Expiration Date (57 page)

“In half an hour,” her director called out, “the cloggers will be rehearsing on this stage. This is it, folks. Our last practice. Let’s work out the kinks, shake off the nerves. That’s right. Loosen up, and let’s have some fun.”

Mylisha gathered with her troupe. Took her place beside Father Patrick.

She was touching down her foot, starting to spin, when she spotted Henna.

The blond woman was on a top bleacher, outfitted in bracelets and a shawl laced with shiny threads. Her eyes were closed. Head back. Mouth parted.

Mylisha stopped in midstep. She came down squarely on both feet. With the sun beating down on the bonnet, she stared at this woman who had brought such pain. She thought of Shanique. Of Summer Svenson. Of Clay Ryker. In a blur her thoughts and emotions spun, then came to an abrupt halt, with the fabric of deceit swishing about her in the same manner as her Scandinavian gown. Cringing, her head filled with the image of Clay’s dad, Gerald Ryker.

He was there! He knows what happened. Why didn’t I think of him weeks ago?

Mylisha decided it was time to contact Sergeant Turney.

Her thoughts cleared in time to see Henna staring at her. Henna’s smug expression was that of a woman guarding dangerous secrets, and the cell phone she lifted to her ear was her co-conspirator.

Clay peeled off his canvas glove and answered on the second ring.

“Clay, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Oh. Hi, Henna.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was hoping it was Jenni.”

“Your ex? You still talk with her? My understanding is that she’s not returning your calls of late.”

Clay’s ribs formed a fist around his lungs. He could hardly breathe. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Do you know where she is?”

“Obviously you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t need to ask.”

“Are we still meeting tonight, Henna?”

“I certainly hope so, for the sake of your loved ones.”

“Just tell me where. I’m too tired for innuendos and threats.”

“My place. On Lovelake.”

Clay saw Mr. Blomberg striding his direction across the warehouse floor. He held the phone against his shoulder, slipped his glove back on. “I don’t get off work till six.” He leaned down, pretending to be focused on the headstone before him.

“We’ll be waiting for you at eight. No sooner. And don’t worry about bringing the items I requested just yet. We’ll save that for later. This will be our excuse for a friendly reunion, nothing more or less.”

Blomberg slapped a meaty hand on Clay’s shoulder. “I’ll be waitin’ for you in my office after lunch. That is, if you’re not too busy yakkin’ on your blasted phone.”

“Yes sir.”

The big man shoved his way through the exit.

Clay lifted the receiver again, gathered strength. “Tell me. I’ve gotta know. Did he really survive, Henna? Is Bill Scott alive?”

“Hmm. That’s a relative term, is it not? After what you did, he has no life.”

Digs saw Clay’s approach, lifted his goggles so that white eyebrows sprang free. Sweat droplets outlined the ring of granite dust around his face. He
studied Clay’s face. Wrapped an arm over his shoulders. Drew him to the far end of the sandblasting hut.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want,” Clay told him.

“That’s about enough o’ your nonsense. Ain’t one person I’d rather help.”

“Sure it won’t get you in trouble?”

“At my age? With my past? Nah. Won’t be no trouble at all.”

“Hey, Digs, you could come with me.”

The man pursed his lips, spit dust on the floor. “Now who would Wendy dance with if not an ol’ codger like myself? My schedule’s plumb full. This one’s all yours, Ryker. That’s the way of it.” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear, scrawled a line of numbers on a notepad, double-checked it before delivering them to Clay.

“These’re the right ones?”

“Been, oh, a coupla years, but that’s them, all right.” Digs tapped his head with the pencil’s eraser. “Got ’em locked up tight in here.”

“I might not be back.”

“Don’tcha be talkin’ like that.”

“I mean, I might not be back here.” Clay frowned. “Blomberg wants me in his office after lunch. I think today’s my last day on the job.”

“Your last day, eh? You shoulda told me you were dyin’ to get outta here.”

Clay groaned. “That’s not even funny.”

“Hmm. Well, sometimes there ain’t nothin’ ya can do but laugh.”

8.1.3.0.4 …
Wendy, Digs, Mylisha, and Father Patrick.

Tomorrow four people within his circle of acquaintances would be joining the festivities downtown. Each was marked for death. Each was scheduled to dance in the “Hardanger Wedding” evening performance.

Nine o’clock at Festival Park Stage. Friday, August 13. What were the odds?

Then of course there were his son and his own father.

And Kate Preston. Where did she fit in?

Clay swallowed a dry bite of a ham and cheese sandwich. He fished in his wallet for Sergeant Turney’s number. It’d been a week since they talked. On his
cell Clay caught the sergeant waiting for a courtroom appearance. Apparently, he had to testify regarding events surrounding Dmitri Derevenko’s death.

“The big guy?” Clay said. “White Taurus? One who killed Mako?”

“That’s still to be determined. But the Dmitri fella was found dead in a rental car, two bullets in him. Shot by his own gun, a little thingamajig that looks like a cell phone. Made in Croatia.”

“Scary the stuff they come up with.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Was it suicide, Sarge?”

“I’m not s’posta be talkin’ about it too much. Be under oath in a few minutes.” The investigative consultant cleared his throat. “But it looks like someone else was involved. Good thing is, me and Josee are fine. She’s sportin’ a coupla bruises.”

“Josee? Your girlfriend? How’d she get tangled up in it?”

“You’ve gotta meet her. Tell ya right now, partner, she gets tangled up in everything. One free-spirited woman.”

“So it’s all good between you two?”

“Gettin’ better by the day.”

“What about Summer Svenson’s death? Any word?”

Sergeant Turney’s voice turned husky. “I’ll always care about the Svensons. They’re good people. Can’t rightly tell you that I understand God’s plan, but I do know he works things out. One day at a time. The way Josee tells it, our job’s to just walk on.”

“But did they find out who ran Summer down?”

“Roundin’ up a suspect as we speak. Or haven’t ya heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Talk to your friend Mylisha French. Or call up your old man.”

“I’ll have to check into it later, Sarge. Right now, I’m supposed to go throw my butt in a sling. I think I’m about to get fired.”

“Dad?”

“Son, grab your stuff.”

Clay had finished his lunch and clocked back in, figuring he might as well get paid for the time it took Mr. Blomberg to rake him over the coals. He sauntered up the single-wide trailer’s back steps, braced himself for the inevitable reprimand, shoved his way into the lobby.

Nothing looked right. The secretary was huddled over her desk, blubbering into a wad of facial tissue; the front door was wide open, wasting coveted air conditioning; two patrol cars faced the railed entryway, lights spinning.

“What’s going on?” His question to the secretary caused her to burst into fresh tears. “Who’s in the backseat? Did they arrest someone?”

At that moment Gerald Ryker came from Blomberg’s office, followed by two cops. His face was grim. He looked like a man ashamed, but oddly proud, of what he had done. He was telling Clay to grab his stuff, but Clay was still reeling.

“Can someone tell me what’s happening?”

Gravel churned in the parking area. Heads turned, and Clay watched Mylisha French hop from her car, march to the back of the first patrol car, and slam clenched palms against the glass. Angry tears ran down her face. Years of pent-up pain and regret.

“You killed my friend!” Her palms punctuated her words. “You aimed right for her, didn’t you?
In cold blood!
Trying to cover your tracks, you self-righteous piece of dirt! I hope you rot, you cold-hearted freak! Are you listening to me?”

Clay suddenly understood.

“Hold on there,” one of the officers said, trying to coax Mylisha from the car. “You may have every right to be mad at Mr. Blomberg, but you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“He killed her!”

“That’s for a judge to decide. Thank you for your call to Mr. Ryker. He’s explained it all to us.”

Clay wondered why he had never pieced it together. He could feel Mylisha’s conflicting emotions as she turned. She looked pitiful with tears and dirt staining her Scandinavian dress.

She faced the hard stare of Gerald Ryker. Unrestrained, she came up the stairs. Stopped a foot from the man who had made it clear years ago he disapproved
of his son’s interracial relationship with her. Her deep mahogany eyes had roots somewhere deep in her soul, in her ancestral heritage. Those same roots had drawn up water many times, only to discover the burn of acid rain.

Here though, in this scenario, Gerald Ryker had backed her up.

“Thank you, Mr. Ryker,” Mylisha said. And threw both arms around his chest.

Clay’s only clue that his father was not carved from granite was the single blink of Gerald’s eyelids followed by the twitch of his lower lip.

Clay digested the news with doubt, bewilderment, then outrage.

“So Mylisha called you. At work?”

“Got my attention.”

“I’m surprised you gave her the time of day.”

“Think what you want, Son.”

“So she told you what Blomberg had done. But what made you listen?”

At the dining nook, Gerald explained how he and Stan Blomberg had once worked together at the lumberyard. Blomberg was a religious zealot who formed no specific ties but preached a gospel all his own. Pulling verses from the Bible and blending them with his own prejudices and vices, he ostracized himself from his co-workers. Eventually he left the yard to take over Glenleaf Monument Company.

But he still owed Gerald a favor. For Gerald’s silence.