Flowers for Her Grave

Chapter Twenty-nine

They clambered into Dylan’s car.

“Address?” Dylan said.

She gave it to him.

“That’s on this side of town, which makes sense, since she’s speaking Spanish. I think that road is…” His voice trailed off as he concentrated on pulling out into traffic.

“We’re coming,” Casey said into the phone. “We’re coming, okay?”

Dylan turned around a corner at high speed and skidded to a stop at the curb in front of a small stucco house with rust-colored shutters. “We’re there.”

“Already?” Casey jumped out of the car.

Dylan ran around beside her.

“You stay here,” Casey said.

“But you need me to—”

“Dylan,” Casey said. “You are young and strong. But if anyone will need protecting, it’s you. It will be better if you just stay out here, okay?”

“Daisy—”

“Stay.”

His shoulders slumped, but he nodded.

Casey moved briskly up the walk, listening and watching for any movement. “Hello?”

No response.

She detoured off the path and stood sideways by one of the front windows, tilting just far enough she could peek in. Everything looked dark and quiet. She went back to the front door and tried the knob. It turned easily, and she pushed the door open with her foot. “Hello?”

Again, nothing. She stepped into the front room, which was filled with sofas and chairs and the usual living room furniture. Books and papers lay scattered across the floor, but the furniture was all still lined up, as if nothing violent had happened. Casey could see no one hiding there. “Hello? It’s me. Daisy. You called me.”

A rush of Spanish filled the air, and Rosa, the maid from the Flamingo, barged around the corner. She grabbed Casey’s arm and babbled in Spanish, the words crashing over Casey like whitewater. Rosa was sobbing and talking, and flinging her free hand in the air.

“Shhh.” Casey put her hand on Rosa’s shoulder and ducked her head to look the woman in the eye. “Quiet, now, Rosa. Quiet. Shush now.”

Rosa hiccupped and sniffed, and buried her face in her hands.

“Are you here alone?”

Rosa looked up, her face red and sweaty.

“Just you?” Casey said, pointing at Rosa. “Una?”

“Si.” Rosa hiccupped again. “Si.”

Casey set Rosa on one of the living room chairs and gestured for her to stay. She stood still, listening. No sound came that would say anyone else was still around. No creaking. No breathing. She held up her palm to Rosa again, and walked carefully toward the back of the house.

To the right was a kitchen. A few drawers hung open, and plastic baggies lay in disarray on the counter, surrounded by crumbs and a partial head of lettuce. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and an empty milk jug. No people.

To the left, down the hallway, were four doors. The first on the right was a small bedroom. From the furniture and bedspreads on the two twin beds it looked like children slept there. Dresser drawers were flung open, with socks and shirts hanging over the fronts, and piles of clothes lay haphazardly on the floor. Pillows and sheets had been stripped from the mattresses, and a lone shoe huddled in the middle of the purple rug. The closet door was open, the light inside still on. Clothes on the rack were interspersed with bare hangers, and several shirts had been dumped onto the carpet.

The second door was a bathroom. Casey paused to listen again, and when she heard nothing, she slowly pushed the door all the way open. Nothing moved, so she flipped on the light and looked in the closet and behind the shower curtain. No one there. Just half-filled shampoo bottles, and damp towels on the floor. An empty toothbrush holder lay on its side on the counter, and all that was left of any toothpaste was a dried blue glob in the sink.

Casey was beginning to think this was not a burglary. It was a family leaving in a mad rush.

She turned to go back to the hallway and tripped on Rosa, who stood at her elbow, lower lip clamped in her teeth. Casey stopped her natural inclination to attack, and took a deep calming breath. “It’s okay, Rosa. Come on.”

Once in the hallway, Rosa kept behind Casey. The door to the last room on the right was half shut, and someone moved toward her. Casey dropped into a defensive stance, arms up, but realized with a start she was preparing to fight herself. The outside of the door held a full-length mirror. She stood back up, shaking out her arms.

Rosa nudged her toward the door.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Casey shuffled forward, and shoved the door open with her shoe.

Again, this was a bedroom, and again, it was in disarray. Women’s clothes spilled from a Rubbermaid storage container, which lay toppled over, its lid standing crookedly against the wall, as if it had been flung there with no thought as to its position. The ceiling fan turned in slow circles, the pull-chain clicking at each revolution. The curtains were pulled tight. The bed was unmade, any blankets and pillows gone, leaving only wrinkled sheets, partially pulled off the mattress.

“Nobody here. One more room.” Casey gently pushed Rosa to the side and faced the last door in the hallway. It was closed. Casey directed Rosa to stand against the wall, out of the way of the door. Casey stood between the two doorways, flattened against the adjoining wall. She reached forward, turned the doorknob, and flung the door open.

Nothing moved.

Casey inched forward, then bent and forward-rolled into the room, avoiding any kick or punch that may have been struck at abdomen or head level. She snapped up into a ready crouch position, but there was no one to defend against. The room was as empty as the others. She stood, surveying the mess. This time, however, it was men’s clothes that were draped over the unmade bed and carpet.

“Oh, my God.”

Casey spun around. Dylan stood in the doorway.

“What?” Casey said.

Dylan’s forehead was all crumpled, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That sweatshirt.”

Casey looked where he was pointing, at a purple and gold University of Washington hoodie.

“What about it?”

“I’ve only known one person who’s had that.”

“Dylan, Washington is a huge school. Thousands of people have that sweatshirt.”

“I know, but that’s Washington. This is Florida. I’ve never seen another one here.”

“Okay. So you know the sweatshirt. Why is it a big deal?”

“Because why would it be here? He’s been gone for months.”

Casey took a deep breath, trying to keep her patience. “Dylan, whose sweatshirt is it?”

“The old instructor from the Flamingo.”

Casey’s mouth fell open. “Which one?”

“Two before you. The nice guy who knew nothing about exercise. His name was Richie Miller.”