Deeper Than the Grave by Tina Whittle Page B

saga. This was another family’s story, and I could not trespass.
    The colors of all three were clear and clean, in stark contrast to the drippy cramped chapel, with its creaky benches and moist cloistered air. I ran a finger along the glass—it was smooth, covered by only a light layer of dust. And then I understood. The windows were new, unlike the rest of the chapel. Not original, a reproduction. I peered at the writing underneath, an inscription in Latin that was a separate window in its own right, making four overall. I didn’t know Latin, but I did catch a familiar Domini in the phrasing. I got a pen and scribbled the sentence down on the back of my hand.
    Trey remained engrossed in his phone conversation. “They did call in an archaeological team, but until the authorities release the scene…No, I don’t know. I won’t know until we’ve completed our interviews. We’re waiting on the detective.” He checked his watch. “At least four hours, that’s my best guess. Because it’s a crime scene now, and…Marisa? Are you still there?”
    I sympathized with his frustration. Already behind schedule, he was trapped in the Kennesaw boondocks until he was officially interviewed—yet again—about a suspicious incident involving me—yet again.
    Trey shook his head. “Because it’s clearly not a historical interment. Because the skull was…” He lowered the phone. “Tai, what was the word?”
    â€œGrotty.”
    â€œNot your word, their word.”
    â€œPutrescent.”
    â€œPutrescent,” Trey repeated. “Which means it’s now a suspicious death investigation. Because we’re witnesses. No, not like that. Nonetheless.”
    He listened while Marisa continued her diatribe. She was a woman like a Valkyrie, with platinum hair and an imposing figure that reminded me of the prow of a ship, and she had Agendas. But Trey was patient, I had to give him that. Outside I heard the grind and pop of tires on gravel. A new car arriving. I crossed my fingers that it was our highly awaited detective.
    Trey resumed pacing. “I saw Mrs. Amberdecker, but haven’t spoken with her. Tai talked to her. Briefly. She was held at gunpoint, equally briefly. No, Mrs. Amberdecker had the gun on Tai. A twelve-gauge shotgun…No, I can’t say I’ve ever contemplated such.”
    He slid a glance my way, and I was surprised to see a sparkle in his eyes. I smiled and held up a middle finger. For the Boss Lady , I mouthed.
    He looked away quickly. “What was that? Oh. Certainly. I’ll finish up tonight. Of course. Goodbye.”
    He returned his phone to his jacket pocket. With a roof over his head, he was in a better mood. In fact, he was in a damn fine mood considering.
    â€œMarisa giving you trouble?” I said.
    He shook his head. “No. She is a bit…baffled, however. She says you’re cursed. Her word. She says I should get a voodoo charm to protect myself.”
    â€œShe’s so sweet.” I sat on the bench and patted the hard wood. “Sit.”
    â€œI’d rather—”
    â€œSit.”
    He sat. The rain-spackled Armani was a little worse for wear, but Trey himself was cool and collected. Not a single hint of hypervigilant paranoia, powder-keg frustration, or control freak shutdown. His expression was placid, no sign of the worrywart wrinkle between his eyes.
    I frowned. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYes. Why do you ask?”
    â€œBecause we’re trapped in the hinterlands, waiting on cops to quiz us. Because there have been shotguns and tornadoes and grumpy old men, and there’s no good cell phone coverage and Marisa is annoyed and—oh, yeah—there’s this skull . And you have yet to deliver a single grumpy I-told-you-so speech about any of it.”
    â€œWhy would I? You were asked to help, and you said yes. The complications arising from that decision