Rose from the Grave

by Candace Murrow

  CHAPTER 5

  Backtracking through town, Kat passed Chance Eliason's truck parked at Bertie's. Soon she would confront him and summon the truth about his relationship with her sister. But not now.

  She passed Hank's General Store and considered picking up a few staples, but if she stayed at a motel, she wouldn't need them. Besides, she would rather have a tooth pulled than converse any longer with the locals about Brianna. She'd had plenty for one day.

  She drove away from the center of town for about a mile on Randall Road, the same road she'd come in on, and turned left down North Maple Lane. Several small homes in various stages of disrepair were grouped together close to the main road. A little farther on, on the opposite side, was the sparkling white Rosswood Community Church, the size of a one-room schoolhouse. After that were a few empty lots, overgrown with grass and littered with papers strewn from the wind.

  The street curved slightly, and on the right amid gnarly old maple trees was an isolated cottage, painted a dirty brown. Not a great choice. But at the time Brianna had begged for the down payment, not many habitable homes were on the market.

  When Kat spotted Brianna's car in the open one-car garage, her insides grew rigid as steel. The rusted-out Ford brought up anger so intense she had to take a deep breath just to stay in control. She slammed her palm on the steering wheel. "Damn it, Brianna! Why'd you do this to yourself? Why didn't you tell me you were in such deep despair?"

  She turned the anger inward and scolded herself for being too self-involved, practically turning her back on her sister, the only family she had, or ever would have. She wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes and sat motionless for a full five minutes. Strangely, after this eruption of rage, she felt her muscles ease from the tension, giving her temporary relief.

  Before going inside, she peered at the wooded property across the street, taking note of the dirt road weaving through it. The road was overgrown with grass, and the woods were too dense with overhanging limbs to see where it led.

  Brianna loved her sanctuary. When she told Kat about the house she wanted to purchase, she raved about the quiet, even though the house was so close to town. In the back the property bordered a pasture, its fence stretching all the way to Randall Road.

  Meandering toward the door, Kat was careful not to trip over the lumps and bumps of the old cement walkway, bulged and cracked from winter thaws. The wiry grass in the front yard was on the tall side and browned in patches from lack of summer watering.

  The tree limbs created a barrier to the sun, and the house had been closed up over the long stretch of summer. The interior was cold and dank. The chill seeped through to her bones.

  The living and dining rooms were combined with an open kitchen to the left. Across the main room through a doorway was the only bedroom.

  To save on the oil bill, Brianna had bought portable electric heaters. Kat plugged one in between the kitchen and the bedroom and edged toward the warmth.

  Kat had left everything in the house as it was the day Brianna died. The burnt orange afghan was draped over the back of the saggy sofa. Brianna's rubber boots were next to the front door, one upright and one on its side, a detail Kat had overlooked when she first entered the house. On the kitchen windowsill were two of Brianna's rings, a gold band with an onyx setting and a gold pinkie ring, presents given to her by her ex-husband. It gave Kat a shiver of unease to see these, but she refused to spiral into sadness.

  Kat opened the refrigerator door and nearly gagged. Inside were jars of mayo and mustard, a half loaf of bread, a chunk of cheddar bluish with mold, and an opened carton of milk. She shut the door and backed away from the putrid smell.

  In the bedroom the down comforter Kat had purchased for Brianna as a housewarming gift lay across the bed. The covering was a rich dark brown.

  Kat opened all the curtains, returned to the warmth of the heater, and marshaled her thoughts. Before she listed the house, it would need a thorough cleaning, and she would have to sift through Brianna's clothes and personal items to see what to keep and what to dispose of.

  Surprisingly, being here didn't feel as disturbing as she thought it would. If they had found Brianna's body in the house, instead of the detached garage, it would be different. After disposing of Brianna's car and closing the garage door, Kat could dissociate completely from the means of her sister's death. Getting rid of the car would be her first priority.

  Considering the work she had to do, she hated the thought of driving to and from a motel thirty miles away, at least forty-five minutes on these winding roads. Staying in Brianna's house seemed like the practical thing to do.

  As much as she despised trucking into town again, she needed food, and as long as she'd be here a while, she might as well get cozy with the locals. Who knew when or if she might need help?

  She turned off the heater and checked under the kitchen sink for scouring powder and detergent and in the bathroom for soap and toilet paper, all of which were on hand.

  In town she parked in front of Hank's General Store, a picture from the past. The white paint was chipped in places, revealing the weathered wood underneath, and the windows, holding old ads for cigarettes and pop, were wavy with age. Inside, the black-speckled linoleum was scuffed and worn, and fluorescent bulbs hung over cramped aisles stocked to overflowing with every grocery item imaginable.

  She smiled at the balding, middle-aged man minding the cash register, grabbed a basket, and continued down aisle after aisle, picking out bread, cereal, milk, peanut butter, bananas, a couple of frozen dinners, a bag of chips, and a bottle of Chablis, enough for a start. She threw in a bottle of Windex and a Hershey bar.

  The bell on the door jingled, and the clerk exchanged greetings with a man he addressed as Doc, but Kat was too far in the back to see the man. By the time she worked her way to the front of the store, he'd disappeared down the far aisle.

  The clerk slowly and methodically rang up each item from Kat's basket. Gritting her teeth, she had to remind herself to be patient and go with the easy flow of Rosswood.

  He paused, leaving the last item on the counter, and said to Kat, "Nice day, all right. But a little chilly."

  "Uh-huh." She glanced out the window just to seem interested.

  "Think winter's coming early this year. I can feel it in my knees."

  "Hmm . . ."

  "You're the Summers woman, aren't you?"

  News traveled fast around here. "That's right. I'm Brianna's sister, but you probably already knew that."

  A crash and the clatter of rolling cans caused Hank to look toward the rear of the store. "Need some help back there, Doc?"

  "I can manage," the man said, disgruntled, "but you might consider stacking these soup cans away from the corner here."

  "Sure, well, just holler if you need help." Hank leaned closer to Kat and said in confidence, "I call him 'Doc Butter Fingers.' He's the clumsiest fellow I've ever come across."

  Kat felt sorry for the man and hoped he hadn't heard Hank's remark. She couldn't see the doctor, but it gave her the idea to look him up after she got settled in. Who would better understand Brianna's emotional state than her doctor?

  Hank glanced toward the rear of the store again, then gave Kat his full attention. "I hear you're going to be in town a while."

  "That's right."

  "Well, then, I wanted to let you know we have a delivery service if you happen to be staying in the local area, say within a ten-mile radius. Just call in your order, and we'll put it on your tab. You can pay up the end of the month."

  "I'll be within your delivery area, but I don't plan to be here that long."

  "You can pay by the week, whatever's convenient. We have a trustworthy young man who delivers for us. Nothing to worry about."

  "Thanks, but I can come to town to get my groceries. I'm only a mile out."

  "Brianna's place, huh? Sorry about Brianna."

  "Thanks, Mister . . ."

  "Hank. You can call me Hank."
<
br />   "Okay, Hank." She looked at the bag of chips on the counter, and he finally placed them in the grocery sack. Halfway to the door, she stopped and asked about the property with the barbed wire fence on the edge of town. "What's with the sign?"

  "Oh, that." Hank laid his arms on the counter and clasped his hands. "We got us an all-out war in this town."

  "What kind of war?"

  "A big-shot real estate developer named Wheeler wants to build a flashy resort with a golf course and spas for all those rich city folk. Some of the townspeople are dazzled by all the money that'll come into this community, but the rest of us don't like the idea of changing this town. We like it the way it is."

  "Most people don't like change."

  "You got that right," he said. "And I'm one of them. So was Brianna. She'd been fighting like mad to keep old Wheeler out. It's a wonder he didn't shoot her on the spot when she stood up to him at one of our town meetings. She was a tiger, that girl."

  Kat felt the blood draining. "Excuse me, but I really do need to go." She hurried from the store and sank into the driver's seat of her SUV. She wondered if Hank realized how insensitive his remark was, but considering his rude comment about the doctor, she didn't think Hank was the type to screen anything that might come out of his mouth.

  When Kat returned to the house, she hauled her groceries inside and went back for her suitcases. A short while ago she was resolved to stay the night in her sister's house, but as the afternoon faded into evening, she wasn't so sure.

  CHAPTER 6

  If Kat had any doubts about camping out at Brianna's, the strain she felt after talking to the locals convinced her otherwise. She was downright fatigued and couldn't face searching for a motel.

  In Kat's line of work, conversing with strangers was a necessity, and it came easy to her. She stayed conveniently detached from her clients' emotional issues, a detachment she'd learned from growing up in a dysfunctional family. Without much effort, she'd learned how to erect protective walls around herself. Today she'd let her guard down, and nothing had been as emotionally draining as the conversations she'd had concerning Brianna.

  While her dinner cooked in the microwave, she rummaged through a kitchen drawer in search of a corkscrew, confident she'd find one since she and Brianna both enjoyed the taste of wine, another habit they'd picked up from home sweet home.

  She set the steaming dinner on the table and rounded up the bag of chips and the glass of wine. The smell of turkey and dressing, as artificial as it was, couldn't mask the musty odor of the house. Tomorrow she'd give it a full airing.

  After eating the meat and picking at the dressing, she munched on chips and sipped wine until the glass was empty.

  She left the mess on the table to deal with in the morning and wandered into the bedroom to see what state Brianna's bed was in. When she tossed back the comforter, she was shocked.

  Brianna had a penchant for neatness, and Kat expected the sheets to be pulled taut and folded back and the pillow straight and aligned. Instead, the mashed-in pillow was askew and the top sheet was in a rumpled mass, the ends pulled out from the corners.

  On her breeze through the house, after her sister's death, Kat had also neglected to see the bedside lamp that was knocked to the floor. She returned the lamp to its rightful place.

  It wasn't like Brianna to leave her room in such disarray. As a child, her side of the room was always perfect, unlike Kat's. Their mother loved telling the story of finding banana peels under Kat's bed. Kat shrugged acceptance. Making a neat bed that harrowing day was probably the farthest thing from Brianna's mind.

  That angry feeling broadsided Kat again. She stared at the bed and bellowed, "You didn't even leave a suicide note to tell me what was on your mind." She stomped out of the room, furious, wondering when, if ever, this insufferable anger would burn itself out.

  Sleeping in Brianna's bed wouldn't happen tonight. The sheets needed changing, and that would have to wait till morning. Once she was snuggled in her pajamas on the couch under the warmth of the comforter she'd dragged in from the bedroom, she tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, and fell into the dream that had been tormenting her ever since Brianna had died.

  The vision of Brianna's twisted and distorted face was so vivid Kat wasn't sure at all if she was dreaming because when she woke, panting for breath, the vision was still with her. It slowly faded away.

  "What do you want, Brianna? Why are you haunting me?" She glanced toward the bedroom, half expecting Brianna's ghost to appear. Outside, the wind howled.

  When would these visions leave her alone? This was the worst one yet. She'd heard stories about troubled, earthbound souls, but she only wanted to believe Brianna was dead and gone.

  Kat nestled her hip into the sagging cushion. The comforter warmed her back to sleep until a shrill noise entered her consciousness, a relentless ringing that wouldn't let up. From a lack of resolve on her part to settle Brianna's affairs, Kat had continued to pay Brianna's household bills—her mortgage, utilities, and regrettably her phone bill.

  She stumbled into the kitchen and grasped the receiver. "Hello."

  The answer came as a scratchy static noise, followed by a long pause, a heavy sigh, and the click.

  She held the receiver at bay. "Okay, Kat, get a grip. This had to be a wrong number." She hung up, but she wasn't convinced.

  First the visions and now the aggravating phone calls. Why were they following her wherever she went? This line of thinking actually frightened her. The call had to be a wrong number. Still, to feel secure she lifted the receiver off the hook and let it dangle. After a minute the sharp warning beep finally died down.

  Rattled and totally awake now, she riffled through her purse for the Valium. She swallowed a pill and set the bottle on the end table. For peace of mind she left the light on. She tugged the comforter over her head and let the Valium lure her into a hazy sleep.

  * * *

  Chance stared out his bedroom window at the north side of his property, which would soon lie dormant through winter. Yellowed grass was tinged with green. The morning reached out to him like a beckoning Siren, a perfect time to run.

  Completing his running attire, he slipped on a faded blue T-shirt with the words "Topping Ventures" inscribed in small black letters. This was the shirt's last wearing because he intended to retire it to the ragbag, shredding the final tie to his former life. His years in Boston seemed light years away from his life in Rosswood.

  His bedroom was plainly furnished: queen bed, a dresser, and nightstands, all in a dark stained oak. He was getting used to living simply, living the single life, though he preferred living with a woman.

  He'd dated one woman in Rosswood, but it hadn't worked out. He thought they might remain friends, but she'd chosen to move away. He pictured her in his bed: her dark curls and olive skin framed by the white sheets, her soft curves yielding into his angular body. She'd satisfied his needs. What he didn't miss was her meek personality, and he'd let their relationship wither from neglect.

  He preferred his women bold and feisty, like the Summers woman. No, not like her. Definitely not like her. She was over-the-top feisty.

  He did miss the sex. That was where running fit in. It helped release the tension. It kept his mind clear and focused on other things, if only temporarily.

  The air outside was fresh and crisp. The sun in the eastern sky peeked over the pine trees. Zeke rushed up to him, wagging his tail, in anticipation of the run.

  "Are you ready to go?"

  Zeke let out a long, low bark.

  Chance exchanged waves with Rusty as Rusty headed for the barn to feed the burros. With Zeke keeping pace, Chance jogged the length of the long, narrow driveway and veered toward town. About a mile down Randall Road, he turned right onto North Maple Lane with the intention of checking his property line.

  At the third house in, an old man swept his porch, whistling, as Chance ran by. He stopped and waved, and his mongrel dog raced out to greet Ze
ke. Zeke paused for the sniffing ritual, then bounded after Chance.

  He approached Brianna's house and slowed to a halt, breathing hard, catching his breath. Kat Summers's SUV was parked in the driveway. Bertie had told him she was sticking around, but he never pictured her as a rundown-cottage type, not a high-maintenance city girl like Kat.

  Noticing a light on inside, he thought it best to make direct contact with her to let her know he was going around back to check his fence. He didn't want to be mistaken for an intruder. If the woman owned a gun, he had no doubt she would use it.

  Zeke pawed the door. Chance knocked, checked his watch to make sure it wasn't too early, and was about to turn away when a cranky voice from inside asked who he was.

  "It's your backyard neighbor, Chance Eliason."

  The door swung open. Zeke barged in and nosed Kat into the back of the couch. She raised her hands toward the ceiling and yelled, "Get him away from me."

  "Zeke, out!" The dog twirled around and rushed headlong into the front yard, and Chance secured the door.

  Kat's glare was icy. "You and your odious dog. What are you doing here?" Though her eyes were flashing mad, she was sizing him up from head to toe. "Out for a morning run, and you thought you'd stop by to give me a thrill?" She dismissed a response with a flick of a hand. "What time is it?"

  Her comforter was half on the floor, and she stood in bare feet with her hair matted on one side and sticking up on the other. Her chocolaty eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She had on silk pajamas the color of midnight blue. The top hung cockeyed, half off her shoulder, allowing him a glimpse of a heart-shaped tattoo with the words "Wild Child" inscribed in red ink. The material couldn't hide the shape of her breasts and taut nipples underneath. If it weren't for her disagreeable temperament, she would be the most intriguing woman he'd ever seen.

  "Well? What are you staring at?"

  "Is this how you wake up in the morning, all blustery? If it is, I pity your poor husband, if you have one."