Page 4 of Deeper Than the Dead

The shops and pedestrians faded in the rearview mirror. The landscape shifted to trees and pastures ... cows, horses, sheep, and the occasional cotton or cornfield. She tapped the dash screen, ushering the air-conditioning fan to a higher level. It was hotter than blazes, and the humidity level felt like 200 percent. By August it would be worse, like trying to breathe underwater. She’d lived in the South her whole life, so one would think she would be used to the heat and the swelter. Who could possibly acclimate to this level of misery?

A left turn onto Good Hollow Road, and she was plunged deeper into the woods. The road narrowed, and the asphalt turned a paler shade of gray as it curled through the trees, the hills rising up on either side. Occasionally a grass-covered hillside dotted with grazing cattle disrupted the thick flow of trees. Then the sudden drop into a hollow between hills would plunge the scenery into denser, darker woods, with the occasional stream snaking a path through the flora just to shake things up.

The farmhouse came into view, and an ache pierced her. The house looked exactly the same. Two tall stories with a broad porch. A redbrick chimney climbed up one side of the white wood-clad exterior, towering above a green metal roof. Wisteria vines streaked up the other end. Even now she could summon the sound of rain on that roof and the cascading purple blooms that appeared on those vines each spring.

A quick glance farther up the road, and Vera spotted a cluster of official vehicles near the narrow dirt road that led to the barn. They had apparently opted to use the road farthest from the house to access the area where the remains had been discovered. That was the most direct route and left the main drive free of parked vehicles. It then cut across the expansive backyard and pasture. The sheriff was likely responsible for the decision. Sheriff Walter Fraley and their father had been friends forever. Fraley’s wife, Beatrice, had been a schoolteacher as well as a very close friend of Vera’s mother. Vera still considered her the best teacher she’d had during her primary education years.

Hopefully the sheriff’s foresight would keep any reporters who showed up focused on the area beyond the house and not on the house itself.

Wishful thinking.

Vera had been in the policing business far too long to believe that sort of luck would hold out, no matter how many guardian angels you had.

She turned onto the gravel drive and made the quarter-mile journey to the parking area near the house. A garage or carport had never been part of the home’s amenities. There was just the wide, circular graveled area for keeping vehicles off the grass.

Tall windows banded the front of the house. Her mother had loved the generous amount of light they allowed into the house. She’d made long curtains of gauzy white fabric to decorate each without blocking the sun’s radiance. Inside, wood floors and plaster walls with minimal molding filled each room, including the large center entry hall. The house wasn’t grand by any means, but it was good sized and warmly decorated. Their stepmother hadn’t been around long enough to change the decor. Vera doubted the idea had so much as crossed her mind.

Neutral, Vee. No petty stuff. For Luna’s sake, no digging up those old wounds.

Vera parked her Ford SUV next to Luna’s little electric Nissan sedan. Next to the Nissan was Eve’s ancient Toyota, which had belonged to their mother—the same one their mother had driven for years before her death. The vehicles they drove were as different as she and her sisters were. Luna was young, only twenty-three with brown hair and eyes, like her mother, Sheree. They shared the same exotic olive skin and a vibrant personality. True girlie girls who loved makeup and dressing to the nines. But that was where the similarities between mother and daughter ended. Luna loved books and was the assistant director of the local library. Her little car was silver and sassy and needed no fossil fuels to shuttle her from place to place. But she would not be caught in a bar or under the influence of anything beyond a single glass of wine if her life depended upon it.

Sheree, on the other hand, had loved barhopping. At one point she’d even been a dancer at a club in Huntsville. Sadly, alcohol had not been her only vice. Drugs, two prostitution charges, a DUI, and at least one petty theft charge, but the last had gotten thrown out of court.

Then there was Eve. Vera smiled sadly as she thought of how Eve must be feeling right now. Like Vera, she had the same blonde hair and blue eyes as their mother. They were fair skinned, with all the issues that came with having pale skin in the South. Freckles and sunburns; heightened worries about skin cancer. She and Eve had taken different career paths. Vera had rushed away from Fayetteville as soon as possible after high school graduation. Once safely ensconced in the university life, she waffled a bit about her major but eventually chose criminal justice, later adding a master’s degree in psychology.

And what would she do with that now?

Vera kicked the thought aside and rested her gaze on her sister’s car. Eve hadn’t fared so well. By fifteen she had lost herself in the bottle. Other, more dangerous means of reality avoidance followed. All manner of drugs. She succeeded in graduating high school by the skin of her teeth. After bouncing from one starter job to another and doing a couple of stints in rehab, she crash-landed back home and did nothing for a while. Eventually she worked her way through a mortuary science program and the required apprenticeship to become a mortician.

Basically, they both ended up working in jobs that involved some form of taking care of people, which was an irony of its own.

Don’t even go there, Vee.

She opened the door and climbed out of her SUV. The quiet sounds of nature surrounded her, making her more keenly aware of the sweet scents and visceral impressions of home. Their mother had loved most anything that bloomed. The yard was full of blossoming perennials. A couple of old tractor tires overflowed with dahlias and zinnias. Clusters of shrubs obscured the foundation of the house; the lush, vibrant colors anchored the towering walls of white siding. The wisteria had long ago covered the side of the house that faced the pond. Jasmine and honeysuckle grew on trellises and fences. The tweets and chirps of birds crooned in the background. It was all so naturally beautiful and so reminiscent of their mother.

At least that was one thing from Vera’s childhood—the before years—that Sheree hadn’t been able to screw up.

Vera shivered at the memories that attempted to intrude. She reached back into the vehicle and grabbed her shoulder bag and cell phone. Time to face the music and learn just how bad this was going to be. She braced herself and walked the weathered brick path that led to the front porch.

The remembered sound of laughter and the feel of sweating glasses of lemonade whispered across her senses as she climbed the steps. Wicker rockers and vintage chairs that were far older than her thirty-nine years still lined the porch. The floral cushions were faded and tattered in a shabby but elegant way. The urge to have a seat and relax tugged at her. Only this place had ever made her want to unwind. Her life in Memphis had eternally been a roller-coaster ride of adrenaline and urgency. Like a junkie, she had reveled in the highs and ridden out the lows with the knowledge that another high wouldn’t be very far away.

Overhead, three ancient ceiling fans in a row turned slowly, churning the thick air just enough to still be considered serviceable. Vera reached to knock on the front door, but it opened before she had a chance.

Wearing her typical black scrubs and her preferred short, spiky hairstyle, Eve stood in the doorway.

The thirty-five-year-old woman in front of Vera suddenly morphed into the twelve-year-old who’d opened this same door twenty-two years ago, her clothes wet, sheer terror in her eyes. Beyond her, somewhere deeper in the house, baby Luna had screamed at the top of her lungs.

“You’re here,” Eve murmured.

Vera snapped from the disturbing memory and forced a smile that was likely not much of one. “I got here as quickly as I could.”

Eve’s face creased into a frown as she opened the door wider for Vera to come inside. “What’s wrong with your cell phone? I’ve called you like eight times.”

Ten times actually, but who was counting. No matter that a dozen questions nagged at her, Vera responded calmly, “We’ll talk later. Where’s Luna?”

Eve didn’t attempt to conceal her frustration. She cocked her head toward the back of the house. “She’s in the kitchen baking.” She closed the door behind Vera. “Why can’t we talk now?” she whispered, too loudly.

Eve had never mastered the art of patience, much less that of actually whispering. Vera was certain the inability had been inherited from their paternal grandmother. The woman couldn’t have lowered her voice to a true whisper if her life had depended upon it.

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