Graveminder

A job? In one place? Rebekkah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a regular job. Portions of the alimony checks her mother received from her various ex-husbands and Jimmy’s very generous insurance had left her with a bank balance that never seemed to decrease much. She’d added to it with the proceeds from a few commissioned art contracts, but that was about her own self-esteem, not about need. Jobs mean staying. The thought of staying in one place never made sense. Except when I’m here.

“I have questions about Maylene’s death, but that doesn’t mean ...” Rebekkah shook her head: she knew she wasn’t leaving right away. She needed answers. Weakly, she finished, “I don’t know how long I’ll be around.”

Amity’s dry tone filled the suddenly awkward pause. “Temporary is not shocking in this business, Bek. If nothing else, I’ll give you a few Bar Wench 101 classes to distract you ... unless you have another distraction lined up?”

The thought of Byron came unbidden to her mind, but using him as a distraction was wrong. Is it? She shoved that thought away and looked at Amity. “No. I have nothing else in mind to distract me.”

“I thought maybe you and By—”

“We’re old friends, but he’s a relationship guy and ...” Rebekkah paused at the tight smile Amity offered her. “Am I missing something?”

Amity shook her head. “I think you know a different Byron than I do.”

Rebekkah felt an awkward burst of jealousy. She didn’t look at Amity while she opened the cooler, uncorked the wine, and poured two glasses. Once she was sure the undeserved jealousy wasn’t visible in her expression, she looked at Amity. “So you know Byron?”

“There are only a few thousand people in Claysville, Bek. Most of them aren’t anywhere near as interesting as Byron.” Amity opened her arms wide. “Plus, Gallagher’s is the hottest bar in town—and I am the hottest barmaid in town—which means I know everyone old enough to drink.”

Rebekkah laughed. “Maybe you ought to visit me when I go ... wherever I go next.”

“I don’t think I’m the sort to go anywhere, but thanks.”

Glass in hand, Rebekkah half sat, half leaned on one of the hip-tall beer coolers and braced her feet against the stool Amity had placed behind the bar for that very purpose. “You running the place now? Last time you wrote, you said Troy was the manager. Are you two ...”

“No. Troy’s not really the commitment sort, or maybe I’m not the sort of girl guys want to commit to.” Amity shrugged. “We split up a few months ago. We’re cool, though ... or we were . He needed a week for personal stuff, but he was supposed to be back to work almost a month ago. No show, no call. And Daniel ... well, he might own the place, but he’s not saying much other than ‘Amity, you handle things.’ So I’m handling them.”

“Troy just vanished? Did he leave town?” Rebekkah’s heart felt constricted. He’d never been the responsible type, but he loved the bar. Gallagher’s and Amity were the only two reasons she’d ever seen him get excited—or possessive. In high school, they’d been in art class together, but after Ella’s death, they hadn’t really talked until she’d come back for a visit and found him slinging drinks at Gallagher’s. He’d introduced her to Amity, his younger coworker and his very obvious infatuation.

“I don’t know.” Amity wiped down the last of the tables that had been occupied earlier. “He’s just gone. Considering how rarely anyone leaves, I think it’s something to worry about, but what do I know, right? Daniel acts like it’s a ‘lovers’ quarrel’ thing, but Troy and me ... we weren’t like that. He wouldn’t take off because I started seeing someone new.”

“Do you think the new guy said something to Troy? Did you ask him? Troy’s a sweetie, but that might be an issue. Do they know each other? Or—”

“He ... the new guy is just filling time with me, Bek. Trust me on this.”

Rebekkah couldn’t make herself ask, but she wanted to know. She wanted to not care if it was Byron, but she did care. “Maybe I ought to give him a talking-to. Have I met him?”

Amity came over to the bar, put both hands on it, and pushed up so her feet were off the floor. She leaned forward, reached under the bar, and pulled out the jukebox remote. She hopped back down and aimed the remote. “Credits. Go pick us some songs. If you’re here, might as well dance or shoot.”

“My pool skills still suck.” Rebekkah came back through the bar door. She paused beside Amity. “Did you tell Sheriff McInney?”

Amity’s smile was strained. “About Troy? Yeah, he knows.”

“And?”

“And Troy’s a bit ... unreliable, so the sheriff’s not thinking anything of it. I asked Bonnie Jean to mention it at the next town council meeting, but”—Amity shrugged—“my sister’s so worried about impressing the mayor that I’m not really counting on her.”

The door opened. A half-dozen men stood there. The one in the front of the group looked at the two of them; he took off his hat and held it in his hands. “Ma’am?”

Amity’s barmaid smile returned instantly; she motioned them forward. Then she murmured, “Break’s over, Bek. Set us up with something loud. Nothing country or blues tonight.”

Rebekkah nodded and went over to the old jukebox. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Amity, but the bartender was beckoning to the men tromping into the bar, acting as if the two of them hadn’t had any sort of personal conversation.

“Belly up, boys. Those tip jars don’t fill themselves, and we’ve got a new barmaid to train. Can’t train her if you don’t order up a bunch of drinks.” Amity hopped up onto the bar, swung her legs over, and jumped down. “What’ll it be?”

Chapter 21

BYRON SAT AT THE TABLE WITH CHARLIE AND HIS FATHER. A WOMAN IN a floor-length dress with charcoal-dark hair and smoldering appeal reminiscent of Bettie Page sashayed across the room. She paused at their table.

“You wanted me, Charlie?” Her voice was breathy, but that could’ve been a result of the corset and bustier that cinched and lifted her breasts so they were a gasp away from spilling out of the deep-V cut of her dress.

“Be a good girl, and go sing for us.” Charlie patted her ass absently. “I can’t stand the quiet.”

A single spotlight came on with a sharp click. The curtain over the doorway opened, and three dead musicians came through it to join the singer onstage. One carried a cello, and the other two took their places on the stools in front of the piano and drums.

“Graveminder?” Byron prompted.

Charlie lifted his glass in a toast as the breathy girl started singing. “Ahhh, that’s what we needed. Now, back to business ... Graveminder: the woman who keeps the dead from going out on rampages; the partner of the Undertaker. Maylene’s replacement is”—he tilted his head as if thinking—“Rebekkah.”

Byron looked from Charlie to his father. “Rebekkah?”

“Yes.” Charlie snapped his fingers.

The waitress came over carrying a dark wood box. She placed it in front of Charlie, glanced at him, and then turned away when he neither spoke nor acknowledged her presence. As she walked away, the singer sang- whispered something almost too soft to hear into the mic.

Charlie reached in his pocket and drew out a key. He slid the key into the box’s lock. “The Graveminder keeps the dead in the earth or brings them to me if they go out walking. You need a new one to replace Maylene.” He unfastened the latches on either side of the box. “The Graveminder is the only living person—other than you now —who can come here.”

“Why would she do that?” Byron stood. “Why would I , for that matter?”

The spotlight seemed to brighten as the pianist’s fingers danced over the keys. The rhythm from the drums added a sense of urgency to the music as Charlie opened the lid of the box.