Death Notice (29 page)

“I know who they are,” Lucas said. “They were the two guys that got murdered. I read it in the
Gazette.
But I didn’t do it.”

Nick ignored him, asking, “Where did you learn about embalming?”

“What?”

“They teach you that in prison?”

“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nick swatted the juice off the table. Lucas made a fumbling attempt to catch it, arms stretching out uselessly as the handcuffs clattered together. The can hit the floor spinning, burping out juice in an expanding puddle.

“You have to give me something to drink,” Lucas said. “I know my rights.”

“Speaking of rights,” Nick said, opening the Coke. “Do you have an attorney? If not, you might want to get one. A good one.”

He lifted the can of Coke to his mouth and took a long, slow swallow. Lucas licked his cracked lips, an expression of longing in his eyes.

“Tastes good,” Nick said. “You can have the rest after you tell me why you chose those two people. Was there some sort of logic to it? Some special meaning?”

“I didn’t do it, man. I don’t know how many times I can tell you.”

“Who’s next on your list? That’s what we really want to know.”

Lucas shook his head. “What list? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

In a flash, the Coke joined the orange juice on the floor. As the two liquids mixed to form a fizzing brown swill on the linoleum, Nick pushed himself up from the table.

He crossed the room to the vending machine and purchased two cans of orange juice. Opening one, he handed it to Lucas, who chugged it like an alcoholic in a beer commercial. He placed the other can in front of him before sitting down again.

“Now that you’ve whet your whistle, maybe you can start talking.”

Lucas downed the first can and started to work on the second. Between sips, he said, “I didn’t kill those guys. You gotta believe me.”

“I called the state penitentiary in Camp Hill this morning,” Nick said. “You familiar with it?”

Lucas belched in Nick’s direction. It was a weak attempt to prove that he was still a badass. Nick ignored it.

“I know you were at Camp Hill, Lucas,” he continued. “I spoke to the warden. Want to know what he told me?”

“That I served my time without a problem.”

“Actually, he did. He also said you helped in the prison morgue. Is that true?”

Lucas’s silence all but confirmed that he had.

“What did you learn there?” Nick asked. “Embalming?”

“A little.”

“Did you learn the difference between the jugular vein and the carotid artery?”

“Yeah.” Lucas raised the orange juice to his lips and took a sip. “That doesn’t mean I killed those people.”

“If you didn’t, then you can at least point us in the right direction. You’re going back to prison no matter what. If you help us, we’ll take it easy on you.”

Lucas sneered from over the juice can. “And what if I don’t?”

“You’ll be sentenced to life in prison.”

Because he had said it so casually, it took Lucas a moment to comprehend Nick’s words. When he did, he lowered the juice and started sputtering in panic. “But—but you can’t do that.”

“Then tell me how many people hired you to bury them like that.”

“I don’t know. Maybe a dozen.”

“Would you be able to describe them? Any of them?”

“Possibly. The one before last night was some whiny chick and her boyfriend.”

“I know about them,” Nick said. “What about any of the others?”

Lucas rubbed his forehead. “I’m thinking.”

Nick stood again, smiling as the grave digger tried to edge his chair as far away from the table as the ankle cuff would allow. Nick walked behind Lucas and clamped both hands on his shoulders. Lucas attempted to squirm out of his grip but was held firmly in place.

“Where did you get the coffin you used to bury those people?” Nick asked. “I’m sure it wasn’t a souvenir from prison.”

“I bought it.”

“From where?”

“Does it really matter?”

“It might,” Nick said. “You can’t just run into Wal-Mart and buy one.”

“I got it from some guy. He sold it to me really cheap if I promised to give him a cut of whatever money I made.”

Nick added pressure to Lucas’s shoulders, causing him to sink slowly in the chair. “Let’s make a deal, Lucas. If you tell us who sold you that coffin, we’ll let you go. We’ll forget about your side job in the cemetery, granted you promise not to do it again. How does that sound?”

“The guy’s name is Bob,” Lucas said.

“Bob who?”

“Bob McNeil.”

Henry felt a pair of lips brush his earlobe.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” a voice whispered. “It’s morning.”

He rolled onto his side, trying in vain to delay the inevitable moment when he had to get out of bed.

“Just five more minutes.”

“You said that five minutes ago.” Deana climbed on top of him in an effort to rouse him. “This time you have to get up.”

She was right. It was morning, and that meant getting ready for another day at the
Gazette
. Deana also had work obligations, in the form of Troy Gunzelman’s wake. But even though Henry knew they had to get out of bed at some point, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get up.”

Deana remained on top of him. “You have to kiss me first.”

Henry pecked her lightly on both cheeks and her forehead.

“Was that acceptable?”

“Not really,” she replied teasingly.

“Then let’s try this.”

Wrapping his arms around Deana’s lithe frame, Henry rolled until he was on top of her. His open mouth was instantly upon hers, kissing her so deeply that soft moans formed in the back of her throat. When they finally broke away, Henry was aroused and Deana was breathless.

“That was much better,” she said.

“I’m glad you approve.”

He approved, too. Five years was a long time to go without the touch of a woman, and Henry was surprised by how much he missed it. Deana awakened a desire he thought had vanished long ago. And when he finally did crawl out of bed, it was with extreme reluctance.

He got dressed quickly, knowing speed would be the only thing that propelled him from the safe confines of Deana’s bedroom. If he lingered, he was likely to be drawn right back into bed, taking Deana with him. And that wouldn’t be good for either of them.

Yet on his way out, Henry paused at a photograph hanging by the door. He hadn’t noticed it during the night. There had been other things to focus on. But in the morning light he found himself fascinated by the picture. It depicted a little girl and a little boy standing with two adults in front of the very house he was now occupying.

“Is that you?” he asked, pointing to the girl.

Deana crept up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. “That’s me. Little Deana. I think I was nine when that was taken.”

Although clad in a frilly pink dress, the girl in the photograph was already showing signs of the woman she’d eventually become. Henry saw the same bright eyes, the kind smile.

Deana pointed to the boy. “And that’s little Martin.”

“And these are your parents?”

“They are. I think they would have liked you.”

Mrs. Swan was pretty, with teased hair and a slim figure. She held the hand of Deana’s father, a tall, powerfully built man with jet-black hair and pale skin. Although his facial features were strong, they were overshadowed by a scar that cut through the left side of his face.

“Was that from the first mill accident?” Henry asked.

Deana nodded as she reached out from behind him and touched the photograph.

“He was so self-conscious about it. The rest of us didn’t care. We still thought he was the most handsome person in the world.”

“Is that what drew you to me?” Henry turned around and kissed her. “My scar?”

“No,” Deana said. “It’s the way you deal with it. I know what people say about you. I know how mean they can be. But, as with my father, I can see past it, at the man you truly are.”

They kissed again, more forcefully. But before it got too heated, Henry broke it off.

“I need to go.”

Leaving Deana alone in her bedroom, Henry descended the stairs. When he reached the front door, he saw a small den just off the living room. Something else he had failed to notice during the night.

Henry craned his neck to peek inside. Like the rest of the house, the den looked warm and tidy. He glimpsed more books, more plants, and the edge of an antique desk that sat next to a window.

He stepped inside, the floorboards lightly creaking under his weight as the desk came into full view. Another framed family portrait sat on top of it, this time missing a father. Next to that was a telephone, also antique. And sitting beside it, quite unexpectedly, was a blue jay.

Startled by its presence, it took Henry a moment to realize the bird was stuffed and mounted onto a piece of bark. He saw another animal on the floor—a rabbit looking ready to nibble one of the houseplants. On the wall opposite the desk was a deer head. A single cobweb stretched between its antlers.

“I see you’ve met Bambi.”

It was Deana, who had entered the den unnoticed.

“I call the bird Tweety,” she said. “The rabbit is Thumper.”

“Where did you get these?”

Deana looked more than a little chagrined as she said, “They’re bizarre, I know. But they belonged to my father.”

Henry knelt before the stuffed rabbit. It was so lifelike it was eerie. He didn’t know if he wanted to pet it or run away from it.

“He was a hunter?”

“A big hunter,” Deana said. “And he stuffed them himself, something the rest of us found barbaric. But I can’t get rid of them. I tried once but just couldn’t do it. As strange as it sounds, they remind me of him.”

She held out her hand and Henry took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet and out of the den. In the foyer, they kissed again, just as passionately as they had upstairs. The kiss was so strong and the attraction between them so palpable that Henry found himself hoping with all his might that Deana was telling the truth.

When Kat reached the funeral home, she discovered that talking to Bob McNeil wasn’t going to be easy. A crowd had gathered
there. A huge one. Sheathed in black, they loitered on the lawn, weighed down the front porch, and filled the foyer to capacity.

Nick Donnelly would have had no problem parting the crowd. But Nick wasn’t there. He had decided to stay with Lucas Hatcher until after they got Bob McNeil’s side of the story. If it panned out, then Lucas was a free man. If it turned out he was lying, then the state police would be calling his parole officer.

The only problem was finding Bob McNeil. After squeezing through the cluster of people on the funeral home’s porch, Kat had to push her way across the foyer. When she reached the viewing room, she at last understood the reason for the crowd—she had just crashed the viewing for Troy Gunzelman.

Laid out in a casket, hands folded over his chest, he looked better than when Kat last saw him, in another coffin in a far different location. His face had more color, and the black suit he had been dressed in covered up the gash in his neck. But he was just as dead as when she found him on Lake Squall, just as tragically lifeless.

Surrounding the casket, seated in rows of folding chairs, was a parade of familiar faces—Alma Winnick, Jasper Fox, Adrienne Wellington. Martin Swan hovered next to his sister, carrying his ubiquitous reporter’s notebook. All of them wore the same expression. It was fear mixed with anger, worry tinged with disappointment.

Kat knew they were fearful and suspicious. She also knew they blamed her for not finding the killer yet. No one said this to her outright. Folks remained as polite as always. Some nodded in her direction. Others offered small waves. But Kat knew the way Perry Hollow worked, and as soon as she passed, the whispering started.