An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries) (2 page)

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Authors: P.J. Parrish

BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)
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Louis Kincaid turned off the engine and just sat there, looking at the lights.
Fireflies. July Fourth. Michigan.
But there were no fireflies here. It was November, not July. And he was in South Florida.
His mind was playing tricks on him.
He reached over and popped the glove box, pulling out his Glock. Grabbing his overnight bag, he got out and headed to the cottage.
Maybe he was just tired. The job up in Tampa had been dull and drawn out. Surveillance of a woman who was suing a big trucking company because a semi had clipped her Honda and left her “permanently disabled and in extreme mental stress.” He had spent four days tailing her with a video camera, finally getting a shot of her banging her car floor mats against the fender of her car—after she had come home from the beauty salon. The film was played in court. The woman got two grand for medical bills. He got five grand for his pay. Good money for a P.I., he supposed. At least it was enough to keep him in grouper sandwiches at Timmy’s Nook for the next few months.
The mailbox was stuffed. He dug out the fliers and envelopes and opened the door.
“Honey, I’m home,” he said, throwing down his bag.
Issy came trotting out of the bedroom. The cat looked up at him, its tail swishing on the terrazzo.
“Okay, okay,” he said with a sigh.
He headed to the kitchen, tossing the stack of mail on the counter. He shook a bag of Tender Vittles into the bowl on the floor. The other bowl was filled with clean water. At least his weasel landlord Pierre had been taking care of things like he promised. He had half expected to come home and see a cat carcass lying on the floor.
He pulled open the fridge. One Heineken and a carton of Chinese takeout probably left over from the Ice Age. He stood there for a moment, letting the cold air wash over his sweaty face, then grabbed the beer and closed the fridge.
There was one lamp on in the living room, but the small cottage seemed dark and stale from being closed up. He went to the TV and punched the remote, unleashing a rainbow of light and sitcom laughter into the shadows. Finally, after a moment, he muted the sound and tossed the remote aside.
He cranked open the jalousie windows, and the warm gulf breeze wafted in. He stood there, breathing in the salt and night-blooming jasmine, holding the cold beer bottle against his forehead.
He still wasn’t used to it—even after three years of living in Florida. September would come and he would be waiting for that cool kiss in the air, yet the temperature stayed in the nineties. October would come and he would be expecting the first frost on the windows, but there was nothing but the cloud of humidity. And then came November, when the trees should have been turning brown and gaunt. But here . . . here in Florida, everything was green and lush and sultry.
He hated the holidays. Thanksgiving and Christmas. Back-to-back reasons to give in to that small but powerful part of him that wanted to slide into silence and solitude.
His eyes drifted to the answering machine on the counter. The red light was blinking. Ten messages. He rewound the tape.
The first one was a time-share come-on. Three hang-ups. A man wanting to hire him to spy on his “whore wife.” Two more hang-ups. Then a familiar voice with its unmistakable Mississippi drawl.
“Oh! My . . . a machine! I didn’t know you finally got one. Oh dear . . . how much time do I have? Louis, this is Margaret.”
Louis took a drink of beer.
“I’m calling to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner. We’re fixing to have a real feast this year—I’m making my sweet potato pie—and I know you don’t have any family to go to—”
Louis could hear Sam Dodie yelling in the background, telling his wife what to say. She hung up, forgetting to leave a number. But Louis knew the Dodies’ number by heart; he had spent many an evening at their table, eating Margaret’s cooking, listening to Sam’s war stories. Now that his ex-boss had retired to Florida, Sam Dodie’s need to talk about his years spent as a Mississippi sheriff seemed to grow. It was either listen to it or go fishing.
The next voice came on, the thin soft voice of a boy.
“Hi, Louis. It’s me. I guess you’re not home yet.”
Louis leaned closer to the machine.
“I wish you could come over for Thanksgiving, but Ma says we gotta go see Grandma Cockran up in St. Augustine. Chewbaca is getting real big, but Ma says he can’t sleep with me ’cause I got allergies.” A long pause. “Okay, I gotta go. I love you. See ya!”
Louis smiled. Chewbaca was one of Issy’s kittens, conceived last winter during Ben’s kidnapping. Ben had needed a lot of time to recover from his experience, and Louis believed the kitten somehow helped him do that. He still worried about the boy, worried about him being twelve and not having a father in his life, worried about his being able to ever trust people again. That was why he tried to see Ben as often as he could. But work had been demanding lately and there didn’t seem to be enough time.
The last message. Another familiar voice. Female, deep, deeply familiar.
“Hey there. It’s me. Just wanted to let you know I pulled some strings and got Thanksgiving and Friday off. I’ve got two Swanson’s turkey dinners and a good bottle of French Chablis on ice, so get your sweet ass over here as soon as you can. Call me as soon as you get in.”
She hung up.
Louis just sat there, staring at the machine. He took a drink of the beer, then replayed her message just to hear her voice.
He hadn’t seen Joe in weeks. She was a homicide detective for Miami PD. He had met her when she came over to help work the homicides connected with Ben’s kidnapping. They had started an intense affair, and for Louis, it was just what he needed.
Louis finished off the beer. Two invitations to Thanksgiving dinner. Not bad. But now he had to choose. A great feast at Margaret Dodie’s table. Or two days in bed with Joe. A slow smile came to his face. Well, maybe Margaret would save him some leftovers.
His eyes went to the pile of mail near his elbow. He began sifting through it. The blue envelope with the familiar Michigan address made him stop.
His birthday—he had forgotten again. But Frances never did.
He slit open the envelope and pulled out the birthday card from his foster mother. He opened it and a crisp twenty-dollar bill fluttered to the counter.
November 18, 1988
 
 
Dearest Louis.
Well, here you are at 29! How the years have flown by! Though you are far, far away, always know that our thoughts and love are with you on this special day. We hope you can find some use for our little gift!
Love and kisses,
Frances and Phillip
It was written in Frances’s frilly hand. The card came as regular as the sun every November 18, written by Frances, signed for them both, and always with a twenty tucked inside.
He picked up the twenty. It was only then that he noticed the piece of white paper that had fallen to the floor. He stooped to pick it up and unfolded it.
The note was in black ink, the handwriting heavy and unfamiliar.
Dear Louis,
 
 
Frances does not know I am writing this to you, and for now I would ask that you don’t mention it to her. I suppose I should have called you about this, but every time I picked up the phone, I couldn’t quite figure out what to say. Writing things down has always been easier for me. Although nothing about this is easy really.
 
I have a friend whose grave I have been tending for sixteen years. The cemetery is being relocated and since my friend has no family, I made arrangements to move the coffin. But I was told it is empty. As you can imagine, I am quite upset and do not know where to turn. No one will help me and I feel I owe this to my friend. There is no way I can fully explain all this in a letter, so I hope you will just trust me when I say I need help. I am sorry to have to burden you with this, but I am quite desperate.
 
Please don’t tell Frances anything about this. If you were able to come home for Thanksgiving, she wouldn’t suspect anything and I could explain it all to you then. But if you have other plans, I understand.
—Phillip
Louis stared at the letter, rereading the middle paragraph, then the final line.
If you have other plans . . .
It was the first time Phillip had ever asked anything from him. Except the night when he was eleven, caught again going out through the bedroom window.
Where you going, Louis?
I don’t know. Just away.
If you keep running off like this, they’ll take you away from me. Do you want that?
I don’t care.
But I do. Promise me you won’t run away again.
All right.
And he hadn’t.
Louis folded the letter and sat there for a moment, listening to the whisper of the surf. He picked up the phone and dialed Joe’s number in Miami. He got the machine and left her a message asking her to call back. Then he called American Airlines and made a reservation to fly to Detroit in the morning.
CHAPTER 2
 
Phillip Lawrence turned the Impala into the driveway and cut the engine. Louis looked up at the yellow brick tri-level.
The first image that usually came to him when other people started talking about their childhoods was a house. Other things came, too—smells, emotions, mental snapshots of events. But those kinds of memories were fluid, changing for good or bad, depending on how, and when, a person chose to look back on them.
But a house was different. It was solid and permanent, and it allowed people to say
I existed here. My memories are real
.
His image of home had always been a wood frame shack in Mississippi. It was an ugly picture, but one he had held on to for a long time, convinced it symbolized some kind of truth about who he was or what he should be.
But all during the flight up to Michigan, it wasn’t the shack he was remembering. It was this house. And now, here it was before him—unchanged, real.
Almost. The shutters were brown this year, and the silver maple in the front yard had grown taller, its stark, black branches stretching high against the gray sky. A short row of flat evergreens lined the cracked sidewalk, and the birdbath was still there out front.
Louis smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Phillip asked.
Louis looked at Phillip. “Nothing. It’s just nice to be home.”
He pushed open the car door and climbed out. Phillip brought his suitcase to him, and they walked to the front porch, Louis automatically slowing in deference to Phillip’s limp.
Christmas lights were strung around the eaves, and a wreath hung on the door. He recognized the wreath. Old newspapers stuffed into an oval of chicken wire, spray-painted red and green, and covered with gobs of shellac. He knew the back read:
Louis, Age 11.
“It scares me what else Frances kept,” Louis said, nodding toward the wreath.
Phillip unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Don’t look in the attic then.”
Louis paused in the front hall, the assault to his senses almost bringing a sting to his eyes. Pot roast and lavender air freshener. Three steps leading down to the living room and kitchen were just to his left. To the right, more steps leading up to the five bedrooms. The pale yellow walls of the hallway were covered with a montage of framed photographs.
Phillip asked for his coat and Louis shrugged out of it, his gaze moving slowly over all the photographs. Boys. Dozens of different faces, at all ages. Some in Little League uniforms, some Boy Scouts, some standing outside a camper-trailer, some around the big blue DoughBoy pool that once dominated the backyard. Boys . . . all the foster kids who had passed through this home for more than twenty years.
“Leave your suitcase here, Louis,” Phillip said. “Frances is anxious to see you.”
Louis followed Phillip, the pot roast aroma growing stronger. She was standing at the stove, her hands clasped in front of her apron. She had put on a few more pounds, her face round and flushed from the heat of the oven. Her hairstyle was the same, a halo of light brown hair, a few curls sweat-plastered to her forehead.
“Louis,” she said, coming to him. She crushed him to her soft chest. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”
Another sensory flood. The feel of her cheek, soft as wilted rose petals, the smell of the Johnson’s Baby Powder she always used and that he, as a boy, assumed was peculiar to all white women. A memory rushed up to him, of Frances’s face coming close in the dark as she tucked him in bed and kissed him good night.

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