Page 17 of The Graveyard Girls (Detective Ellie Reeves #11)
SIXTEEN
Brambletown
Tilly couldn’t survive without her coffee. The diner she’d stopped at when she’d first driven into town didn’t serve a vanilla latte with oat milk, but black would do. Hell, any coffee would do. As long as it was caffeinated.
Decaf was for the wusses. Or for those who’d slept eight hours, not those like her who spent half the night tossing and turning and tearing up the sheets with nightmares and images of her dead sister’s face.
She threw on sweats, yanked her layered, wavy hair into a low knot at the base of her neck, grabbed her keys and hurried from her room.
She passed Ruth’s where she’d spent half the night combing through the high school annual and the love letters Clint Wallace had sent Ruth—gawd, those had been sickening.
She couldn’t believe her father hadn’t burned them and tossed the ashes over a cliff.
He had been so protective of Ruth. Almost possessive as if she was some prize to sit on a shelf and show off.
Ruth would have been mortified if she’d known the police had seen the letters, especially since Clint was the sheriff’s son.
When questioned, their mother had pointed out their father’s obsession with Ruth which had triggered suspicion toward him. Had he been too attentive toward Ruth? Had he been…
Tilly squashed the vile thoughts. She’d barely survived the accusations against her father and brother, and the rumors had definitely created a chasm between her parents. But according to her research, her parents were still together in Finch Gardens.
Back then, she’d cut them slack over their arguments though. Even a stable happy couple would have trouble overcoming the stigma of those allegations.
At least the rain had died down during the night, but a winter chill hovered in the air. Or maybe it never left this part of the mountain, not with all the death and decay the area had seen.
Her car engine chugged to life, and five minutes later, she headed toward town.
With no fast-food chains in these parts except for the DQ, she found the small diner on the edge of Brambletown, a place called Daisy’s Diner that had been there at least twenty-five years, and ducked inside.
The place had been given a facelift though, and at odds with the age and deterioration of other businesses, looked bright and cheery.
During her high school years, the drab diner was struggling.
Today it was hopping with locals and tourists, probably drawn to the memorial.
Coffee cups and plates clanked and rattled as people enjoyed stacks of pancakes, sausages and plump homemade biscuits with southern ham and red-eyed gravy.
Her mouth watered but her stomach protested.
Coffee was about all she could stomach this morning.
Pleased to see lattes on the menu, she ordered one along with a bagel then dropped some cash on the bar.
Cradling the to-go cup in one hand, she snagged the bagel then headed out the door, hoping no one recognized her.
She wasn’t ready for the locals’ scrutiny—not yet.
But the time would come when she would have to face them.
For now, she intended to lie low, do some poking around and exploring before she opened Pandora’s box. No doubt worms would slither out. Or snakes, rattlers that might strike when she lowered her guard.
With all the hype about the discovery of that body, she drove toward the graveyard. Morning shadows from the bare trees hovered over her as if she was plunging into an unknown abyss.
Last night, police would have combed the area. This morning, a police presence already existed and crime scene tape flapped in the wind.
Her stomach twisted as Ruth’s face flashed behind her eyes. Had they identified the body from yesterday?
She turned into the drive for Green Gardens Cemetery and spotted the memorial. She half expected Hetty and Ida Bramble to be wandering through the rows of graves.
This morning though she spotted a lone older woman carrying a quilt and a picnic basket toward a grave that overlooked the small pond and fountain.
Her breath stalled. It was Ms. Maeve, her very own kindergarten teacher. A sweet funny woman who’d first piqued Tilly’s interest in storytelling. At the fall festival, she’d told ghost stories, regaled folklore and relayed stories of the town’s history.
Tilly slid from her car and walked to the edge of the graveyard, then stood in the shadows and silently watched, not wanting to disturb her.
Ms. Maeve’s long gray hair blew gently in the wind around a face gaunt with age, sorrow and loneliness. She had no family left, no one to come with her, no one to sit and hold her hand or wipe the tears from her eyes as she wept.
Tilly edged closer, then stepped behind a tree, unable to drag herself away.
Ms. Maeve gently spread plastic on the ground by her husband’s grave, then covered the plastic with a homemade quilt featuring a wedding ring design.
Next, she opened her picnic basket and pulled out a coffee and a muffin.
Her bones creaked as she lowered herself onto the quilt, one gnarled hand cradling her coffee cup.
She took a slow sip, then swirled it in her mug and looked inside as if it held some relief to her despair.
Eyes brimming with grief and love, she placed one hand on the grave marker. “Hey, honey, happy fiftieth. I love you. Just as we promised, you and me and me and you and that’s the way it’ll always be.”
Her voice quivered as she spoke, and she traced her fingers over her husband’s name, which was etched above a carving of two hands intertwined.
Tears filled Tilly’s eyes.
Her sister’s disappearance had ripped her family apart. Had torn her in two. Had caused her to distrust everyone. To shield her heart.
But Ms. Maeve had the deepest kind of love for her husband.
Tilly’s heart squeezed and a longing stirred deep inside her. Would she ever experience a love like that?