Being the Steel Drummer - a Maggie Gale Mystery

by Liz Bradbury

  Lois left reluctantly and I went back to Kathryn in the loft.

  Kathryn was nearly asleep when I came in. But she turned over and said drowsily, “What did she want? I guess you can tell me now that I’m your intern. I think I’m going to add this to my resume,” she yawned.

  I said, as I changed into a long t-shirt, “Samson didn’t come home and the creepy little stalking program that Lois put on his phone says he’s in Skeleton Park and hasn’t moved for forty hours. She looked for him but there was no sign of him.”

  “He must have lost his phone.”

  “That’s what I told her.”

  I got in bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out something elusive. I said, “Lois said Samson disappeared in the cemetery, but really it’s his phone, right? But I wonder why?”

  “Why what?” whispered Kathryn.

  “Why do so many people seem to be disappearing? I can’t figure it out. I’m sorry Kathryn. I’m supposed to be paying attention to you.”

  She opened her arms and I settled into them. She whispered in my ear, “Before-breakfast-date.” And then we fell asleep.

  Chapter 15

  On Thursday morning at 5 a.m. I woke with a start, already struggling to figure things out. When I’d spoken to Samson Henshaw last, it had been late at night and he was on Hazel Street. Obviously he had his phone then. Where was he now? If he actually met up with Suzanne Carbondale and finally ran away with her, why would he have gone into the cemetery?

  I went up the spiral stairs to my studio and found a large block of white oven-bake clay and a box of seashells and brought them back to the dining room table.

  I took out the little rubber face mold and formed six two-inch-tall faces. I went and got the bigger molded faces Victoria had made, unwrapped them, and lined them up on the big table. The shells Victoria had used with them didn’t just decorate them; they acted as part of the form like hats and earrings and scarves.

  I pressed some shells into the soft clay of the little faces I’d just made and then realized I wanted to change the nose, because it looked too cartoonish. I used the clay tools to do this. I molded some more faces and altered the features on each one, adding different shells, changing each face accordingly.

  Victoria’s molded faces watched me. I was struck by their similarity and the differences of each one as well. Obviously Victoria had also used one mold and then altered the features to make each face look different, just as I was doing.

  “So, Victoria, I wonder how many variations you made of your angel,” I said softly. “Whether she fell for you or not, when she disappeared from your life, it must have stung you for the rest of your days.”

  I thought about Frankie’s murder. How the heck did Frankie’s shooter get out of Skeleton Park without anyone seeing? I tore a large piece of drawing paper out of a pad I had next to the couch and laid it evenly on the large dining room table. Then I stared at it for a long time, visualizing the civil war cemetery from several angles. I drew the view I’d had from the top of the vault: The Lost Bride, the crypt behind her, the headstones, bushes, and trees. I drew the entrance gate, the ground, the shadows. It took an hour. I kept a very open mind as I did it. I was trying to remember everything.

  I got up and walked away from it. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of orange juice; then I went back to the drawing and looked at it with fresh eyes. This is the way I work. It helps me see things from different points of view.

  I thought about the other statues of Evangeline and sketched them into my drawing, and a bold symbol emerged. I stared at it and then into space. What about the parts I couldn’t see?

  I got my laptop and brought it back to the drawing. I booted up an aerial map program, the kind that shows satellite photos of most of the United States. I zoomed in to Fenchester, and then in to the two square blocks of the Civil War Cemetery north of Washington Mews. I magnified the image until I could clearly see a white dot that was the top of The Lost Bride’s head with the crypt beyond it. Zooming out one click, I could see the other five Evangeline statues, like a connect-the-dots picture—The Lost Bride to the east, the three others forming a perfect line to her, and the other two to the right and left. I rose and got a piece of tracing paper. I held it over the laptop screen and connected the dots of the five sculptures. They made a perfect arrow with The Lost Bride at its point. An aerial treasure map pointing to something else that I couldn’t have seen from the ground. In a tight circle of yews behind The Lost Bride was another white dot, and a white square beyond that, big enough to be a small crypt. The arrow was pointing to it.

  Now I knew why when both I and Nora were facing each other, we had both seen Red run behind a group of yews. He hadn’t run behind them, he’d run into them, and hidden in the crypt in their center.

  The Lost Bride beckoned me now. I stowed a strong flashlight in my small backpack, got my Beretta from the gun safe and tucked it into my shoulder harness, slipped on my warmest jacket, and went out into the pre-dawn February morning. I figured I’d just have a look around and be back long before Kathryn woke up.

  Farrel, who not only shops but occasionally sets up at early morning antique markets, always says that dawn or even a few minutes after it is the coldest part of the day. But I couldn’t imagine how it could get any colder. My breath didn’t just condense; it made frozen clouds that seemed to fall from the air and crack on the sidewalk.

  The Mews was deserted. A frigid city wind whipped down the alleys, making small cyclones of frost-covered leaves in corners and doorways.

  The wrought iron fence around the cemetery loomed. I followed it to the gate. It’s funny how things look so different in the dark. The blackness of this space felt heavy but I didn’t mind; it felt safer to me. I held my eyes shut tight for a count of sixty, to adjust.

  I stood still and let all my senses send me signals. I thought about the sounds I was hearing, the shadows I could see, the smells, the feeling of the wind against my cheek. I opened my mouth and tasted the cold air. OK, grasshopper, roll.

  Instead of taking the gravel road through the center, I went right and skirted the fence for a while. No one could have seen me. I was in the shadows whenever the moon peeked out. I made my way along the south side until I came to the corner; then I followed the east fence north until I was about three quarters of the way through the field of stones. I stopped and looked around, breathing softly as I patiently waited for the moon to come out again and show me the way. It did, and by now my eyes were so used to the dark I could see everything. I’ll have to thank Jessie for all those carrots she froze for me from her victory garden.

  I skipped using my flashlight. It would dim my night vision. I scanned about for any sign of Samson Henshaw, or his phone for that matter. I took out my own phone and called him. I could hear it ringing through my phone but not anywhere nearby. It was so quiet in the boneyard I could have heard it, even if it was only on vibrate.

  I moved along the outer wall until I got a glimpse of The Lost Bride. There was no direct path to the statue from where I stood, but that didn’t bother me. It was better to stay off the paths right now.

  I moved carefully, staying low, weaving my own way through the stones, keeping undercover whenever I could. Finally I drew behind Evangeline’s main statue. Tension had crept into my shoulders and neck the way it had that time in college when I realized I’d studied the wrong section of the text book in the middle of a major exam. Then, like now, I was flying by the seat of my pants. But why was I so edgy? There didn’t seem to be anyone around; it was quiet. On the other hand, I was in a pitch-black graveyard where a guy had been shot just a few days before and the killer had magically disappeared. OK, yeah, I guess there was a reason to be nervous.

  Butch up, I told myself.

  A sliver of moon shone through the clouds again and cast a dim eerie light on Evangeline floating above the ground, waving me to her. She seemed more animated in the blue-gray moonlight. It was remarkable. I wished Ka
thryn was here to see her. Farrel once told me that soon after she met Jessie she stopped being able to fully enjoy things without her. “Now, I want to share everything with her,” Farrel had said.

  At the time it seemed a little too codependent to be completely legit, but I understood it now. Funny how you never question someone’s motives when you share them.

  I moved east toward the dark shadows that were the yew circle I’d seen in the satellite photo. The yew trees were prickly and nearly thirty feet high.

  I walked around the sweeping branches to the right. They were like the ones in our yard when I was a child. Fan-like branches brushed the ground. As a kid I’d found the perfect hideouts underneath them. When I needed to get away, no one had ever found me. Finally I’d shown the secret space to Sara and we’d used it as an exclusive hideout and clubhouse for years.

  Suddenly I knew there was someone nearby. Before I even heard the other person’s footsteps, I noticed a scent. I stood stock still as the other neared, stepping quietly but certainly not noiselessly. I’d be all the more visible if I tried to duck away. So I just waited. The element of surprise was on my side.

  The footsteps neared. I stepped swiftly out and circled the person’s body with one arm as I clamped my hand over her mouth. She tensed and took a breath to scream but I stopped her by saying, “It’s me. It’s me, Don’t scream. It’s all right.”

  It was Kathryn.

  “Oh, you scared me,” she said.

  “Shhhhh. What the heck are you doing here?” I whispered.

  “I wanted to call you but your phone is off. I didn’t know how to project the Batwoman symbol on the clouds so I just came out to look for you,” she said in a strained voice. “Maggie, I’m surprised you didn’t pummel me,” she whispered.

  “I knew it was you,” I said simply.

  “How could you know?”

  “Your perfume. I associate that lovely smell with the nape of your neck,” I whispered back still holding her in my arms but facing her now.

  “I’m not the only one who wears Chanel, Maggie. You could have had your arms around some other woman.”

  “Who else would be wearing Chanel in this graveyard just before dawn?” I asked. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I went to look for you and found your laptop open on the table. I just looked at the browser history and saw the satellite photo. I could see the arrow, so I took a chance that you were out here. I’m honing my detective skills. Remember the Tommy and Tuppence plan?”

  “You checked my laptop history? Geez. Good thing I erased the Lesbian porn sites.”

  “I can’t believe you came out here without telling me. It could be dangerous.”

  “I have a flashlight.”

  “Oh, well, if you have a flashlight.”

  “I have a gun, too. But I’d rather not have to use it so let’s keep our voices down. I might point out that you coming out here completely on your own could have been quite a bit more dangerous than my being here.”

  “Have you found anything? Do you really think there’s someone else lurking around?” said Kathryn, ignoring my concern.

  “I’m still looking for an entrance to this yew ring and so no, I haven’t found anything, and I don’t know if there’s anyone else around. Shall we go home?”

  “I didn’t come out here to take you away from your work. I’m here to be Harriet Vane.” She whispered that in my ear too.

  “Are you sure? It’s very cold.”

  “I bet the opening is back there,” she said pointing in the direction I’d come. We circled back beyond where I’d started and Kathryn stopped at a space where the branches wove less tightly together.

  “Here goes,” I said softly as I pressed into the scratchy boughs. It was just one layer of branches filling in the opening to this little grove. Kathryn was right behind me. We stumbled into the open space just as the clouds parted and the crescent moon made another appearance.

  There in the middle of the clearing was a lyrical statue of the same white marble from which the others had been carved.

  “Oh my,” exclaimed Kathryn. “Who is it?

  “It’s not Evangeline Fen,” I said immediately. In many ways I was far more drawn to this figure than that of Evangeline. It was a 19th century woman, but she was a woman with a purpose. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair was pulled back into an efficient bun with stray strands across her forehead and curling around her ears. She was crouching on one knee, a cold chisel was carved into the marble at her knees, she had a mallet in her hand, and she was wearing a smock. Her other hand was raised in a welcoming gesture and her head was cocked to one side. Her expression was hard to read because the flashlight beam flattened her features, but there was an amused devilish quality to it. In fact, the loose hair strands popped up hornlike which gave her expression a demonic flavor.

  “I know who it is. It’s Victoria.” I stared at her, shining the light all over the form. “She’s hiding in these ancient yews, watching over her work.” I knew it, sure as I know how it feels to be an artist who had to part with her best pieces.

  “Are you sure? Is it signed?” Kathryn went closer to scan the base for some kind of signature. “There’s some lettering here but I can’t quite read it. Let me have the flash.” She reached back for it.

  Kathryn crouched at the base of the three-quarter-sized statue. In a low voice she said, “It’s too long to be a signature. Oh, there, it says: “MAN MAY ONLY CHASE THE DEMON MESSENGERS OF GRIEF WITH UNBOUND CHARITY.”

  Kathryn stood, using the light to view the form again. She whispered, “Her arms are very strong. Not a beautiful face, I think, but she has character. And,” she flashed the light lower, “an ample bosom. It’s Victoria Snow alright.”

  “It’s hard to make a self portrait beautiful,” I said from experience. “Well Gauguin did, and maybe Rembrandt when he was young, but most artists don’t try to. Frieda Kahlo made herself ugly.”

  We walked around the statue of Victoria Willomere Snow and all her serious worker-like presence and went to the crypt behind her. I peered in, expecting to find the same square room with a low ceiling and stone coffin as the others, but I was surprised. The room was wider and less deep. The coffin lay perpendicular to the door and just a few feet out from the back wall. There were two cement angels on pedestals guarding the coffin, one attached to the wall on the right and one on the left.

  “People have been in here,” said Kathryn, following the beam as it swept over the floor. “I guess these footprints could be decades old. If there was nothing to disturb them.”

  I didn’t say anything. Footprints are evidence. There was a set of handprints too. They were near the coffin. Two hands about eighteen inches apart with the finger pointing at us. I went closer and shone the light along that spot. Then I turned and faced Kathryn.

  “What?” she said.

  “Well, I don’t get how these could be here. The position of these hands is so unlikely.” I looked at them again. Kathryn came to my side.

  “I see,” she said.

  “And look at the footprints,” I went on, “They come in and go out, but they don’t really turn around. Maybe...” I pushed on the lid of the coffin with one hand and felt the solid immovable weight of a thousand pounds of marble.

  “Oh, really that would be too fantastic,” said Kathryn.

  I didn’t answer. I played the light over the floor again, following the footprints that seemed to step to the right and then back to the center. I scanned the angel on the right. She had a sturdy posture, as though braced to fight anyone who got in her way. And her face was dirty. I flashed the left one. Her face was clean. I moved to the right and reached up. I pushed on the dirty face of the angel and she tilted back an inch. I handed the flashlight to Kathryn and used both hands to push the angel harder. She tipped backwards, leaning the entire pedestal with her as though there was a counter weight below the floor. At the same time, the coffin made a grinding noise and then with a low rum
bling moan it slid back to reveal a large opening in the floor.

  Chapter 16

  “Oh for heavens sakes, Maggie, this is like a Nancy Drew Mystery!

  The Secret of the Old Crypt,” said Kathryn incredulously.

  “If the frock fits.”

  “Does this kind of thing happen to you all the time?”

  “In a word, no. Most of the things I do job-wise are about as boring as being on hold for tech support. But this particular adventure seems to be afoot, literally. Are you game?” I asked, stepping into the opening. It was the beginning of a steep ramp that angled into the darkness below.

  “Certainly I’m game. I wouldn’t miss this. But why on earth would this hole be here?” she asked.

  “Um, maybe Underground Railroad? There were other tunnels in the Valley. Fenchester was a stop for runaway slaves. The area was full of Quakers in those days. That might explain it. Not sure if this crypt was built that early though. And this system”—I glanced back at the now fallen angel—“seems like a cross between Harry Potter and a gothic romance.”

  “Could it be a prohibition tunnel?”

  “Could be both. The tunnel could have been here to help slaves and then the crypt was built over it to make it more secure to run liquor.”

  Kathryn arranged her scarf and tugged her gloves on tighter.

  “Are you sure you want to do this? Farrel would never go down there.”

  “Why? Is Farrel afraid of the dark?” asked Kathryn, following me.

  “No, no, she has an irrational fear of rodents, and under a graveyard would be a prime hangout for them. Especially if this connects to any old sewer lines. How do you feel about that? Do you have any irrational fears?” I asked, stepping carefully into the darkness.

  “I’m not sure this is the perfect moment to discuss my innermost fears, irrational or otherwise. For now let me just say, I’m not wild about snakes, though not irrationally so, and heights are often the subject of my bad dreams. I can handle most other tangible things. We’ll discuss the intangible fears another time over wine or something, shall we?”