A Grave Issue Page 8

  The key ring had a logo and a name on it: Pluma Vista Storage. Someone had written a number on it with a Sharpie. I crawled out from underneath the desk and sat down in the chair again. Just because the key ring said Pluma Vista Storage didn’t mean that the key was to a storage unit. It sure implied it, though, and the key was definitely the type that fit a padlock.

  Why would Dad have needed a storage unit? Turner Family Funeral Home was big. There was a ton of space to store things. I should know. Pretty much all the belongings I’d amassed since leaving here were in a corner of the basement and there was still plenty of room.

  I slid the key into my pocket and left the room. I walked down the hallway and across to where Donna was. “Did Dad ever mention anything to you about a storage space?”

  She shook her head. “Why would he have one of those?”

  “My question exactly.” I pulled out the key. “I found this in his desk drawer.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why were you going through his desk drawers?”

  I sat down on the floor next to the couch. “I was seeing if Dad was keeping a stash of those charms. I didn’t remember seeing any, so I went looking.”

  “And instead you found a key?” she asked, her crochet hook slowing a tiny bit.

  “Yeah. What do you think?” I had an uneasy feeling. Maybe our dad wasn’t the open book we thought he was.

  “I think that nearly everyone I know has a stash of miscellaneous keys around. It might not mean anything.” She paused. “But we should probably double-check. Make sure there’s nothing we’re supposed to be dealing with.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” I said. It hadn’t been, but it was as good an excuse as any to take a look inside it. It would have to wait, though. I had something more pressing to look into. Someone had written “Die, Banker. Die” on the door of the Verbena Union, and then the banker had died. Was there a connection? Had Luke Butler even bothered to look into it? I sincerely doubted it. He hadn’t looked into anything once he found that gun in the pond. He’d slapped the cuffs on Kyle and washed his hands of the whole thing. Well, I wasn’t afraid to get my hands dirty. In fact, I liked it.

  I palmed the key and said, “Need anything?” to Donna.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  Something in her tone of voice made me pause. “Are you sure? You sound a little puny.” Puny had been one of our grandfather’s words, he of the blessed heart attack. It encompassed everything from a head cold to a hangover.

  She looked up from her crocheting and smiled. “Not in the least bit puny. Stop worrying.”

  “Okay. I’m right across the hall if you need me.” I went back to my room. I dropped the key into the little heart-shaped bowl on my dresser and climbed onto the bed with my laptop.

  My next step was to take a look at the police logs online. Most of the calls that the police department had gone out on would be listed there. It shouldn’t take long to find out if the bank had reported the vandalism. I found the website and started coasting through the log. Someone had reported a possible intruder in the 300 block of Dove Lane. I frowned. That was Jasmine’s street. There’d been a drunk and disorderly out on Highway 157. That was by the Green Owl Tavern and totally to be expected. One car broken into over on Plover Street and tools stolen from a shed on Kingfisher Avenue. Then I hit it: “Police respond to report of vandalism at Verbena Union Bank.” Then there wasn’t another mention. If any investigation followed, it wasn’t showing up here.

  It was something to follow up on. Something I could do to help clear Kyle’s name. I called Lola and stretched while I listened to the phone ring. I’d been tensed up all day about the Tennant funeral. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth. I really needed it to go as close to perfectly as it could. I didn’t want to screw it up for so many reasons. I wanted their good-bye to be as good a memory for them as it could be, and I didn’t want to disappoint Donna. Plus, I was getting a little tired of being a failure.

  Finally Lola answered the phone. “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “As well as can be expected.” Her voice sounded small.

  “I have a few questions for you. Do you feel up to it?” I pulled a pad of paper out of my desk drawer and found a pen.

  “If you think it might help get Kyle out of jail, then I’m up for anything.”

  I smiled. That sounded more like the Lola I knew and loved. “Who knew you had a gun?”

  She paused. “Nearly everyone. It’s pretty common out here.”

  She was right about that. “Okay. How many people would know how to get into the house?”

  “Pretty much anyone who tried the door. Kyle’s terrible about locking it.”

  This wasn’t getting me my list to help narrow people down. On the other hand, that meant that I wouldn’t have to eliminate many suspects. “What about the gun cabinet? Would people have known where that was?”

  “Anybody who’d ever been on the porch would have seen it. We mainly used the gun to kill rattlesnakes and things like that. It always made sense to keep it near the deck and outdoors. You wouldn’t even have to come inside to see it. It’s visible from the garden.”

  We hung up. My second call was to Carol Burston. “Hi, Carol. It’s Desiree Turner. The other day when you were up at Cold Clutch, did you happen to see anybody hanging around my car?”

  “Which day?” she asked.

  I told her.

  She thought for a moment. “Oh. Was that the day that the gray Element was there too?”

  My pulse quickened. “Yes, it was. Do you know whose car it was?”

  “No. It just struck me as funny. Your dad loved those cars. Swore by them. I always thought they were a little weird with those funky doors. So it was funny to see yours there with another one almost exactly like it. Why are you asking?”

  “Nothing, really. Someone left something on the car. Nothing bad. A little gift. I was trying to figure out who it was so I could thank them.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t see a person. Just the car.”

  We hung up. I’d written nothing down on my notepad. I knew from my reporting days that there were always dead ends, threads you’d follow that ended up leading nowhere, connections that ended up being coincidences. This felt like the opposite of that. Every avenue I walked down seemed to open up to more avenues. I needed to narrow things down.

  Lots of people hated Alan. I’d have to start looking at them one at a time.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Verbena Free Press

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 17

  Funeral Services Scheduled for Murder Victim

  A viewing and funeral services have been scheduled for Alan Brewer. Mr. Brewer died on Saturday from a gunshot wound. His neighbor, Kyle Hansen, is currently awaiting arraignment in relation to that crime.

  The viewing will be held at the Turner Family Funeral Home. It will be followed by a graveside service at Lawn of Heaven Cemetery and then a reception and celebration of life at the Civic Center in downtown Verbena.

  Contact Assistant Funeral Director Desiree Turner at Turner Family Funeral Home with questions or concerns at 555-2489.

  Alan Brewer’s viewing was the biggest event I ever remember seeing at Turner Family Funeral Home, bigger even than Dad’s memorial service. It was beyond standing room only. People spilled out into the lobby and into the front lawn. I hesitate to call them all mourners.

  There were definitely a few who seemed sad, but the notoriety of his death had drawn quite a few people who probably normally wouldn’t attend this kind of service. Olive, Henrietta, and Grace were outraged. Luckily, they had arrived early, or I probably wouldn’t have been able to save them their customary seats.

  “Who are all these people, Desiree?” Grace whispered to me.

  “People here to say good-bye to Alan?” I suggested. “People here to comfort Rosemarie in this difficult time?”

  She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Please! Most of these people wo
uldn’t have recognized Alan if they’d seen him walking down the street. A bunch of lookie-loos. They’re here because it’s murder.” I felt like there was some hypocrisy in there somewhere but decided not to pursue it.

  “Who doesn’t like a murder?” Henrietta asked.

  “The victim?” I suggested.

  That got a snort from Henrietta, which then turned into a coughing fit. After I brought her a glass of water—I didn’t want her to turn into another customer while we still had a viewing going on—I continued to circulate, making sure that everything was being done the way Rosemarie had wanted.

  Uncle Joey had done an amazing job on Alan’s forehead. If you looked at it at the right (or possibly wrong) angle, you could see a depression, but you certainly would never guess that it had been a bullet hole. He was just the right amount of pink, and his hair looked terrific. People filed by, murmuring to each other. It didn’t seem like anybody would be reaching in or doing anything like that, but I kept an eye on how things were going anyway. People could surprise you.

  I saw one woman slide out her phone and take a quick, sneaky picture of Alan in the casket. I might not have noticed if I hadn’t used the same technique a time or two when I was working as a reporter. A quick slip of the phone out of the pocket, never raise it higher than your waist, click off a bunch of shots, and hope what you want is framed in the photo. I started toward her to make sure she didn’t get even more inappropriate, but she’d moved on by the time I made my way through the crowd to her. She certainly didn’t look like someone who would make a scene at a funeral. She looked like a nice little old lady. Short white hair. Rockport shoes. It made me uneasy, though. It was one step on that slippery slope. Once you got away with taking a photo of the corpse in the casket, you might get drunk at the reception and announce that you’d borne Alan’s love child or try to swipe the pocket square from Alan’s chest as some kind of grisly souvenir. It was a murder, and murder made people act in strange ways. That’s part of what made murders so damn interesting.

  Nothing else interesting happened at the viewing, though. The pallbearers lined up. I recognized the young man from the bank whom I’d nicknamed Pierced Eyebrow as well as a few other stalwarts of the business community. I was relieved. Everyone looked strong. I’ve occasionally been worried about the pallbearers collapsing on their way to the hearse, where Uncle Joey waits for them. Not this time, though.

  After Alan was carried out, everyone else left and moved in the general direction of the Lawn of Heaven Cemetery except Olive, Henrietta, and Grace. The ground was too uneven for them anymore.

  The graveside service went smoothly. Pastor Campbell said his usual stuff about heaven and read the usual psalm. I didn’t think Alan and Rosemarie were big churchgoers, and he didn’t appear to know them well. He did a fine job anyway. It was all a little generic but appropriate.

  Then everyone left for the reception Rosemarie was holding at the Civic Center. I stayed to make sure everything continued to go smoothly. By myself. Nobody becomes an assistant funeral director to make friends. People don’t want to come to see you when this is your profession. If they’re coming to see you, something sad has happened. Someone with whom they have a connection, whether good or bad, is gone. While your heart may be filled with love and respect for humanity, it’s a lonely job. I didn’t mind.

  Verbenaites have been buried at Lawn of Heaven for decades. The cemetery was tied to the town’s history. My great-grandpa, founder of Turner Family Funeral Home, was buried here. He came to Verbena, California, in the late 1800s. Post–gold rush, but only just. He’d traveled west from Missouri with an actual wagon train. On the way, he’d become pretty handy with making repairs and, sadly, at burying bodies. When he got to Verbena, nobody was making caskets and burying people. He set up shop on Blackbird Street, married Alta Osgood, the schoolmistress—Dad said Donna and I got our bookish side from her—and had one son, my grandfather. Grandpa took over and then passed the home down to my father and my uncle.

  Piero Tappiano, founder of Tappiano’s winery, was buried here too. He’d come about the same time as my great-grandfather. He’d started out as a field hand on a wheat farm. Then he married his boss’s daughter and started planting whatever he wanted, including grapes. The first wine he’d made had been for family and friends, but word had spread. Pretty soon he’d stopped planting wheat at all.

  If you came on Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day, you’d see flags waving all around the cemetery on the graves of the many Verbenaites who had served. In a few days, the high school history club would place flowers on the graves of the victims of the 1913 fire.

  My mother was here. My dad’s plot—although, of course, not my dad—was here. It struck me as a little ironic that a person who dedicated his life to helping others dispose of their earthly remains couldn’t have his disposed of because we didn’t know where they were.

  Even with all that connection to the town and its history, there’s a special kind of loneliness after the ceremony is over and everyone has left and you’re the one staying to make sure the last details are done correctly.

  Or, at least, there usually is.

  The gravediggers finished with Alan’s grave. They lowered the casket into the ground, removed the Astroturf that had covered the mounds of dirt, and filled the grave back in. They left, and the peculiarly solitary feeling of an empty cemetery returned. I leaned against the tree, letting its strength seep into my bones while sheltering in its shade. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but it was long enough for the solitary feeling to change to one of serenity. It was nice. I needed a little more serenity in my life.

  Actually, I needed a lot more serenity.

  I was just about to leave when movement caught my eye. Marie Ruiz from the Cut ’n’ Curl was making her way across the soft ground to Alan’s newly filled-in burial site. Marie was a good-looking woman in her early forties. Blonde and busty with creamy skin, she was a great advertisement for her own services. I didn’t remember her being at the viewing or the service, but it had been really crowded. She stomped across the grass, a look of determination on her face. I was about to call out to her, to let her know that most of the mourners had already gone to the Civic Center, when she spat on the grave and said, “And stay down.”

  She turned and stomped away.

  So much for serenity, but on the other hand, I’d found someone specific who clearly hated Alan a lot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Civic Center wasn’t exactly elegant. It was a much newer addition to the town than the buildings that went up right after the fire. It had that seventies feel to it like the bank. It was a square box of a building with tile floors and squinty little windows. No beautiful arches. No clay tiles. No brick details. It was, however, well air-conditioned, had easy parking, and had apparently resolved its squirrel issue. Rosemarie had rented the newly reopened main hall for the wake. While we were all at the graveside, the caterers had set up the portrait and the guest book from the funeral home. I stopped in mainly as a courtesy. My work was done. I parked my car in the corner of the lot in a shaded spot and walked toward the building.

  I slipped into the room, staying to the edges, to make sure the caterers had set up the portrait and guest book appropriately. I shouldn’t have worried. Rosemarie had hired Susan from Easy as Pie Caterers. Susan was a pro. She’d no sooner mess up a wake than become a bikini model, and she liked her own pie a little too much for that. Bikinis are overrated anyway. Pie, however, is always good.

  Chairs had been set up in groupings around round tables draped with simple white cloths. Food was on long tables around the edges of the room, and the bar (wine and beer only) was over in the corner. Classical music was being piped in to the room. It sounded Mozart-y to me, but I wasn’t sure. I circulated briefly around the room as I’d seen my dad do before. I checked in with Rosemarie to see if she needed anything.

  She sat at a table with three other women. Someone had put a glass of wine i
n her hand, and she was sipping at it absently. At the very least, it had brought some color to her milky pale cheeks. A plate with a tea sandwich and some cookies sat at her elbow untouched. I was glad to see that someone had made sure to get her some food and drink and that she had some people to support her. She’d been alone every time I’d seen her since Alan died. No one should have to go through burying a spouse alone. “I wanted to check to see if you needed anything else from me, Rosemarie,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “Thanks, but I think we’ve got it from here.”

  “Okay, then. Let me know if that changes.” I put my hand over hers briefly.

  She looked at my hand and then back up at me as if she’d just realized I was there. “Oh, Desiree. Thanks for that information about the passwords. It really helped.”

  “No problem, Rosemarie.”

  I did a quick survey of the room to see if there was anyone else I wanted or needed to talk to or anyone I needed to guide away. Marie Ruiz was not there. My sneaky paparazzi wasn’t either. A lot of other people were, though. Alan might not have been well liked, but he was apparently prominent enough that people felt they had to come to pay their respects.

  People from the bank gathered around one table. I recognized Johanna, the teller who’d helped me the day before, and Sophie Byrd, another teller. My teller friend leaned over and whispered something to Sophie, who tried to stifle a laugh. Luckily, the buzz of people talking in the room was mainly enough to mask it, although Johanna saw it and gave them both a big old dose of side eye for it. The two tellers exchanged a glance, and Sophie giggled again.

  The business community had definitely turned out for Alan, which made sense. He had been pretty active in the Verbena Downtown Business Association (or VDBA, as it was known). They were ranged around the room. I saw Monique, who was using a napkin to carefully wipe the dirt from the spike of one of her high heels. People always forgot how spongy the ground at the cemetery could be. Wedge heels were always a better choice. Or slides. I thought I saw a flash of red sole but then decided I must have been mistaken. No way a waitress at Cold Clutch was wearing Louboutins, even with the extra moonlighting at Tappiano’s in the evenings. Even a good knock-off would have set her back quite a bit. No wonder she was cleaning them so carefully.