When the Camaro made a left turn on Route 101 S. in Lincoln City, Stan Lee was pretty sure he knew where they were going. They were headed to Crimson Cove.
Fifty miles later, the lighthouse came into view. A few miles after that, the Camaro’s right turn signal flashed and the car slowed.
Where are they going? Stan Lee wondered. Is there a road there? If there was, he couldn’t see it. Then a patrol cruiser emerged from between the trees and turned left, driving in their direction.
Rather than turn down the road, the Camaro made a sudden U-turn and followed the cruiser.
The cruiser drove past Stan Lee—heading north, back in the opposite direction—followed seconds later by the red Camaro.
What in the hell?
Stan Lee waited until the two vehicles were a half-mile behind him and then quickly made a U-turn of his own, having no idea where the two cars were going. But wherever it was, Stan Lee was going too.
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
OCTOBER 31, 2010
Though it took her over an hour to find just the right one, Mika repainted the front door of the house an inviting autumn color called Gold Crest—swatch #132-C6— from Sherwin-Williams.
Next, Mika carved two jack-o-lanterns using art templates downloaded from Martha Stewart’s website and placed one on each side of the freshly painted door.
The fact that Martha had spent five months in a federal prison had never bothered Mika. White-collar crime wasn’t something to be ashamed of. On the contrary, Mika considered it a badge of honor. Seriously—if you didn’t get arrested at least once in your life, maybe you just weren’t trying hard enough.
Mika had planned to spray the interior of the house with vanilla scent, but opted to go with Nature’s Garden pumpkin crunch cake fragrance oil instead. She poured several ounces of the oil in six ceramic warmer dishes, and lit the candlewicks beneath each. Had she read the label, she’d have discovered the oil was a 100 percent concentrate solution that should have been diluted before use.
Mika also created a lovely Halloween display of ghost-shaped votive candles in a circle around the center of the dining room table, again with a fragrant pumpkin spice.
At the last minute, Mika also decided to bake a few pumpkin pies for added effect. By the time she was done, the place smelled as if a pumpkin factory had exploded.
Mika went outside, walked around a bit, and then went back in to gage the strength of the scent—which almost knocked her over. Whatever. It was too late to do much about it now.
Mika glanced at the new wall clock she hadn’t been able to resist when buying the new comforter for the master bedroom.
It was 5:00 p.m.
The real estate agent would be there any minute with the husband and wife who wanted to take a peek at the place before committing to the sale—which, according to the real estate agent, was a done deal.
Mika went to the kitchen and grabbed Tiny by the collar and led him toward the back door and then stopped. Why was she putting the dog out? Dogs were a good thing, right? They made a house a home. That’s what everyone said.
Mika leaned forward and took a sniff to see if he smelled. If he did, she couldn’t tell. Everything smelled like pumpkin pie—Tiny included.
Mika decided on a compromise and put Tiny in the laundry room. “Be a good boy for mommy, and I’ll let you pound that Dalmatian you’ve had your eye on down the block. Okay?”
Tiny barked.
The doorbell rang. Mika shut the door to the laundry room and glanced at her watch. It was 5:08 p.m. Showtime.
Mika grabbed the apron from the kitchen chair and tied it around her waist and grabbed one of the pumpkin pies from the counter. When she opened the door, the couple would find her standing there, a pie in her hand and a smile on her face.
In one hour, her financial problems would be gone.
Television reporter Domingo Gutierrez waited patiently on the front porch to see if anyone was going to come to the door. The station’s policy about filming on private property was pretty clear: reporters were required to obtain permission to film from the property owner; otherwise, it was trespassing.
Domingo turned and looked to his cameraman. “I don’t think anyone would object if we shot from the steps.”
“No way, Jose,” the cameraman said from his position on the concrete walkway leading to the large front porch of the house. “I’m not risking a suspension and losing a week’s pay for a story about a dead blonde bimbo.”
Domingo hated it when coworkers called him Jose. If he’d wanted to, he could file a harassment charge. But, as usual, he decided to let it slide. He also hated it when people referred to his one-time co-anchor, Skylar Savage, as a bimbo—blonde or otherwise. As far as Domingo was concerned, Skylar was a hero—a fallen comrade who’d died in the pursuit of a story.
There was nothing nobler.
“Let me knock one more time,” Domingo said to the cameraman, noticing what appeared to be orange paint on the knuckles of his hand. “If there’s no answer, we’ll shoot the segment from the curb and edit in some B-roll close-ups of the porch in post.”
Domingo turned around and—before he could knock again—the door swung open. Standing there was what looked like a cardboard cutout of a character from a Norman Rockwell painting, smiling and holding a pumpkin pie.
“Hello!” Domingo said. “My name is Domingo Gutierrez. I’m with channel—”
“I know who you are,” Mika snapped. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“We’re doing a report on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the murder of reporter Skylar Savage,” Domingo said. “We’d like permission to do our report from—”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Mika said, spitting the words at the Hispanic reporter like bullets from a machine gun. Mika stepped onto the porch, and Domingo began backing away from the door. “You need to leave. Now!”
“Are you getting this?” Domingo called back over his shoulder to the cameraman.
“Every second of it,” the cameraman said.
“Turn off that camera! I’ve got guests on their way,” Mika shouted, shifting the still-warm pumpkin pie from one hand to the other, realizing she’d failed to grab an oven mitt.
As if on cue, Mika looked up and watched as the real estate agent’s black Cadillac Escalade pulled to a stop at the curb.
Domingo turned to see what Mika was watching. A man opened the rear door of the vehicle and helped a well-dressed couple in their forties out of the vehicle, and they began making their way up the walk.
“What’s all this, Mika?” the real estate agent called out, eyeing the reporter and the cameraman.
Come on, Mika, think of something!
“Uh, the local news is doing a segment on the most charming homes in Savannah,” Mika blurted, saying the first thing that popped into her head.
The husband and wife glanced at each other. “Well, how wonderful,” the wife said with a beaming smile.
“We’re doing a story on a murder that took place here twenty-five years ago,” Domingo Gutierrez said, motioning for the cameraman to redirect the lens at the couple. “The woman’s naked, dismembered body was found on the porch swing right over there. Any comment?”
Mika was fairly certain that never in the history of the world had a smile disappeared from someone’s face so quickly.
In a total fit of blind rage, Mika stepped forward and slammed the still-steaming pumpkin pie directly into Domingo’s face, the remaining portions of the pie splattering randomly onto everyone else.
For a brief moment, Domingo seemed oddly pleased by the outrageous act, knowing intuitively that being hit in the face with a pie by an unhinged homeowner made for good television. But then Domingo screamed and dropped his microphone, clawing at his face in a desperate attempt to scrape off the steaming orange goo before it seared his skin.
“I’m going to sue you!” Domingo screamed.
PORTLAND, OREGON
JANUARY 9, 2002
/> The traditional funeral consisted of six parts—the death announcement; the buying of the casket; the wake, also known as the viewing; the funeral procession; the burial mass; and the post-funeral gathering of friends, family, and a plethora of strangers simply looking for a free meal.
Kizzy Ashley was too distraught to handle any of it.
As such, the bulk of the details surrounding Alistar’s funeral fell to Kizzy’s twenty-six-year-old grandson, Noah—which was going fine until Kizzy’s Irish Catholic mother, Sinéad, arrived.
Sinéad had flown in from Belfast to support her daughter in her time of need. Which Noah found interesting since he’d never even met his great-grandmother before—apparently not even when his mother, Rainbow, died.
“When I was a wee-one, the family would wake the body for three days to make sure the person was properly dead,” Sinéad said in an Irish-brogue accent so thick it sounded like she was talking with a shoe in her mouth. “First, the body was washed and covered in a white linen adorned with black ribbons. Everyone wore a black armband to warn the neighbors that you had good reason if you went dásachtach.”
“We don’t need a wake, Mother,” Kizzy snapped. “Alistar was burned to a crisp. It’s not like he’s suddenly going to sit up and—”
Kizzy stopped mid-sentence, overcome with emotion for the third time in the last five minutes.
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if we had hired a keener or two,” Sinéad said. “It’s important to show friends and family how much the man was loved and cared about.”
“This is the family, Mom,” Kizzy said. “We’re it. It’s just us.”
“A keener?” Noah asked.
“Aye, a keener—someone hired by the family to cry and wail at the wake to lament the loss,” Sinéad said. “We also should make sure there is a pipe goin’ in here somewhere to smoke up the place—you know, to keep evil spirits from finding the deceased.”
“No one is lighting a pipe, Mother,” Kizzy said. “And besides, Alistar hated smoking.”
“Then the smoke can’t hurt him none now, can it?” Sinéad said. “I hoped you picked out a nice enough casket.”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” Noah said. “We picked it out a few days ago when we picked out the burial plots.”
“Well, at least there’s that,” Sinéad said. “Might you have a yard or two of black cloth lyin’ about anywhere?”
“I don’t think so,” Noah said. “Why do we need—?”
“To cover the mirrors, of course. To keep the dark forces from usin’ the occasion to creep into the house,” Sinéad said.
“God damn it, Mom,” Kizzy snapped. “Alistar wasn’t even a practicing Catholic—he didn’t believe any of your ridiculous religious superstitions.”
“Aye, all the more reason to take the proper precautions,” Sinéad said. “You know, Noah, every so often I catch a glimpse of your great-grandfather in the mirror. I’ll be doin’ my hair or puttin’ on my makeup, and—just for a second, there he’ll be. He’s been dead goin’ on twenty-two years, and he’s still lookin’ in on me, he is.”
Kizzy let loose with an audible groan. “I’m going upstairs to get ready.”
Noah and Sinéad waited until Kizzy disappeared at the top of the stairs before continuing their conversation. “The grieving process is a bumpy journey, Noah. Nerves wear raw and emotions run hot. And my daughter has never been good at dealing with things of this nature.”
“My grandfather’s death has been very hard for her, Sinéad,” Noah said. “And I’m not sure she’s ever forgiven you for not coming when my mother died.”
“Better we leave that conversation for another time,” Sinéad said. “The important thing now is that you and me find ways to take as much of the load from Kizzy’s shoulders as we can. Aye?”
“You know, I’m not sure I get why you didn’t come either,” Noah said, pressing the issue. “I was very young, but—”
“Young? You were a wee babe in a basket, Noah,” Sinéad said. “But since everyone seems against me, let’s get it out on the table, shall we?”
Noah nodded and waited.
“The reason I didn’t come is simple. It’s because we Catholics don’t condone suicide,” Sinéad said. “Comin’ to Rainbow’s funeral would have been doin’ precisely that.”
“Suicide?” Noah said, confused. “What are you talking about? My mother died of—”
“An overdose,” Sinéad said. “Yes, I know. But make no mistake, Noah—every time your mother stuck a needle in her arm she was committin’ suicide, just as surely as if she’d placed a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.”
Noah felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. “She was going to rehab, Sinéad. They said she was trying.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Sinéad said. “Where do you think the money for all that rehab came from? The tooth fairy, Noah? I may be from the land of Leprechauns, but even we know money doesn’t come from a pot ‘o gold.”
“You paid for my mother’s rehab?”
“In the beginning, yes,” Sinéad said. “But when it became clear that Rainbow was never going to stop, I had to cut her off. I hope you understand.”
Noah wasn’t sure he did but decided to let it go. Maybe he’d misjudged her. Maybe Sinéad was more normal, caring, and level-headed than he’d given her credit for.
“And that’s why you need to take me to a fabric store after the funeral, so we can cover these mirrors, you and me. The last thing any of us needs right now is to have some evil dark spirit slippin’ in and causing havoc.”
Or maybe not.
Just before the burial service was about to begin, Kizzy approached the priest. “Keep it short, Father,” Kizzy said and held out a hundred-dollar bill.
“It is customary to do this at the end of the service, Mrs. Ashley,” the priest said, glancing around, pink tinges of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “And the offering is usually provided in an envelope.”
“I don’t have an envelope,” Kizzy said. “Do you want the money or not?”
“Afterwards,” the priest said. “Please take your seats.”
Despite the misty Portland weather, it was a no-frills service held outdoors at the grave site. Alistar’s casket was sitting on the ground before a few rows of folding chairs staged as if the mourners were about to watch a cello recital.
The funeral home called it the Close to One You Love package. Kizzy chose it because it was the only package she could afford.
Kizzy, Noah, and Sinéad were led to the front row of the seating area. Kizzy took the funeral program from her chair and shot a look at her mother.
“What?” Sinéad said in a hushed tone. “You can’t have a proper funeral without a printed agenda, now can ya?”
Kizzy glanced around and counted the number of attendees. There were twelve—including herself, Noah, and her mother. Who in the hell were these other people? Kizzy recognized none of them.
A minute later, the priest launched into his sermon.
Kizzy’s thoughts returned to the present, and she glanced at her watch. The priest had been going for twenty minutes and—according to Sinéad’s printed agenda—the funeral would not be ending anytime soon.
Kizzy caught the priest’s eye and flashed the hundred-dollar bill and made a circular motion with her finger. Translation: You want the money, Father, then wrap it the hell up.
“Let me close with his,” the priest said loudly. “We must understand that our heavenly father may have disposed of the container that was once occupied by Alistar Ashley’s soul, but—in the end—the trumpet shall sound and Alistar shall rise again, as shall we all.”
The priest made the sign of the cross over the casket, as if Alistar’s body were inside, and Kizzy snorted. Alistar had often joked that when he died he wanted to be buried holding his Fender Stratocaster, with his fingers firmly on the G-chord. The only thing inside Alistar’s casket was a small cardboard box containing several ounces of ash—the little bit that w
as recoverable from the charred wreckage of the Aston Martin. What Alistar didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Besides, there was no way in hell Kizzy was going to bury a $25,000 guitar in her dead husband’s coffin. The guitar belonged to Noah. Beyond that and a few pieces of jewelry, there was little else of value to pass—
Kizzy’s mouth suddenly dropped open.
Off in the distance, at the top of a slight grassy incline, Kizzy saw a woman, dressed entirely in black, her face obscured by a black veil—something traditionally worn to a funeral by the bereaved wife.
Or the deceased’s mistress.
Kizzy couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Onyx Webb.
The nerve.
The priest stepped forward to offer his final condolences, but Kizzy pushed past him and started in the woman’s direction up the grass incline.
As Kizzy got closer, she could see the outline of the lace mask covering half the woman’s face beneath the veil.
“How dare you show up here?” Kizzy asked.
“I wanted to pay my respect—”
Kizzy’s slap caught Onyx flush on the side of the face. “It’s your fault I have no husband,” Kizzy said. “That I have had no husband for years because he was in love with you.”
“Alistar was a friend. That is all,” Onyx said.
“The only thing worse than someone who steals another woman’s husband is someone who lies about it when they’re caught,” Kizzy said.
“Is everything okay?” Noah’s voice came from behind. Kizzy turned and saw Noah standing there.
“Everything’s fine,” Kizzy said. “Let’s go.”
“Hello, Noah,” Onyx said, extending a lace-covered hand to Noah.
“What? Taking my husband wasn’t enough? Now you want my grandson?” Kizzy sneered. Kizzy grabbed Noah by the arm and pulled him away.
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