My Sister's Grave

by Robert Dugoni

  “He’s still in jail?” Thorenson asked.

  “Yeah, he’s still in jail.”

  “I hope he rots there.”

  Tracy considered her watch.

  Darren stood. “You ready?”

  She wasn’t, but she nodded anyway. He led her into the adjoining chapel, the rows of chairs empty. The room had been unable to accommodate the crowd for her father’s wake. A crucifix hung on the front wall. Below it, on a marble pedestal, was a gold-plated container the size of a jewelry box. Tracy stepped closer and read the engraving on the plate.

  Sarah Lynne Crosswhite

  The Kid

  “I hope it’s okay,” Darren said. “That’s how we all remember her, the kid following you all over town.” Tracy wiped a tear away with a tissue. “I’m glad you’re going to be able to put Sarah to rest and put this behind you,” Darren continued. “I’m glad for all of us.”

  The cars parked bumper to bumper on the one-way road leading into the cemetery were more than Tracy had anticipated, and she suspected she knew who was responsible for getting the word out, and why. Finlay Armstrong stood in the road directing traffic, rain sheeting off the clear poncho that protected his uniform and dripping from the brim of his hat. Tracy lowered her window as she pulled to a stop.

  “Don’t worry about parking. You can leave it in the road,” Finlay said.

  Darren Thorenson, who’d followed Tracy in his own car, opened a large golf umbrella to shield her from the rain as she stepped from the car, and they walked up the hill toward a white awning covering her mother and father’s plot at the top of a knoll overlooking Cedar Grove. Thirty to forty people sat in white folding chairs beneath the canopy. Another twenty stood outside its perimeter beneath umbrellas. Those people seated stood when Tracy stepped beneath the cover. She took a moment to acknowledge the familiar faces. They’d aged, but she recognized friends of her parents, adults who had once been kids that she and Sarah had gone to school with, and teachers who’d become Tracy’s colleagues when she’d returned briefly to teach chemistry at Cedar Grove High. Sunnie Witherspoon was there, as was Marybeth Ferguson, one of Sarah’s best friends. Vance Clark and Roy Calloway stood outside the tent. So did Kins, Andrew Laub, and Vic Fazzio, who had all driven up from Seattle and brought Tracy some semblance of reality. Being back in Cedar Grove was still surreal. It felt as if she’d become stuck in a twenty-year time warp, things both familiar and foreign. She couldn’t equate what she was seeing with what she remembered. This was not 1993. Far from it.

  The crowd had left the first row of chairs vacant, but now the empty seats beside Tracy only served to amplify her isolation. After a moment, she sensed someone step beneath the canopy to the seat beside her.

  “Is this seat taken?” She had to take a moment to peel away the years. He’d ditched the black frames for contacts, revealing the blue eyes that had always held a mischievous glint. The crew cut had been replaced with gentle waves that fell to the collar of his suit jacket. Dan O’Leary bent and gently kissed Tracy’s cheek. “I’m so sorry, Tracy.”

  “Dan. I almost didn’t recognize you,” she said.

  He smiled, keeping his voice low. “I’m a bit grayer, not much wiser.”

  “And a little taller,” she said, bending back her head to look up at him.

  “I was a late bloomer. I grew a foot the summer of my junior year.” The O’Learys had moved from Cedar Grove after Dan’s sophomore year in high school. His father had taken a job at a cannery in California. It had been a sad day for Tracy and the other members of their posse. Dan and Tracy had stayed in touch for a while, but those were the days before e-mail and texting and they had soon fallen out of touch. Tracy seemed to recall that Dan had graduated and gone to college on the East Coast and remained there after graduating, but had also heard that his mother and father had returned to Cedar Grove when his father had retired.

  Thorenson approached and introduced the minister, Peter Lyon. Lyon, tall with a full head of red hair and fair skin, wore a white, ankle-length alb with a green rope tied around his waist. A matching green stole was draped over his shoulders. Tracy and Sarah had been raised Presbyterian. After Sarah disappeared, Tracy’s faith had ranged from agnostic to atheist. She hadn’t set foot in a church since her mother’s funeral.

  Lyon offered his condolences, then stepped to the head of the grave and began with the sign of the cross. He thanked those who had come, raising his voice to be heard over a burst of rain pattering on the canopy. “We have come today to inter the remains of our sister, Sarah Lynne Crosswhite, in the earth. Our loss is great and our hearts are heavy. In times of trouble and pain we turn to the Bible, the Word of God, for our comfort and our salvation.” The minister opened his Bible and read from it. Finishing, he said, “I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” He closed his missal. “Sarah’s sister, Tracy, will now come forward.”

  Tracy stepped to the edge of the grave and inhaled a deep breath. Darren Thorenson handed her the gold-plated box and gave her a hand as she knelt on a cloth spread over the ground, though she still felt moisture seep through her nylons. She placed Sarah’s remains in the grave and then scooped up a handful of moist soil. Tracy closed her eyes, imagining Sarah lying in bed beside her as she had frequently done when they were children and when they had shared a hotel bed while traveling to shooting competitions with their father.

  Tracy, I’m scared.

  Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes. Now take a deep breath and let it out.

  Tracy’s chest heaved. Her eyes watered. “I am not . . . ,” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice even as she spread her fingers and let the clumps of dirt fall onto the box.

  I am not . . .

  “I am not afraid . . .”

  I am not afraid . . .

  “I am not afraid of the dark.”

  A sudden gust of wind rippled the canopy and blew strands of hair in Tracy’s face. She smiled at the recollection and folded the strands behind her ear.

  “Go to sleep,” Tracy whispered, and wiped away the tear rolling down her cheek.

  Those in attendance came forward to drop handfuls of dirt and flowers into the grave and to offer their condolences. Fred Digasparro, who had owned the barber shop, needed the assistance of a walker, a young woman at his side. Hands that had shaved men with a straight razor now trembled as he reached to take Tracy’s hand. “I had to come,” he said, with his Italian accent. “For your father. For your family.”

  Sunnie quickly embraced Tracy, sobbing. They had been inseparable throughout grammar school and high school, but Tracy had not stayed in touch, and now the contact felt uncomfortable and the tears forced. Sunnie and Sarah had never been close; Sunnie had been jealous of Tracy and Sarah’s relationship.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sunnie said, drying her eyes and introducing her husband, Gary. “Are you staying for a few days?”

  “I can’t,” Tracy said.

  “Maybe a cup of coffee before you go? A few minutes to catch up?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sunnie handed her a slip of paper. “This is my cell phone. If you need anything, anything at all . . .” She touched Tracy’s hand. “I’ve missed you, Tracy.”

  Tracy recognized most of the faces that came forward, though not all. As with Dan, for some she had to peel away the years to find the person that she’d known. Toward the end of the procession, however, a man in a three-piece suit stepped forward, a pregnant woman at his side. Tracy recognized him but could not put a name with his face.

  “Hey, Tracy. It’s Peter Kaufman.”

  “Peter,” she said, now seeing the boy who had left Cedar Grove Grammar School for a year while suffering from leukemia. “How are you?”

  “I’m great.” Kaufman introduced his wife. “We live over in Yakima,” he said, “but Tony Swanson called and told me about the service. We drove over this morning.�
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  “Thanks for coming all that way,” Tracy said. Yakima was a four-hour drive.

  “Are you kidding? How could I not come? You know she used to ride out to the hospital every week and bring me candy and a coloring book or a book to read?”

  “I remember. How are you?”

  “Cancer free for thirty years. I’ve never forgotten what she did. I used to look forward to seeing her each week. She raised my spirits. She was like that. She was a special person.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I’m glad they found her, Tracy, and I’m glad you gave us all this chance to say good-bye.”

  They spoke for another minute; Tracy was in need of another Kleenex by the time Peter Kaufman departed. Dan, who had stood back a respectful distance while she had greeted those who’d come, stepped forward and handed her a handkerchief.

  Tracy gathered her emotions and blotted her eyes. When she’d regained some semblance of composure, she said, “So I don’t understand; I thought you lived back east. How’d you find out?”

  “I did live back east, just outside of Boston. But I’ve moved back. I live here now—again.”

  “In Cedar Grove?”

  “It’s a bit of a story, and you look like you could use a break from the past.” Dan slipped her a business card and gave her a hug. “I’d like to catch up when you feel up to it. Just know how sorry I am, Tracy. I loved Sarah. I truly did.”

  “Your handkerchief,” she said, holding it out.

  “You can hang on to that,” Dan said.

  She noticed that the handkerchief was embroidered with his initials, DMO, which made her consider the cut of his tailored suit and the quality of his tie. Having spent time with attorneys, she knew both were high-end, which didn’t exactly fit the image of the boy she’d known, who’d worn hand-me-downs. She looked at his business card. “You’re a lawyer,” she said.

  He gave her a wink. “Recovering.”

  The card included a business address for the First National Bank building on Market Street in Cedar Grove. “I’d like to hear that story, Dan.”

  “Just give me a call.” He gave her a gentle smile before opening a golf umbrella and stepping out from beneath the canopy into the rain.

  Kins approached with Laub and Faz. “You want some company on the drive back?”

  “I know a great place to eat on the way,” Faz said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m going to stay another night.”

  Kins said, “I thought you wanted to come straight back to Seattle?”

  She watched as Dan reached an SUV, pulled open the door, lowered his umbrella, and slid inside. “My plans just changed.”

  CHAPTER 17

  First National Bank’s fortune had been literally tied to Christian Mattioli’s fortune. Established to protect the considerable wealth of the founders of the Cedar Grove Mining Company, including Mattioli, the bank had nearly died when the mine had closed and he and his cohorts had left town. The Cedar Grove residents had rallied together, transferring savings and checking accounts and making a commitment to the bank for their mortgages and small-business loans. Tracy wasn’t certain when the bank had folded for good and vacated the building. Judging from the register inside the vacant lobby, the opulent, two-story brick building had since been carved into office spaces, though many of those offices were currently vacant.

  As she climbed the interior staircase, she looked down on the intricate mosaic floor that depicted an American eagle with an olive branch in its right foot and thirteen arrows in its left. Dust had settled over it, along with sporadic cardboard boxes and debris. She recalled teller cages, bank officer desks, and sprawling potted ferns. Her father had brought her and Sarah to the bank to open their first savings and checking accounts. First National’s president, John Waters, had initialed and stamped their books.

  Tracy found Dan’s office on the second floor and stepped into a tiny reception area with a vacant desk. A sign told her to ring the bell. She slapped it with the palm of her hand, resulting in an obnoxious clang. Dan came around the corner in khakis, leather boat shoes, and a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt. She was still having trouble accepting that the man before her was the same kid she’d known in Cedar Grove.

  He smiled. “Have any trouble finding parking?”

  “There’s quite the selection out there, isn’t there?”

  “The City Council wanted to put in those automated parking meters. Someone did the math and determined it would take ten years before the revenue generated would pay for them. Come on in.”

  Dan led her into an octagon-shaped office with rich, dark molding and wainscoting. “It was the bank president’s office,” he said. “I pay fifteen dollars a month more in rent to say that.”

  Law books filled bookshelves, but she knew they were mostly for show. Everything was now accessed online. Dan’s ornate desk faced the arched bay window still bearing the maroon-and-gold lettering that had advertised the building as the First National Bank. From it, Tracy looked down on Market Street. “How many times do you think we rode our bikes down that street?” she asked.

  “Too many to count. Every day of the summer.”

  “I remember the day you got the flat tire.”

  “We were going to the mountains to put up that rope swing,” he said. “Sarah bought me the tube and helped me fix the tire.”

  “I remember, she used her own money,” Tracy said. She turned from the window. “I’m surprised you came back here to live.”

  “So was I.”

  “You said it was a long story.”

  “Long. Not interesting. Coffee?”

  “No thanks. I’m trying to cut back.”

  “I thought coffee was a prerequisite for being a cop.”

  “That’s donuts. What do lawyers eat?”

  “Each other.”

  They sat at the round table beneath the window. A law book wedged in the sash held up the lower pane, allowing fresh air into the office.

  “It’s good to see you, Tracy. You look great, by the way.”

  “I think you better get some new contacts. I look like hell, but thanks for being kind.” His comment made her even more self-conscious about her appearance. Not having intended to stay another night, she hadn’t brought much to wear. Before leaving Seattle, she’d thrown jeans, boots, a blouse, and her corduroy jacket into her car to change into after Sarah’s service. She’d slipped the same clothes on in the morning. Before leaving her motel room, she had stood at the mirror contemplating pulling her hair into a ponytail but decided it only accentuated her crow’s-feet. She had left her hair down. “So, why did you come back?” she asked.

  “Oh, it was a combination of things. I’d burned out practicing at a big law firm in Boston. Every day just became a grind, you know? And I’d made enough money and thought I wanted to try something different. Seemed my wife had the same idea; she was trying a different man.”

  Tracy grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, so was I.” Dan shrugged. “When I suggested I was going to quit law, she suggested we quit each other. She’d been sleeping with one of my partners for more than a year. She’d grown accustomed to the country club lifestyle and was afraid of losing it.”

  Dan was either over the pain or hid it well. Tracy knew that some pain never fully resolved. You just suppressed it beneath a façade of normalcy. “How long were you married?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  She sat back. “So why Cedar Grove? Why not someplace . . . I don’t know.”

  He gave her a resigned smile. “I thought about moving to San Francisco and looked into Seattle. Then Dad died and Mom got sick, and someone needed to take care of her. So I came home figuring it a temporary situation. After a month, I decided I’d die of boredom if I didn’t do something so I hung out a shingle. I do mostly wills, estate planning, a few DUIs, anything that walks in the door that is boring and can pay a $1500 retainer.”r />
  “And your mom?”

  “She died a little over six months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I miss her, but we had time to get to know one another in a way we never had before. I’m grateful for that.”

  “I envy you.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why would you say that?”

  “My mom and I never really had much of a relationship after Sarah disappeared, and then after my father . . .” She let it drift and Dan didn’t press her, which made her wonder how much he knew.

  “That must have been a terrible time for you.”

  “Yeah, it was,” she said. “It was awful.”

  “I hope yesterday brought some closure.”

  “Some,” she said.

  Dan stood. “You sure I can’t get you any coffee?”

  She suppressed a smile, seeing him again as the young boy who didn’t like heavy conversations and would quickly change the subject. “Really, I’m fine. So tell me what type of law did you practice?”

  Dan sat again and folded his hands in his lap. “I started out doing antitrust work and realized it is truly possible to die of boredom. Then a partner brought me in on a white-collar criminal-defense case, and I found that I really liked it. And, if I say so myself, I was pretty good in court.” He still had a boyish grin.

  “I’ll bet juries loved you.”

  “Love’s a strong word,” he said. “Worshipped, maybe.” He laughed and she heard the boy in that too. “I defended the CEO of a big corporation, and when I got a defense verdict, every attorney in my firm who had a client who’d gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar or a relative who’d drunk too much at the company Christmas party came to me. That evolved into larger white-collar criminal-defense cases, and before I knew it, I’d developed a good practice.” He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Okay, your turn. Homicide detective? Wow. What happened to teaching?”