Free The mummy case by J.R. Rain Page B

populated with black oak trees. There were no tombstones in this cemetery; rather, brass nameplates embedded in the grass. Those who cared did not allow the grass to overgrow the nameplate. I was one of those who cared.
    I wondered if ghosts haunted the cemetery. If so, I wondered how many were now watching the Mustang and the drunken man inside and if they remembered what it was like to get drunk. I wondered if I really believed in ghosts.
    On this night, with the full moon shining overhead, with too much alcohol coursing through my veins, it was easy to believe in ghosts.
    I drank from a warm can of beer nestled between my legs. The beer tasted horrible.
    The glass inside my car was steaming over. My leather seats were cold to the touch. I was sweating, could feel it collecting above my brow. Soon it would roll down my cheeks and nose. I always sweat when I drink too much. Not sure why. Maybe it excites me.
    I finished the beer and crumpled it in my hand. I picked up the bouquet of flowers from the seat next to me and stepped out of the Mustang. The cool night air felt heavenly against my hot skin. A soft breeze swept through the graveyard, rustling the branches of the many trees. That is, I hoped it was a breeze, and not some poor lost soul.
    Using one hand to pivot, I jumped the low fence, kicking my legs up and over.
    On the other side, I staggered down the grassy slope, crossing over the final resting places of the dead, mumbling drunken apologies, until I stopped in front of a familiar nameplate near a small oak tree.
    I stared down in numbed silence.
    The brass plate glistened in the residual city light.
    Today was November 2nd, my mother’s birthday.
    There were no flowers on her grave, of course, for she had no family and no friends, other than me. I set the bouquet across the grave, in the area of her chest and her clasped hands
    I closed my eyes and saw my mother as I always remembered her: beautiful and radiant, smiling warmly down at me, alive and healthy. I imagined her taking the flowers from me and kissing me on the cheek, then holding me at arm’s length, cocking her head.
    “ Thank you, Jimmy, they’re beautiful.”
    I opened my eyes. The cemetery was empty. The grass looked black, and my mother’s nameplate was hidden now in a blur of tears. She was down there somewhere, beneath my feet. The woman who loved me with all her heart.
    “ Happy birthday, ma.”
     
     
    Chapter Twenty-five
     
     
    Parents of the deceased are always difficult calls, and this one was no different. Over the phone, I explained to Edna Clarke, Willie’s mother, who I was. She was confused at first, but eventually agreed to meet with me.
    An hour later, I parked in front of a stylish Tudor revival in the Fullerton Hills. I turned my wheels into the curb, as any good car owner should.
    At the door, I knocked firmly. As I waited, I admired the door. Cut glass, brass trim, heavy oak. Hell, my knuckles were still smarting from the firm knock.
    Footsteps creaked. A murky figure appeared in the opaque glass. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. An elderly woman smiled at me. She was wearing reading glasses. Behind the narrow glasses, her amplified eyes were red. I smiled back. She asked if I was Jim Knighthorse and I said the one and only. She invited me in, and in I went.
    I followed her into a living room bigger than my apartment, and we sat across from each other on red leather sofas. A mohair throw rug connected the two couches. Behind me was a black Steinway piano.
    “ Would you like something to drink, Mr. Knighthorse?”
    “ No thank you, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”
    She nodded. Her eyes were dull. She didn’t gesture. She just sat there with her hands clasped in her considerable lap. Was probably a hell of a comfortable lap.
    “ First off, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I know it’s difficult. I’ve dealt, and am still dealing with, a family loss of my own.”
    The dullness in her eyes