Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

people standing around the grave. Two of them were in state police uniforms. I leaned closer. Behind one of the umbrellas, was the unmistakeable profile of my foster father.

It was a funeral. I stepped closer to the television. “When did this happen?”

“This afternoon,” Kendall said.

“You took the video?”

“Yes. I’m sorry you couldn’t have been there. As you can see, there were cops in attendance. If you showed up, they would have arrested you immediately.”

“Why was it so fast?”

“The state requires all of their troopers to have a will. As Mettle’s last attorney, I took it upon myself to see that his wishes were met. He didn’t want a service, just a small gathering. He didn’t want to be embalmed. He said he would never ingest those horrible chemicals in life, so he wouldn’t take them in death. For obvious reasons, this meant he had to be buried immediately.”

My eyes misted over, doubly misty from the haze on the screen. I wiped them on my sleeve and sniffled. My foster-father’s head was lowered as he stared at the black edges of the grave beside the coffin.

Kendall looked into his empty glass. “I was trying to hold the camera steady, but I kept getting choked up.”

The camera panned up to reveal a minister. His words were soft, muted by the patter of rain on the umbrellas. “Today we mourn the loss of one of the finest cops I have ever met. Matthew Orlando Mettle, Troop J., was an exemplar of courage, strength, and poise under pressure. Officer Billy Ganz would like to say a few words.”

I glared at the screen. “What is that guy doing there?”

Kendall set his shot glass down on the coffee table. “He was one of the pallbearers.”

“But he was the guy who arrested him. Matt would still be alive if it weren’t for him.”

“He seemed genuinely upset,” Kendall said.

“He wasn’t. He was faking.”

On screen, Billy Ganz stepped forward, the toes of his rain-slicked boots jutting over the edge of the grave. With heavy jowls, a bald head, black wings for hair, and a sizable paunch making it look as if he were hiding a pillow under his uniform, it was hard to believe that he and Mettle were the same age.

“I’ve known Mattie since we was little,” Ganz said with a Brooklyn accent. “Our moms and dads were besties, so in a way, our friendship began when we were nothing more than two little zygotes. He was a loyal friend, one I’ll miss for all times. If Mattie were here today, he’d insist that I lower him into the ground myself. I’m sorry, I wish I could, buddy. I don’t got the back for that, I don’t got your dead-lift numbers. I will miss you gravely,” he said. And with that, he stepped back from the grave.

“It looks to me like they were friends,” Kendall said.

“But why would a loyal friend snitch?”

“Perhaps duty over friendship,” Kendall said quietly.

A tiny motor whirred off screen. The cherry-colored coffin lowered into the hole, the wet edges of the soil crumbling under the indoor-outdoor carpet and plopping onto the lid. Once the coffin was down the hole, the congregation dispersed and the camera lowered. The screen streaked with beads of silver water.

“Sorry bud,” Kendall’s voice said off screen. “It was one miserable way to go.”

And then the video stopped.

Kendall thumbed the remote control and the television went black.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Kendall said.

“If I had been there, I would have said something meaningful. I wouldn’t have made stupid meathead jokes.”

“I feel terrible you couldn’t be there,” Kendall said. “But I did my best.”

“Couldn’t the state at least pay for a decent service? What happened to the bagpipes? The color guard? The salute?”

“When Matt died, he was off duty. His death was not related to his service.”

“So his parents don’t get his pension?”

Kendall looked at the floor and shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

I closed my eyes, my grief quickly displaced by anger. Then I marched over to the counter and poured myself a shot of Red Rum.

In the bottom of the glass, it was as thick as syrup.

I raised the glass and thought of my real father stirring a cauldron of red.

“On second thought, I need a drink,” I said.

38

My tongue tasted like iron, as if I had sucked on old nails.

I worked my jaw back and forth, trying to get my mouth open. A pulsing headache nested in the back of my skull.

I peeled my eyelids open and had to actually pinch them and roll them back to see anything. I was lying on my back in a large dark cavern. But the ground was soft and silky on my bare skin. A patch of moss, maybe.

But standing at my feet, at the foot of the bed, a lean and muscular figure was buttoning up his shirt. There was a hard line between his chest, straight down through his abs. He didn’t have an inch of fat on his body.

“Matt?” I mumbled.

“No,” he grunted.

I blinked, trying to make sense of everything. A large tray ceiling. Covers. Pillows. A king-size bed. The silky sheets on my bare legs.

Then the man at the foot of the bed, narrowed. He was muscular, but way thinner than Mettle.

“Oh God.”

“Good morning, Rosie,” Kendall said. He finished buttoning his shirt and wrapped a tie around his neck. “Do you always talk about the dead in your sleep?”

I ran my hands down my body. All skin. I was in my underwear. I hadn’t shaved my legs in days.

“Did we?”

“You don’t remember?”

I searched my memory, but the last thing I could remember was throwing the bottle of Red Rum into the trash hard enough to make it break.

“No.

Kendall pushed his sleeves into his tailored jacket. “To answer your question, not quite. We were about to, but you passed out on me.”

“You didn’t—”

“No, Rosie. I wouldn’t do that. Ever.”

I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but couldn’t. God, I hoped he was telling the truth.

“I need to go to