Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

“I wondered for a long time. We weren’t very close at first, especially after the doghouse thing. But we grew to love each other very much. He was the only one in my family who believed me, stood up for me even against my stepmother. It infuriated her.”

“I can imagine.”

And I could. Harper’s stepmother was about as loving as my own, but mine never set a black widow on me or lit my electric blanket on fire. There was a time when I thought she was trying to microwave my brain cells with the remote control, but I’d been on a three-day Twilight Zone marathon with too little sleep and too much coffee. And I was four at the time.

“So, this went on your whole life?” I asked.

“Yes. I’d find dead mice in my room or dead bugs in my shoes. One time I poured a cup of milk, and in the time it took me to put the milk in the refrigerator and butter my toast, someone put a dead worm in it. Another time I came home from a sleepover and found that all my dolls were bald. Someone shaved their heads. Of course, no one saw anyone go into my room. It was just me trying to get attention again.”

I pressed my mouth together in disapproval. “What are we going to do with you?”

She chuckled and I was glad I could help her sprinkle a little humor onto an otherwise horrific situation. It always helped me cope. Life was too short to be taken seriously.

I decided to find out where she’d run off to for three years. That is a long time to sow the old oats. “Your stepmom said you disappeared.”

“Yes. When I hit twenty-five, I’d finally had enough. I told them to kiss my butt and left. Completely disappeared. I changed my name, got a job, even took some night classes. But when my dad got sick, I had no choice. I had to come home.”

“When was this?”

“About six months ago.”

“But how did you know your father was sick?”

She bowed her head, her face softening in remembrance. “I had a contact,” she said; then she curled the edge of her jacket into her fingers. “But my stepmother was hardly happy to see me. I stayed with them at first, despite the glares of disapproval.”

“I swear our stepmothers were conjoined twins in another life.”

“Then another dead rabbit showed up on my bed, and everything came rushing back to me. I realized then that I’d willingly walked back into a recurring nightmare.” Tears pushed past her lashes.

I gave her a minute, then asked, “Can I ask you, when your father passes away, who inherits the estate?”

She sniffed. “I do. My stepmother and brother have a sizable sum coming to them, but I get the house and about seventy-five percent of the assets. It was part of the agreement when they got married. I think she signed a prenup.”

“So, if anything happens to you, then what?”

“My stepfamily gets it all.”

That’s what I figured.

8

Insanity does NOT run in my family.

It strolls through, takes its time,

and gets to know everyone personally.

—T-SHIRT

I tucked Harper in, harassed Pari and Tre a bit, then headed home. The good news was that it’d stopped raining again. The bad news was that my hair was still wet underneath but the top layers were dry and it created that frizzy, homeless look I was so not fond of. I totally needed a better conditioner.

All the parking spots in front of my building were taken, so I had to park in the back of Dad’s bar. When I grabbed Margaret and climbed out of Misery, I realized the SUV in my spot belonged to my uncle Bob. He would pay and pay dearly. With his life. Or a twenty. Depending on my mood.

I took the stairs to my floor and heard hammering coming from the end unit when I got there. I looked at it longingly. Lovingly. It had the coolest kitchen I’d ever seen. Mine had a kitchen, but comparing the two would be like comparing the Mona Lisa to a drawing I once did of a girl named Mona Salas. Her head kept ending up on her left shoulder and she had really big boobs. We were in kindergarten. Though I liked to think of that drawing as some form of extrasensory perception, because when Mona got boobs, she got boobs to spare. Clearly that drawing was irrefutable proof that I could see into the future.

“Where have you been?”

I stepped into my apartment and met Uncle Bob’s glare with one of my own. “Out trying to pass myself off as a movie producer to get hot guys to sleep with me. Where have you been?”

Uncle Bob ignored my perfectly worded question and handed me a file. “Here’s what I’ve got on the arsonist. He sticks to old buildings and houses, but that probably won’t last.”

Without missing the look of concern that flashed across his face when he saw Margaret in my arms, I placed her along with my bag on the breakfast bar and took the file. “I need to do a little research,” I said, heading for the bathroom and my toothbrush while reading. “I know the basic psychological profile of the everyday arsonist, but nothing that would impress anyone of import. And now that he’s killed someone—”

“He didn’t,” he said, interrupting. “The homeless woman was already dead when the building went up. From what the ME could tell, she probably died of pneumonia about two days earlier.”

“Oh, but you’re still on the case?” I asked, studying the guy’s profile while squeezing toothpaste onto the bristles.

“Decided to stick around, give a hand. And you went out,” he said, his tone pleased.

I said through the bubbles of toothpaste, “Had to. I got a case.”