feelings. Life hurts, and death is a part of life.”
“Fuck you,” she whispered. What did he know about pain?
The metal hinges keened as the door swung open. The scent of dust and cold, stale air filled the opening. Her eyes stung. She had hoped, somehow, to find some lingering scent of her father. A wisp of the English Leather he had splashed on every morning, a sweet trace of the cherry Lifesavers he'd been addicted to. Even the hot smell of whiskey. It had all been smothered by time. Nothing was left but dust. That was the most painful reality of all. She turned on the light.
The center of the room was empty, the floor coated with the thick gray powder of time. Clare knew her mother had given the office furniture away years before. She'd been right to do so. But Clare wished, how she wished, she could run a hand over the scarred surface of her father's desk or sit in the worn, squeaky chair.
There were boxes lined against a wall, neatly sealed with packing tape. More dust, layers of the passing years, clung softly to Clare's icy bare feet when she crossed to them. Using the keys still clutched in her hand, she cut through the tape and pried off a lid. And there was her father.
With a sound that was half joy, half sorrow, she reached inside and drew out a gardening shirt. It had been laundered and neatly folded, but grass and earth stains remained. She could see him, the faded denim bagging over his thin torso as he whistled through his teeth and tended his flowers.
“Just look at the delphiniums, Clare.” He'd grin and run his bony, dirt-crusted fingers over the deep blue blooms as gently as a man handling a newborn. “They're going to be even bigger than last year. Nothing like a little chicken poop to give a garden the edge.”
She buried her face in the shirt, drawing breath after deep breath. And she could smell him, as clearly as if she'd been sitting beside him.
“Why did you leave me that way?” She kept the scent of him pressed hard against her skin as she rocked as if she could absorb what was left of him. And the anger came, hot waves of it that twisted tight around the smothering grief. “You had no right to leave me that way when I needed you so much. Damn you, I wanted you there. I needed you there. Daddy. Oh, Daddy, why?”
She lowered herself to the floor and let the tears come.
Ernie watched her. His body had been atremble with anticipation and power. Now the dark excitement ebbed, and a hot wave of shame, unexpected, unwanted, washed over him. He felt it burn his face and neck as her hard, wrenching sobs filled the room. As he crept away, the sounds of grief chased after him until he was running to escape them.
* * *
Dr. Loomis sat in the chair in front of Cam's desk, his hands neatly folded on his briefcase, his polished wingtips heel to heel. Cam wondered if the coroner would tap them together and whisk off to Kansas or wherever the hell home was.
“When I learned the deceased was your father-”
“Stepfather,” Cam corrected.
“Yes.” Loomis cleared his throat. “When I learned he had been your stepfather, I thought it best if I brought you my report personally.”
“I appreciate it.” Cam continued to read the autopsy report, word for grim word. “This confirms homicide.”
“There's no doubt he was murdered.” Loomis's fingers steepled up, then folded again. “The autopsy bears out my original theory. The deceased was beaten to death. From the bone fragments and the splinters of wood we found, I would say at least two clubs were used. One of natural pine and one that was stained, commercially, to an ebony color.”
“Which means we have at least two murderers.”
“Possibly. If I may?” Loomis picked up the pictures Cam had taken at the scene. After tapping their edges neatly together, he turned them as if he were about to show off family snapshots. “This blow to the base of the skull? It is the only wound on the back of the body. From the bruising and discoloration, this was delivered before death. It would be sufficient to render unconsciousness. Then you note the wrists and ankles.”
“Someone clubbed him from behind, knocking him out. Then he was tied.” Cam picked up his pack of cigarettes. “Flat on his back for the rest of it.”
“Precisely.” Pleased, Loomis nearly smiled. “From the depth of the wounds and the amount of fiber in them, he struggled violently.”
“You would agree that he wasn't killed where we found him?”
“I would, most definitely.”
Cam blew out a long stream of smoke. “We located his car. His stereo unit was removed, along with his gun and a case of beer from the trunk. The receipt for the beer was still there. He'd just bought it that afternoon.” Studying Loomis, he tapped the cigarette in an ashtray. “People have been killed for less.”
“Indeed they have.”
“How many homicides of this nature come through your office in a year?”
Loomis waited a moment. “I have never, in my eight years in this county, examined a body so viciously beaten.”
Cam nodded. It was no less than what he'd expected. “I don't think Biff Stokey was killed for a stereo and a case of Bud.”
Again Loomis steepled his hands. “I'm a pathologist, Sheriff. That makes me a detective in my way. I can give you the cause of death, the approximate time of death. I can tell you what the victim enjoyed as a last meal and if he had sex with a woman. But I can't give you motive.”
Nodding, Cam crushed out his cigarette. “I appreciate you getting back to me personally, and so soon.”
“Not at all.” Loomis rose. “The body was released to the next of kin.” Noting Cam's expression, Loomis felt a pang of sympathy. It hadn't taken long for the gossip to reach him. “Your mother requested that Griffith's Funeral Home here in Emmitsboro handle the arrangements.”
“I see.” She hadn't called him once for help, Cam thought, and stonily refused every offer he'd made. Smothering the hurt, he offered a hand. “Thank you, Dr. Loomis.”
When the coroner left, Cam locked the reports and photographs in his desk drawer. He stepped outside and after a moment's debate decided against taking his car. The funeral parlor was only a few blocks away. He needed to walk.
People greeted him with nods and hellos. He knew without hearing that they whispered and murmured the moment they were out of earshot. Biff Stokey had been beaten to death. In a town that size, it wasn't possible to keep such an aberration secret. It was also no secret that Cameron Rafferty, Stokey's stepson and the town sheriff, had been the deceased's biggest enemy.
Giving a half laugh, Cam turned the corner at Main and Sunset. It was a hell of a note when the investigating officer and the chief suspect were one and the same-especially since the officer was the suspect's only alibi. He knew he'd been nursing a beer and reading a Koontz novel the night Biff had been killed. As his own witness, he could eliminate himself as a possible suspect. But there was bound to be speculation muttering around town.
He'd been in a fistfight with Biff and thrown him in jail only days before the murder. Everyone in the bar had seen just how much hate there was between them. The story had spread across town like brushfire, singeing the edges from Dopper's Woods to Gopher Hole Lane. It would have been recounted and replayed over supper tables. Out-of-town relations would have heard the news on Sunday during discounted-rate phone calls.
It made him wonder if someone had used that very convenient timing.
Biff hadn't been killed for a car stereo and some beer. But he had been killed, viciously and purp
osefully. However much Cam had hated him, he would find out why. He would find out who.
There was a crowd of people outside Griffith's aged white brick building. Some were talking to each other, others were hanging back and watching. There was such a tangle of pickups and cars along the quiet street that anybody would have thought there was going to be a parade. From a half block away, Cam could see that Mick Morgan was having trouble restoring order.
“Look now, there's nothing for y'all to see here, and you're just going to upset Miz Stokey.”
“Did they bring him in the back, Mick?” someone wanted to know. “I heard he was carved up by some motorcycle gang from D.C.”
“Hell's Angels,” someone else chimed in.
“No, it was junkies from over the river.”
There was a small, vicious argument over this.
“He got drunk and picked a fight again.” This came from Oscar Roody, who shouted over the din. “Got his head bashed clean in.”
Some of the women who had poured out of Betty's House of Beauty next door added their own viewpoints.
“The man made poor Jane's life a misery.” Betty herself wrapped her arms around her own expansive bosom and nodded sagely. “Why, she'd have to save up for six months before she could come in and get herself a perm. And he wouldn't let her have so much as a rinse put on.”
“What Jane needs now is a woman's shoulder.” Min, her hair rolled up in pink plastic curlers, stared at the front window of the funeral parlor with glittery eyes. If she could get in first, she might even get a peek at the body. That would be worth something at the next Ladies Club meeting. She elbowed her way through the crowd and started for the door.
“Now Miz Atherton, ma'am, you can't go in there.”
“You move on aside, Mick.” She brushed at him with the back of her chubby hand. “Why, I've been friends with Jane Stokey since before you were born.”
“Why don't you go finish having your hair done, Mrs. Atherton?” Cam stepped forward, blocking her path. At his appearance, the arguments settled down to murmurs. Eyes narrowed against the sun, he scanned the crowd. Here were friends, men he might share a beer with, women who would stop him on the street to pass the time of day. Most of them looked away now. Across the street Sarah Hewitt leaned lazily against the trunk of a tree, smoking and smiling at him.
Min patted her curlers. In the excitement she'd forgotten about them, but it couldn't be helped. “Now, Cameron, I'm not the least bit concerned about my appearance at a time like this. I only want to offer your mother my support in this difficult time.”
And you'd suck her dry, he thought, so that you can pass out her misery over manicures and on street corners. “I'll be sure to pass your sympathies along to her.” Slowly, he looked from face to face, from eye to eye. Some backed away, others studied the fading bruises on Cam's jaw, around his eye. Bruises Biff had put there only days before.
“I'm sure my mother could use your support at the funeral.” Christ, he wanted a cigarette. A drink. “But for now, I'd appreciate it if you left this to the family.”
They filed off, some to their pickups, others to wander down to the post office or the market where they could discuss the situation in depth.
“I'm sorry about that, Cam.” On a wheezy sigh, Mick Morgan pulled a package of Red Indian chewing tobacco from his pocket.
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“They brought him in around the back. Oscar was working on a toilet inside. That's all it took. Old fart couldn't wait to get his tongue wagging.” Mick stuffed the plug in his cheek. “They were just curious is all. I'd've had them on their way in a minute or two.”
“I know. Is my mother inside?”
“That's what I heard.”
“Do me a favor and keep an eye on the office for a while.”
“Sure thing.” He used his tongue to settle the chaw more cozily. “Ah…mighty sorry about your trouble, Cam. If you want to take a couple days off, stay with your mom, Bud and me can double up.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. But I don't think she'll need me.” Wearily, he walked up to the door with its discreet brass knocker.
He stepped inside to the overwhelming scent of gladiolas and Lemon Pledge. There was a churchlike hush in the red-draped hallway. Why in the hell did funeral parlors always use red? he wondered. Was that the color of comfort?
Red plush, dark paneling, thick carpet, and ornate candlesticks. A bunch of plucky glads and lilies sat in a tall vase on a glossy table. Beside them was a stack of printed business cards.
WE'LL BE HERE IN YOUR TIME OF NEED
Charles W. Griffith and Sons Emmitsboro, Maryland established 1839
It pays to advertise, Cam thought.
There was a carpeted stairway leading to the second floor. The viewing rooms. An entertaining term for a morbid tradition, he thought. Why the hell people wanted to stare at corpses he couldn't figure. But maybe that was because he'd had to look at more than his share.
He remembered climbing those steps as a child, to look at the dead face of his father. His mother had been weeping, walking ahead of him with Biff Stokey's beefy arm around her. He hadn't wasted any time moving in, Cam thought now. Mike Rafferty hadn't even been in the ground before Stokey put his hands on the widow.
Now they were full circle.
His hands jammed in his pockets, Cam started down the hallway. The double doors to the main parlor were shut. He hesitated, then pulled a hand free to knock. Within moments, the door opened silently.
Standing somber-eyed in one of his five black suits was Chuck Griffith. For more than a hundred and fifty years the Griffiths had been undertakers in Emmitsboro. Chuck's son was already in training to take over the family business, but at forty, Chuck was in his prime.
As a boy he'd been as comfortable in the embalming room as on the baseball field, where he'd been the star pitcher. To the Griffiths, death was a business, a steady one. Chuck could afford to take his family on a two-week vacation every year and buy his wife a new car every third one.
They had a pretty house on the edge of town and an inground swimming pool, heated. People often joked about it being the pool that death built.
In his capacity as coach for Emmitsboro's Little League, Chuck was loud, boisterous, and competitive. As the town's only funeral director, he was somber, soft-spoken, and sympathetic. Immediately he extended one of his wide, capable hands to Cam.
“It's good you're here, Sheriff.”
“Is my mother inside?”
“Yes.” Chuck cast a quick glance behind him. “I'm having some trouble convincing her that, under the circumstances, a closed casket service would be advisable.”
Cam had an instant and uncomfortable flash of what had been left of Biff's face. “I'll talk to her.”
“Please, come in.” He gestured Cam inside the dimly lit, flower-filled room. There was music playing quietly from hidden speakers. Something soft and soothing. “We're having some tea. I'll just get another cup.”
Cam nodded, then walked toward his mother. She was sitting stiffly on the high-back sofa, a box of tissues within arm's reach. She was wearing a black dress, one he didn't recognize. He imagined she had borrowed it or had one of her lady friends buy it for her. She held the teacup in a white-knuckled grip. Her knees were pressed so tightly together, Cam thought they must ache with the pressure of bone to bone. At her feet was a small hard-sided suitcase with a broken strap.
“Mom.” Cam sat beside her and after a moment put a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. She didn't look at him.
“Did you come to see him?”
“No, I came to stay with you.”
“There's no need.” Her voice was cold and steady as stone. “I've buried a husband before.”
He took his hand away and had to fight the need to ball it into a fist and bash it against the glossy coffee table. “I'd like to help you make the arrangements. It's hard to make decisions at a time like this. And it's expensive. I'd like to t
ake care of whatever bills there are.”
“Why?” Her hand was rock steady as she lifted it, sipped her tea, then lowered it again. “You hated him.”
“I'm offering to help you.”
“Biff wouldn't want your help.”
“Is he running your life now, too?”
Her head snapped around, and her eyes, reddened from hours and hours of weeping, burned into him. “Don't you speak ill of him. The man is dead, beaten to death. Beaten to death,” she repeated in a harsh whisper. “You're the law here. If you want to help, then you find out who did this to my husband. You find out who killed him.”
Chuck cleared his throat as he walked back into the room. “Mrs. Stokey, perhaps you'd like to-”
“I don't need any more tea.” She rose and picked up the suitcase. “I don't need anything. I brought the clothes I want him buried in. Now you take me to see my husband.”