Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series)

by Clemens, Judy

  “Did you know Ricky?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  “Saw him a few times. Hear he’s the one who done her.” He shrugged. “Don’t make no difference to me if it was him or that other guy.”

  Casey went still. “What other guy?”

  “The one who was here the same week she got killed.”

  “Who was he?”

  The toaster popped and Pasha snatched the bread out and threw it on the plates. He grabbed a knife, stuck it in the butter tub, and pulled out a glob of butter. He stopped suddenly, knife in the air, then shoved the knife and the butter back in the tub. “Order!” he yelled, and Bailey came back just long enough to take the plates.

  “Who was he?” Casey said again.

  “Don’t know. He came up the alley out back when I was out for a smoke. Said he was looking for Alicia, and showed me a picture, but it didn’t hardly look like her, like it was from a long time ago. I told him she wasn’t here. I asked him should I give her a message, but he said no, he’d find her himself.” Regret filled his eyes for a moment. “Maybe he did.”

  “Did you tell her about him?”

  “Soon as he left I forgot he’d even been here.”

  “Remember now. What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. Older guy.”

  “Fifty? Sixty?”

  “How should I know? It’s not like I asked how old he was.”

  “Gray hair? Wrinkles? Glasses? Nice clothes? Nasty clothes?”

  He held up his hands. “Lady, I don’t know. I didn’t notice. I told you he was old, that’s everything I remember.”

  “Everything?”

  “I guess his hair was gray, okay? And when he left he said, ‘Ya’ll have a nice day,’ or something lame like that. Happy?”

  Happy? Hardly.

  But suddenly Casey saw a speck of light at the end of what she’d thought was a very, very long tunnel.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hey, you two.” Karl followed them out to the parking lot, and they stopped by their car. He poked a finger at them, his entire body stiff with anger. “What’s your business here? Why do you keep coming back?”

  “Alicia.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What about her? She was a legitimate employee of this restaurant.”

  And suddenly Casey got it. “Look, Karl, we’re not here to bust you for hiring her with fake information.”

  “Who said it was fake?”

  “Seriously. It doesn’t matter. We don’t care. All we want is to find out who killed her.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t anybody here.”

  “Never said it was.”

  He glared at her for a few more moments, then relaxed his stance enough he didn’t look like he was going to explode. “You find out anything?”

  “Nothing for sure. But maybe something. If it pans out, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

  Sorrow shone in his eyes. “I did like her, you know.”

  “Seems like most people did.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “So are you done here?”

  “I think so.”

  “Give a call if you need anything else.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  He nodded shortly and headed back toward the front door.

  “Hey, Karl,” Casey called.

  He looked back.

  “You might want to think about hiring a different cook.”

  He shook his head. “You think I don’t know that?” And he disappeared behind the front door.

  “Come on,” Casey said, jumping in the car. “We need to do some research.”

  “On what?”

  “The South. That’s where our killer was from. Maybe. If we’re lucky. And if the cook wasn’t making up that entire conversation.”

  “The south?”

  “Of course, the south. Who else says, ‘ya’ll?’”

  “Isn’t that kind of stupid, though? I mean, to say something like that, if he’s a killer and he’s trying to keep a low profile. Somebody not from the South would remember that. Even somebody like Pasha.”

  They were driving back to Ricky’s place.

  “But the South is a big region,” he said. “Knowing he’s from ‘the South’ doesn’t exactly help us.”

  “Just wait.”

  “What? You know something else?”

  “Not yet.”

  She was out of the car almost before it was parked, and jogged into the house. Eric followed, catching up to her in the kitchen. She whipped open the pantry door and dug Ricky’s secret stash out of the cleaning supplies. “This is the candy he was hiding. And the book about Carol Burnett. What do they have in common?” She scoured the small print on the Chick-O-Sticks wrapper. “There. Made in Texas.” She tossed that aside and flipped through the biography. Eric read over her shoulder, and pointed at something on the inside flap. “Says Carol was born in Texas.”

  Casey couldn’t breathe. “Texas.”

  “Is that our place?”

  Casey dropped the book onto the counter and pulled Ricky’s scribbled note of sayings from her pocket. “Turn on your Internet. See if either of these come up.” While he set to work, she scoured the copy of the photo they’d gotten at the restaurant, but there was nothing that screamed “Texas.” The license plate on the car was hidden by the man’s body, and the visible background was made up of the sort of things one might see anywhere. Trees, sky, clouds. Nothing partial to any sort of specific geography.

  Eric tapped on his screen and a web site came up. “Here it is. Texas Monthly. They have an article all about the things Texans say.” He held out his iPad. “It’s right there. Fine as cream gravy. It means you feel happy.”

  “And the other one?”

  He scrolled down. “Sharp as mashed potatoes. Way of saying someone’s not too bright. Hey, you okay?”

  Casey sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. “I didn’t really think we’d find anything. Especially not from some loser like that cook.”

  Eric watched her like he was afraid she was going to do something rash. When she stayed put he said, “So now what? Do we tell the police?”

  “Tell them what? That this woman who isn’t named Alicia McManus was maybe from the gigantic state of Texas at some point in her life?”

  “I guess.”

  “But we don’t even know that for sure, do we? Just because Ricky had these weird things hidden away. We don’t even know they had anything to do with Alicia at all.”

  “You mean Elizabeth.”

  Casey looked at him.

  “It’s her name, right? We should probably use it.”

  “Not around here. We start calling her that, people will wonder how we know.”

  He looked at his iPad, then back at her. “And how exactly do we know her real name?”

  “I thought you were going to wait until I was ready to tell you.”

  “Aren’t you ready?” Casey jumped as Death’s whisper froze her ear.

  “What’s wrong?” Eric’s eyes went wide.

  Death swooped to the other side of the table and swirled around Eric’s head, stopping in front of his face. Eric shivered.

  “Stop it,” Casey said.

  “What?” Eric said. “Shivering? It’s cold in here.”

  “All of a sudden.”

  “Well, yeah. How come?”

  Death reformed beside Eric and sat blinking at Casey, mimicking Eric’s posture even though Death didn’t have a chair. Didn’t need one, apparently. “Are you going to tell him? Or are you still ashamed of me?”

  Casey rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “It’s okay,” Eric said. “You’ve been under a lot of stress the past few weeks. Or, well, years.”

  Casey looked into his eyes and saw nothing but kindness and honesty.

  “Oh, sure,” Death said. “He wins you over becau
se he’s so nice.”

  “I’ll tell you soon,” she said to Eric.

  He held her gaze for a few moments. “Okay. When you’re ready, I’m here.”

  Death made a gagging motion and was instantly on the counter, holding the Droid. “Hello, suicide hotline? I’m about to slit my wrists. The reason? Excessive sappiness.”

  “So the cops,” Eric said. “Are we telling them?”

  Casey pushed herself from the chair and looked out the back window toward the mountains. “We should, I guess, but I don’t know what I’d say. Telling them Ricky had a few Texas-themed items hidden away isn’t exactly a smoking gun. I wish we knew what he was doing with those things.”

  Death laughed. “I guess the second Texas saying is supposed to apply to you. The one about being sharp as mashed potatoes. Or how about this one?” Death pointed at the Droid, which now displayed a site on the Internet. “‘If dumb was dirt, she’d cover about an acre.”

  Casey shook her head, confused.

  Death huffed. “Come on. Ricky’s not the dead one, remember? He may be in jail, but you can still ask him about the stash.”

  Casey closed her eyes and pushed on her temples.

  “What?” Eric said.

  “I’ve been an idiot. We need to go back to jail.”

  “Can we try something else first?” Eric poked at the iPad. “I want to see if Alicia shows up anywhere. Whoa. This says there have been hundreds of Elizabeth Mann’s in Texas. Although this one died in 1828. And this one five years ago.”

  “Can we look at it on the way? Will the Internet work?”

  “It’s 4G. I can get Internet anywhere.”

  Death jumped down from the counter. “That is so awesome. Remember the old days when they used telegraphs? Or smoke signals? It took so long to forecast the weather that by the time they were done with the message a whole new front had gone through. Now—”

  “—they’re never right anyway.”

  Eric looked up. “One of them might be. But fine, let’s go. You want to drive, or check these over?”

  Casey chose to study the names, and was both amazed and frustrated by the wealth of information available. “There’s no way to know which of these people is the right one. Except for the ones who are already dead, we know they’re not her.”

  “Um, this Elizabeth Mann is dead,” Death reminded her.

  “A baby,” Casey continued, “obviously not the right one. Old, dead, married to a Puerto Rican—although I guess we don’t know she wasn’t…nope, found a wedding photo. Definitely not her, unless her race has changed.”

  By the time they arrived at the jail she’d made a shortlist of seven Elizabeth Manns who could fit the profile but had no photos. There were still more Elizabeths to go, but she was out of time, and who knew if they should even be concentrating on Texas, anyway.

  “Think I could take this iPad in to ask Ricky questions?”

  “You can ask.”

  No go. Nothing but herself and the clothes she was wearing.

  “I can show him mine,” Death said. “Except that would be pointless, since he wouldn’t be able to see it.”

  Casey took as many notes as she could, finishing them up while they sat in the waiting room. Not being on that day’s visitor’s list meant it took longer to get through the screening process, but since she was Ricky’s sister, and she’d been there so recently before, they let her through after only forty minutes’ wait. Eric had to stay in the waiting room.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. He stood close, but didn’t touch her. “You sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

  “See,” Death said, “he wouldn’t have to worry if you’d told him about me. Then he’d know you weren’t alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Those creepy-crawlies she was feeling weren’t an indication that she wouldn’t be fine, right? It was just the whole jail thing again. For once she didn’t mind the idea that Death would be tagging along.

  “Ask Ricky about the shirt, too,” Eric said. “I mean, about the guy who was supposed to be fixing the bathroom. The one the neighbor saw.”

  “Right.” Just because the cops had given up on that route didn’t mean she should. Actually, it meant she should check it out more.

  The guard called her name and she went back with her notes folded in her pocket, feeling Eric’s eyes on her until the door closed between them.

  “He still likes you, you know.” Death had abandoned the heat sensor this time, choosing instead one of those new Smart Nametags that syncs your interests and personality traits with whatever other technology you use. Death’s name tag bore bright red lettering which proclaimed, Hi! My name is GILTINĖ. I love clever conversation, tear-jerker movies, and long walks by the river Acheron.

  Death saw Casey checking out the tag. “I hate to think what yours would say. Hi! Today my name is FILL IN THE BLANK, and I love running from the law, hitchhiking along the interstate, and keeping everyone at arm’s length. Don’t think Eric would even want to date you if he saw that.”

  Casey bared her teeth with an audible growl. Death huffed and chose to walk up beside the female guard. “I wonder what her name tag would say? My name is Bad-Ass Prison Guard and I’ll happily whack you on the head with my baton?”

  Ricky was waiting, this time behind one of those plexi-glass partitions with the phones like Casey had seen on TV. The private room they’d had the other time was apparently an attorney-client bonus. Nothing they said this time would be privileged. Or anywhere close to confidential. A row of eight phones sat in the room, five of them in use. The one on Ricky’s right was empty, but the other held a man on the prisoner’s half, and a loud, under-age family on the visitor’s.

  Ricky was still pale and lost looking, and Casey had to rap on the window to get his attention. He jerked, then picked up the receiver. “Why are you back?”

  “To see you.”

  “You have news?”

  “I have a couple questions.”

  He winced, but kept the phone at his ear. “What?”

  “First, did you hire some company called Hometown Interiors to do any work at your place?”

  “The cops were asking about that, too. I’ve never heard of them, but they say I hired them to fix my bathroom. My bathroom doesn’t need fixing.”

  She knew it. “I think he went into your house to plant fake evidence.”

  “The shirt.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s what I keep telling them. The last I saw that shirt it was in the bottom of a drawer. I never wear it. I certainly never wore it around Alicia. Not with that stain on it. I mean the one from before, when you busted my face.”

  “The cops found emails and other correspondence saying you hired them.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “But why can’t they ask them? They’ll know nobody from their place was there.”

  “But that’s the thing. They’re saying they were.”

  A line formed between his eyes. “But…”

  “So obviously it’s a fake company, with fake employees answering the questions. We’ll find them out.”

  “Whatever. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Ricky…” But it was no use spending energy trying to pump him up, not when he was determined to be miserable. “Another question. Why were you hiding weird little things about Texas?”

  He went completely still. “What do you mean?”

  “Candy. Southern sayings. Carol Burnett.”

  He breathed through his mouth, then swallowed. “How did you find those?”

  “Go on,” Death said from the next cubicle, where a skinny black inmate had sat down to wait for a visitor. “Tell him you were snooping.”

  “I was looking for anything that might help get you out of here,” Casey said.

  “By going through my house? My private things?”

  Casey gripped the phone. “How am I supposed to get you out of here if you don�
�t tell me what you know?”

  He looked away, dropping the receiver to his shoulder.

  Casey banged on the window. “Ricky. Come on. Talk to me!”

  The family to Casey’s left stopped their yammering and looked over, all eyebrows raised, as if they were attached to a string.

  “Sorry,” Casey said.

  They lowered their eyebrows and went back to their conversation, except for the youngest boy, who still peeked out from under his older sister’s arm. Casey decided he’d get bored eventually, and rapped on Ricky’s window again, more gently this time.

  Ricky lifted the phone, but stayed silent.

  “Come on, bud. What’s the deal with Texas?” And then she understood. “Alicia was talking in her sleep again, wasn’t she?”

  He closed his eyes. “It’s like I’m betraying her. Telling her secrets.”

  “It’s her secrets that got her killed, Ricky.”

  He blanched. “You mean if I would have betrayed her before, she might still be alive.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  His arm drooped again.

  “Ricky,” she said quickly, before she lost him. “Tell me about Texas. Please.”

  “It could help?”

  “Yes.”

  He let out a breath and shook his head, face toward the ceiling, like he was arguing with himself. He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “She was sleeping. Real restless, you know? She never slept peacefully, at least not the few times I was with her. It was hard to understand exactly what she was saying, but it was something about not wanting to go to Texas.”

  “So you started collecting Texas knick-knacks? That’s kind of a big leap.”

  “It was just—I wanted to know more about her. And when she’d mention something that seemed unusual I wanted to check it out, and then I kept the stuff so I wouldn’t forget. Those expressions she used that people around here don’t say, like the one about cream gravy, she wouldn’t do it real often, but when she did I wrote them down. They were cute, you know? Then she mentioned that candy one time, those Chick-O-Sticks? They’re pretty good, actually, and she said something about liking Carol Burnett—we were watching a birthday party for that old lady, Betty White, and Carol Burnett was there. When I asked Alicia why she liked her she just said she was funny, but I could tell it was more than that. So I got the biography so I could try to understand, but realized it was just about her being from the same place as her.” He shrugged. “At least, I thought it was. Maybe I’m taking the whole thing out of context and she was talking about something else altogether and it had nothing to do with her being from Texas.” He practically spat the word, then sagged. “I didn’t know her at all, did I? Was anything she told me true? Her birthday? Her favorite color? Her name?”