Down & Dead In Dixie (Down & Dead, Inc. Series)

by Vicki Hinze

  It wasn’t anything as fickle as love, but it was a loving thing for a husband to say to his wife. And the orphan inside the wife who had been forced to stand alone for a lifetime clung to it. Clung to him. Little shivers danced on my skin. “I guess that means we’re sleeping in one bed.”

  “I vote yes.” He looked down at me, let me see the desire in his eyes. “You okay with it?”

  I smiled and curled my arms around his neck. “Saves me a midnight trip to join you in the loft . . .”

  Chapter 19

  BY THE NEXT morning, everything had changed.

  Okay, so call me naïve. I thought things would be, you know, normal, between Matthew and me in bed, but there was nothing normal or typical or whatever else you want to call it about any of it. Relations between a woman and her husband are private, of course, but I’ll tell you this much: If ever again, someone tells me that sex is purely physical and there’s no difference between having sex and making love, I’m telling you from firsthand experience that they’re either ignorant or lying or they have the soul of a dead stump. The two aren’t even in the same stratosphere—and that’s all I have to say about that specifically.

  It’s enough to say openly that I had an amazing night with an amazing man, and that I have a lifetime of more amazing nights with that amazing man to look forward to . . . well, pardon me while pinch myself. Let’s just say that this morning, I am certain Matthew didn’t marry me to be doubly sure the legalities of his assets were secure. I’m also certain he didn’t marry me to avoid starting over alone. And I’m totally and completely confident that he married me because . . . well, I’m not sure why exactly, but so far, I sure like being married to him. Today, I am one happy bride.

  It’s more than I’ve had before, and considering our situation, it’s important to be happy when an opportunity arises. Who knows if another will come along? Or when that might be?

  Embrace the moment.

  That’s the thing. I’ve never lived like that. By necessity, I’ve rolled with the flow. But embracing the moment and reveling in it, just loving it? That’s new to me.

  Loving it.

  Was this love?

  I wonder. It’s possible. Is it probable? Who knows? I sure don’t. I have absolutely no frame of reference outside of loving Jackson and Lester, but that’s totally different. Maybe this is love . . . or something like it.

  I don’t know. And this morning, I don’t care. Matthew hasn’t stopped smiling. He’s thoughtful and tender and, when he looks at me, that twinkle in his eye swears there’s no one else he’d rather be with and nowhere else he’d rather be. Given the baggage I brought with me, by anyone’s standards, that’s nothing short of a miracle.

  After breakfast, we walked down to the bridge, and Speckles hadn’t been kidding. It was impossible to miss the bronze. Rather than a sign, it was a monument that stood over eight feet tall and stretched at least an arm-span wide.

  “Boy, they don’t want you to miss it.” Matthew craned back his neck and stared up to its top.

  I stopped beside him, and he reached for my hand. Standing linked together before the bronze, I read the words chiseled into its flat face:

  Life shapes and defines us. When experiences are positive, we embrace them. When they are not, we bury them, shutter, and become whole. But little shuttered remains shuttered. Past secrets surface and torment us. We try but fail to break free, and being imprisoned steals our present and future.

  Some so tortured seek traditional help, gain new insights and wisdom, and successfully put the past to rest. Some die never realizing their potential, robbed of their destinies and peace. Others cobble together a life, but remain haunted by their pasts and their unrealized dreams.

  And still there are others. Those deemed helpless and hopeless, condemned to stumble forever through their darkest night.

  These are the lost souls. Abandoned and forgotten, they are left by all to remain lost with their misery. Or so it was . . .

  But it is no more. An ordinary woman refused to forget the Lost. Though it cost her mightily, she welcomed them here, met their challenges and her own, and she discovered an extraordinary thing:

  Pasts may be horrific. Trials may be incredibly risky and dangerous and outcomes riddled with uncertainties, but with faith all things are possible, and with God no one is ever truly lost, without hope or help, or forgotten.

  Embracing that discovery, she became the bridge between the Lost and these truths. That revealed another truth.

  We are all someone’s bridge.

  And that is the secret of secrets at Sampson Park.

  “Powerful.” Matthew covered our clasped hands with his free one. “But what exactly does it mean?” He looked from the bronze to me. “Are they saying that everyone here is beyond conventional help, so they’re all mental cases but someone else here can still be their bridge?” He glanced at me. “I’m not clear.”

  Standing there with our hands linked, I felt clear, but not on the bronze. On my deep connection with him. My heart seemed full. Content. It wasn’t that I was unhappy alone. Being alone was . . . normal. I didn’t know anything different. Now I would, so I paused and whispered a little prayer. Down to the marrow of my bones, I felt certain that this special connection was the fruition of the bond I’d sensed on meeting him for the first time in his office. It strengthened when he awakened me on the bench outside the cathedral, and strengthened again many times in the weeks after, but last night . . . Lying in his arms, replete and awed and humbled and deeply touched by our lovemaking, I knew that bond would not be breached. It was more than I’d known, and my heart promised I’d feel it far longer than a season. This man would be with me for life.

  If Mr. Perini sent us here because he thought we were crazy, fine. I want more crazy. I think I need more of it. Desperately. For the first time in my life, when I look into a man’s face, I know I matter. I count. I am special. Significant. Important. Me, the unwanted orphan left at the curb like waste. The disposable one no one cared if lived or died.

  That aroused strong emotions and nothing in them ranked as crazy. The success of Sampson Park evidenced throughout the village had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with reaching out, having faith in people, and in never giving up. There’s a special power in faith and compassion, in caring and refusing to allow anyone to feel forgotten or disconnected from everyone else. I’d felt forgotten, but I think now, I hadn’t been. I just had to grow into the knowing I’d been remembered all along.

  “Have you puzzled through it yet?” Mark asked.

  “Working on it.” Sunlight slanted across the monument and reflected with shiny sparkles. “I think it means everyone here isn’t crazy. They’re somehow . . . broken. Wounded works better. Yeah, wounded.” I looked from the huge bronze to Matthew. “For whatever reason, they haven’t been able to work through their problems in the usual ways, so people have given up on them. But the people at Sampson Park don’t give up and they help them in other ways.”

  “By being their bridge.”

  I nodded.

  “Admirable, but there’s also a warning in this message.”

  “What warning?” I didn’t track a warning.

  “If someone acts unstable, it’s because they probably are.” He shrugged. “Just so we know—though it seems odd to put a monument to it at the foot of the bridge.”

  I toed the soft gravel and looked at the bright pink blossoms clustered on the other side of the wooden bridge. “Maybe the people who read it assume that because they’re reading it, they’re not lost and it applies to everyone else here, but not to them.”

  “Could be.” Matthew studied my eyes. “You’re not saying we’re lost, are you?”

  I smiled. “Actually, I think I’ve spent a lot of my life lost, but I’m not lost now.”

  He dragged a fingertip along my jaw. “I hope I have something to do with that.”

  “You have a lot to do with that.”

  He paused
a moment and let my admission sink in and then let his gaze roam the words on the bronze, as if somehow seeing them differently. “I’ve been more content since you walked into my restaurant than I’ve been since Hurricane Katrina, Rose.”

  I squeezed his hand. He too had trouble defining us. I wish I could say our relationship was simple. That it could be simple. But in a way, we were wounded. Oh, not like the people here, but wounded by life all the same. Wounds made simple things complex, but not hopeless. And, to be honest, this morning I felt more hopeful than I had since my stint outside the Piggly Wiggly. That these people, according to the monument, were hopeless hurt my heart.

  “You look so sad.”

  “It is sad. People being lost. Others giving up on them.”

  “The she in Sampson Park—whoever she is, or was—didn’t give up on them,” Matthew reminded me. “She fought for them. I think that’s a hopeful thing, and I’ll bet they do, too.” He brushed a wisp of hair back from my face. “And just so you know, Rose. I’ll never give up on you.”

  My heart felt squeezed, and tears I didn’t expect burned my eyes. I blinked them back, looked up at him, and smiled. Someone believing in you . . . what a potent thing. What an amazing and powerful, potent thing. Breathless, I said, “You are so good for me.”

  He kissed me. “You’re good for me, too.”

  That night, I lay beside Matthew certain the words on the bronze had been etched not only into my mind but also into my heart.

  We’re all someone’s bridge . . .

  * * *

  LONG BEFORE WE were ready for it, Saturday night came, and when Matthew and I settled in to sleep, that we’d be returning to the funeral home for our services tomorrow weighed heavy on my mind. I would miss Sampson Park. In just days, it had become a special place that I would cherish forever.

  The absence of modern conveniences like phones and computers hadn’t bothered us a bit. Instead we’d had a picnic by the lake, walked for hours and hours through the woods and talked endlessly about everything and nothing. A little girl living two cottages down, Gracie, seemed to always be watching for someone, but she refused to say for whom. Matthew and I speculated on that a bit, and on the man in the cottage beyond who seemed to watch over her, but truthfully, Matthew and I were so caught up in each other, we didn’t worry overly about anything, though I suspect whoever it is Gracie waits for is someone very important to her. I freely admit I have issues with kids left waiting, so I’d spoken to Gracie’s aunt Jenny. She assured me that Gracie was fine. Since Jenny designs jewelry and is well-respected in the Park, I let my mind rest easy on Gracie and her waiting.

  Matthew and I had visited the village and its shops several times. We bought hand-cranked home-made ice-cream and funnel cakes, watched old-timers teach young ones how to play horseshoes, and attended a floral show where a ten-year-old boy escorted by Speckles, won Best in Show for his Darby Rose, named after the youngest owner of Sampson Park. Over cherry snow-cones, I had a confusing but compelling conversation with Gracie and her favorite teddy bear, Miss Dixie. The bear spoke more than the child.

  She and her aunt had definitely come to Sampson Park for the child. I had no doubt about that.

  Scooting over the sheets, I snuggled the already sleeping Matthew. When his arm came up to embrace me and he pulled me to him, I sighed, content. Even asleep, he wanted me close.

  Sometimes life is good. So sweet and so good . . .

  * * *

  SOMETIMES LIFE IS sweet and good . . . and then reality crashes down around your ears.

  Reality struck us at exactly three in the morning. It took the form of someone banging on the cottage door.

  Matthew dragged on his pants and went to answer it. “Lester? Emily?”

  His surprise carried to me in the bedroom. What were they doing here? My shock fell to fear. Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good. I jumped up and slipped into a t-shirt and jeans, then joined them all in the living room.

  Matthew stood in the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee, and Lester and Emily were settling into seats at the kitchen table.

  “Hey.” I walked in. “Is everything all right?”

  Lester motioned for me to sit down.

  I pulled out an empty seat at the table, and Matthew sat down in the fourth chair. We didn’t ask again, just waited.

  Lester looked at me and then at Matthew. “Married life’s agreeing with you two.”

  “Of course,” Matthew said.

  I smiled. “Very much so, Lester. You can stop your worrying.”

  “Sampson Park’s a good choice. Emily and me always stay here whenever we can.”

  “You’ve been here the whole time?”

  He nodded. “We got here before you two but stayed out of the way, what with it being your honeymoon and all.” He grunted. “Figured you two wanted to be married bad to get hitched in the morgue.”

  “Funeral home. Morgue,” I said. “When you get down to it, what’s the difference? We wanted to marry and seized the moment. That’s all that matters.”

  “I wanted to be sure she didn’t bolt on me, Lester. Couldn’t let a gem like her get away.” Matthew winked at me, then poured coffee and set a cup before me and Emily, and then put one on the table before Lester. “If you’ve been here the whole time we have, then why are you dropping in on us at three in the morning?” Matthew retrieved his own cup, then returned to his seat.

  “Sorry as I am to say it,” his worry came through in his shuddery voice, “there’s been a development.”

  That disclosure sent a chill up my backbone I wouldn’t soon be forgetting. “What kind of development?” With Lester, one never safely assumed anything.

  “It ain’t just the minions coming after you two,” Emily said. “That’s a big development.”

  “What is she talking about, Lester?” Matthew asked.

  “Marcello and Adriano—not just their goons, but them. They showed up at Dixie General Hospital, demanding to see your bodies.”

  “Paul expected that.” I finger tapped my cup. “He told us he did.”

  “Well, he was right.” Lester bristled. “The hospital told them the bodies had already been moved to the funeral home.”

  My heart thundered and fear slithered through my whole body. “They went to Mr. Perini’s?” He suspected they would and sent us here. He said he and Barry could handle them. Had they? “Was he hurt?”

  “If you’ll hush a minute, I’ll tell you, Dais—Rose Matthews.” Lester took a swallow of coffee and his cup hit the table with a healthy thunk. “They went to Paul’s together—Marcello and Adriano’s men, I mean.” Lester looked from me to Matthew. “Together, if you can believe it. Rival families at war, and they’re working together to find you two.” Lester was stunned, pure and simple. “They insisted on seeing Daisy’s body. Actually, the Adrianos insisted on seeing Daisy’s body. The Marcellos insisted on seeing both your bodies.”

  “Figures,” Matthew said. “I—um, Mark went to school with Edward.”

  “Well, that makes sense, then,” Lester said. “Paul refused, of course. Told ’em he would lose his license if he did it without next-of-kin permission.”

  “So Mr. Perini wasn’t hurt, then?” I asked specifically, anxious and needing to be sure. If he’d been hurt, I’d never forgive myself. Never.

  “Nope, not then.”

  “He was hurt later?” I couldn’t keep the squeal out of my voice.

  Mark reached over and covered my hand on the table with his. “Calm down, Rose. Mr. Perini’s fine or we’d already be moving.”

  Lester looked happy with that deduction, and at seeing Matthew being protective of me. “Matthew’s right. Paul ain’t hurt, but we got plenty trouble. Plenty other trouble.” He looked from Emily to me.

  “For pity’s sake, Lester, spit it out. My pet’s about to hyperventilate.”

  “I’m getting there, Em. Give a man a minute.” He looked to me. “Detective Keller and Special Agent Johnson are tryin
g to get court orders.”

  “For what?” Matthew asked.

  “To take possession of the bodies.”

  “Why?” I asked, getting a grip on my breathing. “Can they do that?”

  “Dexter Devlin says no. But they can cause complications, tying things up and slowing them down,” Emily interjected. “Annoying men. Why they can’t just leave the dead alone to rest in peace, I have no idea.”

  Lester calmed her, too, with a gentle hand. “Point is, we can’t stall the court orders long. They’re wanting their own ME to examine the bodies since Dixie’s ME is also its Coroner. They took exception to that, though it’s the case in most small towns around. I don’t get it.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with the ME,” Matthew said. “They want leverage with Marcello and Adriano. That’s what they’re after—and them using the dead to get it really bothers me.”

  Lester leaned forward at the table, circling his hands on his cup. “Well, Paul ain’t too happy about it, but Dexter says he’s got the authorities under control. What he can’t control is Marcello and Adriano. They make their own laws and rules.”

  “Them teaming up doesn’t make sense to me,” I said. “If my enemy killed my son, I sure wouldn’t be buddying up with him on anything.”

  “That’s the development—or the start of it,” Lester said. “After Paul refused to let them see your bodies, they left peaceable enough. That happened yesterday morning.”

  “They came back earlier tonight,” Matthew speculated. His hand stilled on his spoon. “Is that what’s happened?”

  “They came back last night.” Lester confirmed it.

  I couldn’t stand it another second. “Lester, did they or did they not hurt Mr. Perini?”

  “Or Barry?” Matthew added.

  Heaven help me, I’d forgotten all about Barry! How could I do that? My stomach roiled and I pressed a hand to it to calm it down.

  Emily stiffened and that worried me more.