Graveyard Games (3 page)

“
It’s been a long time,”
she agreed, taking a step back from him and accepting a
tinfoil-covered dish.

“
Too long.” He smiled at
her, cocking his head as if he was listening to something, a
gesture she remembered well from high school. “What are you doing
now?”

“
I…” She swallowed past
her words, insisting to herself that it wasn’t a lie. “I’m a cop
now, working in Chicago.”

“
Yeah, I think Nick
mentioned something about that.” James looked at her
appreciatively. “So are you married? Kids?”

She shook her head. “No time. You?”

“
No.” He shrugged, running
a hand through his dark hair. “Was married. But she left…took the
kid with her.”

“
I’m sorry.” Dusty felt a
wave of sadness come over her at the look on his face. It was
amazing how much pain people carried, just beneath the surface. She
wanted to hug him again, but they hadn’t seen each other in years,
and it felt too awkward in the silence. She remembered him asking
her out in high school, and she had turned him down. Nick always
said it was because James was too much of a nerd for her, and she’d
always denied it, insisting James was just too good of a friend to
get involved with.

“
How long are you in town
for?”

“
I’m not sure.” She
shrugged. “As long as it takes, I guess…” The words sounded
strange, even to her. As long as what took, she wondered? As long
as it took for her to find out the fate of her career? As long as
it took for her to find out who or what killed her
brother?

“
Well, maybe we can hang
out.” His smile was warm. “Go out for coffee or
something.”

She smiled back, teasing. “Don’t tell me
Larkspur has a Starbucks now!”

“
No, but there’s always
the Starlite,” he reminded her with a wink.

That made her laugh. “You said coffee, not
tequila.”

“
Well, there’s Nellie’s…”
He shrugged. “And I think they actually do have a Starbucks in West
Lake now.”

Their conversation was
interrupted by a knock on the door, and Dusty opened it to find
Laurie Murphy carrying a baby and a cake covered in chocolate
frosting.
Wasn’t she a cheerleader in high
schoo
l? Dusty eyed Laurie’s still-svelte
figure.
Probably never touches this
stuff
. Dusty set the cake on the table and
tuned into the conversation again.

“
My laptop keeps
overheating. Can I bring it in to you next week?” Laurie asked,
shifting the baby on her hip. It was a little boy with big brown
eyes who kept reaching for her dangly earrings and
missing.

“
Sure,” James said, and
Dusty saw the pain in his eyes when he looked at the little boy.
Probably reminds him of his little one, she thought. James turned
to her and gave her a one-armed hug. “I’ll go pay my respects to
your parents. I’m sorry, Dusty.”

“
Thanks.” She pointed him
in the direction of the living room, not really paying much
attention to Laurie, who was still talking.

“
Me, too. I can’t believe
it. Spencer, no.” Laurie took her hoop earring from her baby’s
chubby fist. “I was telling my husband just this morning how
amazing Nick was—in high school, he was just the center of
everything, you know?”

“
Yeah.” Dusty gave her a
weak smile as she opened the door again. It was
M
artha Sanchez, who had babysat for them
ages ago, carrying a quiche. Dusty thanked her and accepted her
apologies, although she knew the quiche wouldn’t get eaten. Julia
was a picky eater, and her father… well, real men still didn’t eat
quiche in rural America. When she put it on the table, she noticed
Laurie and Martha had both gone to the living room, following the
sound of voices.

After that, the people and
the food seemed to run together, but she wrote it down, like Julia
had requested. Nellie Edwards, who ran the diner in town, brought
her special—noodles and beef casserole.
Probably leftover ‘special of the day.’
Will Cougar, who ran Cougar's General Store down on the
corner of Hubbard and North Rose, brought a chocolate cream pie he
told her his wife made.

Then he handed her a package of Twizzlers.
"I remembered how much you both like ’em, hon."

It brought a lump to her throat, and she
couldn’t look at him when she thanked him. He touched her shoulder
and then was gone.

By the time Suzanne came in the door, the
list of food had expanded to include two pounds of hamburger—from
Mr. Maxwell, who ran Max's Meats—a pan of brownies, five more
pies—two were coconut cream, one was strawberry, one was apple, and
one was pumpkin—eight cannolies, two mysterious Jello salads, and a
sack of California navel oranges. Dusty was running out of room on
the table.

Suzanne had changed from the simple black
dress she’d worn to the funeral into a pair of dark blue sweats, a
hoodie and Nikes. She came through the front door into the
kitchen.

"Hi." Dusty swallowed, memories flooding
back, and couldn’t manage to follow her greeting up with anything.
Looking at Suzanne brought Nick back, hard and fast. They had all
known each other since grade school.

Suzanne eyed the pies lined up on the table.
"I didn't think to bring anything. I'm sorry."

Dusty shrugged and attempted a smile. "I was
running out of room, anyway."

Suzanne smiled, but even her smile looked
hollow. "Who's here?" Voices floated in from the family room,
subdued, but there was still some laughter. It sounded like a party
that had just begun.

"Nearly everybody I used to know, and some I
don't." Dusty sat on one of the kitchen chairs. "Have a seat."

"Is Shane here?" Suzanne sat down.

"No." Dusty glanced toward the door with
narrowed eyes. "That's one person I won't miss."

"He said he might drop by." Suzanne twisted
a strand of hair, no longer pulled back, around her finger.

"Great, I'll look forward to it." Dusty
rolled her eyes.

"I hate funerals." Suzanne sighed, absently
tucking the cling wrap back under one of the homemade pies. "But I
hate these 'afterward' things most. Who needs this?"

"I know," Dusty said, and she did. This
wasn’t a comfort—it was just etiquette. Julia could write a book on
the etiquette of funerals, it seemed. Nick had always said their
father had married Miss Manners.

"I miss him already." Suzanne traced the
blue flower design on the tablecloth with her finger. "There was
this really brief period of shock, when I didn’t feel
anything…”

Dusty nodded. She
remembered the phone call, her father’s voice telling her to come
home…and then telling her why. She had gone into business mode
almost immediately, arranging a flight, packing her bag.
At least I don’t have to arrange for time off
work,
she’d thought bitterly, looking at
the empty gun belt hanging over a chair in the corner. That thought
stopped her, and when the flurry of activity halted, the feeling
flooded in, and she realized she’d been numb.

She had preferred numb. This pain was
unbearable.

“
When was the last time
you talked to him?” Suzanne asked.

"The night before." Dusty didn’t look at
her, remembering their conversation.

"We were in a fight." Suzanne's voice was
tight. "We were in a stupid fight about some stupid thing—I can't
even remember what it was about it was so stupid—and I hadn't seen
him in two days. Hadn't even talked to him. I called the next day,
the day after it happened..." She drew a shaky breath. "And your
dad told me..."

"That's okay. I told him I hoped he got into
a car accident. How's that for guilt-trip material?" Dusty snorted.
"I know what you're thinking, but it's not your fault. It's not
anybody's fault."

Even as she said it, she
inwardly denied it.
It’s someone’s fault,
all right—it
has
to be!
It was too hard to accept an
accident, no one at fault—no one who could be identified, at
least.

"I don't understand what he was doing out in
the cemetery in the first place." Suzanne swiped at tears. “He
shouldn’t have been out at all.”

"I don't know." Dusty sighed. And that was
true. "Nobody does, as far as I can tell. It’s just…strange."

"I wish I knew what really happened."
Suzanne shook her head, chewing her lower lip.

Dusty's heart plummeted at Suzanne’s genuine
look of confusion. She’d hoped maybe Suzanne could give her a
clue—something, anything.

Nobody seemed to know. All sorts of red
flags went up when Dusty had heard where he’d been, what they
assumed had happened, but no one else seemed to think it was
anything but a tragic accident.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Well, I'd better go put in an appearance."
Suzanne stood and stretched. "Then I'm going to go home to sleep
for the rest of my life." Dusty didn’t say anything as she watched
her walk out of the kitchen. The knock came again, more insistent
and she opened the door.

"Hey, Dusty." Shane stepped into the
kitchen, the heels of his black motorcycle boots loud on the
linoleum. Everything he had on was black—boots, jeans, even the
t-shirt making an appearance above the gold zipper of his leather
jacket.

"Well, aren’t you the picture of mourning?"
She peered over his shoulder. "Where are your followers?"

"Just me." He held both hands out, palms up
in apology as she shut the door behind him. His head cocked,
listening. "They in the family room?" He shoved his hands into his
jean pockets and Dusty looked away, feeling his gaze on her
still.

“
Where else?” She nodded
in the direction of the voices. “I’m sure they’re all in there
wondering about what killed Nick.”

She crossed her arms over her chest,
watching him out of the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction.
His eyes widened only slightly at her remark.

"Sheriff said it was a bobcat." Shane
frowned.

"That's what the papers say, too." Dusty
snorted. “And I’m sure that’s what the death certificate will also
say. I’m just not so sure I believe it.”

“
No?” His gaze swept
slowly from her feet to her eyes. "You know…you really look like
him." He almost sounded sad and his tone made Dusty look directly
at him again. Their eyes met and she realized how long it had been
since they’d stood this close to one another, let alone been in the
same room. She wondered if he felt it, too, and wanted to take a
step back but resisted the impulse. His direct scrutiny made her
feel a little dizzy. It seemed almost as if he could see into her
thoughts.

"Well, that’s very clever.” She managed to
keep her voice from shaking. “I mean, we were only twins.”

He smiled, but it was a sad smile. She’d
known what he’d meant.

"Yeah. Well...I'm really sorry, Dusty." He
tried to catch her eye again but she focused her attention on the
table, rearranging the food until he turned and left her, going in
the direction of the voices.

When he was gone, Dusty leaned against the
door with a long, shaky sigh. It was too much to handle, too much
to deal with in one day. Exhausted, she just wanted to crawl into
bed and, as Suzanne had suggested, sleep for the rest of her
life.

She closed her eyes, the image of Shane’s
always-smug smile filling her head. She hated the way he was so
sure, so full of himself. A knock on the door made her jump and she
turned to fling it open.

"Well hey there, Missy."
Sheriff Buck Thompson stepped into the kitchen. It was strange to
see him out of uniform. That uniform had sparked her interest in
law enforcement in the first place, long before she could even
voice her preferences, she remembered with a nostalgic
smile.
I probably teethed on his
badge,
she thought. Buck was a good friend
of her father's and spent a great deal of time around their place.
She noticed him holding yet another casserole, and wondered if she
should follow her instincts and ask him what leads they had.
Or is that bad etiquette?

"Hi, Sheriff. Thanks for coming." Dusty gave
him her polite, Julia-taught speech. "Can I get that for you?"

"Sure." Buck gave up his casserole. Dusty
set it on the counter—there was now officially no room on the
table. "I'm so sorry about your brother. He was such a good boy.
We're doing everything we can."

Boy.
Everyone still thought of them as kids, she realized, as if
time had stopped the moment they graduated and left town to seek
their fortunes elsewhere. Buck still referred to her as
missy
, for pete’s
sake.

"Do you have any idea yet what...what might
have happened?" Dusty threw funereal etiquette out the window.
Besides, Julia wasn't listening.

"Not any more than the paper’ll tell you in
the morning." He shook his head sadly. "Probably an animal. Bobcat,
we figure. Horrible thing. Horrible."

"But—"

"We're doing our best." Buck sounded
defensive as he ran a hand through his hair. It was thinning and
going gray at the temples, but Dusty remembered when it had once
been thick and jet-black.

"Your best," Dusty breathed. "Your best.
Right. Joe Wilson last month, my brother this month, and you and
Deputy Dawg don’t have any more clues than ‘probably a bobcat’?
What wonderful of leaps of logic and rules of deduction did that
conclusion take between your trips to the Dunkin’ Donuts in West
Lake?”