Somewhere Along the Way (6 page)

His little sister reminded him of a girl he’d dated in college ten years ago. Priscilla Prescote. She’d been so needy, she could have had her own box to check on the United Way form. If Liz was growing up, maybe Priscilla had too.

Hank laughed, remembering how Priscilla had talked him into getting engaged, not because she loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, but because she thought it would be fun to tell everyone. Now all these years later he was engaged again and still seemingly no closer to getting married.

Hank thought about driving home, but this was his day in town and every woman at the ranch, including his six-year-old niece, would want to know what was wrong.
That’s my problem
, Hank decided,
I’m too predictable. I come to town Tuesdays and Thursdays. Take Saralynn to breakfast and then to school, work at the office, then take Alex to dinner.
The rest of the days of the week he worked on his ranch and didn’t see Alex until he stopped by her place after dark.

Last week he drove into town to surprise her for lunch. The moment she looked up and saw him, she said, “It must be Wednesday.” He realized for the past four Wednesdays he’d surprised her.

He grabbed his coat and headed out with no real mission in mind. If anyone needed him, he had his cell strapped to his belt. Otherwise, Hank Matheson planned to do something different for a change. When even his spontaneity was getting predictable, he figured he was moving from predictable to boring.

He backed out into the street before his cell went off.

“Matheson here,” he answered as he pulled to the curb.

“Hank, it’s Tyler Wright. I got a problem out here at the cemetery and I don’t know who else to call.”

“A fire?” Hank found that hard to believe. Two years ago they’d had enough grass fires to last a lifetime, and he and Tyler had had their hands full. Somehow, the heat of that spring had shown him the solid steel in this man he knew he could always depend on.

Tyler Wright was over forty, his good friend, and the town’s funeral director. Hank suspected he hadn’t told a joke in this lifetime.

“No, no fire.” Tyler sounded frustrated. “Just a woman. She’s sitting on one of the benches and when I walked over, she didn’t even act like she noticed me standing in front of her.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t know what to do. She’s not doing anything illegal or acting crazy, she’s just sitting.”

“Is she ill?” Hank threw the truck into drive and headed the few blocks to the cemetery.

“No, I don’t think so.” Tyler’s normally calm voice sounded nervous. “If she stays out here much longer, she’ll be sick. Between the drizzle and the sun setting, it’s got to be close to freezing. I told her she’d have to leave, but I don’t think she even heard me and I can’t drag her out.”

“You ever see her before?”

“No. She was just sitting out there when I came by this morning to check the location of a grave, and when I circled back a few minutes ago, she was still there. I don’t think she’s moved from that bench all day.”

Hank swung into the front gate of the beautiful old cemetery. The headstones beneath barren branches made the air seem ten degrees colder. He parked next to Tyler’s funeral-black Cadillac and walked toward the woman sitting in the oldest section of the graves where huge elms stood guard, the shadows of their bare limbs crossing the dead grass like spiderweb lace.

Tyler met him a few feet before he reached the bench. The plump funeral director never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings, but as always he seemed to sense heartache. Hank saw the worry in his friend’s face.

Hank knelt in front of the woman. She was gray headed, thin, and wrapped in a tailored wool coat. “Hello.” Hank extended his hand. “I’m Hank Matheson. If you’re looking for a grave, we could help you find it. Most of my ancestors are scattered around this place, and Mr. Wright’s family started this cemetery.”

She stared straight ahead as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Do you need any help?” Hank asked.

“It’s getting late.” Tyler stood beside Hank, looking anxious. “You don’t want to be here in a few hours. This rain will turn to sleet.”

Still no answer from the woman.

Hank placed his hand on her gloved fingers laced together. “Are you all right?” When she just stared ahead, he looked at the stones around the bench and picked the name carved on most of them. “Can we help you, Mrs. Biggs?”

Slowly she turned her head. “No one’s called me that in years.”

She stared at the grave in front of her with the name BRICE ANDREW BIGGS carved on its small stone. Birth 1968. Died 1998. Hank figured the dates were off to be her husband, but it could have been her son. He looked around at several other Biggs graves and saw a few with birth years in the forties. One of them could have been her husband.

Hank smiled. “Would you like me to call you something else?”

“No. I think I’d like to be called Mrs. Biggs again.”

Tyler moved forward. “I’ve got hot cocoa in my car. Would you like a cup, Mrs. Biggs?”

She nodded, and he hurried off to his Cadillac.

Hank sat down on the bench close enough to touch her side lightly, hoping to offer some warmth. He put his arm on the back bar, wanting to cut some of the wind blowing her hair. They didn’t talk. He wasn’t even sure she noticed him so close.

Tyler brought the thermos and two mugs and sat on the other side of her. He poured her a cup, offered Hank one, and then, using the lid, he poured himself some. They sat in silence for a long while, drinking the cocoa and watching the sun lower.

Hank wondered what people passing by thought, but he didn’t much care. He and Tyler just didn’t want Mrs. Biggs, or whoever she was, to be alone. He’d watched Tyler and his father before around the grieving. Since Tyler was from generations of funeral directors, you’d think he’d know just what to say, but the thing Hank noticed most was that Tyler didn’t say anything at all. He was just there when needed.

Hank glanced over at his friend. Tyler had never been popular in school, never dated much, never played a sport. He hadn’t gone off to the big city to make a fortune or become famous, but Hank realized he respected this quiet man more than just about anyone. Tyler Wright had never harmed anyone, and in this world that was a gift. If Alex did ever set a date, Hank decided he’d ask Tyler to stand up as his best man.

Finally, Mrs. Biggs handed her cup back to Tyler. “Thank you. That was lovely.”

“You’re welcome. It’s about time for me to lock the cemetery up for the night. If you like, I could drive you home.”

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Hank stood and offered his hand to help her up, then tucked her fingers at his elbow as he walked her across the grass to where his truck and Tyler’s car waited.

Tyler hurried ahead and started his car, then climbed back out to lock the gate. Hank waited for him outside after Mrs. Biggs was seated and the heater turned up. “Any idea who she is?” he asked with his back to the woman in the front seat.

“No. Far as I know, all the Biggses are dead. We haven’t dug a grave there in ten years or more. No one has ever left flowers.”

“Well”—Hank shrugged—“she doesn’t want to talk and I don’t think she’s crazy or ill, so what do we do?”

“I’ll bring more cocoa for tomorrow,” Tyler said simply.

“I can probably find a blanket and an umbrella. If she wants to sit out here, we might as well try to make her comfortable.” Hank climbed into his truck. It was past five; Alex would be waiting for him.

As he drove to the county offices, he wondered what it would be like to be the last in a family. Since the Mathesons settled here over a hundred years ago, they’d been procreating. He had more cousins than he could count. Alex and her family, the McAllens, were the same way. There wasn’t a business in town that didn’t have at least one McAllen or Matheson working at it. Alex didn’t have to go out looking for crime; she had relatives calling it in. When he and Alex finally did marry, they’d have to have the wedding at the biggest church in town just to hold the family.

Hank realized he didn’t have to ask Mrs. Biggs if she had any relatives left. If she had, she wouldn’t have been sitting in the cemetery.

JANUARY 17, 2008
WRIGHT FUNERAL HOME

TYLER WRIGHT CLOSED HIS OFFICE DOOR AND FLIPPED on his computer. Every night he logged the day. A routine he never broke. Only he didn’t keep the logs, he mailed them to an e-mail address that hadn’t answered a message in two years.

Dear Kate,

Today the wind seemed to blow in winter on frosted breath. I met a woman in her sixties who is probably the last of her family. She asked me if she could come sit in the cemetery every day. I don’t think she has anything else to do.

When we were talking, Kate, I never got around to asking if you had family. I hope you do.

Good night. Sleep well,
Ty

By now, he knew she wouldn’t answer him, but as long as the messages didn’t come back, he figured there was hope. In a time when all the world had secrets, Tyler had no affairs, no addictions he kept quiet, no strange obsessions. He simply wrote a woman each night to tell her he was still waiting.

JANUARY 18, 2008
OFFICE ON THE SQUARE

AS THE DAYS PASSED, MAIL FOR G. L. SMITH BEGAN TO collect on Liz Matheson’s wicker chair. Jerry the mailman stopped trying the door after a few days and just plopped Smith’s letters down before he yelled, “No mail for you again today, Miss Matheson.”

He’d listen for a while, then leave if she didn’t answer. He always had time to talk, so Liz developed a habit of always looking busy.

Late Friday afternoon Liz decided that was now her job . . . looking busy. She’d been open a week and the only people who came in, besides the mailman, were curious folks with usually hypothetical questions. The bookstore owner downstairs wanted to know if killing a barking dog was a crime. When she said yes, he frowned, took back the 20-percent-off coupon he’d laid on her desk, and left. Two high school kids dropped by to ask her if she’d ever represented a serial killer. When she said no, they picked up their skateboards and ran out.

So, Liz was left with what she did best, looking busy. Tonight she was busy watching the sunset behind the trees of the old homes and wishing she had somewhere to go. It was Friday night. When she’d been in college she’d had dates lined up on the weekends. Those were the days. She smiled as she tossed her pen toward the invisible receptionist’s desk.

A shadow moved in the hallway, making Liz jerk back. She hadn’t heard anyone come up the rickety stairs. The floor just beyond her office creaked, and she became very much aware of how alone she was.

“Who’s there?” she shouted, looking around for a weapon.

A tall man, covered in winter work clothes, stood before her. Between his hooded coat and his beard, all she could see were his eyes. Winter blue, she thought. Cold as blue-gray steel.

Killer eyes, she decided.

Before she could scream, he looked down at several yellow squares of paper in his hands. “Sorry to interrupt you, miss, but I’m glad you’re still here. These things taped to my door say you’ve got my mail.”

Liz tried to slow her heart down to under a thousand beats a minute. “Oh, you’re G. L. Smith.” She stood and moved closer.

He didn’t answer her question. “Kaufman must have locked my door. I leave it unlocked for deliveries, but now and then he drops by and locks the place up.”

“Aren’t you afraid someone will steal your mail?”

He glanced at the stack of boxes and papers on her wicker chair. “No one ever has, until now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Please, take it.”

He loaded up an armful and crossed the hall. While he unlocked his door, she picked up a stack and followed. Liz wasn’t sure what she expected to be in Mr. Smith’s office, but one box marked
Mail
wasn’t it. The office looked to be the same size as hers, but he had nothing. No desk, file cabinets. Not even a worthless wicker chair.