The Secrets of Lily Graves (18 page)

“Here,” I said, slipping a pen under the handle of the cup and transferring it to the ziplock bag. “Compare the prints on this to the prints you found at Erin's house. I think you'll find it interesting.”

Zabriskie pinched the bag at one corner. “What is this?”

“A cup that was used earlier today by one Alex Bone, aka Stone Bone. He's a barista at Pots and Cups and a ‘friend'”—I put friend in air quotes—“of Erin's. He is also one weird dude.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss Graves, but Mr. Bone has an alibi for that night.”

“What?” I said. “His mother?”

Zabriskie reddened slightly. “Well, yes.”

“Now, my turn,” I said. “Who called in with the tip that Matt and I were in the cemetery?”

“She didn't give her name, but I'll tell you this. She sounded young, I put her at your age, and the call was placed from a courtesy phone at the Potsdam Regional Medical Center. Have any idea who it could be?”

Immediately I thought of the Tragically Normals. They were the only ones who would have been evil enough to phone police headquarters with that kind of rumor, anything to deflect attention from themselves.

“No,” I lied. “Not a clue.”

Zabriskie adjusted his steel-frame glasses. “Really?”

“Really.”

“That's a pity, then. Because whoever she was, Miss Graves, she is no friend of yours.”

And with that, he walked into Paradise, taking Alex's coffee cup with him.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
here were more mourners for Erin's wake than I could ever remember packing in the Ruth B. Graves Funeral Home. They came in vans and station wagons, spilling out in somber heaps of dark coats. Buses of field hockey players rolled in from other districts, the girls dressed in their plaid-skirted uniforms and wearing lavender ribbons in honor of the slain state champ. The entire congregation of St. Anne's Church was there, and also kids Erin went to summer camp with in the Poconos. Manny's awning didn't begin to cover the line that stretched down our long driveway to the street. In the snow.

There were also, much to our dismay, news crews.
Two satellite trucks with their space-alien satellite dishes parked right by our gates as their reporters interviewed our guests about whether they could sleep at night knowing a “child murderer” was on the loose. In our driveway, a spotlight illuminated Channel Three anchor Brittney Freeman as she delivered a live report in the cold, dark night.

“Brittney's a lot smaller in real life,” Oma said, peering through her binoculars. “I hope they get the name of the funeral home in there. This could be good for business.”

“Oma! That's no way to talk,” my mother scolded as she bustled into the kitchen carrying a tray of dirty coffee cups.

My grandmother shrugged and kept on spying. Mom deposited the tray by the sink, where Manny, sleeves rolled, was up to his elbows in dishwater. Then she blew back an invisible strand of stray hair and twirled toward me at the counter, setting up yet another coffee urn.

“When you're finished with that, Lily, take a stack of clean plates into Serenity and tidy up.” This was followed about a mumble concerning slovenliness and human beings. “Also, Boo says the powder rooms are nearly out of toilet paper and the soap dispensers should be checked, but I don't know how you're going
to get in there they're so crowded already.”

She left in a whirlwind, and Boo arrived with another set of dirty dishes, much to Manny's consternation. “Has your sister-in-law not ever heard of paper plates?” he complained in his thick Puerto Rican accent. “Here am I doing everything. Hanging awnings. Directing traffic. Shooing riffraff off the lawns. Now dishes. You know, I'm just a driver, man. A retrieval guy.”

“One word, lover boy,” Boo said, handing me the freshly cleaned set of plates, still piping hot from the dishwasher. “Overtime. Lily, how about distributing some more memorial cards? We're running low.”

“Love to.” I was leaning over the table to get a fresh stack, when a haunting wail pierced the hushed murmuring. The cry was something otherworldly, wild and raw.

It was Erin's mother.

Boo closed her eyes in prayer. Manny quit clattering the dishes to cross himself. No way did Elaine Donohue kill her own flesh and blood, I thought, pissed at Alex for suggesting such a thing.

“That poor woman,” Boo said.

I wondered how Matt could stand next to Mrs. Donohue while she howled for her beloved daughter. I'd overheard the Donohues introducing him as “Erin's boyfriend,” when he really wasn't. It had to be brutal.

“Hey, Lily. What a showing, huh?” Kate Kline was playing nice because she was on my turf.

I handed her a memorial card. Allie Woo averted her eyes and gazed at her shoes.

“TV news is here,” I said stupidly. “Gotta go. Can't stop!” Frankly, this was one situation where I was glad to be working.

Sara broke away from Erin's neighbor, Mrs. Krezky, a portly woman with a simpering smile. “Be careful, dear,” I heard Mrs. Krezky say. “You don't want to ruin your pretty dress.”

“Whatever that means,” Sara said under her breath.

I handed her half the memorial cards to make it look like she was helping. “What did she say about Saturday night?” I asked.

“You're not going to like it, Lil,” Sara said, giving a card to a kid too young to read. “The guy Mrs. Krezky saw arguing with Erin that night sounds exactly like Matt. Short brown hair, Potsdam Panthers jacket, and everything.”

“Those Panthers jackets are everywhere,” I said, trying not show my disappointment. I'd so wanted Mrs. Krezky to say the guy had a long, stringy ponytail. “Don't forget, the moron playing the Halloween prank had a Panthers jacket on too. Did she say what car he drove?”

“Noooo,” Sara said, mindlessly handing a memorial card to an old man in line who already had one. “Then again, I didn't ask.”

I led the way to Paradise. “Because I've been thinking about Henderson's police memo, the one faxed to Mom. It said the girls left in a Jeep-like vehicle, but it didn't mention another car. And since Erin's Mini Cooper was in the garage . . .”

“A Jeep?” Sara said. “That's Kate's.”

“More proof that the Tragically Normals were among the last to see Erin alive,” I said.

A hissing in my ear nearly knocked me off my feet. Mom. “This is not time to socialize,” she whispered. “Serenity is out of plates.” But to Sara she said, “Hello, there. Aren't you ever the picture of loveliness? Thanks for helping out. You're so sweet.”

Given the chance, I was sure Mom would trade me for Sara in a nanosecond.

“We'll talk later,” Sara said, her finger waving bye-bye.

I went back to the kitchen, got another set of plates from Manny, and threaded my way through the throng crowding Serenity, briefly stealing a glance at Mrs. Donohue. She was smaller than I remembered, and old. Her normally strawberry-blond hair was gray at the roots, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Matt, tall
and strong, kept an arm around her shoulders while her husband teetered, looking dazed.

I gave Matt a thumbs-up. He returned a sad smile.

“Is this decaf?” Detective Henderson had his hand on the urn. “Because this is my third cup and if I have any more caffeine I won't sleep until Sunday.”

“That's your fifth cup,” I said, depositing the plates. “You must be bouncing off the walls.”

“All part of the job.” He held out his cup and pressed the lever. We both watched the coffee pour like this was the most fascinating experiment ever. Henderson sniffed at the carafe of cream and added a slug to his coffee, tossing the red plastic stirrer aside. I deposited it in the trash and dabbed at the tiny mess he'd made.

“Quite a crowd,” he said, taking a sip.

“It should be winding down soon.” I thought of the pile of homework I'd be too exhausted to tackle by the time I was done cleaning up. “Calling hours end in twenty minutes. Good thing, too, since I don't think the Donohues can take much more.”

“Or your boyfriend, either.”

Boyfriend. Cute. I refused to give him the satisfaction of so much as a dirty look.

“It's getting to him.” Henderson gestured with his coffee cup toward Matt. “You can tell.”

Matt seemed fine to me. Noble, even. I was proud
of how he was lending an arm to Mrs. Donohue even though, in the end, Erin had treated him like dirt. It would have been easier for him to stay home, away from the stares and gossip. The boyfriend with the head injury.

“It'd be getting to me, too,” I said, bending over to cinch up the trash, “if I was convinced everyone thought I was a murderer.” I put aside the trash and shook out a new liner. “Like I told Detective Zabriskie earlier, the guy you should be investigating is Alex Bone. Or, as he was called in school, Stone Bone.”

“How do you know we're not doing that already?”

“Because you're standing here talking to me and Zabriskie is flirting with my aunt.”

I nodded to where the detective was in the corner having a heart-to-heart with Aunt Boo. He had one hand on the wall and was clearly laying on the charm.

Henderson was about to make a comment when he was suddenly blindsided by Sara's mother, Carol.

“Are you the off—” She blinked and gave it another go. “Are you the officer in charge of this investigation?”

The reek of alcohol rolling off Mrs. McMartin's tongue was so pungent, even Henderson had to take a few steps back. I couldn't believe it. The McMartins never drank anything stronger than root beer.

“And you are, ma'am?” Henderson asked.

“I am the daughter. I mean, I am the
mother
of a daughter, a girl, who lives in the very same neighborhood.” Mrs. McMartin thrust out her arm, nearly smacking a mourner in the face. “The same neighborhood as Erin Donohue, and I want answers.”

She swayed and was so loud, people were staring. Oh my God, I realized with mortification, Mrs. McMartin was
smashed
.

From across the room, Mom mouthed, “What's going on?”

I shrugged.

“This is supposed to be a safe community.” Mrs. McMartin poked Henderson in the chest repeatedly.
Poke. Poke.
“You have the public trust, sir. The public trust!”

Sara appeared by the door, clutching her dwindling stack of memorial cards. Catching sight of her mother, she attempted to shoulder her way through the crowd.

“Coffee, Mrs. McMartin?” I offered, quickly pouring a cup.

“Yes,” Henderson said between gritted teeth. “Ma'am, I do hope you have a designated driver this evening.”

“Don't tell me what to designate,” she said. “When the hell are you and your boys gonna put an end to this
nightmare, detective?
When. The. Hell?
”

“Mom!” Sara arrived, almost breathless and nearly purple with humiliation. “Dad wants you. It's important.”

With one last menacing glare, Mrs. McMartin toddled off under Sara's guidance. But soon there was another distraction. Kate Kline, who seconds before had been texting in line, was sobbing loudly over Erin's coffin.

“Man, does that break my heart,” Zabriskie said, eating it up.

“Erin Donohue was her best friend,” Henderson added. “Like a sister.”

Matt and I made eye contact, and with a barely imperceptible twitching of his lips, he affirmed our mutual disgust for Kate, who capitalized on another's tragedy to make herself the center of attention.

Hooking the trash bag over one finger, I sidled out the door of Serenity, glad to escape the stifling room, the overpowering drama, and, worst of all, Kate Kline's sickening hypocrisy.

Unfortunately, stepping into the hall, I practically bumped into Sara and her mother.

“You're embarrassing me. Get a grip!” Sara hissed, as I attempted to inch past unnoticed.

I wanted to urge Sara not to be too hard on her
mother. Carol dipping into the cooking sherry was just another symptom of the disease that seemed to have infected Potsdam since Erin's death. Everyone was frantic for answers. It was a suicide. Then a murder. A random killer. Cops and metal detectors seemed to have established permanent residence at our school doors. ADT home security signs were popping up on lawns like mushrooms after a spring rain. And no one trusted anyone.

I never thought I'd say this, but I wished Potsdam was like it used to be: boring.

At the bottom of the service stairs, I opened a fire exit to the basement to dump the trash in the big bins and stopped short. A light was on in Boo's prep room.

Click!

Then it was off. A raven-haired girl backed out, closing the door softly behind her. Seeing me, she did a little skip.

“Oh!” Allie Woo exclaimed, clutching her rather large and beautiful pink Betsey Johnson bag.

“Were you looking for someone?” I asked.

“Not someone. Some
thing
. The bathroom. I was feeing sick again and couldn't wait. The lines for the ones upstairs are a mile long.”

“Well, I hope you didn't barf in there,” I said, dropping the trash. “Though, on second thought, I don't
know why you couldn't. God knows there's been worse in that room.”

Allie blanched, a reminder that not everyone was comfortable with funeral home shoptalk.

“There is another bathroom down here, but it's pretty utilitarian,” I said, envisioning the dank space, with its hanging bulb, that only Manny used, and occasionally Boo. “Or you could come upstairs to our—”

“You mean that room I was in . . .” Allie thumbed over her shoulder. “That's where you . . .”

“Prep bodies, yes.” I stated this with practiced dignity.