Saints Preserve Us
Also by L.K. Ellwood
Pray For Us Sinners
Saints Preserve Us
a Ronnie Lord Mystery
L.K. ELLWOOD
Saints Preserve Us copyright 2008 by L.K. Ellwood
Originally published in 2003
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permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.
2209 Sandalwood Rd.
Virginia Beach, VA 23451
Cover art © 2008 Kathryn Lively
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-615-21352-1
First DLP Edition – June, 2008
Printed in the United States of America
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Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
One
“Professor Lord?”
Ronnie Lord jumped slightly, surprised by the detached voice that
echoed through the sedate English department office. She turned away
from her door and peered down the dimly lit hall, leaning forward to
see the short figure looming in the far doorway. The young man, she
noticed, stood about five-foot-five with a dark Moe Howard haircut and
wore blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt.
He approached timidly from the shadows, and Ronnie caught a
strong whiff of tomato juice and Polo aftershave. The man smiled and
extended a thick, hairy hand, which Ronnie could not take for all the
schoolwork she carried.
“Professor Lord, is it?” he asked again cautiously. Receiving no
answer, he continued, “I’m Chet Hoskins with the Jacksonville Journal. I
write for the Ash Lake/Yulee editions?”
Ronnie yawned and shifted the stack of manila folders in her arms.
She resented the tone in the young man’s voice that implied she might
be unfamiliar with the local newspaper, of all things. “Yes, what can I
do for you?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off of a large red pimple
above Chet’s left eyebrow. It looked ready to explode in a blast of
white, gooey pus, and Ronnie contemplated stepping to one side.
Chet faltered. “I-I was hoping to catch you before your classes, uh,
for a brief interview regarding Lorena Alger’s cause for canonization.
I’m writing an article—”
Ronnie paused close to the office door, her initial feelings of fright
and foolishness at having been taken by surprise wavering. All of the
dos and don’ts of personal safety her late husband Jim had drilled into
her head quickly dissolved, yet for a moment she still wondered if the
key she had crammed into the door’s lock only seconds earlier would
be needed as a spontaneous weapon.
She tugged at the key and kept her gaze fixed on the young man
with the third eye, whose worried face awaited a verbal response to his
query. To his credit, Ronnie thought, he did not look like a
rapist/mugger. “This building was locked when I arrived,” she said
finally. “Even the Ash Lake campus of FCCJ prides itself on security.
SAINTS PRESERVE US
How did you get inside?” She wanted to sound authoritative;
unfortunately, the best Ronnie could do for seven forty-five in the
morning after four hours of sleep was a crackling whisper.
“I, I—, uh, well,” Chet stammered, and Ronnie arched her brow
suspiciously. After two difficult catches, the key jerked out of the lock
with a loud zipping noise that set Ronnie’s teeth on edge. She let the
shoulder strap to her portfolio case slide down to her waist as the bag
sank to the ground, and she pinched her arm closer to her side to
prevent the folders from fluttering down next to it. A few strands of
long, brown hair became tangled in the strap and Ronnie winced at the
sudden pain.
“Well, I see you’ve mastered the proper verbal skills a reporter
needs to succeed,” Ronnie remarked with a grunt as she juggled her
belongings. A polite rapist/mugger would have at least offered to help,
she thought. “You must be an alumnus of our journalism program, if
indeed you are who you say.” She aimed the jagged edge of the key at
Chet’s brown doe eyes, sliding folders be damned. “Just so you know, I
can open other things besides a lock with this sucker.”
Chet held a hand up to his face, backed into the wall behind him
and blinked rapidly. “Professor, please,” he begged, his deep voice
raised an octave. “I’m very sorry to have startled you. I really am a
reporter... here, see?” He reached into his back jeans pocket for his
wallet and, after fumbling with several flaps, waved a laminated press
pass with a shaking hand. The glare on the pass cast a tiny reflection
under the hallway lights that danced on Ronnie’s office door. “I’m
strictly legit,” he added hurriedly. “You can call Oscar Blaine at the
Journal if you want. Like I said, I’m writing an article about Lorena
Alger’s canonization and I really would like to talk to you about your
great-aunt...”
“Two greats.” Ronnie returned to her lock with a sigh. What fear
was left bubbling inside her was completely gone. She doubted any
run-of-the-mill mugger and/or rapist would go through the trouble of
concocting such a story, she decided. He would have just attacked.
He also likely would have been howling in pain seconds afterward
from the heel print in his crotch, Ronnie thought with a smile. It
disappointed her somewhat that Chet Hoskins was not a
mugger/rapist after all. A counter attack would have offered a
welcome release of all the adrenaline now welling up inside her.
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L.K. ELLWOOD
“Beg pardon?” Chet asked.
Ronnie opened her office door and reached inside for the switch.
Within seconds her microscopic hole of an office was illuminated with
the hazy ultraviolet light of one long bulb while the other flickered and
hummed like a dying bee. Ronnie grimaced and made a mental note to
call the power plant.
“Like working in a damn disco,” she mumbled as she turned back
to Chet, who was testing his pen on a blank page of his reporter’s
notebook. “Lorena was my great-great aunt,” she told him. “To be more
precise, she was my grandfather’s aunt. That still doesn’t explain how
you managed to get inside the building without a key, though.”
Chet glanced nervously back down the hallway toward the English
Department office’s small reception area. The corner of a tidied desk
festooned with silver photo frames was visible. “Oh, I ran into your
secretary in the parking lot and she let me inside,” he said as he nodded
in that direction. “She had to use the ladies’ room and said I could wait
for you. I guess you didn’t see me when you came in.”
Ronnie too stole a brief glance at the desk of Gloria Hathaway, the
English Department’s executive secretary, and sighed again. “Ah, yes,
Gloria,” she muttered as she reminded herself to bless out the silver-
haired widow for setting her up like this; Gloria knew Ronnie hated
surprise visitors.
She decided to wait, however, until after taking advantage of
Gloria’s ability to tame the office’s dreaded beast of a copier machine,
thereby allowing Ronnie enough copies of her Southern Literature
exam for her afternoon class. Either that, Ronnie thought wickedly, or
she could exact her revenge by having the secretary type up another
test.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Well, however you got in here, you’re
talking to the wrong person. I may be a descendent of Lorena’s, but I
don’t have anything to do directly with her cause. You’d do better to
talk to the bishop or Father Joel Mitchell. He’s the pastor of Blessed
Lorena Catholic Church. Just take a right on the main road out of the
parking lot and look for the building with the big crucifix, you can’t
miss it.” With that, Ronnie bolted into her office, an amazing feat
considering the glut of stacked cardboard boxes and wooden crates
blocking the path to her desk. Once inside she immediately knocked
over a stack of pocket folders that were perched precariously on a stray
7
SAINTS PRESERVE US
chair. She cursed through gritted teeth and bent to retrieve the work
when her head nearly collided with Chet’s as he bent to help.
“You have a lot of books here,” Chet laughed nervously. He
gestured to one such crate filled with paperbacks.
“Comes with the territory.”
“Yeah. Well, uh, I’ve already spoken with Father Mitchell, and he
has helped me considerably with my research,” Chet said. “He was
more than willing to provide the logistics of Lorena’s canonization and
the progress of her cause, but I had hoped to write a more family-
oriented piece. Something personal, more human interest.”
“I see,” Ronnie seethed, biting back an expletive. What she had not
dropped on the way to her desk was spilled onto an already cluttered
blotter. Folders and thin paperback books slid diagonally across the
desktop and nearly tipped over an empty mug and a canister of coffee
creamer as Ronnie landed unceremoniously into her high-backed
swivel chair. Chet, meanwhile, had retreated to the open door frame
after helping to straighten the wayward stacks of term papers. He
looked to Ronnie like one of her students cowering before an important
pre-finals week conference, expecting news of failure.
Sighing loudly, she waved him inside. “Hand me my purse, too,
would you?” She pointed to a patch of open carpet where her pocket
book had fallen. Her first class was in forty minutes, and she had hoped
to use her downtime planning the day’s schedule. The spring semester
was drawing to a close, and anticipation of the coming break always
gave rise to hectic activity around the school. Professors often had to
cram two months of learning into the remaining three weeks by
assigning test after test. Ronnie was no different, and she imagined her
students were praying fervently that they were prepared for the day’s
battery of exams.
Ronnie preferred to use every free minute of work time reviewing
the course material, and this morning she had actually looked forward
to reacquainting herself with the works of Carson McCullers and
Eudora Welty for the Southern Literature final. Fat chance this morning.
She accepted her purse with a half smile and tossed it in a bottom
drawer. “What sort of family angle are you looking for?” she asked.
Might as well be helpful, she decided. Publicity of Lorena’s cause never
hurt, as Father Joel and her grandmother often testified. She knew she
would never hear the end of it were either of them to learn that she had
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L.K. ELLWOOD
refused such an opportunity. Publicity meant donations for the cause,
which the committee always welcomed. One thing Ronnie did know
about the canonization process was that such things were not cheap.
Promotional materials had to be made, as did periodic flights to Rome
to meet with the Vatican.
Ronnie invited Chet to move the recovered folders to the floor and
to take the now vacant chair. “I really appreciate your cooperation,
Professor, thank you,” he said, grunting under the weight of a
semester’s worth of student papers. “I know you have a busy day
today, so I promise not to take up much of your time.”
“Do you have a deadline? Is that why you’re here so early?”
Chet nodded. “I’ve drafted a skeleton of the story, and I have notes
from my interview with Father Joel from yesterday afternoon. When
I’m finished here, I can get this in the evening edition if it’s written and
proofed by ten.”
Ronnie smiled tiredly, a gesture that appeared to relax the young
reporter. Outside her slightly open door she heard someone bustle
through the main office entrance. Gloria, no doubt, was back from the
ladies’ room. Further shuffling through drawers and cabinets, a loud
click, and a long hiss followed, and Ronnie knew that the entire
departmental office would soon smell of fresh brewed coffee. Ronnie
offered Chet a cup once it was ready. He shook his head.
“Actually, I’m pretty wired as it is.”
She nodded and moved her canister of powdered creamer to the
center of her desk. “Well, let’s get this started,” she said, fishing in the
top drawer for a spoon, “but before I ask you what you want to know
about my family, am I correct in thinking you already have the gist of
Lorena’s cause and what everything means?”
“Yes, I do.” Chet cleared his throat and flipped a few scrawled
pages in his notebook. “I know about how there are traditionally three
steps involved in a person’s canonization, or rather three authenticated
miracles. However, since Lorena is considered a martyr of the faith,
only two miracles need be recognized. I also have here that Lorena was
beatified ten years ago, hence allowing the Catholic faithful to call her
Blessed Lorena.”
Ronnie smiled. “Kind of like standing in the on-deck circle, waiting
for God to call you up to bat.”
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“Yes, I-I suppose,” Chet laughed nervously and consulted his
notebook again. “I have all the necessary information on the healing
miracle which was approved by the Church, and was required before
the beatification. So, that means one more miracle deemed authentic is
needed to help the canonization procedure along.” More small pages
flipped over the notebook’s spiral wire until Chet paused at a page
filled with ink. “Now, the Vatican is looking into the unexplained
healing of a ten-year-old cancer patient which the parents attribute to
Lorena’s intercession. Once it’s approved, her canonization seems
likely, wouldn’t you agree?”
“We shall see.” Ronnie’s voice was wistful. “Since Father Joel’s
predecessor had the diocese open the cause about fifty years ago, the
committee has received hundreds of reports on so-called healings.
Turns out the majority of them were not of supernatural origin, and
some people even had the gall to fake illnesses.”
“Really? Why would anybody do that?”
Ronnie shrugged. “Who knows? My guess is that some people
thought they could profit from doing it.” In truth, Ronnie knew, the
fraudulent claims only brought frustration to the committee, for it took
time away from investigating the few true miracles associated with
Lorena. “If you ask me,” she added, “the true miracle would come in
being able to discern the sincere from the liars.”
“I see.” Chet scribbled Ronnie’s words and flipped to a fresh page.
“Okay, if you don’t mind, I’d like to confirm some more information
received from Father Mitchell, if that’s okay, and then jump right into a
few questions about your opinions on a possible canonization.”
Ronnie sat perfectly still. As she had very little opinion of a long-
dead relative who might or might not be worthy of the highest degree
of Divine distinction, this would likely be a very short interview.
Having Lorena declared a saint was neither her idea nor considered by
anyone in her immediate family. Once the cause was opened by the late
pastor of Ash Lake’s only Catholic Church, however, nobody bothered
to halt or discourage the movement. Perhaps her ancestors figured
sainthood was reserved for the cloistered or the European, Ronnie
thought. The United States had so few saints to its credit, especially
native-born saints.
Ronnie could not even remember the last time she set foot in Ash
Lake Cemetery to visit the slain ancestor whose brief life story and
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L.K. ELLWOOD
progressing cause made for a good percentage of the area gossip and
lore. Why a newspaper reporter chose to interview her rather than her
grandmother or her more enthusiastic sister was a mystery. The
thought of offering Gina’s phone number to Chet passed quietly. She
loved her sister too much to send a reporter after her.
“Now,” Chet began, “your great-aunt...excuse me, great-great aunt
Lorena Alger was born in December of 1854 and martyred in 1865, just
after the Civ—”
“You must be Catholic,” she interrupted.
Chet looked up from his notes and smiled sheepishly. “I am,
though not as devout as my mother would like me to be.” A nervous
chuckle escaped his mouth. “How did you know?”
“Well, for one thing, you had the canonization lingo down pat
earlier.” Ronnie leaned back in her chair; the springs underneath cried
out for a few shots of WD-40. “Plus, I’ve noticed lately that when
people talk about Lorena, only the Catholics use the term ‘martyred’.”
“What does everybody else say?”
“Murdered, killed,” she said with a shrug. “I guess people who
don’t appreciate or understand sainthood don’t like to use that word.
Like the title of ‘martyr’ should only be bestowed upon Protestants and
people who drown trying to free dolphins from a tuna net or something
like that.”
“Or maybe there are people who think your great-great aunt was
only a victim of a random act of violence and shouldn’t be counted
among the cult of saints,” Chet offered. “Do you believe Lorena should
be a candidate for sainthood, Professor?”
“It’s Ronnie, and I’m not really sure. You’re familiar with the story
of Saint Maria Goretti?”
Chet acknowledged that he knew the story of the young Italian girl
who died resisting a rape over a century earlier, and of her consequent
canonization. “I intend to use that information as a parallel in Lorena’s
story.”
“Then you’re aware Lorena died in very much the same fashion as
Maria Goretti,” Ronnie said. “Both girls rebuffed sexual advances,
knowing right from wrong, and paid the consequences. The only
difference here was that Lorena was American and died immediately of
a gunshot wound after resisting her attacker, rather than being stabbed
and lingering for days.
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“From my own research, I know there was quite a bit of opposition
to Maria’s canonization,” Ronnie added. “Initially people questioned
whether or not dying to preserve one’s virginity meant the same as
dying for Jesus and the Faith. We’ve had our share of naysayers.”
“So you don’t believe Lorena died as a martyr, then?”
Ronnie rubbed her chin. “I believe Lorena knew pre-marital sex
was not right in God’s eyes, and I believe her death was very noble. I
don’t think I would have been that brave or that unwilling to give in
had I been the one propositioned. As for whether or not she should be
made a saint for her sacrifice, I guess I never gave it much—”
A noise diverted Ronnie’s attention to the door. Gloria entered the
office armed with a steaming coffeepot. Silently the secretary filled
Ronnie’s mug and departed just as quickly, but not before Ronnie asked
her to hold any incoming calls until after the interview. Tossing a quick
wink in Chet’s direction, Gloria nodded and disappeared.
As the office door softly closed, Ronnie leaned forward on her desk
and reached for the creamer. “This is for the record?” When Chet
nodded, she continued, “One reason I really can’t decide on Lorena’s
worthiness is because for one thing, all of the people involved in her
alleged martyrdom are long deceased. The man who killed her, we’re
told, went to the gallows swearing that Lorena had complied. Of
course, nobody seemed to give his testimony any weight.
“The story of my great-great aunt has been passed on from her
brother to his children and so forth,” Ronnie added as she spooned two
rounded heaps of white powder into her mug. “Right now the only
source of information regarding these events is a woman born over fifty
years after the fact. Her own stories came second-hand, too. I’ll admit
the story is heroic, yes, but who knows how much of Lorena’s life and
death has been embellished?”
Chet, his head down, flipped more tiny pages in his notebook.
“You’re talking about Julia Meyers Alger, who would be your...”
“Grandmother,” Ronnie finished his sentence, pausing
momentarily at the thought of her dear Nana. Julia Alger alone
accounted for ninety percent of the historical and biographical data
Lorena’s committee gathered for their proposal to the Vatican. “Have
you spoken to my grandmother?”
“I tried to call last night, but didn’t get an answer.”
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L.K. ELLWOOD
“Well, you would do better to contact her, since she’s on the
committee. My grandmother was the second wife of my grandfather,
Stephen Alger, Sr.,” Ronnie added as Chet scribbled, “and much of
what she knows was learned from her late husband, his sisters, and her
two step-daughters. Even though his family was significantly older
than my grandmother because there was quite an age difference
between my grandparents, none of them were around when Lorena
was alive. I imagine as Lorena’s story was passed over from her brother
to his children, the more heroic and positive details of her life were
discussed.
“Then again,” Ronnie added, “like Maria Goretti, Lorena wasn’t yet
thirteen when she was... martyred... if you will, so perhaps she may not
have lived long enough to have a bad side.”
Chet paused to rub his writing hand. “Do you believe this cause
may be motivated by reasons other than cementing a family legacy? I
mean, it would make sense to me, considering that nobody in your
family other than your grandmother is actively involved in this.”
“I think there are several factors involved, the most obvious being
publicity.” Ronnie twiddled an unsharpened pencil between her
fingers. “One can count the number of American saints on one hand,
and having ‘St. Lorena’ resting in peace in a church named for her in
Ash Lake, Florida is guaranteed to bring tourism here. Take away some
of the tourists from Disney, I suppose. I don’t know. If anything, Ash
Lake would be known for something besides being a pit stop on the
way to somewhere else.”
Chet laughed as he continued to scribble and flip pages. “Is anyone
in your family involved in the construction of the new church as well?”
Ronnie shook her head. “No, but that’s the only thing I agree with
one hundred percent. Blessed Lorena’s is the only Catholic Church in
Ash Lake now that the St. Francis parish has dissolved, and with the
increase in membership and people coming over from Yulee and even
Fernandina Beach we need more room. Plus, the committee has
planned for Lorena’s body to be moved underneath the altar once
construction is finished. Perhaps after that happens the family plot
won’t be overrun with people.”
“Do you think there may be many more pilgrimages here in hopes
of intercessory miracles if Lorena is canonized?”
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“I can’t really say, though I wouldn’t be surprised, “Ronnie said. “I
wouldn’t make a pilgrimage myself, unless maybe there was some
historical interest. If people really do believe my great-great aunt is
capable of bending the good Lord’s ear for them, though, more power
to them.”
“Must be nice to have someone in Heaven putting in a good word
for you,” Chet muttered.
“‘And when he had taken it, the four living creatures and the
twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb. Each one had a harp and
they were holding golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers
of the saints’,” Ronnie quoted the Book of Revelation with a smile,
pleased with her ability to quote Scripture at opportune moments.
“Now about that girl in Kingsland, Georgia, the one who was
healed,” Ronnie added. “That report is very focal in sealing Lorena’s
sainthood, so Nana says. If the cause is successful, I could see more
people like that coming into Ash Lake and spending money. Come for
the saint, stay for the quaint bed and breakfasts and easy access to the
beach. I can even see many non-Catholic business owners using this as
an opportunity to make money.”
Chet stopped to study what he had written. “It almost seems crass,
taking advantage of a young girl’s violent death like that.”
“Such is life.” Ronnie shrugged. “Look at all the memorabilia that
came out after Princess Diana was killed.”
“Touché,” Chet smiled.
“Exactly,” said Ronnie. “So I think you can see why I try to distance
myself. If somebody wants to distribute prayer cards bearing Lorena’s
portrait, then fine, but I don’t necessarily want to see a hoagie named
for her. And I’ll tell you one thing more—”
Ronnie was not allowed the chance to finish her train of thought,
for Gloria’s bold entrance interrupted her. The words dissolved in
Ronnie’s mouth.
Gloria nervously wrung her hands. “Ron, sweetie, you have a call.”
Ronnie sighed loudly. “Gloria, we’re almost finished here. Could
you just take a message—”
“I think you should take this one, now.” Gloria’s paled face
announced a sense of urgency.
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Ronnie sighed again. What in her life could be so important to
warrant a phone call so early in the morning, she wondered. Suddenly,
a pang of fear gripped her heart. Had something happened to Nana?
Her face slowly drained white as well. “Is this a family
emergency?” she asked.
Gloria nodded. “You could say that.”
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Two
Because the cable company saw fit to disconnect basic service and
Playboy Channel access due to a six-month delinquency in payments,
Landon Dennis was content to sulk in his faux leather armchair and
stare at onscreen snow bearing a passing resemblance to Sesame Street.
He propped his feet up on a 150-year-old mud-covered coffin. The
dampened wooden structure creaked slightly as Landon ground in the
heels of his boots in an attempt to get comfortable.
Lorena Alger’s coffin rested lengthwise in the living room of the
singlewide trailer, making an otherwise tiny area seem even smaller.
Rather than clean away the dirt still clinging to the box after its
exhumation, Landon and his older brother Lorne elected to keep it
wrapped in the slate gray car cover they had used to hide the coffin
during the ride home.
Landon stared lazily at the ancient console acquired five years ago,
their prize item in a trade with a family elsewhere in the Golden Acres
Trailer Park for his late mother’s pristine Hotpoint gas stove. The space
created in the trade allowed for a second bedroom to be created in the
kitchen, which after their mother’s death had really only been used to
store beer. Landon did not mind sleeping in the kitchen; he enjoyed
bunking with the refrigerator. He could easily fetch a beer without
having to leave bed, and sleeping with the exhaust fan running full
blast guarded his ears from endless nights of Lorne’s rather vocal
lovemaking with whichever waitress from the Wild Rooster was willing
to join him.
A rippled Big Bird recited the alphabet to xylophone music and
heavy feedback, but soon the music was drowned out by a rumbling
diesel pickup truck. Lorne was back.
Landon lifted his boots off the casket and sat up straight, keeping
his gaze fixed on the television. He had balked earlier that morning
when Lorne suggested keeping it in the house, and he did not want to
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L.K. ELLWOOD
even look at the box. The thought of having a dead body that close to
his own bed creeped him out to no end, so much that he spent the wee
hours of the morning sitting up in his cot and watching the covered
coffin in the dark living room while his brother’s roaring snores echoed
in the opposite hallway.
When the body did not burst forth from the box and glare
accusingly at him with dark, molded eye sockets, Landon decided he
had indeed seen too many scary movies and eventually faded into
sleep. If God had intended to incur His incredible wrath upon them for
stealing what everyone thought was the body of a devoted Christian
servant, He would have done so at the cemetery. This was Landon’s
reasoning, anyway, and he had pondered this as he closed his eyes. He
knew, however, that he would not know relief until their dormant guest
eventually departed with the mystery person who offered to pay them
to dig her up in the first place.
Lorne pushed through the door with his elbows, laden with two
grease-spotted paper bags and the morning paper. Smudges of dirt
from last night’s adventure still speckled the young man’s blond buzz
cut. “I got breakfast.”
Landon put the heels of his hands together as if to catch a football,
and instead collected the steaming Egg McMuffin Lorne tossed in his
direction. “When’s that guy gonna call?” he asked. “I’m getting tired of
bumping my shins on this thing.” He tapped the top of the coffin with
the scuffed heel of his boot.
“It’s only been here a few hours, you haven’t had time to bump
into it,” Lorne shot back, stepping into the kitchen for a drink.
“I just don’t like having it in the house. Why couldn’t we leave it in
the truck?”
Lorne emerged from the kitchen with an unwrapped biscuit and a
beer and sat on one corner of the casket, stretching his long, lanky legs.
“We went over that last night, Landon. What if somebody came
sneaking around the house? This place is a goldmine for B&E, and we
can’t take any chances, especially since we’re gonna be paid a lot of
money for this.”
Landon huffed and took a long drag from his own beer bottle. The
taste mingled well with the overcooked cheese and Canadian bacon of
his sandwich. “Take a chance, geez. It’s not like we could lose
something like a dead body...” He looked up at his brother. “Hey, when
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are we gonna get paid? You said this guy’s gonna give us ten thousand
dollars? Really?”
“That’s what I said.” Lorne scoured the front page of the paper he
bought with their breakfast. “Good news, we didn’t make the morning
edition.”
“Why should we, unless some reporter worked the graveyard shift
to get the story in.” Landon snickered at his own joke, but his brother
only rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Yeah, well, our guy should be calling any minute now.” Lorne’s
gaunt face stretched into a suggestive leer and his blue eyes twinkled. “I
am going to have me some fun come payday. You know, with your
share of the money you might be able to win Jeanette back.”
Landon snorted. “With that kind of money I could buy five Jeanette
Holleys, and still trade ‘em in for something better.”
“Still,” Lorne winked, “she does look fine in them Daisy Duke
shorts.”
“Those Daisy Dukes ain’t gonna get her a contract in Nashville,
bud,” Landon said. “Looks’ll only get her so far, but the second she
opens that big mouth of hers, forget it. Like nails against a chalkboard.”
Lorne finished his sandwich and licked the grease from his fingers.
“Ah, you don’t need talent anymore to be country star. They’ll just
wring her voice through some machine and make her sound like Faith
Hill.” He tossed the balled-up wrapper into a corner wastebasket and
celebrated his three-point victory. “Hey, we could start up our own
music label with the money we get,” he added. “People record CDs
over the Internet now, all you need is a computer and a microphone.”
“A computer would be nice,” Landon said as he scanned the
breadth of the disheveled trailer. Where it would go was anybody’s
guess. “Course, we won’t get any money, unless that guy calls,” he
added with increasing agitation.
“Chill, okay? He’ll call.”
Landon rolled his neck, trying to work out the kinks brought on the
night’s heavy lifting. “What do you think this mystery dude wants with
a dead body, anyway?” He frowned at his brother. “Is he one of them
weird Goth dudes trying to impress some tattooed chick with a ring in
her nose?”
“Hell if I know,” Lorne said with a shrug. “All’s he did was come
up to me at the Rooster and offer us the money to dig her up. We didn’t
18
L.K. ELLWOOD
swap life stories or nothing. He didn’t look like a necro, if that’s what
you’re thinking.”
Landon scratched an itch on the back of his close-shorn head and
turned back to the television set. “Just as well we don’t know, anyway.
Lessen the chances of getting caught.”
“We ain’t getting caught, so shut up about it.” Lorne motioned to
chuck his bottle at his brother but stopped. “The guy’s going to call,
we’re going to get our money and then we’re getting out of this shithole
trailer. This box,” he gestured to Lorena’s coffin, “is our ticket out of
here.”
The two brothers sat quietly and finished their beers, with Lorne
pausing momentarily to switch channels. Each shifted nervously,
waiting for the phone the ring.
Landon interrupted his thoughts with a loud snort. “You had a girl
here the other night?”
“No, why?”
“You don’t smell that? Smells like perfume around here.”
Lorne tilted his head back and sniffed the air. “Kinda faint.
Probably from when Deb was here on Saturday.”
“No,” Landon shook his head. “Deb’s served me at the bar before,
and what she wears ain’t nothing like this. This,” he