A Grave Situation

by Libby Howard

  Ghosts. Their shadowy forms darted here and there as they clustered around David’s plot. Once again, I struggled to separate and glimpse their personalities and forms from each other. One hovered over the gravesite, and I walked closer, getting the impression that spirit was David. He felt young. Definitely male. And…sad. He was awash in guilt and regret for the sorrow he’d left behind. And he seemed unable to leave the spot where his body had been interred. The ghost I’d sensed in my kitchen appeared, hovering next to him by the grave.

  Who was she, this woman who’d been shot…murdered? And just as important, who had killed her and arranged to hide her body in David’s grave?

  Chapter 8

  There was no sign of Judge Beck when I got home, so I made another pot of coffee, let Taco outside, and sat on the porch with my laptop and a cup of coffee.

  It was a darned chilly morning, but with that glorious fall sunshine that makes a person feel like summer is hanging on with every last breath. The maple out front was a brilliant red, and the Miller’s tulip poplars were beginning to shed green-gold leaves. Fall had come late to Locust Point this year, and that was fine with me. I’d miss these weekends on the porch with my coffee. I’d miss the happy hours with the neighbors. And sunrise yoga with Daisy would be an issue depending on how cold it got this winter. Neither of us wanted to attempt Sun Salutations while bundled up in parkas, or in a foot of snow, but somehow yoga in my basement never felt the same.

  But I wasn’t going to think about that now. Instead I sipped my coffee, watched Taco stalking something or another in the mums, and opened my laptop.

  David Driver. I eyed the obituary, noting that in the list of surviving relatives, he was DeLanie’s only child, and that there was no father mentioned, either living or deceased. It made me feel even sorrier for the woman I’d just dropped off at the cemetery. Olive, her brother, and her parents were listed as surviving relatives in the obituary, as were Sarah, Ford, and their two children. David had been a very good-looking man from the picture in the notice—short dark tightly-curled hair, high cheekbones and an angular jaw, dark eyes and a mischievous, little-boy smile. If I’d been a young woman, and this man had turned that smile on me, I would have been absolutely charmed. Smitten, even.

  Beyond the usual information regarding surviving relatives, there was a summary of the deceased’s life—high school, college. David had worked at Branch Building and Electric. He’d been a member of Trinity Lutheran Church. He loved white water rafting and fishing, as well as his bulldog, Beau. In lieu of flowers, the family had requested donations to the local animal shelter that David had adopted Beau from.

  I took a breath, feeling a bit raw, remembering how I’d had to write an obituary seven months ago. I watched Taco scamper across the lawn to roll in a patch of sunshine, banishing those memories before turning to my laptop to search further.

  David Driver might have died from a drug overdose but there was no record of him ever being arrested or serving time for anything, including anything drug related. There were a few traffic tickets from three and six years ago. Nothing else appeared on my case search. The local newspaper had a few mentions of him in their archives—one of him at age four with his mother at the county fair and another as part of a winning Little League team. Other than that, there was nothing. David Driver had been a normal man who had tragically been caught up in a web of addiction and died before he could break free.

  I heard the squeak of the front door.

  “Sorry. I can’t believe I slept in this late.” Judge Beck sat down in the chair next to me, a cup of coffee in one hand and an apple muffin in the other. He was still wearing the Pac-Man pajama pants and the worn T-shirt.

  “I guess golf takes a lot out of a man,” I teased.

  “I’m not getting any younger.” He laughed. “Although I think it was less the eighteen holes and more the wine that had me sleeping in so late.”

  “You’re hung over?”

  He shot me a sideways scowl. “The Honorable Nathaniel Beck does not get hung over. Well, not since that time in college. And the bachelor party. And that New Year’s Eve a few years back.”

  I smirked, thinking there had probably been a few other times he’d not mentioned. It wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t exactly a stranger to parties, although it had been more than a few years since I’d imbibed enough to be what I’d call hungover.

  “Lightweight. We can always skip the pumpkin patch if you’d rather lie on the couch with an ice pack on your head or something.”

  “Nope. Brunch, then pumpkin patch, then carving time.” He pointed a finger at me. “You’re not getting out of this.”

  I sipped my coffee. “Bloody Marys with brunch? Mimosas?”

  He winced. “Give me a couple of cups of coffee and maybe I’ll think about a virgin Bloody Mary. What’s up with the laptop? It’s Sunday. I thought I was the workaholic here.”

  “Just checking DeLanie’s son’s records.” I shrugged. “No arrests. Nothing. I can’t see any obvious reason why someone would have dumped a woman’s body into his grave. At least from what I see in the papers or his obit.”

  Judge Beck finished his muffin and took a swig from his coffee cup. “I’m no cop, but the first place I’d check is the cemetery. Who filled that grave in? I can’t believe someone didn’t notice a body wrapped in a tarp on top of the casket.”

  “Grave liner.” I turned my laptop around to show him the picture. “Evidently every grave in the last fifty years at Windy Oaks has either a vault or a grave liner. When they open the plot, basically they dig the hole, then they install the grave liner. After the service, they lower the casket, place the lid on the grave liner, then fill in the dirt on top.”

  He shrugged. “Still the same issue. Someone filling in that grave was either complicit, or your murderer. Either they did the deed and used their job as a way to cover it up, or they were paid to turn the other way for a disposal.”

  “It might have nothing to do with David Driver.” I closed the laptop and shook my head. “Poor DeLanie has been through enough. I’ll admit that I was worried her son’s death and this body could be somehow connected.”

  “Because he died of a drug overdose?” Judge Beck turned a knowing glance my way. “You wouldn’t be the first to think that, but plenty of addicts manage to skirt that line and remain fairly functioning. Not all of them end up robbing houses and living in flop houses.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” I protested. “I just thought that maybe…I don’t know, people that use drugs might associate with those who could do something like murder?”

  “Not always. I had a case a few years back where a college-educated soccer mom got arrested with a bottle of prescription drugs that weren’t hers. She’d meet her dealer outside the grocery store. None of these people were your stereotypical boys-in-the-hood. Her dealer was a suburban grandmother. This thing could be drug related, or it could just be a coincidence that someone chose your friend’s cousin’s grave to hide a body.” He reached out and tapped the top of my laptop. “Now go get ready. I want brunch. And a virgin Bloody Mary.”

  I stood, gathering my coffee cup and computer. “You’re the one still in your pajamas, buster. You go get ready. I’ll have another cup of coffee and see if I can find where Taco ran off to.”

  By the time I’d tracked my cat down, taunting the neighbor’s dog, and hauled him back home, Judge Beck was ready.

  I’ve had a lot of wonderful days in my life, and this counted as one of them. We went to brunch at an amazing place in downtown Milford and had pecan and caramel French toast, thick slabs of crispy applewood-smoked bacon, and mimosas. Fat and happy, we hit the pumpkin patch, forking out five dollars’ worth of quarters to feed goats and donkeys handfuls of sweetened grain before moving on to the other attractions. The corn maze was horror-movie worthy. After staggering through rustling eight-foot-high stalks, we managed to find the exit and rewarded ourselves with some hot apple cider before boarding a hay wagon t
o the pumpkin field. Half an hour later, we were standing in a long line with a wheelbarrow that held two giant pumpkins and a dozen warty decorative gourds that I couldn’t resist picking up.

  “Wait here,” Judge Beck told me before vanishing into the crowd. I inched my way toward the cashier, pushing the wheelbarrow and adding a couple more interesting gourds and mini pumpkins from the displays to my left. When the judge returned, he deposited a handful of pumpkin carving tools into the wheelbarrow along with a gallon of apple cider and a box of pumpkin spice donuts.

  I stared at the donuts, feeling a bit insulted. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Did you not just eat my apple muffins this morning? My lemon zest pound cake earlier in the week? My banana-walnut pancakes? You dare to deposit some other person’s baked goods into my cart…wheelbarrow?”

  He looked back at the section where the baked goods were displayed. “They’re homemade. I’m not cheating on you if I eat other people’s baked goods, am I? Because I figured it might be nice for you to get out of the kitchen for a hot second and spend some time carving pumpkins on the porch, drinking cider, and eating these donuts.”

  Cheating on me? My cheeks got a bit hot as I realized I was being a total jealous baking diva here. “They do look good. And there are only a few of those apple muffins left. We could eat these and save those for the kids’ breakfast tomorrow.”

  I looked up and saw the judge watching me, biting back a smile. “I’ll return them if you really want. Or I could possibly pick up a second box, just in case they’re really good.”

  I pursed my lips. “Okay. Just in case.”

  Thankfully, he insisted on paying for everything. I waited while he pulled the SUV up front, and helped him load the entirety of our purchases in the back. Once home, we deposited it all on the front porch, going inside for mugs and plates, as well as newspaper to keep our pumpkin carving mess neatly contained.

  “So, what do you have going on this week with the boss and your yoga partner away?” the judge asked as he sawed a jagged-toothed mouth into his pumpkin.

  “A pile full of skip traces, a few background checks, and possibly a cheating spouse investigation if the man decides he wants to pursue it. It’s always a cheating spouse investigation on the detective side, sadly,” I told him as I scooped a warm wet bunch of pumpkin guts out onto the newspaper. “Daisy made me promise to keep up my daily yoga, but without her here I’m finding myself slacking.”

  “Slacking? She hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours. At this rate, by the time she gets back you’ll be a flabby, weak, inflexible couch potato,” he teased.

  I looked my jack-o-lantern design over with a critical eye, making a few adjustments with a Sharpie. “Probably. I’m more worried about holding down the fort at work. I only started there seven months ago. J.T.’s never been out of the office before. I’m hoping to be able to handle everything on my own without needing to bother him on vacation. I’ve never done the bail-bond end of things beyond some risk assessment, though. I’m hoping we don’t get any while he’s gone because I’m terrified I’ll commit us to something I shouldn’t.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Judge Beck intoned. “Gator Pierson can hunt down any bail jumper and haul him in. I’ve seen his videos on YouTube. He’s a king among bounty hunters.”

  I laughed, bending over my pumpkin to saw out a triangle-shaped eye. “The ‘Gator’ Pierson isn’t exactly the man you see on the videos, you know. Although if it came to losing ten grand on a bail jumper, I can completely see him storming into a bad neighborhood and dragging the guy out by his ears. J.T. hates to lose money.”

  “But he does seem sweet on your friend Daisy.”

  He was sweet on her. Which was completely understandable since I thought Daisy was one of the most amazing women in the world.

  “I think she’s sweet on him too. She’s just scared.”

  Judge Beck paused mid-carve to shoot me a quizzical glance. “Why? If she likes being with him, enjoys his company, and she’s attracted to him, then why be scared? Why hold back?”

  “Because it’s a huge leap of faith to be emotionally vulnerable,” I told him. “Whether it’s because you’re not sure if the other party feels the same, or you’re worried it’s a fleeting emotion on your or their part, or that you’re making a mistake and he’ll turn out to be a total jerk in six months, letting someone in is scary.”

  He turned and paid close attention to his jack-o-lantern. “Were you scared to fall in love with Eli?”

  “No.” I smiled at the memories of Eli and me at college—of all those precious memories I cherished. “Not at all, but I was young and didn’t have all that much in the way of experience—good or bad—to make me wary of giving my heart to another. Were you with Heather?”

  “I was terrified.” He laughed. “Every time I asked a woman out it was like facing a firing squad, but Heather…. We’d been dating six months before I finally worked up the courage to say the ‘L’ word. Two years before I proposed. I always envied those guys who made it all look so effortless, so easy. But as scared as I was of her saying ‘no,’ I was more afraid I’d let the opportunity for love pass me by.”

  I nodded in agreement. “It was just right with Eli, you know? I remember seeing him in classes and thinking he was cute, that he was smart. I remember feeling the pull of attraction. That first date was like puzzle pieces falling into place. It did feel easy. He was so honest and up front about his feelings and so was I. It helped that I was positive he was the one, and that I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, and that he felt the same about me as I did about him.”

  J.T. made it clear how he felt about Daisy, just as Eli had with me. And I knew deep down inside he knew Daisy felt the same, she just needed time—time and patience to work through her fears. That’s what made me such a fan of this budding relationship between them. His patience, his devotion and understanding…he was a good guy. If Daisy felt any spark at all of attraction toward him, I knew she wouldn’t be making a mistake in giving him her heart.

  “Do you think you’ll ever love again?” Judge Beck asked, still intently focused on his pumpkin.

  I thought about the question for a moment. “I really don’t know. I mean, I’m open to the idea, but I’m not worried about it. I wouldn’t want to feel like I was jumping into something out of loneliness or trying to fill the empty place that Eli’s passing left. I’ve got a job I love. I’ve got friends. I have some new hobbies. I think it’s better if I mourn and settle into life as a single woman before I think about that sort of thing. But if in the future, if the right person comes along, I’d be open to it. I think at my age any relationship is going to be very different from what Eli and I had in our twenties, though. What about you?”

  “Definitely.” His response was quick and absolute. “I want to make sure I’m not on some rebound romance because of the divorce, or acting out of loneliness or something, and I need to make sure whoever it is loves my kids as much as I do. But I’ve come to realize that I want someone else in my life. I want to share my time, my emotions, my thoughts, and dreams and future with someone, and I want to share theirs as well. That’s just how I’m wired. So yes, I definitely see myself falling in love again. With the right person, of course.”

  I squirmed, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the direction our conversation had taken. After a few moments of silence, I looked over at the judge’s pumpkin, then back at mine, making a very critical comparison.

  “Maybe you should have had a career in art instead of law,” I told him. “Professional pumpkin carving, or something.”

  He sat back and eyed his jack-o-lantern with satisfaction. “I loved carving pumpkins when I was a kid. I’d always get the biggest ones I could find and I’d try to think of the scariest face to carve.”

  “I’ll bet you were adorable trick-or-treating. What was your favorite costume?”

  He laughed. “My sister always wanted to be a flower, or a princess, or a mouse, or a teapot, so she got th
e homemade costumes. Mom couldn’t figure out how to sew Superman or Batman, so those years I wound up with the dime-store costume-in-a-bag deals. Mom did go all out on the Scooby Doo costume when I was eight, though. And the Godzilla one when I was twelve was pretty cool, although the tail was a lumpy dirty mess by the time I dragged it all through the streets and lawns of our neighborhood.”

  “A teapot? Your sister seriously dressed up as a teapot one year?”

  “Yes, a teapot. I hope you’ll get to meet her this year for Christmas. She usually flies in for the holidays. Janet is a hoot. But then again, any girl who wants to be a teapot for Halloween clearly shows comedic genius.”

  I stood and positioned my jack-o-lantern by the steps, moving the judge’s far superior one opposite. “I’ll say. That makes my Lassie costume sound so lame.”

  He chuckled. “Lassie? I’ll bet you were adorable.”

  “Everyone thought I was Bigfoot.”

  The judge nearly choked on his cider.

  “Seriously,” I told him. “Mom wasn’t the best with a sewing machine. But honestly, it wasn’t her fault. There was only one dog costume pattern in the Simplicity catalog, and it was for some kind of felt-type fabric. I insisted on the fur, because Lassie had this luxurious long-haired coat, so Mom used the pattern with reddish brown fur. I really did look like Bigfoot.”

  “Oh, God.” He laughed for a few seconds, then wiped his eyes. “That’s hysterical. That’s almost as funny as the time Heather tried to make a flamingo costume for Madison. She was supposed to be a witch, and the night before trick-or-treat, she decided she wanted to be a flamingo. I told her it was too late to change her mind, but Heather ran out the next day and bought pink pants and a pink hooded sweatshirt, then got these feathered angel wings and tried to dye them pink. Madison’s flamingo costume consisted of her dressed in pink with wings tied to her arms with yarn and a beak stuck on her face with elastic bands. I’ve got pictures of it somewhere. Poor thing looked like a flying bottle of Pepto Bismol.”