Flowers for Her Grave - By Judy Clemons Page 0,1

yard, Casey peered around boxcars and engines, wanting to avoid confrontations with anyone who would question her presence. At one point she couldn’t help but pass two men unloading boxes, but they didn’t give her a second glance, so intent were they on finishing their job. Casey kept moving, and soon stood on the sidewalk in front the station. People crowded everywhere, rushing to make a train, carrying packages, headed out into the city.

“We did it,” Death said. “Now, how ‘bout a show? I wouldn’t mind a little twang.”

“Forget the music. How ‘bout a shower?”

Death sniffed. “Yeah, that tramp on the train isn’t the only one who’s smelling a little ripe.”

Casey slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk. As during her earlier visit with Reuben, she was surprised at what she saw in Nashville. Most of her pre-conceptions had been wrong. Sure, there were people wearing shirts with leather fringes, and pointy cowboy boots, and she spied a restaurant called the Wildhorse Saloon, but mostly it was the same as any other city. Chain restaurants like Ruby Tuesday and The Melting Pot you come to expect anywhere, just like the hotels—Drury Inn, Doubletree, and the lot.

“How ‘bout that one?” Death pointed out a Sheraton just down the road. “Looks nice.”

“Too nice for present company,” Casey said. “Can’t see me showing up in the lobby looking like this without the nicely-groomed desk clerk getting a little too curious.”

“Then we keep walking?”

“You got it.”

Death let out a sigh and trailed behind her. “You’re never any fun. Walk, hitch a ride, beat up a bad guy…can’t we do anything normal people do?”

“You’re not a person. And you’re certainly not normal.”

“Right. I keep forgetting that.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Casey’s headache began to dissipate. Until Death started to whistle. And then hum. And then sing right out loud.

Casey stopped dead on the sidewalk, causing Death to stumble through her. She shivered.

“Don’t you dare blame me for that,” Death said. “You’re the one who changed course.”

“But you’re the one who’s annoying. Can you not shut up for one second?”

“I’m trying to enter into the spirit of the town.”

“Well, don’t.”

Casey began walking again, and when she looked around, Death was gone. Thank God.

The hustle of the city’s streets slowed as Casey passed into the outskirts of town. An empty building here. A vacant, weedy lot there. Groups of people huddled on sidewalks, or in front of shady mini-marts. Finally, she spotted a motel that looked about like her own condition. The Rest E-Z. A one-story building, each room with an external door and parking spot. The sign promised cable and an outdoor pool. Too bad the pool was covered with algae, and had ducks swimming in it.

Casey sat on a bench across the street and pulled out the cell phone Bailey had given her. She centered herself, focusing on relaxing her neck and shoulders, then called her lawyer’s private line.

“Don Westbrook.”

“Hello, Don.”

He gave a quick intake of breath. “Oh, thank God. You’re all right.”

“This line clean?”

“Of course. Where have you been?”

“Around.”

“I know one little town in Ohio where you’ve been spending some time. You do realize you’re wanted by the police?”

“Yes.”

Don was silent.

“I didn’t mean to do it, Don.” To kill the slimy mobster who had attacked her a week earlier in Ohio, she meant, but she didn’t want to put it into words, in case the line wasn’t as clean as Don thought. “It was an accident.”

“I’m sure it was. But are you positive your present course of action is the correct one?”

She let out a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding? What in my life has happened the correct way?”

“Casey—”

“I need money, Don.”

He exhaled so heavily she could almost feel the breeze. “You know I can’t send you money. I’d be aiding and abetting a fugitive. I could get disbarred.”

Casey rubbed her forehead. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Come home.”

“Where the police would find me and send me away? I don’t think so.” She sagged against the bench. It had been a mistake to call. “Good-bye, Don. I’m sorry.”

“Wait! Just wait. Listen. I have some things that belong to you.”

“What things?”

“Things you left behind about a week or so ago. They were hidden in a garage, among the rakes and shovels and pink bicycles.”

It hit her so hard she gasped. “My backpack?”

“With everything in it. Your wedding rings, your clothes—not that they’re worth anything—your Dobak—”

“Omar’s hat?” She pressed the receiver against her ear. “You have my baby’s