Final Grave Page 10

  He stood on his porch. The wind whipped loose hair not caught in his ponytail, and he looked like a wild man with one finger in a light socket. He called out loudly, “Somebody’s watching you, Meri Ann Dunlap!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Meri Ann drove down the mountain in a rush of adrenaline. Harold Graber gave her the creeps—this self-appointed prophet with a dossier on her mom. Was he nuts or was he perceptive? Did the old geezer know something she didn’t? Like the odor of the birds, his image clung to her, especially his parting words, “someone’s watching you.” She suspected this was the case and kept thinking about the woman in the raincoat that she and Becky had both seen. The incident at the river also heightened her suspicions. She felt certain someone had called her name. What did it all mean?

  The mountain weather broke, raining down sleet mixed with snow, making it tricky to maneuver the turns. She skidded once and cursed the slick road. Her windshield wipers pushed the icy slush until well after she’d passed the dam. At the lower elevation, it cleared to an ordinary overcast day.

  It was one o’clock when she hit the edge of town.

  Hungry, she spotted a bakery with a sign promising whole-earth grains. She pulled into their lot and went inside.

  Welcoming gingham curtains hung at the windows and colorful Matisse prints adorned the walls. The air was redolent with the scent of fresh-baked bread. Meri Ann breathed it in, glad for the normalcy of a bakery. She felt an intense need for some comforting carbs, and she had come to the perfect place.

  Several racks of hand-shaped loaves lined the wall behind the counter. “Beautiful bread,” she said to a plump woman with a rose-petal complexion.

  The woman hopped down from her perch on a wooden stool. “Everything’s organic, grown and ground right here, stone ground on a wheel out in Eagle.” She pointed at the racks. “These high-gluten breads are really great for vegetarians, and it’s really, really healthy, at least if you can tolerate gluten. Are you a vegan?”

  Meri Ann shook her head. “No. I just like good food.”

  She bought two loaves of sprouted, bulgar wheat and six blueberry muffins for Becky. For lunch she ordered the special, a sliced tomato and avocado sandwich with alfalfa sprouts.

  “Extra sprouts?” the clerk asked.

  “Extra everything,” Meri Ann said as she rubbed her grumbling stomach, wondering whether she should order two. “And some hot herbal tea. Chamomile if you have it.”

  She took lunch to a table beside a window. The avocado was perfectly ripe, rich and sweet, the tomato slightly tart and fragrant as if it has just been picked from the garden. She savored the sandwich and rehashed the visit with Graber. So much about it bothered her. In particular, she wondered how he had connected the incident on Table Rock to her mother. It could have been anyone’s bones, according to Mendiola.

  She also wondered about Aunt Pauline and Tina Wheatley. They thought her mom was alive. Mendiola, Wheatley, Jason, and Graber thought otherwise. Sadly, Meri Ann agreed with the men. Her mom had to be dead. The only questions left were when, why and how, a task for Mendiola when he had time.

  She cleared the table, her eye on a wall-mounted telephone. Operating without a cell phone was like stepping back to the dark ages. She pointed and asked, “Mind if I use that?”

  “Go ahead.” The woman motioned her around the end of the counter.

  Meri Ann thanked her and reached into her pocket for Mendiola’s business card. The first order of business was to alert him to Graber. Soon she’d have to tell him about Wheatley’s love letter and the man’s lunatic wife, but not just yet.

  Detective Neles answered and told her Mendiola was out on a call.

  “Can you page him or get him a message? I need to talk to him this afternoon.”

  Neles hesitated, which probably meant Mendiola wasn’t answering calls or pages. “I’ll give it a shot,” he finally said.

  “I’d appreciate that. What about Lt. Dillon?”

  “She also out, at a training seminar.”

  Meri Ann thanked him and hung up, frustrated but willing to wait. She had somewhere else to go.

  She drove straight to her childhood home, a street off Hill Road, a section of Boise just outside the city limits. The county location meant the case had been handled by the Ada County Sheriff’s office rather than to the city police. She briefly wondered if that would have made a difference.

  She slowed, approaching the brick split-level home of her youth. The flowering magnolia tree her mother had planted had tripled in size. Its gray bark was bare this time of year, but memories of the pink waxy flowers bloomed in Meri Ann’s mind.

  Goosebumps rose on her arms. Time raced backwards. She was fourteen, home from school and eager to drop her books on the table, switch on the television and watch reruns of Charlie’s Angels. The homey scene drew her in, and she saw her dad’s red Jeep pulling into the driveway. She heard his footsteps on the front porch.

  “Hey, there.”

  Meri Ann blinked, jolted back to reality by two soft words, a voice floating across the years. She turned to the sound. The neighbor’s eldest daughter, Meri Ann’s former baby-sitter and confidant, approached her. Meri Ann hurried to meet her. “Marsha, oh my God. How are you?”

  Blonder than ever, Marsha wore her hair clipped high on her head, accentuating her longish nose and small, gem-like blue eyes. She tilted her head back and blinked several times. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Neither can I.”

  Marsha grabbed Meri Ann’s hands, pumping them up and down. “What are you doing, visiting, come back to live? I’ve got a place in Salt Lake now, and a hunk named Greg. Are you married, got kids, what?”

  The barrage of questions brought memories of late-night conversations. “You haven’t changed a bit,” Meri Ann said. “You were always Barbara Walters, worming out my secrets.”

  “So how about it? What are you up to?” Marsha sobered. “Oh, I hope you’re not home for a funeral. Did they find your mother?”

  Meri Ann avoided Marsha’s questioning eyes. “I’m visiting Becky Schuster and was just driving by. I’d expected to see your mom but not you. You look good, happy.”

  “I’m in cosmetic sales and made regional manager. I love it. Come on in and see Mother; she’s baking cookies. Daddy’s off at McDonalds with his retiree cronies. He was supposed to do the storm windows before he left, but he forgot. Mom’s mad at him. They still scrap on a regular basis, even when I’m visiting and when I’m not.”

  Meri Ann remembered the feisty pair. “I’m glad she’s here.”

  “Mother went into depression when your mom disappeared. They were like sisters.”

  “Think she has time to see me?”

  “Are you kidding? She’d throw a fit if you came to town and didn’t say hi.”

  Marsha led her inside and into a butter yellow kitchen, rife with the scent of warm chocolate. “Look who’s here,” she called to her mom, her voice so enthusiastic you’d have thought Meri Ann was the Queen of England.

  Mrs. Johnson stood facing the stove, a wide-hipped woman with gray streaks in her otherwise brown hair. She turned around. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes grew wide with surprise. “Meri Ann Dunlap. Well, I’ll be blessed.”

  “Actually Meri Ann Fehr.” She offered her hand. “I got married.” She saw Mrs. Johnson’s expression brighten and explained, “It didn’t work out. We’re divorcing.”

  “I’m very sorry. It happens so often these days.” The matronly woman moved forward, wrapped her strong arms around Meri Ann and hugged her. “You darling girl.” She stepped back, her face plainly showing emotion. “I never expected to see you again. You poor little thing. Well, you’re not little by any means now. But I knew you when you were.”

  “I’m in town for a few days and couldn’t le
ave without seeing you and the old house.”

  “After what you went through over there, I can’t imagine you’d want to see it again.”

  “It was her home, Mama.”

  “Yes, yes it was.” Mrs. Johnson wiped her forehead with a dishtowel.

  Marsha headed for the doorway. “I’ll be upstairs. Call me, Meri Ann, and we’ll do lunch or something.”

  “I wish we could, but this is my last day.” Meri Ann reached out and squeezed her hand. “But I promise, I’ll be back.” She knew she would, one way or another.

  Marsha’s mother sat down at a worn oak table. “It’s just not the same without Joanna. To this day I miss her so—our lunches, shopping, her friendship. She listened to me, and I did the same for her.” She held her hand to her cheek. “Looking at you I see a strong resemblance, especially in the eyes and the mouth. Even the hair color, but, of course, hers was longer.”

  “Everyone sees the resemblance and yet I can’t remember what Mother looked like.” She knew it must sound impossible. “I have photos, but I can’t really see her face. Oh, the feel of her skin stays with me, her scent, things she said: like, elect rich congressmen. They steal less.” Meri Ann forced a weak smile and let it fade. “If I close my eyes, I can see her standing at the door, the tilt of her head, but her face is blank.”

  “Don’t fault yourself. We never see the people we love exactly as they are, anyway. As long as she’s in your heart, you’ll be fine.”

  But would she?

  “There’s so much about her I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Johnson nodded in understanding. “I see you’re troubled.”

  “Yes, I am.” Meri Ann took a chair on the opposite side of the table and struggled for a place to start. “I have to ask, did Mom ever talk about another man?”

  Mrs. Johnson folded her dishtowel, unfolded it, then set it aside, her reluctance to speak evident. “Your mother and I shared secrets,” she said, finally, “but we agreed, she wouldn’t tell mine, and I wouldn’t tell hers.”

  “That was a long time ago, I doubt she would hold you to that promise. And it would help me understand her, maybe even to discover what happened to her.”

  The dear woman went to the sink. There was a window above it with wooden sashes. She opened it, and a cold breeze drifted in. “Your mother’s kitchen window faced mine. See it right over there? Joanna kept it open, except for the coldest days. We’d call to one another. It broke my heart when that window went shut after she disappeared.”

  “Was there a man?”

  Mrs. Johnson turned around, tears in her eyes. “There was someone, but close as we were, she never told me his name.”

  Meri Ann nodded slowly. “I feel so bad for my father.”

  “Who knows what happens between two people, what drives them apart. I have troubles of my own and a terrible temper, but I don’t have Joanna’s nature. What I mean is her courage. I can’t quit my marriage; can’t even quit my bridge club, and I complain about everyone in it.”

  “Did Mother say she was leaving Dad?” The words hurt just to say them.

  Mrs. Johnson rose from her chair and turned off the stove. She busied herself with the cookies, the way she had with the dishtowel. “Smell the burned sugar,” she mumbled, “over-cooked.”

  “You’ve got to tell me, was she leaving?”

  Mrs. Johnson faced the window, as though she didn’t have the strength to watch Meri Ann’s reaction.

  She gulped a deep breath and said, “Yes, dear. She was.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mendiola sat alone at a back table in the Bar Gernika, a Basque restaurant spelled in the Basque tradition. The boxcar of a room stretched ten tables long and two wide, a comfortable eatery, even with the hard, oak chairs. The place was empty except for Mendiola and the owner, Danny, prepping for dinner. The sizzle and smell of frying chorizo filled the air with garlic.

  Mendiola studied his half-empty bowl of lamb stew and nursed a second beer. His eyes intermittently checked the door. Kari was late.

  Danny called to him from an open grill, nearly as long as the counter. “Maybe she’s not coming. Ah, biotza, huh, Jack?”

  Sweetheart in Euskera, the Basque language. Such a simple word, Mendiola thought, light and easy. He’d whispered biotza in Kari’s ear after they’d made love the first time. “She’ll be here, Danny,” he said.

  Mendiola tilted his chair against the wall and peeked out the window onto Grove Street, a street where his father’s people had built their community well over a century ago. It was the street where his father met his mother after a jai alai game, and the street where Mendiola thought he’d met the woman he’d wed.

  The bell on the entry door jingled.

  Mendiola lifted his face to the sound, watching the door open.

  Kari stood framed by the light. Her shoulder-length hair hung in gentle waves, dark against her ivory skin. Her black eyes sought him.

  “He’s back there.” Danny thumbed in Mendiola’s direction.

  “Thanks,” she said in that all-too-sultry voice only she knew how to turn on and off at will. She moved toward him. Her full hips swayed this way and that as if to avoid hitting the chairs in the narrow space.

  “Did I keep you waiting, Jack?” Her tone was playful.

  It ticked him off, almost as much as what she’d said last night. He finished the beer in his glass and stared at her crotch. It wasn’t much higher than the hem of her skirt.

  “Jack,” she said the way she might speak to a naughty puppy.

  “Kari,” he said the same way to mock her.

  “Don’t lets—”

  “Don’t play high-school cute with me.”

  She eased down into the chair across from him and licked her pouty lips.

  An urge swept him to thrust his hand under the table and up her skirt and spoil her perfect composure.

  Instead he replayed the scene in his bed last night, and how he had wanted her. She’d asked, “do you love me?” “Yes,” he’d said, barely able to breathe, but it was lust more than love. “Say it,” she begged. He’d said, “love” to please her. Then she’d said, “I know you do.”

  Sonofabitch… I know you do. Her conceit registered ten on the Richter Scale and made his insides quake. Later, it ate at him, making him feel like a fool.

  He tilted back on his chair and said, “What the hell am I doing here?”

  “Don’t talk in riddles. You wanted my answer. At least you did last night.”

  What he’d said was, “Make up your mind.” But he’d regretted it the moment he’d said it, the absolute stupidity of it. Let’s see… tennis pro with red Maserati or small-town detective… eenie, meenie, miney, mo.

  He said, “Yeah, well, I was stupid last night. I’ve been stupid since day one with you. It’s gotta stop sometime.” His body felt heavy from the thought. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, smelled the lamb stew. “Today.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “My life’s a wreck. I’m not living, just existing. It’s like I’ve shut myself in a box.”

  Her eyes widened. “Me too. I’m ready to come back. I want you, Jack. I know you’re mad at me, but I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work. Just ask me. I’ll do it.”

  Mendiola tried to hold his jaw from dropping. “You what?”

  She pushed her hair from her shoulder and tilted her delicate chin to the side.

  So damn beautiful. He’d never really believed she wanted him, not from the first time he’d put the make on her and she said, “You intrigue me.” Intrigue. He’d wanted the word tattooed on his chest.

  “Aren’t you going to say something, Jack? I know what I want.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a diamond solitaire, the one he had given her, and the one she’d taken off si
x months ago but not returned.

  She lowered her voice, “Put it back on my finger, ask me again.” She dangled her hand over his bowl, holding the ring.

  His mouth went dry.

  He took her hand in his, pulled it to his lips, and kissed her fingertips, palms, even his own diamond ring. He said, “Agur.”

  She pulled back from him, her pale skin two shades paler. “Say it in English.”

  He drew in a long breath and cleared his throat. It was hard not to look away but he owed it to her to meet her eye-to-eye. “Ah, Kari, you know what it means. It’s goodbye.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Robin Wheatley sat on the edge of his bed, looking across at his wife’s. A floral spread spanned the twin beds, giving them a king-sized appearance. But underneath the beds were separate—two separate beds for two separate people.

  Water drummed against the shower wall in their adjoining bathroom. Steam escaped through the partially open door. He traced his car keys along a pink zinnia in the spread and listened to Tina humming.

  “Jesus loves me, this I know… .”

  She’d been singing the child’s hymn all week. But today, in particular, each childish note wore him down. He checked his watch and worried about the time. She’d been in a glum procrastinating mood all week.

  He approached the door and knocked. “Tina, better get a move on.”

  The faucet creaked off, and the drumming water stopped, her singing as well. But she didn’t answer.

  He stared out the window at the snow on the foothills, white and virginal. His thoughts drifted to Tina, her naiveté when they’d married—so young, dutiful and adoring. She embodied everything he’d thought he wanted in a wife. A dozen years later Joanna appeared at the door to the conference room, a completed application for office manager in her delicate hand. She’d smiled, nodded. Her face animated with expectation. He’d thought she was beautiful, but it wasn’t a standard kind of beauty. More a compilation of fascinating, slight imperfections that made him want to look at her all day. The way she smiled with her pale brown eyes, the slight cast to them, and the way her right eyebrow arched a fraction higher than the left. Mies van der Rohe said God is in the details. That’s how it was with Joanna, an intricate feminine collage. Her velvet voice wafted back to him. “So your first name’s Robin,” she’d said. “I like that. I’m crazy about birds. If you hire me it’s fate.”