Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

I grimaced at the image of what had been done.

“You’re thinking zombie? Vampire?” Doc asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Huh,” Doc said, as if we were discussing the new special at the Good Eatin’ Cafe. “I saw no evidence of movement or reanimation. If they were capable of it, I’d think they’d do so before I—” He paused before elaborating, and I was glad. “But who knows? I’ve scheduled an exhumation for this afternoon. Three o’clock.”

“That was fast.”

In most places, exhumation of bodies is a long, drawn-out, expensive process. Here we did things with a bit less fanfare.

“You need to come,” Doc continued. “If we open up the grave and there’s no one home, you could be on to something.”

* * *

I agreed to meet Doc at a quarter to three; then I went to the house of Barbara O’Reily, daughter of Peggy, who’d passed away the morning after the Thunder Moon from complications of Alzheimer’s and whom Doc Bill had just sliced up like a Thanksgiving turkey. How was I going

to explain that?

Barbara opened the door wearing a black dress and heels. Today must be the day of the small ceremony. Could I have picked a worse time?

“Grace.”

Those of my father’s generation or older continued to call me Grace instead of Sheriff, and I didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thank you.” She stepped back, inviting me in. “It’s nice of you to come by.”

I followed Barbara into the living room, accepting her offer of a seat before I disabused her of the notion that this was a condolence call.

“Ms. O’Reily—”

“Call me Barbara. I’ve known you since you were four.”

Which would be a good reason for me to continue to call her Ms. “Thank you, Barbara. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Her distracted, artificial smile faded. “Questions?”

“About your mother.”

I decided to leave the autopsy news until last. Some people tended to get pissy when you ordered knives and saws applied to their relatives. In case Barbara was one of them, I wanted my questions out of the way first.

“All right.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I’ve got a little time before I have to meet my sister at Farrel’s.”

The O’Reily sisters were twins. Betty had married and moved to Atlanta. Barbara had stayed home with her mother. Since Betty’s husband had already died and she’d never had any children it would make for the small ceremony that seemed to be a requirement of this strange rash of deaths.

“I can’t imagine what you’d want to ask,” Barbara continued.

I wasn’t quite sure myself. “Can you tell me how she died?”

Barbara frowned. “Alzheimer’s.”

“I mean how? Was she conscious? Did she say anything? Did she seem—” I remembered Ms. G. “Afraid?”

Barbara’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

Bingo.