Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

I knew this was going to happen. Robert had insisted he was too busy to pick me up and delegated the job to his lazy wife. She would be label-deep in bottle of Merlot and forget about me. If only he had let me have a cellphone, I could have called her.
The moment that stupid Mercedes rolled up to the curb, I was going to let her have it:
Gee, MOM, if I should even call you that, were you too busy putting on your fake lashes and powdering the broken blood vessels in your cheeks to remember your familial obligation?
Did you see some rich guy walking down the street and decide to go for cocktails?
What time does the bus come by here? What’s that? Never? Oh, that’s right, I rely on you to keep me safe from kidnappers and rapists.
Thanks to the grilling I had gotten on the witness stand a few hours ago, I was absolutely seething. Other than Charlie Margin, the creepy hunchback, none of the lawyers in Robert’s firm had come to the testimony to support me. My foster father worked all day so I suppose he was off the hook, but not his wife. She had no excuses. She spent more time drinking mimosas and going online shopping than looking out for me.
I could have used the support when Mr. Flint, the JAG Corps lawyer, totally humiliated me in an attempt to discredit my story. Mr. Eldritch, the lighthouse keeper whom I had accused of killing Chrissy had somehow managed to pack the gallery with fan boys. He had probably broken into their houses and stood over their beds with a harpoon and demanded their fealty.
But me? I had no one sitting in my corner of the gallery to support me, no one but J.R.R. Tolkien.
And he was long dead.
I clenched the ancient copy of The Hobbit that my real mother had bought me. If I had taken Mr. Flint up on his offer to give me a ride, I could have been home by now.
Provided, of course, he didn’t throw me off the cliff for outsmarting him.
Down the street, two pricks of white light grew larger and larger. They were coming toward the courthouse. Finally. Sheesh. I headed for the curb, the lights from the courthouse behind me making my shadow on the concrete look freakish, my shoulders so wide from swimming lessons that I looked like a dwarf with a yoke on her neck.
I wasn’t a naturally vicious person, but I had to let Robert’s wife know how mad I was. I couldn’t just settle into those leather seats and pretend her lack of parental instinct hadn’t punched me in the uterus.
So you finally remembered your poor foster daughter? What happened? Did you realize you might have to take out the trash by yourself tonight?
But instead of a black Mercedes, a turquoise pickup truck drew near. The truck was so clean, it looked as if it had driven off the set of Singin’ in the Rain. It was mean and manly, but curvy and spotless, as if it had spent more time in the garage than on the unforgiving streets of Maine. Its license plate had the typical picture of a lobster and a harbor, but someone had painted the bug yellow, the letters reading GOLDBUG.
My heart slithered down my leg and plopped into my heel. A great pressure welled up inside my face.
My foster mother had completely abandoned me.
The driver leaned across the passenger seat and rolled down his window. “You’re still here?”
I wiped my eyes. He had hard cheekbones, a bony brow, and his eyes looked like open manholes in the dark. A fat pink scar divided his forehead into distinct halves. He was wearing a white, long-sleeve henley, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms thicker than sewer pipes. He was probably in his early forties and had a heavy, red beard. If the truck hadn’t been so pristine, I would have assumed he was one of the roughnecks who worked on the pier.
Peter Hardgrave. He owned the bar downstairs from the apartment where my real mom and I used to live.
“Tough break, Rosie. I was at the hearing earlier. I listened to your testimony.”
When I was sitting in the witness stand, I had kept my eyes on Mrs. Waldenflower, the prosecutor. She had warned me not to look at the audience, or else I might feel rattled. I tried to remember if I had seen this particular man, but I couldn’t picture him.
“You remember my name?”
“Of course,” Hardgrave said. “You used to live upstairs. I knew your mother well.”
“Were you there to support old-man Eldritch?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
“He kidnapped my sister.”
“Take it easy. I’m familiar with the allegations. I just came to get my fishin license renewed. I walked past the courtroom, saw that something interesting was goin on, and popped in. I thought you handled yourself well. I thought to myself, now there’s a girl who can take care of herself.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But it didn’t feel that way.”
“What book are you holdin there?”
“Tolkien.”
“Ah yes. The Hobbit. I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Nothing. Listen, I’m headed back to Dark Haven. Do you need a ride?”
I remembered my real mother’s advice: You’re a pretty girl and you should never, ever, take rides from strangers. That same advice had gotten truncated after moving to Dark Haven, and my mother had said, Don’t take rides from any of these perverts.
Hardgrave didn’t look like a pervert, at least not in that shiny truck. He looked more like an ex soldier who had been living in the woods for fifteen years to hide from the government. In all the movies, kidnappers drove sketchy white vans. Hardgrave looked more like Quint in Jaws, if Quint had spent a decade doing pushups in a jungle prison in Vietnam and dyed his beard red.
Besides, if Hardgrave happened to kidnap me, then my foster mother would feel really bad. As if she hadn’t learned a lesson from Chrissy’s disappearance.
Hardgrave popped the