Flowers for Her Grave

Chapter Twenty-three

“So who all we got?” Death had been remarkably patient as Casey took yet another shower and pulled on Reuben’s T-shirt. Death wore flannel pajamas and bunny slippers. They sat together in the middle of Casey’s living room, her purse emptied.

Casey set aside Sissy and Maria’s folders, and picked up the next one. “Looks like Bernie really did sign over most of her money. Or a lot of it, anyway. I don’t know how much she started with. Here are the accounts where Brandon stashed it.”

Death whistled. “That’s a lotta dough, baby.”

“And here are several other folders with the same kind of stuff. Our dear psycho Laurie is one of them. He got every penny. From what I see here, she’s living at the Flamingo out of the charity of Sissy’s heart.”

“Doing classes for free?”

“That would make sense. She’s paying her way by teaching, and Sissy might feel some sisterhood with her over the whole getting-screwed-by-Brandon thing. Although I’ve seen Sissy treat Laurie with more disdain than charity.” Casey shook her head. “Wherever Brandon is, assuming he can access these accounts, he is sitting more than pretty.”

“Mexico,” Death said.

“You think?”

“How should I know? I’m guessing. And look here. A list of the older women who put him in their wills. I can’t imagine he’s really going to come around to collect, do you? I’m sure he preferred the straight cash exchange, but couldn’t quite bring himself to romance the over-eighties.”

Casey picked up the next folder. “Ah, our lovely Krystal. Let’s see what we have on you.”

“Nude photos?” Death asked hopefully.

“Don’t see any, which isn’t surprising. It would be hard for Brandon to blackmail Krystal over sex, when she makes no secret about her lifestyle. In fact, she advertises it.” Casey remembered that first day, with Andrea telling Krystal to watch what she was saying, or people would think she was a slut, too.

“So what is that?” Death pointed at the one photo in the folder. It was a five by seven school picture of a little girl. She was smiling with two missing upper teeth, and her shoulder length blonde hair had been tied back with a ribbon. “Is that Krystal as a child?”

“I don’t think so.” Casey picked up the photo to reveal the single sheet underneath. A birth certificate. The name of the baby was Adrienne Noelle. The space for the birth father’s name was blank. The line for the birth mother read, Krystal Patterson.

Even Death was speechless. For a moment. “Krystal is a mother?”

“In the biological sense, maybe. I don’t see her mothering anyone around here. There aren’t any kids at the Flamingo.”

“Think she’s hiding one?”

“Not in this building. But if this is in Brandon’s secret blackmail stash, then yes, Krystal is definitely hiding that she has a daughter.”

Death studied the picture. “I can see Krystal in her, now that I know.”

“Yup. Those eyes. And the hair. Think you can track her down?”

“You know I can’t. Not unless she’s dead, or maybe if I pick up an immediate family member. But she’s nowhere on my radar at this point.”

Casey leaned back against the sofa. “Again, this all comes back to Brandon, not Andrea. We may be uncovering crime here, but not the crime we’re investigating.”

“It’s like you said before. If Andrea was engaged to this guy, she knew his secrets.”

“But he’s not here. If she was engaged to him, where is he?”

“He’s only been gone a couple of weeks. It’s not like he’s been gone forever.”

Casey went quiet.

“Uh-oh,” Death said. “I know that look. You got an idea.”

“Not one I like.”

“Even better.”

“You saw Andrea’s apartment, right? There was nothing personal there, other than family stuff. No other photos, no mail. The magazines were ones she’d picked up at the store—so no address labels. How long did Del say she’s been here? Six months?”

“That was Dylan. And he said he’d known her six months, since he got here.”

“Oh, I remember. Del said he’d asked her out soon after she’d moved in the beginning of the year. So January, maybe. Not sure that would work.”

“What are you thinking? Spill.”

“Well, what if she was in this with Brandon? She obviously hadn’t made her apartment a home. There was nothing there she couldn’t leave behind. Nothing of sentimental value—at least that I saw. She and Brandon could have been fleecing the gullible folks, always ready to take off. But I really can’t see it. I just didn’t get…criminal vibes from her.”

“Criminal vibes. What, are you psychic now?”

“You know what I mean. You can just tell about some people. She had such a good feel about her.”

“Yeah, for that less than a day you knew her.” Death frowned, brow wrinkling, then smiled. “You’re wrong.”

“She really was a crook?”

“No, she really wasn’t. You’re wrong about her and Brandon.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she knew Richie. Remember? That first day, she told you he was a sweetheart, but he just didn’t fit here.”

“So?”

“How would she know there would even be an instructor job here for Brandon? It’s not like those jobs are always popping up, as you know from your search last week. And the job was filled already, by Richie.”

“She and Brandon could’ve done their research. Found a place where the instructor was a loser, and then Andrea gives Sissy a recommendation to hire Brandon when Richie’s gone.”

“No. Too convoluted. It wouldn’t work. I think you just have to admit it. She was not a con artist.”

“Well, good. I hope you’re right.” She closed her eyes.

“Um, Casey?”

Casey jerked her head up. “What?”

“You fell asleep just then. I think you might want to go to bed, or you’ll get a crick in your neck.”

“So thoughtful of you.”

“Actually, I just hate having you fall asleep in the middle of me talking.”

Casey stacked the folders and shoved them into the vent, with her other things.

Death watched. “You do realize you’re completely screwing up the ventilation in this apartment?”

“I’m not here enough to care.”

“True.”

Casey stumbled to her bedroom and crawled under the covers. Her eyes opened halfway. “Wasn’t I supposed to go somewhere? Or meet somebody? I think I promised…”

She fell asleep before Death could even answer.