Flowers for Her Grave

by Judy Clemons

  “Sure.”

  “Did you hear anything about where he came from? Or where he went when he left?”

  “Nah. He wasn’t exactly a guy’s guy, you know. The most I saw of him was if he happened to be in the weight room when I was, or down in the bar. I never really talked to him.”

  “And Krystal never said anything about him?”

  He looked at her sideways. “You mean like whether or not they were, you know, doing it?”

  “Could be. Or anything else about him.”

  “All I got from her about Brandon was that she hated his guts. She thought he was a creep. She wasn’t even going to aerobics those last few weeks he was here. Said it wasn’t worth it to have to breathe the same air as him every day.”

  Casey stared down at the pool, not seeing it. Who all hated him? Or loved him? Or maybe both? Sissy. Shelly. Bernie. Maria. Krystal. All of the other women listed on those folders. Had one of them killed him? And then killed Andrea because she thought she was involved with him? Would any of them have the strength to take on a guy as huge as he’d been?

  “Have you heard any rumors about where he went?”

  “Oh, there are all kinds of rumors. Which ones do you want to hear? That he went to work for Arnold Schwarzenegger? That he’s living in Guadalupe with his gay lover? Or that he got put up in an apartment by his Sugar Mama, working his glutes and waiting for her to die so he can inherit her fortune?”

  “Do any of them seem likely?”

  Dylan grinned. “All of them, actually.”

  Casey could have believed any of them, too, before she’d learned he was lying in the morgue with a toe tag that said, “Wayne Pritchfield.” Now the theory that stuck out was the Sugar Mama one, seeing how he’d died in an apartment close to Raceda. Had one of his jilted ladies or blackmail victims found him, and brought an end to his greedy polygamy?

  “So,” Dylan said. “I’m pretty hungry.”

  Casey wasn’t. But what else was she to do? Binns could get in touch with her wherever she was. And being in the Flamingo was giving her the willies. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  After a quick and unfruitful stop in the gym to check for Dylan’s phone, he led her to his car, a dark green Toyota Corolla.

  “Too far to walk?” Casey asked.

  “It’s on the other side of town. We could walk, but it would take forever, and I’m so hungry…”

  Casey got in the car.

  “Oh, this is so exciting!” Death’s head was suddenly between Casey and Dylan, arms over the backs of the seats. “Your first date in such a long time!”

  “It’s not a date,” Casey said.

  Dylan sighed so heavily Death’s head wavered. “I know. You’ve already made that perfectly clear.”

  Whoops.

  Death fell into the backseat, laughing.

  Casey rolled her eyes. “Dylan, don’t give me the whole injured little boy thing. It was only two nights ago you and Krystal barged into my office, clothes flying.”

  He went red. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m…” He gripped the steering wheel so hard Casey was afraid he was going to snap it.

  “Forget it. Tell me about this restaurant.”

  He gave a shaky smile, and relaxed his hands. “It’s Cuban. They make a great shrimp enchilada.”

  “Bet it’s not as good as Del’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Big guy in the weight room. He’s going to be a chef.” Which made her stomach knot, because who knew if that was only because he had made sure Andrea was no longer his loan officer?

  She just couldn’t believe that.

  But Del would certainly have the strength to kill a guy like Brandon. The only question was…would he have reason to? He’d said he was making good money at the insurance company. Why wasn’t that enough to be seed money for a loan, or at least to satisfy Andrea that he was a good loan candidate? Was Brandon was blackmailing him, too, and taking his money? Or maybe Del had a history Andrea couldn’t ignore, and Brandon couldn’t resist? But there wasn’t a folder with his name on it. It seemed like Brandon only targeted women.

  When they got to the restaurant Casey and Dylan had to wait only a few minutes for an empty table, then squeezed their way through the packed little room to the far corner. Casey took the side against the wall, looking out toward the door.

  “Told you it was a hole in the wall,” Dylan said, grinning.

  “Yeah.” Death stood behind Dylan with crossed arms. “No room for a third.”

  The waiter brought a basket of warm, freshly fried tortilla chips, and Casey smiled at Death, who could smell them, but not eat them. She found that once they were in front of her, she actually was hungry, and dug right in.

  “Dylan,” she said around a mouthful. “You know Tamille?”

  He choked on a chip, and grabbed his water glass. When he’d recovered, he set down the glass and took another chip, like nothing had happened. “Uh, yeah.”

  “I talked to her. She promised not to devour you.”

  He blinked several times. “Really?”

  “Really. You’re safe. Even if I’m not around to protect you.”

  He made a show of wiping his forehead with his napkin. “Whew. I will sleep better tonight.”

  Casey laughed.

  She had shoved another whole chip, complete with a large dollop of salsa, into her mouth when Death gave her a brief wave and disappeared in a puff of mist. She had just enough time to wonder what had happened before her phone rang in her pocket. She grabbed it, expecting Binns, but was surprised at what she saw on the display.

  “Dylan,” she said with her mouth full. “You’re calling me.”

  He lit up. “Someone found my phone!”

  She swallowed. “Hello?”

  A stream of hysterical Spanish assaulted her ears, a mixture of wailing and screaming. She held the phone away, her head ringing. “Do you know Spanish?”

  Dylan shook his head. “French all through high school. Japanese in college.”

  “Really? Japanese?”

  “It makes sense, business-wise.”

  The voice was still shrieking. Casey waved down her waiter and thrust the phone at him. “Can you tell me what this person is saying, please?”

  He made a face at the noise, then took the phone and held it gingerly at his ear. He looked shocked at first, then spoke something that must have been calming, because Casey could no longer hear the waves of distress. The waiter’s face went completely serious, his dark brows lowering over his eyes.

  “She says there is a house that has been…things have been damaged.”

  “What? Who is it?”

  “She says her name is Rosa. She’s afraid. The people from the house are missing.”

  Rosa? From the Flamingo?

  “Has she called 911?”

  He went back onto the phone, patting the air as if he were consoling the caller. He turned to Casey. “She wants you to come.”

  Casey looked at Dylan, who sat with his mouth open. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”

  “It’s okay. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “I’m not sending you off to face some home invasion by yourself.”

  Casey asked the waiter to get an address. He scribbled it on his order pad and ripped it off, also handing her phone, which was still on.

  “Thank you,” Casey said. “Gracias.”

  He nodded, and Casey and Dylan ran out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  They clambered into Dylan’s car.

  “Address?” Dylan said.

  She gave it to him.

  “That’s on this side of town, which makes sense, since she’s speaking Spanish. I think that road is…” His voice trailed off as he concentrated on pulling out into traffic.

  “We’re coming,” Casey said into the phone. “We’re coming, okay?”

  Dylan turned around a corner at high speed and skidded to a stop at the curb in front of a small stucco hous
e with rust-colored shutters. “We’re there.”

  “Already?” Casey jumped out of the car.

  Dylan ran around beside her.

  “You stay here,” Casey said.

  “But you need me to—”

  “Dylan,” Casey said. “You are young and strong. But if anyone will need protecting, it’s you. It will be better if you just stay out here, okay?”

  “Daisy—”

  “Stay.”

  His shoulders slumped, but he nodded.

  Casey moved briskly up the walk, listening and watching for any movement. “Hello?”

  No response.

  She detoured off the path and stood sideways by one of the front windows, tilting just far enough she could peek in. Everything looked dark and quiet. She went back to the front door and tried the knob. It turned easily, and she pushed the door open with her foot. “Hello?”

  Again, nothing. She stepped into the front room, which was filled with sofas and chairs and the usual living room furniture. Books and papers lay scattered across the floor, but the furniture was all still lined up, as if nothing violent had happened. Casey could see no one hiding there. “Hello? It’s me. Daisy. You called me.”

  A rush of Spanish filled the air, and Rosa, the maid from the Flamingo, barged around the corner. She grabbed Casey’s arm and babbled in Spanish, the words crashing over Casey like whitewater. Rosa was sobbing and talking, and flinging her free hand in the air.

  “Shhh.” Casey put her hand on Rosa’s shoulder and ducked her head to look the woman in the eye. “Quiet, now, Rosa. Quiet. Shush now.”

  Rosa hiccupped and sniffed, and buried her face in her hands.

  “Are you here alone?”

  Rosa looked up, her face red and sweaty.

  “Just you?” Casey said, pointing at Rosa. “Una?”

  “Si.” Rosa hiccupped again. “Si.”

  Casey set Rosa on one of the living room chairs and gestured for her to stay. She stood still, listening. No sound came that would say anyone else was still around. No creaking. No breathing. She held up her palm to Rosa again, and walked carefully toward the back of the house.

  To the right was a kitchen. A few drawers hung open, and plastic baggies lay in disarray on the counter, surrounded by crumbs and a partial head of lettuce. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and an empty milk jug. No people.

  To the left, down the hallway, were four doors. The first on the right was a small bedroom. From the furniture and bedspreads on the two twin beds it looked like children slept there. Dresser drawers were flung open, with socks and shirts hanging over the fronts, and piles of clothes lay haphazardly on the floor. Pillows and sheets had been stripped from the mattresses, and a lone shoe huddled in the middle of the purple rug. The closet door was open, the light inside still on. Clothes on the rack were interspersed with bare hangers, and several shirts had been dumped onto the carpet.

  The second door was a bathroom. Casey paused to listen again, and when she heard nothing, she slowly pushed the door all the way open. Nothing moved, so she flipped on the light and looked in the closet and behind the shower curtain. No one there. Just half-filled shampoo bottles, and damp towels on the floor. An empty toothbrush holder lay on its side on the counter, and all that was left of any toothpaste was a dried blue glob in the sink.

  Casey was beginning to think this was not a burglary. It was a family leaving in a mad rush.

  She turned to go back to the hallway and tripped on Rosa, who stood at her elbow, lower lip clamped in her teeth. Casey stopped her natural inclination to attack, and took a deep calming breath. “It’s okay, Rosa. Come on.”

  Once in the hallway, Rosa kept behind Casey. The door to the last room on the right was half shut, and someone moved toward her. Casey dropped into a defensive stance, arms up, but realized with a start she was preparing to fight herself. The outside of the door held a full-length mirror. She stood back up, shaking out her arms.

  Rosa nudged her toward the door.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Casey shuffled forward, and shoved the door open with her shoe.

  Again, this was a bedroom, and again, it was in disarray. Women’s clothes spilled from a Rubbermaid storage container, which lay toppled over, its lid standing crookedly against the wall, as if it had been flung there with no thought as to its position. The ceiling fan turned in slow circles, the pull-chain clicking at each revolution. The curtains were pulled tight. The bed was unmade, any blankets and pillows gone, leaving only wrinkled sheets, partially pulled off the mattress.

  “Nobody here. One more room.” Casey gently pushed Rosa to the side and faced the last door in the hallway. It was closed. Casey directed Rosa to stand against the wall, out of the way of the door. Casey stood between the two doorways, flattened against the adjoining wall. She reached forward, turned the doorknob, and flung the door open.

  Nothing moved.

  Casey inched forward, then bent and forward-rolled into the room, avoiding any kick or punch that may have been struck at abdomen or head level. She snapped up into a ready crouch position, but there was no one to defend against. The room was as empty as the others. She stood, surveying the mess. This time, however, it was men’s clothes that were draped over the unmade bed and carpet.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Casey spun around. Dylan stood in the doorway.

  “What?” Casey said.

  Dylan’s forehead was all crumpled, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That sweatshirt.”

  Casey looked where he was pointing, at a purple and gold University of Washington hoodie.

  “What about it?”

  “I’ve only known one person who’s had that.”

  “Dylan, Washington is a huge school. Thousands of people have that sweatshirt.”

  “I know, but that’s Washington. This is Florida. I’ve never seen another one here.”

  “Okay. So you know the sweatshirt. Why is it a big deal?”

  “Because why would it be here? He’s been gone for months.”

  Casey took a deep breath, trying to keep her patience. “Dylan, whose sweatshirt is it?”

  “The old instructor from the Flamingo.”

  Casey’s mouth fell open. “Which one?”

  “Two before you. The nice guy who knew nothing about exercise. His name was Richie Miller.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Richie?” Casey’s head spun. “What is Richie’s sweatshirt doing here? Whose house is this? Rosa, su casa?”

  Rosa shook her head. “No, no. Maria.”

  “Maria?” Casey looked at Dylan. “Why is Richie’s sweatshirt in Maria’s house? And where’s Maria?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he left it behind and Maria grabbed it out of lost and found because she liked it.”

  No. Maria was not the kind of woman to wear a man’s sweatshirt, or to give away lost and found items. She wore tailored business suits and completely put-together female clothes. The kind that were in the other bedroom.

  Casey took a deep breath and looked around, her suspicions growing stronger. This was definitely not a home invasion. This was a panicked woman taking her family and running. Something must have made her believe her illegal status was about to be discovered. But why would Richie be running with her? If, indeed, it was Richie.

  “Rosa, who lived here with Maria?”

  Rosa blinked at her without comprehension.

  Casey slowed it down. “Maria’s children? Ninas?”

  “Si. Dos.” She held up two fingers.

  “Anyone else? Just tres people?”

  She brightened. “No, no. Quatro.”

  Casey glanced at Dylan, who looked just as curious as she. “Who?” she asked Rosa. “Who made it quatro? A man?” Casey held up the sweatshirt.

  Rosa nodded. “Si.”

  “Was his name Richie?”

  Rosa nodded, then froze, her hand going over her mouth. She then gushed forth with another slew of desperate
Spanish.

  Casey tried to take it in. Richie was living here. With Maria. And writing notes to Andrea about how “she” was so grateful and it would only take “a few more weeks.”

  Whatever it meant, this connected Maria to Andrea in a way that was impossible to dispute.

  Casey took out her phone and dialed Binns, praying she’d answer this time.

  “This is Binns.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Ms. Gray?”

  “Listen. I have a lot to tell you, but first, I’ve discovered something you need to see.”

  She told her the address, and ten minutes later Casey and Dylan were leaning on the Corolla out front when Binns and Gomez pulled up. Casey had put Rosa in the back seat, with the door open, where she alternately cried and stared into space.

  Binns and Gomez parked behind Dylan’s car. Binns got out, eying the house, their little group, and the neighborhood. Gomez came to stand directly in front of Casey, looking down at her.

  Casey kept her eyes on Binns, trying to ignore Gomez’s presence, until Binns had finished her visual inspection and come to stand beside her.

  “Tell me,” Binns said.

  Casey inched back from Gomez, explained Rosa’s phone call about what she’d thought was a burglary, and pointed out Rosa herself, who was in one of her staring into space moments. Casey went on to describe the discovery of Richie’s sweatshirt, and Rosa’s admittance that he’d been living at the house, which belonged to Maria Mendez.

  “That’s all I can get from her, though,” Casey said. “She’ll only speak in Spanish, and I’m not fluent enough to catch much.”

  Binns jerked her chin, and Gomez knelt beside Rosa. His voice was low and comforting, rising and falling with Spanish cadences. Rosa let out a sob, then began talking again, in halting spurts. Casey wanted to lay her hand on Gomez’ broad back, to steal some of that comfort for herself, to feel the vibration of his voice.

  Binns waved her hand under Casey’s nose. “Hey. Gray. Any idea why Rosa called you?”

  “She used Dylan’s phone.”

  “What?”

  Dylan gave a half smile. “I lost my phone in the gym today. She must have picked it up. She works there.”

  “And she knows me,” Casey said. “At least, by name. I might have been the only one in his contact list she would feel comfortable calling.”