“Who? Your boss?”
“No, Ricky. You said you were going to the prison.”
“Yeah, I saw him.”
“How was he?”
“How do you think?”
Bailey frowned. “I do care about him, you know. Just because Alicia was his actual girlfriend doesn’t mean I didn’t like him. I told you I don’t think he did it, and I will help you find the real killer. Ricky deserves a second chance.”
Poor girl. She had it bad. And Casey had spent so much breath trying to convince Ricky to give her a second chance, Casey should probably follow her own advice. “He wasn’t good. Pretty much a mess. I have to get him out.”
“We have to.” Bailey’s eyes were hard. Determined. “What else can I do?”
Casey considered the offer. “Do you think the other people you work with know anything?”
“About who killed her?”
“Or just about her. Would she have told them anything?”
“I really doubt it. She pretty much kept to herself, and they’re not exactly her type. Not my type, either,” she added quickly.
“Who’s type are they?”
She made a face. “Can’t imagine.”
“What about customers? Any of them she was especially friendly with?”
“Some of the dinner folks, I guess. I get along better with the breakfast and lunch crowds. The working men, you know. Alicia wasn’t real friendly with them. Got them their food and whatever, but they thought she was stuck up. They seem to like me.”
Casey eyed the girl’s clothes. “I wonder why.”
Bailey had the grace to blush. “So do you want me to talk to them? The dinner people or the dishwasher and cook? Some of the older couples who come in for late breakfasts might be good, too.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“Got to. There’s no one else, not till Karl hires another waitress.” She brightened. “You interested?”
“No. But I’m going to come by. We can question the other employees together. What’s a good time?”
“Depends. If you want the cook and dishwasher, you’d better wait till after the breakfast rush. You want the dinner folks, you’ll have to come later on.”
“Karl won’t mind?”
“He won’t care. Not if you’re applying for the waitress job.”
“I told you—”
Bailey grinned slyly. “Or you can try to find the guys wherever they went tonight after work.”
“They don’t tell you?”
“I never ask. Don’t really want to know.”
“What about you? Are you headed to the other side of town?”
“I’m meeting some friends there.”
“I thought you didn’t like rich people.”
“Not when they’re treating me like a servant. When I meet them on their terms they’re not so bad.”
“And they don’t see through it?”
Bailey’s eyes were bleak, and she hesitated just a little too long. “Not all of them.”
“All right.” Casey opened her door. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. About nine?”
“That’s fine.”
Casey got out of the car and watched the girl drive away before heading down the sidewalk. She stopped under a dim parking lot light to study the job application, but had to squint. Death held the Droid over the paper to add illumination.
“I don’t get it,” Casey said. “The manager didn’t ask for any ID? He let it all go, no questions asked? How does he get away with that?”
“Come on, Casey; you can’t be completely surprised.”
She folded up the paper and began pedaling. Death rode on the back axles, like a nine-year old, but didn’t need to hang onto Casey to stay put. “So, where are we headed?”
Casey wobbled, but kept the bike upright. “I guess…home.”
“Home. Doesn’t that sound strange?”
But Casey couldn’t let herself think about their destination as she rode. She wasn’t even sure she could think about it when they got there. “Alicia made up a name, supplied only a brand new address, and didn’t even put the number of the phone she was using. Who knows how many places she lived before coming here? And Ricky believed her about wanting to stay.”
“Maybe she really was going to this time.”
“No. People like that, who move around with new names, and fill out fake applications, they don’t stay. They just drop everything and leave people, and jobs, and landlords behind. They can’t be trusted. Not with important things.”
Death laughed. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I know.”
“You’re so self-righteous about her changing her name and hiding her past. But it’s like she’s another you. A Mini Me, like in that movie. Except for, well, it’s You. And she’s not a midget.”
Casey kept riding, turning onto the road where her house sat. It felt like she was riding uphill, even though that stretch of road was flat. “What Alicia did hurt Ricky. I never got in a relationship. Never hurt anybody.”
“I guess it depends on how you define ‘relationship.’ And ‘hurt.’”
“I never made any promises to anyone in the past two years. Especially a man.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure!”
“Then why is Eric VanDiepenbos, that sweet young man from Clymer who just saved your ass, sitting in front of your house?”
Chapter Thirteen
Casey skidded the bike to a stop, and Eric looked up from his perch on the front steps. She breathed in deeply through her mouth and out her nose, unsure how to proceed. She hardly knew the kid, right? She’d only met him a few weeks ago. He was young—younger than she was, anyway. He was also idealistic, damaged from the murder of his lover, and the son of a criminal. His presence here in her home town couldn’t possibly be good.
“Casey?”
The sound of his voice brought back other memories, as well. The murder of the Louisville mobster, a killer’s head exploding in front of them, and a passionate near-sex experience in the back of a darkened theater. Casey went hot, then cold. This man, with whom she’d experienced so much in such a short amount of time, stood in front of the house where she’d shared a complete life with Reuben. Complete in the sense that she’d given her total self. Incomplete in that it had lasted only a few years.
The house still looked the same. Better, actually. Ricky had taken good care of it. The lawn must have been mown just before Ricky went to prison, because it still looked fairly neat. A few leaves had scattered over it, but nothing that couldn’t be explained away by a light breeze. The paint was fresh, the flowerbeds weed-free, and the stump that had been a beautiful oak tree held a pot of rust-colored mums. It was like she’d just come home from the dojang, and Reuben and Omar would be waiting inside. The house would smell like tamales, and flour dustings would decorate Reuben’s shirt. Omar would be strapped to Reuben’s back, watching as Reuben steamed the filled corn husks. The moment felt so real Casey almost believed it.
But Eric VanDiepenbos, not at all a part of that life, waited by the steps as she walked the bike across the street and laid it in her yard, along with her bag. She stood at the end of the walk.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
He took a step forward.
She took one back. “Why are you still here?”
“I’m actually not still here. I went home. And then I came back. So the question should actually be, why did I come back?”
She waited. “And the answer?”
“I heard about your brother. I want to help.”
“What could you do?”
“I don’t know. Something.” He shifted on his feet. “Plus, I wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
He gave a little laugh. “Why? Casey, do you not remember anything that happened three weeks ago?”
She looked around, wondering where Death was when she needed a hand. Or a distraction
.
“That’s over,” she said.
“Not for me.”
“Right. What with your dad going to prison and everything…”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at something on the walk. “At least your brother is innocent.”
“You believe that?”
“I don’t need to. You do.”
Casey looked at Eric, his hair flopping over his forehead, kicking at pebbles like a twelve-year-old. What on earth was she going to do with him?
“You really want to help?”
His head jerked up, like a puppy expecting a treat. “Yes.”
“Fine. Come back tomorrow morning.”
His face fell. “Tomorrow—”
“I haven’t even been back to this house yet. This is the first I’m seeing it. And I can’t do that with anybody else.” She gave him what she hoped was a gentle smile. “Not even you.”
“I’ll stay out of your way. I promise. I’ll…be here for you.”
“Eric, you have no idea—”
“I know what happened to you two years ago. I know about the accident, and about your baby. I know about…Reuben.”
Of course he did. She had called him her dead husband’s name while they were ripping each other’s clothes off in the back of that theater three weeks earlier. That, obviously, had been the end of that little affair.
“Eric, look. I like you, you know I do. I’ll be eternally grateful for how you kept me out of jail. And I appreciate that you want to help with my brother—I’ll take whatever help you can give me with that. But this…” She looked up at the house. “This I have to do by myself. It has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with the life I lost. Please try to understand.”
“Can I just wait out here? In case you need someone to talk to after you go in?”
She shook her head. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Well, I was hoping to stay here.”
Wasn’t going to happen. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You have a phone?”
“Of course.”
Of course. Like everybody had one. Well, she supposed, every normal person did. Actually…“I think the landline is still on in the house. Ricky kept everything going in case I came back. So I can call you if I need to, right?”
“But—”
“And you can go stay in my brother’s house.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“Or you can find a hotel. But Eric, you can’t stay here. Not tonight.” Maybe not ever.
He sighed. “Fine. But you have to promise to call if you need me.”
“I promise. All right? Now here’s the key to his house.” She gave him directions, as well as her phone number, which was burned into her brain from Before.
He plugged the number into his iPhone, which looked exactly like Death’s replica, and scribbled his on the back of a gas receipt. “Casey Maldonado? Or Kaufmann? Or should we simply go with Smith?”
A joke. Sort of. That was how she’d first introduced herself to him way back three weeks ago—it felt like three years. And he’d told her his name was Eric Jones. Cute. A far cry from VanDiepenbos.
She glanced at the mailbox, which had the house number, but no last name. “Maldonado. My last name is Maldonado. My husband’s name.”
Eric became very busy inputting the information. “How about I use all three? That way I’m sure to know I’ll get one of you.” He shifted on his feet, looking even more like a child waiting for recognition. But at the same time like a man, with strong arms and kind eyes and warm skin…
“Goodnight, Eric.”
He looked around at the street and the house, but not at her. “All right. I’ll see you in the morning. Unless you call me.”
“Do you have a car?”
He gestured to a generic gold Taurus. Rental.
“How about you come get me at eight-forty-five?”
“I can come earlier.”
“No, that will be fine. I—we—have an appointment at nine.”
“Okay. Should I eat breakfast first? Or will we be eating there?”
The poor boy. He had no idea what he was asking. “Eat first. You won’t want even one bite at the place we’re going.”
He nodded, looking at his car, his keys, the sidewalk. “You sure I can’t—”
“Goodnight, Eric.”
He stopped speaking and studied the car key like it held the answers to the universe. “Goodnight, Casey.” He got in the car and pulled slowly away. From the shape of his silhouette as he drove, Casey could tell he was watching her in his rear view mirror.
And then he turned the corner and was out of sight.
Chapter Fourteen
The house didn’t smell like tamales.
It smelled like cleaning solution. Not the same combination as at her mother’s house. More like how she’d left Ricky’s. Clean and fresh, and sterile. No actual life. Not even a fern.
Casey had dreaded that first step into the kitchen, the room she entered from the back door. She’d used the key from the garage, the one hidden under the tee ball stand Omar had never had the chance to break. The key slid in easily, and the doorknob turned like it had been used daily over the past two years.
The kitchen felt strange. Not strange as if something were wrong. Just…alien. No familiar odors. No well-worn articles of clothing strewn across the backs of chairs. No food crumbs or dishes on the counter. It was a show home, which was what she’d wanted Ricky to make it into. Something that could be bought and sold, as if it meant nothing more than a piece of paper declaring it real estate.
She wandered into the living room. Again, nothing personal. No pictures of her family. No Taste of Home or Hapkido Times magazines on the coffee table. No shoes left in the middle of the room. There was an afghan on the back of the couch, one her grandmother had made. But that held only memories of her childhood. None from the years with her own family. Omar had been too tiny for the heavy blanket, which had been crocheted for Casey’s father, a large man who favored black and hunter green. A memory did float up of a child-made fort, made with Ricky, the afghan serving as the roof. It had been too heavy to stay up, and she and Ricky had fought about how best to use it in their construction. For some reason she’d inherited it when her dad died. Nobody had ever really used it since.
She went through the front hallway and stared up the hardwood steps. The upstairs. That was where the real test would be. The answer to whether or not ghosts did exist. She took a deep breath and started up, running her hand along the smooth railing. As she climbed, her heart raced—a sure sign of anxiety, as it would take hundreds of stairs to make her body react to mere physical activity. She paused halfway up, taking in the smooth white wall, where there used to be family photos displayed. Now it was a testament to Ricky’s hard work and care for her home.
She continued up until she hit the landing. Straight ahead was the bathroom, where she’d given Omar countless baths. More than once she’d gotten as wet as he had, when he had splashed and played. He’d always loved those times in the warm water, with Casey or Reuben blowing bubbles to entertain him. The little bath cushion was gone now, and the baby shampoo and wash had been replaced with Bath and Body Works bottles. The mirror was free of spots, and the only thing on the counter was a ceramic liquid soap dispenser. The towel even looked unused, as if it were there just for looks. Which it was.
Casey stood in the hallway. Which should be first? The bedroom she had shared with Reuben, where they’d spent countless hours talking, sleeping beside each other, and, of course, those other things Geraldine had been going on about with her Arthur? Or Omar’s bedroom, where she’d spent those late nights and early mornings when he’d woken up hungry or over-tired or teething? Come to think of it, why should she go in either?
Because if she was going to spend the night, she would be sleeping in one of those rooms, unless she wanted to spend the night on the couch.
She’d slept worse places.
She could order out for pizza. Or Chinese. Or walk down to the 24/7 convenience store and get one of those crappy burritos and an Icee.
Or she could just tough it out till morning.
She drank some water from the spigot, lay on her back, and pulled her father’s afghan over her. She should be tired. It had been a late night, and an emotional day. She was in her own home after being on the road for two years. That in itself should be exhausting. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. In and out, even, deep, slow. Counting sheep. Counting stars. Going through the alphabet, naming different kinds of food for each letter.
She opened her eyes.
The refrigerator was clean. Just warm. She plugged it in. And then she put her shoes back on, grabbed her wallet, and walked out the front door.
“Midnight snack?” Death sat on the front step, holding an electronic tablet and watching an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. “This family drives me crazy. If I were a part of it I’d shoot myself.”
“Go right ahead.”
Death pushed a button and the show disappeared. “Wow. You’re not any nicer in the middle of the night than you are during the day.”
“It’s not like you shooting yourself would do any harm.”
“True.” Death stood and stretched. “So where are we going?”
“I am going to the convenience store.”
“Burrito?”
“I was thinking frozen pizza. Or maybe some rotisserie chicken, if they have some this time of night.”
Death made a face. “Sounds wonderful. I think I’ll stay here where I won’t die of food poisoning.” Death turned the tablet back on, resuming the Raymond episode where it had left off. “Maybe you’ll find someone of your type there.”
“What type would that be?”
“Honestly?”
“No.”
Casey left Death and walked toward the store, which sat at the end of the street several blocks down. The night was quiet, and hardly any lights glowed behind curtains of the neighboring houses. She and Reuben really had picked the family part of town. No late-night partiers or guys hanging out on the street with their hot rods and beers. The few lights she saw were probably for parents up with babies. She turned her mind away from that thought and broke into a jog. She hadn’t gotten a run for a couple of days and she was feeling it.
Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series) Page 8