by Gayla Twist
Grandma Gibson had decided to have Colette cremated, in part to keep random jerks from trying to steal her body again. Her ashes were to be placed on top of her mother’s coffin. Grams thought both her mom and Colette would have appreciated that. A smaller headstone had been added below that of her parents with the words “Beloved daughter and sister” carved into the modest piece of marble along with Colette’s name and the dates of her birth and death, although the death date was really just an estimate as the night she ran away from home.
As we headed for our seats, I was suddenly gripped by a wave of anxiety and gave an involuntary shudder. There was that old expression, “A goose just walked over my grave.” I had an instant understanding of what it meant, at least by intent. My heart started pounding painfully in my chest, and it was hard for me to breath. I found myself sweating profusely in my winter wool coat. There were spots in front of my eyes, and my peripheral vision faded to black. I looked around a bit frantically for a moment, not sure why I was freaking out. Were we under attack? What was happening? Then I realized it was the tombstone. Colette's tombstone. I felt like I was looking at my own grave.
I felt a sharp nudge quite close to my behind, which startled me. I whipped my head around, incredulous that anyone would think a funeral was an appropriate time for a bit of light sexual assault. An elderly lady with white curls peeking out from under a fur-trimmed hat leaned forward and said in a sharp whisper, “Sit down. This isn’t about you.”
She was right, and she was wrong. It might very well have been about me if reincarnation existed. Half of me wanted to say something snarky back to her, but she had snapped me out of my panic attack, and from the perspective of everyone else at the ceremony, she was right. “Thank you,” I whispered to her and took my seat.
We all sat quietly, and I wondered what was going to happen next. As far as I knew, we really hadn’t planned anything. I wanted to catch my mother’s eye, but Grandma Gibson was seated between us. She had been acting very courageous throughout breakfast and the drive to the cemetery, but I could tell that the outpouring of support from people that had never even met Colette really touched her. She had to press her handkerchief to her nose.
A woman in a long, dark coat who must have been some kind of minister or something got up and spoke, standing at a little portable pulpit-type thing near the head of the grave. I really had no idea who she was or even what denomination she represented. She could have easily just been a lady who had wandered into the cemetery from off the street and decided to take charge, for all I knew. She talked about grief and loss and forgiveness but fortunately kept it brief.
I thought after the minister finished that would be the end of it, but then my great grandmother struggled to her feet. Mom and I exchanged alarmed looks. Neither of us had expected her to speak. Still, there was nothing we could do but make sure she didn’t topple over as she slowly made her way to the pulpit, which the minister readily relinquished.
I felt my guts clench, and stomach acid bubbled at the back of my throat. Was this going to be a repeat of the morgue? Was Grams about to start shouting about how Jessie Vanderlind had killed her sister? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. I could tell by the worried expression on my mother’s face that she was thinking the same thing.
Grandma Gibson steadied herself and then spent some time looking at the faces assembled before her. “Thank you for coming,” she said when she finally began. “I honestly thought it was just going to be my granddaughter, my great granddaughter, and me. I’m touched that so many of you braved the weather today to help me say goodbye to my dear sister, Colette.” Grandma Gibson brushed at a single tear that was slowly making its way down her cheek. “She was a beautiful girl with a very generous heart. She couldn’t know someone was in trouble or in need without wanting to help.” I began to relax a little. Grandma was keeping her speech to the positive side of her sister’s life. Grams continued. “That’s probably what made her such an easy victim for whoever killed her. I can’t tell you how many times over the last eighty years I’ve laid awake at night thinking about what might have happened to her. I’d always hoped that she was somewhere alive and happy but always knew deep in my heart that wasn’t true. She wouldn’t have done that to us. She wouldn’t have done that to Momma and Papa, and she wouldn’t have done that to me.” Her voice broke there, and she hid her face in her handkerchief.
Mom and I were on our feet instantly to comfort her. But we weren’t fast enough; when Grandma Gibson looked up again, her eyes were blazing. “There’s an evil that lives in this town. An evil that killed my sister. An evil that hides behind money and large donations to the police department. An evil that’s now grabbing children off the streets.”
My mom was at her grandmother’s side, wrapping an arm around her, easing her from the pulpit. “It’s okay, Gram Gram,” she said in a low voice. “Colette can rest now. It’s okay.”
Everyone just stared at us. It wasn’t your typical funeral speech, and I’m not sure anybody knew how to react. Mom was busy with Grandma Gibson, so I felt I should probably say something. I needed to thank people for attending and then shoo them away. I turned to face the crowd, but my tongue felt awkward and clumsy in my mouth.
My boss, Joe, took a few steps forward from where he’d positioned himself in the back, raised a hand in the air to draw attention, and said, “The family has invited all of you to come to Cup of Joe’s for coffee, tea, and biscotti after the service.”
People began collecting themselves to leave. Joe strode through the crowd and whispered to me, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to help. This was kind of an impulse thing, so we’re not staffed for a crowd.”
“Thank you so much,” I said in reply. “You’ve got a free worker for however long it takes to pay you back.”
Joe scrunched his nose and waved me off. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just ready for the reporters to clear out of town so I can put you back on the schedule.”
With people extending their condolences and everything, we were some of the last people out the cemetery gate. The reporters were there as we left, hoping for a shot of us. It was weird. I’m not sure what they thought was going to happen. Did they expect the killer was going to appear and confess or something?
The Thurmans and the Updikes were there as well, holding up enlarged photos of their children, hoping to get some camera time. “I think we need to stop,” Grandma Gibson said. “Helen, would you please pull over.”
I knew Mom was about to protest, but then she saw the grim faces of the families trying so desperately to get anyone in the media to care about their missing children, and she pulled over to the side of the drive outside the gates.
I’ve never been attacked by wolves, or even a pack of stray dogs, but I have a slight inkling of how it would go. First the wolves notice something has changed; they sniff the air and start looking around rather eagerly. Then they notice you. They freeze for a moment, marveling at their good fortune, wondering if there will be any way to squeeze some kind of award nomination out of a really good interview. Not a Pulitzer, obviously, but something that at least comes with a trophy and bragging rights. Then the wolves turn as a unit and rush toward you. Not growling and drooling with their ears pinned back, but baring their teeth with gleeful smiles, shoving microphones in your face, thrilled with the idea of ripping you to shreds and consuming you, even before your heart stops beating.
Grandma Gibson stood tall, legs braced but slightly bent at the knee, like you stand when you are on a beach and expect a big wave to crash over you. Mom and I glued ourselves to her side, but the reporters immediately had her surrounded, shouting questions. Really stupid ones like, “Who do you think killed your sister?” and “Do you think the person who stole the body was the same one that killed her?” I would have been surprised if any of their questions were scripted.
The Updikes and Thurmans just stared at us, worry and grief weighing down their shoulders. Grandma raised her
hand and waved them over, looking the reporters and cameramen in the eyes as she said, “Let them through, please. You, sir, please let these people through.”
Mom and I made room for Mrs. Thurman and Mrs. Updike, who were both holding photos of their children. Their husbands and other children crowded in behind. It made my heart ache to see that Don had two little brothers. He was probably one of those big brothers that little boys loved, that showed them how to use bottle rockets and gave them all the gruesome details of dissecting a frog in biology.
“I have something to say,” Grandma said, ignoring all the questions being lobbed at her. I held my breath. She did, after all, know the truth about the Vanderlinds, and for this brief moment in time, she had the attention of the world.
“My sister disappeared eighty years ago,” Grandma began. “There wasn’t television or the Internet or any of those things back then, so the only people who knew about it were local people. But in these modern times, an image can be seen around the world.” She took the photos from the two mothers. “These two babies are missing, and someone out there knows what happened to them. Maybe you saw something that looked suspicious but were hesitant to bring it up. Maybe you overheard someone talking in a bar. I don’t know, but if you’ve heard something, anything at all, then you need to call the Tiburon police department and tell them what you know. You need to do it right now.”
She took a deep breath before looking directly into the camera again. “Or maybe you're the person who kidnapped these two children. I’m sure you know what you did is wrong. And I’m sure on some level you are sorry. Please just let these children go. Or call the police anonymously and tell them where they are. I know that you’re probably in pain, but you are causing other people pain, too. You might think on some level that’s what you want to do, but I know, deep in your heart, you are a good person. Yes, you’ve done something that is very wrong, but that doesn’t erase all the good things you’ve done in your life. And now you have the chance to do the best thing you can possibly do by helping reunite these children with their families.” Grandma handed the photos back to the mothers. “Please,” she said to Mrs. Updike, “you go first. Tell them about your boy.”
I was so very proud of my grandmother, it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I’m sure it caused her some pain not to mention the vampires living down by the river, but that wouldn’t have done Liz and Don a bit of good. It would have only sensationalized things. She knew that, and she put her convictions aside to help.
By the time the reporters finished up and we drove over to Cup of Joe’s, there was already a note posted on the door reading “closed for a private event.” The place was crowded with the senior set. I grabbed an apron and scooted behind the counter to scrub my hands and get busy. Joe had decided on only simple orders. No triple shot decaf lattes with extra foam or whatever else people liked to imagine they needed to get through the day. The seniors were absolutely fine with a cup of coffee or tea. Joe set out some biscotti and various sweet rolls that he’d divided into smaller portions. A large plate of sugar cookies and a deli tray seemed to appear out of nowhere. Joe usually had a rule about no outside food, but this was an obvious exception.
Mom stuck by Grandma Gibson, and I saw Fred lead his great grandfather over to be introduced. I wondered if that was a good thing. I wanted Grams to have some friends at the nursing home. She and Mr. Lighton obviously had things in common. But I didn’t want them to agitate each other about the Vanderlinds. I didn’t put it past my great grandmother to try to incite the seniors at the home to sharpen a few snooker cues and storm the castle.
Chapter 16
As we drove up to Ashtabula Elder Care, it was obvious the news crews were gone. Both Colette and the story had been laid to rest. The whole thing would probably only come up again if the police somehow discovered her murderer, but that was unlikely. I was sure they assumed whoever did kill Colette was long ago dead and buried. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite sure about that, myself.
“I’m a bit tired today,” Grandma said as we walked into the facility. “I think I want to lie down.”
“I can help you, ma’am,” an orderly said, immediately snagging a wheelchair that was close at hand. “Your family can sign back in for you.”
“Thank you, young man,” she said, gratefully sinking into the chair as he held it steady for her. She looked up at us, and there was a weariness etched across her face. “Thank you, Helen. Thank you, Lettie. I had a wonderful afternoon,” she said as the man began rolling her down the hall toward her room.
We both looked after her as she disappeared around a corner. “She must be very tired,” Mom commented. “She hasn’t called you by Colette’s name in a long time.”
Not too long ago, it really bothered me when my great grandmother called me by her dead sister’s name. But now, in a weird way, it made me feel good that I could provide an old lady some comfort. If her brain had somehow temporarily erased over her sister’s funeral and she was able to get a little sleep thinking I was Colette, then that was fine by me. I suddenly felt quite tired myself and was looking forward to going home and sitting on the couch in front of the television for a while.
It was only as we approached the front desk to sign Grams back in that I remembered I had put my borrowed black umbrella on the ground next to my chair and then never thought of it again. Mom had hers, of course; it was just me who had been absentminded.
“Let’s just pay for it,” Mom said with a sigh when I confessed to the loss.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call the cemetery and check if it’s there?” the lady at the desk asked. “You’ll be charged eighty-five dollars plus tax.”
Mom’s mouth dropped open a little. “That’s a lot for an umbrella,” she managed to say.
The lady shrugged. “I guess getting the really nice ones was the only way to make the residents’ families responsible for not losing them.”
Both of the adults turned to look at me. It was as if they expected me to confess to being an irresponsible teenager or something. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone, looked up the number for the cemetery, and dialed. The line was engaged. “It’s busy,” I said, hanging up. “Their website says the cemetery doesn’t close until six-thirty. Let’s just swing by. I’m sure whoever gathered the chairs found it. Don’t cemeteries have a lost and found?”
Mom shook her head slightly. “Sweetie, by the time we drive there, then come back here, and then go home, that’ll be an extra two hours of driving around. And I have a ton of work I really need to get done.”
“Okay, fine,” I told her. “Let’s just go home, and then I’ll grab my car. No big deal.”
Both adults made disapproving faces. Mom said, “It is a big deal when you know there’s a maniac snatching kids off the sidewalk.”
She had a point. I tried the number again. This time it went straight to voicemail. “Okay,” I said, re-evaluating my plan. “I’ll keep the doors locked, like I always do, and I won’t get out of my car for anything. I’ll just drive up to the gate and ask. If they don’t have it, the money can come out of my paycheck.”
I must have said the right thing because the lady behind the counter gave me a smile of approval. “That’s very responsible of you,” she said. She wrote something on a piece of paper. “Call this number once you know whether you have the umbrella or not. If you find it, you can bring it by in the next couple of days. That should at least save you some time. I’ll make a note in Lily’s file so you’re not charged.”
As we headed home, Mom kept frowning and making little noises in the back of her throat. “What is it?” I finally asked her after the seventh or eighth small grunt.
“I’m not sure I should let you go to the cemetery by yourself,” she admitted. “Me having a couple of extra hours to plug into work isn’t worth the risk of having my daughter kidnapped.”
“Mom,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes. “I will use every precaution you’ve ever taught me. I will
not get out of the car, and if anyone so much as looks at me funny, I will run them over; I promise.”
This made Mom chuckle a little. “Okay,” she said, relenting. “I suppose I can’t keep you locked in the house. Just be as smart as possible. This weirdo might even be someone we know.”
After we got home and I headed out in my own car, I had a brief flash of anxiety wondering if I was being stupid and actually risking my life for eighty-five dollars.
But that had to be nonsense. We couldn’t be made prisoners in our own homes because of some sicko psycho. Besides, we didn’t even know for sure if Liz’s and Don’s disappearances were connected.
I distracted myself from frightening thoughts of what had happened to my fellow classmates by fretting over Jessie’s Christmas present. Another entire shopping day was gone, and still no purchase had been made. My cell phone tweeted at me, letting me know I had a text. I waited until I caught a red light before I fished it out of my bag. The message was from my boss. “Cyndi is on the schedule for tomorrow, and she just twisted her ankle. Jareth has the flu. I know this is last minute, but can you work a double?”
“No,” I said to myself with a groan. “I can’t work a double shift. No. No. No.” But I knew that I would. First of all, Joe had just done me a mega-favor that I was sure had cost him a bit of money. Second, he had given me a lot of time off already while my family was the temporary focus of the twenty-four-hour news cycle. And third, smartphones aren’t cheap, and I couldn’t see getting Mr. Jessie Vanderlind anything that wasn’t top of the line. “Of course,” I texted back at the next light. “You’ve got me for as long as you need me.”