Trash Day Tragedy

by Jamie Blair

  "Cameron?" he called. "My great-uncle Jason's middle name was Lee."

  I didn't want to seem excited, but I was doing the polka on the inside. "Is he in the same cemetery?"

  "He might be, but I'm not sure."

  I nodded. "Okay. Thanks. I'm sure Ben will be by to talk to you about this, too."

  I hustled back to my house next door. I had my phone out and was dialing before I got inside. "Roy! I think it's Will's great-uncle. We're going to the cemetery."

  "Is that woman coming with us?"

  "I haven't called Johnna yet, but we're a team. You two have to make up and get along."

  "I won't talk to her."

  "Talking isn't required, just finding a grave."

  "I thought them bones weren't in a grave."

  "They might have been in a casket at one point. Maybe he was dug up."

  "What kind of sick-o digs up a dead man?"

  "That's what we're trying to figure out, remember?"

  "I want my flask back."

  "I'll get your flask back."

  "Then I'll go."

  Nothing like a little hooch to motivate an old coot.

  The minuscule cemetery was behind a one-room brick church that was condemned and falling in on itself. I drove Roy, and Johnna was meeting us.

  "Where do we start?" Roy asked.

  "We're looking for Jason Lee Adkins, Will's great-uncle."

  "There's about a dozen graves in here. Shouldn't be too hard to find."

  A car pulled in, its tires crunching the gravel parking lot. Johnna pulled as close as she could get to the graveyard, parking outside of an actual parking space in the grass. Elaina Nelson--Grandma Diggity--popped out of the passenger side of the car. "Hello, Cam! Hi, Roy!" she waved a hand high over her head. "Johnna didn't give me time to change into something more somber."

  Her hot pink and yellow polka dotted dress was a little cheery and very bright. "That's okay. We don't mind."

  "I came to visit my old friends," she said in her high, sing-song voice.

  "I came to get an apology," Johnna said. "From both of you."

  Roy scowled. "I'm not apologizing. You snatched my flask."

  Johnna pulled his flask from her tote bag and tossed it to him. "There, you old goat."

  Roy tried to catch the flask and fumbled it. It fell and bounced off of a crumbled headstone, cracking the worn aluminum case and sloshing his booze all over the ground.

  He bent to look at the headstone. "I don't know who you are down there, but I hope you like whiskey."

  "That's Winston O'Leary," Elaina said. He was very particular about his whiskey. I hope that was a good Irish brand or you'll end up with your house haunted." She cackled a laugh and clapped her knee.

  I took a quick survey of the other headstones finding them all to be in terrible shape. I could make out some letters on a few, but I didn't see one I could actually read. "Elaina," I said, "how many of these graves are you familiar with? Do you know who's buried in most of them?" Being the second oldest person in Metamora, there was a chance she did know if she could remember.

  "Oh, most of them," she said. "Mrs. Hutchins is over there beside that juniper." She pointed to the far corner. "Growing up, she was my best friend's grandma. She baked us iced molasses cookies on Sundays after church."

  "Who else is here?" Johnna asked. "What about that grave over there with the marble angel?"

  "That's Sarabell McGuire. She died when she was only eighteen. I went to school with her. She was a few years ahead of me though." She took a few steps toward the grave. "Her parents are there on her left, and her grandparents in the two graves to her right."

  "Is Jason Adkins buried in here?" I asked.

  "Why would he be here?" Elaina asked. "He was buried in Indianapolis where he lived most of his life."

  "Indianapolis? Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure. He was the only Adkins to ever leave town. Nobody has since."

  Jason Adkins being buried in Indianapolis didn't completely blow my theory, but it made it a million times harder to prove or disprove.

  "That was cheap whiskey, but it got the job done," Roy said, still grieving his loss.

  "Put salt in front of your door tonight," Elaina told him. "Ghosts won't cross salt."

  "Eh, I don't believe in spooks." Roy waved the idea away.

  "Suit yourself. O'Leary was a mean one."

  "And now he's a dead one who don't give a hoot about spilt whiskey."

  Elaina made the sign of the cross even though she wasn't Catholic.

  "Are we putting this notion to bed now?" Johnna asked. "I'm not driving to Indianapolis searching for a grave."

  "Nobody asked you to come along," Roy said, then spat on the ground.

  "You spit on Ernie Stein!" Elaina shouted. "You're gonna have more haunts than you can handle!"

  "Let's get you out of here, Roy," I said. "If what Elaina says is true, you might never sleep again."

  "Bah! Ghosts ain't real, I tell ya."

  The bones of JLA, whoever he was, didn't just get up and walk to Metamora, unless he was a ghost, or undead, or whatever. I was with Roy, I didn't believe in those things. Someone was to blame for this mess, and I was close to finding out who.

  20

  While we were at the cemetery, Mom texted me. She was all excited because she and Carl's sample wedding invitations arrived. Since the cemetery was a bust and I was out of ideas, I figured I'd stop by Hilltop Castle and take a look.

  Carl was at the Cornerstone so Mom was the only one home. She sat in the dining room at the huge banquet table. It was more of a dining hall since it was a castle, complete with the long sixteen person table and stone fireplace big enough to roast a hog.

  Sitting at the far end of the table, Mom looked dwarfed by her surroundings. I sat in a side chair and gawked at the sheer amount of wedding magazines and binders she had organized. It was like Irene with her cat.

  "I'm thinking I like this one the best," Mom said, sliding an invitation to me. "What do you think?"

  It was traditional, ivory card stock with a slight texture and simple but elegant black font. Both of their full names were listed, along with the venue and time. It was nice, but boring for my taste.

  "It's nice," I said. "What others are you considering?"

  "That means you hate it," she said, snatching the invitation from my hand. She pushed the other three contenders over.

  "I don't hate it. You know we have different tastes."

  The next was very medieval and matched the look of Hilltop Castle. "Did Carl pick this one?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said. "Does that look like anything I'd ever pick out?"

  "No."

  It had an embellished crest on a burgundy banner across the top. The wording was in Old English. I read, Hear Ye! Hear Ye! and I stopped reading. It was written in calligraphy on an aged scroll with a wax seal.

  "This is over the top," I said.

  "Very themed," she said.

  "Are you going for a Renaissance Fair theme?"

  "I'd rather think of it as an early European royalty theme, and only if I play nice and give in to Carl."

  I kept reading the invitation. "Lady Angela Zaborowski-Cripps. That's a mouthful."

  "It's my name. I can't have an invitation without my name, Cameron."

  "I think it's the lady part that threw me."

  "Give me that." She snatched that invitation from me, too.

  The third invitation was interesting. It was formal, but understated at the same time. Modern, but traditional. It had elements of conflicting styles that shouldn't blend, but did. It was gray and white with hints of sea green and coral. It almost reminded me of a Monet painting. "This is very pretty," I said. "It's different, but in the best way. I haven't seen it before, but it's not because it's too unique. It's individual and classy."

  She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "I don't know that it's necessarily that wonderful, but I'll ask your sister what
she thinks."

  Monica was the favorite. Her word was always weighted heavier than mine. I wasn't bitter. It was how it had always been, especially since I got married and left the dynamic duo of Cripps women to their own devices. Now that Mom was getting married and Monica would be engaged any day, things might change a little. Time would tell.

  She stacked the invitations and opened a binder to tuck them inside. A wood handled iron tool rolled onto the floor. I scooted my chair back and picked it up. "What is this?" I asked her. It was small and had a circular metal end, the size of a nickel.

  "A signet to stamp the sealing wax," she said, "for the medieval invitations." Mom took out a squared-off stick of wax in glittery burgundy with a wick sticking out one end like a candle. "Let me show you what it looks like."

  She lit the wick and let the wax drip on a piece of paper. When a quarter-sized puddle accumulated, she pressed the stamp into it. "There. That would seal the envelopes."

  "I like the glittery burgundy color," I said, "but the initials aren't right. The F for Finch should be last, not second."

  "Carl's middle name is Anthony," she said, "so it's correct. CFA." She took in the confused look on my face. "Cameron, you do know that it's a monogram, right? And a monogram is first initial, last initial--the biggest letter in the center, and then middle initial."

  "Oh, right, a monogram." I did know that, but for some reason my mind had forgotten the order of initials on a monogram. "I don't know what I was thinking."

  "Many signets have monograms."

  A monogram.

  A monogram on a signet ring.

  "I need to talk to Ben!"

  I dredged my phone from the depths of my handbag and called, but didn't get an answer, so I sent a text.

  Not James Adkins. It was a monogram. I'll explain later.

  JLA wasn't the mystery man's initials. Well, they were his initials, but not in that order. His initials were JAL, not JLA.

  This changed everything.

  I backed out of the castle's driveway onto Route fifty-two, lost in spinning thoughts of surnames that began with L. Lefferts was the last name of my friend, Brenda. Lancaster was Roy's last name. There was Steve Longo, and Phillis Landow owned a farm in town. Evelyn Lister was who my sister bought her house from.

  I could cross off Roy, he would've told me if he had any missing relatives. Same for Brenda.

  I turned into the lane leading down beside the canal. Landow was Phillis's married name, but she might be able to tell me something about her deceased ex-husband's family.

  A tour bus cut me off, and I slammed on my breaks. Ever since Steve set up that tent traffic was circus.

  Circus... The J.A. Longo & Friends Circus. JAL!

  I turned my wheel and my tires threw up gravel making the turn. This was it, the moment when all the clues came together. The bones had to belong to Joseph A. Longo.

  I parked by the grist mill and crossed the lane to the tent beside the canal. Steve was welcoming his guests as they exited the bus. Andy was helping him today and sitting at the entrance to the tent at a small table with a cash box. I decided I'd wait with Andy until Steve had a free moment.

  "Why aren't you at work?" I asked Andy.

  "I'm on my lunch break. I told Steve I can only stay another ten minutes. The tour bus was late."

  "Oh, I can take over for you. I need to talk to Steve anyway."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "What are you up to?"

  "Solving a mystery," I said. "I think I know who the bones belonged to."

  "Who?"

  "I'll tell you after I talk to Steve."

  He looked at the time on his phone. "I better get going. I was pushing it staying another ten minutes. Thanks for taking over."

  Andy left and I sat down waiting for Steve to realize I'd become his new helper. Had he known all along that the bones were his great-grandfather's? Was he sitting back letting the rest of us chase our tails trying to figure it out?

  The visitors approached the table and I greeted each, took their admission money, and handed them a pamphlet from a pile on the table. "Enjoy your visit," I said.

  "Cameron," Steve said, following up the rear of the group, "I didn't know you were here. Where's Andy?"

  "He had to get back to work. I told him I'd help out."

  "I appreciate it."

  "I was coming to talk to you anyway. I have something important to ask you."

  "Sure. Can it wait though? I need to tend to my guests."

  "It can. Not long, though." He wasn't weaseling his way out of this.

  He hurried away, weaving through the crowd.

  I waited a half an hour, answering questions like where are the restrooms, and what does the grist mill sell. Steve was still busying himself, but I was speaking to more of his visitors than he was. He was avoiding me.

  Done with the brush off, I strode over to him. "Time to chat," I said. "I know the bones are your great-grandfather's. The finger Irene found had a ring on it with his monogram."

  "My great-grandfather's bones?" His shoulders relaxed. "No, Cameron, my great-grandfather was cremated. I have his ashes in a Celtic urn in the shop."

  "Cremated? Again with the cremated?"

  "As far as I know it was only the once," he said, eyeing me with concern. "Are you feeling okay?"

  "No, I'm not. How did a ring with your great-grandfather's initials get on that finger? Did he have a signet ring with his monogram on it?"

  "What I do know is that it wasn't his finger. I can show you his ashes if you want. The urn is very unique. He found it when his circus was traveling through Scotland."

  I didn't have time to travel down this rabbit hole if the bones weren't Joseph Longo's. "I thought for sure it was him."

  "I can't say I'm sorry it isn't. He's resting peacefully where he's been for near a hundred years and I wouldn't want it any other way."

  "Of course not. I'm glad he is. Thanks for humoring me."

  "Good luck," he said, as I walked away, frustration ebbing at the edges.

  That night I couldn't stop feeling like I'd been close enough to touch the truth only to have it snatched back like one of Mom's wedding invitations. How many men who lived in this town a hundred years ago could've had the initials JAL? More than one? The odds were against it. But if Joseph Longo's ashes were in a Celtic urn like Steve said, then the bones couldn't be his.

  "I thought I heard those raccoons again," Ben said, coming in to bed. "But it was Liam racing around downstairs. He has to get all that energy out I guess."

  "He has to do his zoomies before he can calm down and go to sleep."

  I'd gone upstairs earlier and left Ben downstairs watching TV. I had to read more of Estelle Brooks's journal. Even if it contained not one clue about who the bones could belong to, it was a mystery in itself. What happened during all those years of missing journal pages? Did Estelle and Dalton ever reunite?

  Ben got in bed and opened his own book. "I'm afraid my mom will be charged with hindering an investigation," he said. "The Franklin County Sheriff's aren't interested in doing me any favors."

  I closed the journal and set it on my lap. "What about Soapy? He did the same thing."

  "There wasn't an ongoing investigation when he did it. You found the bones after he moved them from his dumpster."

  "Still, though."

  "You were ready to rip my head off when I suggested the possibility of Soapy being charged, now you think he should be?"

  "No, I don't want either of them charged, but it seems like they did the same thing."

  "Not quite the same thing," he said. "Soapy didn't frame someone who was already a suspect."

  My stomach clenched. Poor Ben had to deal with his mother committing a chargeable offense. Irene really was in big trouble. "She wasn't thinking," I said, rolling to my side and resting my head on his shoulder. The journal fell between us. "It was an honest reaction to finding a finger in her house. She didn't know what to do and did the first thing that came t
o mind without thinking it through."

  "I know," he said, and kissed my head. "It's hard to believe it happened, but I know she didn't mean to break the law."

  Snuggled in, Ben continued to read. I rolled to my back and reached between us for the journal. My fingers touched something hairy and I jumped to the edge of the bed.

  "What?" Ben asked sitting up and looking alarmed.

  "There's a mouse!" I pointed to where I'd felt the small furry thing.

  Ben smoothed out the quilt and there was a hank of hair attached to a lavender, coin-shaped object.

  "What on earth?" Ben picked it up and examined it. "It's hair stuck together with wax." He held it out in his palm so I could see it.

  "Sealing wax," "I said. "Just like Mom and Carl's invitations."

  "This belongs to your mom and Carl?"

  "No. Let me see that." I plucked it out of his hand and took a closer look. There was a monogram stamped into the wax. "JLA! Ben, JLA! This had to come from the ring! I knew Fiona was tied to this somehow!"

  "But Joseph Longo was cremated, Cam. It still doesn't make the bones his."

  "Something weird is going on here. If that ring belonged to Joseph and it wasn't his finger, then it was on someone else. And that someone had access to Estelle Brooks since this is her journal and the hair and seal clearly fell out of it."

  There was another answer, and I wasn't sure I could prove it, but tomorrow I'd pay Fiona another visit.

  21

  I found Fiona behind the counter in the train depot the next morning. "You better be here to buy a ticket," she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

  "I came to talk to you," I said, giving her a smile that I hoped was sincere and didn't seem to be trying too hard.

  "I don't talk to Hayman's anymore."

  "I'm sorry, Fiona. For starting a rumor I didn't intend to, and for Irene."

  "Don't apologize for her, she wouldn't do it for you."

  I set the journal on the counter. "I came to return this."

  "How did you..." She turned her gaze to the back of the depot where the bookshelf stood underneath the window.