Bad Moon (Kat Campbell Mysteries) (13 page)

She laid one set of flowers in front of her mother’s grave. Kissing her open hand, she placed it on the section of tombstone where her mother’s name was etched. After a brief moment of silence and a whispered “I love you,” she moved to the grave beside it.

Kat repeated the ritual of flower placing and hand kissing. But instead of whispering, she spoke aloud at her father’s tombstone. She started off by briefly mentioning Lou van Sickle and the state of the police department in general. Then she moved onto the topic of James, who had been named after her father.

That morning she had packed her son’s lunch in a brown paper bag, just as he requested. She figured it would make him far happier than the previous day. She was wrong. James was just as moody as he had been during the lunch box controversy.

Things only got worse—and more baffling—when she dropped him off at school. Instead of heading directly into the building, he meandered, as if delaying his entrance as much as possible. Kat, thinking maybe he was embarrassed to be dropped off in a decidedly uncool police car, pulled away from the curb. If James wanted space, she’d give it to him. She wasn’t going to be one of those moms who couldn’t take a hint when they were humiliating their children. But as she drove away, a quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed James approaching the trash can at the school’s front door. Just before stepping inside, he lifted his lunch bag, held it over the garbage, and let it drop inside.

Kat didn’t know what prompted his actions. Probably the same thing that caused him to intentionally lose his lunch box the day before. But whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. And as she drove from the school to the cemetery, her thoughts settled on one thing.

“I’m worried, Dad,” she said. “I think he’s having a hard time at school. Kids are probably teasing him, and he’s not equipped to handle it. And I don’t know what to do. You would know. You were always good at that kind of thing.”

In hindsight, her father had been too good at keeping kids off her back. The result was that not many people wanted to be her friend, let alone boyfriend. There was no faster way to spinsterhood than being the daughter of the town’s police chief.

When she was done talking about James, she moved on to the real reason for her visit.

“You’re not going to believe what landed in my lap,” she said. “Charlie Olmstead. Crazy, right? Turns out he might not have gone over the falls after all. Even worse, he wasn’t the only kid who vanished.”

As Kat spoke, a wave of anger washed over her. Its presence surprised her, as did its strength. She agreed with Nick that times were different back then, and that her father and Deputy Peale couldn’t be blamed for not thinking Charlie’s disappearance was part of a larger crime spree. But she also couldn’t let her dad off the hook entirely. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it.

“Why didn’t you look closer?” she asked the granite slab that bore her father’s name. “Maybe you could have caught someone. It might not have been enough to save Charlie, but it could have saved five other boys.”

Kat knew there’d be no real answer as to why her father didn’t investigate further. The only thing she could do about it now was investigate herself. Which she intended to do tirelessly.

Moving out from under the dry sanctuary of the maple trees, Kat didn’t even bother with the umbrella. The drizzle had softened into a light mist, which was easily dealt with on the long trudge back to the car.

About a hundred yards from the parking lot, another grave caught her attention—a recent addition. Time hadn’t yet worn down the gentle mound of dirt, which was still untouched by grass. The headstone, colored a crisp slate gray, looked fresh from the quarry. Kat halted as soon as she saw the name that had only recently been etched into it.

Maggie Olmstead.

Approaching the grave, Kat wished she had brought another bouquet of flowers. Instead, she came equipped with nothing but a promise.

“I’m going to find out what happened. I swear to God, I am.”

Unlike with her parents, she felt foolish talking to the grave of a woman she had barely known. She averted her eyes, as if not looking at the grave would lessen her sense of embarrassment. She focused instead on a patch of grass to the right of the tombstone. Like the rest of the cemetery, it was badly in need of mowing. Crabgrass sprouted up as high as her ankles, and at first she didn’t see the marble marker that rested among the blades. When Kat did take note of it, she assumed it was a placeholder for someone else—a final resting place already reserved.

Bending down, she tugged up a few handfuls of slick grass to get a better view. A few rogue blades stuck to the marker itself, and as Kat wiped them away, her fingers ran over a name and date that had been etched in the marble many years earlier.

CHARLES OLMSTEAD, 1959–1969

It was a sight Kat hadn’t expected to see. She had no idea what people did for loved ones who vanished without a trace. There was no body to bury. No certainty the person was really dead. Every so often Kat felt the urge to ask Nick what his family had done when his sister was missing. She never followed through on it. Some things were best left unanswered.

As for Maggie Olmstead, she had given her missing son a grave site. Kat didn’t know when. She suspected Eric didn’t, either. But its presence in Oak Knoll Cemetery raised a question she couldn’t shake, even as she returned to her car, tossed the bum umbrella in the trunk, and drove off. It remained with her, unspoken, until she reached the Olmstead residence. Then, as she burst through the front door, she finally let it out.

“What, if anything, did your mother have buried instead of your brother’s body?”

*

Eric was naked.

Actually, he was wearing a towel. But seeing how it was draped over his left shoulder, Kat didn’t think that really counted. Especially when he was standing in front of her, caught at the bottom of the stairs.

For a fraction of a second, neither of them reacted. Both were too shocked—Eric for suddenly being so exposed and Kat for seeing him that way. When they did move, it was quick and reflexive. Eric whipped the towel in front of him and started to wrap it around his waist. Kat averted her eyes and lifted a hand over her face for good measure.

“Not sure if you know this or not, but there’s been a great invention called knocking,” Eric said as he knotted the towel at his hip.

“I didn’t expect you to be—” Kat was too mortified to say the word.

“Naked?” Eric said. “Well, in case you’re wondering, I’m not a nudist. I just got out of the shower and came downstairs to get clean underwear out of the dryer. And you can look now. I’m decent.”

When Kat faced him, she thought
decent
wasn’t the best word to describe Eric Olmstead at that moment.
Surprisingly sexy
would have been her choice. The towel still left little to the imagination, and Kat found herself staring at him, her face getting flushed.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “You’re right. I should have knocked.”

Yet she hadn’t. Not that she minded the view, but the whole situation made her more than a little weak in the knees.

“I’m going to wait outside until you get dressed,” she said with finality. “And while I’m out there, I’ll try not to die of embarrassment.”

Outside, Kat collapsed onto the front step. She felt dizzy, hopefully from humiliation and not because of long-dormant urges being zapped back to life. Yet she suspected it was the latter. Seeing Eric naked made her feel like a nun at a Chippendales show.

Fanning her face with her hand, she thought back to high school. Eric hadn’t been as good-looking then. She was sure of it. He had been cute, of course. That’s what had attracted her in the first place. But the way he looked now was on a whole different level. If he had been that hot while they were dating, she was pretty sure her virginity wouldn’t have survived the relationship intact.

Or maybe it would have. Eric’s actions hadn’t given her much of a say in the matter. They had never gone any further than making out, when he abruptly ended things.

The breakup, if that’s what you could call it, happened in early June, the day after Eric graduated. The night before, Kat had been in the bleachers of the high school gymnasium, proudly watching her boyfriend accept his diploma. After the ceremony, they went to a party on the banks of Lake Squall. There was a bonfire. And beer. And Madonna blasting out of someone’s boom box. Kat and Eric sat on a large rock by the shore, the lake lapping at their ankles.

“Kat,” he said abruptly, “I think I love you.”

She had leaned against him, squeezing his hand. “That’s good. Because I know I love you.”

It was a perfect moment, one of the few Kat had ever experienced in her life. When they kissed by the lake that night, it was like she was living a fairy tale come true. She went to bed that night swooning, convinced that she and Eric were going to be together forever.

The next day he was gone.

His mother had been the one to break the news. Standing in the doorway with a pained look on her face, she told Kat that Eric had left during the night. There was no note. Only empty dresser drawers where his clothes should have been, a picked-apart shelf missing his favorite books, and a fresh space in the hall closet that had once marked the spot of the suitcase he packed everything in.

Maggie Olmstead had been composed while she spoke. Only when she stopped did the sobs break through: rough, guttural ones that terrified Kat. She sprinted off the porch and down the street, sobbing herself, not stopping to consider all that Eric’s mother was going through. Kat was too young and heartbroken to comprehend that for the second time in her life, one of Maggie’s sons had vanished in the night.

“So what’s so important that you had to burst in on me naked?”

Eric plopped down next to Kat on the porch. The towel was gone, replaced by jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt bearing the name of a bookstore—Murder by the Book. Even in that modest getup, he still looked good.

“I was just in Oak Knoll Cemetery.”

“Why?”

She gave Eric the same answer she had given Mayor Burt Hammond the day before when he asked her about the bridge overlooking Sunset Falls. “That doesn’t concern you.”

“I think it does,” Eric said, goading her. “After all, you did just see my—”

“Parents.”

“Beg pardon?”

Kat pressed a palm to her cheek. Her skin was hot to the touch. She was blushing again. “My parents. I was visiting their graves.”

She told him about stopping at his mother’s grave, too, and about the marker next to it that bore Charlie’s name. “Do you know if your parents ever had a funeral service for him?”

“If they did, I was too young to remember it,” Eric said. “I never knew about any grave marker, and I was probably standing right next to it during my mother’s funeral.”

“What concerns me is what’s beneath it.”

Sometimes people who put a grave marker in a cemetery bury something with it. The usual choice was a photograph of the deceased, along with one or two personal items. Kat assumed something similar had been done with Charlie’s grave.

“Are you saying you want to dig it up?” Eric asked.

“Yes. But before I can order an exhumation, I need permission from the deceased’s next of kin, usually a parent.”

Eric let out an ironic chuckle. “Good luck getting in touch with my father. I still haven’t been able to reach him.”

“Then it’s up to you to decide.”

It was obvious the idea made Eric uncomfortable, especially when he changed the subject. “Don’t we have to go ask Lee and Becky Santangelo about the night my brother vanished?”

Actually, that was Kat’s next stop. But she wanted an answer from Eric first, so she pressed him for one. “Maybe your mother buried something that’s important to our case.”

“Like what?”

Kat had no idea. But she knew she’d feel a hell of a lot better once she did.

“Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”

“I am thinking about it,” Eric said. “And what I’m thinking is that I should try to call my father again later today. He might be able to tell us what was buried there.”

“What if you can’t reach him?”

“Then you’ll be the first person I tell once I make my decision.”

Nick hoped cows liked the Beatles, because the ones grazing on the side of the road were being blasted with them. Driving with the windows down and the
White Album
blaring, he was on his way to Fairmount. From what he could surmise, the land between there and Philadelphia was one huge cow pasture. Sure, he had steered through a small town or two—most of them carbon copies of Perry Hollow but without the charm. Mostly, though, he saw cows, cows, and more cows. Black ones. Brown ones. White ones. It made Nick long for a purple one, just to mix things up a bit.

Now he was five miles outside of Fairmount. At least that’s what the road sign was telling him. Nick kind of doubted it. All he saw on the horizon were more cows.

On his stereo, “Sexy Sadie” ended and the rebellious crunch of “Helter Skelter” began. Nick cranked up the volume while simultaneously flexing his right leg. He had been driving for three hours, and his knee was killing him. He could only imagine what kind of agony he’d be in if he had been using that leg to work the pedals.

After Nick busted his knee beyond repair, there was concern on his part that he’d never be able to drive again. His right leg, after all, was his driving leg. But a solution soon presented itself, one used for years by amputees. He had his car modified, with the gas and brake pedals shifted to the left. It was strange at first, letting the right leg sit idle while the left one did all the work. Even more frustrating was getting his left foot up to speed on the quick reflexes necessary for driving. It took him a month to get the hang of it, although the learning curve included a few fender benders and one unfortunate run-in with a plate-glass window at a 7-Eleven.

But now he was a pro, which was good, because he had a shitload of driving to do in the next two days. Vinnie Russo had been able to locate the Fairmount home of Dennis Kepner’s mother, Sophie; the camp where Dwight Halsey disappeared; and the Centralia address of Bucky Mason’s father, Bill Sr. As far as Vinnie could tell, there were no known survivors of Noah Pierce and Frankie Pulaski. Not exactly the result Nick had hoped for, but three out of five wasn’t bad.