Abernathy dabbed an eye and edged closer to Neil. He jerked his chin toward the men across the way. “Hank’s sons,” he whispered.
“I figured,” Neil said as Reverend Harris continued reciting the funeral prayers.
Eyes forward, Abernathy spoke to Neil out of the side of his mouth. Left him high and dry as soon as they got a chance, just like Hank’s sisters did from his drunken father.”
“What happened to him?”
“Died. Cirrhosis. Hank took over. Debt up to his eyebrows. Wife died young.” He cast a disparaging glance at Hank’s sons, spitting on the ground to punctuate his disgust.
Neil spoke in a voice so quiet it might have been meant for himself alone. “His cows…they were all he had.” A brisk breeze ruffled his hair. He angled his body to ward off another gust of fifty-degree air and caught sight of a young couple approaching the gravesite. The male wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the female, a green hoodie and holey jeans, showing nearly as much skin as fabric. They walked with an attitude—stride not stroll, him with both hands buried in his pockets, she with her arms crossed over her nearly flat chest. They pulled up short of the small gathering, leaned against the trunk of a century-old oak, and waited.
Neil squinted against the sun’s glare. Greg Speltz and Katie Springfield?
Ben Abernathy edged closer to Neil, whispering, “What are they doing here?”
“Beats me.” Neil hoped they’d come to pay their respects, but it didn’t feel right.
Reverend Harris concluded the service minutes later. The only tears shed by Kramer’s sons came as they paused at the foot of their mother’s adjoining grave before walking away.
Greg Speltz and Katie Springfield headed the brothers off. No handshakes were exchanged. No apparent pleasantries passed between them, only visible anger and increasingly raised voices.
Concerned, Neil moved within hearing distance.
Greg Speltz poked a finger in one of the brother’s faces. “Your father owed me, and I want what I’ve got coming.”
“All you’ve got coming is a beating if you don’t get out of way, sonny.” The man motioned toward his sibling. “Besides, he’s the executor. Take it up with him.” He stomped away, leaving his brother to deal with the pair.
Katie got in the second brother’s face. “So, you gonna pay up or what?”
“I don’t do business out of a cemetery. Get the hell out of my way.” He brushed her aside.
She pushed the stringy blonde hair out of her face. “You lousy fucker. Pay up. We want the money now.”
Greg restrained her as she started after the man. “Chill out, Katie. We’ll get it.”
“Fuck. Let go of me.” She wrenched herself from Greg’s grip.
“Hey,” Neil shouted, closing the distance. “You two want to tell me what’s going on?”
19
Neil Lloyd drove from the cemetery straight to the Copper Kettle. He spotted Ray at the counter.
“Hey, Ray, good to see you.” Pumping his hand, Neil parked himself on the stool beside him, checking out his cheekbone. “Hey, no more bruise.”
Ray smiled. “And your lip’s healed.”
“Yup. Handsome as ever.”
“No comment. I hear you went to Kramer’s funeral.”
“Yeah. Nice service, but the turnout sucked.”
“Why am I not surprised? Who was there?”
“Kramer’s sons, one from Oregon, the other from Illinois, I think. Ben Abernathy was there, me, of course, and Reverend Harris officiated.” He looked for Amy. Finding her, he waved and continued. “Just before the service ended, Greg Speltz and his girlfriend showed up.”
“Greg Speltz from the Amoco station? What connection did he and his girlfriend have to Kramer?”
Amy brought Ray’s order. “Hi, Neil. Hungry?”
“Yeah. Ham and Swiss on rye and a chocolate shake. Make it to go, would you, Amy? I’ve gotta eat on the run.” He gave Ray a look of mock disapproval. “The rest of us are picking up Ray’s slack while he’s out freelancing. I had to sweet talk the Chief into letting me go to the funeral.”
“You poor thing,” Amy smiled and jotted his order down on her pad. “Refill on your soda, Ray?”
“No, thanks.” As she stepped away, Ray asked Neil, “Why were they there?”
Neil’s focus shifted off Amy. “Huh?”
“Greg Speltz and his girlfriend.”
“Oh. They turned up at the end of the service to talk to Kramer’s sons. You’re gonna love this. Remember Kramer’s truck—the new logos on the doors?”
“The Kramer’s Dairy with the cow on either side? Yeah, I remember.”
“Kramer refused to pay him for the job. Greg says he claimed one cow looked like a Shetland pony, the other like a Dalmatian.”
“Sounds like Kramer,” Ray said. “They looked good to me.”
“Same here. Anyway, Kramer refused to cough up the money. When Greg stood his ground, Kramer tried negotiating the price down. Really pissed Greg off. Kramer had his run-in with the bull before Greg got one red cent from him. He figured this might be his last chance to collect what he was owed.”
“But hitting up Kramer’s sons for the money at their father’s funeral…? That’s cheesy.”
“His girlfriend didn’t help. She’s got a nasty mouth on her.”
Ray took his first bite of burger, set it down and pushed it away. The taste was tainted by the smell of blood still lodged in his sinuses—a private misery. “Hell could freeze over before the kid collects if Kramer’s sons are anything like their father.”
“Yeah, and the chances of that are pretty good. They’re not exactly warm, fuzzy types. It’s got to be tough on Greg and Katie. They’ve moved in together and they’re probably having a rough time of it. They’re renting that old trailer out on Euclid.”
“That green-and-white piece of crap?”
“That’s the one.”
“Geezus. That thing looks like it’s ready to fall apart.”
“Prob’ly is. It sat vacant for the better part of two years. But he’s using that big garage as his detailing shop.”
Amy returned with Neil’s order. “Here you go.” She looked from him to Ray. “It sounds like I’m missing out on some interesting stuff.”
“Don’t worry. It’s just on time delay,” Ray told her. “Neil’s bound to fill you in later.”
“He’d better.” She took Neil’s money off the counter and went to the cash register.
Neil talked low and fast, focusing on Amy from the corner of his eye. “I finally got her to agree to a date—my cousin’s wedding a week from tomorrow.”
“About time.” Ray said as she returned with change.
Neil gathered his shake and Styrofoam sandwich box. “I’d better get moving. Are you planning to stop by the station to see the chief before you go, Ray?”
“Already did. Been out to the Davises’ too. I still can’t find any sign of her Vicodin.”
Neil set his food back on the counter. “Maybe what they found in her system was the last of it.”
“I considered that, but there’s no sign of an empty container. I’m starting to think she may have taken last of it while she was out shopping or something and tossed the empty container in a public trashcan.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“Even if that’s it, I’d still like to know why she was taking it.”
Neil drummed his fingers on the Formica counter. “You know, I got to thinking about that the other day.” He shook his head and started to get up. “Never mind. I’m probably wrong anyway. I’d better get back to work.”
Ray put a hand on his shoulder, lowering him back onto the stool. “You are working. Tell me what you were thinking.”
“All right, but if the chief asks what took me so long, I’m blaming you.” He took a deep breath. “Valerie Davis died dressed, but barefoot. They found her shoes under the couch in her living room. That got me thinking about my sister Erin. Sh
e had migraines for years. When they hit, she’d go straight to our family room, make the room as dark as possible, kick her shoes off, lie down on the couch and try to sleep—in her clothes and all. She’d stay put until the headache let up. Sometimes that meant until the next afternoon or even the following night. She always crashed down there because it was closer to a toilet than her bedroom was. And, trust me, that was vital because she’d just about puke her brains out.”
“Did she take Vicodin?”
“She tried a bunch of different drugs. I don’t remember the names, but Vicodin wasn’t one of them. Still, migraines are tough, and that’s strong stuff. It wouldn’t surprise me if it isn’t prescribed for migraines. Like I said,” Neil told him, “it’s just a hunch, but it got me thinking about Erin’s headache routine.”
Ray stared into his Coke while the similarities ticker-taped through his head: Valerie Davis’s bed still undisturbed late at night—barefoot but still in her street clothes, the shoes tucked under the couch. The light sensitivity associated with migraines could even explain the single dim lamp turned on in the house the night of her murder. Even the proximity of the downstairs bathroom to the living room couch fit the picture.
“Neil, you might’ve nailed it. Listen. When you get back to the station, fill Woody in on your theory.” Ray checked his watch and dropped a fistful of singles beside his abandoned meal. “I only got three hours of sleep and I’ve got a long drive ahead of me later. I’m going to try to catch a nap at my apartment before I see my kids.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
The two of them waved goodbye to Amy and stepped outside.
“I’ll see you my next trip back,” Ray said. “You take care.” He prolonged their handshake for an extra second. “Know something, Neil? You’re shaping up to be one hell of a cop.”
Neil’s grip tightened, his grin spreading.
Now the only thing standing between Ray and some much-needed sleep was the thought of seeing Gail.
20
Gail recognized the three sharp knocks that had become Ray’s calling card since their separation. Three, no more or less. Enough to be unmistakable, loud enough to be heard clear to the back of the house.
At the sound, her heartbeat quickened.
Fearing the worst, she avoided checking her reflection in the decorative entryway mirror. At the door, Gail brushed her jeans and straightened her sweater, realizing too late that she smelled like Lysol. God, why today?
“Hi, Ray.”
“Hello, Gail.” Stone-cold.
She felt the chill. Ray didn’t look at her as much as through her, his eyes telegraphing blame with every measured blink. She stepped aside, letting him enter. He looked thinner than he had only a week earlier.
“I’m surprised to see you.”
“Spur of the moment decision.”
“Oh.” He looks so tired. “When did you get into town?”
“Early.” His abrupt reply stung as though it had been a slap in the face.
Gail had been left out of the loop—his loop, as though she no longer had any place there. She hadn’t stopped loving him—knew she never would. Her affair had been over nearly before it began. Guilt-ridden and ashamed, she’d been about to end it when Ray found out.
He walked in, surveying the rooms like he was seeing them for the first time. “The place looks nice.”
The place, not her, she noted. Gail ran her fingers through her hair, willing it to cooperate. “How’s the investigation going? Have you made any progress?”
“Some. The girls home?”
Despite years of running into the walls Ray erected, it still left bruises. “They’re upstairs, changing out of their school clothes. They should be down in a minute.” Gail offered him a seat.
He remained standing.
“I’m glad you came, Ray. They’ll be so excited that you’re here.”
“I’ve missed them.”
She heard an emphasis on ‘them’, wondering if it was real or imagined.
“Unless you have some objection, I want to take the girls out for supper.” Ray didn’t wait for a response. “An early supper. I want to head back to the Cities soon.” He looked away, focusing his gaze on anything but her.
Freed from the weight of his glare, an offer spilled from her lips. “We were going to have fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy tonight. I could fix it now if you’re in a hurry. You could have supper with them here, if you like. No fuss, no muss.”
Ray wielded his civility like a weapon. “Tonight’s father/daughter night. Thanks anyway.”
He’d rejected Gail’s repeated apologies and denied her pleas for forgiveness. It seemed he was even unwilling to tolerate her presence. At the foot of the stairs, he turned his head toward the second floor. “Hey, girls,” he shouted over the music blasting from Laurie’s radio, “who wants to go out to supper with their dad?”
From upstairs came the sound of a small herd of stampeding elephants. The girls raced down the steps and flung themselves at Ray, seven-year-old Krista with her head of white-blonde hair and ten-year-old Laurie, shedding any pretense of being all grown up.
“I hope you’re already hungry, because we’re eating early,” he said. “Anybody in the mood for pizza?” Between kisses and hugs, Ray helped them into their coats.
Krista shoved her arms into the sleeves. “C’mon, Mom, let’s go.”
Ray’s smile faded. “It’s just the three of us tonight, honey. Me and my two best girls.”
Gail smiled for their daughters’ sake. “You go with your dad. I’m going to stay home and relax tonight.”
“But, Mom—” Laurie groaned.
“Honey, I’m a mess and your dad’s in a hurry. Getting ready would take me forever. Besides, there’s something on TV I want to see. Maybe next time, all right?”
Ray held the door open. “Right. Maybe next time.” He didn’t meet Gail’s eyes. “Let’s get a move on. Your old man’s starving.” He led them out with a backward glance. “I’ll have them back in an hour, maybe two. Enjoy your program.”
He had to know it was a lie. Had he taken pleasure in driving the barb still deeper? The tears she hid from Ray stung her eyes. She was the guilty party, deserving of his anger—a role she’d never imagined playing—something for which she could never forgive herself, let alone expect of Ray. She’d hurt the one man she would have given her life to protect.
Gail refused to use tears as a lever any more than she would Krista’s recent bout of nightmares, or Laurie’s plummeting grades. Ray wasn’t entirely blameless, but she accepted the guilt, and would deal with the consequences. Alone if necessary.
She ended her affair with Mark Haney the day Ray discovered their involvement. Happening for all the wrong reasons, it was doomed from the start. If only Mark accepted that.
At the Pizza Corral, Ray sat in a booth, listening to his daughters—or trying—nodding in what felt like appropriate places. School, friends, the usual, all fading in and out as his thoughts kept drifting back to Gail.
She looked good. Who was he kidding? She looked terrific. The sight of her clouded his judgment, lowered his defenses. He couldn’t allow that.
Even to himself, Ray couldn’t deny he’d been mean-spirited, but he’d used all the restraint he could muster. As callous as he’d been, Gail hadn’t shed a tear. Ray rejected that some part of him resented that. Did she care so little? Had she become emotionally uninvested?
Gail’s absence had taken the luster off the girls’ excitement. Her absence made him the villain in their little tableau. She had taken the high road by graciously bowing out for the evening, absolving him of blame. If she thinks earning good conduct points will help, she’s kidding herself. There aren’t enough to get her out of the hole she’s dug for herself.
Ray shoved a piece of pepperoni pizza in his mouth, wishing it were Gail’s fried chicken.
“How’re you doing, kids? Anyone want dessert? Spumoni? Cannolis?”
Twenty minutes later, avoiding the risk of further contact with Gail, Ray watched from his car until the girls were safely back inside their house. The sight of Gail, the way the light danced in her eyes, the sound of her voice muddied his resolve. During his waking hours, he could keep her at arm’s length. Nights, he was powerless to banish her from his dreams.
21
Nerves on edge, Dana crushed out a cigarette, visualizing Paul’s face in the bottom of the ashtray. Valerie was gone—out of the picture for good. Without his wife to hold him back, Paul should have called by now. After the big “kiss off” he’d delivered the morning of alerie’s death, maybe he was afraid to try crawling back. No, not afraid, too proud. The lousy son of a bitch.
Dana drew a lavender-scented bath and stripped out of her clothes. She studied her curvaceous body in a wall-to-wall, gold-veined mirror before stepping into the tub, posing to admire every angle, every taut inch. A smile crept across her face. Paul would be back all right. How could he not come back?
She slipped into the water, trying to subdue her restless mood. Liquid warmth engulfed her slim thighs, her firm breasts, but couldn’t extinguish her rage over the indignity of getting dumped.
Dumped. There was no other word for it. She’d never been on the receiving end before although she’d performed the maneuver often enough to qualify as an expert.
In any event, Paul hadn’t been subtle. He’d delivered the news quickly and without ceremony. Sure, maybe she could have shown him a little sympathy that Friday night—some small degree of understanding when Chet Stockton announced he wasn’t stepping down yet, but, damn it, she hadn’t expected Paul to throw a frickin’ tantrum over her lack of sensitivity. What did he want? She was his mistress not his goddamn mother.
He’d stormed out and, with the slamming of the door she felt the framework of their relationship shudder. The split had been about to become a chasm; Dana felt it in every fiber of her being. She’d called on Nick Vincent to provide a permanent solution. Remembering the events of the morning prior to Valerie’s death, the knots in her stomach tightened.
Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series) Page 11