WILLIAM PLAITHE WAS indeed dead. The hotel manager was arranged tidily on top of a grave site, his long limbs settled as if he were laid in a coffin. His dusty, brown hair was still slicked back into its immobile, plastic-like coif, making him look as if he’d risen right out of the grave below where he lay.
Brita illuminated the weathered limestone above his head with the flashlight beam and read the inscription. “Joshua Hellsworth, Beloved husband of Cyndi.” She glanced at Detective Tim Ward, Hell’s borrowed plain clothes detective, “You know anything about this guy?” She swung the light over the headstone again to indicate she meant the buried dead guy rather than the super terra one.
Ward’s easy smile flashed, his gaze never leaving her face as he nodded. “Everyone around here knows a
