Grave Secret by Charlaine Harris Page A

boots, and jackets. Lizzie had slicked her hair back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, while Katie’s was loose and bouncy. Between necklaces, earrings, and rings, I figured they each were wearing a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry. (After a subsequent trip to a mall store, I revised that figure upward.)
    Katie’s eyes were avid as she examined Tolliver. She wasn’t so enthusiastic about our paraphernalia: our clothes, his crossword puzzle book, the open laptop, his shoes put neatly by his suitcase.
    “Hello, Ms. Joyce,” I said, trying to inject my voice with some warmth. “What can I do for you?”
    “You can tell me again what you saw when you stood on Mariah Parish’s grave.”
    It took me a second to recall. “Your father’s caregiver,” I said. “The one who had the childbirth problems. The infection.”
    “Yeah, why’d you say that? She had complications after her appendectomy,” Lizzie said. She was issuing a very low-level challenge.
    Oh, for goodness’ sake. This was hardly my fight. “If that’s what you’re calling it, okay,” I said. It made no difference to me. Mariah Parish wasn’t the one I’d been paid to read, anyway.
    “That’s what happened, ” Katie said.
    I shrugged. “All right.”
    “What the hell do you mean, ‘all right’? She either did or she didn’t.” The Joyce sisters were not going to let go of this bone.
    “Believe what you want to believe. I already told you what she died of.”
    “She was a good woman. Why would you make that up?”
    “Exactly. Why would I make that up?” And what was wrong with a woman having gone through childbirth?
    “So who was the father?” Lizzie asked, as abruptly as she’d asked about the death.
    “I have no idea.”
    “Then . . .” Lizzie floundered to a halt. She was a woman who wasn’t used to floundering. She didn’t like it. “Why’d you say it?”
    I really had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “I said it because I saw it, and you wanted me to find your grandfather’s grave myself,” I said, with fabulous diction. “To give you your money’s worth, I went from grave to grave, as you obviously wanted me to.”
    “Everything else you said was right,” Katie said.
    “I know.” Had they expected me to be surprised at my own accuracy?
    “So why’d you make up that one?”
    If they hadn’t been so agitated, this would have been boring. My leg hurt, and I wanted to sit down. But I didn’t want to invite them to, so I felt obliged to remain standing. “I didn’t. Believe me or not. I don’t give a damn.”
    “But where’s the baby?”
    “How should I know?” I’d reached the end of my patience.
    “Ladies,” Tolliver said, just in the nick of time, “my sister finds the dead. The baby was not in the grave she scanned. Either the baby is alive or it’s buried somewhere else. Or it might have been miscarried.”
    “But if the baby was my granddad’s, that baby inherits some of what he left,” Lizzie said, and suddenly their agitation became understandable.
    To hell with them. I sank down on the bed, stretching out my aching leg. “Please have a seat,” I said. “Do you want a Coke or a 7-Up?”
    Tollilver sat by me so the sisters could have the two room chairs. They accepted a drink apiece, and though Katie kept looking at the laptop to see what Tolliver had been up to, they both seemed calmer and less accusatory, which was a relief to me.
    “Neither of us had any idea Mariah was pregnant,” Lizzie said. “That’s why we’re so shocked. And we didn’t realize she was dating anyone. She and my grandfather were pretty good friends, and we’re imagining that maybe that became something else. Maybe not. We need to know. Aside from the legal and financial considerations, we owe any child who might be a member of the Joyce family . . . We want to meet that kid. Can I smoke?”
    “No, sorry,” Tolliver said.
    “The baby must be alive somewhere; there must be some