Death Perception

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Death Perception Page 20

by Lee Allen Howard


  He rummaged through the dresser drawers, which already hung open. Nothing but stained boxer briefs and tee-shirts and gym socks. Shivering, he wiped his hands on the butt of his shorts. He checked the nightstand and froze when he spotted the gun.

  Gingerly, he picked up the revolver and checked it over. It was cold and heavy in his hand. And it was loaded. He was about to put it back but stopped.

  If Alex had a gun, he might be tempted to use it on people he has a beef with. Like Nate. And Christy.

  And me.

  He stuck the gun in the side pocket of his cargo shorts and shut the nightstand drawer.

  The next room was a makeshift gym. A Weider bench with vinyl upholstering split in several places sat in the middle of the room, before the dumbbell rack. Behind the rack a fly-specked mirror took up most of the wall. The stench of more sweat soured his stomach.

  He thought better of doing damage to the place and was on his way back the hall to the window he had entered when he stopped again.

  What is that smell? Like a jungle or a greenhouse.

  He continued down the hall and paused at the last door. It stood ajar, blocked open by a red brick. Alex had left the lights on inside. He pushed the door open and blinked at the array of glaring light fixtures in the room, each one hanging over some kind of monster bush growing in a washtub, each washtub connected to the next by a network of thin black tubing. He stepped in and inspected one of the plants.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  There had to be three dozen plants, all of them taller than he was. He was looking at thousands of dollars’ worth of reefer. This was why Alex was stoned all the time. And why he hangs out with such shady characters.

  Kennet wondered if the weed they found spilled all over Rick Hannah’s car came from Alex. Kennet knew nothing about dope cultivation, but these plants hadn’t been harvested, so maybe Rick had gotten it elsewhere.

  Alex was bad news. He needs to be shut down for good. Maybe then he’d learn his lesson.

  Outside, Kennet succeeded in replacing the fan in the window and then returned the cinderblock to the back steps. He rounded the house, being careful not to wander into the poison ivy beneath the trees. From deeper in the woods came the twitter of chipmunks and the scolding cries of a jay.

  Past the far corner of the house, lay the party spot and the then the cemetery, far across the expanse of field, grass swaying in the breeze. His heart was still slamming, so he rested his hand on the siding. He knocked something over. A wood-handled shovel, the blade covered with dried mud. He propped it against the house again.

  He didn’t want to walk up the driveway in case Alex came back, nor did he plan to head straight to Flavia’s. He started across the field for the cemetery instead. He took only a few steps when he stumbled over a mound—an oblong of fresh dirt.

  His scalp tingled, and Helen Streider’s last coherent words came to him: “Beware! Killer on the loose!”

  Kennet stepped back, sick and shaken. So this is what Ms. Costa’s holding over Alex’s head. Kennet was pretty sure Helen Streider had never made it to California.

  • • •

  Kennet ran from the care home to the funeral home in the hazy evening light. Flavia had just left for the grocery store and he needed to seize the opportunity to get her financial records. Inside the funeral home he fetched the skeleton key to the janitorial closet. He was soaked with sweat by the time he arrived back at the care home. It was hot and muggy out. In the distance, a bottle rocket whistled, a precursor to Independence Day.

  He slipped in through the kitchen door and padded down the front hall to the foyer. He locked eyes with Gladys Wilson in the parlor. She winked at him. He gave her the thumbs-up sign and then took the stairs by twos.

  When he reached the third floor, what he’d planned earlier with Gladys made a crash in the kitchen. She clucked and crowed about her clumsiness. Alex’s low grumble joined in, but Kennet couldn’t discern his words.

  He opened Flavia’s apartment door with the skeleton key. He hurried to the bedroom, where he pulled a few bank statements from the in-basket on her desk, then opened her jewelry case, retrieved the small brass key, and unlocked the dry bar. He moved liquor bottles aside and withdrew the black cardboard box. He lifted out the ledger book and the red folders, replaced the box, locked the cabinet, and returned the key. If for some reason Flavia came back, he didn’t want to immediately tip her off that he’d invaded her place. She might discover her paperwork missing, but not if he returned it before she got back from the store. He needed to hurry.

  That afternoon he’d dumped the soup down the kitchen drain when no one was looking, yet later told her it was delicious. The glint of devilish glee in her dark eyes told him he’d done the right thing. She was expecting him to croak, not break in and steal her damning records. Hopefully, she wouldn’t hurry back from the store.

  He locked the apartment door and stole down the steps.

  Alex was still bent over in the kitchen, sweeping glass into a dustpan. Kennet wanted to kick him in the ass—right where Christy had nailed him with the ball bat. Gladys Wilson waved him on with a chubby hand and positioned herself in the kitchen doorway to block Alex’s view. She did a good job. Kennet let himself out the front door.

  He ran back to the funeral home with the book and folders, entered through the annex door, made his way through the empty funeral home, and switched on the Ricoh copier. There was a viewing going on in the front parlor, and he prayed Grinold wouldn’t decide to visit his office. The copier took forever to warm up, but finally the Start button turned green, and he opened the ledger and placed it face down on the glass.

  Flavia would be gone at least an hour, but not more than two. He had to make copies—secure his evidence against her—and get everything back in her apartment before she returned. Without Alex finding out.

  Could he do it? He had to.

  Kennet set the ledger book aside and shook open the first bank statement. He scanned the debits and found the figure he was looking for: $689, the monthly amount of Mirabella Firenza’s Social Security deposit. He smoothed the printout on the platen and punched Start. The element sprayed light across the document and the machinery inside jerked into action. And made a gut-wrenching crunch.

  “Dammit!”

  The LCD panel blinked an error message and displayed instructions on how to clear the jam. Kennet had little experience with copiers, but he managed to open the machine, find the offensive accordion paper, which he extracted in shreds. He slammed the device together again and pressed Start.

  The machine jumped to life and produced a copy without mishap.

  The figures in the ledger book, the bank statements, and the insurance records of his mother, Putterman, and Rhoda Osgood were evidence enough to spur an investigation. At least he hoped so. He copied the rest of the material in each folder, stacking the duplicates neatly. The machine jammed once more, but he cleared it again and then shut it off.

  He gathered all the papers and the ledger book, then returned to the annex where he hid his copies of the documents. Then he ran back to the care home in the twilight, carrying her records, praying he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter 35

  Christy handed Kennet the printout of the Web page. “It says that sucky-whatever—your drug—is used in surgery to induce paralysis.”

  Flavia must have gotten the succinylcholine from her anesthesiologist ex-boyfriend. Rhoda Osgood, the sleepy old woman who moved into his mother’s room, had died because her autonomic functions were paralyzed, if Kennet’s perception was correct, and he believed it was.

  “Great work, Christy,” he said. “Thanks.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. The swelling was gone and her shiner was turning brown and yellow. Soon it would disappear, but he wouldn’t forget what Alex had done to her. Besides avenging his mother and the other dead care home residents, Kennet felt obligated to give Alex his due. He knew better than to tell Christy.

  “So what are you g
oing to do next?” She stood on her knees on the computer chair, toying with his black curls, which had grown too long in the past weeks.

  He gathered her hair and ran the silken ends across his palm like a soft brush. What am I going to do? “I’m going to kiss you. That’s what I’m going to do.” And he did.

  She kissed him back, running her nails over his scalp. They continued like this for a while, and when he drew her off the chair, she moved into him, kissing deeper. He led her to the bed, where they collapsed softly on the comforter. Their breathing grew heavy and soon they were pulling off each other’s clothes.

  “Kennet.” Christy spread her hand on his bare chest, right where his heart was racing. “I, we can’t—”

  “I know,” he whispered. “But we can do something else.” He kissed her again. Then he kissed her some more, moving down her neck and over her breasts, across her warm belly and lower still.

  “Ohh, Kennet . . .”

  • • •

  Afterward, he lay sprawled across her bed, holding her close under his arm.

  “We got sidetracked there,” she said.

  “Best sidetrack I’ve ever had,” he said.

  Christy propped herself up on one elbow and smirked at him. “I was asking, what are you going to do next?”

  “What were we talking about?”

  She tugged the tuft of hair at the center of his chest.

  “Oww!”

  She sat up and pulled her tee-shirt on. “About Ms. Costa. And Alex.”

  He leaned up on his elbows. “I’m going to the police. Tomorrow, I hope. But I’ve got to make some final copies of matching records at the funeral home first.” Which wouldn’t be hard to do. He just had to catch Grinold and Mary Grace out of the office at the same time. Easier than waiting for Flavia to leave the care home.

  “You sure it’s the cops?” Christy asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  She slipped on her shorts and sat down at the keyboard. “Do you need the cops or the FBI?”

  “Jeez, I dunno. Can you find out for me?”

  “I’m already on it, chief.” She started typing. Grinold hated being called chief, but Christy could call him chief any time she damn well pleased.

  “Okay, Nancy Drew. I gotta get to work now.” He threw on his clothes and then drew her out of the chair and into his arms. She sighed and hugged him tight.

  Looking up at him, she said, “Be careful, okay?”

  “I will,” he said. “I promise.”

  “Good. I’ll scoop you later, Singleton.”

  “I sure hope so.” He kissed her again and then let himself out of the house.

  • • •

  Berla Jones Kraft upended the porcelain vase from the fireplace mantel. The small brass key her friend had entrusted to her tumbled out onto the newsletter that lay on the coffee table, the memorial edition of It Came to Pass, the final issue of the quarterly epistle of Sister Etta Hargrave. The ancient prophetess had gone on to her reward, having passed away in her sleep after a ministry stint in New England.

  Berla would never forget the time Sister Etta came to the Holy Ghost and Fire Pentecostal Church and prophesied that she would soon meet and marry a man, something she’d always wanted but hadn’t succeeded in doing for forty years. Soon afterward, Henry Kraft wandered into her life, and they’d fallen in love. She still marveled at what the Lord had done.

  Sister Etta would be sorely missed. Berla snatched a tissue from the boutique dispenser on the coffee table and blew her nose. But she wasn’t crying about Sister Etta.

  She carried the key to the basement where it smelled like clean laundry. On the shelf above the washer, behind the big carton of soap powder sat the steel lock box, the one Delores entrusted to her before . . . She sobbed into the tissue again.

  Berla sensed there was something amiss—something wrong—about her friend’s death. She just knew it. She felt it deep down in her spirit, an irritation like a burr beneath a horse’s saddle. She couldn’t stop thinking of it. She’d even dreamed about her friend. More of a nightmare, really. All that blood . . .

  Delores had given her specific instructions concerning when to open the lock box, and only if necessary. Well, she’d heard from Delores telling her not to use it, but since Delores’s death, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she must open it. She choked on another sob.

  I’ll do it, Delores. I’ll do it.

  She took down the box and set it on the folding table. She slipped the key in the lock and turned it. Opened the lid. Inside lay half a dozen manila envelopes addressed to local newspapers and television stations, one to the National Funeral Directors Association. And a letter to her in Delores’s flowery handwriting.

  Dear Berla . . . She began to cry again.

  • • •

  Kennet found the funeral home cooler empty. It was unusual to come in after a weekend to a vacant cooler, but occasionally it happened. He couldn’t get into Mary Grace’s file cabinets until she and Grinold went to lunch. Hopefully, their lunch hours would coincide, at least for a few minutes. In the meantime he needed to keep himself busy. He went to the janitorial closet and fetched some cleaning supplies. He would scrub and polish for the next three hours, if need be. Until it was time for lunch.

  • • •

  Mad as hellfire, Berla climbed into her Ford Aerostar cargo van. She threw the manila envelopes on the passenger seat and started the vehicle, then tore out of the driveway and sped down Olivet toward Smithfield.

  Cecil Grinold, of all people! “I’ll give that pompous dirtbag a piece of my mind!”

  She certainly didn’t approve of Delores’s affair with the man, but his leading Delores to believe that he wanted to marry her and give her a better life was, in Berla’s opinion, high treason. Not every woman had a man like Henry, but to be stuck with a Neanderthal like Mabon Swann only to be led astray and deceived by a wolf like Cecil Grinold . . . she growled in disgust.

  She flicked on her turn signal and slowed for the broad driveway to the big bay door of the funeral home annex. She slowed even further when she saw the handsome young man with the curly black hair.

  • • •

  Kennet was crossing the annex driveway when a white van pulled off Smithfield. The vehicle squealed to a halt, and the driver’s door flew open. A middle-aged woman with big breasts and buck teeth clambered out, clutching some manila envelopes.

  I’ll be. Berla Jones. He hadn’t seen her since the church burned down seven years ago. Wonder what she wants.

  “Is Cecil Grinold in?” She looked and sounded angry.

  “He’s conducting a funeral service at the moment. Can I give him a message for you?”

  Her wide mouth turned down and she seemed to grow angrier at the news. “Yeppers. Tell him I wanna talk to him about our friend Delores.”

  “Delores Swann?” Kennet asked.

  “Why, yes.” Her hazel eyes grew wide. “Did you know her?”

  “She stopped by one day. I also cremated her.”

  Berla burst into tears.

  Kennet tried to soothe her, but she was distraught. She said she feared her friend had come to harm. He sensed the familiar tingling presence. Although it was none of her business, he told her what he knew. “The death certificate said trauma from an auto accident, but I believe she was poisoned.”

  Berla cried harder, almost wailing. He glanced nervously around the parking lot, hoping she wasn’t disrupting the funeral service.

  She handed him the envelopes addressed to local newspapers and television stations. She pointed to one of the envelopes and said, “Open it up.”

  He did. Inside were photos of Grinold and Delores. Incriminating photos. Kennet’s stomach flopped. Just like Flavia, he couldn’t believe Grinold was capable of such activity. But what did he know? You’re a rube, Singleton.

  One photo, he wished he’d never seen. What a fat, white ass.

  Not only had Delores died of poisoning, but she was murdered
. And Grinold was the culprit. Kennet let Berla cry herself out because he didn’t know what to tell her. With Delores gone, there was no evidence, no way to pin anything on Grinold now. But Kennet had the photos. And suddenly, he knew what to do.

  “Berla.”

  “How do you know my name?” She stopped her crying and sported her surprised look again.

  “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Kennet Singleton.”

  “Virginia’s boy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Kennet. It’s so good to see you!” She hugged him to her enormous chest and gushed for a minute about what a wonderful woman his mother was, how she remembered the prophetic word Sister Etta Hargrave gave him—“She’s gone to be with the Lord, you know”—and what she and Henry were up to since the church burned down and the flock scattered.

  He listened patiently and shared some news of his own when he got the chance. He assured Berla that she’d done the right thing in opening the lock box. And he convinced her to let him handle the situation.

  She agreed, drying her tears. “I’m just glad something will be done about him—that, that . . .”

  “I know just how you feel, Berla.”

  She shuddered and huffed.

  “Say,” Kennet said, “do you think you could give me a ride to the Foodland?”

  “Sure. Be glad to do anything for the son of Virginia Singleton. She was such a good woman.”

  He was afraid she would start bawling again, so he quickly said, “That’s right, and I appreciate you saying so. But she’s having a good time with Sister Etta in heaven now, isn’t she?”

  Berla looked surprised again. “You’re right, Kennet, you’re right. And that’s what we need to remember.” She smiled then, showing her splayed front teeth.

  She dropped him off in the Foodland parking lot. He waved at her as she pulled back onto Smithfield. Then he entered the supermarket and located the telephone number for Channel 11 News at the pay phone. He called and asked for their fax number and then paid at the customer service desk to fax the material in the envelope addressed to them. Then he sealed the envelopes, dropped them in the mailbox outside the Style Shack, and went inside to complete the next task on his list.

 

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