by Judy Clemens
“Have you read it?” Nell asked.
“A long time ago.”
“It’s my favorite. Here.” She handed it to Casey. “You can borrow it.”
Casey opened her mouth to refuse, but recognized desperation in the girl’s eyes, reminding her of Vern. “Thank you. I’ll enjoy reading it again.”
A movement by the gas pumps caught Casey’s eye. Death peered around the corner, gesturing wildly for Casey to come over. Casey shook her head, and Death waved harder. Casey got up. “See you around?”
“Yeah. I come here a lot.” She leaned toward Casey, her bright hair falling around her face. “It gets boring at Grandpa’s. He mostly wants to talk about football and what he did when he was young.”
“I get it.”
“But we play games, too. And he makes grilled cheese.”
“The best.”
“Yeah.” She crumpled the empty cracker pack and swung her legs over the bench. “I guess I’ll go, too.”
“I can throw that away if you want.” Casey held out her hand.
Nell placed the empty wrapper in Casey’s palm. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
Nell waved and skipped away, disappearing down the sidewalk.
Maybe Casey would have better luck with the younger generation of the town’s bright white blondes.
Death took the girl’s place at the picnic table, wearing an old-fashioned Sherlock Holmes hat and suit, and holding a magnifying glass.
“You couldn’t walk over and tell me whatever it is?” Casey said.
“I didn’t want the girl to see me. I had the feeling she would have.”
“You’ve let people see you before.”
“I didn’t think it was a good idea. At least not yet.”
“Okay. What was so important?”
“Now’s your chance to do some detecting. Vern’s at the cash register and Dottie walked down to the pharmacy.”
“Why are you so interested in that letter?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not especially.”
“Oh, come on.”
Casey sighed. “Fine. Let me tell Vern I’m going.”
Death let out a sharp laugh. “You’re going to tell him what you’re doing?”
“Just that I’m running back to the house. It’s the responsible thing to do.”
“So you’re responsible now?”
“Shut up.”
Casey found Vern at the deli cutting meat, which proved he wasn’t always where Death thought he would be. She told him she’d be right back.
The house was quiet. After calling Dottie’s name, Casey made a quick search. The letter wasn’t anywhere obvious in the living room or kitchen. She didn’t dig into drawers or shelves, figuring Vern or Dottie would have tossed it on top of whatever was already there, rather than shove it underneath everything. They had no idea Casey would come looking for it.
Besides, Casey didn’t have the time or inclination to do a deep snoop.
“Bedroom?” Death said.
Casey wrinkled her nose. “I feel so creepy.”
“You look creepy, with all your skulking around. It’s no big deal. You’re doing what you have to.”
“Don’t you have a conscience?”
“Technically, no. Go check their bedroom.”
“Again, not feeling good about this.”
“I’ll let you know if she comes home. You won’t get caught.”
“That’s not why I’m feeling bad.”
“I know.”
Casey shook her head, irritated with herself for being so nosy and with Death for encouraging her to spy. The bedroom was plain, painted off-white, with a hardwood floor and a rag rug, which made the set of old, dark wood furniture stand out. The only decoration was a folk art piece with a Bible verse. The yellowed paper and faded frame made Casey think it had been up there for quite some time.
“Well, that could be telling,” Death said.
“What?”
“The verse. Did you read it?”
She hadn’t. She was more interested in getting out of the bedroom as quickly as possible.
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
—Romans 8: 38-39
“See?” Death said. “They’re worried about something.”
“Or proclaiming their faith in a dark world. People do that, you know. Especially people who have been shunned by the rest of society. Or at least a town. Now be quiet and let me look for the letter.”
“You do realize most people speak to me with greater respect.”
“You do realize most people don’t have to deal with your smart aleck comments on a daily basis.”
“Ouch. Harsh, but true.”
Casey took a peek in every potential hiding place—the nightstand and dresser, under the mattress, closet shelves—and found nothing. She went quickly through their master bath, the other bedroom they used as an office, and another small bathroom off the kitchen. Zilch. Zero. Nada.
“Did you check this?” Death pointed to the trash can in the kitchen.
“I thought you were watching for Dottie.”
“I am. Awesome multi-tasker, remember?”
Casey lifted the lid and gave a little laugh. The letter sat on top of a banana peel and the lid from a strawberry yogurt. “Found it.”
“So what’s it say?”
Casey picked the paper from the trash with two fingers, trying to avoid the worst of the slime. The note was still in the envelope, but torn in two. She slid the remnants from the envelope, which said only, DOROTHY, and held the pieces together. The writing was a messy scrawl in black ink. No greeting. No signature.
A cold breath tickled Casey’s neck and she shivered. “I’ll read it. Back off. Watch for Dottie.”
Death swooped to the window.
“Forty-five years,” Casey read.
“I’m sure you remember.
“I know what happened.
“Come clean or you’ll wish you had.”
Casey checked the backs of the two pieces, but there was nothing else. Forty-five years. How old would Dottie have been? “Do you know how old Dottie is?”
“Seventy-three years, three months, twenty-eight days, nine hours, thirty-two—”
“—so she would have been, what? Twenty-eight when whatever it was happened. Do you know when she moved here with Vern?”
“No idea. From what she told you, he came to Portland right out of high school, and she soon moved here with him. So she was young. Nineteen, maybe?”
“I don’t think the note-writer means Dottie’s move to town. She wouldn’t have to ‘come clean’ about that. Everybody knew when Vern brought her home. What we don’t know is whether or not people hated her right from the start, or whether she had a few years when people treated her with friendliness before something happened, maybe this thing forty-five years ago?”
“Dottie alert! Not here, but coming.”
Casey finagled the torn pieces into the envelope and tossed the note back in the trash, but Death held out a hand. “What if you need it again?”
“Why would I? And what if they notice it’s gone?”
“Take a picture of it.”
Casey felt dirty, but yanked the papers back out of the envelope, snapped a quick photo, and replaced it in the trash can. She needed another shower to rinse off her guilt, but instead she dodged out the back door and ran painfully toward the store, where Vern put her to work picking through his wilted produce section and replacing it with fresh.
Chapter Fourteen
As
Casey ate supper, she wondered what illness was eating away at Dottie. The multitude of pill bottles on the counter could have told her what she wanted to know, but she bristled at the thought of anyone delving into her own private health matters…she wouldn’t violate someone else by doing the same. Although she had dug into the Dailys’ other private spaces earlier when looking for the note.
Ethics were complicated.
Casey spelled Vern when she was done so he could eat. She wondered what he did when she wasn’t around. Did he even have supper? Or lunch? Did Dottie meet him in the deli so they could eat together?
What a depressing life.
Casey didn’t mind the long day. She spent a good part of it watching Vern work, which involved a lot more than she expected from the owner of a general store. He dug up a tiny screwdriver to fix a woman’s glasses. He called the Methodist church to see if they would pay for a man’s gas so he could get to a doctor’s appointment in Boise. He filled a teenager’s car tires with air, helped a mother disinfect and bandage her son’s scraped knee, and handed out free sandwiches and potato salad to scrawny kids who hadn’t eaten yet that day and looked like they hadn’t had a bath or clean clothes for longer than that. Flower Pants, the flirty old woman from the day before, batted her eyelashes like an anxious butterfly and asked him to check the oil in her car, which he graciously did, and he sewed a button onto a working man’s coveralls.
He was a man of all trades, apparently.
Every person he helped thanked him, shook his hand, or—in the case of one of the scrawny kids—gave him a hug. The people liked Vern. Casey couldn’t go so far as to say they loved him, or fully appreciated how he spent so much of his day on nonprofit activities, but they treated him with respect and at least a minimum of gratitude.
Not one of them inquired after Dottie, asked how things were at home, or offered to do something in return for the service he provided.
He was out back helping a kid fix his bicycle tire when a large pickup truck pulled into the lot. For a heart-stopping moment Casey feared it was the guys from Beltmore, but the kid who hopped down from the cab was younger and redder, as if he’d been working in the field all day without sunscreen. His passenger stepped down, too, and Casey inhaled a calming breath.
It was Lance Victor, the teenage vandal from the night before.
“Well, well, well, this ought to be interesting.” Death leaned on the counter, again wearing the flannel shirt, jeans, and boots which matched the incoming boys. Death, however, was also covered with a fine black dust. “That is the spray paint kid, right?”
“It is.” She glanced at Death’s clothes. “Where have you been? Crawling through somebody’s basement?”
“Mining accident in Guatemala. Nasty business.”
“Sorry.”
“They’re in a better place now.”
Death didn’t mean it as the cliché humans used, which angered Casey whenever she heard it. Death actually knew firsthand where the miners went, so Casey was more forgiving of the phrase.
The bell on the door dinged as the boys came in. Lance stopped dead when he saw Casey, causing the other guy to tread on his heels.
“Keep moving, dude,” the second kid said.
“Sorry, Coop.” Lance stepped sideways, his eyes on Casey as his friend walked past him into the store. “So, you’re working here?”
Casey held back a sarcastic rejoinder. “I am.”
“He’s a smart one, ain’t he?” Death said.
Casey came through with her own obvious statement. “They let you go last night, I see.”
“No thanks to you.”
Casey laughed. “I’d say it’s no thanks to yourself, seeing how you were the one breaking the law.”
“It wasn’t…I only did it because of a dare.”
“So you said.” She remembered what the officer had told her, that Lance was a kid who unthinkingly followed his friends. Not a great quality in anyone, let alone a teen whose peers had questionable ideas of a fun night.
The door clanged and a man hurried in, checking his wallet. He glanced at Lance and held back, but Casey waved him forward. He paid for his gas and left.
Lance stayed where he was. “I don’t do that kind of stuff, usually.”
How should Casey respond to that? Congratulations? Good for you? Here’s a gold star? She settled for, “Okay.”
“One time is enough.” Death looked the boy up and down. “And his boots aren’t nearly as cool as mine.”
“I don’t even…” Lance huffed a breath out through his nose. “I don’t have anything against her, Vern’s wife, I mean, not like…like some people.”
“And why is that?”
“She’s never done anything to me.”
“No. I mean, why do other people have something against her?”
His lip curled. “How should I know?”
“Because people talk.”
They stared at each other a little longer.
“You hurt my arm,” he finally said.
“You hurt my ribs. And you flipped me off.”
A smile flashed on his face, and Casey almost smiled back. What was wrong with her? Was she so desperate for friends she was willing to identify with a delinquent teen? Or were they actually sharing a genuinely funny moment?
Lance’s friend Coop returned and dumped chips, beef jerky, and several cans of Red Bull on the counter.
Death eyed the stash. “Maybe I’ll be seeing these kids sooner than I anticipated.”
Lance’s friend smirked. “And two packs of Camels.”
“Sure.” Casey smiled sweetly. “If you show me your ID.”
Coop thrust out his jaw. “Vern doesn’t make me.”
“Oh, I doubt that. He seems like a stickler to me.” She had no idea, actually, but it was the thing to say to a smart-alecky, annoying wiseass.
“Fine. Forget the smokes.”
Casey rang him up. He paid with several crumpled bills that smelled like smoke. So somebody else was supplying him. At least she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it. Casey bagged his junk food and he stormed away, bumping Lance’s shoulder as he passed.
“See ya around,” Casey called.
Lance held the door for a moment, looking back-and-forth between Casey and his friend’s truck. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”
The bell dinged as the door closed behind him.
“What did he mean by that, I wonder?” Death said.
Casey wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Chapter Fifteen
When Vern came back from supper, Casey said, “So, I’m assuming you make teenagers show their IDs when they ask for cigarettes.”
Vern gave a startled laugh. “Sure. I get caught selling to underage kids, I run into trouble. If not with the law, then with their parents. Well, some of them.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Some kids give you a hard time?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Good. Now, come with me.” Vern took her out back and had her use an old-time theater popcorn popper to fill bags for the Saturday Movie Night he was hosting. The flat white side of his building, adjacent to his and Dottie’s backyard and freshly painted by Casey the night before, served as the screen. Casey set up a table along the side of the yard for snacks, and people brought their lawn chairs and blankets to set up all over the grass, leaving only a zigzagging path for walking around. Casey served popcorn for fifty cents and candy bars for a dollar, while Vern sold drinks people dug out of large coolers of ice.
Flower Pants, the flirty woman Casey had seen twice now, showed up with her friend Wilma, who instead of orange was now wearing a flattering navy blue. Casey figured if the flirty chick continued popping up on this regular basis, she’d learn her actual name. But for now…
Flow
er Pants joined the drink line, moving up a step at a time until she stopped in front of Vern.
“Get you something to drink, ladies?”
Flower Pants did her whole blinking like there was no tomorrow thing, and smiled. She had lipstick on her front teeth, making Casey look away.
“How are you, Vernie?”
Vernie? Casey gagged, coughing to cover it.
“Doing fine,” Vern said. “And you?”
“I’m feeling good. Ready for anything.” She paused, but Vern just looked at her. She kept smiling. “And how’s Dorothy?”
Casey snapped her head around to stare at the woman. Not because she was the first person to show interest in Vern’s wife, but because it was directly after making a point about how well she herself was.
Vern’s face shut down, and he worked his jaw.
Casey stepped beside him. “So, what was it you said you’d like to drink? Ma’am?”
The smile on Flower Pants’ face faltered, and her friend tugged on her elbow.
“Iced tea,” her friend said. “Two of them.”
Casey grabbed two cans from the cooler and collected the money while Vern stood silently, his eyes on his knuckles.
“Who’s next?” Casey said.
The man behind the old women cleared his throat, and Flower Pants and her friend finally shuffled away. By the time the next customer had his drink, Vern was back in working order and Casey returned to her own station.
She served a mass of giggling girls, several kindergartners who paid with pennies, and a very nice woman named Tara, who introduced herself as the Dailys’ next-door neighbor and wore huge, dangly earrings. She indicated the single-story brick house on the other side of a now-barren flowerbed, and said Casey should let her know if she needed any help getting to know the town.
Hey, what do you know? A nice person.
When the rush died down and the movie started—some Disney family film—Vern sent Casey to find a place to sit. She meandered away and took a seat on Vern and Dottie’s back steps, where she could see the movie but also study the crowd.