Caskets & Conspiracies

by Nellie K Neves

  “That’s not a case, Stella. It’s the life cycle.”

  She clapped her hands twice to get my attention as if she were a hypnotist and I was under her control.

  “I know it is normal for old people to die. But not this many and not these people.”

  “Start at the beginning. Tell me why you think it is suspicious.”

  “I go to the community church out in Laurel. It’s not much, just a tiny little gathering, mostly nondenominational.” She still didn’t trust the room. I could see it in the way her hands fiddled with and twisted a tiny scrap of paper in her lap. “The preacher retired earlier this year, and the church was bought up by this new outfit, The Hope Affiliates. They have churches all over the country. I don’t know why they wanted our little one.”

  Out of habit, I watched her face again. Tension remained in her cheeks, a narrowing at her eyes, a slight crinkle to her nose. She despised them.

  “Are you sure you can’t just find a new church?”

  “I don’t want a new church,” she snapped. “I like this one. Besides, with everything that is happening, I can’t leave them now. They’re helpless, all of them. Lambs to a slaughter.”

  “Are you saying this new group is murdering people?” It was beyond far-fetched, even for Stella.

  “Well, no. Of course not. Actually, in the beginning it was great. The new preacher, Joel Edwards, he made sure to fix up the church really well. We got new windows, new paint, even a new roof and didn’t have to pay a cent.” She weighed that memory against another one. “His wife is nice too. Hannah, a good biblical name. She visits everyone, especially the sick, like a good Christian should. They brought assistants with them, which was odd, but they keep everything in order and…” she paused as if she might consider that she might be wrong after all.

  I prompted her lightly. “Did something happen?”

  The nod was slight and sad. “Felix died first. It was a heart attack. He was a widower, and it wasn’t a shock. Then Gladys and then Maude and Cyrus, all widowed for many years, all heart failure.”

  If I had been a little more compassionate at heart, I would have moved from my place to hug my aunt, but I hoped a hand over hers would suffice. I was not big on touching.

  “That’s all very hard for you to deal with. I know they were your friends.” I phrased my words very carefully. “Do you think that maybe you’re trying to find comfort for their deaths by blaming an outward source?”

  She glared at me and removed her hands from mine as if I were not worthy of her touch since I did not believe.

  “I might have because I didn’t know them very well. I could brush it all off and chalk it up to old age.” A true blanket of sadness descended on her. “Then Ethyl fell down.” Her mouth twisted and puckered as she thought about it.

  “At first, I was really glad that Hannah Edwards was there when it happened. She called an ambulance, took care of hospitalization, even offered to pay for bills her insurance wouldn’t cover. She was an angel.”

  I sensed Stella’s need to talk, to vent her worries and frustrations. Something was not right, and though I had not heard it yet, I had the feeling she was not as delusional as she had been in the past.

  “Every time I visited Ethyl at home, Hannah was there, feeding her and washing the bed linens. She even brought in a team of nurses to help Ethyl while she was recovering. It looked so good, and I didn’t question it.” She sighed.

  “Marvin died next, a widower in his 90s, complications from pneumonia. Shortly after that, Ethyl started having episodes. Moments of delusions, even fits of ranting. While I was visiting, I overheard a doctor tell her she had dementia. I pretended I didn’t know because I thought she might be ashamed.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I am not sure that was the right choice now.”

  I hit my limit. I slipped from my spot on the couch and slid onto the table directly in front of her. I took her hands and gently squeezed them in my own. Her pain was real, genuine, and laced with guilt.

  “The other ladies and I, we wanted to be there for Ethyl. She was fading, and though we couldn’t see the reason, we could see her pain, you know? The light was dim inside of her.”

  She stopped. Like rocky terrain on a mountainside, the words she needed would be hard to traverse. “Hannah was always there, and I mean always, with her team of nurses and that doctor that said Ethyl was crazy. None of us could get a moment alone with her. Then after a couple weeks, we couldn’t even get in the door.”

  “They kept you out?”

  “Nothing so obvious.” She sighed heavily. “Every time we went over, there was a reason we couldn’t go in. They said she was with the doctor or sleeping or in too much pain for visitors. It didn’t matter the reason. They wouldn’t budge. Hannah and that tight-lipped smile of hers.”

  She finally squeezed my hands in return as if she had only just noticed my presence. “I got desperate. I had to see if she was okay. For all I knew, she was dead and they had taken over the house.”

  I waited for her to continue. I was sure there was more or, at least, I hoped there was. Everything she described was rude and isolating but not criminal.

  A smile spread across my aunt’s face, a little gleam in her eye. “I started to think like you, Lindy. Sneaky and a little underhanded.”

  I frowned slightly at her impression of my character. Granted, I supposed she was not far off.

  “My friend, Paula, rang the front doorbell while I snuck around the back. I had a key to Ethyl’s door from when I fed her cat a couple months before. I let myself in and made it into Ethyl’s room before anyone saw me.”

  My aunt had surprised me. She was hardly the breaking-and-entering type. It showed her desperation, and if we had been related by blood, it would have explained a great deal about my own lack of moral fiber.

  “She looked awful, so near death. Only a month before that, she was bright and vibrant.” Stella’s eyes became glossy with tears. “I held her hand for just a moment. She looked at me and said, ‘Help me, Stella.’ Hannah was coming down the hall, so I slipped out her sliding door before I could be seen.” Stella’s head sagged. “She was dead three days later, massive heart failure.”

  I could feel her hands clenching mine. Her eyelids drooped over her eyes, and her mouth dipped at the corners. The space between her eyebrows tightened under the pressure of her shame.

  “I should have done more. I should have helped her like she asked,” she whispered.

  I tried to think of what my little sister, Eleanor, would do in this situation. She was the soft and gentle daughter. I rubbed my hand over Stella’s delicate wrist and tried to assure her that it would all be fine, but I still did not see a case. Yes, it was all weird, and even a little icky, but not necessarily criminal.

  “I’m not sure how much I can do, Stella. They haven’t broken the law. I mean, unless you can prove that they killed her.”

  Stella’s head jerked up at the words. “I don’t think that at all, but I know they stole her money.”

  “They what?”

  “Ethyl was very wealthy. She had money so old its wrinkles had wrinkles. Her daughter, her only child, was supposed to inherit everything, but when the will was read, she didn’t get a dime. Nothing.” Stella leaned forward and peered at me with her bright blue eyes. “You know who got it all? The church, under Joel and Hannah’s direction. She gave every penny, her house, everything to the church.” She hesitated. “Well, the church and her slimy lawyer.”

  ********

  I was torn as I left Stella’s after only an hour or so. There wasn’t enough evidence to expect foul play, but her story made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Something was happening, but what?

  I was relieved as I turned the final corner that the convertible was still on the street. The space I had parked in before was still empty, but instead, I managed to flip around at the end of the street and park in a different section of the road. I had a good shot of the house, though I was fa
r more exposed. It was a risk I was willing to take. Clear photos meant payday.

  With my book in hand again, I settled in for the long haul. There was no way of telling when they would come back or if they would come back. People who knew what I did always assumed I had this underground, super spy life. Not really. I spent a lot of time waiting in strange places at strange hours. It was hardly glamorous. I cracked the windows in the backseat and struggled to focus on the words that lined the page. My morning workout clouded my mind with fog. The sleep I had lost the night before beckoned from the corners of my mind. I could hear my monster rattling his cage.

  Fatigue.

  It was the hardest part of the disease that lurked inside me. It could strike without warning, without cause it seemed, but today I knew what I had done. Too much without a recovery. Sludge, deep black and muddy, seeped into my veins from the monster’s cage. I shook my head to fight it off, but I could barely move. Like a tranquilizer, the sludge flowed through my muscles, giving them weight and weakening my resolve. I shifted and stretched the book far out in front of me. It didn’t help. The movement just sped the mud along as it swallowed my being. My eyes were closed, and my grip on my book weakened. I heard it tumble to the ground, pages flipping and bending as it collided with the center console and then collapsed to the floor mat.

  Five minutes, I thought. I just need to give in for five minutes, and it will be better.

  It was the same rationalization I used every time. Like a young girl giving in to a persuasive boyfriend because it all felt good, I was not willing to fight off the fatigue. Sleep felt too sublime to resist as it pulled me back into my seat and back into the sludge that enveloped my whole body. I could feel the monster smile as the mud spread over my face, edging up the sides until it captured the highest part of my nose. At times, he still won a battle or two.

  If I had been awake just one more minute, I would have seen the two lovers return and slip silently back into the house.

  **********

  The rapping started in my dream, insistent and somewhat belligerent. Light danced across my eyelids as I pulled myself out of the dried mental sludge that had held me. I brushed my palm over my face and scratched at my scalp, my hair poking up at intervals where I had rubbed my head in my sleep.

  The rapping became a knock.

  Then voices.

  “Hey, lady, are you okay?”

  “I think she’s dead, man.”

  “She’s moving, moron. She can’t be dead.”

  My sight remained blurry as my brain struggled to catch up with my movement. I always regretted these naps. There was too much to reconcile when I was out in the open world. Better at home in a familiar place.

  I blinked a few times, erasing the blurriness a little more with each one. Two boys, maybe 9 years old, stared at me through the window. I waved weakly, hoping they might leave a little quicker.

  “I think she’s homeless.”

  My voice was still catching up, but with all the volume I could gather, I replied, “I’m not homeless. Just waiting for a friend.”

  It was not far from the truth, though I was stretching the “friend” bit of it. My own words triggered my thought process, and I turned to view the target’s house. The SUV was back. The convertible was still there. I was not completely sunk just yet. The door of the house cracked open in that moment, and adrenaline pushed any remaining mud from my veins.

  I snagged the camera from the floor, long-range lens already in place. I was a sucker for the old ways. It was digital, but I still used the viewfinder to focus the picture. Miss Blonde Long Legs stepped out first, cream shorts and a tight blouse that showed off her features. Snap. The shutter captured the picture. Mr. Bodybuilder stepped out next. Snap. The sound of the camera was gratifying. I couldn’t see his face, but it was worth the picture anyway. Snap.

  Still nothing that I could use. They were careful, so very careful, keeping plenty of space between them at all times. There was nothing incriminating about standing on a front porch with someone. For all anyone knew, she could have sold him a toaster.

  Through my lens, I could read his lips, “Never again. Not until you end it.”

  Her eyes were red and puffy. He’d broken up with her, and it was all over. Her little white sneakers carefully edged down the front steps, her blonde hair swept around her face as she stared at the ground. At the last moment, she turned around and glanced back at him. There were real feelings there. I had no basis for the thought other than every movie I had ever seen. Not nearly as scientific as the rest of my training, but still it was somehow true. If she turned back, it would mean it was real.

  “Whatcha doin’, lady?” The boys asked through my window.

  “My job,” I replied flatly.

  “What’s your job, lady?”

  I knew it wasn’t right to wish ill on the boys, but they didn’t have any concept of stealth. I ignored them and hoped they would disappear.

  “Tasha!”

  The voice brought my camera back to my eye. Through the lens, I followed the leggy blonde as she trotted back up the steps to retrieve her handbag, possibly a carefully planted excuse to return. She snatched the purse from his outstretched hand and then impulsively stood tiptoe in her white sneakers and kissed him softly.

  Snap.

  Without any regard for prying eyes, the large man in the tight black shirt pulled the woman into his arms and kissed her deeply. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  I was so engrossed in my job that ignoring the little boys’ questions was easy. It wasn’t until one of them said far too loudly, “Why are you taking so many pictures of Mr. Huston, lady?” that I even remembered they were there.

  Forget mud. How about ice water in my veins?

  Through the viewfinder, his head came up at the sound of his name and found me quickly. He saw me at the exact moment I realized who he was. Marco Huston.

  I had dated him once. Well, sort of. I needed to prove that he was cheating on his girlfriend, and after a chance encounter, I talked my way into a date. It wasn’t my fault that when the evening ended, so did three relationships. Oh, wait. I guess it was my fault. Still, I had always harbored hope that he would not hold a grudge. It did not look like I would be that lucky.

  My name, or at least the name he had called me, formed on his lips in a sort of growl. There was definitely some resentment there. In fact, between his womanizing and explosive temper, not much had changed in a year and a half. He ducked just inside his doorway and snatched something. A baseball bat. Snap.

  I tossed the camera on the passenger seat and jammed the keys into the ignition. His growl became a roar as he neared my vehicle.

  “Lindsey Jacobs, I told you to stay away from me!”

  Don’t let this be a moment when you decide not to start! I begged my car in my mind. I could just imagine those large muscles and steel bat collapsing my car into a small cube with me trapped inside.

  “Lindsey!” he raged as he pulled back for a swing at my car. It was a nice alias, close enough to my own name that I could remember it, but not so close that I could be identified.

  My engine started on the first try, and I punched the gas. The bat collided with the back end of my sedan as I shot out of suburbia, leaving only the plastic of my taillight in my wake.

  And Stella wondered why I didn’t date much…

  **********

  Safe at home, I let out a little hiccup of a laugh. It was the kind that happens when you realize you just escaped a brush with death or at least major damage to your car. The guys at the auto shop owed me a favor. They would fix my busted taillight at cost.

  My hands still trembled from the adrenaline, and I set to work uploading the pictures, knowing that the best cure was a little cash in my account. The e-mail rushed off into cyberspace, and I watched my account happily as I ate ice cream straight from the carton, a blend of dark chocolate ice cream, caramel, marshmallow, swirls of fudge, and little chucks of milk chocolate. Melt-in-your-mouth goo
dness, chocolate thunder, my favorite treat.

  I hit the button next to the blinking light on my answering machine. Typical Uncle Shane message, “Lindy, call me back.” I glanced at the clock, 5:30. He was home with Stella. It could wait. If it were urgent, he would have called my cell phone.

  The money came through. I ate my microwave dinner—some pasta dish with unidentifiable filling—showered, and got ready for bed. I always did my medical injection right before bed. Usually I fell asleep with a small ice pack over the site. I learned this trick early on. Since the medication feels a lot like a bee sting, or acid slowly degrading all the tissue in its warpath, it is best to numb it and be asleep through the majority of the pain. By morning it passes, and I don’t have to feel one little bit of it. There are no brownie points given for enduring unnecessary pain.

  Chapter 5

  The next day, PI Net had an offering for a background check. While everyone else was busy deciding if it was good money, I accepted the job. By the end, I wished I had not. The job took two days’ time to complete because of the specifics and the availability, or lack thereof, of the information. I completed it on time but spent the next day recovering from my tunnel vision and obsessive tendencies. Yoga, a bubble bath and a few naps were perfect to heal all the internal wounds I had inflicted.

  I received three more texts from Ryder. I did not bother responding. It was better if I did not engage. Easier for him to forget and move on.

  Wednesday morning my phone rang at 7 a.m. Sleep was my favorite pastime, and I hated when people interrupted my hobbies.

  “What?” I groaned into the receiver after I had fumbled around to find it.

  “Just checking to see if you’re breathing. That’s all.” Uncle Shane had always been a morning person, and I was pretty sure morning people liked to terrorize the sleeping. It was their favorite pastime.

  “I am. Now let me sleep.”