Caskets & Conspiracies

by Nellie K Neves

  “You still haven’t seen her?” Marco asked Ryder from a few rows back.

  Ryder shook his head but did not turn around. “Sorry, man. I don’t think you’re going to find her.”

  Marco laughed in frustration. “Well, if you ever run into a girl like that, take my advice, and run as fast as you can. She is nothing but trouble.”

  “I think you are probably right,” Ryder agreed a little too honestly.

  It was only a moment later when the front bell rang, notifying me of their exit. Still Ryder held me in place. I watched his furtive glances over his shoulder, checking to see if they would return. Finally, after a full minute, he stepped away.

  The air felt cold against my skin once his warmth was stripped from me. Strange how certain habits and compulsions could come back, almost like a reflex. It was all I could do to remember that I did not want him and that I did not even know him that well.

  Ryder picked up his steel pipe from where he had dropped it, but did not smile as he looked at me. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  I tried to make a joke of it. “How would you rather meet?” The joke fell flat. My sarcasm came at the worst times, and I quickly adopted a serious tone. “I’m really sorry. I hadn’t planned to involve you.” The apology felt hollow.

  “Who was he? An ex-boyfriend?” Ryder asked cautiously.

  I followed Ryder to the register where he paid for his pipe.

  “No, not really.”

  I waited patiently for Ryder, slightly embarrassed that I was afraid to poke my head out the door without a little protection. I was not weak, but I knew Marco outweighed me by about 80 pounds, and that weight was pure muscle. Sure, I could fight, but I had learned long ago that some fights are not worth the pain.

  Ryder held the door, the bell jangling again, and followed me through. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  I could not read him. The absence of emotion was too great. Was he indifferent? His voice was soft, the tenor deep, but the volume only just above a whisper. Rattled. That was what my gut told me. Ryder was unsettled from something. Had Marco frightened him? They were similar in size and build, though Marco’s rage certainly gave him a certain intimidation factor.

  “He might,” I admitted.

  Ryder glanced up and down the street then offered, “Let me walk you to your car then.”

  I started to fall into stride, but stopped quickly.

  Ryder paused, slightly annoyed, and asked, “What now?”

  The words felt absurd as I said them. “My car was towed.”

  The faintest smile broke at his lips. “So, should I take you home or to the impound lot?”

  I knew it would take time to process my car and file paperwork. I didn’t want to wait around the lot when I could wait around at my place instead. “I can call someone for a ride. My aunt isn’t too far away.”

  He tilted his head to the right. “My SUV is back here. I’ll give you a ride.”

  It was not an offer as much as it was a statement of what he was going to do. I fell into step behind him and once the door was unlocked, I climbed into the passenger side of his black Chevy Tahoe.

  Because I analyze everything as part of my job, there is an automatic system, a little drone that stores volumes of profiles inside my head and chirps when something does not fit the profile.

  The SUV did not fit Ryder’s profile. The interior was nice enough, or at least it had been at one point in time. The leather seats were cracked in a few places, yellow foam spilling out like a few of the stab-wound victims I had seen while helping Uncle Shane. The clock blinked 12:00 over and over again. The steering wheel had bits of electrical tape holding the leather together. I had profiled Ryder as rich, but the car was not confirming that inclination.

  I caught Ryder watching me and quickly looked away.

  He only chuckled, a bit of sarcasm there when he spoke. “Do you analyze everything you see?”

  My shrug was slight. “It’s hard to turn off.”

  The key slipped into the ignition, and the engine turned over, roaring to life, but Ryder did not shift the gear. Finally he asked, “So, you’re Lindsey?”

  “No. Marco just thinks my name is Lindsey.”

  It was not a laugh from his chest or a scoff but some noise in between the two, a sound that conveyed just how tired he was of me and my deceptions. “Who are you? What is your real name, because I think I have earned the right to know by now.”

  Ryder was right. He had earned it and then some.

  “My name is Lindy Johnson. I work as a private investigator.” I sighed slightly before I continued. “Marco has a bad habit of cheating, and I have been the one to catch him in the act… twice. He is not very happy with me.”

  The Tahoe lurched forward as Ryder pulled out of the parking lot. “In the bar, when we met, you were working a case?”

  I confirmed it with a quick nod. “The guy I was tailing was good at hiding, and really mean, worse than Marco. He had spotted me earlier in the week, and I talked my way out of it. I knew if he found me that night, I was toast.”

  Ryder turned left at the stoplight. “So you used me.”

  It was as direct as a punch to the gut.

  “I’ve used the scenario before, and nothing came of it. I didn’t expect—”

  “Then you used me again at Milton’s memorial.” If the first was a punch to the gut then that was the sharp cross against my jaw.

  I pointed the direction he should turn and tried to explain myself.

  “My aunt wants me to look into the church in Laurel. There have been suspicious deaths, and she is worried there might be foul play.”

  The Tahoe picked up speed as we left the Ferndale city limits and entered the back roads of the hills behind the town.

  “Milton was a cut-and-dried heart attack. My father really was his doctor, and I know his case pretty well. When I first came back to town, I was helping out with files and data entry. Everything is on point.”

  “But there were others.”

  “Old people die. It’s part of life,” Ryder insisted. “My father works in geriatrics. He does his best to prolong their lives, but eventually, there aren’t any medications left to try.”

  It was not worth the argument. For all I knew, he was in on it. I brushed the thought aside. That was ludicrous, but his father certainly deserved a closer look.

  My phone buzzed, and I saw the PI Net code for covert surveillance. I quickly accepted the work and then kicked myself since I had no car. Was I going to walk to Bellingham?

  “What was that?” Ryder asked suspiciously.

  “Work,” I informed him. “A job. Doing surveillance.”

  It bothered him. My work bothered him, like a bug under his skin. “Is it all pretty dangerous work?”

  “Not typically.” I pointed to the upcoming crossroads. “But I’m not some weak little girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “Right,” he said, his sarcasm apparent. “Just like you did today?”

  That struck a nerve. “I can fight, but I know the difference between a fight and a losing battle. If Marco landed one hit, I would have been unconscious.”

  The silence gripped the car. I kicked myself for snapping at someone who was little more than a complete stranger.

  “You know, this is the first real conversation we have ever had.”

  I snickered to myself. “And I’m sure you’re just dying to have another one, right?”

  He turned onto my driveway after I pointed the way and pulled to a stop in front of my house. “I’m pretty sure you were clear about that the last time we spoke. The word ‘never’ comes to mind.”

  He had a way of making me feel guilty for the words I chose.

  “My life is a little crazy. You don’t even know the half of it. Trust me when I say that distance is for your own good.” I curled my fingers around the door handle and let the pressure pop the door open.

  “Dinner. Next time I meet you, I’d like t
o be taking you to dinner.”

  I stopped the door midswing. “What?” I asked, totally caught off guard by his statement.

  “Earlier you asked how I would rather meet.” His head tilted slightly as if to consider the words. “That’s my answer: dinner. I’d like to take you to dinner, something nice. You look good in dresses.”

  “Ryder,” I began, but he had already shifted into reverse. He did not want to hear my words about “never” or “we can’t.” He had said his piece, and he was on his way. I watched the Tahoe disappear, struck by the loneliness that often accompanied the decisions I had made. But it was not until Ryder that the loneliness actually bothered me.

  Chapter 10

  After a couple of calls to Shane, a ride from my Aunt Stella, an hour of waiting in a dingy impound waiting room, oh, and $600, I got my car back. I was sure the chief would catch wind of my parking violation, and I knew it would not bode well for my case. It was just another example to him of Lindy’s disregard for laws.

  With a giant hole in my finances, I not only took the covert surveillance job at the docks, but also a few other odd jobs as they came along. Aunt Stella’s case had to wait until I could afford to work for free. After three surveillance stints, one employee reference check, six thorough background checks, and one missing boat—spoiler alert: it was in the marina—I finally found myself in the black again, but it was not until well into the next week.

  After another night of disturbing dreams, I started out late from my place to chase the last thread I had found. I checked Peter Davidson’s house first, but there was no car in the driveway. I could check the bar, but not wanting to repeat history, I ran a few errands for myself instead. As I headed back to my place, I swung by Peter’s again on impulse. I parked on the street and scrutinized the house. The left shoe was still deserted on the front porch. There were a few bottles on the porch, empty for sure. The weeds were high around the garage, but I could see a crack at the base of the swing-up door. I was sure it had not been there earlier. I climbed from my sedan and started toward the garage. The sound of a car engine quickened my pace.

  There is this theory on fear in psychology that we see an object and decide to be afraid of it before we even acknowledge what it is. All of this occurs at a subconscious level within a split second. It made sense as I jogged to the garage door, fear clouding my thoughts before I ever reached a conclusion. There was exhaust pouring from the small crack.

  I yanked the garage door upward. A wall of exhaust choked my lungs, and I keeled over. Through my coughing and hacking, I made my way to the driver side and tore open the door. The man from the bar, Peter Davidson, was unconscious in the front seat.

  Gripping his body under his arms and pulling with whatever strength I could muster, I freed him from the car and haphazardly dragged him to the driveway. My eyes and lungs burned with chemicals and particulates from his old Cadillac. In the open air, I took a few deep breaths and removed my cell phone. I checked his pulse and called 911 as I willed them to get there in time.

  He roused to consciousness quickly once out of the garage, but his words were little more coherent than a mumble through his coughing and gasping.

  “What?” I asked as I sat on the concrete beside him.

  It was clearer the second time.

  “I wanted to tell him sorry.”

  “Tell who?” I asked.

  “My father. I betrayed my father.”

  Even in his irrational state, the shame surrounded him like a cocoon.

  “Just hang on, Peter. Help is coming.”

  “Sorry,” he moaned through his wheezing. “I’m so sorry.”

  I heard the ambulance wail in the distance, and I held his hand a little tighter.

  **********

  The ambulance was fast, and it was not long before Peter was loaded into the back with oxygen attached. There was not room for me in the ambulance, so I followed in my sedan. He was admitted to the hospital quickly, and I answered whatever questions I could. After that, it became a waiting game. I was not family, but I was still invested. Something had driven Peter to want to take his own life, and my gut knew it had something to do with Hannah and Joel Edwards.

  After an hour with no updates, I started to wander the halls, if for no other reason than to stretch my muscles. The thought echoed in my mind, If I had just gone home.… I stopped myself there.

  I wound through a surprising amount of hallways, completely unhindered by any employees or security. As I found myself in a dead end, I reversed direction and started back for the waiting room. A large sign that marked a hallway piqued my curiosity: Winslow Torrance Geriatric Wing. It was likely most of the deceased church patrons had visited a doctor in this wing.

  I made my way down the long hallway, noting doctors’ offices along the way. The lobby was full of elderly people, all with one ailment or another. It struck me that while I would one day have the same ailments, it was not likely I would ever reach their age. A nurse passed by me in the hall, and I pretended to study a sign on the wall. She kept moving, and so did I. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Until I found it. The nameplate of Dr. Charles Harrison, Ryder’s father and Milton’s doctor.

  I knocked once despite the dark space within. I wanted to make sure no one was there. After all, it was not the doctor I wanted to see. It was his files. When no one came to the door, I pulled a bobby pin from my hair. The dark locks fell around my face, and I quickly tucked them behind my ear. Glancing down the hallway, and shielding my activity with my body, I bit down on the ends of the metal and pulled the plastic tips off with my teeth. I bent the bobby pin at a 90 degree angle to improvise a tension wrench. I had a lock-picking set at home, a gift from my old boyfriend Amos, the con man, but I had not planned on picking locks when I had set out that morning.

  Footsteps from the north side of the hallway alerted me to oncoming traffic. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and faked a conversation in hushed tones about a loved one’s trauma. The doctor kept moving, and I played out the charade until he was gone. My makeshift tension wrench in hand, I waggled the opposite side until it snapped and I had the two tools that were necessary. As I worked quickly on the lock, the tension wrench inserted and the picking tool wiggling about within the lock, I thought of the chief’s admonition to follow the law. The lock clicked, and smoothly, I entered the office. The chief would have my head if he knew.

  It was not a huge office, but it was certainly large enough. One long desk spanned the length of the farthest wall. A computer sat in the corner of the desk on the far left. Three filing cabinets were tucked under the desk with an empty space where a fourth might have been missing. I hoped that was not the case. A 4-foot fake tree stood in front of the space, and it gave me comfort that the space had been there long enough that he had felt the need to decorate it.

  Certificates, medical degrees, and photos of the doctor with a few local celebrities adorned one wall. I was surprised that there were no pictures of Ryder, but I could not linger on the thought for long. I was on an expiring time limit. The computer would be password protected, and without Kip, I was surely lost. But hard copies were where I excelled.

  I started with the file cabinet nearest to the desk and searched the names within. When I didn’t find what I was looking for, I moved on to the next file. I finally found the P section where Milton Penley’s file should have been, but the file was not present. I had to wonder if Ryder was mistaken. Maybe his father had been a doctor to a different Milton. The final cabinet creaked slightly as I pulled it open, but there, at the back, was pay dirt. Not only Milton’s file, but Ethyl’s as well, and two other names I recognized.

  I flipped open Milton’s and Ethyl’s files side by side. Both had entered the doctor’s care only a year before, and both had been victims of falling injuries. They both developed an arrhythmia shortly after care, and they both had been prescribed the same drug, Sodexus. Dr. Harrison’s notes showed a decrease in blood pressure and a stabilizati
on of the arrhythmia, but each patient showed multiple bouts with pneumonia. They also had an emergency contact in common, Hannah Edwards.

  I snapped a couple of pictures with my phone, hopeful that I could blow them up later and read further. It was feasible to send the image to Kip to see if he could find something. A key sounded in the door’s lock, which was sticky after my rough entry. I flipped the folder shut and was just slipping them back into their places when I saw a familiar symbol, the capital A with the embellishment on the right side. I did not have time to focus on it.

  I eased the drawer shut and ducked under the desk to the far right of the filing cabinets. With the only time I had left, I pulled the potted tree closer to my cubby and turned my face into the darkness. With dark clothes on, the only thing that would give me away was my light skin.

  The door opened, and after a few choice words directed at the lock, the doctor entered. He slid into his office chair the same way that my neurologist, Dr. McAllister, did. I had to wonder if it was a class in med school.

  The computer flashed on, and the keys clacked through the wooden top of the desk. I remained silent and still for five minutes while he worked. I struggled to remember whether I had put my phone on silent. One sound and I was in big trouble. There was no lie big enough to cover up how I had gotten into his locked office and why I hid under his desk.

  The phone rang, and Dr. Harrison picked it up on the first ring, barely pausing in his typing.

  “Yes, I thought it would be you.”

  I considered pulling my phone from my pocket to tape his words but thought better of it. Conversations recorded without permission are not admissible in court, and even then it was not worth the risk for only one side of the conversation.

  “Yes, I got the tickets. Very generous of you, for sure.” A pause. Then, “No. Since the divorce, I don’t have a date to bring.”