“Is that right?” Norcomb said skeptically. “I don’t recall any Yankees in the family. No offense.”
“None taken. If we are related, it’s only by marriage. You see, my wife’s great-aunt Estelle is from Allenville, and she’s always said she wanted to be buried in the Spivey family cemetery. Since I’m in Raleigh on business, my wife asked me to confirm that it’s still in use.”
“I’d heard there were some Spiveys who moved up North, and I know old folks are big on coming back home to be buried.”
“Exactly. Aunt Estelle is getting quite frail, so I don’t think it will be too much longer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Norcomb said with enough genuine sympathy to make Mark feel guilty.
“At least she’s had a long life,” Mark said, which was true enough. “I found the Spivey cemetery the other day, and while I was checking for recent burials, I noticed Jane Doe’s grave. I was curious, so I did some research on the web, read that you gave permission for Ms. Doe to be buried there, and figured you were the one to talk to. Do we need to fill out any paperwork?”
“Shoot, we don’t get that formal around here. If Aunt Estelle is family, she’s welcome.”
“My wife will be glad to hear that.”
Norcomb seemed to be pulling himself together in preparation for leaving, so Mark hurriedly said, “I know you’ve got to go back on duty, but I did wonder how Jane Doe came to be buried with the Spiveys. Is there reason to suspect she’s a relative?”
“We don’t have any idea of who she is, bless her heart.”
“Really? I realize it might not be proper to talk about an ongoing investigation…” He tried to bespell the man again, and was almost certain he felt something. Or maybe Norcomb just felt like talking.
He said, “The case is still open, but I wouldn’t exactly call it ongoing. That poor girl’s been dead over two years, and we don’t know a bit more than we did a week after we found her. Wasn’t far from where we are now, as a matter of fact. Just on the other side of that chicken barn you can see from the parking lot.”
“So it’s chickens in that building. What a stink!”
“You should smell then in the middle of summer. Anyway, some boys found the girl in a field, partially covered up with leaves and brush. She’d been stripped, and the killer bashed her face in so bad that she was unrecognizable, so we had no clue who she was. Nobody’s ever claimed her.”
“I read online that she was seen in Wal-Mart.”
“That’s right. The manager identified her from her hair, believe it or not. She had it dyed solid black and cut kind of funny. One of those Goths. We don’t get many of those in Allenville, which is why the manager remembered her. Even though she bought some things, she paid cash, so that was no help, and she wasn’t with anybody, either. I went through the store’s security tapes and got some pictures of her to run in the newspaper, but nobody knows who she is.”
“I take it that her purchases weren’t helpful, either.”
“Actually, that was kind of peculiar. She bought herself a whole outfit, and afterward, she went to the store’s bathroom, changed into the clothes she’d just bought, and threw the old stuff into the trash can.”
“That is peculiar.”
“My take is that she was in trouble, maybe drug-related, and wanted to disguise herself. But whoever was looking for her found her anyway, and nobody in town saw anybody suspicious.”
“Isn’t that strange in a small town?” Mark said, tactfully not suggesting that a local could have been involved.
“Not as much as you might think. We get all kinds of people passing through: runaways, transients of every description. Plus Raleigh is a big city, with big city problems, and sometimes that causes us problems, too.”
Having spent time in New York, Boston, and London, Mark didn’t see Raleigh as big or dangerous, but perspective was everything. “I still don’t understand how Ms. Doe came to be buried in the Spivey plot.”
“We kept her in cold storage for a while, hoping something would turn up, but decided it would only be right to bury her. Bob Henry at the funeral home donated a coffin and tombstone and the florist sent flowers, but when nobody had a burial plot they were willing to part with, I offered her a place with my family.”
“That was very decent of you.”
The cop looked abashed. “We had plenty of space—that whole corner of the lot was nearly empty. Besides, I was the first officer on the scene, and I feel bad that we’ve never found out who she was. Not that I’ve given up, mind you. There’s not enough time or money to keep an investigation moving indefinitely, but I’m like a bloodhound—I may not have a scent to go on now, but when I get one, I’ll not give up.” He started to rise again, and said, “Now I do need to get going. You have your wife give us a call, and we’ll pick out a nice place for Aunt Estelle.”
“I’d do that. Thank you very much for your time.”
“Hey, what are families for?”
The two men shook hands, and Norcomb headed for the door. Mark was about to follow him when he noticed his stomach was growling. Stella no longer needed food, other than the occasional dose of dark chocolate she claimed vampires required, but he still ate one or two regular meals a day. So when the waitress came to clear off Norcomb’s table, he ordered lunch.
On the way back to Raleigh, Mark speculated about how Stella would react. He honestly had no idea—Stella’s unpredictability had been part of what had attracted him to her in the first place, even before she confessed her undead status. Some days she seemed as young as she’d been at death, while others she demonstrated every day she’d lived. Most of the time he was happy to go along, so even though he didn’t understand why she’d wanted to make a birthday pilgrimage to her grave, he hadn’t argued.
Now there was one thing he was sure of. Stella wanted her grave back.
Mark was in bed with Stella when she came back to life, and she responded immediately, if not in the way he’d hoped.
“You reek!” she said with a grimace.
“Damn it,” he said, sliding out from under the covers. “All I had was a cheeseburger! No onions or mustard, and I brushed my teeth and used mouthwash. Twice!”
“It’s not the food,” she said, sniffing.
“I ate next door to a chicken farm,” Mark said.
She shuddered. “Maybe that’s it. After living near one all those years, I was ready to switch to blood just to make sure I never had to eat chicken again.”
“Ready to hear about the body in your grave?”
“Not yet—I’m hungry.” As long as he got regular food, Mark could go two or three days without blood feeding, but Stella could not. “Did you scout out a place for us to hunt? What should I wear?”
“Workout clothes. The desk clerk recommended a nearby jogging path. It’s around a lake and includes numerous twists and turns.”
“I’ll hit the shower and get ready to go.”
“I better shower again, too, to get that nasty smell off of me. And in the interest of conserving water…”
“By all means, let’s conserve.”
Oddly, taking a shower together took longer than two separate showers would have.
If it had been his grave, Mark would have been frothing at the mouth to find out more about the body buried there, but older vampires were annoyingly patient. Stella wanted to wait until after dinner.
Admittedly, it didn’t take her long to pick out a healthy-looking man and bespell him into following her to a darkened patch of trees. She quickly sated herself, and then Mark took his turn. After that, Stella kept the man bespelled long enough for their saliva to heal the wounds, and fuzzed his memory before sending him on his way again. All he’d remember was that the run had taken more out of him than usual.
Mark could have tried to bespell his own donor, of course, but it would have taken longer, and he’d have had to spring for a nice dinner and a movie. Stella’s methods were much more efficient.