“Planning?”
The weight on my chest grows heavier. “They don’t know I’m here, and I don’t think I can face Jerry and Shannon. Not today.”
“God, Jillian, I wish you could stay...but you know...I can’t...”
She can’t invite me to her house, not with Hank.
“I know. I suppose I could drive back to Kalamazoo and get a hotel.”
“Wait,” she says with a tone of growing excitement. “Remember the old Iverson place on Stark Lake?”
“Yeah, those cottages are probably a big mansion now.”
“No, they’re not. My parents bought them a few years back. It’s their retirement plan. Now they’re rentals. You know, a place for people to stay before they decide they need a lakeside mansion. They’re rented during the season, but that hasn’t officially started. Anyway, there are six cottages, and Mom and Dad are still in Florida.”
Becky’s parents were a bit older than mine and have taken to wintering as snowbirds.
“They didn’t come home for the funeral. Your dad worked with Craig...Mr. Gilbert.”
“Mom convinced him to stick to their schedule. They had tickets for some show she didn’t want to miss. Anyway, five of the cottages are open until Memorial Day weekend. I have the keys.”
That’s two weeks away.
A seed of hope springs to life. “Beck, that would be great. Do you think they’d mind if I rented one?”
“Rent? No way. You can stay there. You’re family.” Suddenly her voice becomes softer as she asks, “Do you remember where they are?”
“Yeah, I think. They’re off Old 44?”
“That’s it. Be careful, the roads are dark out there, especially at this time of year. And we’ve had two cars totaled from deer this spring alone. They’re everywhere and will dart in front of any moving vehicle.”
I nod, recalling my father warning me of that hazard every time I left the house as a teenager.
“And this time of year,” she continues, “most of the houses out that way are uninhabited. No lights. No traffic. The cottages are fully furnished. Grab some groceries. The Dollar Store is open until eight. I’ll tell Hank my dad called, and with the recent rain, he wants me to check on the cottages. We’re about to eat dinner. I can be there in an hour with the key.”
A smile comes to my lips. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
“When I get there,” she whispers, “I want to hear the real reason why you’re here.”
“You know why. You called.”
“No way. I want a better reason than that.” Before I respond, she says, “I can’t wait to see my best friend.” The call ends.
Why am I here?
I am here because when Becky called to tell me that Craig Gilbert died, I needed to see for myself. After learning what I could online, I imagined him floating in a ditch, decaying in the elements, his cold body bloated. I imagined all sorts of scenarios.
It’s not that I have a morbid imagination. Fabricating death and medical emergencies is what I do. I’m a visual-effects researcher.
However, before I could get here to see for myself, I had to arrange travel and coordinate work.
A hundred factors delayed my arrival.
Truth be told, I’m not sure I could have done it, walked into the funeral home in front of the entire town. But now that I’m here, I want answers, more than the sheriff is seeking, more than the Mills County Coroner sought, and maybe more than Serena Gilbert is asking.
The entire incident was classified as an accident.
Like every town in the world, Blue Gil has had its share of tragedies.
