Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

Exhumation. Would you need some kind of legal permission if the graves were on your own property? If you were digging up your own family? My stomach twisted. I wanted to talk to Fern again.

  Max had clearly kept his appointment to meet his killer at the grave. What a macabre touch—meeting at the grave of Otis Parish on Halloween night. Why there and why then?

  Chapter 28

  The sun was gleaming low along the horizon as I turned off the highway into Mystic Bay. Trees blazed with autumn color, their leaves drifting across the road as I drove to the Mermaid.

  “Allie!” Bertha greeted me as I entered the shack. Bertha hitched her hip onto a stool, grimacing.

  “Hi, Bertha. How’s your sciatica?”

  “Been worse.”

  I joined Hilda and Aunt Gully behind the counter. “Have you heard the news about Lobzilla?”

  Hilda set a lobster roll in front of Bertha.

  Bertha nodded her thanks. “I did indeed. I feel sorry for the old guy. After many a peaceful year under the waves, look at what his senior years have brought him.” She tsked and took a bite of her lobster roll. “I have a good mind to liberate him from the marine biology department and set him loose.”

  “I do feel for the guy. I’m just glad he lived through it all,” I said.

  “Barely.” Bertha patted her lips with a napkin. “Fred Nickerson called to tell me. Old guy was a bit worse for wear. Tough on that poor lobster to be out of water for however long he was. He was barely alive when the police found him. Thank goodness they got him back into water right away.” She turned her bright eyes to me. “Is it true? He was on top of the kid who died?”

  I hesitated. I hadn’t wanted to look too closely. “Not exactly. More next to him.”

  Hilda shuddered.

  “Who does that to a lobster? Why would you kill someone and then put a lobster on him?” Bertha shook her head. “Poor lobster’s been traumatized.”

  Nobody said anything about the irony of talking about a lobster this way while eating one for dinner.

  I stopped short. “Max was in the fraternity. It was a prank, you know how our mermaid was getting stacks of leis around her neck?”

  “Leis?” Bertha choked. “Lei-ing the mermaid! That sounds just like a guy.”

  Hilda blushed. “Oh, my. Is that what that was?”

  Bertha slapped her knee, roaring. “You gotta admit, that’s funny.”

  I shook my head, then remembered Lorel’s giant check. I hurried to the van and brought it in through the kitchen.

  “What’s your sister up to now?” Aunt Gully adjusted her glasses and held the two checks at arm’s length.

  After explaining Lorel’s idea to Hector and Aunt Gully, we went back into the dining area.

  “Bertha, may I present this check entitling you to two free Lazy Mermaid dinners, for you or for you and a guest of your choice.”

  “For what?” Bertha said.

  “For finding Lobzilla, of course!” Aunt Gully beamed.

  Bertha’s ruddy face turned an even darker shade of red. Her wide mouth turned up. “Me? All I did was pull the old guy out of the water!” But Bertha was pleased, I could tell. She laughed and slapped some money on the counter. “I’ll use the certificate next time I’m in. You know I’ll be back.”

  I took photos and sent them to Lorel. She sent back a thumbs-up and minutes later the photo was on Facebook with ten likes.

  After closing the Mermaid, Aunt Gully and I drove home. It had been a long day and my mind was spent from churning out scenarios for the murder of Max Hempstead. I was happy to join Aunt Gully in the living room, putting my feet up and watching a rerun of Columbo while eating pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

  “I wonder who Bertha will invite to be her guest at the Mermaid,” I said.

  Aunt Gully shook her head. “Bertha’s private. I don’t know if there’s ever been someone special in her life. Far as I’m concerned she could just use it for two dinners.” She set aside her plate and let her head fall back against the soft leather of the recliner. “I let your sister win this one. But now I must call Don O’Neill and let him know that my answer truly is no.”

  I licked my spoon. “Right after the Celtics game.”

  “Right after.” Aunt Gully smiled serenely.

  Chapter 29

  This morning we moved to the Opera House for a rehearsal. It would be the first time stepping onto the magnificent stage for many of the children joining the Nutcracker cast as mice, snow maidens, toy soldiers, flowers, and angels. How well I remembered my first time dancing on this famous stage.

  Aside from a couple of kids who still had a hard time telling stage right from stage left, all went well until I saw Margot. She was arguing with Kellye, who burst into tears and ran from the room.

  I sidled up to Cody. “What’s going on with them?”

  Cody whispered, “It’s been tense at the house lately.” He still lived in the group house with Margot and several other dancers. “Margot’s been making no secret of the fact that she thinks Kellye isn’t good enough to share Dewdrop with her. She’s been cutting Kellye down to anyone who will listen.”

  A group formed around Serge. Several heads swiveled toward Cody and me as he called us over.

  “Bay Fashion just sent over the images from our shoot.” Serge beamed and turned his tablet toward me. The first photo was a solo shot of me in my gorgeous gold gown. I blushed. “Virginia did such a great job on that dress,” I said as friends patted me on the back.

  “And this is the cover shot,” Serge said. It was a photo of Kellye.

  Margot pulled the tablet from Serge’s hands and swiped through. Then she shoved the tablet into Cody’s hands and stalked away. There was an uncomfortable silence as we shared glances. Serge followed Margot’s exit then shrugged. Cody swiped through the photos and gave the tablet back to Serge.

  Chatter resumed.

  Cody and I crossed the studio to get our bags.

  “What was that about?” I said.

  Cody shook his head. “There’ll be hell to pay. Aside from the group shot, there were no photos of Margot in the article.”

  * * *

  As I drove into Mystic Bay and headed to the Mermaid, I passed the playground at the end of Pearl Street. Fern Doucette was by the swings with Prudie.

  I slammed on my brakes and pulled over.

  Fern pushed Prudie in a rubber swing shaped like a bucket. Prudie chewed on the strap and kicked her chubby little legs as I approached.

  “She likes you,” Fern said. As she pushed up her sunglasses, I noticed dark circles under her eyes.

  “How are you?” I said.

  “Prudie’s teething and we had a rough night. But she’s okay now.”

  I caught Prudie and tickled her little legs, then let the bucket carry her backward. She chortled.

  Fern took a deep breath. “I keep thinking about Max Hempstead’s murder. I feel bad. I mean, I didn’t wish Max ill, exactly. It’s just that I wasn’t happy that I was pushed aside, is all. Nobody deserves what happened to Max.”

  I shuddered. Dying in a graveyard. It was something out of a nightmare.

  Her lips curled. “Some kids were here talking about it. They were saying that the ghost of Max Hempstead now walked along with Otis Parish. Funny, people never talk about Uriah, or Mercy, or Rosamund Parish.”

  I was confused. “Mercy? Rosamund Parish?”

  “Mercy was Otis’s daughter. Rosamund was a great-niece. She’s buried in the Parish cemetery, too. I got interested in her when I found her diary in the historical society library.”

  I didn’t want to interrupt, but I wanted to keep her from going off on a history lesson. “Fern, something had struck me as odd Halloween night. The wooden stakes in the ground, connected with twine. You weren’t kidding when you talked about digging up secrets? You meant it literally?”

  She laughed, which made Prudie chortle again. Fern gave Prudie a big push. “I’m not lying anymore. Royal Parish made us s
ign a confidentiality agreement about a project he wanted to do in the Parish cemetery. Me and Max. Forget confidentiality! I’m done with Lyman Smith and Royal bloody Parish.

  “When I went into labor and had Prudie prematurely. I had to leave work. Didn’t hear any more about the project. Lyman would occasionally send me an e-mail when he needed a question answered, then the e-mails stopped and then I got one saying my services were no longer required.

  “This summer I went back to volunteering at the historical society. Lyman and I had worked together on an article, and we’d worked well together. I wanted to know what was happening with it. But still he wasn’t returning my calls.

  “A few weeks ago”—she hesitated—“a friend told me there was activity at the graveyard. I went with her. You see, Royal decided that he was tired of the old stories about ghosts and vampires in his family. He wanted the legends about Uriah and Otis being vampires disproven.”

  “How could you disprove it?” I whispered. I knew.

  She raised her chin defiantly. “Only one way. Dig them up. My friend and I—” She hesitated.

  She’d just mentioned volunteering at the historical society. Whose name would she hesitate to mention? “Beltane.”

  She nodded. “She’d heard them talking. So we went through the woods—Beltane knows them very well, she lives right down Old Farms Road from the cemetery—and watched.”

  “And,” I breathed.

  “Royal and Lyman Smith did the dig with Max.”

  “They removed all those stones?”

  “Well, not all the stones. That’s how Beltane knew something was up. She was walking through the woods one night as a bunch of frat boys cleared the stones. It was some kind of initiation.”

  I remembered all the stones, the freshly turned earth.

  “And?”

  “We weren’t the only ones watching.”

  I met her eyes. “Isobel Parish.”

  She nodded. Prudie fussed and kicked. Fern reached in the swing and lifted her out gently. “I’ve got to get her home so she can nap.”

  “What did they find?” I picked up her bag and followed her to her car.

  “Thanks.” She put Prudie in her car seat. “What did they find? Exactly what that arrogant bastard did and didn’t want to find. Otis wasn’t a vampire. But Uriah Parish was.”

  “What? How could they tell?”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Nobody’s a vampire, Allie, though there are reasons why people might imagine they are.” She closed the door and leaned against the car. “It was the way he was buried. I’ve been doing my own research on Rosamund Parish’s diary and it’s way worse than Royal feared.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  “Listen.” She got in the car. “I’ll be at the Historical Society Harvest Fair tomorrow. Come see me and we can talk then? I’m volunteering between four and six.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I ran to the van. How could she leave me hanging like this? I got in the van and caught my eye in the mirror. She’s pulling your leg, Allie. No such thing as vampires.

  Still. What was worse than a vampire?

  As I pulled out, I saw the check in the backseat. I sighed. I had to do the other check presentation. It would be more fun if I took Verity. I called her.

  “Could you take off an hour? I have to deliver a giant check to Fred Nickerson and I’ll have to get past his guard dog. And I have to tell you something that Fern just told me about Otis Parish. Well, Uriah Parish.”

  “I’ve got help today. Pick me up.”

  Chapter 30

  Verity gasped when I told her about Fern’s revelation. “They dug Otis and Uriah up! I wonder what they found exactly?”

  “As soon as she tells me I’ll tell you every word,” I said. “Listen to us. There’s no such thing as vampires, right?”

  Verity shrugged. “Maybe there are people who think they’re vampires? Right? Is that the same thing? I was in line at the grocery store behind a guy who said that Otis Parish killed Max Hempstead for desecrating his grave with the giant lobster.”

  “That’s completely nuts.” But I thought back to all the stories I’d heard about Otis Parish. “Maybe Max’s death will be the start of a new Mystic Bay legend.”

  I parked the van under an oak tree in front of a cedar-shingled Dutch colonial two streets up from the Mermaid. Mystic Bay had a program where historic houses could hang a sign with the name of the original owner and the date the house was built. A sign on the house read EZEKIEL NICKERSON 1840. Gladys, in baggy jeans and a paint-splattered sweatshirt, bent over the bushes by the door.

  Next door was a Cape, covered in gray siding with exceptionally tidy, geometrically cut bushes by the door. The mailbox by the road had BURLEY written on its side in block letters.

  “Isn’t Fred’s girlfriend named Gladys Burley? So the gray house is hers, and she’s doing yard work at his house?” Verity said quietly.

  We watched Gladys prune the bushes by Fred Nickerson’s front door. She attacked them with her shears, cutting with ferocity, as if they’d insulted her. Her house and his were tidy to the point of psychosis. A single leaf drifted to her feet. She threw down the shears and grabbed a long pole with a pointy end, like the trash picker-uppers convicts used by the side of the highway. She gutted the leaf and stuffed it in a trash bag.

  “Whoa. Glad I’m not on the receiving end of that stick,” Verity said. “Maybe we should come back later.”

  I thought of one of Aunt Gully’s old sayings. “Fortune favors the bold.”

  “Here’s one for you. ‘Beware of the dog,’” said Verity. “Or how about ‘Avoid crazy ladies with pointy objects.’”

  I hauled Lorel’s giant check out of the backseat, pasted on a smile, and approached Gladys warily. “Hi! I’m looking for Fred.”

  “What do you want?” Gladys said, clutching the stick. She had deep-set small dark eyes that made me think of a bear. Her chapped lips curved down under a hint of mustache.

  “Hi, I’m Allie Larkin. Remember, we met at the Lazy Mermaid Lobster Shack? This is my friend Verity Brooks. I’m here to make a presentation to Fred. May I speak to him?”

  Fred opened his front door and stuck his head out. He wore glasses, had a pair of sunglasses perched in his thick, unruly hair, and another pair hung from a lanyard around his neck. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Well, hello, Allie. And that’s Veronica Brooks, isn’t it?”

  “Verity.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He joined us outside.

  I held up the supersized check. “The Lazy Mermaid would like to present you with this gift certificate for two free dinners at the shack for your role in finding Lobzilla.”

  Fred grinned and bounced on his toes. “Well, my, my. Look here, Gladdy, isn’t this wonderful?”

  Gladdy? I couldn’t think of a less appropriate nickname.

  “Is it okay if we do a photo?” I asked.

  “Sure, sure.” Fred grinned.

  Gladys scanned the poster as if looking for small print that would scam Fred out of his home.

  “Would you help me get a picture, Verity?” I handed her my phone. “Would you like to be in the picture, too, Gladys?”

  Gladys, apparently finding nothing amiss with the check, edged close to Fred. I straightened the check in Fred’s and Gladys’s hands and ran behind Verity to see what the photo would look like. Gladys still held her stick like a spear. Inwardly, I sighed. It would have to do. “Perfect!”

  After Verity took the photos, Fred said, “Why don’t you girls come in for some cider? Gladys just bought it.”

  “Oh, so sorry, we don’t have time.” Verity started toward the van.

  “Thank you anyway,” I said.

  Gladys looked relieved.

  “Oh, the penny just dropped,” Fred said. “Verity, you’re Chief Brooks’s niece. He must be very busy with the terrible murder. I’m just so glad that Lobzilla made it through. Traumatized, of course. Who wou
ldn’t be? At least I had a nice comfortable tank ready for him at the lab but it was touch and go for a while.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” I said.

  “He’s a tough old codger.” Fred grinned.

  “I remember Max working with you the day you found him.” I ignored Verity’s pleading look. “Did Max often help you?”

  Gladys stiffened, tightening her grip on the stick.

  Whoa.

  “Yes, well, no.” Fred scratched his head. “He did last year, when he took my Introduction to Marine Biology class. Handy to have on the research vessel. Good sailor, good kid.”

  Gladys turned away, her knuckles white on the stick. I wondered at this reaction. She didn’t agree with Max being a good kid?

  Fred continued, “Max was a very good student. He told me his plan was to start his own law firm. Well, this was before that business with his father.”

  “His father?” I asked, “What happened?”

  “Not sure, Max never explained why, but his father cut him off. Completely. I helped him get some funding to pay his tuition and school fees, that sort of thing.” Fred shook his head, dislodging his glasses.

  Max and his money again.

  Fred pushed his glasses up his nose. “Smart kid. Ah, well.”

  “Some of my customers said today was the funeral,” Verity said.

  And the fraternity ceremony, I remembered.

  “Yes, we attended the service this morning at the college chapel. Such a sad ending for such a bright boy, right, Gladdy?”

  Gladys kept her baleful eyes on us, but said, “Yes.”

  “His family was there. His father, I was glad to see. Broken up, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I think the fraternity will do something later; of course I won’t go but I’m sure Lyman Smith will.”

  “Lyman Smith?”

  “Yes, he was the fraternity’s faculty adviser. He was very close to Max.”

  Inside Fred’s house, a phone shrilled.

  “Sorry, I’ll have to get that. Good day, ladies.” He went into the house.

  Gladys dismissed us with a curt nod and put the certificate next to the pile of leaves, just another bit of trash to throw away. She picked up her shears and started hacking at the bushes again.