The Buried (The Apostles) (21 page)

With her hand in his, he nudged her down the narrow hall to the bedroom. Grace moved like an angel sent to earth. Graceful arms. Heavenly face. And legs that went on for eternity.

Once in the bedroom he clicked shut the door and slipped his hands over her hips and down her thighs. “You know I still dream about you.” He trailed his fingers up her belly and through the valley of her breasts. “About this spot here.”

One by one he unbuttoned the silk-covered buttons of her blouse, his lips following the trail blazed by his fingers. And Grace, being Grace, didn’t back away from the fire. She dug her fingers into his hair and drew him closer.

“I dream about you standing before me wearing moonlight and pearls.” Her shirt floated to the ground followed by her slacks, the whoosh of air fanning the heat firing through his body.

Ten years’ worth of want and need tugged at him, but he forced himself to step back. In the moonlight streaming through the window, her skin was smooth and pearly white but far from cold. “I dream about sliding my hands through your hair, feeling your breath against my skin.”

She reached for him, her fingers tracing his lips. A tremor rocked her hand and his lips. No fear. Not tonight. Anticipation rippled because they knew what lay ahead.

He dipped his head into the curve of her neck and trailed kisses along the smooth, delicious column. “And those legs, Grace, I dream about those legs wrapped around my waist.”

“Hatch?” She pulled back until he looked up at her.

“Yes, Grace?”

“Can you please stop talking?” Settling her fingertips on his chest, she pushed him across the room until his knees hit the bed. “I have something else in mind.”

He laughed, falling onto the bed and bringing her with him. Words turned into kisses that rained along her neck, across her breasts, and down the center of her belly. She melted into him, and he into her.

Y
ou know if you get bored during the service,” Hatch said against the side of her neck as he escorted her across the cemetery parking lot, “we can take off and get a BLT or something.”

Given his total lack of reverence, she should have swatted him away. After all, they were going to a funeral, but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but smile. She had no regrets about throwing herself at him last night with silly talk of bacon and hated having to drag herself out of his arms this morning. Ten years ago, sex with Hatch had been explosive and fiery, and at times the fire had consumed her, leaving her body spent. But last night’s lovemaking had a different fire, the steady, red-hot glow of long-banked coals. Even now, it warmed her from the inside out as she walked to Lia Grant’s final resting place.

Her silk pumps slowed.

“You don’t have to go.” Hatch squeezed her hand. “Lia’s killer is not going to be at the funeral.”

Grace knew some killers attended their victims’ funerals to celebrate their success and flaunt their power, but according to Hayden’s profile, Lia’s killer only played in the dark. “It’s not about the case,” Grace said. “It’s about the girl.” She hadn’t been there for Lia Grant in life, but she would be there for her in death.

They walked along the path to the plot where Black Jack was preparing for the funeral. Hatch stopped to talk to one of the deputies on duty. Steam hung in wisps above the cemetery, like ghosts caught between heaven and the earth, and she couldn’t help but think of another young woman. She slipped into a gazebo where she took out her phone, sat on a quiet, shady bench, and dialed the number she’d called twice this morning.

“No change in Janis’s condition,” the nurse on duty reported. “And no news yet on the new round of tests the doctor ordered.”

“And the guard is still at Janis’s door.”

“Yes, Grace.”

“And only authorized personnel and immediate family members are entering her room.”

“Yes, Grace.”

“Thanks, Brenda.” Grace was on a first-name basis with all of the nurses manning the floor where Janis Jaffee was fighting for her life. She was attending the funeral for a girl who’d called her from the grave, and the thought of attending another left her boneless. When she finally hung up, Hatch dropped an arm over her shoulders and guided her to a large awning.

Grace had attended two funerals in her life. Her mother’s had taken place on a sunny day in April the year she’d turned thirteen. She’d stood at her father’s side, holding his hand while he wept unabashedly for the love of his life. Although she’d refused to cry—she’d needed to be strong for her father—Grace had felt the sting of loss, grieving the death of her mother and the death of what she later learned was a little part of her father. Her father never remarried because in his world marriage was forever, which no doubt colored her own thoughts of marriage. Given all the ill-fated dates and lackluster relationships post-Hatch, at a subconscious level Grace must have been still holding on to the love of her own life. She brought Hatch’s hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. He squeezed her fingers.

As they neared the awning, Hatch’s hand tensed in hers. On the far side of the green Alex shouldered a stack of chairs from a cart and hauled them to the aisle, where he aligned them in a razor-straight row. Sweat circled the boy’s neck and arms, and a black line of grease marked his cheek.

“How’s he doing?” Hatch asked Black Jack, who was hauling two large urns of flowers toward the rectangular hole in the earth.

“Working hard this morning,” Black Jack said.

“He’s not complaining or giving you a hard time, is he?”

Black Jack set the urns on either side of the hole. “No.”

Alex hauled another armful of chairs from the cart, and Hatch scrubbed his index finger across his chin. “How’s his arm this morning? Is it giving him any trouble?”

“Mr. Hatcher,” Black Jack dusted the dirt from his palms, “your son is fine.”

Hatch took in a long, deep breath, as if trying to take in the caretaker’s words. Grace knew he desperately wanted to believe Alex was fine, he’d learned his lesson, and would never make another bad choice. But when it came to his son, Hatch had some kind of mental roadblock, most likely constructed by his own father. Despite his bridge-building skills, Hatch hadn’t figured out a way to get through to his son. Nor did he realize he had serious feelings about the boy, feelings even Black Jack could see. She took Hatch’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and led him to a pair of chairs in the back row.

A sweaty Alex finished setting up the final row of chairs and disappeared with the cart just as mourners trickled in. With the boy out of sight, Hatch slipped his arm along the back of her chair and casually looked about. She caught him nodding at Lieutenant Lang, who stood near the fountain, and at a pair of fidgeting men who looked like they’d be more at home in cop uniforms than their ill-fitting suits. Hatch said they didn’t expect the killer to show, but no one was taking chances.

The crowd swelled, and the service began. Six suited men carried a casket of shiny cherry wood with brass handles up the aisle, so different from the uneven sheets of stained plywood that had housed Lia’s lifeless body last week. Behind the casket came a middle-aged couple with red-rimmed eyes. The woman clutched a worn stuffed cat to her chest, her gaze never leaving the casket, while the man acknowledged the sea of mourners with a somber resolve. When he spotted Grace, the steely strength that held him faltered. For a flash of a moment, his stoic face crumbled. He knew who she was and what she’d done, or rather hadn’t done.

Why, Grace, why didn’t you answer your phone?

She dug her nails into her skirt.
I’m sorry I didn’t do more. I’m sorry I didn’t act faster. I’m sorry I failed to save your daughter’s life.

Hatch’s hand covered hers.

After worship songs and the eulogy, Hatch slid back his jacket and slipped out his phone. It was on silent, but she could see the light flashing. He scrolled through a text, and the arm over her shoulder grew rock hard.

“What?” Grace whispered.

“It’s Berkley,” he said against her neck. “The sketch of the woman posing as Ronnie Alderman is ready.” He tucked his phone in his pocket. “I need to slip out a few minutes early. Do you want to come?”

“No, I need to see this through.” Because she didn’t do anything halfway—not growing up, not in her work, and not with her relationships.
If you do something, Gracie, give it your all or don’t do it at all.

Hatch slipped his lips along her ear. “Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

“You okay?”

The soft voice surprised Grace, as did the young man standing before her. Alex had slicked back his hair, tucked in his shirt, and donned a tie.

“Tough day,” she said. “Actually, it’s been a tough week.” Lia’s funeral had wrapped up two hours ago, and the last of the girl’s family and friends were long gone. Only Alex, a pair of sheriff’s deputies, and Black Jack remained. She stood, knowing Alex needed to pack up the chairs, but he waved her back into her seat.

“I hear you on that tough week stuff.” The boy sat next to her, his sneaker tracing a line in the crushed oyster shell path. “You, uh, want to talk about it? This counselor my Granny’s making me see says it’s supposed to help, you know, talking about stuff.”

She pointed at the hole in the ground that now held Lia Grant. “A girl with a big heart and a bright future died because I didn’t get to her soon enough.” Her hand plopped into her lap. “Another girl who reached out to me is in the hospital, and on top of that, my dog’s sick.”

“You’re right. That’s a bad week.”

“Yeah.”

Alex scraped the oyster shells into a pile. “Last week I saw a grave of an entire family who died the same week from swamp fever in the 1800s. A mom, dad, and six kids.”

“That’s a bad week,” she said.

“And I saw another headstone of a man who died when he fell in a pit of water moccasins.”

“Seriously?”

“Nah.” Alex looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I made up the last one so you’d stop thinking about all that other stuff.”

A tiny laugh trembled and fell over her lips. Hatch might think the kid was bound for trouble because Hatch had been full of trouble as a teen and he had no faith in his own parenting skills, but the young man had displayed a number of redeeming qualities, including this sweet, charming side. “How’s the arm?” Grace asked.

“Don’t tell
him
, but it’s killing me.”

“Maybe after you get off work, you and I can get away from this really, really bad week and go out for a boat ride. I don’t have a fancy sailboat like Hatch, just a little skiff. Allegheny Blue loves to ride. He’ll come with us.”

Alex scraped more oyster shells into a pile. “Can’t. Granny grounded me for the hair salon break-in.”

“When you’re ungrounded, let me know. I’ll even let you drive.”

Alex smoothed out the oyster shells. “That would be great. Now I gotta get back to work.”

Once again Grace checked her watch. Where was Hatch? His teammate Berkley had finished the sketch, and she figured he was working to disseminate the drawing of the woman calling herself Ronnie Alderman to law enforcement and the media. But that shouldn’t take more than two hours. She checked her phone. Still no call from the nurses at Janis’s bedside. What now?

Doers win and winners do, Gracie.

Patience, Princess, patience.

This time she listened to Hatch, not her daddy.

An angry buzz shook the air near Lou Poole’s bee boxes.

Hatch slipped through the gate and along the wooden walkway to the house on stilts where Lou sat on the front porch in an ancient rocking chair.

“She died,” Lou said, her gnarled hands curling around the carved knobs of the groaning chair.

The media had been at the funeral in full force. Lia Grant’s death had rocked this community. “Yes, Miz Poole, I was at the funeral earlier this morning.”

“Funeral?” Lou swatted a veiny hand at her face. “And people call me batty?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am?”

The beekeeper tilted her head toward the bee boxes. “The queen, she died. Found her this morning on the ground. Bad time to die. Bad for the hive.” She rocked faster, the groan getting louder. “Bad time to die.”

The beekeeper had lost an old friend, but also a business partner of sorts. A hive needed its queen. “I’m sorry.” He should say something more, but he didn’t have time. The funeral was long over, and he didn’t want Grace alone too long. “I was hoping we could talk some more.” He took the sketch from Berkley out of his pocket. “About the ghost who buried the girl.”

“Dead. Like the queen, the ghost is dead.”

“Yes, but I need to know if your dead ghost is the same ghost I’m looking for.” He unfolded the paper and held it in front of the old woman.

“Unless they make a new queen, the hive will die.”

“Miz Poole, do you recognize this woman?”

At the rustling paper, she turned to him. “Dead. She’s dead.” Lou picked at a tiny scab on her arm. “The queen is dead. The ghost is dead. The hive…”

He needed a way to get this woman out of her head. “The hive’s not dead yet, Miz Poole. The bees are working hard. They’re making a new queen. And while they are, please tell me.” He squatted in front of her, taking both of the rocking chair arms in his hands and stopping the frantic movement. “Is this the ghost you saw with the girl in the boat?”

Lou Poole finally stared at the paper and nodded.

“What’s her name, Miz Poole? Does the ghost have a name?”

She ran her hand along the narrow face but said nothing.

Bridge. He needed a bridge. “You knew this woman before she was a ghost, right?”

Nod.

“She had a name then. What was her name?”

Lou turned from the sketch to the bees, her gaze beseeching, as if they had the answers.

“Was she a friend? A relative? Did she have something to do with the bees?”

Lou sprung from the chair, her eyes wide and wild. “She’s dead. The queen is dead!” With a sob, she hobbled into her house.

Wave after wave of frustration swarmed through Hatch’s head as he drove to the cemetery. Inside Lou Poole’s head was the name of a killer. He knew he’d reach it, but she wasn’t giving up anything today, not with the death of the queen bee.

When he reached the highway, he called Lieutenant Lang. “Poole confirmed the sketch of the woman posing as Ronnie Alderman on the cleaning crew is the woman she saw with Lia Grant’s body.”

“Did she give you a name this time?”

“Nope. And I tried.” Damn, did he try.

“We can nail her for obstruction of justice.”

“And where will that get us?”

“A whole hell of a lot of nowhere,” the lieutenant said.