(2012) Colder Than Death (11 page)

“My cell conked out. I need to make a call. Do you have a phone I could use?”

“Sure. In my office.”

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. This way.”

As we walked to the office Gretchen said, “Quilla mentioned that you've been very supportive to her since she got the bad news.”

“She seemed to need it.”

“She speaks very highly of you, which isn't something she often does of adults. By the way, I'm Gretchen Yearwood.”

“Del Coltrane. Nice to meet you. Here we are.” I opened the door to my office and turned on the light. “Take as much time as you need. I'll wait outside.”

“I don't need privacy,” she said as she stepped inside. She went to the phone and dialed a number. She pressed a couple of buttons, listened to a message for about twenty seconds, then hung up. “All done.”

I noticed her eyes go from looking directly at me to something over my shoulder. She blinked nervously a couple of times. I turned around to see what had gotten her attention. It was the photographs I had on the wall. There were a dozen or so pictures of the headstones of famous people's graves. In some of the photos I was posing next to the grave with a stupid smile on my face.

“It's a morbid hobby of mine.”

“
Hobby
?”

“I like to explore old cemeteries. Find unusual headstones. Celebrity graves.” She stared at me tentatively. “I know. It's weird.”

“Not weird. Different.” She moved closer to the wall and examined the photos. “Billy the Kid, Aaron Burr, Al Capone, John Dillinger, Jack London. Joe McCarthy. Scott Joplin.” She turned to me. “You just jump in your car and drive to cemeteries looking for famous graves?”

“Not quite. I go to trade conventions a couple times a year. It's usually a different city. Put a bunch of morticians together and the talk comes to what well-known person is buried in or near a town. I'll rent a car. I've taken vacations and checked out local cemeteries. I don't tell a lot of people about it.”

“There are worse things you could be interested in.” She glanced at her watch and said, “I'm enjoying our conversation, but I think I better get back to Quilla.”

“Right.”

Gretchen walked me to the front entrance. She made a joke about tripping on the carpet, then said, “Thanks again for letting me use the phone.”

As I watched her walk away I knew that I wanted to get to know her better. The nature of my business isn't the most ideal for meeting women in circumstances conducive to dating. Dozens of times I've had a gorgeous woman show up to make funeral arrangements herself or accompany a parent or sibling. It would be tasteless to make a move. And I would always be positioned in a woman's mind as the man who buried dad or uncle Bill or aunt Sally. Because I couldn't rely on my line of work to meet women, I had to utilize the conventional ways like bars, fix-ups, on-line dating or chance encounters, which I was horrible at because I'm not good at chitchat in normal situations. I'm only good with words when I'm selling.

I'd gotten to the point where I had unofficially given up on ever finding someone. My life was too screwed up. She would either have to be enormously understanding or just as damaged as I. Whichever it was, Gretchen Yearwood was the first woman in years who had caught my fancy.

And I was more than a little curious as to how she had gotten so close with Quilla.

Chapter 12

At exactly 9:00 p.m. Quilla and her two teenaged friends emerged from the Viewing Room. Right behind them was Gretchen. They all headed towards the door. The two kids mumbled something to Quilla, then they said soft good-byes to Gretchen. The girl left without looking at me, but Viper turned and waved good-bye mouthing the word “Later.”

Quilla and Gretchen talked quietly for a few seconds, hugged, then Quilla walked her to the door, holding it open for her. Quilla closed the door, noticed me and came over.

“Do you know who she is?”

“Gretchen Yearwood. We met before.”

“I know, but do you know
who
she is?” There was a smugness in her tone, as if I was supposed to be impressed that she knew Gretchen Yearwood.

“Her name doesn't ring a bell.”

“She writes Young Adult novels. For teenagers. And she's sort of famous. With teenage girls. Go to a bookstore and she has four books in her own rack.” She smiled with great pride. “Gretchen's kind of a recluse. I never even would've known she lived around here if it wasn't for the book dedication.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was like three years ago and I was in the B Dalton at the Dankworth Mall and I just started browsing and I saw a few of Gretchen's books on the shelf so I picked one up for no reason and sort of skimmed the plot on the jacket and it sounded decent so I turned to the first page, but I didn't turn far enough and I was on the dedication page and the book was dedicated to my Aunt.”

“To Brandy?”

“Yeah. I really freaked. It said, ‘To Brandy Parker, Wherever you may be’.”

“That could be just the thing Perry needs.”

Quilla looked at me. “You're right.”

I wanted to pursue the subject, but I couldn't because Suzanne, her husband and the elderly Marilyn Monroe look-alike were approaching from the Viewing Room.

“I want to thank you for convincing me to have this tonight,” said Suzanne. “I was dreading it from the moment we talked, but it's definitely helped.”

“Thank you,” I said, impressed that she had the class to say what she said. “But I think the person who really deserves your thanks is Quilla.
She
was the most convincing.”

Wearily, Suzanne looked at her daughter. “Thank you.” Quilla uttered a self-satisfied “You're welcome,” but before the words were even out of her mouth old Marilyn coldly interjected “So what's the plan for tomorrow?”

I looked closely at the woman who was heavily made up, wondering who the hell she was. She looked as if Nolan had applied a hearty dose of embalmer's wax which he used to add color to a corpse's face.

Suzanne looked at me. I said, “The cremation will take place tomorrow morning. Interment is at noon.”

Without even acknowledging me, the woman turned to Alan Worthington and curtly said, “Are you going, dear?”

Alan shook his head no, saying, “I have a meeting.”

“So do I,” said the woman coldly. “Suzanne, are you?”

“Yes. Quilla and I will be going.”

Quilla looked pleased at her mother's answer.

“If you want me to be there for you I will,” said the woman. “But as I never knew your sister and since Alan hadn't even been part of your family at the time of her death, I... ”

“It's alright, Helen,” said Suzanne with an insincere graciousness.

“You're sure? I consider you the daughter I never had.”

Alan Worthington put his arm around this unpleasant old crone and said, “It's the thought that counts, Mom.”

Mom
. It figured.

“So then,” I said, looking at Suzanne and Quilla. “I'll meet you tomorrow noon at the front gate at the cemetery.”

Suzanne nodded. Alan Worthington winked at me and extended his hand. I shook it unenthusiastically. “Thanks for everything, chief.” His mother said nothing to me as she slid her left forearm under Alan's right arm and headed for the door. Suzanne followed. Quilla waved at me and joined her mother.

Perry waited until they had pulled out of the lot before appearing again. I expected him to be reeking of smugness over the fact that Tyler DeGregorio had shown up and I was anxiously waiting to inform him of Tyler's reason, but when Perry stepped into the foyer his expression was anything but smug. It radiated a sense of childlike eagerness. He looked like a little boy who had just discovered something with the potential for adventure, like a secret cave in the woods.

“I counted thirty-seven people,” I said. “Any suspects?”

“Just one.”

“I hope you're not going to tell me it's Tyler.”

“Fuck Tyler. He's already a suspect.”

“Then who? Nobody I saw looked suspicious.”

“That's 'cuz the guy I'm talking about didn't come in. Does the name Kyle Thistle mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Perry shook his head. “Probably before you came to town. Kyle Thistle murdered his wife twenty-four years ago. He got sent to the nuthouse for twelve years. It was the only murder case my father ever had.”

“And Kyle Thistle was in the parking lot tonight?”

Perry nodded yes. “Sitting in a three-year-old Volvo, smoking a cigarette, just as calm as can be. He was waiting for the person he came with to go in and pay respects. A woman. Didn't pay much attention to who she was when she went inside. Wasn't until I happened to look into the Volvo and see Kyle Thistle that my mind started working. I ran a check on the Volvo's license plates. Registration's in the name of Gretchen Thistle.”

The name unsettled me. “Her first name is Gretchen?” My thoughts flashed immediately to Gretchen
Yearwood
.

“Yeah. She was one of the last people to leave.”

“Do you recall if he had any children?”

Perry thought for a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Now that you mention it, there was a kid. A daughter.”

It was obvious to me that Gretchen Thistle and Gretchen Yearwood were the same person.

“And she got in the Volvo?” I asked.

“Yeah.” I must have had an odd expression on my face because Perry said, “How come you're asking all these questions about her?”

“I talked to her. She seemed like a nice person.”

“She may very well be. It's her old man who's the psycho. Shit, I thought he was dead.”

“Was he convicted of killing his wife?”

“Not in the technical sense of the word. My dad was putting the case together, working with the County Sheriff, District Attorney. They even brought the FBI into it, then Kyle Thistle cracked up. He was declared mentally incompetent to stand trial, so they stashed him in the nuthouse. I haven’t given him a thought 'til tonight. Maybe the girl you were talking to was his daughter. Wonder why she came tonight?”

“She's friends with Quilla. I guess that blows your theory that Kyle Thistle is a suspect.”

“Not necessarily. He killed once, twenty-four years ago. Who's to say he didn't do it again nine years ago? He got released by then, so the time frame fits perfectly.”

“But he didn't go inside to pay his respects. Your thesis is that the killer might show up to pay his respects.”

“Right. So?”

“So if Kyle Thistle is your man, why would he have sat in the car? Wouldn't he have gone in to check things out?”

Perry seemed lost to the obviousness of my remark. He made a face and scratched his right cheek. “He could've been playing it safe. He sends his daughter in first, then she reports back.”

“Reports back on what? His daughter is a friend of the kid. Was he certifiably insane?”

“I'm kind of foggy on the details. I was just a kid then too. Why?”

“If he was indeed out of his mind, he wouldn't have had the sense to hide a body in that remote mausoleum.”

I wasn't sure why I was so adamantly trying to defend this man. Was I trying to make Perry look bad or was it because I was attracted to Kyle Thistle's daughter? Perry took in what I said, mulled it over for a few seconds, then said “Unless he was a cemetery buff.” He smirked as if he had come up with an obscure answer in a trivia contest. “The question is,” Perry continued. “Can you be crazy and still be a cemetery buff? And if the answer to that is yes, then Kyle Thistle is a definite suspect in this case. And the way I see it is that anybody who is a cemetery buff has to be out of their mind anyway.” Perry looked at his watch. “About me talking to Quilla. When and where?”

“She wants to do it ASAP.”

“How about tomorrow after the funeral?”

“Might be too soon. She's gonna need a couple of days.”

“I'm nine years behind on this case, Del. I have a lot of catching up. Two days are important.” Perry shrugged. “When she's ready, call me.”

“By the way, she may have already given you something to go on. Kyle Thistle's daughter knew Brandy Parker.”

“When did you find
that
out?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“I'm wondering if you've just solved the case. Not only will I be talking to Kyle Thistle's daughter, but I think I'll be paying him a visit too.”

“You're making a pretty big jump on this, Perry. I think you should talk to Quilla before you talk to anyone else. Find out what she has to say.”

Perry spent about ten seconds considering my advice, then said, “I'm not agreeing with you, but it's late. Another day won't make a difference. Make sure you're available too.”

“Perry, I don’t want to get involved in this.”

“You already are. And you seem to get along with the little bitch. She rubs me the wrong way. I want you there to run interference. If I'm alone with her I could end up arresting her.”

“She's a kid.”

“She's fifteen going on forty. Be there! Got it?”

“Okay,” I said with resignation.

“Go lock up the crypt now, Coffin Boy. We don't want any walking dead to sneak out.”

Chapter 13

The only thing that remained to be done, next to the burial, was the cremation. Before Clint went home he and I removed the remains of Brandy Parker from the rental coffin and placed them in a casket-shaped cardboard box. Next to a simple pine box, it was our cheapest receptacle. By law a body had to be in a combustible container before being put in the cremation chamber.

The next morning I drove to the crematorium in Linville nineteen miles away. The entire process would take roughly three hours which meant that I had time to kill. Usually, I went back to the Home, but that day I decided to pay a visit to Dankworth Mall, specifically to the B Dalton bookstore. I went straight to the Young Adult section, looking in particular for the book that Gretchen had dedicated to Brandy Parker.

It was a paperback called
The Cheerleader Wore Black
. There were two others, each dedicated to someone else:
The Beagle Next Door Ate My Cat
and
Goodbye Camp Grizzly Bear
. I bought all three. The clerk said there was one more Gretchen Yearwood book in print, but that they were out of it.