Final Grave

By Nadja Bernitt

Siesta Key's Detective Meri Ann Fehr's mother disappeared fifteen years before she receives a troubling call from an Idaho detective. He believes he's found the missing woman's jewelry lying beside skeletal remains on a high plateau on the outskirts of Boise. Eager to end years of uncertainty and to jump-start the cold case, Meri Ann flies west. The Basque detective handling the case would rather she stay in sunny Florida--not so the killer Her arrival sets in motion a horrific, calculated plan.

Final Grave keeps the reader guessing right up to the final sentence. A chilling who done it.

JB Hamilton Queen -author of Imminent Reprisal and Masters of the Breed

Bernitts deft touch with detail put the reader firmly in the great northwest, where her characters jump to life. Myriad plot twists make this a page turner.

Madonna Dries Christensen - author of
Masquerade: The Swindler Who Conned J.Edgar Hoover

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462075942

Nadja Bernitt

Nadja Bernitt holds a master’s degree in English from the State University of New York at Stony Brook where she also taught fiction writing. She has won numerous awards for her short stories, memoirs, and mysteries, including Final Grave, a finalist in St. Martin’s Press, Malice Domestic contest. She lives in Sarasota, Florida, works for the Sarasota Sheriff ’s Office and enjoys traveling with her husband.

Book preview

Prologue

Boise, Idaho—November 3, 1987

Joanna Dunlap’s grocery cart steered like a wayward crab, fighting her every step as she made her way to the far end of the parking lot. She had stayed at the office too long and the ominous look of the sky promised another delay. In minutes snow would fall, backing up traffic and making her later than she already was.

One row over, a black Toyota pickup cruised parallel to her, the same one she’d seen on her way inside. Who could forget the rear window gun rack and over-sized tires? Now here were the same two boys, full of themselves with wheels to prove it.

The pickup swung into line behind her. Its music system pounded out Bruce Springstein’s Brilliant Disguise. The powerful bass grew closer until it vibrated the pavement beneath her.

The truck pulled alongside and a punk in the passenger seat mashed his lips against the glass in a juvenile window kiss. He couldn’t be but a few years older than her fourteen-year-old daughter but light years younger in mental age.

Her husband’s prized Jeep was twenty yards ahead. To please him she always parked in the back to avoid dings. But there was no pleasing John these days, not with him still out of work. She tightened her grip on the grocery cart’s handle and picked up the pace.

So did the truck.

It swerved closer then lurched to a stop, the tractor tread tires barely a foot from her stack-heeled boots. She caught herself from hitting the fender but the jolt knocked the paper bags onto their sides. The milk carton and a jumble of canned goods slammed into the bag of tomatoes and lettuce.

Damn it.

The truck’s passenger-side window lowered. Music blared. A wisp of sweet, organic smoke wafted out. The boy’s eyes looked glassy.

Some fine bitch, he said, how about some fun? The door handle clicked, ready to open.

She had no idea what he meant to do, but positioned her cart to ram him if she had to.

A horn blasted. Joanna jerked toward the sound. A familiar red Jeep was parked beside hers, two years older but the same blood red. She called out, loudly.

Despite the music, the boys heard the horn, too. Their pickup veered away.

What timing, she thought, watching him exit the Jeep and lean against its grille. In his navy down parka and gloves, he resembled a big dark snowman. He smiled.

You’re a welcome sight, she said when she got closer.

Did those creeps bother you? he asked.

Not really, but they could’ve run over my foot.

He chuckled and nodded.

She was once again aware of the time and her tight schedule. What are you doing here?

I saw you. That pickup.

And you came to my rescue? She shook her head at his obvious gallantry, the notion that she might need help.

The wind subsided and snowflakes fluttered down. Icy crystals stuck like glitter to the boughs of a white pine, hanging over the Jeeps. No way she’d get home before the sky opened.

Well, she said, Thanks for stopping, but I don’t want to keep you.

He extended his hand and tugged at a lock of her hair. Silk mahogany.

Not quite. She pushed her hair from her shoulders, aware it must look a mess. Meri Ann’s waiting at the gym. Basketball practice. It’s almost six, and I promised I wouldn’t be late. She checked her watch, hoping he’d get the message, but he just stood there. His presence was like a wall.

Let me help you.

It’s fine, really. She reached for the toppled milk carton, but he nudged her aside and took over the task.

I’ve got it. He motioned for her to unlock her back door.

She unlocked it, her impatience growing as he placed the bags of groceries on the floorboard.

He turned around, slowly. Joanna… .

Her name hung in the air, and she knew he wanted to say something else. She closed the door. Thanks, really. Wish I weren’t so pressed for time. She gave him the I’ve-got-to-go smile.

I’ve got that kitten for Meri Ann.

Joanna’s frustration built as she contemplated the myriad responsibilities of owning a pet. You remembered, she said, but without enthusiasm.

I listen to you, but you’ve never listened to me. Not really. He sounded angry and hurt all at once.

She’d never known how to read him, even with all the extra hours spent on his projects. Most of the time, he made her laugh with his antics or wowed her with his talent. But lately he flew off the handle over even the vaguest inequity. She shook her head in exasperation.

If only you’d said something earlier. I’m on a tear. Can you bring the kitten over later? Please help me out.

A snowflake stuck to his eyebrow, and he brushed it away. His movement was tight, the set of his jaw even tighter.

Is something wrong?

It’s just that I’ve gone out of my way to get this kitten. Now what am I supposed to do with it? I’m spending the weekend at the cabin and late getting up there. He pointed to his Jeep. Come on, Joanna. It’s in the back."

She rolled her eyes and gave him half a smile. I give up. Reluctantly she followed him to his Jeep’s tailgate. She shivered and rubbed her arms. Her designer jacket with the oversized shoulder pads offered little protection against the weather. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thinking of Meri Ann waiting in the same bitter cold. Feelings of guilt swept over her and she tried to reason them away. If only I weren’t running late . . . .

It’s nice of you to do this. She moved closer. Is it a tabby or—?

Gray.

Meri Ann adores the gray ones. I hope it’s in a box.

Yup. He fumbled with his keys. His hands were big, bigger still in his black leather gloves.

The lock clicked open. Joanna bent down. She stretched out her hands in case the kitten jumped out. The hatch inched up. She strained to see. But there was no box… no kitten.

He flew against her, knocked her off balance. His fingers bit into her arms. She reeled in confusion, struggled against him. But he was too strong. She screamed, but there was no one near enough to hear her.

His breath hissed on the back of her neck. Be calm. I’ll never hurt you. I have a place for you.

Chapter One

Fifteen years later,

the West Coast of Florida

Siesta Key’s mid-November sun bounced off the hood of Detective Meri Ann Fehr’s slate-gray unmarked, making it hard to see the man who jogged out from between two cars. She quickly hit the brakes to avoid hitting him.

The tourists were out in force on the Key: Europeans, Canadians and Floridians too. They came for the sugar-fine sand said to be the whitest in the world. They strolled along the beach or lay on it and soaked in the sun. Even the shy ones visited with the village shop keepers as they paid their bills and said hello to passing strangers. Drugs existed and drunks and theft; but for the most part visitors and locals drove below the speed limit, rode their bikes on the correct side of the road. They sat in bars and listened to Jimmy Buffet tunes or ate fried oysters, shrimp and grouper sandwiches served at the many colorful restaurants. It was a great place to escape the cold, a great place to escape from anything. Meri Ann understood the need to escape.

Fifteen years ago she and her father had fled their western roots and found sanctuary here; so long ago she seldom dwelled on the reason—certainly not today with good news moments away. She swung down Avenida Navarra, heading home to pick up the newly printed program brochures for her boss. He’d want to see them and what she’d accomplished in only a week’s time.

Her two-bedroom cottage was mid-way down the usually peaceful street, but the moment she spotted the familiar Dodge Charger backed into her driveway, she knew she was in for trouble—that and the broad-shouldered man at the side of the house about to lift her kayak from its cradle. The hackles on the back of her neck rose.

She got out of the car and strode to where he stood. What do you think you’re doing?

Her soon-to-be ex husband spun around to face her. His corn-flower blue eyes were intense, and his muscular frame as sturdy as a Viking warrior’s. No sign of the poet or the wannabe Thoreau inside him and no sign of guilt.

Did you get my message? he asked matter-of-factly.

She nodded. I’ve signed the papers. I’ll mail them tomorrow.

He just stood there.

Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go, she said, I’m on my way to meet with my boss.

On a weekend. He sneered. Always chasing the next promotion.

Her work had always been a rock in his shoe. She took two steps closer to him. You’ve got no business here at the house.

I’ll need the Dagger, he said.

You want my kayak?

It’s mine, he said.

Already he’d forgotten their agreement. You got the Grady White, she reminded him. For God’s sake you’re out on the water five days a week.

So? You kept the house, a great little bungalow here on the Key, he said.

It’s my father’s, Ron. That wasn’t part of the settlement.

Don’t forget, I carried the mortgage for how many years?

She glared. We were married, weren’t we?

I didn’t mean—it’s just I promised Debbie we’d get away for an overnight. I haven’t had a day off in months. She’s been sitting home while I hustle charter groups. I gave my word.

Your word, she said. Get off my property.

# # #

Meri Ann strode into the Criminal Justice Building in downtown Sarasota, using her pass key to bypass security. Still the deputy beside the metal detector blocked her way. Hold it right there, deputy. Answer me this, when you go to Hollywood will you still remember the little people?

She smoothed back her chin-length auburn hair. Only the annoying ones like you, Larry. They won’t get autographs.

This week she had taken a lot of ribbing. At least on Sunday no one else was around to join in the teasing. She stepped inside the elevator and pushed the third floor button for Criminal Investigation Bureau, CIB. She stepped out into an empty vestibule and corridor. The weekend silence felt eerie as she made her way to Lieutenant Joe Pitelli’s office. She knocked on his open door.

He motioned her to enter. He didn’t so much look at her as at the brochures in her hand. The deep wrinkles at the edges of his brown eyes crinkled in delight. You got them back from the printer already?

Yesterday. She handed them to him and sat in a roller chair facing him.

These look great. I like the cover with the big guy on the mat and you standing over him. You flip him or did he just fall down?

It’s a picture, Pitelli. But trust me I know how.

Just kidding, Fehr. Chill out. I’m serious, you look tense. That ex-husband of yours still giving you grief? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I see it. Tell him to go fuck himself.

She smiled, feeling her chest muscles relax. Basically, I think I just did. He wanted to borrow my kayak for a weekend-get-away with his child sweetheart. He bought me that kayak instead of an engagement ring.

Seven years of her life wasted on a man who dumped her for a nineteen-year-old named Debbie—adoring Debbie who spoke in a high school sing-song and chewed five sticks of gum at once. And still it hurt. I’m mailing the papers tomorrow. It’s over with.

Sometimes over is good. Pitelli set the brochures to the side of his desk. About last week’s news clip on Channel Eight. Did you know it went national?

You’re kidding?

I am not. The Sheriff told me his ma saw it in Chicago. Your self-defense class is now our man’s pride and joy. Forget there was no money to fund it last week. You’ll get a commendation and an invitation to the Governor’s conference on law enforcement…

Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the calling number.

Sorry, she mumbled, knowing her boss’s aversion to cellular phones. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off the 2-0-8 area code and the Ada County tag. She tentatively held her finger on the talk button. She was both afraid to push it and afraid not to. I’ve got to take this. It’s from Idaho.

This is Meri Ann Fehr, she said tentatively.

Detective Jack Mendiola; Ada County Sheriff’s Office.

Mendiola. The Basque name and his thick western accent took her back to high school in a split-second lapse. Then she focused. He was an Idaho cop and she knew without doubt the one reason for his call. Her heart hammered against her ribcage. She held one hand to her breast as though that might stop the pounding. Yes.

I’m sorry to bother you ma’am, but the director at your dad’s nursing home gave me this number. I hope you don’t mind.

Of course not. My father has Alzheimer’s. You’ll have to talk to me. Her voice broke. Have you found my mother?

Pitelli muttered Jesus, as if it were a prayer.

Can’t say just yet. The remains showed up east of Boise, on Table Rock.

She visualized the high, barren plateau topped with a sixty-foot neon cross—a place frequented by rattlesnakes more often than humans. Do you know how she died? Did she fall? Her voice cracked. Was she murdered?

We can’t say. The remains were found near the cross by two joggers who reported it a week ago Thursday. Said it wasn’t there Wednesday. Just bones, a gold bracelet, and some fabric. The bracelet matched the description in the missing person’s report in your mom’s file, so we thought it might be her. I’ll fax a photo of the bracelet for identification.

It’s got to be my mother.

Possibly, but we’ll need samples of your mother’s hair for the State Pathologist. He’s wanting to send a section of bone for mitochondrial DNA testing. We need a blood sample from you for comparison.

I don’t understand.

It’s helpful in cases with massive decomposition.

I’m aware of mitochondrial testing. I’m a detective with the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department. My question is why bother with complex identity tests when you can use dental records?

He cleared his throat, lowered his voice. Not gonna work for us. You see, ma’am, the skull is missing.

Without the skull, the cause of death might never be known. Suddenly, she felt the distance between her and those bones which had to be the last remains of her mother. She gathered her strength and tightened her grip on the cellular. Don’t bother to fax the evidence photo. I’m coming to Boise.

Pitelli had remained calm and sympathetic during the conversation until she declared her intent to leave Sarasota. At that point, he adamantly shook his head. He held up his hands, signing for a time out. But Meri Ann didn’t care what he wanted or what anyone else wanted for that matter. She took down Mendiola’s contact information and switched off the phone.

She explained where the remains were found and about the DNA. Nothing but bones, her bracelet and some fabric from the skirt she wore on the day she went missing. There’s no skull.

His jaw tightened, and she saw signs of anger and disgust in his expression. It’s rough, Fehr, he said after several seconds. Some scabby weirdo doing that. But re-think this going out west. And it’s not just my agenda I’m thinking of. The cops working the case might see it as interference.

I’m not going to step on their toes.

Pitelli rolled his eyes and laughed under his breath. Yeah, right.

I can’t not be there. You don’t know what it’s been like all these years, wondering what happened to her. She struggled to control her emotions, to organize her thoughts. I could give my DNA in person, talk to the detective and the forensics folks. It would save time and ease my mind. I have a good friend I can stay with. My aunt is there too. She took a deep breath, noting Pitelli’s reddening face.

You came into this department six months ago. You sat in that chair you’re sitting in now and told me you wanted to work homicides. I said it takes time to pay your dues. A miracle happens: you hit the lottery and become the departmental poster girl. The sheriff is the man who can make it happen two, maybe three years faster than I could. And now you want to throw a wrench in the momentum.

It was true. To solve homicides was her dream. And she knew opportunities such as this one seldom came about. And yet she wanted it all and felt she could pull it off. When is the meeting?

Thursday afternoon.

She counted on her fingers, four days away. And the Governor’s conference is ten days after that?

Pitelli’s jaw muscles tightened and he took a deep breath before he answered. You are not a visiting dignitary who can cancel a meeting on a whim. Well, not a whim, Fehr. I didn’t mean that. But the man needs a briefing. It’s key to his speech and your introduction. I was going to help you with it today.

She understood Pitelli’s distress. I know you were and I’m grateful. In a stronger tone she said, A face-to-face meeting makes a stronger impression on a detective working a case. I want them to work hard on this one.

Her boss shrugged his affirmation. Guess I can’t change your mind.

I will make the meeting, Pitelli. But to do that, I’m going to have to leave today.

# # #

Meri Ann made the travel arrangements in twenty minutes and packed in less time than that. But before leaving she swung by her father’s nursing home; because going back to Boise was as much for him as it was for her.

She pulled a chair next to her dad’s recliner in the Pine View nursing home. He sat beside a picture window, looking out on a lot thick with Florida slash pines and split-leaf philodendrons. It was a peaceful scene, but in his confusion there was no peace for him. He pawed at a crease in his twill slacks. Joanna, he said.

No, Dad, I’m Meri Ann.

She put a hand on his, threading her fingers through to calm the motion. She gave a squeeze and rose. How about we play some Frank Sinatra? She strode to the CD player and turned it on. The disc he liked was all ready in place. Sinatra crooned In the wee small hours of the morning . . . .

She yearned to tell him about the find on Table Rock, but the discovery would only further confuse him. Instead she stuck to what mattered in his world. The menu says they’re serving roast pork, gravy and mashed potatoes for dinner.

He nodded, his hand still smoothing the crease in his slacks. His deeply lined face turned up and his eyes met hers. It’s time your mother came home, he said.

He sounded as lucid as his nurse. Even his eyes seemed brighter for a few seconds. Meri Ann picked up his hand and kissed it, praying she could make his wish come true. Yes, she said. It’s time.

# # #

A red-winged hawk riding the thermals above Boise’s velvet-brown foothills caught his eye. A twelve gauge shotgun was hooked over his arm, though he didn’t intend to shoot bird. He and the hawk were one—hunters out for prey. He laughed, lifted his chin and cried to the hawk, You are my brother.

A growing sense of power filled him, a resurgence of control. He strode along the hill’s crest in a lofty mood. God provides. Hadn’t her face appeared to him in the midst of his darkest trial?

He looked down on north Boise’s grid of bustling roads—a city of trees growing naked. Only a scattering of yellow, red, brown, ocher leaves clung to the branches. The changing season triggered a pang deep inside, a painful wildness buried far too long. He contemplated the days to come, driven by a hunger as powerful as the keen-eyed hawk’s, or a bear’s at first frost. Yet he was ill prepared to stalk live quarry, older and now less agile. His skills needed honing, his plan fine tuning. This would be his last chance.

In anticipation his hand slid down to the soft leather pouch tied to his belt loop. His nostrils flared as he stuck his fingers inside and caressed the smooth metacarpals, the phalanges, the remnants of Joanna’s hands. He patted them, listening to the delicate clicking of bones, thinking of her.

Hurry, Meri Ann. Hurry.

Chapter Two

Idaho cold seeped through the accordion passageway, up Meri Ann’s pant legs, and through her light-weight jacket. The black carry-on roller bag thumped behind her, as it had through Atlanta’s, Denver’s, and Salt Lake City’s airports on the marathon hopscotch to Idaho. Now she was here, hurrying down the passageway with a throng of deplaning passengers in the city she’d never wanted to see again.

Ahead, she heard Becky squeal from somewhere in the crowd behind security. Her sturdy body bowled forward, a shocking red-haired Becky. She was heavier than the last time she’d seen her and seemed happier too. She wrapped her arms around Meri Ann and squeezed.

Meri Ann hugged back. Then she pulled just far enough away to look closely at her good friend. It’s been so long.

I know, kid. Sorry about your mom. How are you holding up?

I’m not thinking straight. I barely had time to rent a car and get up to Tampa. I left my cell phone in it when I dropped off. A brand new one, a Razr.

What, one of those skinny things? Who needs one anyway?

Becky disliked the new phone technology as much as her boss. The point is that it is so unlike me.

Okay, so you’re not holding up so well. Let’s get out of here. Nonetheless, Becky took time to point out the mural-sized Steve Bly posters of familiar landmarks.

Boise’s changed, kid. Get a load of the designer jeans and khakis. Everyone looks so upscale, sometimes I’d swear I’m in Seattle. Becky nodded in the direction of a poster of a local ski resort. Last time I skied Bogus Basin, the lift lines were as long as Sun Valley’s.

As Becky went on about the lift lines, Meri Ann happened to glance over her shoulder. And there amid another group of arrivals, she spotted a familiar face. A tall, middle-aged man with thinning hair was approaching her. He carried a tan parka on one arm and a cardboard tube under the other, the type architects and engineers use for drawings. Her heart did a flip-flop.

She shielded her mouth with her hand. Coming this way. Robin Wheatley, the engineer Mom worked for. I don’t want to talk to him.

Hell if it isn’t. Sumbitch.

He strode forward, his face cast down so that the comb grooves in his slicked-back hair were highlighted by the overhead fluorescent lights. The gap closed between them: twenty feet, ten feet, suddenly five feet. He lifted his head and looked right at her.

Memories of a spiteful argument in his office rushed back. Her mother had worked late that particular evening. Meri Ann and her father had picked her up. Her dad lost his temper, insisted she quit. He yanked her by the arm to hurry her out the door. Wheatley jumped to her rescue, knocking Dad against a desk. He’d fallen to the floor humiliated. And there was Wheatley standing above him, slicking back his perfect hair.

He stopped right in front of her. Meri Ann? Meri Ann Dunlap?

Yes. She didn’t bother adding Fehr.

I can’t believe it. I saw you on television last week. You… you’re the image of your mother. More so in person. Wheatley’s ears reddened. I knew you’d moved east with your father. Can’t say I blamed him wanting to make a fresh start. What a nightmare for him, for all of us. He shifted the parka draped over his arm, as though it had suddenly grown heavy. Back for a visit?

Seeing friends. Meri Ann forced herself to look him in the eye.

He turned to Becky. Have we met?

Yeah, Becky Schuster, she said. Meri Ann and I copied blueprints for you on your stinking ammonia machine a hundred years ago.

Oh, the old monster. Everything’s digital now. You wouldn’t recognize the place. Wheatley paused. Well, enjoy your stay. I’ve got to go; I’m meeting a client.

He and Meri Ann nodded cordially, but not Becky.

Come on, kid, my truck’s in short-term parking. Out of earshot, she said, I don’t like him. Never did, not even before he pushed your dad around that time. The old sanctimonious Mormon.

Actually, Mormon’s the best thing about him.

They made their way outside to the parking lot. The dry frigid air stung her cheeks and Florida’s Gulf of Mexico seemed worlds away. "It’s so strange, like I’ve been away forever and yet like I never left. Before we moved away, I’d lie in bed at night and rewrite my life. Dad kept his job and Mom stayed home instead of working for Wheatley. Everyone was happy and… and