Deep-Fried Homicide (The Laurel Falls Mysteries Book 1) (18 page)

“Well, hello, Sheriff Dooley,” Rachel began in her sweetest voice. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” She spared a glance for Rick, who was in the kitchen, paying her no mind whatsoever. She figured at that point that she was in the clear…maybe.

“Coffee and pie,” Dooley said, indicating the plate and mug in front of him.

Rachel stepped around the counter and slipped on her apron, then grabbed the coffee pot and refilled Dooley’s cup. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I’m fine, Rachel.” He took a short draw from the mug, wincing at the heat and setting it back down at once. “I trust you’ve been behaving yourself?”

Rachel offered up both hands, palms out, and backed away. “I’ve been good as gold, Sheriff. Good as gold.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“So, did you come around just to check up on me?” She tried for a casual smile. It came across as more of a grimace.

“Nope. I wanted to let you all know that we finished the autopsy on Horace. His funeral is scheduled for tomorrow at eleven. Farley’s Funeral Home is handling it and the service will be there. I thought you all might want to come, being that Horace came in here so often and all.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Rick said from the back. “We’ll be closing down tomorrow for the funeral. I don’t suppose he had any family around, did he? If so, we’ll take a little something by for them.”

“Well, now, as I understand it, he had a daughter in Seattle, but not much else in the way of family. The daughter flew in this morning for the funeral. She’ll be staying at the motel out on the highway. I reckon she doesn’t much want to stay in the cemetery.”

Rachel nodded knowingly and twisted up her mouth. “Poor Horace.”

“Yea,” Dooley said softly and took another sip of his coffee. When his eyes met Rachel’s they were shimmering. “So, you’re really not going to ask, are you?”

“Ask what?” Rachel said, feigning confusion.

“What the cause of death was. I figured you’d at least be curious about that.”

Rachel swallowed, tried to push the thought out of her mind. It was like a piranha chewing on her brain. “Okay, Sheriff. How did Horace die?”

“Gunshot to the head. At least he went quick.”

There was silence as everyone within earshot offered up a silent prayer that they would go the same way: quickly and painlessly as opposed to a slow, suffering death. Rachel pressed her fist to her mouth and felt her knees buckle just a bit. “And you don’t have any idea who did it yet?”

“Actually, we know exactly who did it and we’ll bring them in as soon as things are in place.” Dooley avoided her gaze after that, terrified of the next question.

“So who is it? Who killed Horace?” Rachel held her breath.

“Not telling.” Dooley sipped his coffee once more, still dodging Rachel’s steely gaze.

“What things? Why can’t you just go out and arrest the monster who did this?”

Dooley stood up suddenly, sending the stool off in a spin. “Okay, Rachel. I came in here to let you all know about Horace’s funeral and I’ve done just that. Now, I’m going back to my office before you start shoving bamboo shoots under my fingernails. Later, Rick.” He raised one hand in a wave to Rick and headed for the door.

Shot in the head. What a terrible thing to do to such a nice man
, Rachel thought.

“Wait! Sheriff! What caliber?”

Dooley half-turned, his hand still on the door handle. “Forty-five. Hollow point.”

Then he was gone and a gust of hot air rushed in through the closing door, heralding his exit.

Rachel’s mind spun out of control and she bit into one thumbnail. The gun ruled out a hunting accident. Hunters used rifles, not handguns. Ditto a suicide. Horace had one gun that he kept for protection and it was also a rifle. The police used nine-millimeter weapons and even the military had mostly stopped using forty-fives after Viet Nam. That pointed to a collector or a criminal. Perhaps both. Dooley said that they knew who had killed Horace but if she could figure it out before the arrest was made…

Rachel choked it all back. Tomorrow was Horace’s funeral and the whole event was a tragedy. Her mucking about in it all would only serve to stir up already raw feelings and possibly put a crimp in the sheriff’s arrest plans. No, she would let it all go for a day or two. Let Horace be buried, let Dooley do his job. And if she was very lucky, perhaps the identity of Horace’s murderer would shed new light on the cemetery mystery.

She turned around then and cleared Dooley’s dishes from the counter, wiped it down. Logan and Rick were in the kitchen talking, so she took the dishes straight back to the dishwasher in order that she might eavesdrop on their conversation.

“So, did you find that valve for the dishwasher?” Rick asked, freezing Rachel in mid-stride. Her eyes went wide and she sucked in a breath.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Logan said, which wasn’t a lie. They had never made it to the supply house, so of course he hadn’t found it.

“No matter. We can just order one and it’ll be here in a few days.” Rick returned to his stove, satisfied.

Rachel let go of her breath and hurried into the next room. Rick had been satisfied with Logan’s answer and when you got right down to it, neither Logan nor Rachel had had to lie to Rick.
All’s well that ends well,
she mused.

S
ince the funeral was so early in the day, Rick and Rachel didn’t even bother opening the diner the next day. By the time they got through with the breakfast rush and cleaned up the mess, they would have missed the funeral anyway. Instead, they slept in until nine, ate a leisurely breakfast together, then made ready for the funeral.

Rachel had a black dress in the back of her closet which she saved for funerals. Being in law enforcement and having a lot of friends in the military meant a lot of funerals. It was a sedate little number, cut high on her collar bone and below her knees. The jacket she wore over it was tastefully embroidered in black and when she paired it with a pair of low black pumps it had the effect of making her look very matronly.

She pulled it from its garment bag, freshly cleaned after the last funeral, and hung it on the edge of the door. The black pumps and matching purse were dusty, so she cleaned them off and set them aside. She was first into the shower and first to get dressed. Then Rick took over the bathroom.

He stepped out twenty minutes later, struggling with his tie and collar. Something about the way the collar came together fought against the knot and he couldn’t get it to lay straight. Rachel stepped up, fussing with it and smiling. The big guy could bench press a Buick but ties confounded him. She decided to find it adorable.

As an afterthought, she stuffed a good-sized wad of tissues into her purse, along with her silenced cell phone, her keys and wallet. Rick filled his pockets with the usual, then turned for her approval.

“You look very dapper, darling,” she told him with a thin smile.

“I hate wearing this stuff. Heavy jackets and tight ties. And these stiff shoes.” He did a funny little dance, exaggerating the way the shoes hurt his feet. “This is why I’m a cook instead of a CEO.”

“Yea, that’s why,” Rachel laughed, rolling her eyes and hooking her arm in his. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”

They took the car that day; later it would be part of the funeral procession to the cemetery. It looked overcast and Rachel felt the pall of the day invade her soul. At the last minute, she grabbed the umbrella from its stand in the hall…just in case.

Macy was already at the funeral home when they arrived; Logan showed up five minutes later with Diane in tow. They walked in together and Rachel was suddenly stricken with the errant notion that Logan might well be infatuated with young Diane. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Of course, it would all come to nothing if the mysterious Mike ever showed up.

It was surprising how many people showed up for Horace’s funeral. It seemed like half the town filed through those heavy wood doors. Rachel passed the time by trying to figure out which of the women was Horace’s daughter and it didn’t take her long to figure it out, once the woman was seated in the front row.

Joe Farley started off, then handed the proceedings over to Frank from the hardware store. It had fallen upon Frank to do the eulogy, since he had known Horace the longest and the best. Rachel had felt sad from the moment she had first seen the coffin, but at the sound of Frank’s voice, tears began to gather.

“Horace was a good man. Not many people knew him very well and most of them thought he was just the caretaker at the cemetery, somebody who watched over the dead. But he was a lot more than that. A lot.” Frank paused, swiped a hand across his nose and sniffled. “Horace was ex-Army. The best mechanic I ever met and a whiz with anything mechanical. I remember the time my sump pump failed and the basement flooded…”

Rachel felt a tear spill onto her cheek and she reached for Rick’s hand instinctively. The longer Frank spoke, regaling them all with tales of Horace’s humanitarianism and feats of mechanical wonder, the harder it was for Rachel to fight the tears. It was clear that Frank and Horace had been very close. It was even clearer that the rest of the town had only thought they knew Horace.

At one point, Rachel leaned her head into Rick’s shoulder, fighting a long wave of shudders and tears. He squeezed her hand and kissed the top of her head. When she looked at him, she could see the red in his eyes; strain from trying to fight tears of his own.

When it was over, they all made for their cars and the pallbearers took Horace for his final ride. Rachel had regained some of her control, but her eyes still stung and the back of her throat tasted like stomach acid.

Rick led her to the car, holding her door and her hand and in general being the pillar of strength she needed. As long as he had known Rachel, she had always been a strong, independent woman. But when it came to death and funerals, she folded like a cheap suit. He feared for her sanity on the day that one of the cats finally passed on.

They fell into line in the procession, driving the short, winding path to the cemetery in a slow line of headlamps. It had become overcast and Rachel said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t rain until they had Horace safely in the ground. Then she meditated on what a dark day it was all around and she began to cry anew.

Having worked at the cemetery for several decades, Horace had been given the perk of having his own plot there. It was a beautiful spot, beneath the huge oak which towered above everything else in the cemetery. When he had chosen the plot, it had been at the front of the graveyard but now, it was closer to the back, more space having been added over the years.

Rachel walked with Rick, hand in hand, her eyes cast to the ground and shadowed. Through some feat she couldn’t identify, she survived the graveside ceremony without collapsing and even once managed to conjure a memory of Horace that made her smile. Then they were done and people began leaving, stopping briefly to pay their respects to Horace’s daughter.

There were no good words to say at a time like that. One might know how the survivor feels, but they don’t care about that. Short of being able to raise the dead, there was nothing constructive or comforting which could be offered, but Rachel stepped up and took the woman’s hand in both of her own.

“I am so very sorry for your loss, dear. If there’s anything at all you need while you’re here, come by the diner. We’ll be only too glad to help.”

A soft “thank you” was muttered and the woman lowered her eyes, recovering quickly and moving on to the next person.

Rachel moved slowly past the hole where Horace’s coffin now lay, and on to the tree which stood nearby. She ran her hand over the rough bark and let her eyes travel as far up as she could see. “Just Horace and his tree now,” she said and hitched in a breath.

Rick thought they were headed back to the car. Everyone was making haste to their own. But Rachel wandered instead, looking over tombstones and eyeing flowers. She was somewhere inside herself, remembering her own parents’ funeral perhaps, or anticipating her own.

“You okay?” Rick asked gently, taking her hand once more.

“Hm? Oh, yes. Fine. Just thinking.” She sighed again and Rick knew at once that she was remembering her parents.

Rick glanced around, feeling awkward at being the only two people left in the cemetery. “You wanna go get something to eat at that new restaurant out on the highway? Check out the competition? We never go on dates anymore.”

She looked at him briefly and from the corner of her eye. She was very still just then, almost as if she were afraid to move. Her lip was caught in the vice of her teeth. “Do you hear something?”

Rick listened. “No. Why?”

“I hear something.” She still didn’t move.

“Like what…voices?” He tried to lighten the mood. Judging by her disapproving glare, he had failed.

She moved at last, stepped sideways, closer to the back of the graveyard. “I’m not sure what it is.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and pivoted her head this way and that, trying to catch more of the sound. Then she took two more steps toward the back fence. “I can feel it too. Vibrations.”

Rick walked to where she was standing and likewise stood still. “Kind of a hum?”

“A distant hum. Something mechanical.” She moved another ten feet toward the fence. “It gets louder when I go this way.” She put her hand on the ground and made a face, then stood and placed the same hand on a headstone. “Put your hand here.”

Rick did as he was told. He was hungry again and the sooner he placated her and got out of there, the sooner he could eat. “Yea, I feel it. Probably an underground well pump for sprinklers or maybe a booster pump for the sewers.”

Rachel’s head snapped around and brought her eyes to bear on him, making him shrink back a little from the suddenness of it. “What did you say?”

“You know. They have booster pumps every now and again in the sewer and water lines to keep things moving.”