Colder Than Death

all the years I’ve been associated with Henderson’s Funeral Home, with the exception of a handful of burials, if that, Nolan never spent enough time at Elm Cross to be any kind of expert on the layout of the grounds.”

“Fine. But Lew has. And Alphonse. And Alton works there, for God’s sake. And you don’t know if Wilt Ging is a cemetery buff. And, frankly, you don’t know what Nolan does in his spare time or what he did in his spare time fifteen years ago. He might’ve been a cemetery buff back then.”

Perry was confusing me. I wasn’t sure if he was playing mind games with me like he usually tried to do or if he was genuinely trying to communicate to me from the point of view of a cop stumped by a difficult case.

“Is being a cemetery buff a lifelong hobby for people?”

“For some.”

“I’ve been interested in some things all my life, other things I get tired of after a year. Some things six months. I have to weigh all kinds of facts and information. It sounds nice to theorize that the same person was responsible for what happened to these three women, but when you think hard about it…it’s just too remote. I’ll grant you it’s possible, but it’s not probable. That’s why I have to focus on the facts I have. And the biggest fact I have the body of Brandy Parker. If I had the remains of Alyssa Kirkland or Virginia Thistle, then I’d say your theory has one hundred percent credibility. But I have to go with what I’ve got. And as of this moment, it’s all in Gretchen Yearwood’s court. And if she can’t give me something new to go on… it’s over.”

“She’s already given you something, Perry. She’s the only person connected to both Virginia Thistle and Brandy Parker.”

Perry took in the remark. “I take it that you and the kid have already talked to her?” I nodded yes. “Save me some time. Did she say anything that I can work with?”

“Not much.”

“Then that’s it. There’s nothing except theories. I met with Greg and Wendell to pick their brains. We sat down like lawyers trying to come up with logical scenarios of who, what, where, why and how.”

He removed two sheets of paper, folded in half, from his jacket pocket and unfolded them. “This is a printout of the fifty-six names you and the kid got from the headstones by the mausoleum. We poured over them, looking for a link. Abbreviations. A big chunk of people from Europe settled here. Lots of them changed their names. We considered that the killer uses the shortened surname of his ancestors. “He handed me the page. “Of the fifty-six names, eleven could’ve been trimmed down or ‘Americanized’. I made a separate list of those. Take a look.”

I looked at the paper, my eyes going to the short list:

Norbyer

Uvorelli

Friskenacht

Suinneur

Oberfuolner

Bastaad

Ruddigger

Wachtmannfried

Viteurhoven

Kogarun

Puillifert

“None rings even the remotest bell for me,” I said. “In my head I’m trying to make anagrams out of them.”

“We tried that too. Nothing. I even ran them through the computer to find variations on the names. Made it even worse. Came up with seventy-six weird-sounding names.”

I examined the longer list of conventional names hoping to find one that I could place with the face of someone alive in Dankworth today. There were none, other than a few common English and Irish surnames.

“Listen, Del, I’m not Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. There’s no bodies. No weapons. No evidence of any kind. I’ve read enough and talked to enough cops to know that cases get solved either through plodding, detailed, painstaking work or dumb luck. Just like it was a fluke that Brandy Parker’s body was discovered, it’ll be the same kind of chance event that’ll put an end to this. When I don’t know.”

“Just like it’s taken twenty-four years for something to solve the Virginia Thistle case?” I snapped. “Or fifteen years for something to solve the Alyssa Kirkland case?”

“You want me to go forward? Give me more than hunches and heartache. Give me something real.” He walked to the door. “Give me something I can hold in my hands.” He stepped out of my office.

He left the printout of names of people buried near the mausoleum and the box containing Brandy Parker’s things behind. I picked up the printout and studied the names again. Not one looked even remotely familiar.

I spent the next five hours going through Brandy Parker’s things. I examined everything in the box, reading the notebooks, looking at the pictures, grasping for something that would offer a clue. There was nothing. I was beginning to understand Perry’s frustration. I knew he was right about finding something solid to work with, but I also knew he was right about dumb luck playing an important part. Either way would take time.

I wanted to call Quilla. It had been two days since she’d left me standing in front of the Police Station. I wanted to see if she’d calmed down, as well as to tell her about my latest visit from Perry. Plus, I had Brandy’s things. Even if Quilla had made up her mind to stay angry at me forever, I wanted to get them back to her. I decided to be the adult and give her a call.

Suzanne Worthington answered with an abrupt, “Quilla?”

“No. It’s Del Coltrane.”

“Have you seen or talked to Quilla today?” There was an edge to her voice. “Or yesterday?”

“No. Is something wrong?”

“Quilla hasn’t been home for the last two nights,” she said gravely. “Sometimes she stays away for one night… if we’ve had an argument, but she always comes back the next day only… we didn’t have an argument two days ago. Since the funeral, we’ve actually been very decent to one another. I’m extremely concerned. She’s been obsessing on finding my sister’s killer. And she mentioned a connection with her friend Gretchen’s mother and someone you knew. At first I thought it was too unbelievable to give any credibility to, but now I’m wondering if it could be true. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… could the same man be after her?”

The question gave me the chills. “Why would you think that?”

“My sister vanished off the face of the earth,” she snapped. “I think I have a right to ask the question. Quilla wasn’t the only one to suspect that something awful happened to her. I just chose to focus on the easier solution: that she ran away. But a small part of me feared the worst. Since Brandy’s disappearance I’ve spent every day dreading that the same thing might happen to Quilla. She’s run away in the past. You can’t imagine what that did to me. And she’s stayed out all night without warning me. Going on forty-eight hours without knowing where your child is can be hell. For the last two days I’ve been asking myself if my worry is premature. Should I call her friends? They would lie to protect her. Should I call the police? What good would it do. So I’ve been waiting… wondering… and I don’t know who to turn to.”

“Where was she going the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me her plans. She comes and goes. Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I’m not. I often work long hours. My worst fear is that the person who killed my sister has indeed gotten hold of Quilla.”

That didn’t make any sense to me, but I knew enough about life not to assume anything. “That seems unlikely, Mrs. Worthington. There are so few people who know of Quilla’s passion for solving the murder… me, Perry Cobb, Gretchen Yearwood, the two other men on the Dankworth Police force.”

“Quilla told me about it. Who else did she tell? And who else did the others tell? Who else did you tell?” I tried to remember. Besides Gretchen, there was Vaughn and Nolan. I trusted each of them implicitly.

“Mrs. Worthington, if you feel in your heart, if your mother’s intuition is sending you a message, I think you need to call the police and tell them Quilla’s been gone for the last two days. I’ll be happy to put a call into Perry Cobb and, if you like, I’ll call Gretchen Yearwood… unless you’ve already contacted her.”