The scratching of his claws on the floor precedes Maverick’s bounding entry into the kitchen. “Maverick, slow down,” a female voice snaps at him.
Lucas pushes the coin into his pocket. “Don’t tell her,” he whispers quickly. “Don’t get her hopes up until we know something.”
Maverick knocks into the table in his excitement and a chair clatters to the floor. "Good Lord, dog," Deidre Hartley grumbles. "Stop breaking every…." Seeing me in her kitchen, Deidre stops in mid-sentence. "Come on Mav, honey. Let’s go outside,” she says cheerily, opening the back patio door for him.
Maverick darts into the cold. "That boy has so much energy." Deidre slides the door closed and watches out the glass. She pulls her robe closer around her.
“Mom, you remember Gabby McAllister,” Lucas says politely.
Deidre turns and says breezily, "Of course I do." Her face nearly cracks from the smile she beams on me. “How wonderful to see you again.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Hartley.” I pick up the fallen chair to give my nervous hands something to do.
“I didn’t know we had company or I would have dressed.” She cinches the belt of her robe tighter around her already small waist.
"You look fine, Mom. Gabby just stopped by to see how we were doing."
Deidre locks her strange smile on me. “How nice.” I’m fixated by her over-white teeth flashing in her pale face. Nothing about my presence is nice to her right now.
Flustered, I say, “Uh, yeah,” then turn to Lucas. “I’m going to go. You need to spend some time with your mom.”
“Gabby, you don’t have to go on my account,” Deidre croons. “I’m sure my son would like you to stay.” The emphasis on my son doesn’t go unnoticed by me, but Lucas is oblivious.
"I've got to go," I say to Lucas. "I'm so sorry about your loss," I offer the platitude to Deidre.
“I’m sure you are,” she says cryptically, the creepy smile still on her face.
Lucas follows me to the door and I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. "Is your mom okay?" I can't keep from asking.
He looks down the hall towards the kitchen. “Why?”
“She seems, I don’t know, odd.” Confusion crosses his face. I hurry on, “Probably just the strain of the day.”
“This day’s sucked for all of us,” he says sadly. “Oh, your coin.” He pulls the gold from his pocket.
“It’s not actually mine. I found it on your property.”
“Keep it. It might help us.”
I put the coin back in my pocket then push up on my toes to kiss his cheek. The stubble there pricks my lips, but the heat of his skin feels marvelous. “Call you tomorrow,” I say then slip out the door.
My lips carry the memory of his stubble against them.
Chapter 17
Grandma Dot
I follow the funeral director down the stairs and through a long hall. Lucy's body waits for me in the workroom. My brave words to Gabriella last night about how doing the hair of the dead is a tribute to them replays through my mind. Honor and tribute, yes. But it doesn’t make it easy.
“We’ve already dressed her and gotten her ready,” the funeral director says, his demeanor completely professional and calm.
Inside, I want to scream. “Thank you,” I answer politely, keeping my eyes locked on him instead of looking at Lucy’s lifeless face.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.” He hesitates, watching me. Probably wondering why I’m here instead of just letting them fix her curls.
I give him a tight smile and set my bag on a counter. "Thank you," I say again, not so politely this time. I want him to leave. I want to do this for Lucy – alone. Then get out of here.
He nods solemnly and shuts the door behind him with a gentle click.
It's just Lucy and me now. At least as far as I can see. I try not to think about the other unfortunate bodies behind the metal doors lining one wall.
Stealing my nerve, I finally look at the young woman on the table. The funeral home did a good job on her. You’d have to look very closely to see the injuries to her face.
I don’t want to look that close.
“Just you and me, kid,” I say to Lucy, trying to lighten my mood.
I pull the curling iron out of my bag and plug it into an outlet on the floor under the prep table. Her perm is recent, so her curls don't need too much work. A few touches of the curling iron and some backcombing and Lucy should look like she always did.
I wait for the curling iron to heat up and think about the young woman before me. Most of the people I've done funeral hair for have been older clients. Ones who’ve lived full lives.
Lucy’s life was cut short. She never got married. Never had children. She’s the same age as Gabriella and Dustin.
“Don’t go there,” I tell myself. “This is about Lucy, not you.”
I test the iron, deciding it’s hot enough. Taking a section of hair into my fingers, I close the curling iron and twist.
A shock shoots up my arm.
Startled, I drop the iron. It singes against her heavy restoration make-up and I snatch it back, releasing the curl.
“What the?” I inspect the iron, looking for a short or an exposed wire. Anything that would have shocked me.
The iron is in perfect working order.
Cautiously, I lift another section of hair.
The shock comes before I even get the hair on the iron.
I drop the iron and it clatters on the hard floor. The noise loud in the silent room.
Lucy’s body lies still. Her eyes permanently closed. A tiny black spot from dropping the iron on her face mars the smooth work of the funeral home.
With the tip of my finger, I smudge the makeup to cover the mark.
Pain. Sharp pain.
I jump away from her body. Confused and scared.
And curious.
I touch her face again, prepared this time.
Pain. Sharp pain in my head.
Lucy’s pain wracks through my head. A sharp strike just behind my ear. I rub my hair, push against my skull.
Bending lower to her body, I peak behind her ear. I could turn her head to get a better look, but I don’t want to touch her again.
I have to look closely, but a section of her skull is misshapen, repaired, but misshapen.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask her lifeless body. The damage to her skull could have been caused by the horse that trampled her. The pain I felt from her was overwhelming, but concentrated in one small spot.
"If I had Gabriella's abilities, I could hear what you're telling me."
Getting an idea, I dig in my bag for my phone. Gabriella knows how to do this.
It takes forever for Gabriella to arrive. I spend the time leaning against the wall farthest from Lucy. I have no interest in feeling her pain in my head again. No interest in touching her.
I promised Annette I’d do her hair, but I just can’t. The funeral home will have to do it. I don’t care if I look like a coward. I can’t live through her death.
At one point, the pious director checks in on me. “Everything okay?” He must be curious why it’s taking so long and why I’m far from Lucy, but his face is blank.
"I'm waiting for my granddaughter."
His eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch.
“She’s bringing me a tool I need.” I force myself to sound assured, in control. “Please bring her here when she arrives.”
I catch the faintest expression on his face before he closes the door. “Amateur,” his face says clearly.
The next time the door opens, Gabriella walks in slowly.
“Grandma?” she asks to the room, not seeing me leaning against the wall near the door.
“I’m here,” I step towards her.
“What in the world is going on?” Her eyes dart to Lucy and back to me. She shakes her head in confusion.
“Did you ever touch Lucy when you found her?” I ask.
&
nbsp; “I didn’t have the chance.” Her face clouds. “Why?” she asks, suddenly wary.
“I was trying to do her hair, and I felt something.” I look at Lucy. “Something bad.”
"Well she was killed," Gabriella says. I appreciate that she doesn't question my feeling something. Her belief gives me strength. For a split second, I understand what it must be like for her. Knowing things, seeing things, but no one to believe you.
“Not like that,” I hedge. “Can you?”
“Can I touch her?” Gabriella darts her eyes at Lucy again. Fear flickers across her face, then courage. My love for her grows in that instant.
“Just see if I’m right.”
“About?”
“I don’t think the horse killed her.”
The words drop like heavy water in the silence, spread across the room.
Gabriella pulls off her gloves and strides to Lucy. She bows her head and mumbles. “Lord let me see what you need me to see.” Her left hand hovers over Lucy’s forehead and she looks at me. “Guard the door. I don’t want anyone to see this.”
I stand in front of the door and she drops her hand to Lucy.
Her chin flops to her chest and her knees weaken. She doesn't fall, but leans heavily against the prep table. She shakes her head and moans, “Don’t. No, don’t.”
I hate to see her like that. My precious Gabriella reliving a woman’s murder, feeling her pain. I rush over and pull her to me, wrapping her in my arms.
She leans heavily against me, shaking violently. “Come back, Gabriella. Come back.”
Her shaking stops, but she clings, sniffling into my sweater.
“You were right,” she says, straightening. “She was murdered. By a hammer to the head.” She swallows a few times before continuing. “She was in the stall when someone snuck up and hit her. They must have shut the stall door and let the horse finish her off.”
"Oh no," I breathe.
“Left her for me to find.” A visible shudder courses through her.
I hate myself for forcing her to go through this. “I’m sorry I made you come.”
She looks at Lucy again. “I should have seen it before. Or been there to stop it from happening in the first place. It’s the least I can do for her now.”
Two soft raps on the door and the director looks in on us. “I hate to push you, but it’s not good for Ms. Reed to be out so long. Are you almost finished?”
Gabriella turns her head from the director and wipes her face with the sleeve of her coat. “I’ve got to talk to Dustin,” she says. With her eyes on the floor and hidden from the director, she sneaks out.
I glance at Lucy with trepidation, then touch her hair. No visions, no pain. Whatever she needed to say, she told Gabriella. “I’ll be right out,” I tell the director.
I retrieve the forgotten curling iron from where it fell under the prep table and get to work on Lucy’s hair. Her perm is recent and the curls only need a little help.
“She’s just asleep,” I repeat under my breath, working as quickly as possible. “She’s just asleep.”
Chapter 18
Gabby
Emotions pummel me as I escape up the steps and burst into the cold air. Pride that I was able to help Grandma. Pain that I felt from Lucy. Anger that someone killed her. Confusion at what to do with the information.
One word swirls to the top of the boiling mess of emotions.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. You stupid girl, you should have known when you found her. You should have known. Lucy asked for your help and you just left her there without even trying.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I yell inside the privacy of my Charger, pounding my hand against the steering wheel with each word. Slamming until my hand aches.
Images of Lucy’s bloody face cradled against my chest mix with the sterilized face of her prepared body. She’s dead. She’s gone.
I let it happen.
My tires squeal as I pull out of the funeral home parking lot. Not a dignified escape that the location deserves.
Dignity has never been my strong suit.
Once I get myself under enough control to not scream into the phone, I call Dustin.
“Lucy Reed was murdered,” I blurt as soon as he answers. He sighs heavily in response. I’m not in the mood for his attitude. “You can ask Grandma Dot. She’s the one who got the vision first. She felt it when she was doing Lucy’s hair. I just confirmed it.”
“Two psychic visions don’t make a confirmation.” His exasperation rankles.
“You know, Dustin, I’ve had enough of this crap from you,” I snap. “You can either get on board with this psychic thing and or you can lose me forever. I’m tired of trying to please you. I am what I am. Deal with it.”
I’ve shocked him into silence. Shocked myself.
While he struggles to form a response, my tattoo starts to tingle.
Lucy’s house.
I rub my arm. I’ll go, but I need to hear Dustin’s response first.
“How?” he finally says. “How was she killed?”
That was easy. This honesty thing is really working out. “Someone hit her on the head then left her for the horse to finish off.”
“Crap.” He blows out air in frustration. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
The tingle in my arm grows stronger.
“We have a bigger problem,” I tell him. “Lucy and Crystal were murdered by the same person.”
“I’m going to regret this, but how do you know for sure?”
"I smelled them. In Crystal's vision, I smelled perfume like flowery soap. I smelled the same thing with Lucy.”
“Psychic smells now? Gabby, come on.”
“Get on board or jump off. I’m going to Lucy’s house. It has something to tell me.”
I hang up before he can talk me out of it. If I’d paid more attention, I could have saved Lucy. She’s not here to press breaking and entering charges, and, if I’m right, it won’t matter in the end.
The horses in the pasture are startled away from the fence when I plow up Lucy’s driveway. I wonder absently who’s taking care of them now, but push the thought away and park the car. The silence of the house feels imposing in the expanse of Lucy’s glorious property. My blood sings with adrenaline after my phone confrontation with Dustin, but I also feel lighter. I’ve wanted to say those words to Dustin since we were teens, but always held my tongue. I’m done with pretending I’m normal. My brother can love me or not.
Lucas loves me. Grandma loves me.
Dustin can make his own choice.
The chandelier on her front porch creaks ominously above my head. The thick wood of the door blocks my entrance. I try the knob, but no surprise, it’s locked. I need to get into the house. My tattoo repeats Lucy’s house. Lucy’s house.
“I’m here, now give me a minute,” I yell at my arm.
I ram my shoulder into the heavy door the way they do on TV. I bounce off with only a sore shoulder for my troubles.
Rubbing my arm, I survey my options. A picture window elegantly graces the front of the house. Glass is easy to break.
I find a suitable rock in the front flower beds and raise it high to throw against the window.
An approaching car makes me freeze.
Dustin’s here.
I drop the rock guiltily as he rushes down the sidewalk. He looks at the rock by my feet.
“Breaking the window?”
“I need to get inside,” I say meekly.
He leans against a column holding up the second story balcony, crosses his arms on his chest. He strives to look casual, but he practically sizzles with tension.
“Can we talk before you commit a crime?”
“What do you want to talk about?” I hedge, kicking the rock with the toe of my hiking boot.
“Don’t play coy,” he snaps, then continues in a more controlled voice. “I realize that your visions are almost always right. I’ll grant you that. I’ll eve
n go along with this matching smell theory of yours.”
I try to respond, but he holds up a hand to stop me. “Let me finish, or I’ll never say this.” He looks over Lucy’s land, gathering his thoughts. “Do you remember that basketball game from high school?”
His question takes me by surprise, but I play along. "The night the whole town turned on me, but I saved all those lives?" He shoots me a warning look at my sarcasm. "Sorry. Yes, I remember."
“Do you know why I was so upset?”
I’d never thought about it, was just hurt by his dismissal. “No.”
"You didn't care about looking foolish, being seen as a freak." I flinch at the word, but he doesn't notice. "All you cared about was saving everyone. That's how you've always been. Right now, for instance, you have to know what this psychic stuff sounds like. You have to know saying the house has something to tell you sounds crazy.”
I nod silently.
“But you don’t care. You just want to help.”
“Wherever you’re going with this, he’d better hurry or I’ll hit you with this rock.” I toe the rock he saw me drop.
“I’m jealous of you, Gabby,” he states.
“Come on, I’m not in the mood for this.”
“I’m serious. At that game, you saved everyone and you didn’t care how you looked. Do you know why I became a cop? I wanted to help people like you do.” The admission seems to weigh him down. “After that night, I wanted to matter, to be someone. So I became a cop.”
“But you’ve always made fun of me,” I protest.
He pushes off the column and runs his hand over his short hair. "You and Grandma always left me out. I was jealous of your special gift and I hated myself for being jealous. So I focus on facts and details. Then you start solving crimes with this psychic stuff. Think how that makes me feel? My whole life’s dedicated to gathering facts to solve crimes. All you have to do is touch something.”
My head spins with his honesty. “So you don’t hate me?” I sound like a child, but I don’t care.
“Only sometimes.” His face breaks into a smile.
“That’s okay. Sometimes I hate you, too.” I return the smile, happy to be drifting back to normal ground.
Message in the Grave Page 10