Grave Promise Read online

  She picked up her cards and placed them back inside the leather case.

  “I am going to go nap. Perhaps we’ll talk later. Again, thank you both.”

  Marta smiled and walked from the room.

  “That certainly did seem mysterious,” commented Ivy.

  “Yes, it did,” Ruby agreed.

  “Bullshit,” Crockett said. “It’s all bullshit.”

  Enough bullshit to make the top of his left shoulder itch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marta and the milk

  Crockett felt a little twitchy for the rest of the day and Ruby seemed a bit introspective. Finally, around mid-afternoon, he excused himself from Ivy’s company and went upstairs to lie down for a while. It was not his intention to actually sleep. Naps and Crockett didn’t do well. He almost always woke up feeling much worse than when he lay down. He flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. As he should have anticipated, Ruby walked in.

  “You ever knock?” Crockett asked.

  “Where’s your head?”

  He threw an arm over his eyes. “On the table by the door. Feel free to take it with you when you leave.”

  “Although a little head from you does sound somewhat intriguing,” Ruby said, “I don’t appreciate it coming with a brush-off.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her palm on his chest.

  “How’s your heart?”

  Crockett moved his arm and looked up at her.

  “As always,” he said, “in your hand.”

  Ruby patted his sternum and chuckled.

  “God, you’re good,” she said. “Like flipping a switch, you move the focus of this conversation wherever you want it to go.”

  “I learned from the best, Sweetie.”

  Ruby kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “Not this time, Crockett. Give. What’s transpiring in that quagmire between your delicate little ears?”

  “Wanna sleep.”

  “No, you don’t. You hate naps. C’mon. Relate.”

  “I don’t know. Too many memories in this place. Too much baggage. Too much mumbo-jumbo. Just feeling a little sorry for myself, I guess. No big thing.”

  “Scoot over,” Ruby said, and stretched out beside him. They were quiet for a moment.

  Ruby took his hand. “Crockett,” she said, “how many of us have it turn out the way we wanted it to?”

  “Huh?”

  “How many of us become prima ballerinas or super heroes? How many of us get to walk into the welcoming arms of a perfect sunset and live happily ever after?”

  “Not many.”

  “Not many. And knock off the ‘feeling sorry for yourself’ bit. You’re less inclined to feel sorry for yourself than anybody I know. Sure you feel sorrow, but that’s different. This place, this house, this environment is your biggest real connection to Rachael’s death, the terrible injuries you suffered, the coma, and the awful deeds you did in response to all that. It’s also your biggest bonding association to the love and joy you had with that wonderful woman, to your will in surviving what would have killed anybody else, to your determination in rehabilitating yourself, and to your courage and loyalty in writing the final chapter and closing the book.”

  Ruby raised up on an elbow so she could see his face.

  “You can close the book, Crockett, but the book still exists. Look at it this way. For every loss you suffered, you gained. From every tragedy that occurred, you accepted a gift. You maintained balance, Crockett. The universe doesn’t just provide balance. It offers the opportunity for it. Out of all that vicious horrible mess, you brought good. You think that was an accident? Sure, dragging all the bad stuff up is emotionally exhausting, but that’s because you’re only going halfway around the sphere of experience. You’re stopping at the bottom. Finish the trip. Find the joy in the sorrow. Look at what you gained.”

  He rolled his head to the left and gazed at her.

  “I am,” he said.

  Ruby smiled. “Aw,” she said. “Firm embrace.”

  Crockett actually slept for around an hour. When he woke up, he was trying to breathe through Ruby’s forearm where it lay across my face. Bleary and stopped up, he untangled himself, covered her with half of the bedspread, and creaked downstairs to the kitchen in search of coffee. He lit a Sherman and rummaged through the pantry until he located a jar of some dark roasted beans that smelled likely. He was searching cabinets for a grinder when Marta walked in.

  She smiled. “David, if you haven’t had more of me than you can stand, I’ll trade you some information for a cup of coffee.”

  Crockett raised an eyebrow as high as possible.

  “That,” he said, “would depend on the nature of the information.”

  “The omnipotent spirits of caffeine tell me that the grinder is in the left side of the cabinet over the sink and the coffee press is on the right side of that same cabinet.”

  “You’re on. I don’t know what kind of beans we’ve got here, but they don’t smell bad.”

  “Probably Hawaiian,” Marta said. “Ivy keeps it around for me. Nobody in this house really appreciates the good stuff.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” Crockett said. “I, too, am a coffee snob. Sit while I work my magic.”

  As he whirred and clanked around the kitchen, grinding, heating, pressing and pouring, Crockett could feel Marta’s eyes on him. When he sat across from her, they glittered at him from over the rim of her cup.

  “It’s wonderful,” Marta said. “Thank you.”

  The question was out of Crockett’s mouth without passing through any part of his brain.

  “How did you know about the milk?” he said.

  Marta returned her cup to the tabletop. “I didn’t,” she said. “Oh, I know about you and Rachael. She was a lovely, unfortunate young woman whose life was greatly enriched by you. Ivy claims that you gave that child more happiness in your time with her than she’d had in all her years before you and she met. I have no reason to doubt Ivy. But, as far as the milk goes, I had no prior knowledge.”

  “Then, how did…?”

  “How did I know to mention it? Sometimes things come out of my mouth that I cannot account for.”

  Crockett grinned at her.

  Marta laughed. “I know,” she said. “Me and every other woman on the planet, right?”

  “I didn’t say a thing, Marta.”

  “No, and it doesn’t take a psychic to hear something when it’s not said that loudly. You know what I mean, though, don’t you David?”

  “Sometimes you say things that surprise even you.”

  “Exactly. Usually those things are very accurate.”

  “You hit it right on the button,” Crockett said. “I keep cold milk around because Rachael liked it. It’s foolish, I know.”

  “It would be foolish only if you kept it around for her. You keep the milk for you. That’s certainly no more foolish than lighting a candle or visiting a grave. We suffer from a severe lack of rituals in our society. Ritual, as you know, can be very comforting. It’s why I use the Cartouche cards.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The cards are there, primarily, for the client to look at. They really don’t mean much. I could certainly do my readings without them, but I find they give my, ah, victims something to focus on. I’ve also learned that people are more prone to pay attention and give what I say some credence when an oracle is involved. Me just sitting there and telling them stuff doesn’t carry as much weight. Sometimes the tools are perceived as more important than the mechanic.”

  “Ah-ha,” Crockett said. “Be careful. Don’t give away too many of your secrets.”

  “It’s not just flim-flam, but it is theatrical to a point. Anybody can sit there and talk, but it takes a very special and cosmic individual to delve so deeply into the mysteries of the cards.”

  “So, do you do séances and things?”

  She smiled. “No. It is my view that discarnates, those wh
o have passed over, are, as a rule, much too involved with things other than our small reality. To hound dear dead Uncle Ralph from this side is rude and a violation of his privacy. They leave me alone and I leave them alone.”

  “What about those people who claim to be able to talk to the dead, or be taken over by some spirit and speak to us?”

  “For the most part, I believe trance-channelers and their ilk engage in performance level metaphysics. I don’t trust those that do and I don’t like them. They prey on confusion, sorrow and need. I have been doing what I do since I was twelve years old. I try always to function from love and mutual good. Sometimes I fail in my attempt, but never in my intent. Understand?”

  “I think so,” Crocket said.

  “Good. Even if you don’t understand what I do, you’re at least making an attempt to understand me.”

  “You really believe all that stuff, huh?”

  “Yes, I do. And, you don’t.”

  “Well…”

  “It’s okay. It’s not my job to convert you to my belief system. I’d never insult anybody in such a manner.”

  “Alright. You said that Ruby and I had something coming in our future that had started here, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What’s coming? What should we be aware of?”

  Marta finished her coffee and carried the cup to the sink, rinsed it and set it aside, then stopped in the doorway and turned to Crockett.

  “I’m very sorry, David,” she said. “I never repeat a reading.”

  Crockett sat alone in the kitchen and finished his last swallow of coffee.

  It was cold and bitter.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Logically speaking

  Ruby and Crockett left Ivy’s late that afternoon. He took two Dramamine to compensate for Ruby’s Jaguar induced, fighter pilot fantasy, highway assault. Oddly enough, the motion sickness medication did not put him to sleep and Ruby actually kept her velocity tuned down to under ninety. They traveled mostly in silence, an unusual condition for the two of them. The whole experience with Marta had left Crockett with little to say. He couldn’t even claim to have become introspective. He just felt numb.

  Outside Springfield, Illinois, Ruby spotted a Clarion Inn. She banked into the exit, throttled out of afterburner, flared over the ramp and caught the three wire. Crockett forced his stomach out of his sinuses and peered at her.

  “Food and hostelry, Igor,” Ruby said. “I refuse to drive all the way to Kansas City in the company of a chunk of wood. Therefore, we will get a couple of rooms, preferably on opposite sides of the building, enjoy a lovely tasteless dinner in an authentic plastic atmosphere, go to our separate quarters, and you can brood in silence. Alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Crockett said. “I’m not very good company.”

  Ruby opened her door. “That, in no way, changes the fact that I love you,” she said, “but I refuse to let such a pure and chaste love disintegrate into pity. Bring the bags like a good boy and I will get our rooms. Try not to drool and embarrass me.”

  Leaving the luggage at the desk to be taken care of, they wandered down a hallway and into the darkened restaurant where they were seated. Ruby smiled at Crockett, the flame of the obligatory candle reflected in her dark eyes.

  “Not doing too well, huh?” she said.

  Crockett returned her smile. “Evidently not,” he said. “I’ve been trying to sort it out and I haven’t had any luck. Any astute psychological insights?”

  “In clinical terms, you’re fucked up. That’ll be a hundred bucks. Just leave it on the dresser on your way out.”

  “Cheap at twice the price.”

  “Stop trying to analyze it,” Ruby said. “Things’ll shake out when they’re supposed to. All you’re doing now is beating yourself up. Find another target or I’ll have to kill you.”

  A uniformed young woman approached the table, tossed her blond hair, batted her blue eyes, and wiggled.

  “Hi!” she gushed. “My name’s Monica. I’ll be your waitress!”

  Crockett’s eyes lit up. “Ah,” he said. “And who is now?”

  She looked puzzled. “What?”

  “Right now, this very instant, who is our waitress?”

  “Ah, I’ll be your waitress,” Monica stammered, searching for some familiar course of action from her memorized copy of the waitperson’s handbook.

  “After what?” Crockett said. Ruby snorted.

  The poor girl looked at him as if he were chewing on a live goldfish.

  “I’m your waitress,” she explained.

  “Really!” Crockett said. “That’s wonderful, Monica. You’re exactly the one we wanted, didn’t we dear?”

  Ruby waved a hand and stared into the middle distance. Crockett dove back in.

  “Monica,” he said, “you seem like a lovely young woman. How may I be of service to you?”

  The waitperson’s handbook disappeared into the hazy distance.

  “Huh?” she asked, taking a step backward.

  Crockett pointed to Ruby. “Monica,” he said, “this is Mary Todd Lincoln and I am Ernest Hemingway. We’re here to eat. It would be good if you could bring us some water and a couple of menus so we can order. We’ll talk later. Perhaps you’d like to join us for an after dinner drink?”

  He bumped his eyebrows at her and she scuttled away with ‘possum-like speed. Ruby glared at him.

  “Feeling better?” she sneered.

  Crockett grinned. “A little,” he replied.

  After a prime rib that Ruby swore could be used several times before it would begin to show signs of wear, and a surprisingly good chocolate-death dessert, they went to their respective rooms. Crockett moped around for a while, turned on the tube, took off his leg, and hopped into the shower. He was between the sheets watching a James Bond re-run when his doorknob rattled. The fact that the door was locked pushed Ruby to extremes. She actually knocked.

  “Who is it?” Crockett trilled, struggling into some sweatpants.

  “Mary Todd Lincoln. Hurry up! We’ll be late for the theatre.”

  Chuckling, he grabbed his cane and hopped to the door. Ruby swept in dressed in a short blue silk robe with a matching teddy and three-inch mules with a ruff of boa across the insteps. She held up a bottle of Shiraz and two glasses.

  “I am here to get you mildly drunk, inflate your libido, ease your mind, and abandon you to your own devices.”

  “Sounds almost perfect,” Crockett said.

  The next morning Crockett found Ruby in the restaurant. She was sitting behind pancakes, hashbrowns, scrambled eggs, biscuits n’ gravy and corned beef hash.

  Crockett eyeballed the repast as he sat across from her.

  “You ordered for both of us,” he said.

  “Lay one hand on this food and you’ll be missing two appendages,” she growled.

  “And you were so sweet last night.”

  “Last night I had wine. I find you much more of a threat when I’m sober.”

  “Ah,” Crockett said, “but that is not the case.”

  “I suppose not. However, as I recall, you were a perfect gentleman.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “Complaining?”

  “Bitching.”

  Ruby extended a forkful of hash in his general direction.

  “You have at least some appetites I can satisfy,” she said, holding the utensil as Crockett lipped off the corned beef.

  He leered at her. “As I recall, my dear, you have, at one time or another, satisfied all of them.”

  “But that was then,” Ruby said. “You were going off to slay dragons and I suffered a moment of weakness.”

  “You didn’t appear to be suffering.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I?”

  “Eat,” Crockett said. “Keep your strength up. I wouldn’t want you to have another weak moment.”

  Ruby smiled. “You wouldn’t?” she said.

  The waitress arrived.

  A dif
ferent one.

  By mid-afternoon Crockett and Ruby were back in Kansas City. Crockett had just finished putting down fresh food for Nudge when he heard Ruby’s buzzer sound. In a couple of minutes she walked out of his closet carrying a large pizza box.

  “Pepperoni, black olive, onion, mushroom, and more pepperoni,” she said. “Open some wine, sit with me on your couch, develop some massive heartburn, casually fondle my body, and let’s talk.”

  Crockett dug out a bottle of kosher Merlot and carried it, glasses, two plates and a butcher knife into the living room. Ruby had the box open on the coffee table and was scattering the contents of about a dozen little packages of cheese on the pizza. He poured the wine and Ruby drank her glass in one long gulp, then presented the vessel for a recharge. Crockett filled it again, put out the plates and sat beside her. She dished up some pizza and swiveled on her butt so she was facing him, her knees in solid contact with his left thigh. Sauce on her lip, Ruby kissed Crockett wetly on the cheek, leaned back, and sized him up for a moment.

  “You’re conflicted,” she said.

  “Oh, shit. Over the river and through the woods.”

  Ruby batted her eyes. “It’s true,” she said.

  Crockett couldn’t help grinning. “So what? Take a laxative?”

  “Classic case. Textbook. I should call several of my colleagues to drop by and grunt at you. Doubtless due to the fact that your mother attempted to toilet train you at six weeks. Common syndrome, really.”

  “All Mom’s fault.”

  Ruby swallowed a mouthful of crust and slurped some wine.

  “You are a logical man, Crockett.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Logic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You’re a cause and effect kinda guy. The bullet goes where the gun is pointed. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. The bull always follows the same trail in the pasture. There’s an order to things. Even when chance intervenes or chaos rears it’s ugly head, you know that, logically, it can be explained and eventually order will prevail.”