Flowers for Her Grave Page 2

The lobby was tiny and worn, but mostly clean, with a clerk to match. The little man behind the counter was of an indeterminate age. His wrinkles and missing teeth made Casey’s guess lean toward the older end of the scale, but the twinkle in his eye belied the rest of his body. He wore a checked cotton shirt, and a nametag made with a Labelmaker. Hi! Please call me Claude.

  “Kimberly Tifton,” Casey said. “My husband was going to call and—”

  “Just got off the phone with him,” Claude said. “Sorry to hear about your troubles. You okay? Should I call the police?” He examined her face and its multiple abrasions and swelling, leftovers from her time in Kansas.

  “Please don’t. It’s already taken care of, and I’m fine. I just need some sleep.”

  “Sure thing. We’ll get you right set up in a room.” With friendly efficiency, Claude checked her in and handed her an electronic key. “Out the front door and to the right, missus. There’s an ice machine at the end of the row, if you want some for…you know.” He gestured at her face.

  “Did my husband tell you about my bags?”

  “Said they should be delivered tomorrow morning. We’ll give you a buzz as soon as they’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Glad to help out. You get some rest now.”

  Casey found the room with no problem. Again, small but clean. She set Bailey’s bag on the little table, kicked off her shoes, and fell across the bed.

  She was asleep before Death could ask her to turn on the TV.

  Chapter Two

  The phone woke Casey at nine-twenty-five the next morning. Casey had somehow managed to sleep all afternoon and all night. “Mrs. Tifton? This is Maude at the front desk.”

  Maude? Really? The motel was run by Claude and Maude?

  “I have a package for you.”

  Casey sat up. “I’ll be right there.”

  Hi! Please call me Maude was the female version of the night clerk. Small and ageless. Only this half of the pair smelled of smoke and didn’t have the same twinkle in her eye as she examined Casey from head to toe, squinting at her beat-up face. “You Kimberly Tifton?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Then I guess this is yours.” She kicked at something on the floor, making no move to pick it up.

  Casey rounded the desk, and her heart lightened at the sight of the large box. “It is. Thank you.”

  “Strange shaped luggage for a woman to be carrying.” Maude pushed out her lips, her arms crossed.

  Casey didn’t feel like explaining. She picked up the box, trying not to appear overly enthusiastic.

  Maude tipped her head toward the other end of the room. “Breakfast is only out five more minutes. Better grab it if you want any.”

  Food. Casey’s stomach growled in response, and she carried her package to the meager selection of pastries and canned orange juice. She hesitated. Inside the box should be some money. And with that money she could go somewhere and buy a real breakfast. Much more appealing than dried out danishes and overly-ripe bananas.

  With a last nod at Maude, Casey lugged her box back to her room, where she set it on the bed and gazed at it. Her things. Her things. Stifling a cry, she ripped open the tape, not sparing the cardboard. Her heart gave an extra beat at the sight of her bag’s familiar canvas. She yanked down the zipper, plunging her hands into the depths of the pack, toward the pocket holding her treasures. Carefully, hands shaking, she pulled the items out and released them from their wrappings. Holding Omar’s hat to her face, she took a deep whiff. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Even back in Ohio it hadn’t smelled like baby shampoo. After all it had been through the past couple of weeks it smelled even more like the backpack itself. But it was still soft.

  She set it down and picked up the other little bundle. Jewelry. Reuben’s wedding ring, and the necklace he’d given her so long ago. She ran her finger along the curve of the gold band and imagined it on her husband’s finger. But that just made her think of what his finger had looked like after the accident, like nothing she’d ever seen before, or wanted to see again. Unfortunately, that image of his charred body was still the one that came first, like a black shadow over the man he had been.

  Hastily, she wrapped the items back up and set them to the side. She closed her eyes, trying to even out her breathing. They were just things. Things she’d done without for the past week. Things she was so glad to have back.

  “Still no shower?” Death leaned against the pillows, legs outstretched on the bed’s cover, and wore a Labelmaker nametag just like Maude and Claude’s that said, Hi! Please call me the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. “Oh. You got distracted. Anything good in there that your brother or that nice lawyer sent along? Or your friend Eric?”

  Casey hadn’t thought about that—the fact that Ricky had probably looked through the bag. That Eric certainly had, because he’d known exactly where to take it. Casey went hot at the memory of what had almost happened between the two of them, scared and passionate, in the depths of the old theater. There had been some hard kissing, and clothes flying, before Reuben’s ghost had interrupted them. She pushed the image away, turning her attention back to the contents of the bag.

  “So what’s there?” Death would’ve been digging through the bag that second, if it were a possibility. As it was, Death just had to wait.

  A little more tentatively now, Casey began taking things out. Her jeans, shirts, underwear, socks…all freshly laundered. Had Ricky done that? Or Eric? She put her Dobak aside, and laid her hand on it.

  “Oh, no,” Death said. “Does that mean it will be even longer until you bathe?”

  She smiled. “No point in taking a shower and then getting all sweaty.”

  Death’s nose wrinkled. “You and your workouts. Like missing a few days is going to send you back to fat land.”

  “Not fat land. Just to a place where I’m not so fit. I do need to keep up my strength, you know.”

  “For all of those bad guys we keep coming across. How about this for an idea? We move in nicer circles, and avoid fistfights and nasty people? Ever thought of that?”

  Casey continued through the bag, taking out her bathroom supplies—some of them brand new, thanks to Ricky, probably—a couple paperback novels, and her wallet. She flipped it open, studying her face in the driver’s license. So much had happened since that photo had been taken. The print still said Casey Kaufmann, her name before she’d become a Maldonado, and her address was from the house where she’d grown up. The house where Ricky still lived. She and Reuben hadn’t been married long enough that her license renewal had come up, so the ID served as a reminder of what had come before. In the picture she looked happy, healthy, and completely unaware of the tragedy her life would hold.

  She riffled through the cash pocket of the wallet. Lots of money there. More of it than she’d had before, which most likely meant Don had gone against his better judgment and added what he could. He’d thrust himself into the “aiding and abetting” category by sending her bag—he probably figured he might as well send the money, too. Someday she’d thank him for all of the risks he’d taken.

  At the bottom of the bag, Casey found a folder. It hadn’t been there before. She took it out and looked at the plain manila cardstock.

  “Anything good?” Death asked.

  Casey opened it. On top of the stack of papers was a letter, in Ricky’s handwriting. She set it aside, waiting to read it until she’d seen what else was there. Underneath the stationary lay a photo. In it, she and Reuben smiled into the camera, a newborn Omar between them on the hospital bed. She looked sweaty and pale and exhausted…and happy. Reuben’s dark hair was mussed, and bags underscored his eyes, but again there was unmasked joy. Omar, as usual during those first days, was asleep, his entire face scrunched, as if he’d had to close it all down in order to get any rest.

  “Ah, photos,” Death said. “Haven’t I always told you to carry some with you?”

  Casey turned the picture face dow
n and looked at the next one. There she was, with Ricky and her mother, the summer before the accident. Casey was giving Ricky a noogie, her arm around his throat and her knuckle rubbing his head. His face was scrunched up—just like Omar’s—and he was laughing. Their mother sat on a lawn chair to the side, her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing. Reuben had taken the picture one Sunday afternoon when they’d all had dinner together.

  That photo, also, got flipped over.

  “That’s it?” Death said, for after that photo there were just papers. “Great. More boring stuff, just like you.”

  “I never said you had to stay.”

  “How about turning on the TV? Maybe that wrestling channel, if they have it.”

  Casey pretended not to hear, and looked through the papers. Don had sent her all the information she could possibly need about where her money was stored. Banks, stocks, mutual funds…

  Death gave a sharp clap. “Are we rich?”

  “I am.”

  “Thank God. Maybe now we can stay somewhere with a little class.”

  Casey picked up the letter from Ricky, and tried to ignore the tears that welled in her eyes. How long since she’d seen him? How long since she’d even heard his voice? A little over a week ago, when she was back in Ohio and she’d talked to him on the phone. It felt like much longer. He’d begged her to come home. To take her house off the market. To get her life back.

  Impossible, now, even if she didn’t have to worry about Pegasus tracking her down to silence her. Now she was a fugitive. Wanted by the law. A killer.

  Dear Sis, the letter said. Here’s your stuff. Interesting how it came to me. I’d like to hear that story some time, about you and this guy Eric. From the way he talked about you, I don’t think he views you as just a friend.

  How could he? Besides their moment of passion, he’d seen her kill a man, and together they’d witnessed another violent death. Those kinds of things tended to be bonding experiences. So however Eric viewed her, it was definitely not as a friend. Not anymore.

  So here’s your stuff. I hope Don can get it to you. I’m sure you miss it. I washed everything, so at least that should save you one trip to the Laundromat, wherever you are. You know, your own washer and dryer are sitting in your house, waiting to be used. As are your stove, and your fridge, and your stereo.

  Casey noticed he didn’t mention her bed. He would know she wouldn’t ever want to use that again. Not without Reuben.

  I’m trying to keep up with your lawn, but the flowerbeds are getting so overgrown I’m afraid of what I might find in there. Mowing two yards and keeping the weeds away from both could be a full-time thing, if I let it, which I can’t, since I do have an actual job, you know. Your house still hasn’t sold. Not that you’ll see me crying over that, even if I am whining about the landscaping.

  If it were up to Ricky, he’d take the house off the market altogether, and wait for her to come home. She kept telling him that wasn’t going to happen. And he kept ignoring her.

  Mom misses you. I miss you.

  Oh, God, she missed them, too.

  She rubbed her eyes. Maybe Don was right. Maybe she should go home. Give herself up. Tell the truth. Hope the word of Eric, added to her own, would keep her out of jail. Get her life back on track.

  Not that that was possible. Her life had been knocked far, far off track, and she couldn’t ever see it going straight again. If she did head home, even with Eric’s testimony, she’d be lucky if she were out on parole in fifteen years.

  Casey glanced at the clock. Almost ten. Check-out was at eleven. Hardly time to get in a workout and a shower. She pulled the chair out from the little table and sank into it, considering her options. She couldn’t stay at the Rest E-Z. Don knew where she was. Not that she expected him to send the cavalry after her, or even come himself, but it wasn’t fair to him to have to hide what he knew. She needed to go somewhere else, far away, so he could honestly claim ignorance. The problem was, she couldn’t use her own ID to get a decent hotel room, or the cops would find her.

  With a regretful glance at her Dobak, Casey picked out some clean clothes and headed for the shower.

  Chapter Three

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Death said. “Is this the step up I’ve been requesting?”

  The Drive-In Motel sagged along the road in northern Georgia. Casey had hitched a ride just that far, and found this grungy hotel with no problem. “A step up would ask for ID. You know that.”

  “A step up would also have a room you don’t have to rent by the hour.”

  “Try to be patient. We’ll be out of here soon.”

  She didn’t like the motel any better than Death, but it was a necessity. Where else could she crash for a few days and not leave a paper trail? She left her bag, zipped tightly shut, on the room’s spindly table, and pocketed the key.

  “Where are you going now?” Death was right on her heels.

  “To start the process to get us out of here.”

  Death was so eager to leave the room Casey had to step out of the way to avoid being walked through. She didn’t need that chill, even though it had to be in the nineties and the room’s AC was anything but efficient.

  A Holiday Inn took up a corner lot a mile from the Drive-In, and Casey walked in the front door. She smiled at the desk clerk, and continued through the hallway toward the back, to the outdoor pool. The swelling in her face had gone down over the past twenty-four hours, so the sight of her wasn’t an automatic shock. No one raced after her, asking if she’d been mugged. She waited by the pool’s inside door for almost twenty minutes until someone came in from the outside, and she went through with a, “Hi, how’s it going?”

  There was an empty chair under one of the trees surrounding the water, so she took a seat and pulled out the paperback she’d brought along. This pool, as opposed to the one in Nashville, had sparkling blue water and no ducks.

  “What are we doing?” Death asked, sinking onto another chair.

  “Waiting long enough the desk clerk forgets me coming in. Then, when it seems an adequate time I could have spent in my room, I will go back over and use the computer they have for guests.”

  Death nodded. “Sneaky.”

  “That’s my middle name.”

  After a half hour of sweating and pretending to read, Casey went back to the hotel lobby. The computer was not in use. She exchanged nods with the desk clerk, sat down, and typed “buy fake ID on-line.”

  The search came back with over two hundred million results. She clicked the very first one. Buyfakeidonline.com. The web site offered several “Qualified and Reliable” sources, as well as some red flags to be aware of.

  Like anyone buying a fake ID wasn’t a red flag on her own.

  Casey clicked on one of the “reliable” sites and was shown the list of states they would be able to give her. She checked for the scam clues the other site had given her, and saw good signs: they weren’t promising to have it ready in a day (apparently there was no way to make a good one in that amount of time); they accepted cashier’s checks (“please don’t write ‘fake ID’ in the subject line!”); and they had an actual physical address to use for sending the order, rather than just a P.O. box.

  Because of Casey’s situation, she couldn’t exactly print out the order form on the desk clerk’s machine, so she copied all of the necessary information onto the back of a hotel brochure. The money would have been prohibitive for a lot of people, but she had more cash than she knew what to do with, and it was worth it to start a new life.

  She clicked out of all of her search windows, cleared the cache, and walked back through the hotel to an exit out of sight of the desk clerk. From there, she went to the Rite Aid, where they took passport photos. Fifteen minutes later she was on her way back to the Drive-In Motel with a mug shot. Not the most attractive picture she’d ever taken, but it would do.

  Back in her lovely room, she tore a sheet with one blank side from the outdated phone book in the
nightstand and made her own order form, filling in a new name, the address of the Drive-In, and the request for Express Service, which was to take only five days. She had registered at the hotel under the name Molly Meade, and made certain the package would come addressed to that name. She didn’t need the icky desk clerk knowing her new identity.

  “Daisy Gray?” Death snickered, peering over her shoulder at the order form.

  “It’s a lesson I learned from John D. MacDonald.”

  “The author?”

  “He said when you pretend to have a different name you should make it sound as much like your real name as possible, so when people call you by the new name you react naturally to it.”

  “I get it. Casey. Daisy. I guess they’re a lot the same, although the ‘s’ sound is different, isn’t it? Casey has the hissing sound, while Daisy sounds more like a z, which could be confusing—”

  “L’Ankou?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay, so they’re pretty close. I see that. But Gray?”

  “It doesn’t matter how that sounds. People won’t call me by that. Besides, I hardly know what my real last name is anymore.”

  “At least this is better than Smith or Jones.”

  “At least.”

  She finished up the order form and got her wallet.

  “Now what?”

  “Now I go get a money order and mail it. We should just be able to get to the post office before it closes.”

  “And then we wait.”

  “Yes.”

  “Here? At the Drive-In?”

  “That’s right. You don’t like it, you can go away.”

  Death frowned. “Are you doing this to get rid of me?”

  “Think what you like.”

  Death disappeared in a blue fog, leaving Casey alone to run her errands, which was a nice change. She got the order sent off, ate a large, delicious dinner at a local diner, and went back to her room, where she took a nap. When she woke up she worked out, performing one of her hapkido kata, and took a long shower, which wasn’t necessarily as hot as she would have liked, but at least got her clean.