Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

door handle and pushed the passenger door open. “Did you hear me, Rosie? I just offered you a ride.”
“I’m waiting for my mother,” I said.
“She ain’t coming,” he said.
“I meant my foster mother.”
“She ain’t coming neither.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“Cuz the hearin ended like four hours ago. If your mother was coming to get you, she would have come by now. I certainly woulda.”
“She’s late, that’s all.”
“C’mon Rosie, get in. It’s cold and it’s too far to walk. I ain’t no kidnapper, and I ain’t no killer neither.”
I stared at the open door.
“If I wanted to kidnap you, I could have done it years ago when you lived upstairs.”
True, I thought. And then, against everything in the universe telling me not to, I climbed in.
I clutched my book, my knuckles white, and watched the road signs intently, hoping we were headed back to Coral Bay and not to some remote cabin in the woods with chainsaws used as wall decorations.
How stupid was I?
The whole ride, the Apache took the potholes like a champ. Even though I was sitting on the edge of the seat, the white vinyl seam cutting into the underside of my thighs, my feet couldn’t touch the floor. Under my sneakers, an empty liquor bottle with a penny inside kept rolling around and rattling like a half-empty bottle of aspirin.
If I made it out of this alive, I would never hitchhike again. I swore it on my own grave.
“Relax, we’re almost there,” Hardgrave said. He kept his right hand on the wheel, his left elbow on the door. “You got a raw deal today. I don’t like the way that lawyer treated you, to be honest. I used to be in the military myself and lemme tell you, them JAG boys ain’t the real Navy. You ain’t the real Navy until you done yer drown-proofing. That’s what we call it when you gotta tread water and make a life vest out of your own pants. Sure, that Flint fellow’s got enough hot air to blow up his trousers, but when the sharks come nibbling, he would start sinking.”
I nodded, pretending to listen. Up ahead, was the sign for Dark Haven, the parade of red lobsters following each other around the trim, their antennae to telson like elephants in a circus grabbing each other’s tails.
“What was your sister’s name again?”
“Chrissy,” I said.
“And you said she ran into the woods and disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t see nothing?”
“Only that skeevy lighthouse keeper.”
“No cars or nothing?”
“A flash of light, that’s all. Like I said on the stand. Why do you care?”
“I’m just wondering. It’s awful strange.”
“What’s awful strange?”
“That you didn’t see nothing else.”
We drove past the shops on Main Street, past the harbor. At the intersection with Maple Street, he made a left. Then at the top of the hill, he made another left onto Pine Street.
“How’d you know where I live?”
He cleared his throat, coughed, and jiggled his Adam’s apple with two fingers. “You said in your testimony that Robert Slate is your foster father. All the fat cats live on Pine Street,” he said. He pointed to the big yellow Federal. “Lemme guess, that one’s yours, the one painted gold?”
“Yes,” I said and reached for the door handle.
“Hold up now, Rosie. Lemme stop the truck first. You’ll get your legs run over.”
He pulled the truck up to the curb. The truck had barely stopped moving when I threw open the passenger door and jumped out.
I ran straight for the front door.
“Hold up!” Hardgrave shouted. “Ain’t you gonna thank me?”
“Thank you!” I said.
“What about a hug? Is that too much to ask for?”
I kept running.
“Fine, no hug,” he muttered.
The upstairs windows were yellow with light and the Mercedes was still lounging in the driveway, the garage lights reflecting sharply along its lazy curves.
My fear of being kidnapped had used up so much energy that I had forgotten my animosity toward Amy. But as soon as I was safely on the front porch, the anger came roaring back.
I threw open the heavy door and marched into the foyer.
“Mother, where were you? I had to risk my life with a creepy kidnapper!”
But Amy wasn’t there. Instead, Robert was sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands. A vase was broken, the shards scattered all over the marble floor. Among the broken pieces, was a stick with a bubble of golden resin on the end. Frozen in the amber bubble was a prehistoric flower. I called it the lollipop fossil. According to their story, after only dating for two weeks, Robert had taken Amy on a week-long trip to London. He had seen the preserved flower in the gift shop at the British Museum and bought it for her.
If you live with me, you’ll stay young and perfect until the end of days, he had said.
I’m pretty sure Count Dracula had said the same thing.
My foster father looked up and dragged his fingers down his cheeks. His skin didn’t snap back immediately, but left long grooves beneath his eyes.
I braced myself for a lecture about taking rides from strangers.
“Where were you?” Robert said.
“At the hearing. Remember? I waited at the courthouse for four hours. Amy never came to get me.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Well she sure as heck didn’t act like a mother tonight. Where is she? I want to yell at her myself.”
“I don’t know,” Robert said quietly. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Did you hear what I said? I had to take a ride home from a stranger. I could have been killed. Like Chrissy.”
“Good for you,” he mumbled.
“What? What kind of a parent are you?”
“Watch your mouth,” he said half-heartedly.
“Where did Amy go? Is she upstairs? Is she drunk again?”
Robert Slate gritted his teeth. “I said I don’t know.”
“If I had a cellphone, I could have called. You let Chrissy have a cellphone.”
“And look what good it did her.”
I sniffled. “Look, my nose is as red as Rudolph’s. I’ll probably get sick and have to miss a