D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

“I counted thirty-seven people,” I said. “Any suspects?”

“Just one.”

“I hope you’re not going to tell me it’s Tyler.”

“Fuck Tyler. He’s already a suspect.”

“Then who? Nobody I saw looked suspicious.”

“That’s ’cuz the guy I’m talking about didn’t come in. Does the name Kyle Thistle mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Perry shook his head. “Probably before you came to town. Kyle Thistle murdered his wife twenty-four years ago. He got sent to the nuthouse for twelve years. It was the only murder case my father ever had.”

“And Kyle Thistle was in the parking lot tonight?”

Perry nodded yes. “Sitting in a three-year-old Volvo, smoking a cigarette, just as calm as can be. He was waiting for the person he came with to go in and pay respects. A woman. Didn’t pay much attention to who she was when she went inside. Wasn’t until I happened to look into the Volvo and see Kyle Thistle that my mind started working. I ran a check on the Volvo’s license plates. Registration’s in the name of Gretchen Thistle.”

The name unsettled me. “Her first name is Gretchen?” My thoughts flashed immediately to Gretchen Yearwood .

“Yeah. She was one of the last people to leave.”

“Do you recall if he had any children?”

Perry thought for a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Now that you mention it, there was a kid. A daughter.”

It was obvious to me that Gretchen Thistle and Gretchen Yearwood were the same person.

“And she got in the Volvo?” I asked.

“Yeah.” I must have had an odd expression on my face because Perry said, “How come you’re asking all these questions about her?”

“I talked to her. She seemed like a nice person.”

“She may very well be. It’s her old man who’s the psycho. Shit, I thought he was dead.”

“Was he convicted of killing his wife?”

“Not in the technical sense of the word. My dad was putting the case together, working with the County Sheriff, District Attorney. They even brought the FBI into it, then Kyle Thistle cracked up. He was declared mentally incompetent to stand trial, so they stashed him in the nuthouse. I haven’t given him a thought ’til tonight. Maybe the girl you were talking to was his daughter. Wonder why she came tonight?”

“She’s friends with Quilla. I guess that blows your theory that Kyle Thistle is a suspect.”

“Not necessarily. He killed once, twenty-four years ago. Who’s to say he didn’t do it again nine years ago? He got released by then, so the time frame fits perfectly.”

“But he didn’t go inside to pay his respects. Your thesis is that the killer might show up to pay his respects.”

“Right. So?”

“So if Kyle Thistle is your man, why would he have sat in the car? Wouldn’t he have gone in to check things out?”

Perry seemed lost to the obviousness of my remark. He made a face and scratched his right cheek. “He could’ve been playing it safe. He sends his daughter in first, then she reports back.”

“Reports back on what? His daughter is a friend of the kid. Was he certifiably insane?”

“I’m kind of foggy on the details. I was just a kid then too. Why?”

“If he was indeed out of his mind, he wouldn’t have had the sense to hide a body in that remote mausoleum.”

I wasn’t sure why I was so adamantly trying to defend this man. Was I trying to make Perry look bad or was it because I was attracted to Kyle Thistle’s daughter? Perry took in what I said, mulled it over for a few seconds, then said “Unless he was a cemetery buff.” He smirked as if he had come up with an obscure answer in a trivia contest. “The question is,” Perry continued. “Can you be crazy and still be a cemetery buff? And if the answer to that is yes, then Kyle Thistle is a definite suspect in this case. And the way I see it is that anybody who is a cemetery buff has to be out of their mind anyway.” Perry looked at his watch. “About me talking to Quilla. When and where?”

“She wants to do it ASAP.”

“How about tomorrow after the funeral?”

“Might be too soon. She’s gonna need a couple of days.”

“I’m nine years behind on this case, Del. I have a lot of catching up. Two days are important.” Perry shrugged. “When she’s ready, call me.”

“By the way, she may have already given you something to go on. Kyle Thistle’s daughter knew Brandy Parker.”

“When did you find that out?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“I’m wondering if you’ve just solved the case. Not only will I be talking to Kyle Thistle’s daughter, but I think I’ll be paying him a visit too.”

“You’re making a pretty big jump on this, Perry. I think you should talk to Quilla before you talk to anyone else. Find out what she has to say.”

Perry spent about ten seconds considering my advice, then said, “I’m not agreeing with you, but it’s late. Another day won’t make a difference. Make sure you’re available too.”

“Perry, I don’t want to get involved in this.”

“You already are. And you seem to get along with the little bitch. She rubs me the wrong way. I want you there to run interference. If I’m alone with her I could end up arresting her.”

“She’s a kid.”

“She’s fifteen going on forty. Be there! Got it?”

“Okay,” I said with resignation.

“Go lock up the crypt now, Coffin Boy. We don’t want any walking dead to sneak out.”

The only thing that remained to be done, next to the burial, was the cremation. Before Clint went home he and I removed the remains of Brandy Parker from the rental coffin and placed them in a casket-shaped cardboard box. Next to a simple pine box, it was our cheapest receptacle. By law a body had to be in a combustible container before being put in the cremation chamber.

The next morning I drove to the crematorium in Linville nineteen miles away. The entire process would take roughly three hours which meant that I had time to kill. Usually, I went back to the Home, but that day I decided to pay a visit to Dankworth Mall, specifically to the B Dalton bookstore. I went straight to the Young Adult section, looking in particular for the book that Gretchen had dedicated to Brandy Parker.

It was a paperback called The Cheerleader Wore Black . There were two others, each dedicated to someone else: The Beagle Next Door Ate My Cat and Goodbye Camp Grizzly Bear . I bought all three. The clerk said there was one more Gretchen Yearwood book in print, but that they were out of it.

I went to my car in the Mall parking lot and read The Cheerleader Wore Black . It was only one hundred and fifteen pages and it took me a little over an hour. The plot concerned a rebellious teenage girl who was hideously scarred after a car accident and how she regains her self-esteem as she discovers new areas of self worth. I tried to figure out why Gretchen dedicated the book to Brandy Parker.

I felt that if I wanted an answer I would have to ask Quilla. Or Gretchen herself.

I skimmed the other two books, hoping to learn something about the author, specifically, what it must be like to be the child of a man who murdered her mother. One dealt with a child’s search for the woman who gave her up for adoption, the other with being the child of a single parent. I was beginning to feel more like a detective than a Funeral Director and I was actually anticipating telling Perry about the book. I would give it to him to read. Maybe he could get something from it in the way of clues that I couldn’t see.

I returned to the crematorium, picked up the cremains which had been deposited into the urn that Quilla had selected two days before, placed it in the front seat next to me and headed to Elm Grove cemetery.