Graveminder

CHRISTOPHER HAD DRIVEN FROM MAYLENE’S HOUSE DIRECTLY TO RABBI Wolffe’s. The young rabbi was on the duty roster this week.

From what Christopher had read in books and seen on the television, he knew that Claysville was peculiar in the way they ran things. Their mayor was joined in his governance by a joint secular and spiritual town council; any resigning council members picked their own replacements—as did the mayor. Between the town proper and the outskirts there were fewer than four thousand living citizens, but under the leadership of Mayor Whittaker and the council, Claysville had next to no serious crime. Hardly anyone moved away, and those few who did always came back. It was a safe, predictable town, and to assure that it stayed that way, the town leaders had policies in place for anomalies. The sheriff had only to follow protocol.

“I hate this part.” Christopher cut off his engine, but he stayed in the car for an extra minute. The rabbi was relatively new to town, so he tended to forget that there were topics that most of the town couldn’t discuss. He, and the rest of the council, never got the headaches that everyone not on the councils got when forbidden subjects were broached.

The door to the well-kept Craftsman house opened, and the rabbi stepped out onto the wide front porch. He’d obviously been working: a pencil was tucked behind his ear, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back. For the rabbi, book work was as distracting as the carpentry projects he had started up in town: both sorts of activities required folding up his sleeves.

Christopher got out of the car and closed the door.

“Everything in order, Sheriff?” Rabbi Wolffe called. The question wasn’t said in any alarming way, but they both knew Christopher wouldn’t be stopping by if things were in order.

“I thought we might talk a minute, if you have the time.” Christopher made his way up the flagstone walk.

“Always.” The rabbi stepped aside and motioned Christopher into the house.

“I’d just as soon stay outside, Rabbi.” Christopher smiled. He liked the young rabbi, and he was glad the man had chosen to come to Claysville, but longer talks with him always made the headaches come.

“What can I do for you?”

“There are a few odd details about Mrs. Barrow’s passing.” Christopher kept his voice bland. “Not that I think the whole town needs to know, but I thought you might mention it to the council. Maybe one of you all could pay a visit to William.”

“Is there something in particular that we should tell him?”

Christopher lifted his shoulder in a small shrug. “Suspect he knows. He’s seen her body.”

Rabbi Wolffe nodded. “I’ll call the council to a meeting tonight, then. Do you know—”

“No. I don’t know a thing,” Christopher interrupted. “I don’t want to either.”

“Right.” The rabbi’s features were unreadable. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

Christopher shrugged again. “Just doing my job, Rabbi.”

Then he turned and got back in his car as quickly as he could. He didn’t run from fights or anything like that, but he didn’t want to know what he didn’t need to know. Anyone who paid attention understood that there were plenty of times that avoiding questions was the best way for things to work out.

7

AFTER TAKING CARE OF ERRANDS AND GOING FOR A LONG RIDE TO CLEAR his head, Byron settled in at Gallagher’s, his regular evening hideaway. Gallagher’s was the best sort of tavern: wooden floor and wooden bar, pool tables and dartboards, cold beer and good liquor. Here, he could believe he was in one of any number of neighborhood bars in any town or city, and usually he could relax—both during open hours and after the bar was closed.

Not tonight.

He did all right at first, but as the night stretched on, his nerves became increasingly jangled. He looked at the clock for the third time in as many minutes; he considered going to the airport. Hell, he’d started driving there earlier, only to pull over and turn around again. Twice. As much as he wanted to see Rebekkah, he wasn’t sure that being there was going to help, so he sat at the bar and told himself that being met by an undertaker—especially me—wasn’t liable to help her mood.

“Are you drinking or just taking up a stool, Byron?” Amity smiled to ease the bite in her words. She’d been a welcome diversion since he’d been home, never demanding, never asking for more than he could offer.

“Byron?” she prompted, her tone a little less sure this time.

“Drinking.” He tapped his empty glass.

After an assessing look, Amity took his glass and scooped ice into it. She was pretty, with plenty of attitude. Skeleton-hand barrettes held back pale blond hair; thick-rimmed red glasses framed dark eyes heavily made up in purples and grays. Her curves were accented by a tight black shirt decorated with a picture of a cartoon monster and the words GOT STAKES? on the front and GOT SILVER? on the back. She was four years younger than he was, so she wasn’t old enough to notice when he was in high school, but in the few months he’d been home, he’d definitely been noticing her. Amity was uncomplicated, and he was able to give her exactly what Rebekkah had asked for from him: no strings, no hang-ups, no future talk.

Maybe I’ve changed.

Amity darted a glance at him, but didn’t speak as she tipped the bottle over the glass, pouring a triple shot of Scotch.

He held out a credit card.

She set the glass on a new coaster in front of him with one hand and took his card with the other. “It’ll be okay.”

“What?”

She shrugged and turned to the cash register. “Things.”

“Things,” he repeated slowly.

She nodded but didn’t look up. “Yeah. Things will be okay. You have to believe that … it’s what we’re all doing since she died.”

Byron froze. Amity’s words emphasized how little they actually talked. He knew very little about her life, her interests, her. “Maylene?”

“Yeah.” She swiped his card and while it was printing slid the Scotch into the empty space on the shelf. “Maylene was good people.”

Byron paused, took a drink, and then asked, “Did she come in here? I didn’t see her around.”

“She came in, but not much.” Amity leaned on the counter for a moment and leveled her gaze on him. “I mostly know her through my sister. Maylene went to council meetings, and Bonnie Jean took a seat on the council last year. So …”

Byron looked at the clock again. Rebekkah’s flight should’ve landed.

“Hey.” A soft touch drew his attention: Amity covered his hand with hers. He glanced at it, and then his gaze flickered between her hand and her eyes.

“Things will be okay. You need to believe that,” Amity assured him.

“Why does it seem like you know something I don’t?”

“Most folks don’t get to leave like you did. Sometimes a person who stays around here knows things … different things than those who were able to go.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’m guessing you know things I don’t.”

Byron didn’t pull away, but he did pause. Amity usually kept the conversation light—if they even talked at all. He took a long drink to stall.

“Relax.” She laughed. “No strings, right? You think I’m changing the rules on you or something?”

He felt his tension drain away as she laughed.

“No,” he lied.

“So … after I close …” She let the offer hang in the air.

Most nights he stayed until closing only if he intended to accept that offer. Tonight he couldn’t. It was foolish to feel guilty, but he did. He couldn’t be with Amity when Rebekkah was in town. He also couldn’t say that to Amity. Instead he smiled and said, “Rain check?”

“Maybe.” Amity leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Go see her.”