Grave Sight Read Free

voice now that money had been mentioned. “Paul’s here as my lawyer. Harvey’s my brother.” Evidently, Terry Vale wasn’t her anything. “Now, let me tell you what I want you to do.” Sybil met my eyes.
    I glanced back at my plate while I took the grapes off the stem. “You want me to look for a missing person,” I said flatly. “Like always.” They like it better when you say “missing person” rather than the more accurate “missing corpse.”
    â€œYes, but she was a wild girl. Maybe she ran away. We’re not entirely sure . . . not all of us are sure . . . that she is actually dead.”
    As if I hadn’t heard that before. “Then we have a problem.”
    â€œAnd that is?” She was getting impatient—not used to much discussion of her agenda, I figured.
    â€œI only find dead people.”
    â€œTHEY knew that,” I told Tolliver in an undertone, as we walked back to our rooms. “They knew that. I don’t find live people. I can’t.”
    I was getting upset, and that was dumb.
    â€œSure, they know,” he said calmly. “Maybe they just don’t want to admit she’s dead. People are funny like that. It’s like—if they pretend there’s hope, there is hope.”
    â€œIt’s a waste of my time—hope,” I said.
    â€œI know it is,” Tolliver said. “They can’t help it, though.”
    ROUND three.
    Paul Edwards, Sybil Teague’s attorney, had drawn the short straw. So here he was in my room. The others, I assumed, had scattered to step back into their daily routine.
    Tolliver and I had gotten settled into the two chairs at the standard cheap-motel table. I had finally begun reading the paper. Tolliver was working on a science fiction sword-and-sorcery paperback he’d found discarded in the last motel. We glanced at each other when we heard the knock at the door.
    â€œMy money’s on Edwards,” I said.
    â€œBranscom,” Tolliver said.
    I grinned at him from behind the lawyer’s back as I shut the door.
    â€œIf you would agree, after all our discussion,” the lawyersaid apologetically, “I’ve been asked to take you to the site.” I glanced at the clock. It was now nine o’clock. They’d taken about forty-five minutes to arrive at a consensus.
    â€œAnd this is the site of . . . ?” I let my words hang in the air.
    â€œThe probable murder of Teenie—Monteen—Hopkins. The murder, or maybe suicide, of Dell Teague, Sybil’s son.”
    â€œAm I supposed to be finding one body, or two?” Two would cost them more.
    â€œWe know where Dell is,” Edwards said, startled. “He’s in the cemetery. You just need to find Teenie.”
    â€œAre we talking woods? What kind of terrain?” Tolliver asked practically.
    â€œWoods. Steep terrain, in places.”
    Knowing we were on our way to the Ozarks, we’d brought the right gear. I changed to my hiking boots, put on a bright blue padded jacket, and stuck a candy bar, a compass, a small bottle of water, and a fully charged cell phone in my pockets. Tolliver went through the connecting door into his own room, and when he returned he was togged out in a similar manner. Paul Edwards watched us with a peculiar fascination. He was interested enough to forget how handsome he was, just for a few minutes.
    â€œI guess you do this all the time,” he said.
    I tightened my bootlaces to the right degree of snugness. I double-knotted them. I grabbed a pair of gloves. “Yep,” I said. “That’s what I do.” I tossed a bright red knitted scarf around my neck. I’d tuck it in properly when I got really cold. The scarf was not only warm, but highly visible. I glanced in the mirror. Good enough.
    â€œDon’t you find it depressing?” Edwards asked, as if hejust couldn’t help himself. There