Colder Than Death

atop the green tarpaulin that covered the hole, then Ralph Mutrax said a few words about the tragedy of Brandy Parker’s murder, her short life and a few prayers and that was it. He looked at me as if to say, “It’s all yours,” then I spoke.

I always remained behind to oversee the burial. But this service, like the death of Brandy Parker, was unusual. So my remarks were brief.

“The service is complete. I’ll stay behind to supervise the interment.” Gretchen gave Quilla a long, affectionate hug, nodded to Suzanne, then turned and walked towards her car. I looked towards Suzanne and Quilla. “Mrs. Worthington, you and Quilla can go now.”

Suzanne nodded and had gone less than three feet when Quilla spoke in a firm voice. “I’m staying ’til the end.”

Suzanne, looking too tired to argue, uttered a simple, “Quilla, please don’t put me through that. This is painful enough. Let’s just go.”

“I’m staying!” she said adamantly.

“I’m feeling sick,” said Suzanne. “I can’t watch that thing being put into the ground and I don’t want to wait around for you.”

“I’ll go back with Del,” said Quilla. Her right hand brushed against my left arm. “Can I go back with you?”

“It’s up to your mother,” I said to Quilla, then to Suzanne I said, “It’s not a problem. Really.”

Suzanne glanced with resignation at Quilla, looked at me and said, “Thank you.”

Ralph Mutrax walked with her to her car. Gretchen pulled away first, then Suzanne, then Ralph.

“It’s such a joke that that fag Mutrax was here,” said Quilla. “Aunt Brandy didn’t believe in all that religious mumbo jumbo.”

The burial was swift. Alton sent two of his four-man crew. The tarpaulin was removed and the urn was lowered into the grave much like a bucket being sent down a well. The backhoe then pushed the dirt that had been piled under the tarpaulin into the hole, leveling it out as best as was possible. In a week or so, once the ground had settled, the grass that had been pried up in inch thick clumps ten inches square, would be layered back on top of the dirt. Within a few months they too would settle in and within a year it would be smooth and level with the horizon.

Quilla had watched the entire scene with a stone-faced seriousness. No tears or emotion. When the last shovelful of dirt had been smoothed over I said, “That’s it,” and she said, “Let’s go,” softly.

* * *

We slid into the hearse and motored slowly out of the cemetery. We’d driven less than a mile when Quilla said, “Call him.”

“Fine.” I reached for my Blackberry. “By the way, I told him that Gretchen knew your Aunt.”

“Why?” she said coolly.

Her reaction surprised me. “Next to you, she’s probably the only link to your Aunt. They were good friends, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? She dedicated a book to your Aunt. Isn’t it fair to assume that they were good friends?”

“They only knew each other a short time before Aunt Brandy disappeared.”

“Which means that Gretchen knew her at a crucial time.”

“So?”

“Well, maybe she remembers something or someone that’ll help Perry in his investigation.”

“Do I have to involve Gretchen?” Her tone was snippy, much like the way in which she responded to her mother.

“Why wouldn’t you want to? If she knows something she… ” I couldn’t figure out why Quilla was being so vague.

“Like I said, Gretchen’s a private person. Why do you think she uses a pen name on her books?”

“You tell me.”

Quilla hesitated. “Something bad happened to her when she was a kid. People stared at her. Made fun of her. I know what that’s like.”

“What’s the bad thing that happened to her?” I asked, even though I was sure she was referring to Gretchen’s father killing her mother. I wanted to find out just how much Quilla knew about Kyle Thistle, as well as how much she would be willing to reveal to me.

“Why are you asking these questions about Gretchen?”

“I find it ironic that she and your Aunt knew each other and that you stumbled onto the dedication in The Cheerleader Wore Black.”

“How did you know the title?” she snapped, glaring harshly at me. “I didn’t tell you.”

“I read it.” I felt that honesty was important to her

“What?” She spun around and faced me. “I only told you about it last night. How did you have time to find, let alone read the book?”

“I went to the Mall this morning. Stopped in the bookstore. It’s a short book.”

“That was a sneaky thing to do.”

“Quilla, for some reason I get the feeling that you’re angry at me for bringing up Gretchen. You asked me to help you nudge Perry Cobb. That’s all I’m trying to do. I’m sorry Gretchen Yearwood is a private person, but is her privacy more important than getting information that might lead to finding your Aunt’s killer?”

“No,” she snapped. She was silent for about ten seconds. “When Gretchen was little her father was accused of murdering her mother. She based the main character in The Cheerleader Wore Black on my Aunt. Aunt Brandy was in an accident and her face got cut up.”

I remembered the scar on Brandy Parker’s face in the picture Perry had shown to me.

“She was waiting to have plastic surgery when she… was murdered.” Quilla paused for a moment. “I think it’ll be better if you and I talk to Gretchen before Cobb?”

I didn’t see the purpose of it, but part of me looked forward to the idea of seeing Gretchen again. “Then let’s call her right this minute.”

Quilla pulled out her Blackberry. “I’m getting her Voicemail. Shit. She hasn’t gotten home from the cemetery yet. What should I say, Del?”

“Tell her that Perry Cobb will be calling her with regard to her friendship with your Aunt, but that we’d like to talk to her first.”

“Hi, Gretch. It’s Quilla. Listen, all kinds of things are happening. That dork, Perry Cobb, will probably be contacting you about Aunt Brandy. He’s investigating the case. So don’t freak out if he just shows up at your door. But more importantly, me and Del Coltrane, the Funeral Director guy, need to talk to you too. Call me.”

“Give her my number too. 509-5309.”

“You can call Del Coltrane at 509-5309. I’m with him now if you get this in the next few minutes. Bye.”

“She seems like a nice person.”

“She’s the best. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Your old girlfriend, Alyssa. Did you ever try to find her?”

“No. I wouldn’t have known where to look.”

“I guess that means you’re not relentless. I am. Once I set my mind to something I’m like a rabid pit bull. Like when I set out to find Gretchen.”

“How did you do that?”

“First thing I did was write a letter to the publisher, but they sent me a letter back saying that the author used a pen name, so I figured I was screwed. Then one day I was watching some talk show and they had this guy on who was an expert in finding people. He had this 800 number and he said it was okay to call him and bounce off your situation. So I called and I told him how I’d found the dedication and that I wanted to find out an author’s real name. He was nice and said that I could write to the Library of Congress and that if I was pushy enough and I reached some employee who was either in a good mood or hated their job and didn’t care about rules, that I might get the author’s real name. Which I did. Her real last name is Thistle, but she uses her mother’s maiden name