Death Stretch (12 page)

Avoiding looking at Dirk's table, I moved toward the counter.

The hunger pangs were gone, but even if they weren't, Flash's presence would ruin any food Dora could serve. Not to mention Dirk, the traitor. Kissing me like the earth moved then cozying up with the skank. Over him, over him, over him.

My unresisting hormones woke up when Dirk slid onto the stool next to mine. I ignored them and him.

“Why do you call her Flash?”

I let him wait for an answer. “Because she's a flash in the pan.” My gaze met his over my coffee cup. “Kind of like certain cops I almost know.”

My modus operandi didn't include feeling jealous anger over a man. Especially a man I didn't really know. One who could arrest me at any moment. My hormones didn't listen to my rationalizations. They wanted to get down and dirty, the sooner the better. I really needed to get a life.

“Look, I have to follow every lead.”

“Really? Flash's lead is to the bedroom. You gonna follow her there, too?”

He grinned, the schmuck. “You're cute when you're jealous.”

“You and Flash have something in common.”

“What's that?”

“You both need to get over yourselves.” I let the silence linger. Why did she harp on me as the murderer? And who was her reliable source? I felt like a target decorated my chest.

Dirk's eyes narrowed. “I wonder the same thing. Someone is working hard to throw attention on you.”

Crap. I really had to learn not to speak my thoughts aloud.

Dirk looked ready to comment when Matt walked in. They exchanged cop looks. “Gotta run.”

I dug for a ringing cell phone and didn't look up. He put his hand on my arm just as the phone stopped ringing. Our gazes tangled.

“Flash is just a source. You're more than that.”

“Oh, really? Like a major suspect? Or just a material witness?”

His look incinerated me without him using a match. “I'll call.”

Dirk left the cafe and my hungry gaze followed him while my heart did a Sound of Music imitation. The cafe owner walked over with a new glass of iced tea.

“Dora, I think I'll have a burger after all. Make that a platter.”

I knew from her smile she wanted to comment on Dirk and my renewed appetite when my phone rang again. Ginger. The connection was barely made when she dropped her bomb.

“I just received another note.”

Dora stood close. I figured she could hear Ginger. “Forget the burger, just load me up with an extra large tea to go.” The café owner walked away with a frown.

“Sweetie, calm down.” I lowered my voice. “What does it say?”

“It's instructions on delivering the money.”

“I'll be right over.”

Chapter Ten

“If I notify the police, Rob's life is in danger.”

Ginger recounted the note’s main point, ignoring the fact that I held it in my hand. She nibbled her cuticle.

The blackmailer had it in for Ginger, no doubt. Why? And how could we handle this pay-off without getting killed?

Even though I'd read the note, I didn't have the sentences memorized like Ginger so I re-read every word. Block printing filled in portions of the demand. Guess the jerk-wad couldn't find all the words he needed already in print.

Pack $250,000 in small bills into a bright red duffle bag. Go to Graceland Cemetery on Poplar Tent Road tomorrow night. At exactly 1:45 am leave the bag on the Augusta Caulfield gravesite. No dye packs. No police. Mess with me and your husband dies.

“Who the hell is Augusta Caulfield?” Ginger didn't answer. “Never mind, her grave is probably located in the deepest, darkest part of the cemetery. The jerk couldn’t make this easy, like, ‘leave a knapsack marked John Smith at the Kannapolis train station’s lost and found counter.’ No, we have to get wired on coffee and nerves to show up in the dead of night. Dead of night. In the cemetery. Geez, I'm giving myself chill bumps.”

Ginger answered with a dull tone. “You aren't going with me.”

“Baloney. I'll hide in the backseat if I have to. You aren't going there alone. End of discussion.”

She grabbed my hand in a vice-like grip. “I can't risk your life or Rob's.”

I wanted to remind her Rob treated her like a hotel maid, but I kept quiet. My friend loved a man who made a Polar Bear look warm and fuzzy. All I could do was stand by her. And ride shotgun to the drop off. That wasn't optional.

“Have you thought about how you'll get that kind of cash together overnight?”

She nodded. “Ben Winchester at the bank owes me a favor. I alerted him when you told me about the note Detective Johnson confiscated, and he's got the bills ready. I'll get the money in the morning.”

“You're not going alone. I don't want this guy to pull a switch and hit you over the head when you come out of the bank.”

Ginger smiled, the first happy expression I'd seen on her face in too long. “Ben is delivering the cash here, so stop worrying.”

“What time?”

“What?”

“When is the money delivery? I've never seen that much cash in one place. I thought I'd play with it before you hand it over.”

She gave me the rolled eye I deserved. “Be here at noon. We'll have salad.”

****

I showed at noon, but the lettuce Ginger had waiting didn't feature Ben Franklin's face. A substantial-sized metal suitcase stood next to the table, and my hands itched to open the case, just for a look at a quarter mil in small bills. I lifted the suitcase, surprised at the weight.

“Geez, I didn't know cash could be so heavy.” I shut my mouth and mentally kicked myself. Worry weighed heavier than the cash with a life on the line.

“What's this about cash?” Rob walked in. Based on Ginger's reaction, she didn't expect him for lunch. His glance took in the metal suitcase then moved to Ginger.

“Oh, I was just saying I need to get some cash for our shopping trip.” I prayed that'd fly.

He pointed to the suitcase resting at my feet. “Going somewhere?”

“What? Oh, no, um, that's some equipment for work. It, um, has a special battery and I didn't think it should stay in the car. You know, because it could get overheated and burn out.” Sheesh. That sounded iffy even to me.

“Oh, right.” He focused on the case a bit too long then turned to Ginger. “Got something ready for lunch?”

I went into a slow burn. The guy came home unannounced and expected immediate lunch? I'd known Rob longer than the six years he and Ginger had been married, and couldn’t believe his actions. His blond haired, blue-eyed All-American good looks hid the devil, plain and simple.

“I've got a salad ready, if you don't mind sharing. Otherwise I can make you a sandwich or heat up last night's pot roast, or—”

“Never mind.” Rob's gruff interruption surprised me. “I don't have much time. The salad will have to do.” He sat at the place Ginger had set for herself and picked up a fork. “We have any Ranch dressing?”

Ginger found some in the fridge and sat at the table.

“You're not eating?” When she shrugged, he placed a big helping in his bowl. “More for me, then.”

Not looking at me, he ate like a pig denied the trough for a week. If he didn't start treating Ginger better, he wouldn't have a week more. I'd see to it myself. Shoot. That wasn’t the best thought to entertain, but I promised Ginger I'd have her back. I kept my promises even versus a man I’d considered a friend for years.

Not that the evil entity sitting at the table was the Rob I knew and used to love. I hadn't seen him lately. The ill-tempered and rude man with salad dressing on his chin seemed the exact opposite of the man Ginger married. Either he was stressed to the max or he'd turned into a self-absorbed a-hole. I wouldn't give odds for choice number one.

Could this Rob murder someone? I scrutinized his face while he ate. He had new wrinkles and deep frown lines in his forehead. His athlete's body had turned a tad flabby and there were silver streaks at his temples. Clearly, the man wasn't happy. Could stress lead to murder? He looked at me as if he could tell I weighed his behavior and found him lacking. I glimpsed an expression of deep-seated pain that disappeared faster than I could comprehend the look.

I ducked my head and picked at my salad. Somehow I couldn't see Rob as a murderer, not even if he or his family were threatened. Maybe if he was pinned to the wall, yeah.

His attention rested on the metal case and a thoughtful expression flitted across his face. Blackmail? That actually seemed likely, and a chill ran down my spine. Maybe Rob schemed with someone else, the real killer. Did he want to leave Ginger and needed a chunk of change to finance his new life? Crap. Ginger would be devastated.

The greens on my plate now resembled compost. I put down my fork and gulped iced tea, but even God's Gift to the South didn't relieve a sandy dry throat. Clearly the marriage floundered, and I couldn't help feeling I had dropped the ball along the way. Friends don't let friends lose husbands they want to keep.

****

We were on our way to the Graceland Cemetery shortly after midnight. I hoped we didn't see Elvis.

Graceland abutted I-85. The main cemetery gates were locked at dusk, but being natives, we knew a side way in. We parked to the side of an interstate entrance ramp. The unofficial turnoff used by truckers for quick snooze time seemed a perfect place to stash the car.

We emerged from Ginger’s vehicle to the accompaniment of tree frogs, crickets and late night traffic. We let our eyes acclimate to the available light and then pushed into the brush blocking the dearly departed's view of the interstate. A soft mist swirled through the trees. An owl hooted, a mouse squeaked, and the sound of wings told me a raptor had snagged takeout grub for the kids. Hollywood couldn't have done a better job setting a scary scene, and we hadn't even reached the cemetery proper.

Leaves, still heavy with raindrops from an evening shower, slapped us as we moved closer to our target. I stumbled over exposed roots. “Damn it. Who put that root there?”

“The same person who wanted you to alert anyone in a one-mile radius that you’re here.”

Ginger’s steadying grasp kept me from tripping a second time. We could see a clearing ahead, but the partial moonlight didn't provide much illumination. Wet from the foliage, sticky with humidity and not at all partial to the meeting place, my good humor disintegrated. Two more stumbles and a wet bush later, we hunkered at the wood’s edge.

We’d come over earlier and located Miss Caulfield's grave by checking with the cemetery office. The place looked different in the daylight. Now the harmless artificial flower arrangements scattered across the rolling lawns looked menacing—demonic silk bouquets poised to trip the unwary and drag a human-sized meal underground. Clouds moved in and hid the moon.

I pulled my lightweight jacket closer and turned on my superhero flashlight. The batteries were weak and the yellow circle of light burned faint. The tool didn't throw back the dark the way a caped crusader light should. Ginger turned on her pinpoint mag light, helping but not resolving the problem.

“Do you remember how to get to Miss Caulfield's grave?”

Ginger's voice shook. “She should be three rows down from the angel statue.”

We started off, and even though Ginger moved no more than two feet from me, I couldn't see her behind the circle of light.

The small cemetery seemed gigantic in the dark. We walked toward the angel monument, just down from the veteran's memorial and catty-corner from the bell tower. The taller statue and structures should have been easy to find, but the century old oaks effectively cloaked everything. I heard a soft exhalation and turned, still moving. Ginger walked close and seemed uninjured, but I stumbled into the cypress hedge. My clumsiness had an element of good luck because the hedge pointed toward the veteran's memorial.

We worked our way to the end and clicked off our flashlights. Our eyes grew accustomed to the filtered light. There was no movement, no night bird flight, no Elvis. I adjusted the heavy duffle bag I had strapped to my back, and inched out of cover.

Graceland Cemetery consisted of an odd hybrid of modest weather-beaten memorial stones, eerie crypts and bronze markers settled into the ground. My feet were completely wet when we found the designated grave. I shifted from one foot to another. Shaking my shoes didn't work. They were soaked and staying that way.

Miss Caulfield was interred in a section of low gravestones surrounded by flat bronze markers. I felt uncomfortable, almost targeted, in an area with very little cover.

Ginger played her light over the gravestone.

Augusta Caulfield

1900-1999

She Keeps Company With Angels

The stone was pretty, with wings feathering her name. Someone had extended the angel theme by centering a small plastic celestial messenger on the memorial stone. Dang. She’d died just short of the century mark. Miss Caulfield would turn in her casket if she knew her grave had become the site of criminal activity. I hoped the angels didn't clue her in. And I hoped we didn't have the chance to speak with Augusta for a good many years.

Three gravesites over, the Rose of Sharon bushes rustled. Ginger and I exchanged glances. Fearful grimaces probably described our expressions best, not that we used a mirror to check. Neither of us wanted to know what animal caused the rustling. Ginger flashed the light on her watch. One-thirty five. Almost show time.

My wet feet signaled my bladder to find a bathroom. “Ginger, I gotta pee.”

“I told you not the drink that last cappuccino. You know, if you drank fewer liquids, you wouldn't have to remember where all the bathrooms are everywhere we go. You'll have to hold it. It's not time to leave the bag.”