Free Grave Endings by Rochelle Krich

With the funeral two days away, Creeley might not be in the mood to talk. But phoning ahead would ruin the element of surprise that is often vital in an interview. And what if Creeley, forewarned,
never
wanted to talk to me?
    Wiping off the bird doo and lipstick with a towelette from the stash of emergency supplies my dad had stored in my trunk, I considered. Then I dialed Creeley’s number on my cell phone, introduced myself as a reporter to the woman who answered, and asked to speak to Roland Creeley.
    â€œI’m
Mrs.
Creeley,” she said. “What’s this about?”
    She was clearly the keeper of the gate. “I heard about Randy’s death, and I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Creeley. I know this is a hard time, but if it’s possible, I’d like to talk to you and your husband about Randy.”
    â€œIf this is about the dead girl, we don’t know anything.” She had the put-upon tone I use with telemarketers just before I hang up.
    â€œThe police are saying Randy’s responsible, but I’m not so sure,” I said quickly. “I have some questions.”
    â€œWell, we’re not interested in talking to anyone.”
    â€œTalk to who?” I heard a man ask. “Who is that, Alice?”
    â€œHold on,” Alice Creeley told me, annoyed again— either with me or with the man, who I assumed was her husband.
    After half a minute or so of muffled conversation he came on the line.
    â€œYou’re with the
Times,
right?” He sounded eager and pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t think they’d get back to me. I asked them to check into my son’s death. The police say Randy overdosed on drugs, but I don’t believe it.”
    I felt a flutter of excitement, but I told myself that like many parents, Creeley was probably in denial about his son. “I’m not on the
Times
staff,” I admitted, “but I freelance for them and several other papers.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œAnd I’ve investigated crimes. I write a weekly crime column and books about true crimes.” I mentioned
Out
of the Ashes.
    â€œNever heard of it. I don’t read all that much. When I do, it’s mostly magazines. So how’d you hear about Randy? What’s your interest in him?” Suspicion had sharpened his voice and raised it a notch.
    â€œFrom the police.” I repeated what I’d told his wife. “I’d like to hear why you think your son didn’t overdose.”
    â€œAnd you want to check into his death? The police aren’t going to, they said as much,” he told me again with some anger.
    â€œYes.”
    I took the silence that followed as a good sign.
    â€œWell, if you want to come tomorrow morning, fine,” Creeley said, his lack of enthusiasm indicating that he was settling.
    â€œI can do that. Or I can come now, or this evening.” I’d have to postpone the florist, but I was eager to talk to Creeley and worried that between now and tomorrow morning he’d change his mind or have it changed for him by his wife. Or what if a
Times
reporter
did
call?
    â€œTonight’s no good. I have to clear out Randy’s apartment, pick up his car. And as soon as I hang up I’m leaving for the funeral parlor to finish the arrangements. They want us to pick flowers. Like Randy’s gonna see the flowers, like he gives a damn. Vultures.” Creeley grunted. “What’s your name, by the way?”
    â€œMolly Blume.”
    â€œI know that name. Is that the name you write under?”
    â€œNo. You’re probably thinking about the fictional character. James Joyce’s
Ulysses
?”
    Throughout most of my adult life I’ve been teased about my name (most frequently, by Connors). I blame my mother, who teaches high school English and should have known better, but teasing aside, and though I’d practiced writing
Molly Abrams
in countless high school notebooks, my name