“You know Aunt Myra?”
The socially prominent were always surprised when someone outside their circle knew someone inside their circle. Not bothering to answer, Fenimore tucked the walker into a corner beside the door to the bungalow, just as Roaring Wings emerged in full ceremonial regalia. He was an impressive figure. The guests stared unabashedly. His fringed jacket, leggings, and moccasins were made of deer hide. But it was his headdress that caught the eye—a crest of deer hair dyed bright orange, set into bands of deer hide. The bands were decorated with intricate geometric designs in many colors, and when Roaring Wings turned to greet someone, Fenimore saw that his jacket bore a turtle, a sign of the Lenape clan. Later he would learn that this complex design had been painstakingly made out of porcupine quills that had been flattened between the teeth and then dyed many colors.
As Roaring Wings gravely greeted the guests, a group of Lenape people appeared around the corner of the house. Four of them were dressed like Roaring Wings, with a little less decoration. A fifth was a wrinkled old man, with no headdress, wearing a colorful cape of turkey feathers. Around his neck was suspended a drum. At a signal from Roaring Wings he began to beat the drum very softly. Tum, tum, tum, tum. The other four Lenape men disappeared behind the house and immediately reappeared bearing a litter high above their heads. Tum, tum, tum, tum.
Fenimore was just able to make out a slight figure, lying on the litter, knees bent. Slowly the procession wound past the bungalow, the barn, and out into the field. The guests looked at one another and hesitantly fell in behind.
The field was still crusty from the morning frost. The only sounds were the crunch of their feet and the drum. Fenimore stayed toward the rear of the procession to better observe the guests. Mrs. Henderson was being propelled along by Polly on one side and Ned on the other. At one point she cast him a desperate look, but there was little he could do. The three Hardwick sisters, Bernice, Lydia, and Kitty, walked together, looking suitably depressed. Ted walked behind them, in a daze. Roaring Wings came last, carrying a cloth sack.
Fenimore looked at the vast expanse of field and sky and tried to forget why he was there.
Tum, tum, tum, tum.
When they came to the far edge of the field, the drumming stopped. The silence was startling. The procession halted automatically. At the edge of the field there was a deep hole, lined with bark and surrounded by mounds of earth. With deliberate gentleness, the four men lowered the litter and laid it on the ground beside the grave.
Fenimore had decided early on that the only way to get through funerals was to think about anything but the deceased or the bereaved. He forced his mind away from Sweet Grass; away from Ted. Instead, he thought of that other grave—in the city burial ground—and tried to determine which of the assembled guests would have been capable of digging such a large hole and lifting a body into it. Ned and Polly would have no trouble, with their broad shoulders and strong backs. Bernice, although shorter than her parents, had a solid frame that was more muscle than fat. Lydia, although of a more delicate build, might, under the right circumstances and with the necessary amount of adrenaline, manage it. Kitty, on the other hand, was too slight—not only of figure but also of intellect. He found it hard to believe that her childish mind could devise a murder scheme of any complexity, let alone carry it out. Of course, she could have had help. Then there was Doris. Standing on the other side of the grave, a handkerchief to her face, she was about the same build as Lydia. But she had been in the hospital—the perfect alibi. But Sweet Grass had visited her the afternoon she died. Doris was the last person to see her alive, before she went to the emergency room. Could she have slipped her something fatal during her bedside visit? As her roommate, she knew her medical history and was familiar with her medicines. An accomplice could have buried the body. But what was the motive? Temporary insanity because she couldn’t have children, and Sweet Grass could? Fantasy material, Fenimore. You might as well suspect Myra Henderson. She too was in the hospital. But not until the day after Sweet Grass died. She had attended the picnic. She also had Charles. He had seen his muscles swelling under his chauffeur’s uniform. Carrying out such a burial would be child’s play for him. But for what motive? Who knew what network of subterranean passions motivated members of old Philadelphia society? No one but the members themselves. And their lips were sealed, as in any exclusive fraternity or club.
And any one of them could have imitated the Lenape method of burial. This information was readily available in a number of historical societies.
One of the first rules of detecting, Fenimore believed, was to suspect everyone, especially the least obvious. His doctrine was the exact opposite of that of his friend Rafferty, who believed that in 99 percent of cases the most obvious suspect turned out to be the right one. It was that other 1 percent that Fenimore worried about.
One of the Lenape pallbearers adjusted the litter in preparation for lowering it into the grave. For the first time Fenimore saw Sweet Grass clearly. Her features were small and delicately formed. Her skin was the shade of a certain autumn leaf, pale brown with an underlying hint of coral. (No trace of cyanosis there.) Each cheek had been decorated with a deep red spot. She lay on her side, knees drawn up, like a sleeping child. Her dark hair was arranged in a plait that curved down over one shoulder. Her hands were hidden in the folds of her long white dress. The dress was embroidered with cream oval shells that made the embroidery on Roaring Wings’s jacket seem almost coarse. On her feet were moccasins no bigger than a child’s.
Fenimore scanned the group for Ted. He was standing a little apart, his eyes fixed on Sweet Grass. A shadow passed over her face. Fenimore looked up. A hawk. He watched it glide, borne solely by the wind, to another part of the field.
Tum, tum, tum, tum.
Roaring Wings raised his hand, and the drummer was still. He took his place at the head of the grave and began to speak—or rather, to chant, in Algonquian, the original Lenni-Lenape tongue. The words meant nothing to Fenimore, but they had a lilt to them, like poetry, and were easy on the ear. The chanting lasted only a few minutes, not long enough for even the most impatient guest to grow restless. When he had finished, he gave a terse command to the four bearers, and they took their places at the four corners of the litter. With the same deliberate care they had demonstrated before, they lowered it into the grave.
Roaring Wings bent down and carefully arranged Sweet Grass. He placed her in a flexed position, knees drawn up, her back resting against the inside wall of the grave. He adjusted her head so her chin rested on her knees. Of course, she was facing east. He opened the cloth sack he had brought with him. From it he drew a shawl decorated with beads and shells, a round loaf of bread, and the wooden shuttle that had been found in her first grave. Carefully, he wrapped the shawl around her entire body, to prevent the earth from touching her. Then he lay the bread at her feet and placed the shuttle in her right hand.
For the first time, Fenimore noticed two piles next to the mounds of earth beside the grave—one of stones, the other of ashes. In a whisper, he asked the Lenape woman next to him about them. She told him that the stones were collected from the Wisamek River by the Lenapes to keep the wolves away. (He wondered when a wolf had last been sighted in south Jersey.) The ashes were brought from the hearths of the Lenapes to make the deceased feel at home. As she finished speaking, Roaring Wings and the four bearers began to line the grave with the stones. When that was done, each took a handful of ashes and threw them in the grave. When there was only one handful left, Roaring Wings placed it in Ted’s hand. The young man moved forward as if in a trance. The other men stepped aside to make room for him. Blindly, he hurled the ashes. They missed the grave and soiled the skirt of a woman standing on the other side. With a sob, which seemed to come from the bottom of a well, he turned and ran across the field.
Fenimore paid close attention to the faces of the Hardwick family members. Polly’s wore a look of anguish as she moved to follow her son.
Ned’s remained impassive as he placed a restraining hand on his wife’s arm. The expressions of the three sisters ranged from concerned (Bernice), to embarrassed (Lydia), to surprised (Kitty). Fenimore switched his gaze back to Roaring Wings. His face wore the same expression of controlled gravity it had worn since the ceremony had begun.
Tum, tum, tum, tum.
At a sign from Roaring Wings, the oddly assorted group began the return pilgrimage across the field. The drummer was in the lead, closely followed by the litter bearers. This time the litter was borne by one man, and the ground, no longer frost covered, made no sound under their feet.
Fenimore, like Lot’s wife, felt compelled to look back. One litter bearer had remained behind to fill in the grave. Fenimore’s eyes swept the field and the woods edging it. No sign of Ted. The only sign of life were two buzzards, hovering high above the grave, vainly awaiting their chance.
CHAPTER 29
LATER SUNDAY MORNING
Roaring Wings had arranged, on very short notice, to serve refreshments to the funeral guests. The interior of the bungalow was as attractive and immaculate as Fenimore remembered it. But today it seemed smaller, because it was filled with extra tables and chairs and some flower arrangements. The tables consisted of a long picnic table and several card tables. The chairs were an unmatched hodgepodge, probably collected from various kitchens and porches of friends by pickup truck earlier that morning. The flowers, Fenimore learned, were from mutual friends of Ted and Sweet Grass who, for one reason or another, could not attend. It was not the Lenape custom to send flowers to a funeral or to bring them to a grave—or to mark the grave in any way, the Lenape woman confided to Fenimore. They simply planted grass on top and kept it neatly trimmed.
The picnic table had been placed in the center of the room and was covered with a brightly woven cloth. Gracing it were two electric pots, one containing hot water for tea, the other containing coffee. They were surrounded by an assortment of cups and saucers, containers of sugar and cream, and a pile of plastic spoons. The cookies, resting on paper plates, were standard supermarket fare.
As the room filled with people, its size diminished accordingly. Conversation came uneasily for everyone but the Hardwicks. Adroitly balancing their cups, they made small talk with the ease of Olympic champions. (And why not? They, like those athletes, had been trained in the art since birth.) All except Ted, who was still missing.
As the somber mood of the ceremony began to wear off, the guests became more animated. They admired the woven wall hangings, the plants, and the pottery. Fenimore spotted Doris Bentley and Myra Henderson in conversation near the window. He joined them. Doris’s face bore signs of weeping. Mrs. Henderson’s attempt at a spritely greeting fell flat, and she succeeded only in looking downcast. Fenimore drew their attention to the string of dried herbs hanging above the window frame. Doris, it turned out, was a gourmet cook and could identify most of them.
“Rosemary, oregano, thyme, parsley, but … I’m not sure about that one.”
Fenimore recognized the leaves immediately. He had seen them often enough on his trips to the herb garden at PSPS. “Foxglove,” he said.
Roaring Wings appeared in their midst, offering a plate of cookies.
“Delicious tea,” Mrs. Henderson said. “May I ask the brand?”
“It’s a blend of herbs. I grow them myself.”
Fenimore chewed his cookie thoughtfully. “Would this be the tea you served Sweet Grass?”
All three looked at him, surprised that he would bring up her name in such an abrupt manner. Fenimore had more important things on his mind than social protocol as he waited for his answer.
“Yes. It was her favorite.”
Fenimore watched him move away to serve his other guests.
“Doctor?” Mrs. Henderson jogged his attention back to her. “I wonder if you would mind getting me another cup of tea.”
“Of course.” He took her cup and started for the table.
“Sugar and lemon,” she called after him.
Observing the volume of tea being consumed around him, Fenimore had a pang of guilt over Officer Santino. He would have enjoyed this affair immensely.
The Hardwick family members were beginning to take their leave. Roaring Wings was giving each of them a stiff handshake. Polly caught sight of Fenimore and drew him aside. She spoke in a low tone, “I’m worried about Ted. He hasn’t come in yet, and Ned has to get back to the hospital. I hate to ask, but could you stay until he comes back and give him a ride home with you?”
“Certainly. I was planning to hang around awhile anyway. Don’t worry.”
She gave him a grateful smile and, bending slightly (she really was a large woman), pecked his cheek.
When he returned with the tea, Mrs. Henderson was saying, “And do you plan to keep the apartment?”
“Oh, yes,” Doris answered. “It was mine to begin with. Sweet Grass was only staying with me temporarily, until she …” she faltered.
“Yes, of course.” The elderly woman took the tea from Fenimore and thanked him.
After a moment, Fenimore excused himself “I’m going to look for Ted.”
They nodded sympathetically as he left.
The cold air and open sweep of sky were welcome after the stuffy, overcrowded room. Roaring Wings’s bungalow was not built for major social gatherings. He had no doubt where he would find Ted. He strode across the field. The smell of smoke reached him before he saw the fire. It was small and flickered low over the grave. This custom was probably left over from a time when it was necessary to protect the dead from wild animals (those wolves). The litter bearer who had remained behind to fill in the grave had probably made the fire. Ted was kneeling with his back to him. Fenimore made no attempt to quiet his footsteps. He wanted to give him plenty of notice. The young man turned. When he saw who it was, he looked relieved. “I’m ready,” he said. And when he stood up, he seemed composed.
“Fine. Your parents had to leave. I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks.”
They didn’t speak again until they reached the house. Fenimore handed Ted his keys. “Go wait in the car. I’ll say your good-byes.”
With a grateful look, Ted took the keys and went on.
The room, now nearly empty, had almost returned to its normal size. Doris and Mrs. Henderson were at the door, saying good-bye to Roaring Wings. Two young women, probably students of Sweet Grass, stood behind them, waiting their turn. Everyone else had gone. Fenimore took his place behind the students. When his turn came, he said sincerely, “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
Roaring Wings said, “It is over one thousand years old.”
“There is no need to change some things.” Fenimore was thinking of the burial service in his own church and how it had been changed beyond recognition.
The Lenape looked at Fenimore with new respect. “That’s true,” he said. “Of course we omitted the feasting and the dancing. I didn’t think the Hardwicks …” He spread his hands. “We’ll have that another time, for our own people.”
“That was wise.” Fenimore started to leave but turned back. “By the way, what herbs did you use in that tea?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Would you like the recipe?”
“Very much.”
He went over to the desk. While he was rummaging in a drawer for paper and pen, Fenimore reached up and tore a few leaves of foxglove from the string of herbs above the window. He slipped them into his breast pocket, just as Roaring Wings turned and handed him the slip of paper with the recipe.
Fenimore folded it carefully and slid it into his breast pocket next to the leaves.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” Roaring Wings had suddenly become the congenial host, after Fenimore had showed an interest in his tea.
“No.” Fenimore had no desire to bring fiance and brother together again. “You have all this to clean up.” He waved at the collection of dirty cups and saucers and crumpled paper napkins.
&
nbsp; The Lenape looked at the debris and made a face, the first really human thing Fenimore had seen him do.
As Fenimore walked to the car, he took the recipe from his pocket. As he had expected, foxglove was one of the ingredients.
CHAPTER 30
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 7
Fenimore awoke depressed. It was more than a week since Sweet Grass’s body had been found. Now it was twice buried, and he was no nearer a solution. After downing his usual dose of “swill,” he decided to return to the original burial site, hoping that something significant would come to him. It was one of those freakish warm days that sometimes crop up in November, bringing fog. The street was a blank. The only cars visible were those parked directly in front of the house. The occasional passing car, headlights on full, floated briefly into view and was swallowed up again. Walking east on Walnut toward the river, he felt like the last man on earth after the bomb.
Instead of red, the traffic light glowed a hazy pink. When it glowed a hazy green, he crossed. At Watts Street, he turned in. The cobblestones were slippery and led to nothing but a pocket of fog. The only tangible thing in the small space was the hard surface under his feet. As he stood there, something fluttered to the ground nearby. He could barely make out the familiar shape. He took a step toward it. With a rush of wings, it took off. The incident triggered his memory of another pigeon. Another day. And a gray van with the unusual license tag SAL123.
He slipped and slid on the cobblestones. Crossed Broad before the light changed. And fumbled with his keys on the front step. As soon as he got inside, he called Rafferty.
“It’s a little early, even for you—”
Fenimore was in no mood for their usual banter.
Yes, Rafferty could get him the information from Harrisburg. Did Fenimore want to hold, or call back?
Hold. In a few minutes, Fenimore was jotting down: Budget Rent-a-Car, 614 N. Broad St., Phone: 555-6667. Henry Wendkos, manager. “Thanks.” He slammed down the receiver. On an impulse, he decided to don the thrift shop togs he had recently bought.
The Doctor Digs a Grave Page 16