Cry From The Grave
Chapter 50
Grateful that she had traded in her previous car for her present Hyundai Accent, Dana Witten steered the vehicle into her parents' driveway in Chesterfield, just near the intersection of Baxter and Clayton Roads. Drained from a long day of managing her students' attempts to grapple with Victorian literature, she was glad to be free and clear with no quizzes or papers to grade, thanks to her industrious push over the last few days. Dinner out with her parents for her twenty-eighth birthday was as good a thing to enjoy as any. She had stopped by her apartment long enough to change into jeans and a red sweater, put her hair into a neat ponytail, and to grab a pile of mail in her box. She had thrown the envelopes in with her collection of mail from school, and it was with some difficulty that she gathered the postal sheaves in her arms as she got out of her car.
She noticed a cluttered pile of lumber in the garage, which explained why her parents' cars were parked by the curb but not why the wood lay there. Skipping over a pair of two-by-fours, she trapsied into the kitchen where her father sat looking over a copy of that day's Post-Dispatch. An accountant for Dierbergs, Sam Owens made a special point to leave work early this day.
"Hi, Daddy," she said, bending down to kiss the top of his head.
"Welcome back, darling," he said, straightening up in his chair. "You must have made good time or there was no faculty meeting today."
"None, thank goodness," Dana replied. "Not enough to talk about, so we got the afternoon off." She laid her mail on the table and began sifting through it. "Is Mom home?"
"She's getting ready. My car's having trouble today, so we'll take hers tonight."
"We could take mine. I don't mind. It's not like we're going across the state." She continued to peruse the envelopes and bills while considering the mouthwatering meal she would enjoy later at Annie Gunn's, her birthday dinner staple for a number of years.
"Suit yourself," said her father, "as long as I get to stretch out in the back." He got up to head back to the master bedroom.
"Dad? What's with the lumber in the garage?"
"You didn't trip over it, did you?'
"No, but what's it for?"
Sam Owens sat down, folding his hands. "It's been a long time in making this decision, but your mother and I believe it's time for Mimi to come live with us. She can have one of the two spare bedrooms. Two falls in the last month are two falls too many. But as you can see, our home isn't really set up for her, so we're having a ramp built in the garage going up to the door. Don Peterman said he could build it. He gave me two quotes: one if I bought the wood myself, and one if I didn't. I made a run to Home Depot yesterday and what you saw when you arrived is the result."
Dana barely heard her father's news about her grandmother. She was looking wistfully toward the garage.
Sensing the emotional shift, her father got to his feet. "It's worth it, Dana. No matter how long or short she is with us. And you never know," he said, laying the front page of the Post-Dispatch next to her. "You never know who might use it in the future."
She watched her father take his slow, intentional steps to the back of the house. Trying to wrench herself from his doubletalk, she looked at the newspaper he had just placed on the table and her heart nearly stopped.
The picture splashed across the page was an icon she knew well. Even before looking, she had a premonition what this vision would be.
A headline screaming "HOSPICE MURDERER HALTED" topped the picture, but Dana was drawn to the subtitle below. SID detectives collar St. Matthew's Grove employee for recent triple murder. She read on through John Rearden's crisp, lyrical prose.
"...and when the siege dropped around Beverly Overton, there directing the tactical movement was the expert team from the Special Investigative Division. Commander Stu Krieger was effusive in praising his detective team: Tori Vaughan, Missy Crabolli, and the wheelchair-bound Cameron Ballack. Krieger credited Detective Ballack with synthesizing the case's hieroglyphic data into a logical path which led to the arrest at Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Tuesday afternoon..."
Dana's eyes softened and she felt her tear ducts release the first of their salty discharges. Desperate for any distraction, she pulled out one envelope, then another, finally settling on the collection of birthday cards she had recently received. And then she saw the front of the one red envelope, with the unmistakable and memorable script she knew well. It belonged to the young man pictured on the front page of the newspaper. She tore open the envelope and looked at the card.
The gift of pain and memory was too much for Dana Witten, and--letting the birthday card fall to the table--she pitched forward, face in her arms, and loosed the wail of a heartbroken soul.
She noticed a cluttered pile of lumber in the garage, which explained why her parents' cars were parked by the curb but not why the wood lay there. Skipping over a pair of two-by-fours, she trapsied into the kitchen where her father sat looking over a copy of that day's Post-Dispatch. An accountant for Dierbergs, Sam Owens made a special point to leave work early this day.
"Hi, Daddy," she said, bending down to kiss the top of his head.
"Welcome back, darling," he said, straightening up in his chair. "You must have made good time or there was no faculty meeting today."
"None, thank goodness," Dana replied. "Not enough to talk about, so we got the afternoon off." She laid her mail on the table and began sifting through it. "Is Mom home?"
"She's getting ready. My car's having trouble today, so we'll take hers tonight."
"We could take mine. I don't mind. It's not like we're going across the state." She continued to peruse the envelopes and bills while considering the mouthwatering meal she would enjoy later at Annie Gunn's, her birthday dinner staple for a number of years.
"Suit yourself," said her father, "as long as I get to stretch out in the back." He got up to head back to the master bedroom.
"Dad? What's with the lumber in the garage?"
"You didn't trip over it, did you?'
"No, but what's it for?"
Sam Owens sat down, folding his hands. "It's been a long time in making this decision, but your mother and I believe it's time for Mimi to come live with us. She can have one of the two spare bedrooms. Two falls in the last month are two falls too many. But as you can see, our home isn't really set up for her, so we're having a ramp built in the garage going up to the door. Don Peterman said he could build it. He gave me two quotes: one if I bought the wood myself, and one if I didn't. I made a run to Home Depot yesterday and what you saw when you arrived is the result."
Dana barely heard her father's news about her grandmother. She was looking wistfully toward the garage.
Sensing the emotional shift, her father got to his feet. "It's worth it, Dana. No matter how long or short she is with us. And you never know," he said, laying the front page of the Post-Dispatch next to her. "You never know who might use it in the future."
She watched her father take his slow, intentional steps to the back of the house. Trying to wrench herself from his doubletalk, she looked at the newspaper he had just placed on the table and her heart nearly stopped.
The picture splashed across the page was an icon she knew well. Even before looking, she had a premonition what this vision would be.
A headline screaming "HOSPICE MURDERER HALTED" topped the picture, but Dana was drawn to the subtitle below. SID detectives collar St. Matthew's Grove employee for recent triple murder. She read on through John Rearden's crisp, lyrical prose.
"...and when the siege dropped around Beverly Overton, there directing the tactical movement was the expert team from the Special Investigative Division. Commander Stu Krieger was effusive in praising his detective team: Tori Vaughan, Missy Crabolli, and the wheelchair-bound Cameron Ballack. Krieger credited Detective Ballack with synthesizing the case's hieroglyphic data into a logical path which led to the arrest at Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Tuesday afternoon..."
Dana's eyes softened and she felt her tear ducts release the first of their salty discharges. Desperate for any distraction, she pulled out one envelope, then another, finally settling on the collection of birthday cards she had recently received. And then she saw the front of the one red envelope, with the unmistakable and memorable script she knew well. It belonged to the young man pictured on the front page of the newspaper. She tore open the envelope and looked at the card.
The gift of pain and memory was too much for Dana Witten, and--letting the birthday card fall to the table--she pitched forward, face in her arms, and loosed the wail of a heartbroken soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment