Suzanne.
“The prison warden?” asked Toni, stunned.
Suzanne gave a tight, wooden nod as she grabbed her cell phone. “The
former
prison warden.”
* * *
SUZANNE’S breathless 911 call produced a flurry of activity. Molly Grabowski, the dispatcher at the Law Enforcement Center, listened to her frantic, slightly garbled plea and promised to send Sheriff Roy Doogie right away. Then Molly told her she was also going to alert the director of the Cemetery Society, as well as George Draper, proprietor of Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.
“Send them all,” Suzanne begged into the phone. “And please hurry.”
George Draper got there first, pulling up some five minutes later in a large black Cadillac Federal.
“Limo here,” said Toni. She’d gotten over her initial shock at seeing the dead body and now, as they stood by the grave, felt brave enough to steal little peeks at the dead-as-a-doornail Lester Drummond.
“Draper,” Suzanne said, under her breath. “I wish it had been Doogie who got here first.” Sheriff Doogie was a friend, the duly sworn sheriff of Logan County, and generally the voice of reason. She knew he’d secure the scene, kick-start the investigation, and begin asking all the proper questions. Because—and Suzanne had pretty much accepted this in her head without yet voicing the terrible words—there was no question about it: this certainly had to be a wrongful death.
What else would account for such a bizarre scenario? How else would a dead man end up in a freshly dug grave? Even if Lester Drummond had passed away unbeknownst to them, no self-respecting funeral home would simply dump him in the ground and forgo a coffin, would they? No, of course not. It would never happen. So this had to be . . . an accident? Murder?
Suzanne and Toni stood like frozen statues in the continuing drizzle as George Draper hurried across the wet sod. He was tall and gaunt and dressed in one of his trademark black funeral suits as he walked stiff and stork-legged toward them. Reaching the edge of the freshly dug grave, Draper gave a brusque nod and peered down. He studied the body that lay on its side, pulled his face into a frown, and said, “That was dug just yesterday. That’s Mr. Schneider’s grave.”
“Not anymore,” said Suzanne. “Now it’s Lester Drummond’s grave.”
CHAPTER 2
SHERIFF Roy Doogie was the next one to arrive. His maroon and tan cruiser shuddered to a stop on the narrow road. Blue and red lights twirled idly atop his roof, but his siren was blessedly silent.
Doogie climbed slowly from his vehicle, hitched up his pants and utility belt, and headed across the soaked ground. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders, jiggly in the hips, with a meaty face and a cap of gray hair. But the glint in his steel gray rattlesnake eyes and the sidearm on his belt indicated he didn’t take his duties lightly. Sheriff Doogie, with his hangdog face and outsized khaki uniform, only looked slow-moving. Truth was, not much got past him.
Toni spoke up first. “He’s down there.” She cocked a thumb. “We found him that way.”
Doogie strode to the edge of the grave and gazed down. He frowned, walked around to the narrow end of the hole, and bent down. As he did, Suzanne could hear the cartilage pop in his knees.
“What do you think, Sheriff?” asked Draper. Of the four of them he was the least affected. After all, death was Draper’s business. He handled pretty much all the body pickups, embalmings, and visitations in the small town of Kindred. He also provided sympathy cards, guest books, and memorial videos, and he honchoed funerals at the Lutheran, Methodist, Catholic, Baptist, and Episcopal churches. Draper was an equal-opportunity, nondenominational funeral director.
As Doogie straightened up, his eyes betrayed nothing. “Who discovered him?”
“I spotted him first,” said Suzanne. “We were chasing Toni’s umbrella and we . . .” She saw his brows beetle, so she
“The prison warden?” asked Toni, stunned.
Suzanne gave a tight, wooden nod as she grabbed her cell phone. “The
former
prison warden.”
* * *
SUZANNE’S breathless 911 call produced a flurry of activity. Molly Grabowski, the dispatcher at the Law Enforcement Center, listened to her frantic, slightly garbled plea and promised to send Sheriff Roy Doogie right away. Then Molly told her she was also going to alert the director of the Cemetery Society, as well as George Draper, proprietor of Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.
“Send them all,” Suzanne begged into the phone. “And please hurry.”
George Draper got there first, pulling up some five minutes later in a large black Cadillac Federal.
“Limo here,” said Toni. She’d gotten over her initial shock at seeing the dead body and now, as they stood by the grave, felt brave enough to steal little peeks at the dead-as-a-doornail Lester Drummond.
“Draper,” Suzanne said, under her breath. “I wish it had been Doogie who got here first.” Sheriff Doogie was a friend, the duly sworn sheriff of Logan County, and generally the voice of reason. She knew he’d secure the scene, kick-start the investigation, and begin asking all the proper questions. Because—and Suzanne had pretty much accepted this in her head without yet voicing the terrible words—there was no question about it: this certainly had to be a wrongful death.
What else would account for such a bizarre scenario? How else would a dead man end up in a freshly dug grave? Even if Lester Drummond had passed away unbeknownst to them, no self-respecting funeral home would simply dump him in the ground and forgo a coffin, would they? No, of course not. It would never happen. So this had to be . . . an accident? Murder?
Suzanne and Toni stood like frozen statues in the continuing drizzle as George Draper hurried across the wet sod. He was tall and gaunt and dressed in one of his trademark black funeral suits as he walked stiff and stork-legged toward them. Reaching the edge of the freshly dug grave, Draper gave a brusque nod and peered down. He studied the body that lay on its side, pulled his face into a frown, and said, “That was dug just yesterday. That’s Mr. Schneider’s grave.”
“Not anymore,” said Suzanne. “Now it’s Lester Drummond’s grave.”
CHAPTER 2
SHERIFF Roy Doogie was the next one to arrive. His maroon and tan cruiser shuddered to a stop on the narrow road. Blue and red lights twirled idly atop his roof, but his siren was blessedly silent.
Doogie climbed slowly from his vehicle, hitched up his pants and utility belt, and headed across the soaked ground. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders, jiggly in the hips, with a meaty face and a cap of gray hair. But the glint in his steel gray rattlesnake eyes and the sidearm on his belt indicated he didn’t take his duties lightly. Sheriff Doogie, with his hangdog face and outsized khaki uniform, only looked slow-moving. Truth was, not much got past him.
Toni spoke up first. “He’s down there.” She cocked a thumb. “We found him that way.”
Doogie strode to the edge of the grave and gazed down. He frowned, walked around to the narrow end of the hole, and bent down. As he did, Suzanne could hear the cartilage pop in his knees.
“What do you think, Sheriff?” asked Draper. Of the four of them he was the least affected. After all, death was Draper’s business. He handled pretty much all the body pickups, embalmings, and visitations in the small town of Kindred. He also provided sympathy cards, guest books, and memorial videos, and he honchoed funerals at the Lutheran, Methodist, Catholic, Baptist, and Episcopal churches. Draper was an equal-opportunity, nondenominational funeral director.
As Doogie straightened up, his eyes betrayed nothing. “Who discovered him?”
“I spotted him first,” said Suzanne. “We were chasing Toni’s umbrella and we . . .” She saw his brows beetle, so she
Similar Books
A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle
Catherine Gayle
The Pineville Heist
Lee Chambers
Encounters (The Alpha Stranger) Book 1
C.T. Sloan
His Forbidden Submissive
Brandi Evans
An Equal Opportunity Death
Susan Dunlap
Fatal Honor: Shadow Force International
Misty Evans
Magda's Daughter
Catrin Collier
Sourmouth
Cyle James
The Boy and His Wolf
Sean Thomas
Fatal Identity
Joanne Fluke