The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

by Laura Lippman (ed) (epub)

  “I remember,” Howard said. “You hang in there, Charlie.”

  “Been doin’ that,” he whispered. “I’m ready for somethin’ else.”

  “I’ll stop by next week.”

  “Better make it sooner than that.”

  Howard’s face was grim. He was going to miss old Charlie Post.

  Some people have graves in their lives from early childhood, places to visit with their families to express their love for those gone on ahead. Neither of the Lanes had a grave in their life until they moved out into the country. It came with the house and became part of the fabric of their young family.

  They had bought the abandoned farm for a song. Although it was only 25 miles from South Bend, it looked like something from the heart of Appalachia. The Deliverance banjo-boy would have felt right at home.

  Many well-heeled South Bend professionals were into McTrophy homes of the castle variety or Frank Lloyd Wright knockoffs. Derek Lane, a tax attorney on the way up, and his wife, Parveen, a working pharmacist until she became pregnant, lived simply. They liked old things. Liked to clean them up, fix them, and make them part of their world. The fact that these things were often bargains suited the Lanes perfectly. They saved their money and looked for a vintage place with character and a little land.

  They had found the peeling white eyesore lost on five acres in the rolling Indiana countryside. It might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. The Realtor hadn’t even bothered to put it on the website. Who would ever want to take on the work of a falling-down farmhouse with acreage that had not been tended for years? The Lanes loved it.

  The couple had been inspecting the wildly overgrown grounds near the house when they found the grave. It was tough going. Beneath an early spring canopy of towering white oak and black locust, they were engulfed by head-high scrub brush and prickly raspberry bushes. Parveen, who came from a desert country, marveled at the vibrancy of the emerging green life. First they found the lid of the cistern, took one look down into that dank, water-filled tank, and decided to have it filled in. Their baby would be here soon and the cistern was an accident waiting to happen. They found green hundred-year-old bottles and rusty tools. They found a maze of half-buried chicken-wire fences and a pile of glazed bricks with raised letters that said “Metropolitan Block,” the foundation of something long since rotted away. They admired the glazed bricks and would put them to good use. They found a perfectly preserved brown jug. Then they found the grave.

  The house overlooked a small hollow that fell away, rising quickly again at the edge of their property. Later they would install a large picture window so that they could look across that little hollow. They had been inspecting the brow the house sat upon when Parveen noticed a smooth spot on the ground. She thought it was the odd piece of broken brick, but when she rubbed it with her shoe she saw that it was larger than that. She scraped more away with her shoe and saw letters. The two knelt down together and with their gloved hands gently pushed away the dirt and matted leaves. Deeply and carefully carved into a thick piece of aged oak, the epitaph had a few worn letters but was clear nonetheless:

  HERE LIES PRINCESS JENNY

  Forever friends in this gentle place

  My little princess

  Gone home now to this good earth

  Sleeping now where we lived together

  And will again

  When the heavens and the oceans and the mountains

  Shall pass away

  For a couple who treasured relics, nothing they might have found could have been more endearing. Parveen raised a hand to her reddening throat as Derek slowly read the words aloud in his clear barrister voice. He nodded his head approvingly and smiled. He stood up, put his hands on his hips, and looked about. They were home.

  Derek took the oak marker down to his basement workshop. He cleaned out the letters with a wire brush and let the wood dry out for three weeks. He soaked the underside in black creosote and soaked the surface in boiled linseed oil. After it dried, he replaced it exactly, now essentially impervious to the elements.

  Parveen gathered softball-sized fieldstones of gray and grayish pink and gray-black and made a semicircle around the top of the marker. She planted crocosmia with the orange-flame flowers that the hummingbirds loved and moonbeam coreopsis with their bright bursts of yellow, daisylike blooms.

  Derek cleared the grounds of the forgotten homestead on weekends and vacations, removing the chaos of brush and dropping the dead trees with his thunderous 1950s Homelite chainsaw. It all began to look parklike, a five-acre estate. They installed the picture window and added an outside light. Sometimes at night they would light up the little grave and the area around it, the artificial light casting shadows so differently from the moonlight. When they turned off the light, the moonlight flowed down through the boughs, blanketing the marker and the fieldstones and the flowers in a magical glow.

  Derek cut logs from the steel-like black locust and made twin benches. One he placed next to the grave, the other he placed directly across on the opposite ridge close to the property line. The benches became their favorite places to sit and read and have coffee, and, finally, wonderful places to sit with baby Margaret.

  Margaret arrived after Smoky, the black Lab, and Trudy, the calico cat, had already joined the family, and after the heavy lifting at the place was done. A puppy, a kitty, a blond-headed baby girl. A young, vigorous, devoted couple. What had been a forgotten and forlorn place was now bursting with life. Derek and Parveen nestled into their handmade world. The joy they felt was beyond words. Because the grave was a mystery, holding no memories, it became a fanciful thing. As the years went by, they invented stories for Margaret. The stories of Princess Jenny became a bedtime ritual. Parveen drew charcoal sketches to bring the fantasies to life. Princess Jenny was a unicorn ridden by a fairy, a ferocious black panther with golden eyes who was the protector of a golden queen. Princess Jenny was the favorite companion of princes and kings and queens and paupers and blacksmiths because Derek and Parveen knew that in real life she had in fact been someone’s beloved companion. She lived in the time of miracles, when dragons breathed fire and covetous gods gazed down from castles in the clouds. Margaret would take her dolls and her mother’s sketches and play beside the grave for hours, a handy spot for Parveen to keep a watchful eye on her from the picture window.

  It was July and muggy when a silver Cadillac Escalade pulled into the Lane Farm, as it came to be known. A distinguished-looking elderly man stepped out. Parveen was working in her garden and came toward him, toweling her hands as she came. It was no one she knew. She guessed that he just needed directions. She noticed that on such a hot day he was wearing a winter suit of rust-colored corduroy and a wide, dated tie. He looked like the gamekeeper of an English estate. He was tall, pale, and clearly uncomfortable. His white hair was long and slicked down. His moist blue eyes were kindly and faintly apologetic.

  “Good afternoon, young lady,” he said. “My name is Lyle Collins and I’m here for Princess Jenny.”

  Parveen dropped her towel. She stared at the strange old man who, with one sentence, had penetrated her intimate world, a world no one knew about except her immediate family.

  “Do you know Princess Jenny?” Collins asked. “Have you found her grave?”

  Parveen nodded, mute.

  “I can see I’ve startled you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know this seems bizarre. Please hear me out. I lived here many, many years ago. I was not a well man. I was what they now call bipolar, although no one really knows what that means. I was a young professor at Notre Dame when I descended into illness. For a time I was homeless. I moved into this farm because it was deserted and no one cared about it. It was my home for almost two years. Early the first winter, a little dog came to the door.” Collins took a white handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his eyes.

  “She was a brown-and-white cocker spaniel. I named her Princess Jenny and she became my only friend. We li
ved here together.”

  He turned from Parveen, his eyes wandering over the spacious grounds, the lovely white farmhouse with green shutters and trim. “Of course, it was nothing like this. Did you do all this?”

  “Yes, my husband and I,” she said proudly. “When we bought it, it was quite a mess.”

  “You’ve done wonders with the place. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Parveen said.

  “Of course, I was able to move in unnoticed because it was forgotten and abandoned,” Collins continued. “Without running water. Without electricity. Heat from wood I put in the cast-iron cookstove. In winter we lived mostly in the kitchen near the stove. Sometimes Princess and I shared dog food. I could not be friends with people. In my illness I did not understand people and they did not understand me. But Princess Jenny and I understood each other and she was my friend.” He paused, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his wrinkled white shirt. “I thought if I wore a coat and tie you might think me less weird,” he said with a small, embarrassed smile.

  “It’s all right,” Parveen managed. “I’m beginning to understand. You thought about Princess Jenny a lot while you were . . . away?”

  “Every day,” Collins said quietly. “Every day. At that time it was important to me that she immediately liked me and stayed with me. She didn’t have to. She could have left me at any time, run off.”

  “What happened?” Parveen asked.

  “One afternoon we were out for a walk in the woods when Princess stepped into a trap. I don’t know, something for a fox or muskrat, perhaps. It slammed shut, almost severing her left front leg. By the time I got the trap open and carried her back to the house, she was gone. I stayed . . . stable . . . just long enough to bury her and make the marker. Then I became unable to function and was committed to the mental hospital near Gary. Eddystone. That was fifteen years ago.” He looked intently at Parveen. “Medication, therapy, and time have made me well. I was released several weeks ago and plan to return to my family’s home in Wisconsin. They will have me now that I am well. I want to take Jenny there so that she can always be near me.”

  “I understand,” Parveen said. “I understand how important she must be to you. You will probably be surprised to know that she has also become important to us. Come with me.”

  Parveen took him to the grave. Lyle Collins knelt down. Tears filled his eyes. “It’s just wonderful the way you’ve made her part of your family,” he murmured. “It’s time now for us to be together again after all these lost years. I took great pains to bury her in a protected way.” He looked up at Parveen. She was deeply moved. She held out her hand to help him up.

  “Can you come back tomorrow at noon?” she asked. “I will talk with my husband tonight.”

  “Of course,” Lyle Collins said.

  Predawn, like going out on night patrol. Howard parked his green Jeep wagon in the northeast corner of the empty parking lot of the old church. It was the corner nearest the woods. He put the POLICE sign on his dashboard. The weeds growing in the gravel lot were knee-high, waving slightly in the dimness. He wondered how many years it had been since a service had been held here.

  The skyline was tinted with gray light. It was already warm, the air thick with dew and slim strands of fog. Howard smeared himself with insect repellent and smudged his face with camo grease. He had his binos, water, and a sandwich. His cell was working. His Colt Trooper was loaded. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, checked his compass, and stepped into the thick, tangled hardwoods. He didn’t really need a compass, but it might save him a few minutes. It would be an up-and-down hike through thick woods, skirting just one farmhouse and one bog. He felt confident. Too bad Charlie Post wouldn’t be here to see it.

  When Collins returned the next day, the Lanes were waiting. Derek had come home straight from the office and planned to go back. He was wearing a dark tailored suit with a solid navy tie, a very formal contrast to his wife’s bright yellow sundress. Collins wore the same dated corduroy suit he had worn the previous day.

  Derek had a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He would spare the old man the digging. He shook hands with Collins and began digging. He removed the sod in squares so that it could be put back in place and shoveled the dirt into the wheelbarrow to keep the gravesite looking as undisturbed as possible. They had decided not to tell Margaret, who was now almost five. Someday they would explain, but not now. About 2 feet down, Derek struck something. Lyle Collins got down and with a trowel Derek gave him began gently scraping and digging around the object. After a few minutes he removed a military-issue waterproof PVC bag about the size of a car tire. Derek rinsed the olive-drab bag with the hose and Collins toweled it dry with a rag they gave him. Lyle Collins shook their hands and said he would never forget their kindness.

  They did not see the shape at first. It arose by the far bench near their property line, moved down the small hollow and then up toward them. They heard the movement and turned and saw it at the same instant. It took them several beats to realize a big man was striding up toward them. As he neared they could see he was covered in woodland camouflage with black and green paint on his sweating face and a large blue revolver hanging from his right hand. Black binoculars were slung around his neck. He looked like he had stepped out of jungle combat in Quang Tri Province, Republic of Vietnam, in 1968.

  He came up the slope extending his ID with his left hand. As they took a collective step back he swung his Colt Trooper in an arc, the long barrel glancing off the cheek of Lyle Collins. Collins dropped in a motionless heap. The man shoved the revolver into his green web belt, went down on both knees, jerked Collins’s hands behind his back, and cuffed him. Collins was dazed, but recognition and fear were evident in his twisted face. The man got back up.

  He held his identification closer for the Lanes to inspect. In their shock, they struggled to focus in on the gold badge and photo. “My name is Jim Howard, Northern Indiana Investigations Division. This man, Lyle Collins, is my prisoner.” Howard stepped away, flipped his cell open, and called in. He gave the address and some codes.

  “What’d you hit him for?” Derek asked angrily. “He wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” Howard said.

  “For God’s sake, call an ambulance or I will,” Derek ordered, looking down at Collins’s still form and bleeding cheek.

  “He doesn’t need an ambulance,” Howard said. “I’m a paramedic.” He kicked Lyle Collins hard in the stomach, and Collins groaned. “His vital signs are good.”

  The Lanes were staring at Howard in disbelief, trying to make sense of the last few bizarre, explosive moments. Howard tried to imagine how he must look to them and how little they knew about what was going on. “Look,” he said, “this guy’s a killer. He killed several people years ago, but we could never make the case stick. Smart bastard, slippery and crazy as hell. He’s been locked away in a psych hospital for years. They just released him. God knows why.”

  “Are you telling us there’s a body in that bag?” Derek asked, his skepticism apparent in his face and voice. The bag was obviously too small for that.

  “No,” Howard said. “He told you he was coming back for . . . what? Some precious pet? I’ve been tailing him, scoped his visit yesterday, saw your wife bring him back here. When I came on your place last night and saw the marker, I figured it out.”

  “You were creeping around our place last night?” Derek asked.

  “Not creeping. Investigating,” Howard said mildly, with a slight smile. “Lyle here is the guy who creeps around.”

  “I think there’s a long-dead cocker spaniel in that bag and that you just struck a harmless old man,” Derek said heatedly.

  “Collins would just as soon barbecue a cocker spaniel as give it a pat on the head,” Howard said.

  “You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do when I get through with you,” Derek said threateningly, taking a step toward Howard. “You’re way the hell ou
t of line, and I’m just the guy who can make you pay for it. I’m an attorney and a county commissioner. Bill Phelps is a personal friend of mine.”

  Howard nodded, studying Lane, who suddenly looked like real trouble. He looked at the carefully positioned fieldstones around the grave and the orange and yellow flowers. He looked at the restored farmhouse. He looked at Trudy and Smoky, asleep together in the shade. Lovely couple living in Shangri-la, he thought. And a lawyer to boot.

  “Okay,” he said quietly, pulling latex-free gloves from a pocket of his fatigues. The green bag was curled several times at the top and clip-locked. He detached the clip and unfolded the top. He pulled out a tan hard-shell, carry-on-sized suitcase. It looked like it had just come off the shelf. He set it on the ground and tried to open it. It was locked. He dug through Collins’s pockets, found his wallet, and dug through that, producing a key. He unlocked the suitcase and gently opened it. He stood up.

  “Look but don’t touch.” The Lanes knelt down. A mild rotten aroma rose up. Panties caked with blood. There was a ripped nightgown. A wallet and a man’s gold wristwatch. There was a loose assortment of photographs, some yellowed along the edges, revealing faces misshapen with terror and pain, faces in the last moments of life. There were photographs of entire bodies positioned just so, like artists’ models. The lips of a blond-headed man had been made clown huge by smeared lipstick. His ears were gone. There was jewelry and a flattened Chicago Cubs baseball cap. There were two cased videotapes.