by Sheri Leigh
Just any other morning.
"I'm sure." Dusty felt tears pricking her eyes. She blinked them back.
"Okay. Do you want anything else, Jay?" Julia asked, not looking up from what she was writing.
Her father folded the business section and set it on the table. "No, thanks, hon. If I don't leave for the office I'll be late." He slipped the sports section into the briefcase waiting next to his chair.
"God forbid," Dusty said under her breath, incredulous he was going to work the day after his own son’s funeral.
"Will you be late getting home tonight?" Julia stuffed a card into an envelope. The cards were plain white with the words Thank You For Your Kindness on the front.
"Shouldn't be.” He shrugged his coat on. “This mall project is a pain in my ass, but it should bring more revenue into this little town than we’ve seen in years. Did you say something, Dusty?"
"No," she said softly, head down. "Just...have a good day, Dad."
"I'll try, sweetheart," he said, sounding surprised. He touched her hair.
Any other morning, Dusty thought. It’s like a commercial. Mother cooks breakfast, father reads the paper, daughter says have a nice day.
There's an empty chair! Her mind screamed. Nick's chair is empty, can't you see that?
"Don't work too hard." Julia walked him to the door.
"I'll see you tonight." He kissed her cheek and the door shut behind him.
Dusty heard his truck start as Julia sat back down. It was quiet now. Behind her, Dusty heard the dripping from the automatic coffee maker. The light blue of the kitchen seemed too bright, surreal, in the early morning light. Far away, a dog barked. Cody, Dusty thought. Mr. Cooper's dog, Cody, was the only dog they could ever hear barking out this far.
"Do you need any help?" Dusty couldn’t even believe she said it. Maybe Nick was right, she thought, incredulous. Maybe she was just like Julia.
"No," her stepmother said, glancing up. "I can handle this."
Dusty picked up the paper. The West Lake Journal served as Larkspur's paper as well as the surrounding towns of Adison and Romeo. Her father also mail-ordered the Detroit Free Press and USA Today, because The West Lake Journal was just local fare for the most part. Your Community Information Center, it read below the title. September 9, 2006. 75 cents.
Another Victim Claimed By Clinton Grove Cat.
You made the headlines, Nick, she thought.
"Is it supposed to get any warmer?" Julia asked. Dusty glanced at the small box in the bottom left-hand corner that contained the weather outlook.
"Seventies," Dusty told her. The article drew her eyes back to it, but it wasn’t about Nick, after all.
By Mike Murphy
Larkspur Staff Writer
LARKSPUR--Another victim was claimed yesterday evening by what Larkspur residents are beginning to call the Clinton Grove Cat. Scott Summers, 12, from the neighboring town of West Lake, was attacked last night while out with friends. Joseph Turner, 13, a friend of Summers', said, "We were coming home from a friend’s and we took the shortcut through the woods by the (Clinton Grove) cemetery. Scott was bringing up the rear and something got him. Nobody saw it. It was too dark."
The shortcut to which Turner referred has been causing similar problems in the Larkspur area. Sheriff Buck Thompson said, "We're trying to keep the kids from using it, but it's a problem. It is a lot shorter."
The Sheriff also said that until the perpetrator of the killings is caught, an eight o'clock curfew will be in effect. There have been two other victims in the past month. Joe Wilson, 41, a life-long Larkspur resident, was attacked and killed on August 28 in an abandoned train station across from the cemetery. Dominick Chandler was killed just four days ago (see obituary, page 17) and was found in one of the cemetery's mausoleums.
Sheriff Thompson believes that the killings are the work of an animal. "It's no human, I can tell you that much," Sheriff Thompson said. "We're just about going crazy down here trying to catch the thing." Although additional help has been called in, the only other Larkspur officer is Deputy Matthew Walker.
Peter Friedman, county coroner, said "I've never seen anything like this, except for the time I was working in Australia and I was handling a lot of shark attack victims. It's definitely an animal. I'd say it's a pretty large bob-cat. We get those every so often up here. It has tremendously powerful jaws."
There have been no reports of missing animals from any of the neighboring towns or zoos, leading officials to believe that the animal must be wild. According to the Larkspur police department, traps have been set in the areas surrounding the cemetery, and extra men have been called in from West Lake to patrol the streets at night.
Sheriff Thompson said, "I'd advise everyone to be wary, at least until we catch this thing. Stay away from the cemetery at night. There's no need to panic. Just take a few precautions and we'll be able to keep Larkspur safe."
From what? Dusty set the paper face down on the table. You don’t even know what it is!
"Dusty, I'm going to go through Nick's room later,” Julia murmured, not looking up from her writing. “I have to pack up his things.”
Dusty looked up, something heavy rolling over in her stomach. "What?"
"Do you want to help me go through Nick's things?" Julia licked an envelope, sealed it and set it on top of the growing stack.
"What are you going to do with them?" Dusty watched her address another envelope.
"I'm not sure yet,” she replied. “Some of it—his clothes—will have to go to the Salvation Army, I suppose. Whatever you want, you can have, of course.”
The thought of Nick’s room being ransacked was making her dizzy.
Julia glanced over at her. "Do you remember what Suzanne brought? I don't have anything listed here."
"I don't remember," Dusty said, her voice faint. She was thinking of Nick's baseball mitt; his one surviving stuffed animal, Dirtball the Dragon; his Louisville hockey stick propped in a corner. Julia had left everything in their rooms the way they were when they left home, and now she wanted to…
"Do you want to help or not, Dusty?"
They were all still there, memories of their childhood—his models of sports cars, the poster of Angelina Jolie still taped to the wall, his football, his Doors CDs…
"Maybe later," Dusty whispered, standing up and clearing her throat. "Maybe later, okay?"
"Well, I suppose it can wait.” Julia had begun to lick stamps and put them on the envelopes. “I would like to get it done as soon as possible, though,"
"Why?" Dusty frowned. "Do you want him erased from our lives as fast as possible?"
Her stepmother’s sharp intake of breath made Dusty wince. She hadn’t meant to say it—it had just slipped out. Julia's cheeks flushed and she stared at Dusty, her hand fluttering at her throat. Dusty opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she couldn’t.
"I just don't want to think about it," Julia whispered finally. "If I don't have... things... around... to remind me…I won't think about it."
Dusty raised her hands to her cheeks, cooling them. "I guess I want him to live a little longer." She looked at Julia, feeling more than a little pity for her. Her stepmother had dropped the front for once, but the tears trembling in Julia's eyes wouldn't fall. The only time she’d cried had been where it was proper to cry—the funeral.
"He's dead, honey." Julia’s voice was soft. "There's nothing you can do to bring him back."
"I know." Dusty picked her jacket up off the back of the chair. "I just don't feel the need to bury him so soon."
* * * *
The tires of Nick's red Jeep kicked up a cloud that Dusty glimpsed in the rearview mirror. Jarvis, the street they’d lived on as long as she could remember, wasn’t paved. None of the roads she navigated up to North Rose were. The only paved roads in existence in the town of Larkspur were Cass, Essex, North Rose and Hubbard. Hubbard ran all the way through Larkspur and up through Shadow Hills. Cass, if you followed it
far enough south, ended up in West Lake, which was more of a city, at least in the rural sense, than a town. Larkspur intersected at Hubbard and North Rose—the epitome of "town." Everything else was woods, farms or fields.
Dusty steered the Jeep around the corner of Plainview and onto North Rose. The red, white and blue Amoco sign stood out against the backdrop of the sky. Les Cavanaugh was pumping gas into someone's black SUV. She didn’t recognize the car, but she beeped the horn and waved at Les. He raised his hand as she passed by.
She couldn’t say North Rose was ever busy. Lakeshore Skating Rink, where you could find most of the junior high kids on the weekends, was across from the Amoco station. Its competition was next to Nellie's Diner, in the form of the Lawrence Movie Theater, currently showing The Passion of the Christ (still) and a Michigan-based horror flick called Evil Dead. They would get something new—in a year, when it wasn’t new anymore. If you wanted to see the new releases, the ones advertised between American Idol and House, you had to go to the AMC in West Lake, or the Star Theater in Shadow Hills, near her father's office.
Dusty stopped at the traffic light at Hubbard and North Rose. Cougar's General Store was across the way, the familiar hand-lettered advertising in the big picture window. There were no cars crossing the intersection, but Dusty waited anyway, conscious of the Larkspur police station on her right, until the light turned green.
She turned right and guided the car up into the parking lot next to Floral Gardens—Larkspur's one and only florist.
"Hello, Dusty!” A voice greeted her as she got out of the car and pocketed her keys. “How're your folks?"
"Hi, Mrs. Hughes." Dusty shut the door and leaned against it, prepared for the onslaught of conversation. "My parents are..." Dusty hesitated. What? Going on as if nothing happened? "Fine. How's little Mikey?"
"Growing like a weed! He's going to be a big boy." Rita Hughes smiled, hoisting her purse up onto her shoulder. Mikey was her grandson and had just turned four, if the math Dusty did quickly in her head was correct.
"Give him and your daughter my best." Dusty smiled back, edging toward the florist.
"I will, and you take care." Rita nodded slowly. "Nick was a good boy. It's a terrible shame."
"Yes. Thank you." Dusty felt that lump in her throat again. Why did people insist on mentioning it, especially out in public? It made it so immediate. She realized how much she sounded like Julia, even to herself, as she turned and left Rita standing there, going into the florist.
She was surprised to see Tom Connley standing near the register, working on an arrangement. His father ran the store, and as far as she knew, Tommy hadn’t worked there in years—since they were in high school. But there he was, looking better than he had even then, his dark hair buzzed short, his jaw still square and strong, his eyes just as blue as he looked up at the sound of the bells attached to the door.
"Well… hi, Tom." She glanced around, the aroma of the empty store sweet and a little cloying.
“Dusty!” Tom smiled at her—it was the smile that had stolen her heart the minute she saw it, broad and bright and full of mischief. “Oh my god, you’re gorgeous. Come on, girl, couldn’t you have gained fifty pounds and gone gray or something? You can’t come back looking just as beautiful as the day I asked you to marry me!”
“I don’t know if I should thank you or apologize,” she said, blushing in spite of her attempt not to. He came around the counter and hugged her and she fought both tears and her own attraction to him when he did, letting herself rest her head against his shoulder and enjoy the strength of his arms around her for only a moment.
“I’m so sorry about Nick,” he murmured against her ear, giving her a tight squeeze.
“Thanks.” Dusty broke his hold, taking a step back and looking around the store with a small smile to cover the sharp stab of pain she felt near her heart. Was this ever going to get easier? She attempted to change the subject. “So how’s business?”
"Dad says it’s good." Tom moved behind the counter again, leaning against it as she approached. "Although that’s not always a good thing. Too many funerals lately."
“Your dad ask you to help out?"
"Yeah.” Tom sighed. “He had to go to another funeral over in West Lake.”
Dusty winced. “Whose?”
“That kid that got killed the other night." Tom shook his head. “My dad was a friend of the family. Heck, even I knew Scott. He and little Joe always palled around together.”
“I’m sorry.” Dusty recognized her own polite response, the one she had cringed at coming from others.
“I just can’t believe it.” Tom lowered his voice, as if there were someone else in the shop who might overhear them. “It’s kind of scary. First Joe Wilson, which, you know, wasn’t that great a loss…but Nick? And now Scott?”
Dusty nodded. She was sure no one had taken much notice when Joe Wilson disappeared. Town drunks without family just didn’t register on the missing persons radar for a while, even in a town as small as Larkspur. As long as she’d known him, he’d spent most of his time drinking out by the train yards across from the cemetery on the south side of town, and she was sure his pattern hadn’t changed any.
“I just wonder…what is it?” Tom leaned in, conspiratorial. “I mean, what is it really?”
"Sheriff Thompson assured me it was some sort of animal," Dusty said, hearing the sarcasm in her voice. Of course, Tom was touching on her own doubts.
"I just don’t know.” Tom frowned, shaking his head. “Maybe it is. But…what if they’re covering something up?”
Dusty stared at him for a moment over the carnation flower arrangement he’d been working on. "Why do you say that?"
"I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Buck Thompson is up for re-election this year. And that outlet mall they’re building at the south end of town is supposed to bring in a lot of tourists and stuff. Maybe they don’t want the bad publicity?”
“A bobcat seems…” Dusty sighed. “A little too convenient?”
Tom nodded. “I don’t like it, either.”
"Do you have any yellow roses?" Dusty asked, trying to change the subject again. It felt dangerous, feeding her suspicions.
"Sure." Tom stood fully, turning toward the refrigerated flower cases behind him.
Dusty always thought it would be neat to have one of those—a refrigerator you could see into without opening it. It would have saved Nick and I a lot of "Will you shut that door's?!" from Julia. The thought was so painful she cut it right off.
"How many do you want? A dozen?” Tom opened the door.
"Just one." Dusty struggled to keep the pain in. "How much?"
"Just one?" He took a yellow rose out of the container and shut the door, turning to hand it to her. "Here. Take it, beautiful."
"Are you sure?" Dusty took the rose, blinking back tears as his fingers brushed hers. Their eyes met and she saw it, in that moment—he wasn’t over her, like she’d hoped. Nick had said she broke Tom’s heart when she turned down his proposal just out of high school, but she’d always told herself they were both too young. Besides, he was joining the air force, and she couldn’t be a military wife.
“It’s all yours,” he said with a nod and a small smile. “Always was.”
“Tom…” She swallowed, looking down at the flower instead of up at him.
“Don’t worry about it.” He stood, his big hands so out of place arranging flowers it made her want to smile. “Okay?”
She wanted to ask him if they were still talking about the rose she was holding, but she knew they weren’t, not really. “Thanks.”
She turned to leave, understanding suddenly a whole new meaning to the phrase “killing someone with kindness.” Every kind gesture felt like a stab through her heart.
* * * *
Dusty left the Jeep parked by the front office of the cemetery. She could have driven all the way to the grave, but she felt like walking.
Warm for September, she thought,
lifting her face to the gentle breeze. Her father had said it had been a warm summer for northern Michigan, one of the driest they’d ever had. The trees were just turning color and a few leaves decorated the lawn. It's always so perfect, how do they do that? she wondered, taking one of the winding paths, admiring the grass. Her father had once said the Clinton Grove Cemetery should have been a golf course.
It was silent with the exception of the leaves rustling above her head. Isolated, she thought, staring up the incline. It was at least two miles from town and on the outskirts, just before the county line. The entire ride along Hubbard had been views of farms and fields.
She stopped at the top of the sloping hill and looked across acres of land. One great big garden of stone, she thought, peering across the rows of graves. She looked at the tall monument on her left, erected in honor of those who had fought in the Civil War, and the newest one for those who had fought in Iraq. Six or seven family mausoleums stood interspersed among trees, all containing once-prominent Larkspur residents. Nick liked to remark that a small town like Larkspur had a lot of big people—and a lot of small minds.
The hill sloped back down, offering a panoramic view of the cemetery. To her left was Nick's grave and there was someone standing there in the distance, head down, back toward her. She moved down the row, realizing he was standing at Nick's grave. She recognized the figure when she was only a few feet away from him.
"Chris?" She put a hand on his shoulder.
He yelped, whirling to face her, his hand on his chest.
"Jesus, Dusty!" he cried, his breath ragged, his eyes wide as he looked at her. "You scared me to death!"
"I suppose we're in the right place for it." She gave him a wry smile. He looked back down, his eyes resting on the grave. They had covered the fresh dirt with sod and put the headstone up already. It gave Dusty a start to see it there, an announcement to the world in gray marble.