“Ah, well, that’s a pity.”
“Is everything okay?” Aggie frowned. She could tell Collin was trying to be invested in their conversation, yet he kept glancing at the notebook he’d set on top of his duffel bag.
“Mmm?” His brows raised in question, as if she’d startled him. He gave his head a quick shake. “Oh. Yes. Quite well, thank you.”
Aggie tilted her head. “I don’t believe you.” And he should at least share something with her since she’d word-vomited her entire considerations regarding Mumsie and Hazel.
“It’s just, I thought this job was going to be especially simple. What with the flooding, the graves mark themselves, or so it would seem. Outlined by sinking and that. It should be as easy as mixing milk in my tea. But I’m a bit gobsmacked now.”
“By what?” Aggie watched the confusion furrow his brow again, and when he met her eyes, there was concern in his that had completely erased the typical twinkle that resided there. “What is it?” She leaned forward.
Collin raked his hand through his hair and shrugged his shoulders. “I found another grave. Another unmarked grave. That makes three now.”
“You’re in Fifteen Puzzle Row. It stands to reason some old, ancient graves might have lost their markings, doesn’t it? That was the whole reason the cemetery hired you.” Aggie reached for her coffee mug, more out of something to do with her hands than the need for a warm drink.
Collin nodded. “One would think. But this one . . . it’s not where I’d expect one on the grid survey. The other two graves I found, I was able to calculate depth and position of the grave based off the imagery on my GPR. This grave is not only horizontal to the other two graves, it’s also not the average depth. Quite close to the surface actually.”
“You mean your radar? That thing I can’t make sense of with all the ripples and lines and shadows on the screen?”
“Yes.”
“So, this supposed grave didn’t wash away in the flood?” Aggie took a sip of coffee.
Collin shook his head. “From what I can tell, there’s nothing for the earth to sink around or wash away from.”
“I don’t understand.”
Collin gave a long sigh, his frown deepening. “Meaning, there is no grave. More specifically, no cement vault, no casket or coffin. At least from what I’m able to detect with the equipment I have at my disposal.”
“But you said it’s a grave.”
“Yes. Yes, I did. There’s something inside of it, but the measurements don’t fit a coffin. They’re not typical. It’s more compact. As if . . .”
“As if what?” Aggie was going to throttle the man if he didn’t just spit it out.
“As if a body was buried there. Just a body. Nothing else.”
Aggie winced. “So, not only did people buy grave plots cheap because they were in random spaces, but they skipped buying coffins too?”
“And were buried sideways,” Collin concluded.
“That sounds . . . unbelievable.” Aggie shook her head.
“Unbelievable? No.” Collin met her gaze. “Atypical, most definitely. It raises many questions. Many, many questions.”
“Such as?” Aggie led.
“Well, pardon my bluntness, but it begs the question as to whether Hazel Grayson was the only murder victim laid to rest in Fifteen Puzzle Row.”
CHAPTER 22
Imogene
She was in no mood for a moonlit stroll. Hang it all if Hazel’s murder wasn’t seeping the last ounce of fun from her life! Imogene dared a sideways glance at Ollie, who took lazy strides beside her, hands in his overall pockets. Dusk was settling fast, and the tips of the cornstalks in the fields appeared dark against the sunset that blended into the dark violet of the night sky. Tiny pinpricks of stars were beginning to pop up across the sky. A cool breeze lifted strands of Imogene’s black hair. Wisps of carefully preened hair curled into their rolls and pulled up on each side with a comb.
And being in no mood to toy with a teasing dance around the truth of it, Imogene chose to simply ask. She tempered her tone so her voice didn’t sound sharp or annoyed. “Why did you want to take a walk with me?”
Ollie didn’t bother to look at her. Instead, he surveyed the gravel road they walked on. The toe of his boot sent a stone skipping ahead of them.
Imogene heard a whippoorwill lilting its nighttime lullaby.
“Well?” she pressed. Truth be told, she was embarrassed about her reaction back in the barn. Ashamed that Ollie saw her close to being driven bonkers by it all. Everything. Hazel. The dollhouse. Her own raging mind filled with details and nuances and riddles.
“Figured you needed to get out for a bit,” Ollie finally offered.
“Out?” Imogene couldn’t help the slight raise to her voice. She stopped and turned to face Ollie, her shoes crunching on the loose gravel. “Out? Do you think now is the time I want a boy to come calling? In the wake of Hazel being murdered?”
She put her hands to her hips, wishing not for the first time that she’d thought to grab a sweater. Her bare arms were chilled with goose bumps rising on her forearms. From what Imogene could make out in the waning light, Ollie’s facial expression shifted slightly, and he looked at her through sad eyes. “I wasn’t callin’ on you.”
Oh. “Oh.”
“I thought you might need to get outside. Take a breather. Too much comin’ at a person and they’re like to lose their mind.”
Imogene bit her bottom lip and shifted her arms so they crossed over her chest. She looked away and mumbled, “Well, my mind is quite intact, thank you very much, Oliver Schneider.”
“Can’t be too intact if you’re lookin’ to hook up with Sam Pickett.” Ollie’s under-the-breath chastisement brought Imogene’s head back around in a swift motion.
“Now, what is that supposed to mean?” She’d no intention of hooking up—not with anybody—she convinced herself.
“Supposed to mean what it sounds like.” Ollie shrugged. He still hadn’t taken his hands from his pockets. The bib of his overalls dipped in the front, revealing more of his blue, plaid cotton farm shirt that buttoned up the front. “Sam Pickett is bad news.”
“I don’t know about that.” Imogene gave her crossed arms a stubborn jolt over her chest as if tamping down a fit. She lifted her chin, aware of the fact that her emerald eyes would reflect enough of the remaining light to show him how temperamental she was becoming. “I think Sam’s swell. So is Ida.”
“Ida’s all right.” Ollie nodded. “Sam just—he ain’t all he’s chalked up to be.”
“I’ve heard the rumors about boys with the Pickett name,” Imogene admitted, but she could hear the defensive edge to her voice. She had little right or reason to defend Sam. She’d known him all of two shakes, and even with that, she didn’t know much about him other than his charming personality belied a deep grief and a son he could hardly face. That alone was sad. That alone grabbed every loose thread of her empathy. “But I never met Sam until recently, and he doesn’t seem so bad. What’d he do to make him bad news?”
Ollie shrugged. “Ain’t much of a father to his boy, you know? Goes out drinkin’ on Friday nights.”
Imogene rolled her eyes. “So does just about every man in town. Gosh, Ollie, I never knew you to be so petty.”
“I never knew you to be so naïve,” he retorted.
They glared at each other as the darkness embraced them, wrapping moonlit arms around them as if the dying light were trying to soothe them.
Ollie kicked at the dirt.
Imogene sniffed.
Ollie seemed intent on keeping to a stony silence.
Imogene broke it. “Fine then. I don’t know if I can trust him any more than I can trust half of Mill Creek right now! Someone murdered Hazel, Ollie, but heck, what am I supposed to do? You think he’s dangerous?”
“I just said he’s bad news. Don’t know if he’s dangerous or not.” Ollie’s admission made Imogene’s frustration dampen into a lost feeling.
The kind a person had when wandering in the darkness and wanting to just accept it as safe, but still worried about what lurked in the shadows.
But everyone had shadows. She was suspicious of everyone. Sam. Her own brother, Ivan. Yet she couldn’t ignore the empathetic side of her—the side that wanted to believe it all away. Believe that the black evil that had visited her home and stolen Hazel’s life had somehow left in its wake some small smidgeon of hope. Of friendship. Of camaraderie. Didn’t the boys say they made buddies of men in the foxholes they’d have never been friends with outside of the war?
“Ida told me that Sam’s had it rough, you know?” Imogene stated blandly, without emotion, even though she ached for Sam, for his son, for anyone who’d experienced loss. She knew what it was like now. “He lost his wife.”
“I know.” Ollie nodded and stepped closer as the darkness became stronger than the light. Peering down into her face, Imogene could catch the slight narrowing of his eyes. “We all lost a lot.”
Yes. Ollie had. The Schneider family would never be complete again—not after the war.
“Then you know how Sam feels,” Imogene concluded, not sure whether she was defending Sam or defending her right to try to find goodness in the wake of dreadful grief.
“I do,” Ollie nodded again, but something in his expression showed worry—concern—for her.
“Oh.” Once again it was all she could think to say. Then she found her words again. “So you’re, what, all high-and-mighty good, while Sam’s just the town-rumored bad news a girl’s gotta steer clear of? That’s not very Christian of you.”
“Christian,” Ollie laughed, though it lacked humor. He appeared to stifle a sigh. Of exasperation? With her? Imogene wasn’t sure. “Genie, bein’ Christian ain’t got nothin’ to do with having a good head on your shoulders and bein’ able to see what’s in front of your own nose.”
“What are you saying it is, then?” she challenged.
Ollie regained the step he’d lost a moment before. “I don’t rightly know, I guess. But makin’ good choices is one of them. I may not have much more than an eighth-grade education, what with havin’ to help my daddy with the farm, but I know God created us with the smarts we need. I know bein’ Christian means showin’ love to others, but also knowin’ when to keep your distance with certain ones before they hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” Imogene gave a saucy laugh. The audacity of Ollie Schneider lecturing her about befriending Sam Pickett! “I daresay you’re just jealous, Oliver Schneider. What do you think he’s going to do? Get drunk and make me cry? I don’t need Sam Pickett to make me cry. I have enough reason as it is. Maybe I should toss a few back too, huh? I heard tell it helps a person not feel so sad all the time. I can’t say as though I blame Sam—if drinking is all that you can find wrong with him.”
She glared at him, daring Ollie to contradict her. Why she was growing so angry and defensive, she wasn’t completely sure. Sam Pickett meant nothing to her. But Ollie did. Ollie was her neighbor, her friend, so for him to lecture her . . .
Ollie didn’t say anything but took another step closer.
For the first time, Imogene wanted to draw back but couldn’t.
Something in the shadows on his face made her freeze where she stood. Her breath caught as she drew in a whiff of the farm, manure and . . . cinnamon? The pungent, sweet scent of a farmer. Of a man.
“I just want you to be careful, Genie.” Ollie’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. She could feel his breath on her nose as he leaned even closer. It seemed he was trying to see her face in the darkness, but his nearness just about sent her into a tizzy of unexpected and inexplicable emotion.
“Are you threatening me?” Her tease came out in a breathless laugh meant to tamp down her frustration, and now her racing heart.
He moved closer still. This time, Imogene felt his overalls against the thin cotton of her dress. His work-worn hands folded around her forearms, his flesh warming her chilled skin. Ollie drew his mouth close to her ear, his cheek grazing hers.
“I’d never threaten you, Genie. But there’s no tellin’ what I’d do if anyone messed with you.”
More than his breath against her ear warmed her then. His words were delivered with undertones of loyalty, of protectiveness—and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. As though Ollie had deep, hidden feelings and he was allowing her just a tiny glimpse of a broiling inside his quiet soul, passionate and fierce.
“No one’s gonna mess with me, Ollie.” Darned if her words didn’t come out breathless.
“No. They won’t.” His words, however, were decisive.
She had a soldier. Whether she wanted one or not.
Imogene was exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that made a person ache clear down to the soles of her feet. She leaned back against the bus seat, not bothering to look out the window at the powder plant she was leaving behind for the day. She should quit. Return to the beauty salon and do what she was born to do, instead of thinking she was going to stumble across a connection to Hazel. Across an explanation that her sister’s premature death came by the hand of a vile human being who slipped in and out among the throngs of workers Imogene served every day. She’d had no more cryptic notes or bodily collisions with anyone. No more clues. No more . . . anything.
“Have you seen the post office? All that destruction. It’s so awful.” Ida shifted in her seat next to Imogene.
Imogene nodded. “Yes. My brother won’t say a thing about it. I keep asking him if he’s got any suspects to take the blame for the explosion, but he keeps telling me to stop meddling.”
Ida gave a gentle chuckle. “He’s protective of you.”
Imogene rolled her eyes. “No. He’s preoccupied and distracted from my sister’s murder, that’s what.” Her bitterness was growing. Slowly but surely, Imogene could feel it seeping into her bones. The police, Chet, even her parents were moving on. Moving on? Hazel was barely buried in the earth—in that pathetic cheap little plot sandwiched between two graves of people they didn’t even know.
“Have you—have you been to see her?” Ida’s question was hesitant, but Imogene offered her an expression of gratitude for asking straight out and not pretending that Hazel wasn’t dead.
“I have.” Imogene nodded. She didn’t expound on the fact that while her seeing Hazel had to do with visiting her grave, she also heard Hazel. In her head. During the quiet times when she could interact, and they could work toward justice together.
“I have too.”
Imogene started at Ida’s confession. She smiled sadly. “You have?”
Ida played with the straps of her purse. “I know Hazel and I weren’t very close, but she was always kind to me. It took me a bit to find her grave, though.” A question lingered in Ida’s voice, but Imogene knew Ida was far too polite to ask it.
“We needed something affordable,” Imogene offered, though it wasn’t any of Ida’s business, and Momma would probably have her hide for admitting it out loud.
“Don’t you have a family section?” Ida inquired. Then her gloved hand rose and touched her lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Imogene didn’t care really. It was nice to have an honest conversation with someone other than Lola. Ollie’s intentions were—well, who knew what they were outside of butting into her private affairs. Her stomach curdled at the thought, and she fought back the sensation. Chet had refused to have a conversation with her about Hazel’s case. He said he didn’t want her snooping around and asking questions of others either, that it wasn’t safe. Meanwhile, her brother Ivan remained his sullen, loner self, becoming more so as time went on. Just the other day, Imogene saw him lift a cat by its belly with the toe of his boot and fling it across the cow yard. Even though she’d scolded him for it, she knew Ivan wouldn’t change. Couldn’t change probably. The war had injured him in a way none of them could understand.
“Imogene?” Ida broke into Imogene’s thoughts.
“Oh. No, no intrusion at all,” she reassured Ida, whose worried expression melted. “We don’t . . .” She hesitated. Ida was right. Truthfully, it was none of her business. “We don’t have a family plot at the cemetery,” she finished.
Ida gave her a tiny nod. She didn’t ask any more questions. The bus rolled along, jolting and rocking as it hit potholes that hadn’t been repaired since before the war broke out.
“How’s Sam?” Imogene asked politely.
“Fine,” Ida replied. “He’s fine. He has a late shift today.”
Imogene nodded. That explained why Sam wasn’t on the bus. She looked out the window, watching the scenery go by. She needed to get back to the barn tonight. To work more on Hazel’s dollhouse. What other details would she notice were amiss as she crafted the attic room? She still couldn’t recall what the picture on Hazel’s stand had been of. It was recently put there. That was all Imogene could theorize.
“You’re good for him, you know?” Ida’s quiet voice bounced off the bus window.
Imogene turned. “For who?”
“Sam.” Ida ducked in a shy gesture. As if she shouldn’t have said anything but did anyway. “He seems—well, he seems more like Sam when he’s around you. You bring out a bit of his playful side again.”
It was a compliment she was willing to take. Imogene gave Ida her full attention. “How so?”
Ida sighed softly. “Sam’s always been lively, but since Bonnie died and he came back from overseas . . .” Her voice waned, and then she swallowed and lifted her eyes to Imogene’s. “Well, he’s fun again, when you’re around. He teases—he doesn’t even tease his boy. I can see a little bit of the old Sam, you know? When you’re around.”
When you’re around. It sounded like a song title to Imogene, or something maybe Bing Crosby would croon. Her cheeks warmed.
“I think all the boys came home different,” Ida observed.
“Yes. Yes, they did.” Imogene paused for a moment as a thought struck her. “Ida?”
Echoes among the Stones Page 18