Perfect Grave

Chapter Thirty-Nine

B runo Stone’s eyes took a slow walk over Rhonda Boland.

She was in her best outfit, a form-fitting JCPenney number, nervously sitting beside him on a stool in the Twisted Palms Bar at the Pacific Eden Rose Hotel.

Bruno ran the Twisted Palms.

He had dyed, gel-slicked hair. His tattooed forearm propped his head and he tapped his teeth with his pinky ring as he went back to reading Rhonda’s resume.

“It says here you worked in Vegas a long time ago.”

“For several years, yes.”

“You know what I think about Vegas?

How would she know?

“Vegas is like LA. It’s a magnet for dreamers.”

Rhonda nodded slowly.

“Well, this place is where people bury their dreams. You get what I’m saying?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Come on, honey. You gotta know that the Twisted Palms is a dive bar. It’s respectable. But it’s a dive bar. That’s all there is to it. And working here, you’re going to get come-ons, get grabbed, sworn at.”

“Ever work a supermarket cash register, Bruno?”

A gap-toothed smile escaped from his face to signal that he liked her. He tapped his ring to his teeth to help him think some more.

“Look, my reading of this tells me you don’t know much about tending bar. But you could probably waitress. The tips are good and I usually need waitresses.”

Rhonda’s hopes soared. She needed a second job.

“The thing is, I don’t need any waitresses for the time being. So I’m going to keep your number handy and…”

Rhonda stopped listening after that.

It was like her two other interviews. Strikeouts. When she got home, she checked her machine for any callbacks. Nothing but a message from her insurance company confirming that she was not covered for the type of “experimental” surgery Brady was going to have. And Dr. Choy’s office had called confirming the date for Brady’s appointment.

She didn’t have the money for this.

As Rhonda stood alone in the living room, her breathing quickened. She had to do something. Maybe she could sell the house? She didn’t know if she wanted to sell the house. It wouldn’t hurt to get an appraisal from a real estate agent. They were always offering free ones.

She headed for Brady’s room and switched on his secondhand computer. As it warmed up, she glanced into Brady’s wastepaper basket, noticing a crumpled sheet of paper and the fragment of a letter he’d written. She retrieved it and flattened it out. It was addressed to the circulation manager of the Seattle Mirror. Dear Sir or Madam: I am writing to enquire if you have any jobs for newspaper delivery boys in my neighborhood. I am twelve years old and know my neighborhood pretty well and therefore would make a good person for the job. Also, my mom and I really need the extra money so I would be very responsible. Yours truly,

Brady Boland

Rhonda blinked back her tears.

At that moment the door opened and Brady called down the hall.

“Hi Mom! Going to the park with Justin and Ryan, be home in time for supper, okay?”

Rhonda swallowed hard to find her voice.

“Did you take your medicine today?”

“Yes. And I feel fine!”

“Be home in one hour, kid!”

“Okay. Bye!”

She heard him leave then the phone rang in the living room and hope fluttered in her stomach.

Maybe a job? Or an overtime shift at the supermarket? Or maybe Dr. Hillier to say there’s been a huge mistake with the tests and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Brady? Oh please let it be good news.

“Hello?”

Her answer was swallowed by silence at the other end. Her caller ID showed the incoming number as “Blocked.”

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Nothing. No breathing. No background noise. Just absolute silence.

But Rhonda sensed someone was on the other end.

“Who are you calling, please?”

Nothing.

She hung up.

This was the third time someone had called to give her the silent treatment. She waved it off as kids playing on the phone, or some crank.

What else could it be?

Rhonda brushed it off and went to her bedroom to change.

As she undressed, a tiny wave of unease rippled through her just below the surface of her consciousness.

Something’s not right.

She stopped breathing and studied herself in the dresser mirror.

What was it?

She couldn’t put her finger on it. But damn it, something felt wrong. Rhonda went to her closet, searched through her clothes. Nothing. She went to the bathroom, checked behind the shower curtain. Nothing.

What is it?

Her scalp prickled and an ice coil rushed down her spine.

Had someone been in her home?

Rhonda went to the window at the end of the small hall at the back of the house. What was that? She detected the faint hint of a foreign smell. A trace of a fading scent that she just couldn’t identify.

Did it even exist?

Maybe she was smelling the Twisted Palms bar on herself?

Maybe it was nothing.

Like the garage. Like the calls. Was she losing her mind? This is stupid. She couldn’t handle this right now. Rhonda went back to her bedroom and resumed changing.

You must be losing your grip, she told her reflection, because this is just stupid.

In the kitchen Rhonda began taking inventory to get supper ready. That’s when she stopped and put her hands on her hips.

At the far end of the counter, near the refrigerator, all of her files for Brady were ever so slightly askew. As if someone had picked through them.

Did Brady do that? But he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.

Did she do that? Did she forget that she’d done that?

She inspected them. Brady’s school file was out of order and she had not touched this one for at least a week.

Had she?

Rhonda bit her bottom lip and took a few deep breaths. It had to be her imagination. Right? What else could it be?

What the hell else could it be?