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FOR
RENÉE MARIE VALOIS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge his debt to Hannah Braaten, India Cooper, Kayla Janas, Keith Kahla, Alison J. Picard, and Renée Valois.
And to my dear friend, Her Honor Judge Tammi Fredrickson. Godspeed.
ONE
The young woman who identified herself as a psychic medium moved with almost absentminded confidence among the fifty people who had paid forty dollars each for a seat in the community center lecture hall with the hope that she might help them connect with a dead mother or father, uncle or aunt, a dead child—but no promises.
She was tall and slender with shoulder-length hair, high cheekbones, and amber-tinted eyes; if you met her at a party or in a club you would say, “You should be a model.” Both beautiful and dashing. Even her name had a kind of au courant vibe—Hannah Braaten. At least that’s what Shelby Dunston was thinking when the woman slowly strolled up the aisle toward where she was sitting.
Shelby braced herself. She had come with the hope of connecting with her grandfather, but now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. What would he tell her after all these years? “Sorry I died on your sixteenth birthday? Sorry that now whenever June eleventh rolls around your mother and father and aunts and uncles and cousins get sad and mournful?”
Hannah halted two rows from where Shelby was sitting, looked directly into her eyes, and smiled.
Okay, this is why I came, Shelby told herself.
Only Hannah turned her head and looked off toward the people sitting on her left.
“There’s someone stepping forward,” Hannah said. “A woman—oh, this one is a talker. She’s talking a hundred words a minute—Yes, I hear you. Yes … please slow down. Okay, okay.”
Hannah glanced to her right and then to her left.
“Alice?” Hannah asked.
No one responded.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “Alison.”
A woman in her early sixties, Shelby decided, was sitting half a row away. She cautiously raised her hand.
“The woman who came forward, she’s your mother,” Hannah said.
The older woman shook her head as if she didn’t want to believe it.
“People called her Chrissy,” Hannah said. “But it wasn’t short for Christine or Christina. Her real name was Chrysanthemum.”
The woman clasped her hand over her mouth; tears appeared in her eyes as if someone had turned on a faucet.
Hannah clutched the right side of her chest.
“Okay, I feel that,” she said. “Chrissy, I feel that. Alison, your mother died of lung cancer, didn’t she?”
Alison nodded, her hand still covering her mouth.
“She wants you to know—your mother wants you to know, that she’s sorry. She used to always have a cigarette in her hand. She used to wave it around when she talked, and she talked a lot, didn’t she?”
Alison nodded some more.
“Chrissy says she never went more than five minutes without a cigarette. She’s making me smell it. C’mon, Chrissy, don’t do that … She says she’s sorry. She said that everyone smoked back then and that she didn’t know any better. She’s sorry that she left you and your sisters so young. She says—Chrissy, wait, too fast … She says you have to stop blaming yourself. She says—Alison, did you win a writing contest with an essay on the dangers of cigarette smoking?”
Alison nodded her head. She removed her hand from her mouth and spoke softly. Shelby could barely hear her.
“In the eighth grade,” Alison said. “The winners read their essays live on WCCO radio.”
“Chrissy wants you to know that she was very proud of you, not only for the essay but for the woman you’ve become,” Hannah said. “She wants you to know that you can’t blame yourself for not trying harder to make your mother quit smoking and that she’s sorry she didn’t pay closer attention to your essay. But you have to remember that she was the parent and you were the child. She was responsible for you, but you weren’t responsible for her. You would tell her, ‘Don’t smoke anymore, Mama,’ and she’d say, ‘Yeah, yeah,’ and keep doing it anyway. That’s her mistake, not yours. She says—oh, you have a daughter that’s named after a flower, too. Poppy. You named your daughter Poppy.”
Alison nodded her head vigorously.
“Chrissy said that the poppy was her favorite flower.”
“I know,” Alison said.
“That’s why you named her Poppy.”
Alison nodded again.
“Chrissy says thank you. And she says—wait—okay—she knows that Poppy is pregnant again. Things didn’t go well the last time.”
“She miscarried,” Alison said.
“Chrissy says not to worry about a thing. She says it’ll go perfectly this time. Expect another baby girl. She says she’s been watching over Poppy and—and she’s been watching over you and your two sisters and your two daughters and your four nieces and nephews all these years and she’s going to keep at it.”
“I’ve often felt like she was with me,” Alison said.
“She always will be, too.”
Alison bent forward in her seat and began weeping. The woman sitting closest wrapped her arms around her; Shelby didn’t know if they’d come together or not.
Hannah retreated back down the aisle and began moving up the next.
* * *
Shelby shifted in her chair, tucking her long legs beneath her the way she does. She was surrounded by multiple strings of Christmas lights, and they gave her a playful appearance, although she wasn’t happy at all.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“So you know that she’s legitimate,” she said. “So you know that Hannah Braaten is the real thing, that she’s not a phony.”
“I don’t know that.”
“She knew Chrissy’s name and that it was short for Chrysanthemum and that she died of lung cancer. She knew Alison’s name and that she wrote the antismoking essay. She knew about Alison’s daughter, the number of her sisters and her daughters, and the number of her nieces and nephews.”
Nina Truhler was sitting next to me on the sofa in the Dunstons’ living room, her legs tucked beneath her just like Shelby’s. That’s where the resemblance ended, however. They could swap their size four/six dresses, and had on rare occasions, yet while Shelby had shoulder-length wheat-colored hair and eyes the color of green pastures, Nina had short black hair and the most startling silver-blue eyes I had ever seen.
She leaned forward, retrieved a long-stemmed wineglass from the coffee table, and said, “Facebook,” before taking a sip.
“I know you don’t believe in an afterlife,” Shelby said.
“I do believe in an afterlife,” Nina said. “At least I want to. I want there to be a heaven because if there’s a heaven than there’s
a hell and people like Putin and al-Assad and Kim Jong-un and the president will get what’s coming to them. I just don’t believe in ghosts.”
“How can you not believe in ghosts? Your jazz club is haunted.”
“Rickie’s is not haunted, and I wish people would stop saying that.”
“Your own daughter—”
“Erica was pranking me.” Nina turned toward me. “That’s what the kids call it, pranking?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Erica was pranking me. She was pranking all of us. It was her going-away gift before she went off to Tulane University.”
“I don’t even know exactly what a psychic medium is,” I said.
“A medium can talk to the dead,” Shelby said. “A psychic can tell you what’s going to happen a week from Thursday. A psychic medium can do both.”
“If that were true, wouldn’t they all be making millions of dollars betting basketball games in Vegas?”
“It’s more personal than that.”
“Besides,” I said, “why would you care if I believe this woman—what’s her name?”
“Hannah Braaten.”
“What do you care if I believe that this woman is legitimate?”
Shelby cast a worried glance at her husband.
Robert Dunston was the best cop I had ever known—much better than I was. We started together at the St. Paul Police Department nearly twenty-five years ago. I retired to accept a reward on a rather ambitious embezzler—$3,128,584.50 before taxes—that a financial wizard named H. B. Sutton had more than doubled for me over the years. The plan was to give my father, who raised me alone after my mother died, a comfy retirement. Unfortunately, he passed six months later, leaving me both rich and bored. Meanwhile, Bobby stayed with the SPPD, eventually moving up to commander in the Major Crimes Division, mostly running the Homicide Unit. Still, Bobby didn’t look like a cop while dressed in his Minnesota Wild hoodie and sipping a Grain Belt beer. He looked like a guy watching a movie that he already knew the ending to.
“Oh, it gets better,” he said.
* * *
Hannah Braaten continued to move up the aisle.
“There are a lot of people who want to talk,” she said.
A son who died of a drug overdose told his parents that they shouldn’t blame themselves, that it was all on him. “I’m the one who messed up.”
A man who suffered a sudden cardiac death while playing hockey with his brother admitted that he should have taken better care of himself and that his passing was no reason for his brother to give up the game.
“Who’s Cornelius?” Hannah asked.
A young man in the front row stood up.
“I have your grandfather here,” she said. “He says he’s sorry you got stuck with his name; it wasn’t his idea that your father name you that. He says he hopes the money he left you in his will made up for it.”
The young man smiled broadly and said, “A little.”
“Your grandfather, he also says that when he passed he was in the hospital and you couldn’t get there in time to see him off. He says he knows that you feel terrible about it. He says if he knew you were going to feel so bad he would have hung on a little bit longer, but your grandmother was calling him, so he had to go. Please know, Cornelius, that there’s no reason for you to feel guilty. It doesn’t matter to your grandfather. You were his first grandchild, and he loved you best of all, but you’re not to repeat that to your sisters and cousins. He says you and he will get together in about sixty years and play dominos and watch baseball and everything will be wonderful.”
Cornelius started sobbing uncontrollably as the woman next to him attempted to comfort him by rubbing his back.
* * *
“She was very specific,” Shelby said. “She didn’t ask if the letter S meant anything to anyone or if someone had a grandfather who recently passed or anything leading like that. She knew exactly who was talking to her and for whom the message was meant.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Just so you know.”
“Okay.”
* * *
Hannah moved to the front of the small lecture hall again and started drifting to her left. She passed a young, serious-looking woman who was jotting notes on a pad fixed to a clipboard. She grinned slightly and shook her head like a professor might to a student in a lecture hall who was keen on recording every word the instructor said without considering what they meant.
“A woman—oh, she is so very pretty,” Hannah said. “She wants—Ryan, are you here?”
In the back of the room a man stood. Shelby placed him in his late thirties. He looked like he had worked out every day of his life.
“My name is Ryan,” he said.
“Your mother died when you were twelve years old.”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
“Her name was Judith,” Hannah said.
“Yes.”
“People called her Judy.”
“Yes.”
“She wants you to know—wait. There’s someone pushing past her. Someone—he won’t tell me his name. He, he, he won’t—he doesn’t, he doesn’t have positive energy, it’s all black. He was kinda mean. Cruel even. Narcissistic. He cared only about himself. Yes, I mean you. Who do you think—he’s pushing the woman away. He wants—he keeps repeating numbers. One one eight eight zero zero four one. I don’t know what that means. He keeps repeating them. One one eight eight zero zero four one. Does anyone know…?”
“That’s me,” Ryan said.
“You?”
“I’m one one eight eight zero zero four one.”
“I don’t know what that means. Oh.”
Hannah brought her hand to her head.
“Oh God, that hurts,” she said. “Something about his head.” She brought her other hand to her head, holding it as if she were afraid it would fall off. “He hurt his head. I don’t know how. He’s hiding things. He’s hiding … What? What is it?”
Ryan slid along the row until he was standing in the aisle. One slow step at a time he approached the psychic medium.
“Stop,” Hannah said. “Stop it. Oh, that hurts, my head hurts so much … He’s showing me something. He’s showing—it’s money. He’s showing me money. A lot of money. Bags filled with money. Canvas bags with leather straps and a name on the bag … He won’t let me see the name. He’s hiding … Stop hurting me. He’s repeating the number again. One one eight eight zero zero four one.”
“I’m here,” Ryan said. “Tell him that I’m here.”
“He says the money is safe. He says it’s all for you, it’s all yours.”
“Where is it? Where did he hide the money?”
“He won’t, he won’t—he won’t let me see. He won’t … My head hurts so badly. I need to stop this.”
“No, please,” Ryan said. “Tell me where he hid the money first.”
“The woman—Judy—she’s trying to get past him, but he won’t let her. He’s showing me a brick. I don’t know. Stubborn as a brick. I don’t know. She’s telling him to stop hurting you, that he’s hurt you enough already but—the man, the man, he’s not, he’s not … A name. Now he’s repeating a name. Oh, it hurts.”
When he was talking about his mother, Ryan seemed like an average-looking guy, Shelby decided. A little more fit than most. Now he seemed almost crazed. As he approached Hannah, most of the people left their seats to move away from him. Hannah didn’t seem to notice how close he got until he shouted at her.
“Where’s the money?”
Hannah’s hands came off her head, and she stared at Ryan as if she had never seen him before.
“McKenzie,” she said. “He keeps repeating the name McKenzie.”
* * *
“Wait, what?” I said.
* * *
“Who’s McKenzie?” Hannah asked. “No, no…”
She was staring directly into Ryan’s eyes when she brought her hands together and then flung them outward as if she were
attempting to shove a cloud away.
“No,” Hannah said again. “I’m shutting this down.”
“Where’s the money?” Ryan asked.
“I need you to leave. I need you to leave right now.”
Ryan grabbed the woman by her shoulders and shook her. “Where’s the goddamned money? If you think you can keep it for yourself…”
Most of her audience backed away or stood perfectly still. Shelby rushed forward.
“Leave her alone!” she shouted.
* * *
“That’s my girl,” Bobby said.
* * *
Before Shelby could reach them, however, a couple of guys, possibly prompted by Shelby’s shouts, stepped in.
“What do you think you’re doing?” one of them asked.
Ryan’s response was to release Hannah, pivot toward the man, and shove him hard enough that he fell backward against the auditorium seats. The second man froze and, no doubt, began reevaluating his life choices. Shelby kept moving.
“Are you crazy?” she shouted.
Ryan looked at her as if he might be wondering the same thing.
He spun back toward Hannah, who was backing away from him.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan said. “I—I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He turned and walked swiftly to the exit.
Shelby reached Hannah and wrapped her arms around the younger woman.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Hannah accepted her comfort, yet only for a few moments.
“That happens sometimes.” Hannah eased herself out of Shelby’s arms and spoke to the crowd. “The dead are pretty much the way they are in life. Nice people are nice. Terrible people are terrible. They have nothing positive to say until they go to the other side and take responsibility for their actions, and sometimes it takes a long time for them to get clear of all that, depending on the extent of their sins. I believe we’re made to feel everything that we made others feel. That’s why some people won’t go to the other side. They’re afraid they’ll be judged and punished, that they’ll be held accountable. Some of them don’t even know they’re dead. But he knew…” Hannah’s hand went to her head. “He knew. I’m sorry, but I think we need to call it quits for the evening.”
From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel Page 1