Burial Plot (A Jonelle Sweet Mystery Book 1)

by R. Lanier Clemons

  Jonelle looked down at her scruffy jeans and orange and white sneakers. Fancy?

  “Listen,” she said, meeting Jorge’s eyes, “at this point, I don’t care about the mix-up with the bodies. I don’t care about who got paid what. All I care about is where my husband’s body is now and who’s the brains behind this.

  “Manross probably knew. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who operated in the dark. I know the two of you went out for drinks. In fact, you went to the same saloon my husband did. You sure you never met him? The bartender at that place said Del stood out.”

  “Lady, after bustin’ my ass all day here at the Rest, all I’m lookin’ at is the bottom of a Corona bottle.”

  “Fine. You say you didn’t know him, you didn’t know him. But I still want you to think back. After you and Manross had a few, he might’ve dropped a name, place, something!”

  Jorge sighed and pushed himself away from the building. His eyes wandered away from Jonelle and out into the night. “They shouldna’ done that to Manny. He was my frien’.” The gravedigger’s eyes watered.

  Jonelle struggled to come to grips with the man’s obvious grief over a lost friend and weigh that against the horror of what the men did.

  “I’m guessing you don’t think his death was an accident or he died of a heart attack or something.”

  Jorge responded with a short, bitter laugh.

  “Okay then, why? Why do you think someone killed Manross?”

  Jorge shrugged. “I dunno for sure. He tole me we was riskin’ too much for the amount a’ money we was gittin’.” Jorge squinted at Jonelle. “He said you was sniffin’ aroun’ too much, askin’ too many questions. So he was gonna demand more money.” Jorge’s voice trailed off.

  Jonelle rubbed the base of her neck. Exhaustion washed over her body. Her bones ached. The urge to lie down on the ground and close her eyes became an almost physical need.

  She thought again of the irony of how Manross met his fate. She glanced at Jorge. He looked as if he’d eaten a bad meal and was about to taste it all over again. She imagined him picturing his life ending the same as his friend Manny.

  “Think back, Jorge. Try to remember all the times you and Manross talked about what you were doing. In all that time he had to have mentioned the person behind all this by name.”

  Jorge slumped against the building. “Doc. Manny just referred to him as the doc,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 26

  After the meeting with Jorge, Jonelle raced home.

  Two cups of coffee later, a re-energized Jonelle collected the evidence and put everything in a large manila envelope. She wrote a note and stapled it to the outside of the package. The note explained what she knew so far and asked Detective Tankersley to call and set up a meeting. What had happened to Del was far more complicated, and dangerous, than she first imagined. She needed help.

  At the county police department, Jonelle clutched the manila envelope to her chest. She shifted impatiently from one foot to the other while she waited for the duty sergeant to finish his telephone conversation. The bullet-proof glass prevented her from hearing what he was saying, but judging by the smile on his face and the way he rested his chin in his hand, it appeared the phone call was personal. He acknowledged her presence with a nod and a raised finger to indicate he’d be with her in a minute.

  She turned, ignored the fabric-covered chairs in the lobby, and ambled over to a bulletin board and stared at the posted circulars. Thoughts in her mind tumbled around like loose socks in a dryer with the information Jorge had revealed that evening.

  I was wrong. I can’t handle this by myself, she thought.

  Finished with his conversation, the sergeant spoke into the metal disk in the glass. “Help you?”

  Jonelle walked over and stood in front of him.

  He pointed to the package in her arms, suspicion clouding his watery gray eyes. “What’s that?”

  “It’s just something I’d like to leave for Detective Gordon Tankersley. He’s a, uh, personal friend of the family.”

  “That so? Nobody told me anything about it, personally or otherwise.”

  She opened her mouth to reply but stopped when a voice called out to her.

  “Jonelle? Is that you?”

  She turned around and saw Detective Tankersley striding in her direction.

  “What are you doing here at…”—he checked his watch—“heck, it’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “I just stopped by to drop this off for you.” She held the envelope out to the detective. He took it. A puzzled look crossed his face.

  “Actually,” she said, “I didn’t expect you’d be here this late. I guess I should’ve waited to give this to you in the morning, but I couldn’t stand this stuff being in my house one minute longer. Although,” she stole a sideways glance at the duty sergeant, “trying to leave a package anywhere these days is stupid.”

  “Got that right, lady,” the sergeant muttered.

  She looked sheepishly at Tankersley. “Truth is, I was kinda hoping the note would break the ice on the strange story I have to tell and that you wouldn’t think I was a complete nut case.”

  “Hmm. I’m here late closing up a case and was just on my way home.”

  “Oh, please, don’t let me stop you. I can come back tomorrow.”

  Tankersley shook his head. “Not a problem. I can stay a few more minutes. My wife understands I’ll be burning the midnight oil these last few weeks before I retire. Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

  Jonelle followed the detective down a long narrow hallway. The industrial grade carpet, the same shade of brownish gray as the walls, muffled their footsteps. At the end was a doorway. Tankersley punched in a code and held the door open for her.

  She stood aside as he led the way, their footsteps treading softly on the metal stairs. At the second landing, Tankersley stopped at a door marked with a red “2”. He opened it and motioned for her to pass through.

  Inside, another passageway with a row of doors opening off another long hallway stretched out before her. The first door they approached had a small sign marked “Criminal Investigations Bureau.” Tankersley leaned forward into a square pad mounted to the left of the metal door. The identification badge on his breast pocket released a lock in the door with a loud click, and they entered a large room filled with low-walled cubicles.

  Overhead, harsh fluorescent lighting illuminated the office, and Jonelle noticed two other detectives. One sat frowning at his computer and looked up as they walked past. In an overly loud voice, he asked, “Hey, what’re you doin’ back here? Can’t get enough of this place?”

  Tankersley rolled his eyes. “You know, Neil,” he shot back, “I’m gonna miss the melodic sound of your voice when I leave here.”

  The other officer who’d been leaning back in his chair, talking on the phone, looked up briefly and then resumed his conversation.

  Tankersley crossed the length of the office, walked past several empty cubicles, and ended up all the way back near the windows. He sat down at a metal desk and motioned for Jonelle to take the guest chair.

  As she did so, Jonelle studied the pictures displayed on the walls and desk. Some were framed shots of him in a black tuxedo with a young woman in a wedding dress. Both beamed for the camera. Other photographs were of him, the bride, and a woman Jonelle assumed was his wife. The woman wore a powder blue satin dress, with a large corsage of yellow and white roses pinned beneath her shoulder. She looked at the bride in that way mothers do when they couldn’t be more proud.

  A quick glance revealed more pictures of Tankersley and his wife tacked on the walls of the cubicle. In one, the couple wore backpacks and stood next to a sign marking the start of the Appalachian Trail. Another photo showed them posing next to a similar sign marking the end of it. Interspersed with the pictures of him and his wife were several shots of two girls and a boy.

  Jonelle pointed. “Grandkids?”

  Tankersley nodded, a big gri
n on his face.

  “Nice family you have,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  A few moments of silence passed between them.

  “Did I mention that I’ve always wanted to be in law enforcement? I applied to the police department, but they said I was too heavy,” she said. A slight flush crept up her neck.

  Tankersley studied her for a few seconds. “You don’t look that heavy to me.” He leaned back in his chair. “All you really need to do is increase your fitness level. Do you spend much time in the gym? How many miles a day do you run?”

  “Me? Run? Miles? Well… I do walk a lot. I also practice regularly at a shooting range. Won a few competitions, just small stuff,” she added quickly, noticing the appraising look he gave her. “Even though we don’t carry weapons on the job, I’ve consistently shot over ninety-seven percent.”

  Tankersley’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? That’s damn good. You could outshoot more than half the people here.”

  Jonelle shrugged. “Right now, shooting’s just a hobby, but I find it extremely relaxing. Even though I’m claustrophobic, in the close quarters of the shooting range, I’m able to push those closed-in feelings aside and focus on what I’m doing. Everything else just drifts away.”

  She pointed to the envelope the detective had placed on his desk.

  “Right. This about the house and your late husband’s other, uh, job?”

  Jonelle frowned. “What?” Confusion immediately gave way to clarity. “With everything that’s gone on lately, I almost forgot about the house. A friend of mine uncovered some more information about that place you guys raided.”

  Jonelle told Tankersley what Sheila had found out about the property and the conglomerate comprised of businessmen who owned it and other buildings in what used to be called Baltimore’s red-light district. She explained Del’s connection with one of the accused, Sandra Dee Montgomery.

  “When you first said her name, it didn’t ring a bell. Then I remembered he used to work with a woman named Sandy. She seemed friendly and nice. Not at all the sort of person who’d be involved in pimping kids.” Jonelle shrugged. “’Course when I tried speaking to her about Del, she blew me off.”

  Tankersley stared at her. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “She’s part of an active investigation. How did you get in touch with her?”

  “I’m uh, still on good terms with the clerk in Del’s old office. I called her up and she gave me Sandra Dee’s number.” Tankersley scribbled a note on a pad. “Name?” he asked.

  Jonelle shook her head. “I don’t want her to get in trouble.”

  Tankersley sighed. “We’ll be interviewing everyone in that office soon anyway.” The detective stared at her, brows knitted together. “Under no circumstances are you to contact anyone else involved in this case. Understand?”

  Jonelle nodded, stung by the heated response from the detective.

  Tankersley jotted down another note. “Now, back to what you know about the house. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “I’d rather not say. She went out on a limb for me, and I don’t want to get her involved. Everything she told me is easily verifiable.”

  The detective leaned back in his chair and squinted at her. “Marvin know this latest information?”

  Jonelle squirmed. “He doesn’t know all the, uh, particulars.”

  She took a deep breath and told him the whole story. She told him about going to the cemetery and finding someone else buried in her husband’s plot and how events snowballed from there. She explained about the flattened tire, threatening note from the “smelly” man, being shoved in a shed at the racetrack, and the cigarette butt and syringe she found. “And you know about the zoo thing, of course.”

  Jonelle ended by telling him of her meeting with Jorge.

  Tankersley’s eyes never wavered off Jonelle as she told her story. The detective sat up straighter. He tapped the package. “This isn’t about the house?”

  She shook her head. Muttering under his breath, Tankersley gently removed the note she’d taped to the package, glanced at it, and set it aside. He took a small plastic knife and sliced open the envelope. He carefully shook the contents out on his desk.

  Tankersley looked at the cigarette butt and the unlit cigarette she got from Manross and nudged them aside with the tip of a ballpoint pen. He opened his bottom drawer and took out a pair of latex gloves. He snapped them on and gingerly lifted the syringe from another small envelope.

  “I’d been after the foreman at the cemetery, a man named Cornelius Manross, to come clean with what he knows. I had a feeling he was involved but didn’t know how much. When he was found dead in that shallow grave at the cemetery, I knew somebody more important than him was behind this.”

  Tankersley’s eyebrows shot up.

  Jonelle indicated the syringe. “I don’t know if that has anything to do with Manross’ death or not, but since I found it so close to the crime scene, I thought I’d better collect it.”

  “Hold on. You think somebody is dead because of what happened to your husband?”

  Jonelle nodded. “I think so, yeah. Was picking up that syringe the right thing to do?”

  Tankersley sighed and shook his head. “A better thing would’ve been to have turned this over to the crime scene techs immediately, instead of playing hide and seek in the woods.” Tankersley rubbed his temples with both index fingers. Puzzled, he spread his rubber gloved hands in front of his face, and sighed.

  Her heart sank. Jonelle sat back in her seat and stared at the far wall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess anything up.”

  The detective stood. “I’m gonna pour me a cup of coffee. It’s actually pretty good. It’s about the only thing Neil does right around here. Pour you a cup? Cream and sugar?”

  A lump sat in the back of Jonelle’s throat. She managed a weak, “Just cream, please.”

  Tankersley returned with a Styrofoam cup and mug of coffee, sat the cup in front of Jonelle and drank from the “World’s Greatest Grandpa” mug before sitting down again.

  Jonelle quietly sipped her coffee. Her eyes looked everywhere, except at the detective. She thought she’d be praised for her fine investigative work. Instead, he seemed disappointed.

  “I’m not blaming you,” he said. “Fact is you did a lot of things right. The one major thing you did wrong was not coming to me sooner. Actually, I also blame television. All those damned forensic shows are making instant detectives out of everyone.” Noticing the stricken expression on her face, he quickly added, “No offense.”

  A frown creased his lined face as he put on wire-framed glasses and read the note.

  Jonelle quietly studied the detective as he read. “If I had come to you and said my husband’s body is missing from his grave, the first thing you would have thought is that I must be a flake and didn’t remember where I’d buried him.”

  She leaned forward and looked the detective in the eyes. “I’ve been through all that. You’re getting ready to retire. You would’ve taken the case as a favor to Marvin. But then you’d have turned it over to someone else because, well, it’s not exactly a homicide if the person’s already dead, right? So another cop would’ve called the cemetery and been told there have been no complaints before and maybe the lady was mistaken. And Del’s case would’ve been put on the back burner.”

  Tankersley didn’t respond right away. He picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. He waited for her to continue.

  “See… thing is,” Jonelle said, “I was getting close to something, but I had no idea what. How could I possibly tell you if I wasn’t sure myself? I had to be certain that what was going on was actually criminal and not someone’s silly mistake. Like burying another person on top of my husband.”

  She took another sip of coffee. “Now I know that what was done to Del was part of some kind of scheme. I’m asking for your help now, if you’re able to give it. If not, well, I understand.” Jonelle rose to leave.


  Tankersley removed the gloves, took off his wire-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes. In a tired voice, he said, “Sit down, Jonelle.”

  She hesitated a moment before complying.

  Tankersley turned to his computer. He punched a few keys and glanced at her note. As he keyed a few more lines, he said, “Going back to your meeting at the cemetery this evening, what’s Jorge’s last name?”

  “Bustamante. I think it’s spelled B-U-S-T-A-M-A-N-T-E.”

  He typed it in. “Okay. Do you know where he lives?”

  A crooked grin creased Jonelle’s face. “This time tomorrow he may be living somewhere in Chicago.”

  Tankersley sniffed. “And right now he lives… ”

  Jonelle shrugged. “No idea. He never invited me over for lunch.”

  Tankersley stopped typing, sat back with arms crossed over his chest and stared at her.

  “Sorry,” Jonelle said. “That was uncalled for. Guess I’m just tired. All I know is he’s a groundskeeper at Perpetual Rest Cemetery. But the clerk, Marcia, would probably have his address.”

  Jonelle gave Tankersley Marcia’s full name and home address. “She said she was going to give the reverend two weeks’ notice. If you want, I can call her tomorrow and ask for Jorge’s home address.”

  Tankersley shot her another look.

  “Or you can call and ask yourself, I guess,” Jonelle murmured.

  Tankersley pushed away from the computer.

  “Looks as though Bustamante has no priors. He’s either clean or flying below the radar. It’s this Calvin guy that really interests me. He seems to be a prime player. But trying to locate him without a last name won’t be easy.”

  “Hmm. I think his last name’s Plant. But I’m not a hundred percent sure. Might be easier if I just take you over to the Laughing Moon Saloon. That’s where he hangs out, and—”

  “Jonelle,” Tankersley interrupted, his voice raised. “What have I been saying? You need to leave this to the police.”