Echoes among the Stones

by Jaime Jo Wright

  “Hmm?”

  “Did Hazel have—?” Imogene stopped and cleared her throat. “Speaking of boys coming home, was there anyone you knew of at the plant who Hazel was interested in?”

  Ida’s look of surprise was genuine. She lifted her shoulders and grimaced. “I don’t know. She never really said anything to me. But like I said, we weren’t very close.”

  “Mmm.” Imogene nodded, accepting Ida’s answer. Just another dead end. Maybe she was being too harsh on Chet. Maybe there really wasn’t much to go on, no matter how hard one looked.

  “Although . . .” Ida’s hesitation snagged Imogene’s attention again.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I did see Hazel talking to a young man several times. It was usually before the bus would pull out after the shift’s end. They’d be off to the side in conversation. I just assumed they were acquaintances, but maybe—maybe not?”

  “Do you know his name?” Imogene tried not to appear too eager and scare off Ida.

  Ida offered a tenuous smile. “I think—I think he was a Schneider boy. Not Oliver, but one of the younger ones who never got shipped out during the war.”

  “Harry?”

  “Maybe,” Ida responded. “I don’t know them all that well. I mean, Mill Creek is a small town and all, but since the powder plant was built . . .” Her words hung in the air between them.

  “I know,” Imogene affirmed. “So many new people. So much housing went up around the plant, and the poor farmers who had to sell their land, I didn’t know most of them. But I heard they all relocated.” She didn’t expound on her thoughts—on the way it had affected her own family. Their loss had been small in comparison to the farmers’ livelihoods. Still, it was a loss.

  Ida exchanged sad smiles with Imogene. “Sam said the farmers weren’t offered near the proper amount for their land, and yet they had no choice but to sell.”

  Imogene shrugged. “Well, at least they can take comfort in the fact it was for a good cause. The boys needed ammunition, or we’d have lost the war.”

  “Yes,” Ida acknowledged.

  “So, Hazel and Harry would frequently chat while waiting for the bus?” Imogene mused, not wanting to be sidetracked by the plight of the relocated farmers.

  Ida furrowed her brow. “Like I said, I don’t know for sure who it was.”

  Imogene gave her a reassuring smile. But she knew who she would ask to verify it. Demanding an answer if necessary. It could be nothing—or it could be everything.

  CHAPTER 23

  Her eyes flew open and were met with the thick blackness of her room. Even the window, its filmy curtains waving in the midsummer breeze, refused to cast much light. The moon appeared to be asleep, along with the rest of the world.

  Something had startled her awake. Imogene could sense it, the little hairs on her arms standing straight up. She rose, grabbing her wrapper from the end of the bed and slipping her arms into it as she stood poised in the middle of her bedroom. Listening. Her ears strained for something—anything—that might give definition as to why she’d awakened.

  Crossing the room, she looked out the window, peering across the yard and down the drive toward the barn. Its windows were black, gaping holes that stared back at her. Its doors pulled shut as if it were forever holding silence regarding what it witnessed at night, in the shadows, while everyone was asleep. Had the barn watched Hazel’s killer step onto the porch and walk through the unlatched front door? Perhaps the barn still registered Hazel’s screams deep in its wood-slatted sides. Its red sides, glowing in the aftermath of violence that had forever marred the Grayson farm.

  Imogene shivered. There was nothing amiss. Nothing that should have awakened her. Shivering, she tugged her wrap tighter, tying the satin ribbon around her waist. “Ohhh, Hazel,” she breathed, then blinked multiple times. Imogene resisted the tears that threatened to spill out. Resisted the grief.

  Don’t forget me, Genie.

  Imogene could see Hazel’s smile. It reached her eyes and drove into Imogene’s soul. Her sister. Their spirits. Always meshed. So different, yet so much alike.

  Don’t forget me, Genie.

  Every laugh they’d shared. Every whispered dream. Every tightened hand hold as they huddled under blankets to hide the light of the radio during a mandatory blackout. Only a few years ago, their father had walked the streets of Mill Creek, keeping vigil, as if the Germans or Japanese would even think to somehow invade the small town. No lights on. Nothing. Nights like tonight, when not even the moon was strong enough to smile. When Hazel’s white-knuckled grip on Imogene’s hand was the only grip on anything familiar, anything real, anything—

  A floorboard creaked.

  Imogene yanked her head up and stared at her bedroom door. Even her breathing was too loud. She held it.

  Nothing.

  She dared to swallow. Then took a step toward her door, hesitating as she neared it, her hand resting on the knob, the metal cool beneath her touch. Imogene glanced at the light switch and longed to push the button and flood her room with the security of chasing shadows into hiding. But she couldn’t. It would also chase away whatever had awakened her, and she wanted to face it. To confront the injustice of all that had befallen the Grayson home.

  Turning the knob, Imogene tugged on her door. Its wood had swelled with the summer humidity and it stuck. During the day, she would have just yanked it open without thinking and without much effort. Tonight, she restrained such force and tried her best to pull it open without scraping or squeaking. Successful, Imogene held the open door stable, leaning her forehead against its coolness and peering into the dark hallway.

  “Mother?” Her whisper was too loud. But if it had been her mother, awake and visiting the bathroom, then perhaps she’d creaked the floorboard and this was all Imogene’s foggy imagination of being caught in sleep. “Daddy?” He had a habit of visiting the bathroom at night as well.

  But the hallway was empty. Imogene stepped out, her bare feet cold against the wood floor. It was an uneven floor but familiar. She skipped over the squeaky floorboard and tiptoed to her parents’ bedroom. Their door was ajar a few inches. Imogene peeked in. Her father’s snore grazed her ears. Her mother’s form was curled next to him, a handkerchief clenched in her hand. Had Momma cried herself to sleep?

  Pain squeezed Imogene’s heart. Poor Mother. She existed with shoulders square and her head held high. She’d returned to life without Hazel, pretending, like they all did, that the violation of Hazel’s death hadn’t forever altered their home.

  The slam of the porch screen door downstairs startled Imogene and she jumped, hitting her cheek against the doorjamb of her parents’ room.

  “Daddy!” she hissed, too terrified to do anything but summon help. “Daddy!”

  His snore choked, and he coughed, then sat up. “What—? Genie, what is it?”

  Mother whimpered and rolled over, still asleep.

  “The porch door, it just slammed shut,” Genie whispered, her tone urgent.

  Her father threw back the covers and eased out of bed. He reached for his shotgun that lay beneath the bed. “Probably just the wind.”

  His explanation made sense, only Imogene was sure she’d hooked the lock before bed. Like Hazel had always said to do. A lot of good that had done her.

  Imogene’s father moved past her, releasing the hinge of his break-open shotgun and shoving two shells into the breech. He latched the gun closed and pulled back the hammer. “Stay behind me,” he directed Imogene. “Better yet, stay here.”

  Of course, she wasn’t going to listen to him. Instead, she followed her father down the stairs, the tip of the shotgun’s barrel preceding them both.

  The porch door banged again, and Imogene leapt back, pressing herself into the wall the stairs hugged. Her father raised the shotgun to his shoulder and took the remaining three steps with steady feet. He swung in front of the door. The shotgun’s blast resonated through the house with the violent impact it served up with
the exploded shell. The shell casing flew back and hit the floor, rolling until it bumped into the edge of the carpet runner.

  Imogene sank to the stair, her knees giving out. Every part of her quivered. She held her hands over her mouth to stifle her scream.

  “It’s all right,” her father said over his shoulder. “It was just a coon.”

  A raccoon? A little masked bandit? Imogene saw spots as her breath released in a whoosh. She willed herself to take deep breaths, releasing them as her fear eased.

  “Roy?” Mother called from the upstairs hall, concern in her voice.

  “It’s okay, Mother,” Imogene called back. “It was only a silly raccoon.”

  “Did your father get it?” There was a quiver in Mother’s voice too. Imogene could relate. So much tension. So much unspoken but underlying terror.

  “Yep!” Daddy shouted. “He’s dead.” Daddy turned to Imogene and leaned the shotgun against the wall. “I’m gonna go drag the carcass off so it’s not in front of the stairs when your mama comes down in the morning.”

  Imogene’s hand moved to her throat, and she gave a weak nod. Of course. Hide it. Blood. Corpse. It was difficult to stand, but Imogene did, reaching for the wall to steady herself. She needed something to drink. Something to steady her nerves. Finishing the last few steps, Imogene walked through the doorway, away from the open porch door and into the kitchen.

  She halted, a frown crossing her face as her gaze swept over the empty room. Something wasn’t right. Something was out of place. She glanced out the window to her right and saw her father striding across the yard, a big raccoon hanging from his grip.

  A raccoon. But she’d latched the porch door before bed. There was no way a raccoon would have the wits to slip anything through the crack between the door and its frame and unhook the lock, like Chet had tried to convince her was so possible.

  The porch door had slammed. Twice. It was windy enough for that to be the explanation. Still, if the door was latched as she remembered . . .

  Imogene grabbed for the back of a chair at the table by the window. She reached for the light, pushing the switch. A yellow glow flooded the kitchen. Familiar. Welcoming. Secure.

  Or it would have felt secure if the light hadn’t revealed what sat on the kitchen table. Hazel’s teacup. The one she always had tea in when she couldn’t sleep sat there on the table. Steam rose from the tea that filled it. And beside the cup and saucer was the tea bag. Lemon and mint. Hazel’s favorite.

  She had been here tonight. More than a voice. More than an imaginary vision. Hazel had been here. Or at least her ghost had. Someone had.

  Imogene opened her mouth to scream, but this time her voice was strangled. Much like Hazel’s must have been the day she died.

  Chet stood over the cup of tea, like Mother and Daddy had that morning before Daddy took to the field and Mother headed to town for groceries. Imogene was thankful it was a Saturday. She was still shaking—though she’d never let anyone see it—and part of her wanted to whip the teacup out into the corn and have it disappear. Have it all disappear. The memories, the images in her mind, and the fact that Hazel was dead.

  “I would give anything for Hazel to walk through the front door,” Imogene mumbled. Would it be horrible if she admitted to Chet that she wondered if Hazel had walked through the door? There was no way she could voice that suspicion out loud.

  Chet nodded, but his eyes weren’t on the cup. They were surveying his sister’s face. The dark blue of his uniform made his green eyes fleck with tiny spots of blue as Imogene met them with her own frank stare in return.

  “Hazel wasn’t here, Genie.” He said it like he was worried she didn’t believe it. Imogene hated that he so easily read her thoughts.

  “Have you talked to Harry Schneider?” she asked, hoping Chet was following her train of thought.

  He frowned. “What’s Harry got to do with anything?”

  Imogene eyed the teacup again. “Ida Pickett said she saw Hazel chatting it up with Harry at the bus stop after their shift ended. Several times.”

  Chet drew in a deep breath, but he didn’t let it out. It seemed he was tempering his reaction, and when he spoke, it was with care. “You told me Ida wasn’t sure it was Harry. ’Sides, Hazel talked to many people. That doesn’t make them suspects.”

  Did her brother never see possible ties and theories? “Chet! What if Hazel and Harry were interested in each other? What if Hazel didn’t accept his advances and he got mad?”

  “Mad enough to kill her?” Chet’s voice rose. “Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? Next thing I know, you’re gonna accuse me of Hazel’s death!”

  Imogene crossed her arms and tightened her lips, turning to look out the window at the barn, the corn, the cows, anything other than Chet. Now was certainly not the time to admit she’d pondered their brother Ivan’s temper for committing the deed.

  “And this Ida?” Chet tipped his head, trying to get her to look at him. “She’s Sam Pickett’s sister, right?”

  “So?” Imogene glared at her brother.

  “Sam’s been arrested a few times, you know. Disturbing the peace.”

  “What peace?” Imogene muttered.

  “Listen to reason, sis. He may be nice, but he hides a whole lot of baggage.”

  “So do you!” Imogene shot back, her gaze colliding with Chet’s. “Besides, I’m not courting Sam, and I’m hardly friends with his sister. So stop your worrying about me and do your job!”

  He paled and stepped back. She could tell he chewed the inside of his lip as he ran his finger around his collar as if it were too tight. “I’m just sayin’—”

  “You were asking about Ida,” Imogene interrupted. “I never said a thing about Sam.” And she certainly wouldn’t now.

  “I’m only looking out for you.”

  Imogene skewered him with a look. “And I have need to be concerned about Ida?”

  “Aw, heck, Genie!” Chet slapped the table. The teacup rattled on its saucer, cold tea sloshing over the side. “You’re on a wild goose chase that isn’t yours to chase. You’re gonna get yourself into trouble.”

  “So what if I do?” Imogene half shouted back. It almost felt good to yell at Chet. To release the pent-up anger that had been building since the day they’d laid Hazel to rest in a cheap grave. “What are you doing about Hazel’s murder? I don’t see anyone behind bars. You’re too busy trying to figure out who blew up the post office!”

  “It endangered the entire town!” Chet was shouting now, his arm swinging out in the direction of town. “People could’ve been killed! It could happen again! I have to focus on that investigation as my top priority.”

  “So, Hazel’s murder doesn’t matter?” Imogene was so furious, her chin quivered and her voice wobbled, losing its sharp edge.

  “I never said that,” Chet said, more quietly now.

  “Then do something, Chet. Find the one who killed our sister. I can’t stand this much longer. The not knowing. There must be clues you’re not seeing. Things you’re overlooking.”

  Chet grabbed Hazel’s teacup and in a swift motion launched it against the wall. Cold tea splattered on the kitchen wallpaper, not unlike the blood of their sister in the attic. The cup shattered, falling to the floor in shards and slivers of glass.

  “Why did you do that?” Imogene flew toward the mess, bending to try to pick up the larger pieces. She shook one at Chet. “This was Hazel’s favorite cup! You broke it!”

  “I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry!” Chet dragged his hands over his head. “I’m doing what I can.”

  “It’s not enough,” Imogene countered. She tried to ignore the hurt that flashed over her brother’s face. She tried to avoid the anguish and helplessness in his eyes. Instead, she repeated herself, as though by saying it somehow it would awaken them all to the truth of what had happened so they could lay Hazel to rest. “It’s not enough.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Aggie

  The coroner has to
sign off for a body to be exhumed.” Collin set the pen down, having completed filling out the disinterment form. “He’s going to think I’ve lost my blooming mind. This is the third one I’ve filled out.”

  Aggie set a plate of cookies in front of him. Chocolate chip ones. Out of a package. Because, well, baking wasn’t exactly her forte. She pulled out the chair from the kitchen table at Mumsie’s and plopped onto it, snatching a cookie for herself. Stress eating wasn’t a good habit, and she didn’t do it normally. But today it felt like a necessity.

  “He has to understand your role at the cemetery.”

  Collin ran his hand over his hair, the golden-red strands on fire in the early autumn sunlight streaming through the nearby window. “One would think. Although, I must admit, I have my doubts as to whether the cemetery board intended on my doing anything more than simply locating unmarked graves. Opening a grave is a sensitive matter. Coroners—or medical examiners—I’ve found are often reluctant to disturb the dead without a darn good reason.”

  Aggie chewed and spoke around the cookie, not waiting for manners to take precedence for her to swallow. “But if they’ve been dead for a hundred years, does anyone really care?”

  A sharp glance from Collin told her she’d unwittingly communicated her insensitivity.

  “One should always care, Love.” His voice softened, along with his eyes. “There’s a sacredness in death. Your grandmother, for instance. Can you imagine the emotional toll if we petitioned to exhume her sister?”

  Aggie winced. He had a point. Yet the odds of the unmarked graves having any family still alive who might claim them was slim.

  She reached for another cookie. “Why do you think this most recent grave is potentially . . . well, a crime scene?”

  “Not the scene. The dumping ground.”

  “Okay, the dumping ground.” Aggie thought that sounded harsher than her earlier comment about exhumation. “Why would anyone commit murder and then bury the victim in the cemetery of all places?”

  Collin shrugged. “Who would look for a murder victim in a cemetery? Call it a hunch. The grave matches none of the average specifications when I help remap cemeteries. Certainly, graves will vary in sizes, depths, and so on, but they all take the same general shape. They all tend to follow the same direction. What’s more concerning is the absence of encasement. It’s either a body sans coffin or something entirely different.”