The Little Grave

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Signs of torture…” Amanda’s gaze went to Palmer. Could it be that whoever had killed Webb was responsible for Palmer’s death? But there were no signs of torture present here—at least not visible ones. After the sentencing, she’d let her obsession with Palmer go, choosing instead to wallow alone in her grief and anger. “When was this?”

  “Easily five years ago or so. As I said, it was a memorable crime scene.”

  The skin tightened at the back of her neck. The accident was five and a half years ago; six this coming July eighteenth. Turnaround time from trial to sentencing was five months, twenty-six days, six months. But no wonder she didn’t know about Jackson Webb’s fate; she’d been out of touch for a couple of months after the accident. Hospitalized and monitored. An internal bleed had made an operation necessary, and that surgery had repercussions of its own. Long-lasting, life-altering ones. She did her best not to dwell on them. She had enough to deal with when it came to losing Kevin and Lindsey as it was. Only she and her doctors knew the full cost of that fateful day.

  They needed to dig up the Webb investigation. Could it be that the same person who had killed Webb had come for Palmer? But then what motive could have bridged the stretch of time? Could the only thing that had kept Palmer alive been the fact he was behind bars?

  “Did they ever solve the case?” she asked.

  “I dunno.” Blair hitched her shoulders. “I probably should have followed through, but then the next case comes up, and the next…”

  She was dying to know if there’d been any leads, namely suspects, but she could dig into that back at the station. “What else do you remember?”

  “The place—the vic’s house—was an absolute disaster, and not just because of the blood. It had been tossed, no doubt of it.”

  Judges liked to pick apart the word “tossed,” saying that without knowing the state of a place before the crime, it was impossible to conclude, but the word was still widely used outside of the courtroom.

  Blair continued. “Drawers and cupboards were emptied out onto counters and the floor. Cushions and pillows were shredded, most likely with a knife.”

  “What was the cause of death?” Trent asked.

  “Gunshot to the head—and between us, I’d say the bullet would have been welcome by the time it came.”

  “What’s it looking like, Rideout?” Amanda asked him.

  “It’s too early to say, but normally when I see this, it’s accidental not homicide. Suicide’s also very unlikely.”

  “Cause of death being?” Amanda moved closer to the bed.

  “Death by aspiration.”

  Could that be all they were looking at here? For some reason, that possibility made her feel gypped. The case would be closed before it really began.

  Rideout lifted one of Palmer’s eyelids. “As you can see, petechiae and hemorrhaging in his eyes.” Rideout pulled down on Palmer’s bottom lip. “Petechiae’s also in his gum tissue.”

  Just like with his eyes, little red dots marred the pink flesh, which she’d learned years ago was an indication of being starved of oxygen.

  “He choked on his vomit,” she concluded.

  “Yes, and my guess would be due to ethanol poisoning.”

  “Ethanol poisoning?” Trent said.

  “Layman’s terms, alcohol overdose. It would have hindered the area of the brain that controls life-support functions such as breathing, heart rate, and temperature control.” Rideout stopped there and looked down at Palmer. “It is strange that he’s on top of the comforter.”

  “Strange, why?” Amanda pressed.

  “As I was just saying, his temperature would have been affected. He would have been very cold.”

  “So what are you saying? Someone set this up to look like he drank himself to death?” She could be reading too much into Rideout’s words about the bedding, but she was a homicide detective and wired to rule out murder first.

  “Never said that. He could have just been too drunk to bother getting under the comforter. I’m not ready to conclude the manner of death just yet.” Rideout paused and chewed his bottom lip. “What does bother me, though, are the two perfectly empty bottles of whiskey.”

  The skin tightened on the back of Amanda’s neck. “Why?”

  “If he overdrank himself, it would make more sense to me that there’d still be some booze left in one of the bottles. But they’re both completely empty. There’s also no sign of spillage on the bedding or in the room.”

  Rideout stood back, stared at Palmer, then eventually shook his head and looked at Amanda. “Just let me get him back to the morgue before I make any calls on manner of death. But you should know that if someone did force-feed him alcohol with intent to kill him, it’s quite an iffy murder, and the person would have had to stay around for hours, not a matter of minutes.”

  “Yet no one saw anything,” she lamented. “Nothing useful anyhow.”

  “I wish I had something more conclusive, but until I get him on my table…”

  “When do you figure that will be?”

  “I’ll keep you posted, but I suspect today for sure.”

  Amanda nodded. Though she’d heard what Rideout had said about this cause of death often being accidental, she couldn’t dismiss the empty bottles and the murdered business partner. Webb had been tortured, and if Palmer had been murdered, as Rideout had noted, it would have required his killer stay around for hours. That would have been nothing short of torture. Did that mean Webb’s killer was back or was she seeing ghosts where there were none? But there was the as-of-yet unexplained gash on Palmer’s forehead. She pointed it out to Rideout and said, “Are there any defensive wounds?”

  “Not that I’ve seen so far, but you can trust I’ll do my diligence. Scrape under his nails and—”

  She held up a hand to him, not needing the entire rundown. “I trust you. How’s it looking for time of death?”

  “Based on several factors, I’d estimate any time between six and eleven last night.”

  “You… ah… sure?” She rubbed her throat.

  “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t. You’re looking pale, Detective; are you all right?” Rideout took a step toward her.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” was what she said but she was far from it. During the time-of-death window, she’d picked up Motel Guy and climbed into bed with him at the Dreamcatcher Inn. Sergeant Malone had made it clear he required her alibi if she was to stand any chance of working the case at all.

  She checked the time on her cell phone. It was just after two AM. “I’ve gotta go.” She snapped off her gloves and brushed past Trent. “There’s something I need to do,” she told him.

  He moved to go with her.

  She stopped walking and spun. “It’s personal.” When Trent didn’t say anything for a few beats, she considered the scenario. Securing an alibi meant by its very nature it would become known, but she’d get it lined up first, then deal with that.

  “It’s far too early to start knocking on more doors, but we can’t just sit on our asses either. I need you to go back to the station and find out everything you can on Jackson Webb’s murder and see if there’s any reason to suspect Palmer’s death is connected.”

  “You think they are?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I want you to do a little digging. We cover all the angles with a suspicious death. We rule out murder first.”

  Trent flushed, glanced down, then nodded.

  “Also, look for next of kin.”

  When Trent didn’t move, she said, “What are you waiting for?”

  “You going to be all right?”

  “Don’t ever worry about me,” she shoved out and hustled to her car. She just hoped Motel Guy was still languishing in the afterglow.

  Seven

  Amanda pulled around Dreamcatcher Inn to where room eight was nestled. No sign of Motel Guy’s Dodge Ram, but she got out and banged on the room door anyway.

  “I just need a freaking break,” she
called out to the night.

  No answer from the room or a greater being—not that she was certain one even existed.

  She drove around to the inn’s office and swung open the door so hard it hit the wall. The clerk’s head shot up like he’d been asleep.

  “I’m here about your guest in room eight,” she told the dopey-eyed clerk.

  “Okay, and who are you?”

  She leaned on the counter and grabbed his name off his badge. “Bobby, I need the guest’s name in room eight.”

  “And I need a million dollars.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Me? You come in here making demands. You need to cool it, lad—”

  She pulled her badge and Bobby’s eyes widened, and he held his hands up.

  “I don’t want any trouble with the law.”

  “Then you’re going to be cooperative.”

  He kept his arms in the air. “As much as I can be, but I can’t just be handing out guests’ names, even to a cop. Shouldn’t you get a warrant or something? And I’d still have to clear it by my manager.”

  “For God’s sake put your hands down.”

  He lowered them incrementally.

  “I’m here about an open investigation,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie but a complete diversion to the clerk’s question.

  “You have the paperwork? The go-ahead from my boss?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”

  Amanda stood there staring at the clerk, tapping her foot, wishing she could exert some sort of power to make him comply. But she was in this mess all because of her stupid rule: no names.

  “If you want to come back with a warr—”

  She barreled out into the night air. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with Bobby, but now what was she supposed to do? All she knew about Motel Guy was what he drove. That was hardly enough to narrow down a search with the Department of Motor Vehicles. And if she couldn’t track down her alibi, she was screwed. Malone would pull her from the case. Then again, if Palmer hadn’t been murdered, she wouldn’t need one.

  She drove home for a long, overdue shower. Trent would just have to wait for her; she’d get to the station when she got there.

  She pulled into the driveway of the gray brick bungalow she’d shared with Kevin and Lindsey. They’d made a life and a slew of memories here. For the longest time, she’d look at the house and just sit in her car and cry before going inside. Then she’d gone through a phase where she’d stopped looking and crossed over to a numb indifference, doing her best to set aside the happy times because they didn’t possess the power to rise above the pain.

  Today, she was feeling different yet again. The man who had killed them had left this world—either assisted or due to his own dumb addiction.

  There was a single garage, but Kevin had been a bit of a pack rat and it was piled high with stuff. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to touch any of it, let alone clear it out.

  She unlocked the front door and dropped her keys in the bowl on the hall table in the entry. The house was thirty-five years old, but she and Kevin had renovated and made it open concept. There was a tiled patch of flooring to distinguish the square-shaped entry. It butted against the wood laminate flooring of the living room to the left. The kitchen was beyond that, and to the right was a hallway that went to two bedrooms and a bathroom. The basement wasn’t fully finished and was mostly neglected except for the laundry room that shared its space with the furnace and water heater.

  She went right for the bathroom, craving a hot shower to wash off the sex, and stayed under the spray until the water ran cold.

  She slipped behind the wheel twenty minutes after going inside and set out for PWCPD Central District police station in Woodbridge. But on her way out of Dumfries she found herself driving past the cemetery where she’d laid Kevin and Lindsey to rest. She was turning in before she could talk herself out of it.

  It had been a while since she’d visited. Months maybe, but she’d started feeling so foolish talking to them as if they still existed on some plane. It hurt too much to think they were “out there” while she was stuck here.

  She drove through the twisty roads in the cemetery, her memory recalling well where the family plot was that she’d bought so they could all be laid to rest together. At some point she’d join them, and often it didn’t feel like that reunion could happen soon enough.

  She got out of the car and suddenly felt unprepared to be here. She should at least be armed with flowers or something, but her family would hopefully understand—if they had any way of knowing.

  She pulled her phone and used the flashlight to illuminate the shadows that the pale moonlight failed to penetrate. She walked through the forested graveyard, the trees’ branches acting like arms and fingertips reaching out to the night sky. She crested a knoll marked by a magnificent oak tree. Kevin’s and Lindsey’s graves were just on the other side, on a slight downslope.

  She hunched next to the graves, positioned between the two of them. Stacked in front of the headstones were a couple of snow-dusted bouquets of flowers and an unlit candle in a glass dish. Two cards rested against each stone. Amanda picked up the ones for her daughter. They were wet from snow, but she gently opened the envelopes.

  The first was addressed to Lindsey in her mother’s handwriting.

  The card read, To my sweet, sweet granddaughter, You brought so much light into this world, and I can only be saddened by what the world has lost. But I will always carry you in my heart and soul, my beautiful girl. Keep shining, angel. Merry Christmas and love, Grandma Steele.

  Tears stung Amanda’s eyes and she sniffled. Her mother had been here—recently. Amanda felt a rush of guilt for her negligence in visiting the graves.

  She didn’t readily identify the handwriting on the second card marked Lindsey. She scanned to the bottom of the card and saw it had been signed by Kevin’s mother and father, Maria and Solomon, her in-laws. Though were they still? Kevin was dead, and they had shied away from her after the trial, just as she’d backed off from her own family. Kevin’s mother had written a poem by the looks of it, but she respected the woman’s privacy in her words to her only grandchild and returned it to the sleeve.

  Amanda palmed her cheeks and set the cards back on the ground. The words weren’t for her.

  She closed her eyes. What the hell had she been thinking to step forward for the Palmer case? What did she care that the man who killed her family was dead? Good. On. Him. He deserved it, and if he’d met his death at the hands of a cruel killer who made his leaving this world painful—well, he only had himself to blame.

  “Why?” she cried out into the night.

  She pictured the tiny coffin holding her precious daughter being lowered into the little grave, her love, her heart going into the ground. She had to force herself to remember her daughter as she’d been—a light, as Amanda’s mother had described her, with a smile that lit up a room. As time passed though, the images of Kevin’s and Lindsey’s faces faded, graying around the edges with indistinct features, leaving behind more a whisper of a memory than a clear picture. She had photographs, but it was still hard to fully recall their appearance. She feared that as their faces obscured, she’d somehow forget them. But how was that possible when not a day passed that they weren’t in her thoughts?

  Amanda sobbed, her chest heaving, and her eyes blurred from tears. She blinked them away and, as her vision came into focus, her gaze was upon Lindsey’s gravestone.

  Lindsey Julie James, beloved daughter, granddaughter, precious angel.

  Beneath the inscription were the dates of her birth and her death. She’d been alive for six years, one month, and eight days.

  “Oh, my baby girl, I miss you so much.” Amanda swallowed the rest of the words that came to mind, the heartfelt sentiments such as how great it would have been to see the woman she’d have become if only given the chance. She and Kevin had always inst
illed etiquette into their little girl and taught her how important it was to stick to her word. Something Amanda had gotten from her mother.

  “A person’s word is all any of us have or can truly control,” was something Amanda had heard a lot growing up. It was a motto that had become the backbone of how she lived her life. It had come to define her relationships and her career, and had always served her well. And now it gave her perspective on how to handle Palmer’s case.

  She got up and put a hand on Lindsey’s gravestone and said, “Thank you for helping me to remember. And if you’re listening, sweetheart, send Mommy the strength to keep her word this time.”

  She blew a kiss to her fingertips and pressed it to the cold granite of Lindsey’s headstone and then repeated the process with Kevin’s. “I will love you forever, Kev.”

  She walked back to her car, her spirit lifted, while at the same time she could feel her body dragging. She’d give anything if it meant they’d return to her, but, until they met again, she’d do her best to make them proud.

  Eight

  The man who had killed her family was D.E.A.D. It should be easy to accept, but her mind was working overtime and nipping at her resolve. After all, no one would question her decision to back out. Not Malone, Becky, or Trent. That’s even if Palmer had indeed been murdered and the investigation continued in earnest. Still, she found herself headed toward the station in Woodbridge, but she took a detour in the direction of Freddy’s house. Sure, she’d managed without Xanax, but with Palmer’s release, now death, the drug called out to her. Was it enough to risk her badge? But she wasn’t even sure that meant as much to her as it once had, and her judgment may have been clouded by the memory of how just one pill could calm her nerves and silence her mind.

  It was almost four in the morning by the time she stopped in front of Freddy’s and punched the steering wheel. The better part of a couple of hours had passed since she’d left Trent at Denver’s. If she took too much longer, he could call wondering where she was, though he probably didn’t want to prod her given she was really his superior.