Sweet After Death

by Valentina Giambanco

  After a few hours at home she had met a couple of girlfriends at the Tavern for dinner and, over a beer, they had enjoyed a long session picking at whatever gossip they’d heard about the murder of Robert Dennen. None of them knew him as a close friend, but all of them had said hello to him at least a few times in the last year. Joyce had served him breakfast three weeks earlier.

  The Tavern was a country-style combination of bar and restaurant with a pool table in the back. Customers could bring their kids if they wanted something different from the diner’s fare. They had Italian Night once a week and it was rumored that the chef had once used truffle oil in the mashed potatoes. They opened for lunch at noon, stayed open until late, and there was a pleasant overlap of business, which meant Joyce often talked shop with the owner. Their competition was a pizza joint on the highway and plenty of choice in Sherman Falls; however, as the only two establishments of the kind in Ludlow, the Magpie and the Tavern fought the same battles and suffered the same pains.

  Joyce was about to return her glass and bottle to the counter and take her leave when one of the Seattle detectives walked in and made his way to the bar. He was an average-looking guy with graying red hair and an expensive parka. He sat on a stool, ordered a drink, and looked around. One quick look to take the measure of the place and the customers before he turned to his drink and the television in the corner. One quick look with sharp eyes, clever eyes, that Joyce had noticed from her booth on the other side of the room while everyone else had been busy with their evening.

  No, she said to herself, maybe not an average kind of guy at all.

  Detective Sergeant Kevin Brown had left the Miller house reluctantly, but glad that Madison and Sorensen had chosen not to venture out with him into the bright lights of Ludlow’s nightlife.

  He only meant to have a beer and then return to what might hopefully be a marginally warmer bedroom. Going to the Tavern was about giving someone who might be hesitant to approach him officially during the day a chance to strike up a casual conversation—a conversation that might lead to something useful.

  After the brief, chilly walk the Tavern was warm and welcoming with a hint of chili and wet fries in the air. It was also busy, which was a good thing for Brown’s purpose. He suspected pretty much everyone there had worked out who he was within the first five minutes.

  Brown ordered a draft beer from a local microbrewery—something pale with an instantly forgettable name—and let his eyes fall on the television screen in the corner above the counter. Two pundits were discussing a vintage football game with the sound muted. He watched without any interest.

  The bartender—a young man with a goatee—wiped the counter with a cloth.

  “Here’s the menu, if you’d like something to eat. The kitchen closes in half an hour—after that it’s only subs and snacks.”

  “Thanks, I’m fine.”

  “Here, Darryl,” a woman’s voice said, and someone passed a glass and a bottle to the young man.

  “Thanks . . .” The bottle ended up in a recycling bin and the glass in a sink.

  Brown turned. The woman was zipping up her coat and lifting her hood.

  “Could you tell Norman that I have some extra boxes of those tomatoes he likes?” she said.

  “Sure thing.”

  She was small and there was something appealing in her manner and the way she smiled at Brown just because he was sitting there and it would have been rude to exclude him from the exchange.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello . . .”

  She was small, with very dark hair and freckles—the kind of coloring his mother used to call Irish.

  “How was your first day in town, Detective?”

  “Is it obvious?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Brown took a sip of the beer. “It was a tough day. Did you know Mr. Dennen?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Joyce Cartwell—I own the Magpie Diner around the corner. Robert would come by sometimes. He seemed like a nice man.”

  Brown did not reply at first. Whether Dennen had been a nice man or not, they would find out in due time. Or maybe not at all. “Would you join me for a drink?” he said.

  She smiled again, and it was a lovely smile. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m opening up tomorrow morning. Then again, we’re the only ones doing breakfast in this town so I’ll probably see you at the Magpie at some point.”

  The woman left and Darryl slid a bowl of nuts near Brown’s glass.

  “Technically speaking, the Stone Bakery does breakfast too,” he said, as if he was sharing a great truth. “But only rolls and cakes. If you want cooked, the Magpie is all there is.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m Kevin Brown from Seattle PD.” He offered his hand, and the young man shook it.

  “I know,” the bartender said with a shy grin.

  “Do you live in town, Darryl?”

  “Yes, I’m staying in the apartment on the top floor.” He pointed at the ceiling. “Comes with the job.”

  “Has the Tavern been busy in the last few weeks?”

  “About the usual.”

  “Any new faces? Any strangers?”

  Darryl stopped wiping the counter. He thought about it for a minute and then shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Brown finished his beer and thought of the bottle of Jura Prophecy whiskey he had left on the sideboard at home in Ballard. He could have done with a tumbler right about then. Instead he put a few bills on the counter and left.

  Darryl watched him go. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Brown about seeing Robert Dennen having an argument with a woman in a car about ten days earlier. Darryl had driven past and barely caught a flash of two people fighting in a parked car by the bridge. He hadn’t seen the woman properly, but he could have sworn the man was Dennen.

  He watched Brown go and didn’t say anything. The woman could have been his wife, could have been anybody at all. It didn’t have to mean anything—even if the man was dead, and his car was a shell of charred metal.

  In his bed, after an evening recounting every detail of the day to his parents and his younger sister, Jay Kupitz sighed. He really liked the red-headed detective and was also a little afraid of her. It was a heady, intoxicating combination. When the case was wrapped up and they returned to Seattle, maybe he would fly out there and visit her, take her out for dinner.

  Why not? Weirder shit happened all the time.

  Kupitz closed his eyes and spelled the word he had looked up in the online dictionary.

  S-P-E-C-T-R-O-M-E-T-R-Y.

  He would definitely use it on Hockley the following day.

  Sorensen had gone to bed and Madison found herself wandering from the ground floor upward toward her attic room, checking the windows on all the floors and making sure the locks were in place. The wind was doing its best against the house and Madison thought of the inside of a tall ship in rough seas. She hoped Brown would be back soon. It would have seemed strange to tell him to be careful when he was only a few minutes away; nevertheless, Madison worried. They had not had a chance yet to get a sense of this isolated town and its community. Did they want them there in the first place? Had Brown left his duty weapon in his bedroom? What about his backup piece?

  Madison lit a fire in the hearth of her daisies-and-bluebells room. A small fire that would consume the log quickly but would keep her company as she undressed and slid between the cool sheets.

  Her cell was still charging, but she didn’t find any new messages. She was disappointed, though not surprised. To be honest, she didn’t know what to expect, how to behave, what she should say or do: she was seeing a man, except that she was not really seeing him. They were spending most of their nights together, but it always appeared to happen as a spontaneous, last-minute decision and not by plan. It had been going on for a couple of months, and most people would call it a relationship�
��except that they were specifically not in a relationship.

  “We’re not in a relationship,” she had said to him only the previous week, waking up on Sunday with the anticipation of a long, delightfully empty day ahead.

  “Of course not,” he had replied, his head on the pillow next to hers.

  And that had been that. Nonetheless, now that they were apart, there was no manual for how to behave with a man who was explicitly not her boyfriend. And yet she missed him. If there was etiquette for that kind of situation, she was not aware of it. She had wanted to hear his voice at the end of the day, and yet that was not who they were—or was it?

  Madison heard the door downstairs open and close and a key turn in the lock. Brown’s steps, so familiar, climbed the stairs, and she was glad. He was there, he was fine. Maybe the citizens of Ludlow had been captivated by his understated charm and decided to reveal all their secrets; maybe they’d solve the case tomorrow, arrest the killer, and fly home in time for dinner.

  The fire crackled and the quivering light played on the walls while the tiny flowers bloomed and faded. Madison wrapped herself in the comforter and watched the log hiss and spit until she fell into a deep sleep. She did not hear the ping of the message when it arrived a few minutes later.

  The wind kept her company as it swept away the clouds and left a starry sky in their place. A family of deer crossed Main Street, as was their habit, unhurried and unafraid. The business of the town and its people was of no consequence to them: sooner or later the mountain would claim back the land, and it would be like Ludlow had never existed.

  Chapter 12

  It had been eight hours since Alice Madison, twelve years old, had left her home in Friday Harbor on San Juan Island; seven hours since she had taken a ferry to the mainland and cut off most of her hair in the locked restroom using her scissors with the pink handles.

  She had left behind everything, except for the small backpack resting on her shoulders as she pedaled her red bike, and her baseball bat tied to the pack. Good, she thought, this is all I need and this is all I want. The tree-lined, winding road would lead her from the town to her friend Jessica’s empty home a few minutes away, soon to be her refuge. Jessica’s family was visiting her grandparents in San Diego, and Alice knew the vacation home because they had been there together only weeks earlier.

  The forest around her was in full summer glory and the light shone gold through the trees. It was a perfect summer day, and Alice inhaled the fresh, spicy scent of pines with relief. She was okay; she had made it. No one passing her would have thought she was anything other than a kid on a bike ride through the neighborhood. Her long hair had been cropped at the jawline, and with her baseball cap low on her head—and if she didn’t speak too much, or say anything too dumb—she could probably, maybe, hopefully, pass for a boy. That would go a long way to keeping her hidden, and hidden meant safe. She couldn’t go back—she wouldn’t go back—not after what she had almost done.

  The day had started with rage, fear, and despair. It had been too much for her pink, girly bedroom to contain, and she had run.

  Once at Jessica’s house she would regroup and decide what to do. She had stuffed a couple of ham rolls and a bag of Cheetos she had bought in a convenience store near the bus stop into her pack, and she was hungry.

  The bus journey from Anacortes on Interstate 5 in the August heat had been long and sticky, and Alice reveled in the cool shade along the road. She would have to shop for food once she was settled in the house, but that was fine; in fact, she was looking forward to it. It was a mark of her independence.

  She would get in—the key was behind the fourth pot by the hedge—she would eat and then she would sit down at the table, where she had played Monopoly with Jessica’s family, and figure out her life. She had three fat rolls of banknotes held together by elastic bands in the bottom of her pack—her savings—and a few ten-dollar bills in her back pocket for immediate expenses. There was no reason to panic.

  Her father wouldn’t start looking for her properly until sunset—in the last few months, rocked by her grief, Alice had occasionally gone hiking alone in the lush, green interior of San Juan Island. After one of their arguments she often spent the day by the lighthouse at Lime Kiln Point, peering at the sea and hoping to spot the resident pod of killer whales. No one, she thought, no one in the whole wide world would think of looking for her in Jessica’s house.

  The mountains rose around the valley, and even from miles away Alice saw the dark trim of woods; wild woods that led farther and farther away from the small community and into nothing.

  Around Alice life flowed as she remembered it—a quiet place where families came to spend weekends and summers. The houses were as big as the ones in Friday Harbor but somehow felt more rural. Most were cabins with porches and terraces that jutted out onto the lake. There would have been fireworks on the water on the Fourth of July, and the smell of barbecues. Sure, she would have to be careful not to be seen, but Jessica’s house sat in a copse far back from the main road and off a dirt path; the only living creatures who would conceivably see her were woodpeckers and squirrels.

  Alice reached the turnoff and took it. In one minute she would be able to—

  A metal-gray SUV was parked in front of the house and all the windows and doors were open. A tall man was unloading a couple of suitcases from the trunk, and three little kids were streaking back and forth between his legs and the front door. A woman’s voice called out from inside and the man replied.

  Alice had frozen, her bike stopping into a skid. What? How?

  She watched them for a minute, and it was only when one of the children noticed her that the father turned around.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” Alice replied, and her heart was beating so fast she could hear it in her voice. Think, think quickly. “I was looking for the Palmers’ place,” she said. “I thought they were coming this weekend.”

  “This is the Palmers’ place,” the man said. “They’ve rented it out to us for two weeks.”

  “Oh,” Alice said.

  The man lowered the cases.

  “You a friend of the Palmer kids?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, yes, I know them. That’s great, okay, thank you.”

  Alice turned the bike and flew away.

  It was only once she reached the turn onto the main road and stopped that she realized she had no place to go.

  Chapter 13

  Alice Madison woke up with a start and black fear clutching her by the throat. She didn’t remember the details of the dream, and she didn’t need to, because she knew where the dream had come from, where it had been hiding: a memory from another time had been waiting for her between the ridges and the grooves of the mountains around Ludlow.

  The dream—a vague shape of jagged feelings—was gone but the panic had been real. Madison breathed in and out, and the sense of oppression slowly began to dissipate. She was not a child: reality was a small attic room with old-fashioned wallpaper and glowing ashes in the hearth; reality was a grown-up with gunmetal and a gold shield on her bedside table.

  Madison shook off her blankets and stood up. If she had been at home, she would have made herself some warm milk and walked around until the lingering weight of the dream had left her. There was no reason why it shouldn’t work here too.

  The Miller house was quiet, except for the wind outside. Tree branches brushed the side of the house from time to time, making a rasping sound against the wood. In their darkened rooms Brown and Sorensen were fast asleep and warm in their beds.

  Madison tiptoed down the stairs and turned on the light in the kitchen. The round clock over the fridge told her it was 1:15 a.m. She poured a little milk into a saucepan and stood by the stove rubbing her eyes as it warmed up.

  Those everyday gestures chased away the nightmare and left her with the bare facts. Seven days she had been alone and on the run; some of those days had been good, some had not. Some had been terrible. All o
f those days—the good ones and the bad ones—belonged in another part of her life, and there they would remain. Madison—with a degree in psychology—knew how to talk herself out of bad dreams, and yet she wiped her hand unconsciously on her pajama bottoms to wipe away the tacky, hideous warmth of rabbit blood that had not been there for twenty years.

  Just before the milk boiled Madison poured it into a mug, rinsed the pan in the sink, and turned off the light to return to her bedroom. She was at the bottom of the stairs when she heard the crack of splintering wood, and in the gloom of the hallway Madison froze. It could have been many things, all innocent and perfectly safe. Then again, it could have been the sound of a boot stepping on a stick in the dark, someone creeping around a house surrounded by tall trees.

  Madison, off balance and at a disadvantage in the unfamiliar building, peered into the living room, where she had been sitting with Sorensen. There wasn’t enough light to see clearly inside it, but one thing was sure: if a window had been forced open, the sharp night air and the chilling breeze would have found her very quickly. Madison stepped forward and turned on the light.

  The room was just as they had left it. She sighed. The wind was still keeping busy, and that was probably all there was to it.

  Madison turned off the light in the living room and sat on the bottom steps of the stairway. The heat from the mug was pleasant under her chilled fingers. She sipped the milk and waited. Anxiety from the dream had stayed with her, and she had heard zebras instead of horses. The crack had been close but not too close, and definitely not upstairs. If anybody was interested in getting up close and personal with the Seattle detectives—especially the two fast asleep upstairs—they’d have to go through her, and she was ready and armed with a mug, scalding hot liquid, and the will to use both.

  Madison sipped the milk and for the next ten minutes heard nothing more worrying than the rattle of windowpanes that Edna Miller would have to fix in the spring. Ever since she had been little, she had had trouble sleeping through the night. Occasionally, she would wake up in her bed after a dream, but often she would just wake up and blink in the darkness. Not crying, not afraid, just awake and watching the shadows on the ceiling above her.