Crossroad Read online

  He studies me like he’s trying to determine my own cause of death. My face grows hot and I look away.

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little curiosity, Mel.”

  One of the first things Aunt Elodie taught me was that we don’t stand in judgment of the dead. How and why they come to us is irrelevant to the work we do.

  “All I need to know is his name and contact info for next of kin. Wanda will get in touch with his family.”

  He smiles and shakes his head a little, then hands me a folder. “Everything’s in here.” He leaves the bodies to me.

  * * *

  It’s after five when I trudge three blocks, through stifling July heat, to the Whistle Pig Saloon. Barb Ellingson is waiting for me in our usual booth under the mounted jackalope. I suspect there’s a statute dating back to the Oregon Territory requiring all high desert dives to have a jackalope on display. Probably purchased from the same catalog as the sawdust on the floor.

  “I ordered for you,” Barb says as I slide into the booth. She’s the kind of woman who draws attention, with jade eyes; burnished, luxuriant hair; and the golden skin of someone who gets just the right amount of sun. With my own unruly hair and shapeless figure, I consider myself a troll doll next to her.

  “IV caffeine, I hope.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  The waiter approaches with food and drinks and sets a sangria in front of me. I push it across to her. “Bring me a quad-shot iced Americano.”

  Barb makes a face like I ordered the veal.

  “Ridiculous. How long have you been awake? I won’t allow it.”

  I prop my head up with my arm, inhale the aroma of her sweet potato tots. There are three things I like about the Whistle Pig: the tots, the broken jukebox, and that the house sangria is made with bourbon.

  But no sangria for me tonight. Barb accepts my glass. “It’s extra stiff, just what you need.”

  “I’m still on call.”

  “And I have mid-terms to prep for and curriculum planning for fall term.” Barb teaches math at Barlow County Community College, a job she loves or hates depending on the kind of students she gets each term. This summer, her students are all resentful teens from Dryer Lake Resort whose wealthy, helicopter parents are making them take calculus and statistics for college credit. “We’re both allowed a break.”

  “Sure, but you know we’re shorthanded at work, with Carrie gone and Uncle Rémy in the hospital. Hell knows, I can’t count on Quince.”

  “There’s only like ten people in the entire county. We’ve used up our quota of dead bodies for the year.”

  Barlow isn’t the smallest county in Oregon, but it’s close. Not counting the part-timers with second or third homes at Dryer Lake Resort, we have barely fifteen thousand residents, more than half in Samuelton. The rest are scattered throughout the high desert and foothills rising to our one real mountain. We have a Walmart, but no Target. A McDonald’s, but no Burger King—yet somehow two Taco Bells. Timber, ranching, and farming form the backbone of the local economy, but anymore the real money is in tourism—hikers and campers, hunters and fishermen, skiers, and—with the recent growth of the resort—golfers.

  Last fall, Barb and I found each other through the college. With Uncle Rémy’s encouragement, I’d decided to study mortuary sciences, but I needed several courses to meet the program’s prerequisites before I could even apply. Barb was my algebra instructor. We barely exchanged a word outside of class, but she approached after the final and asked if I would be taking any more math.

  “Depends,” I said. “Did I pass?”

  “Hah. Let’s go get a drink.”

  During class, it never occurred to me we’d become friends. She’s in her thirties and nearer Dr. Varney’s orbit than my own. But, like me, she’s from somewhere else—Maryland by way of Chicago. “I had this image of myself as a distinguished professor, but after my PhD, I couldn’t land a postdoc to save my life. I was teaching high school when I saw the job notice from BCCC. Continuing contract, which was the closest to tenure track I was going to find. In a fit of madness, I accepted it, and here we are.”

  The Whistle Pig was where we would be most nights after work, from then on.

  Barb sips my sangria. “I heard about the baby.”

  Everyone has heard about the baby.

  “You just left her lying there?”

  I stab a tot into a puddle of chili aioli and refuse to answer. But Barb is no Dr. Varney. She’s tenacious.

  “Right out on the desert?”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Not exactly. “I took a few steps maybe and yelled for help.”

  “And left a newborn rolling around in the dirt.”

  “I don’t think newborns can roll.” Not that I would know. The only baby I’ve ever held was made of plastic.

  “But the critical point is you just left her lying on the ground.”

  “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Jesus, Mel. It’s a baby. You pick it up. You snuggle it and tell it it’s the cutest thing ever. You don’t flee into the night.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  The saloon is middling busy, everyone on their second wind, with the workday behind. I used up my first second wind twelve hours ago.

  “You should see what just walked in,” Barb says over the rim of my sangria. Her hobby is ogling tourists. Usually they ogle back.

  “Do I have to move my head?”

  “He’s worth the effort.”

  I turn. The object of her attention stands at the entrance, scanning the saloon. He’s fortyish and fit—long and lean, with hair the color of ripe barley. His tie and linen suit stand out in a room full of denim and sun-bleached poplin.

  After a moment, he sees us looking at him and strides our way. I freeze, one hand in the tot basket, when he stops at our booth. “Are you Melisende Dulac?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  If he senses my indifference, he doesn’t let on. “Kendrick Pride.” He presents his hand. “I’m here about the boy.”

  “Trae Fowler?” Suddenly, I’m conscious of salty grease on my fingers.

  During the afternoon, Wanda spoke with Trae’s father, who told her he was sending someone to handle the arrangements in person. Kendrick Pride must be the someone. I hadn’t paid much attention. I don’t deal with clients. He glances down at my hand, still knuckle- deep in tots, and withdraws his own.

  “The woman at your office told me where to find you, but I’ve interrupted your dinner. I apologize.”

  I pull my hand out of the basket and grab a napkin. I don’t understand why Wanda would send him looking for me—I don’t speak with the bereaved. The weight of the long day is making my thoughts sluggish. I struggle for something to say, finally land on the oldest platitude in the undertaker manual. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” He glances from Barb to me. “I’d like to see him.”

  “You’d like … what?” Wanda is so much better at this.

  “His mother’s a wreck. I have to be sure—for her.” His chin drops, but his eyes, brown flecked with moss, hold onto mine.

  “I thought his ID had been confirmed.”

  “Put yourself in my place—in his family’s place. Some stranger comparing him to a photo in an email? I need to make sure.”

  “Uh—”

  Barb looks on, breathless. From all around, boozy chatter washes over me in waves. I find myself thinking back to the baby, to my vision of the girl at the tree line. Fitz, ever looming, chitters between my ears. “Do it, Mellie. Do it.” I clench my teeth, wishing he’d bug someone else.

  “The thing is, the body isn’t ready.” Aside from washing, no preparation has been done. Trae Fowler lies naked in a drawer, a pulverized mess.

  Pride frowns. He’s put me on the spot, but I’m less annoyed than confused. It’s hard to meet his gaze, but I refuse to look away. Aunt Elodie says we must maintain eye
contact. We don’t do anything to be ashamed of.

  “I’m sure you have procedures.” His tone is earnest. “I respect that. But I’d like to call his family as soon as possible.”

  Aunt Elodie would give Kendrick Pride the once-over and make a decision on the spot. Is this a man who could handle a trek from the folksy cheer of the Whistle Pig to the cold tile and stainless-steel underbelly of the New Mortuary?

  If I refuse, no one could fault me. I’m just the apprentice after all.

  I exhale compressed air. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  He offers me a ride, but I tell him I’ll meet him at the mortuary. I note he drives a little blue Honda Insight—a car Barb would sniff at. She likes men with muscle under the hood—so long as they drive away in the morning.

  I cover the four blocks from the saloon to the New Mortuary in less time than it takes him to navigate Samuelton’s needless maze of one-way streets. As I wait for him to park and join me at the service entrance, sweat gathers on my face and neck.

  The back door is unlocked, a fact I’d like to blame on someone else, but I was the last one out. I lead Pride down a short corridor and grab nitrile gloves from the box next to the wide fire door leading into the preparation room. Then I hesitate, my hand on the door handle.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I just don’t normally do this, Mr. Pride.”

  “Call me Ken.”

  Another Aunt Elodie rule: Don’t get too familiar with the bereaved. Maintain compassionate boundaries. I give him a tight-lipped smile and open the door.

  “This way, Mr. Pride.”

  The air smells of disinfectant. The counters are bare, all the equipment clean and in its place. We run a tight ship.

  I double-check the clipboard hanging from a hook on the refrigerator, even though I already know who’s in which drawer. “You realize the wreck was pretty bad.”

  “What are you saying?” One corner of his lip curves, a grim shadow of a smile. “Is it a blood bath in there?”

  “Of course not. I’ve cleaned him up, but no other preparations have been performed.”

  “Okay.” He draws a breath. “Show me.”

  There’s no easy way to do this. Viewing a prepared and dressed body is like sharing dolls with a friend compared to opening this drawer.

  “I’m sorry. He’s not covered.”

  “It’s okay. Just … show me.”

  I open the refrigerator door.

  A rush of cold air boils out, but it hardly registers. Beside me, Pride makes a sound, a question dying on his lips.

  “Uh-oh, Mellie.”

  The drawer is empty.

  SIX

  Ursus Americanus

  The one bit of good news is Mrs. Edna Crandall is still safe in her own drawer. Unfortunately, Sheriff Turnbull isn’t interested in her. He sits across from me in his office in the Sam Barlow Building, fingers laced on his old-fashioned desk blotter. Sweat gleams on his forehead despite the air-conditioning.

  “Weren’t you hospitalized for a psychiatric condition?” he asks.

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

  “There’s no need to be difficult, Mellie.”

  “My medical history is none of your business.”

  “It is if it has bearing on the current situation.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  He nods, but not at me. His mind was made up before he sat down. Three bodies missing, and the last person to see them is the girl with a history. I could explain what led to my psych hold, but nothing I might say would derail his train of thought.

  “Who has keys to the mortuary?”

  “Besides you?”

  He grunts. Because of Bouton’s county contract, a set is kept at the Sheriff’s Department. Dr. Varney has a key as well. During business hours, the service entrance is rarely locked anyway. When he happens to be in, Quince Kinsrow leaves it open so he can slip out for a smoke every two minutes. Not that the lock would stop anyone determined to get in. Bouton Funerary Service isn’t Fort Knox.

  “How long were you there today?”

  I can’t remember when I last closed my eyes. “All day.”

  “You never left?”

  “I drove to Crestview and then to the hospital for the two bodies. Three trips.”

  “Which bodies?”

  “You know which bodies. You’re the one who had me bring the headless horseman directly from the scene to the shop.” Cause of death was clear enough, and the sheriff probably thought he’d get to me, sticking me with the gore. Like I care.

  “So, during the day, you moved the boy and the second adult from the hospital morgue to mortuary.”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you last see the bodies?”

  “I finished washing them around three thirty.”

  “What did you do with them then?”

  “I put them in the fridge.”

  “Next to the yogurt?”

  “Yes, I keep my yogurt in a fucking morgue cooler.”

  “Language, Mellie.”

  “You don’t have permission to call me that.”

  He smirks and leans back in his chair like he’s won a point. I can hear the whoosh of the arctic air conditioner, and voices from the hallway. Ignoring him, I scan the room. Turnbull’s office is brash and masculine, a monument to himself and his stature in Barlow County. Beneath a hardwood plaque carved with the emblem of the Loyal Order of Ursus Americanus are three rows of framed photos. Turnbull at the Bear Lodge Pancake Breakfast and the Kiwanis “Stuff the Bus” Food Drive. Turnbull holding a trout; Turnbull grinning next to carcasses of elk, deer, and antelope. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others. The mayor and the county commissioners, other cops. Jeremy is in the group shot of the sworn deputies in their dress uniforms.

  Pressure forms behind my eyes as I catch the sheriff scrutinizing me. Searching, perhaps, for signs of a crazy girl who snapped and made off with a trio of cadavers. Wondering if I don’t remember doing it or if I remember all too well.

  “I got back from the crossroad with the first body about eight o’clock this morning.” I’d like to point out how long he kept me waiting, but that’ll just get me a lecture about how investigations of death scenes work. “I left messages for Aunt Elodie to let her know what was happening; then, when Wanda came in, I ran out to Crestview. After I returned, I was in the prep room all morning.”

  “Were you alone this whole time? Or did Wanda join you?”

  “Wanda never comes into prep, but Quince stopped by to ogle the head and tell me horror stories about removals gone haywire. I told him if he was going to talk my ear off, he had to work, so he scooted right out of there. Said he had trout to clean.”

  “A man with priorities.”

  Which don’t include helping me. “After Quince left, Dr. Varney texted that he was done with the bodies at the hospital. I picked them up, then got them washed and stowed. Two trips. Then I did paperwork in the break room till about five.”

  “And after that?”

  “Went over to the Whistle Pig.”

  “To tie one on?”

  “To have dinner. That’s where Mr. Pride found me. Wanda told him where to look.”

  “Anyone could have told him that.”

  A couple of weeks after I arrived in Barlow, I borrowed the Stiff to drive into town from the Old Mortuary, where I live with Uncle Rémy and Aunt Elodie. That was the day I discovered the Whistle Pig’s sangria. On my way back to Shatter Hill, Sheriff Turnbull himself pulled me over. “The center line isn’t a suggestion here, young miss.” He didn’t have the decency to arrest me or drop me at the county line with a stern warning to never return. He called Aunt Elodie and Uncle Rémy to come get me instead.

  Tonight, I’m too tired to be baited.

  He lets it go. “How long between when you left and when you returned with Kendrick Pride?”

  “I left around five and called you guys a little after six.”

  He nods.
“Wanda says she went home at five thirty, so whoever took the bodies would’ve had to move fast.”

  Perhaps, but probably not that fast. The way the New Mortuary is built, you couldn’t hear a Cremulator in the next room with a stethoscope. SEAL Team Six could shoot their way in to grab the bodies, and Wanda would be none the wiser. Plus, I wasn’t kidding when I told him Wanda never went in the back. Her demeanor could calm any storm, but when it came to the actual remains, she couldn’t be more squeamish. She’s even avoided the supply room since the time she’d come in while I was unpacking a refurbished embalming machine and made the mistake of asking me what it did.

  “Ask him if he has any leads, Mellie.” Fitz’s voice is like wind through tall grass. “That’s what they do on TV. They talk about leads.”

  I point my chin at the sheriff. “Do you seriously think I had anything to do with this?”

  “It’s not a theory I can dismiss out of hand.”

  And that’s not a point I can argue. “So am I under arrest?”

  “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

  “Yes.”

  The sheriff gives a little shake of his head. “To think, I could’ve been home watching the Mariners break my heart again.” He sighs, and with a wave of his meaty hand, I’m dismissed. On my way out, he says, “Don’t leave the county.”

  There’s a chuckle in his voice, but I fail to see the joke.

  Where the hell would I go?

  * * *

  The Sam Barlow Building dates back to 1910, but a few years ago they gutted and redid the interior, a restoration that modernized but retained its historic character. The high ceilings feature brass pendant lighting. The walls are the color of sweet cream. The Sheriff’s Department itself takes up half the second floor, sharing a waiting area at the top of a broad staircase with the county commission. I’m down the steps and rounding the hardwood banister on the first landing when I all but slam into Jeremy Chapman on his way up.