The Grim Reaper's Dance

college. For a year anyway, and then he dropped out. Are you from out east?”

Casey shook her head. “Is he just a farmer?”

Bailey bristled. “That’s not enough?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, does he have another job, that I might know him from?”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I could ask Dad.”

“No. He’d wonder why you were asking.”

“Maybe. But I can lie pretty well.”

Casey already knew that. “Okay, if you could find out, that would be great.”

Bailey brightened. “Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. Can I use your phone? Unless you want me to use the landline.”

“We don’t have a landline.” Bailey reached into her pocket. “Use it all you want. I’ve got unlimited minutes. Calls or texting.”

Casey took the phone and went back to Bailey’s room, where she shut the door. She punched in Davey’s work number, waving at Death to stop with the rubber band. Death sighed heavily and twisted the band around a finger.

“Wainwright’s Scrap Yard.”

“Davey?”

“You got him.”

“It’s…Casey.”

He let out a whoosh of air. “Oh, thank God. You’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Are they still there?”

“No, they’re at the hospital.”

“The cops, I mean, not the men.”

“Oh.” He laughed. “I guess that would be strange if they were still lying there. No, the cops are gone. Followed the guys to the ER.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“Just that they’re awake now, and they’re going to be all right. Except for the guy’s knee. He’s going to have to have some major work on that.”

Casey winced. She wished—

“I can’t really file any charges,” Davey said, “since they attacked each other, so I’m pretty much out of the loop.”

“Yeah, as for that police report…”

“No problem.”

Casey rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry about yesterday, about bringing that on you.”

“Wasn’t your fault.”

“If it hadn’t been for me—”

“They would’ve come anyway. It wasn’t you they were after, remember.”

Of course they were. They thought she knew about Evan’s stash. But they didn’t know she’d be at the scrap yard. They didn’t know where she was. At that moment, yesterday, they’d been after the truck.

“In fact,” Davey said, “if you hadn’t been here, who knows what woulda happened, so I should be thanking you.”

“How’s Trixie?”

“She’ll be okay. She got some broken ribs, so she’s on painkillers, lying here in the office.”

“I’m glad she’ll be all right.”

The phone hissed in her ear.

“Well,” Casey said, “I just wanted to thank you for telling the cops what you did. I appreciate that you didn’t pull me into it.”

“Glad to do it.” He paused. “I do need to tell you, though…

“What?”

“I’m getting rid of the truck. Don’t want those guys coming back.”

“Good. Make a big production of it, so they know it’s gone.”

“Don’t worry.”

She would, anyway. “Well, thanks again, Davey.”

“Wait.”

Casey waited.

“What about the papers and stuff? I want to help.”

“Davey…”

“I can take care of myself. What can I do?”

Casey looked at Evan’s manifests and photos. “Well, I need somebody that knows trucks and can help me… us…figure out what these papers mean.”

He paused. “I got someone… Let me call him, and see if he’s free.”

“Davey, it’s got to be somebody you trust.”

He laughed. “He’s my son-in-law, so I’ve trusted him with more than papers.”

“Okay. You going to call me back?”

“Yup. This number? Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m safe. Thanks, Davey.” She hung up.

“So, who’s the guy in the photo?” Death picked up the rubber band again, and Casey snatched it away.

“Will you stop already?”

Death pouted. “The guy?”

“Old college friend of Bailey’s dad.” She dug through her notes, finding the photo of Pat Parnell. It was the picture where Blond Guy—Owen Dixon—was handing the trucker a package. But was Pat Parnell a trucker? Bailey seemed to think he was a farmer. Casey supposed he could be both.

The computer went into screensaver mode, with photos of Bailey and her friends moving in a slide show on the screen. Casey watched several slides of the kids she’d met the night before then sat up, her finger hovering over the keyboard.

“Uh-oh,” Death said. “What are you doing?”

“There would be newspaper articles.”

“Yeah, you already saw them. Davey and Wendell covered for you big time.”

“Not about that. About…two days ago.”

“Oh, boy. Huh-uh. Don’t go there.”

“But there’s got to be something saying what’s happening in Clymer.” Her finger dropped, and the slide show evaporated. Casey clicked in the search engine box and wrote “Clymer, Ohio,” and the date.

“This is a mistake,” Death said.

FACTORY CLOSED FOR GOOD AFTER CONSPIRACY UNCOVERED the headline screamed. Also in the “hit” list were, CURTAINS FOR LOCAL THEATER AFTER DEATH OF CAST MEMBER, and Woman Wanted In Connection With Murders.

“That would be you,” Death said helpfully.

The phone vibrated on the bed, where Casey had set it. The number displayed was Davey’s. She answered, comforted that while he had this number, he at least wouldn’t have Bailey’s name displayed on his phone, since she wouldn’t be in his contact list.

“Supper,” Davey said. “Six-o’clock.”

“Davey—”

“Where should I pick you up?”

“Where are we eating?”

“My daughter’s place. She won’t mind an extra mouth or two. She’s already got five kids.”

“No, Davey.”

“No?” He sounded hurt.