Black as Blood

Chapter Two:
In the Good Old Summertime

"Flashlight," said Deputy Rod Parker. He squatted on his thick short legs and looked at the extinguished light, lying on thin grass dotted with clods of clay. The light was old and cheap and battered and looked as if it had been rolled in the clay. "Button’s still on, but," he cupped his hand over the end and peered at the bulb, "batteries is run down." He picked it up carefully and took it to the hood of the sheriff’s car, laying it next to the John Deere "gimme" cap.

Evelyn Anderson was dusting the coffin latch with light gray powder. "Good," he said abstractedly. "Anything else you find, let me know."

White Bird Hadley was making casts of the pickup tire marks. Parker got out the camera and walked around importantly, trying not to get in their way. He took pictures of the tire marks—the treads didn’t match, and one was worn more than the others. He looked at the controls of the backhoe, observed that it hadn’t been hot-wired, that the ignition was off, and no key in it. He took a picture of that, and looked around.

The others were busy, and intent.

Parker walked back to the shed, where he found tire marks on the grass. A car had spun out from behind it. He took a picture of that, but the marks were too vague to be worth anything. He looked at the mowing tractor. Key off, not hot-wired. He looked at the padlock on the shed. Not forced.

As he walked back, he saw White Bird Hadley silhouetted against the cornfield beyond, elegantly slim in his blue uniform. Parker thought sadly about White Bird and his brother Red Bud. It wasn’t fair, he thought. They were tall and slim and good looking, and friendly and likeable and all. And he was short and fat and nobody liked him, not really. Anderson was always friendly, but he never invited Parker over to his house.

How come them two got all the charm and he got none?

God knows he’d tried to be like them. He used aftershave and mouthwash and deodorant, because he sweated and stunk like a pig if he didn’t. Bad as Ma, his stepmother. He watched the TV for products like that, and tried lots of them. Didn’t work. And he watched how people dressed and talked and acted, and tried to do that, too, but somehow he always looked and acted different.

When he got back to the grave, he sighed and wiped his brow, though it was early yet and wasn’t really hot. Evelyn Anderson looked up from where he and Hadley were working on the shovels.

"What do you boys make of it?" he said.

Hadley shook his head and looked at Parker.

Surprised at being asked for his opinion, Parker said, "A pickup and a car. Four or five guys. Po’ boys. They had keys."

"A car?" the Sheriff asked.

"Yeah." Parker explained and patted the camera. "We gotta check into who all had keys to the shed and tractors."

"Poor boys?" White Bird asked.

"Their tires was all worn; one pretty bad."

"But what did they want with ole Smithers’ body?" Hadley asked.

Parker shook his head. "Not knowing, I can’t say."

"Could just be an asshole redneck joke," said Anderson, looking up from a shovel handle and shaking his head disgustedly. "Nobody liked the old skinflint. Well, hell, we got five-six prints we can maybe match up, some day."

Parker looked at the desecrated grave and laughed. "Bet they looked surprised when it come to life," he said. Walking corpses held no terror for him. "Like to’ve seen their faces."

Justin Waley dropped a dollop of vanilla iced milk onto his popcorn and poured reconstituted skim milk over all. As he munched this inexpensive whole-grain breakfast, he tuned in to KBKB in Clinchfield, the Voice of the Valley. The top news item got his full attention:

"The body of Albert Smithers, of Oswego, St. Claude County, was found last night at the home of Bernard and Angela McKay in Oswego, apparently having walked from the cemetery, where it had been exhumed illegally by persons unknown. Mr. McKay ceased the corpse with a poker and called police. Our information is that this is the third time the corpse of the former real estate agent has been ceased, it having begun to move and speak during the funeral yesterday. Mr. Smithers died of heart failure on April eighteenth. The Sheriff’s department of St. Claude County is investigating the incident."

Justin ate his popcorn, not hearing the rest of the newscast. When he had finished breakfast, he called the senior partner, William Smithers. "I just heard about the corpse," he said.

"Oh, yes, Bernie’s furious. We have no idea who dug him up, and that stupid Culter—"

"Is this likely to happen again? I mean, it’s been days, but the corpse was embalmed—"

"Never," said Smithers, determined. "Bernie’s getting a court order for a cremation, despite the deceased’s expressed desire for burial. Where it’s a matter of public interest, the court’ll overrule that."

Justin nodded. "Yes," he said. Especially if the Smithers family asked. "Anyway: I wanted to convey my shock, and my support. Of course, life goes on and business won’t wait. We begin the examination of the partnership books today?" He knew they would rush the will through probate, but the court couldn’t do a thing without a listing of the partnership assets, just for a start.

"Oh, uh, well, don’t worry about the audit, I’ll take care of it. You just open our office and hold the fort, okay?"

Justin lifted his eyebrows. Smithers was semi-retired; he hadn’t examined books for two years. After a moment Justin said, "Of course, sir."

Replacing the phone, he sat sipping his second cup of tea reflectively. The old farmhouse creaked around him comfortably. Something, he concluded, is rotten in the Smithers family. Corpses don’t walk without compelling reason; reason based in powerful feelings during life. Something rotten that they want covered up.

He looked around the old house.

God knew he didn’t make a lot of money, but it didn’t take much to live well in St. Claude County, Missouri. Especially if you knew, as he did, how to eliminate everything unnecessary from life. So: he owned free and clear a big house and forty acres, and he wasn’t yet middle-aged. All it wanted was a wife and kids to complete the picture of the good life. All in good time, he had long thought. But his infernal shyness, he was beginning to understand, had more to do with his lack of wife or even girl friend than his determination to put all that off till he could afford it.

Till he could afford it.

"Damn ole Albert Smithers anyway," said Jody "Hat" Stetson. He shifted the 12-pack of Bud Light to his other hand and started the descent of the wooded hill.

"Yeah," said Poochie Dubret sullenly, pushing out his lips.

"We’re gonna wind up hidin’ out in Monny-go Cave like the Jameses."

"Yeah."

They descended the hill silently except when Poochie slipped and cursed. The hillside was steep, split into a wooded gorge. At the bottom of this vast crack the soil opened in a raw wound where a wet-weather stream occasionally trickled out of the hillside. Rocks and boulders erupted from the soil, framing a hole: Monegaw Cave, once haunt of the James Gang, legend said.

"Dead people should lay down and stay still," Hat added, aggrieved.

It was very hot here just outside the cave, the sun slamming down where the trees had fallen back. They ducked quickly through a humming haze of mosquitoes and found themselves in a narrow, mud-floored passage. Grateful coolness surrounded them.

They pushed on back to the Bat Cave, a wide spot into which dim light leaked from the opening. Its roof went up into darkness and it was paved with beer cans. With twin sighs of relief, they set down their 12-packs, each of which had nine or ten cans left in it, and each opened a can.

"Damn ole bastard," Hat muttered, blowing out his breath.

"Yeah."

They drank in brooding silence for a while.

"You think they’ll git us for that graveyard deal?" Poochie asked, pooching his lips anxiously.

Hat looked at him in the dimness. Their eyes had adjusted, and he could see the other’s nervous expression. He had felt more than a few twinges of fear himself.

"I dunno. I mean, we prob’ly left fingerprints all over, and footprints and all that shit. An’ Dutchies still has the keys to that shed, an’ the tractors," he added.

"Not’ny more," Poochie said. "He snuck ’em back into Culter’s box first thing this morning."

Hat looked at him in surprise, and some admiration. "That was smart! Anybody ask, you say you boys turned ’em in yestidee after the funeral."

In their relief at this escape, they drank for a good while, forgetting their worries about money. They were aroused by a muttering voice and a giggling laugh, both muffled. Brogans crashed down the slope to the cave mouth, and the voice continued to half-whisper, half mutter, giggling at its own wit.

"Whuzzat?" Poochie asked.

Hat sat up, holding his can suspended. After a moment he recognized the voice. "Aw, it’s only ole Joe Bumgardner."

The cave mouth darkened and a spry, wiry, elderly little man fumbled his shadowy way toward them along the narrow passage, then paused. "Hullo? Who’s there?"

"It’s just us, Joe. C’mon in."

"Who is it?"

"Stetson and Dubret," said Poochie, pronouncing his name Missouri fashion: Doo-brett. "Have a beer."

"Oh, you boys," said Joe. "Didn’t reckonnize you in the dark. Beer? Sure, thanks, boys."

Joe lived mostly on his pension as a disabled vet. His habit was to pay all his debts when his check arrived, then drink the rest of it up in one binge. For the rest of the month he subsisted on odd jobs and credit at small country stores. When he was more than usually short, he had been known to camp out in the cave.

He accepted a beer and offered cigarettes.

"What’re you doin’ here, boys?"

"Oh, just dodgin’ work," said Poochie, pursing his lips.

Joe laughed his characteristic giggling laugh, louder since he was not talking to himself. "Me too. Abner Mazarofsky wants me to fix his hog fence again. Tole ’im I’d think about it. He ain’t payin’ but ten bucks fer it."

Abner owned the only remaining store in Monegaw Springs.

"Maybe he’s got some job we could do," Poochie said.

Hat didn’t get along with Mazarofsky, or with the Baptist Church of the town, or in fact with anyone or anything in Monegaw Springs. He’d been raised there. "Only thing I wanta do in Monny-go is piss in the spring," he said sullenly.

Joe laughed. "Wha’s that? Piss in the spring?"

Monegaw Springs was named for an evil-tasting sulfur spring, world famous in Missouri.

Sullenly Hat said, "Me an’ my cousins useta go down ’n’ piss in the spring whenever we knew anybody like from the church was gonna go down there for sulfur water."

Joe’s giggling laugh went on and on, interrupted by delighted cries of "Pissin’ in the spring!" Poochie joined in, laughing hysterically and pounding his fist into the damp clay.

Realizing he’d been funny, Hat started to laugh also.

"Hey, Stetson, you boys hear about ole Smithers bein’ dug up las’ night and runnin’ off?" Joe giggled. "Ole Bernie McKay found ’im in his house and caved his head in. He must ’a’ been mighty supprised when he opened the door! Ain’t never heerd tell of bodies walkin’ like that around here, not in years and years."

"Smithers would be the one," Hat said swiftly, glancing at the alarmed expression on Poochie’s face.

"They say hanged men useta walk a lot. With their heads hangin’ down. Hey, you boys know how to tie a hangman’s noose?"

"No," said Poochie, evidently having recovered. "You know?"

"Sure, I’ll show you."

There was a length of old but still strong light rope in the cave, left by previous explorers. The older man got it down and shakily knotted a hangman’s noose for them. Fascinated, they took it apart and re-tied it several times, till both Hat and Poochie had mastered it.

The conversation rambled around from the effects of hanging to trying the noose out. Hat earnestly offered Joe a fifth of whiskey if he would let them hang him. Questions about getting the fifth, he pushed to the back of his fuzzy mind.

Next thing Hat knew, they were outside, blinking and squinting in the blast of light, tying the rope to a limb and standing Joe on a rock nearby.

"Remember to choke and kick around," Poochie told him, blearily trying to drape the noose over the older man’s head.

"Sure, boys."

"An’ then play dead," Hat said. "Ready?"

"Gimme one more swaller," said Joe, tipping a nearly empty beer can. He flung it down. "Okay, boys, let ’er go."

They pushed him off the rock, leaving him swinging and dangling beneath the limb, his heavy brogans five or six inches above the dirt. He put on a good show.

"Way t’ go, Joe!" Poochie cried.

"Yeah, man!" Hat said.

"Uuurrrk," Joe said. He kicked enthusiastically. Gripping the rope, he tried to pull himself up. "Urk urk harrrk!"

"Cut ’im down, you assholes!" someone else cried. "He’s chokin’ to death!"

Hat staggered around in a half circle, but was pushed almost off his feet by Billy Martens. He heard a click as Billy whipped out his knife. As Hat was just coming to grips with the realization that Martens was ruining their fun, Joe dropped onto the hillside with a thud and tore weakly at his neck. Martens bent over him, and in a moment turned on them wrathfully, holding the noose. Joe fell over backward, gasping.

"You assholes! You could ’a’ killed ’im."

"Aw, man," said Poochie. With grave deliberation he sat down, pursing his lips in irritation.

Hat stumbled toward the kid. "Hell, kid, we was just havin’ a little fun. Joe agreed t’ do it."

"The least you can do is give ’im a beer," Martens said angrily.

"We ain’t got none left," said Poochie mournfully.

"Who asked you to jump in, Billy-boy?" Hat roared, suddenly angry. He didn’t know why he kept the stupid kid in the gang. Time he showed the brat who was the man here. He stumbled toward the kid, but his feet got tangled up somehow and he fell over.

Instantly he threw up, heard Poochie throwing up, and repeated.

"What a buncha losers," he heard Martens mutter. "C’mon, Joe."

"You boys owe me a fifth," Joe’s voice came weakly.

"What’s that you say?" Bernie McKay pocketed the mortician’s check for the refund for the copper coffin—about the price of a new, mid-size car. He looked sharply at the mortician, who’d muttered something suspiciously like "Son of a bitch."

"Nothing," Culter said, his face a bland mask. "Now, you have the court order for the cremation?"

"Right here," said Bernie, flourishing it. "And I’m staying here till I see it done."

Culter gave him a cool look. "Very well."

Bernie had a thought. "Hey, wait a minute, you got the corpse?"

"The Remains were returned to us by the police department this morning," the mortician said. "You want to watch the cremation?"

"You bet," Bernie said grimly.

Culter put the court order for cremation in a filing cabinet and, gesturing Bernie after him, led the way back into the shop.

"At least we got the casket back," a pretty young woman said. "Eddie’s hosing it down outside."

"Good," Culter said. "Bernie McKay—Judith Lamour."

Bernie offered his hand.

"Oh, you got the court order already?" she said, taking it. She looked brightly at him.

"Hell, yes," said Bernie grimly. "The Smitherses were pretty embarrassed, and they have a lot of influence. I got stuck with the job of following up, though," he added glumly.

Culter went over to the crematorium and turned on the gas oven. It caught with a Fflooom like a jet engine. A blunt-looking young man, whom Judith addressed as "Eddie," came in wearing old clothes spattered with dirt and clay. He was pushing a truck with a dripping copper coffin that Bernie remembered from the funeral. He wheeled it into a corner and picked up a large sloppy barbecue sandwich in a green napkin.

"You want the stiff, boss?" he said to Culter, around a mouthful.

"Yeah," Culter said.

Bernie stepped back nervously when the other took down the cessation spear. This was a boar spear, two meters long, with a cross brace about a foot back from the point.

Eddie took another large bite, laid down his sandwich, and, chewing hugely, opened the door to a small cold room. He slid open a drawer, snatching up a big club. Culter braced himself in the cold room’s doorway with the spear, and Judith fell back next to Bernie, catching her breath. Bernie also caught his breath, but craned his neck, as the two men glared, ready, down at the occupant of the drawer.

After a moment Eddie lowered his club, and Culter also relaxed.

Bernie drifted over to the door and looked past the mortician. The corpse lay stiffly, its smashed head still leaking a little. Its hands and feet were tied tightly, without regard for nonexistent circulation, with nylon piggins from the hank on the wall. Culter had recovered his sterling silver letter opener from its chest, Bernie saw. Despite the cold, a faint hideous odor leaked out.

"Don’t put the spear away yet, Mr. Culter," said Eddie. He picked up his sandwich and took a monster bite, causing Bernie’s stomach to lurch. Brushing both hands on his pants, Eddie jerked a piggin off the hank. Swiftly and expertly he bound the corpse to the board it lay on.

"Okay, boss, if it does start moving it can’t do anything," he said, muffled. "We can just lift board and all out of the drawer and drop it into the box. Unless you want a shroud?" Swallowing, he looked past the mortician at Bernie.

Conquering his stomach, Bernie said, "Hell no, they’re not paying for any extras."

Culter nodded. He wheeled a trolley with a plain pine box on it into the cramped cold room and bent to the feet. Up, over, and down, and the corpse didn’t so much as twitch. "Close the box, except the head end, and bring it out."

Culter came out of the cold room and gestured to Bernie. "We recovered the funereal briefcase with Reverend Hallowell’s brief for Mr. Smithers’s soul," he said. "It’s designed to be cremated, for those who choose that method. Shall we throw it in the—"

"Ohm thyit!" came Eddie’s food-muffled voice, accompanied by a clunk. He jumped and looked around guiltily at Bernie. His hand came out of the coffin with a bottle of Gates’s barbecue sauce, his sandwich open in the other hand.

"What the hell?" Bernie said. Next to him, Judith stood staring in dismay.

"S-sorry, sir. I-I dropped the bobbycue sauce—"

Bernie hurried over to the box, the mortician right beside him. The bulging eyes of the corpse stared in two directions up through sticky red stuff, he saw. Its dumbfounded expression caused Bernie to double up and roar with sudden laughter.

"Uh—we’ll clean that off—"

"Don’t—don’t bother," Bernie said, wiping his eyes. He looked at the helplessly staring corpse and went off into another train-wreck of hysterical laughter.

"Well, we wanted you to be satisfied that it’s your uncle-in-law, and that he was indeed cremated," Culter murmured, with a return to his professional manner. He dropped the briefcase into the box, lowered the head end of the lid, and wheeled the gurney to the crematorium’s maw. A nervous Eddie took the other side—still eating, Bernie thought, choking down laughter.

"Ready?" Culter asked.

"Mmyeah." (Chomp-chomp.)

Eddie opened the door. Enthusiastic flames puffed, making Bernie step back. Culter gave the box a steady, smooth shove into the yellow inferno whose heat beat out into their faces. The door snapped shut.

Justin Waley looked away from the spreadsheet and picked up the interoffice line. "Yes?"

"It’s Mr. McKay, Mr. Waley," said their elderly office girl. "On four-three."

"Thank you, Sandra," he said, and pushed a button. "Justin Waley."

"Justin," came Bernie McKay’s hearty voice. "How are you?"

"Fine, Mr. McKay," said Justin. Frugally, he turned the computer’s screen down. "The question is, how are you? Mr. Smithers tells me the whole family is upset."

"Oh, they’ve been at me all day, as if it was my fault! He was their brother; I just married into the family. But thanks for your concern. Anyway. I wanted to ask you, confidentially, if you can tell me anything about the partnership audit?"

Justin lifted his eyebrows but kept his voice even. "No, Mr. McKay. Mr. Smithers is handling that himself, as the senior partner. Neither I nor Mr. Lamour are involved."

There was a moment of silence, and McKay’s voice came, sharpened by concern. "Uncle Bill’s doing it all by himself? Isn’t that unusual?"

"Well, this is an unusual case, and I believe that he wishes to keep it especially confidential," Justin said temporizingly. "I suppose though that he will eventually ask for help from one of us."

"From you, you mean."

"That is very likely."

"Well. I just wondered . . . it seemed odd to me. It felt like a . . . well, a cover-up, if you know what I mean."

Smithersgate, Justin thought. "I believe Mr. Smithers wanted to avoid any further notoriety," he said primly. "Did you have any reason to suspect, let us say, irregularities in Mr. Albert Smithers’s accounts?"

Short pause, then: "Frankly, with Uncle Albert, God only knows. We were partners, but we basically worked independently. He wasn’t easy to get along with, and he wouldn’t stand being questioned. He could’ve been doing anything."

And probably was, if gossip is any guide, Justin mused. "Obviously, as the surviving partner, you have a right to know what we find," he said. "I’ll keep my eye out; confidentially, of course."

"Confidentially, of course," McKay said hastily. "Thanks for that, Justin. Not that I don’t trust Uncle Bill, but . . . well, the Smithers family has its own viewpoint on things. They’d rather lose money than face."

"Yes," Justin said. Very well put, he thought. "Your concern is understandable."

"Right. Well, I’m glad you understand," McKay said. "Oh, by the way, is Gibson over there? Paul Gibson? I thought he was helping Uncle Bill, but nobody seems to have seen him around. . . ."

Gibson. That would be the third agent in Smithers and McKay, Real Estate—Justin knew him slightly and liked him about as much. "No, he hasn’t been here."

"Hmm. Wonder where he could be. Well, thanks anyway."

When he had hung up, Justin poured tea and put his legs up on the dictation board. He looked out his second-floor window at the massive courthouse in the middle of Oswego’s Square. After about five minutes he put his feet down and dialed a number.

"Ikle, Orson, Blanchard, Smithers, and Hadley," said a woman who was obviously not Ikle, Orson, Blanchard, Smithers, nor Hadley.

"Mr. Hadley, please; tell him it’s Justin Waley."

Presently Red Bud Hadley’s voice came. "Red Bud here. What can I do for you, Juss?"

"It’s close enough to quitting time to think about it," said Justin. "How about meeting me at Bracher’s at five thirty?"

"I’ll have to call Margie, but if I don’t call back, you’ll find me there."

A row of Brachs’s red and dark blue striped candy boxes lined the window of Bracher’s Restaurant: a clever pun that had gained quick name recognition for the place. At five-thirty Justin walked past them into the restaurant, past the stuffed jackrabbit with the antelope antlers on its head, and slid into a brown leatherette booth at the back, opposite Red Bud Hadley.

When they had ordered, he said, "How do you like being junior, junior, junior partner in the second or third most successful law office in town?"

Red Bud sipped coffee, looking at him quizzically. He was almost theatrically handsome—women’s heads turned when he or his brother White Bird walked by—but like his brother he was a modest, decent, and thoroughly married sort. Like Justin, he had all the unlovable virtues.

"It beats shoveling gravel, and it pays a little better than being a city cop like my brother. In other words, it’s about like running a treadmill on bread and water. How do you like being junior partner of the second and last accounting firm in town?"

"Ditto. So. How would you like to be half partner in the only investment counseling firm in town?"

Red Bud stared at him a moment, his coffee cup suspended. He took a sip and set it down slowly. "Would I have to quit my day job?"

"No, and you’d better not. We’ll start small, and we’ll scramble. But with your legal training and my accounting background, we’re well equipped at least to start. I’ve been reading books, and I know some of the basics."

Red Bud drew a bird on the table top with a wet finger. "You were always a hotshot in school," he said musingly. "I’ll bet you do have a good leg up on investment counseling. I’ll have to talk it over with Margie. But," he nodded, "it’s worth thinking about."

He looked curiously at Justin. "Tell me, Juss, why this sudden desire to set up for yourself? I thought you were all set; you made full partner young, in a thriving office. . . ."

"What we need is some idee of who was with ’em," Deputy Rod Parker said.

Judith Lamour looked at him brightly, with so much interest it kept surprising him. "Well, really, I mean, I’ve gone out with Bob Dubret, . . . ." She pronounced his name Dyew-Bray. She shook her ringletted head, smiling. "I really don’t know who all his friends are, Deputy Parker."

Parker looked around the cluttered office of Culter’s funeral home, trying to distract himself from the bright brown gaze that never wavered from him. Uninterrupted scrutiny from a woman, except his stepmother, was new to him. "Well," he said nervously, "you ever hear either of ’em mention friends?"

"Oh, all the time, Deputy Parker, but really . . . well, maybe they mention Jody Stetson most." Demurely she added, "I wouldn’t go out with him."

Fascinated—Parker knew Hat Stetson—he said, "Why not?"

Judith tossed her head, making the brown ringlets dance. "I just wouldn’t. Or Orlin Deutscher, either. Bob’s different from them; he’s much nicer and more polite."

"He’s got sisters," Parker said. "So you like him, but not Dutchies or Stetson. And you go out with him but not them."

"Well, I never said I was in love with Bob!" She tilted her head and looked at him with a quirk of her mouth that brought out a dimple. "It’s just that a girl often doesn’t have much of a choice, unless she wants to go to the movies with another girl, you know?"

Her smile brought a strong, dull pain to Parker’s chest; he thought he’d never met anyone so charming. "Yeah," he said faintly. He cleared his throat. "So, if, uh, Dyew-Bray was implicated, you wouldn’t hesitate to tell me?"

"Well, maybe I’d hesitate," she said impishly. "But of course I’d tell you anything I knew! But I don’t know anything."

"Uh, remember anybody else they talk about a lot?"

"Oh, Frankie Cowgill, Pfister Wainwright. Mmm. And a lot of girls," she added, primly. "Especially when they think I’m not listening." She looked at him archly. "They talk a lot, you know, but I don’t think they get much."

Parker opened and closed his mouth, horrified to feel his face reddening. "Uh—right. Uh, it’s the same with most men, Miss Lammers," he said.

"Lamour," she said quickly: "Luh-moor. And I know it is, Deputy Parker." She laughed, tilted her head archly. "I don’t mind the way men talk. I have three brothers myself!"

To cover his confusion, Parker solemnly wrote Stetson’s and the others’ names in his notebook, though he didn’t need to. "Thank you very much for your help, Miss, uh, Luh-moor. And if you think of anything, please let us know."

"I surely will, Deputy Parker. And don’t hesitate to call me. You have my number?" She gave it to him and he carefully wrote it down as well, her name beside it. "Or drop by! Even when we’re busy I can usually make few minutes to talk!"

Culter appeared in the doorway, smiled at her. "Yes, if there’s anything we can do to help, don’t hesitate to call on us."

Parker thanked them bumblingly, shook hands—Judith shook as enthusiastically as she spoke—and made his escape.

Well, that was one of the reasons he’d gotten into law enforcement, Parker thought—to impress girls. Nice girl, he thought enviously. So interested in everything. He thought back to his schooling and came up with a word: enthusiastic. He was a little uncertain of how it was spelled, but it described her.

Quitting time. He checked out at the sheriff’s office, sighed and said goodbye to Renee, the Sunshine Girl, whose stint at the radio wouldn’t end for another couple of hours. Tiring as he often found his job, it was preferable to going home to Ma.

Parker thought about going by the Night Owl on the off-chance of company. But the only kind of woman there who’d be interested in him would want money, and his stepmother took enough of his pay without him throwing away the rest. Good thing Ma didn’t know how much he made. He saved every penny he could, for some vague future use, when he got away from her. She’d have supper for him, but somehow even his prodigious appetite wasn’t up to eating in her shrill company. He went instead to a hamburger joint, ate greasy food with relish, vaguely thought again about going on a diet.

Outside, in the graveled lot, he stood by his car, debating going to a movie. But he’d seen everything in driving distance. Just drive around a while, he thought. He had never known anyone whom he could tell of the pleasure he got in driving around St. Claude County and just looking at the hills and trees and fields and things. It was sure purty country, most folks would agree, but they never went looking at it. Just drove through it, on the way to the next job, or drunk, or, he thought enviously, fuck.

He debated a trip up north to Deepwell to see Eunice. Eunice might be black, might be older, might be a little dotty—but she never nagged him, or even raised her voice to him. Matter of fact, she was far and away the nicest and best-looking woman he’d ever made it with. But Ma would pester the life out of him when he got in, if he was out much after dark.

Aw, hell.

Parker drove slowly home and greeted Ma tiredly.

"So there you are," she said shrilly. She was tall and thin and cadaverous and smelled of unwash and whiskey and other nameless things. Her nose was sharp, her skin like parchment—she hadn’t been out in the sun in years—and only a few teeth remained. "You didn’t come home to dinner. We waited table for you for a-nour."

That was a lie, Parker knew, they hadn’t waited a second. "I had a few last things to do," he mumbled. "Hadda write up my log."

"Dickie was here on time, like he mostly is, aren’t you Dickie, but you, you’re never on time, you’re hardly ever here," she said.

Parker’s youngest stepbrother smirked at him, reclining at ease in what had been his father’s chair. By rights, now the old man was gone, it should’ve been his, Parker’s. But Dickie was Ma’s favorite, and her only son currently at home. Her boys had split as soon as they could, but came back from time to time, when they needed help. And always took his chair.

He’ll soon be gone, Parker thought. He took his own more humble seat, that needed to be reupholstered, some distance from their two throne-like recliners, and stared vaguely at the shows they chose to watch, ignoring them and being ignored. Having Dick here was a strain on Parker’s salary—Ma’s Social Security didn’t go but so far—but Parker didn’t mind the expense, since it gave her someone else to think about, and pick on.

Damn them all anyway, why was he stuck with taking care of the old body? She was their mother. Without someone to take care of her she’d fall apart. So why was he stuck with her? When she was gone, betcher ass they’d come around quick enough and sell the place out from under him; he wouldn’t even inherit to reward him for taking care of her.

Parker thought of his father. He couldn’t remember the old man, who’d taken off before he was three, but Ma kept a faded picture of him on the shelf. He’d been fat like Parker, but not bad looking. Why he’d ever married a ugly ole witch like his stepmother, Parker had never figured.

Maybe he got tired of being alone; he needed someone to raise me up, and hell, maybe she was nice to ’im when he was hung over, Parker thought. Pore old bastard, it was a pore bargain. But what else could a drunk git?

Ma’d made it known, many’s the time, that his father was a drunk. Parker’d made up his mind never to get drunk again, after his first time, and, now he’d put on the star, he was confirmed. A couple beers in the evening, and he’d had his. Who knew when he might come out of the daze and find he was married to such a deadly ole bag as Ma?

Dickie and Ma were sopping up whiskey, as usual, it was about all she swallowed. Needs it to keep from smelling worse, he thought. Since they slept all morning, they’d still be awake at midnight. Long before then Parker was off to bed. He couldn’t wait for morning and his long day to begin.

Bernie McKay hung up and paced around the office. Damn Gibson anyway. Where the hell was he? Place was in total confusion, and Bernie needed to clear accounts for the Ikle sale—one of their most important accounts.

Bernie called the Registrar in the court house. "Smithers and McKay Real Estate. I understand that my associate, Paul Gibson, is over there checking on some deeds. Can you put him on, please?"

"I’m sorree, Mr. McKayee, but Paul hasn’t been in todayee," came the lilting response.

"Thank you." Damn it.

Bernie tried to put things in order and get something done, but within twenty minutes he was tearing through the files looking for an abstract. Damn thing should’ve been with the rest of the damn file—who the hell took it out—he’d like to shove it up their ass—it was an inch thick, and ran back to 1894—where the hell was Gibson?

Furious, he called Smithers and Waley, but the girl there hadn’t seen him; neither was he at the copy shop. Nor at the court house. He even called Gunderson’s Real Estate—they frequently had dealings with each other, and Gibson might have been over on some joint matter.

"Mr. Gunderson isn’t here, Mr. McKay. Would you care to call him at home?"

He wouldn’t, but he did, and got Lottie Gunderson. "Oh, no, Bernie, I haven’t seen Paul Gibson all day. You want to talk to Jack? He has a summer cold, and he’s lying down. Oh, Bernie—" catching him just before he hung up. "Where’s Angie? She was supposed to join us this afternoon."

Bernie had no damn idea where his wife was, but said so politely. Furious, he quit early and stomped off home.

The big, maple-shaded house on Coolidge soothed him a little. Bernie had worked hard for this place. His father had been a farm worker and Bernie had worn his socks three days at a time as a kid because he didn’t have enough to change every day. Yet, he had married into one of the Four Families that owned and ran Oswego and much of St. Claude County.

He had sometimes wondered if that had been such a good deal.

He headed for the kitchen and the pitcher of Martinis that should be waiting. Uncle Albert’s body lay at full stretch on the kitchen table.

Bernie halted, shocked—he’d seen them cremate the thing—

It sat up, and he realized that he was seeing the counter through it: ghost. Its liver-spotted features were whole, Uncle Albert’s to the wizened life, creased in a gleeful grin he’d rarely seen when the man was alive.

"Hello, Bernie, good to see you, you thieving little bastard." The ghost sat dangling its legs for all the world like a live person, grinning at him. The faucets gleamed through it.

"Urrk," said Bernie, gripping the door frame. He felt his eyes bugging out; his breath came hard.

"Thanks for having me cremated, you little shit." Its grin widened. "That’s where you let your skimmer leak. As long as I was animating my body, I was bound to it. If you’d buried me in that damn copper coffin again, I’d have been stuck there till my body rotted away—months, years maybe." He laughed unpleasantly, and slid to the floor.

"Now, Bernie, where did you put my gold?"

"Wha—?"

"Where’s my gold, you thief, you lying cheating bastard! I want my gold! Give me my gold—"

The ghost came at him, arms outstretched, the grin now a rictus of hate, the eyes glaring wildly. Bernie staggered backward in a panic as the hands came at his throat. No poker would stop it now— He tripped over the carpet, fell at full length and banged the back of his head severely. Stars shot through his brain; tears stood in his eyes.

Move move move— Gasping and desperate, he made himself move. He was still scrambling frantically backward on the carpet when he realized that the ghost was gone and Angie was coming through the front door.

"Bernie! What are you doing?"

He was lying on the floor, his head almost on the hideous stain Uncle Albert had left on his previous visitation.

"Uh—I tripped—" In far less time than he could have put words to it, he decided not to mention the ghost. It was scandalous to be haunted— it hinted at shameful secrets—there’d been enough notoriety—the Smitherses would blame him if he was the haunted one, not their own kinsman who was the ghost—

"Well, do be more careful. What were you doing, dancing around the room like a lunatic? Never mind, I don’t want to know."

He sat up groggily as she tripped youthfully by him and into the kitchen. Spitefully he hoped Uncle Albert would appear and leap at her, but he heard her singing "In die Gut Alt Sommerzeit" in the original German, an accomplishment he didn’t envy her in the least. He heard the refrigerator door open and the gurgle of a martini into a glass.

She lifted it perfunctorily to him as he came in, smiling to herself. "I love the summer," she said, twirling about and making the skirt of her light sun dress swirl around her still-excellent legs. "Lottie Gunderson had a bunch of us over, and we drove out to the Sac-Osage Overlook. It’s beautiful."

"A bit hot, I would have thought." Lottie Gunderson? Angie must’ve gotten there late.

"Oh, not so much. We didn’t mind, anyway."

Bernie spent an uneasy evening, so worried about the ghost that Angie’s bubbly mood was more an irritation than a relief. Gold? What stupid movies had Uncle Albert been watching? Death must have driven the man daft. Gloating over some imaginary buried treasure. His gold, my ass.

At length, watching Arsenio Hall and dreading the moment for turning out the light, Bernie jolted to attention at his wife’s tone.

"You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said," Angie said. "Pay attention! Lottie Gunderson tells me that Jack talked to Paul Gibson again yesterday. You really should make him partner soon, and let him know immediately, or you’ll lose him. I mean it, Bernie," looking at him sharply. "The Gundersons know what he’s worth."

"Paul Gibson," he said slowly, looking at her. He started to tell her caustically that Paul Gibson wasn’t worth the paper his birth was recorded on—he hadn’t been in the office all afternoon. But he caught himself.

Where’s Angie? She was supposed to join us this afternoon. He could hear Lottie Gunderson’s voice clearly in his head.

Sac-Osage Overlook, hmm? "We didn’t mind the heat." I’ll bet you didn’t, you horny old bag, he thought, and made soothing, acquiescent murmurs. Full partner? Paul Gibson? Not in my agency.