Grave Doubts (A Paranormal Mystery Novel) (10 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Vern Mathews’ behavior had unnerved
Lee more than she wanted to admit. Add to that the re-emergence of the bird in her
purse and the strange poem on her computer, and her body was beginning to feel
the strain of living in a constant state of adrenalin rush. By the time she
climbed into her car, she murmured a silent prayer that she would make it
safely to meet Patrick for lunch.

Papa Fromo’s was a favorite student
hangout right next to campus. As she climbed the wooden steps and passed
through the banging screen door, the tang of tomato sauce and hot cheese triggered
her Pavlovian response, filling her mouth with saliva. The sensation helped to
temporarily quiet the chaos in her head. She found Patrick in a rear booth
nursing a large soft drink and correcting some papers.

“Hey,” he beamed, putting down his
pencil. “You look remarkably well.”

She smiled indulgently, knowing the
lack of sleep probably made her look like the Bride of Frankenstein without the
up-do.

“What are you correcting?” she said
with a half smile.

He slid the small stack of papers
into a large envelope. “Essays on Goethe. Get it?” he grinned.

Lee grimaced and quickly ordered an
iced tea from a passing waitress. When her fingers fumbled opening the menu,
she called the waitress back and changed the order to ice water. Perhaps
additional caffeine was a bad idea.

“Say, I'd like to tag along to that
birthday bash tonight,” Patrick said, toying with the straw in his drink. “Any
objections?  I’ll drive,” he offered.

She looked at him with a blank
stare. “What birthday bash?”

“Mrs. Bates.”

It took a second for her brain to
engage. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t think I’m in the mood for a party.”

“How about just an appearance?  You
can’t make too many friends in your business.”

“I don’t know, Patrick,” she
sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m just so tired.”

“How about an hour?  You said she's
one of your hospital's biggest donors.”

“She is,” she sighed, rubbing her
hands along her legs as if the friction would recharge her batteries.

“Well, you know her husband is also
head of the Economics Department at the U and a big supporter of the Theater Department.
I could score some points.”

“You need to score points with the
Economics Department?” Lee asked, her brain functioning in slow motion.

“No,” he shook his head. “He
actually funded a chair in our department. He loves his Shakespeare,” Patrick
rolled his eyes.

Lee nodded. “Okay, but let's make
it short. Somehow I can’t stand the thought of being with that group of people
for too long.”

“Why don’t you meet me at the
theater at seven?”

“Speaking of Shakespeare,” she
said, lighting up. “This is Shakespeare isn’t it?” She pulled the strange email
from her purse and handed it to him.

Patrick scanned it quickly. “It’s
the witches’ scene from Macbeth. Well, actually, someone has combined two
different sections of the play into one.”

She frowned. “What’s the
significance of the witches?”

“There’s significance to everything
about Shakespeare.”

“I don’t need a lecture, professor,
just the bare facts.”

“I’ll give you the Cliff Notes
version, then. Macbeth is a study of man’s potential for evil, and the witches
embody the devil by foretelling the future.” He eyed her carefully for a
moment. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was in an email someone sent me.
I think it’s from the same person who sent me that weird card you were looking
at.”

His green eyes widened. “Someone is
trying to send you a message about Diane.”

“Apparently, and I’m too thick to
get it.”

“The card I read seemed to be
warning you off,” Patrick surmised. “While this one seems to be trying to tell
you something,” he said, nodding at the paper.

“Yes, but what?”

“Hell if I know,” he shrugged. “Is
this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No. Diane left a message on my
answering machine.”

The shocked look on his face made
her hasten to explain it. “I mean, she left a message
before
she died. I
just didn’t pick it up until last night. She said she wouldn’t be in the office
the next day because she was going to Portland with Bud…for something special,”
she added. “It might just be the last thing Diane ever said.”

Just then, the waitress arrived to
take their orders. Patrick ordered pizza, and the waitress turned expectantly
to Lee. She picked up the menu and waved her hand over it as if hoping
something would appear by magic. Finally, she ordered a large salad. Once the
waitress left, she turned her attention to Patrick.

“You know what this means?” she
asked.

“I think I do,” he said
thoughtfully. “You told me her boyfriend--Bud, right?--told the police he
hadn't spoken to her for a couple of days.”

“He said he’d broken up with her.”

“So, he was lying.”

She nearly reached across the table
for him. “Exactly. He lied!”

Patrick watched her for a minute,
before saying, “Are you going to tell the police?”

Lee slumped back in the seat. “I
don’t know. I had a long talk with Alan last night. He was able to reason away
every argument I threw at him.” She squeezed a lemon into her water and stirred
it. “And Sergeant Davis, the guy in charge of the case, didn’t have time for me
the night we found her. It was like he’d made up his mind it was a suicide and
that was it. I think it would take more than this message to get the police
involved.”

Patrick studied his hands for a
moment and then said cautiously, “I didn’t push you into this, did I? By
speculating about her death yesterday?”

“No. I’d already been thinking
about it. I was just having a hard time admitting it. Then Carey stopped by
after the funeral and told me that she doesn’t believe Diane killed herself,
either.” She sighed. “The trouble is that Bud could wiggle his way out of this.
He could convince the police that Diane was making up the trip to Portland.”

“There would probably be some kind
of phone records. How long were you at Diane’s that night?”  Patrick’s eyes had
settled into a deep sea green, and there wasn’t a hint of a smile anywhere.

“About thirty minutes. I left
around seven-thirty. The message was left on my machine sometime after that.”

“According to the police theory,”
Patrick was thinking out loud, “Bud broke up with her some time later that
evening, apparently right after he’d already invited her to go to Portland.
That sent her into a downward spiral, and she became so despondent she decided
to kill herself.”

“Not only that,” Lee added, “their
theory depends on Diane having gone out to buy a larger syringe than the ones
she already had on hand, all the time ignoring the cat she adored and
forgetting she’d left me a message to the contrary.”

“Maybe the police will listen now.”

“The police just want things
wrapped up,” she said, shaking her head. “Look Patrick, I bought into the
suicide theory in the beginning, just like everyone else. But I know Diane
didn't kill herself. She would quit her job and move out of the state before
she killed herself. It just wasn’t her style.”

“So, what will you do?”

Lee exhaled and took a drink of ice
water. “I don’t know,” she said, swallowing. “I just know she didn’t kill
herself. I don’t know much more than that.”

“Well, I tell my students that
every story has a beginning, middle, and an end. Directors are taught to look
at the whole picture,” he said, using his hands to illustrate a circle. “We
begin by looking at what makes characters do what they do.”

She looked at him with a wry smile.
“Okay, but which characters do I need to look at?”

“In a play, every character does
more than just play a part. They each have a reason for being on stage. It
might only be to deliver a cup of coffee, but that simple action could
establish location. Maybe they deliver a message. That action might provide
information necessary to the plot.”

“Patrick, you’re talking about the
theater. This is real life.”

“What’s the difference?  The
theater is only slightly more contrived.”

She sipped her water. “So, I should
look at all the players. That would include Bud, Diane and who else?”

“Anyone she had influence over, or
who had influence over her.”

“That would include her mom, her
sister, her brother-in-law…and me.” She paused, her muscles beginning to tie
themselves into little knots.

“Everybody plays a part,” he said
quietly. “You need to know which forces are greater than others. Cause and
effect. This wasn’t random. If she
was
killed, there had to be a reason.
One force became greater than another.”

They sat looking at each other
while Lee thought about what he’d said. Unconsciously, she’d begun to rub her
knee, a sure sign her stress level was rising.

“Then, you need to identify the
inciting moment,” Patrick finished.

“What's that?” she asked, watching
him suspiciously.

“It's when the play’s action really
begins, when circumstances provide the purpose for the rest of the action that
takes place. In some plays, murder may be the inciting moment. But you’re going
to have to go back further than that here. What forces came together to create
the
need
for murder?  Remember, every character has a reason for being
on stage. Get to know your characters and I bet you’ll find the information you
need.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”  She
squeezed the words out knowing her face betrayed her doubt.

“I don’t think I could have written
a play with more theatrical possibilities.” He leaned forward again and placed
his hand over the two of hers. “You’re as stubborn as they come, Lee. If you
believe this, then do something about it. Don’t let this one go.”

His comment caught her off guard
and she pulled back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you’re probably the most
stubborn woman I know. Remember Girl Scouts?  When you went to that camp and
jogged a six-mile hike just to prove an older girl wrong when she said you were
too small to keep up. Mom said you were sent to the infirmary until your feet
recovered. Yet, when Brad disappeared, you didn’t lift a finger to find out
what happened. You climbed into a shell. If you believe something is wrong
here, convince the police to take a second look. That’s what you do for a
living isn’t it?  Talk people into doing things they don’t want to do?”

“I raise money,” she said,
bristling.

“Well use a little of that magic on
the police.”

She pulled her hands away and
shrank into the high-backed seat, feeling a flush spread across her face. The
waitress arrived with their food and placed the dishes on the table. Patrick
declined her offer for more drinks and picked up the pizza, watching his sister.
The very air between them had gone dead.

“Lee, don’t get weird on me. I’m on
your side.”

“Brad disappeared over ten years
ago,” she spat. “Why do you keep bringing it up?”

He sighed and put the pizza down. “Because
it colors everything you do. It’s why you never date. It’s why you take a new
job every three or four years. It’s why you hang onto Amy so tight. And it’s
why you won’t have a dog. There’s some deep, dark secret about all of that you
insist on keeping to yourself.”

“I’m not ready.”

“Christ, Lee, when
will
you
be ready?”

Lee stared at her brother. He was
so much like her father. Handsome and sharp-witted. On the surface, Patrick had
it all. Women adored him, and men copied him. Yet, Patrick had lost something
all those year ago, too. While Lee had lost her father and all the strength of
character that might bring, Patrick had lost his mother through divorce. By the
time he was rewarded with a stepmother, he’d already found ways to protect
himself from getting too close to the women he loved. All except for Lee.

Lee reached for her purse.

“C’mon, Lee, don’t leave. Please.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

With that, she pulled herself out
of the booth and flew out the door.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lee roared up
the hill to Hendrick’s Park, her head aching from the anger that had propelled
her from the restaurant. She whirled into a parking space and stopped the car,
her eyes staring straight ahead. Patrick had a right to be skeptical. When her
husband disappeared, she had been uncharacteristically silent. Now, she was
parading around with righteous indignation about the ruling on Diane’s death,
when there wasn’t one real piece of evidence to the contrary. It had to be
confusing. It was confusing to her. And it made her all the more angry.

She pushed open
the door and got out, striking off on the path that led around the parking lot.
She inhaled the crisp afternoon air hoping it would relax her, but her muscles
were stretched so tight they were ready to snap. When a couple appeared ahead
of her, she peeled off onto a side path that curved into a grove of trees,
ending at a picnic table situated under a canopy of pine boughs.

Lee sat down,
her hands clenched into fists in her pockets. She closed her eyes and took
several deep breaths, but Patrick’s smug face kept floating into view.

“
You’re as
stubborn as they come, Lee. Don’t let this one go,”
the face chided.

“Dammit!” she
screamed, tears springing forth. “Dammit to hell! You don’t always have to be
right, Patrick!”

She stood up
and kicked a dent into a metal trashcan chained to the side of the table, and
then grabbed the lid, intent on sending into a tree. At the last moment, she
dropped it and dropped her head into her hands, falling back onto the bench, tears
running down her face and sobs rolling across her body.

“Dammit! I
don’t know what to do,” she said, rocking back and forth. “I don’t know what to
do.”

The tears flowed
as if a spigot had been turned on. They weren’t just about Diane. They were for
all the disappointments in her life. The lost time with her father. The loss of
her favorite sport. The fact Amy was growing up, and the fact Patrick had a way
of reminding her of past failings. They were even for Martha Jackson for being
so damned righteous. Then, of course, there was the fact that Diane wouldn’t be
there at all anymore. But most of all, she was mad at herself. She’d wasted her
last moments with Diane tangled in a stupid argument. That was unforgivable.
The tears brought it all out, every last poisonous vapor.

Finally, her
energy spent, Lee pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and blew her nose and leaned
back against the table. She looked out at the lush green park through leaden
eyes, thinking she’d spent her entire life as a stubborn competitor. Patrick
was right. In Girl Scouts they had nicknamed her “The Mule” because she was
resolute in her pursuit to be the best. If the girls had to build a fire, Lee
built the biggest. If they had to dig a hole, she dug the deepest. The summer
Patrick had mentioned, she’d tried to prove she could keep up with the older
girls by hiking further and faster than required, only to return to camp with
blisters that bled through her socks.

Then, almost
two decades later, she’d simply withered when her husband disappeared, keeping
everyone at a distance, retreating to an inner place to which only she held the
key. Part of her had died that day, and it was Diane and her irreverent sense
of humor who had reminded Lee to smile occasionally.

The breeze
rustled through the pine trees like the gentle flow of a mountain stream, and
Lee looked around at the layers of verdant bushes and trees feeling a sense of
calm for the first time in days. The tang of pine coursed through her system
like aromatherapy, and she inhaled it deeply. When she rotated her head, the
pain in her neck and shoulders was gone. Even the headache was gone.

A small bird
landed on the rim of the trash can, turning its head back and forth looking at
her. It hopped up onto the table and bounced back and forth as if hoping Lee
would toss it a bread crumb. She just smiled and reached out a finger, but the
bird bounced to one side.

Lee turned away
from the bird and looked around. Hendrick’s Park in Eugene, Oregon, had been
the place where Steve Prefontaine, a world-class long distance runner from the
University of Oregon, had died many years before in a car crash. Diane’s husband
had been a big fan of Prefontaine’s, and Diane had told Lee once that
Prefontaine was quoted as saying,
“Most people run a race to see who is the
fastest. I run a race to see who has the most guts.”
Diane had liked that
motto, and Lee realized how appropriate it felt right now. She would need guts
to finish this race, but finish it she would.

As she watched
two squirrels chase each other around the base of a tree, flicking and
switching their bushy tails, the small bird hopped onto the bench beside her.
She studied it, wondering again about the bird in her purse and what it meant. On
impulse, she reached into her purse and pulled the figurine out and placed it
on the bench. She thought the little bird would fly away, but it tilted its
head this way and that and then bounced sideways over to the small figurine.
Lee watched in wonder, as the small creature reached out with its tiny beak and
touched the onyx figurine once, twice, three times. Then, in a flurry of wings,
it was gone.

Lee felt an
invigorating chill flow through her body as the bird disappeared into the air. Perhaps
she should be frightened by the onyx figurine, but for some reason, it gave her
a strange sense of comfort. She’d asked Diane for help. Lee was beginning to
believe she’d given it.

The intense
crying had cleared Lee’s head and she decided it was time to consider her
options. She was convinced the police wouldn’t budge with the little evidence
she had. So, what could she really do?  She didn’t have the police report, the
coroner’s report, or the syringe. She didn’t have access to Bud’s background or
any useful information on his relationship with Diane. But she did have access
to the hospital, where both Diane and Bud had worked. Patrick had talked about
the inciting moment in a mystery play - the point at which the need for murder
was ignited. If Bud Maddox was involved, it was likely the story began at the
hospital. And it was the one place where she had inroads.