by DB Gilles
I hated defending Perry, but in this instance I had to. “Do you blame him? You could've hurt somebody. Maybe killed somebody. Maybe yourself.”
“I know. But he was mean to us. Made it seem like we were less than human. The only cop I ever met who was worth anything is Greg.”
“You know Greg Hoxey?”
“He's my friend. He's different from the other cops.”
“What's different about Greg?” I was curious as to how she happened to be on a first name basis with Greg.
“He used to be like us in high school. Into heavy metal, hair down to his ass and liked to get wasted. Greg is cool.”
Greg Hoxey cool? I said to myself. I was beginning to question her powers of observation.
“He's like this really excellent older brother who gives you money and won't tell your parents that you're sneaking out. I wish he was in charge of the investigation. Greg would try. Cobb's not gonna do squat.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he hates people like me and my Aunt was like me and I'm like her and in Cobb's eyes we're nothing but sluts who hang with crazed druggies.”
“How do you know he thinks that?”
“Are you really that naive?” she sneered. “Maybe you've been around so many dead bodies you're out of touch.”
“With what?”
“The real world.”
She might be right, I said to myself.
“I'll be honest with you, Quilla. There's no love lost between Perry Cobb and me, so you won't see me defending him. But I think you're wrong about him not caring about finding the killer.”
“Why?” she sneered.
“Because he never had a murder case before and solving it will be a tremendous ego trip for him. He'll be doing everything in his power, pulling out all the stops because he's insecure enough to know that people will be watching him. As Chief of Police he has to be elected. No one has ever run against him because it's a nowhere job in a nowhere town that pays next to nothing. But it's all he's got. And if there's someone crazy enough to want to be Police Chief, maybe even Greg Hoxey, if Perry doesn't find your Aunt's killer, it might be just the thing that prompts somebody to take Perry on.”
“Just because he wants to solve the case doesn't mean he has the brains to do it.”
“The police here have all the latest technology at their disposal.”
“We'll see,” she said sheepishly, then took a long, deep breath. “Are we almost there? I'm getting nervous about this. I've only been in a cemetery twice. When my grandparents died.”
“Ten minutes.”
She leaned her head against the window and stared out. She yawned. She seemed so alone in her grief. It was a feeling I'd known well.
It was bad enough when my father died, but I felt an even deeper sense of anguish when I was eighteen and Alyssa went away. I felt as if she had died. Because we'd broken up three weeks before she left Dankworth I'd been pining for her, unable to sleep, driving past her parents' house hoping to get a glimpse of her. I didn't even know she'd gone until Chester Cobb phoned me to ask if I'd seen her. Her mother had filed a missing person report and mentioned that I'd been dating her.
But then three days after she was reported missing a note from Alyssa had come in the mail with a New York City postmark to her parents. She apologized for leaving without saying good-bye, said that she needed to be alone and that she would be in touch. A note, also postmarked New York City, came to me too.
Dear Del,
I had to get away. Take care of yourself.
Maybe some day you'll see me again.
Alyssa
The most confusing thing about the note was that I got it. I wasn't her boyfriend anymore. Six months later I received a postcard from her postmarked in Chicago with another brief message. While I think of Alyssa often, I seldom think of the note and postcard. Though I kept them, and even valued them, as if they were love letters, I never look at them because an overwhelming feeling of confusion overtakes me. I still don't know why she sent them to me. In my more romantic notions, I pretend that she really did love me back. In my practical moods I convince myself that she sent them to me out of pity.
As Quilla gazed out the window in a numbed silence, I spent the remainder of the drive pondering something she had said. Specifically, would Perry be taking this murder seriously? I hadn't spoken to him about it since the day the body was found. Despite my guess that whoever was the killer knew something about cemeteries, I felt Perry would probably have nothing to go on until the victim's identity was discovered. But now that he knew, I wasn't sure what steps he would take to start an investigation.
As I approached the main entrance to Elm Grove cemetery I decided that I would transfer the empathy I was feeling for Quilla into something constructive. First chance I had, which would probably be later in the day, I would approach Perry and ask him what, if anything, was being done about the Brandy Parker murder.
Chapter 8
As I drove through the cemetery gates, I focused my attention on the business at hand: finding the place of burial for Brandy Parker.
The first stop would be the Administration Office where I would have Mel or George punch up Suzanne Worthington's parents' names on the computer. Division, Section and Plot numbers would be instantly forthcoming. As to whether or not Brandy could be laid to rest near her parents, that would be a different matter. It depended on where they were buried.
Officially there are two Divisions in Elm Cross cemetery: the Modern Division and the Original, but unofficially there are three, the third being located in a small, barely discernable area of the Original. This was the first Elm Grove cemetery, roughly half the size of a football field, adjacent to a Methodist church, long since torn down, and where the first residents of Dankworth, most of whom were born in the middle of the eighteenth century, were laid to rest.
Even the most fanatical cemetery buff didn't know about this part of the grounds. It was hidden by a blending of shrubbery, rocks and long-dead oak trees. There was an entrance of sorts, but only someone who knew where to find it could gain access to this old bone yard.
Not that anyone would want to. Here there were no weathered, granite mausoleums or above ground crypts. Most of what was left of the tombstones and grave markers were completely devoid of information as to the identity of the people buried there. There was little, if any, symmetry to the positions of the graves. Most seemed too close together. Others were off by themselves, illogically situated without rhyme or reason. Here the grass and weeds, though maintained regularly, didn't have the manicured look of the rest of the cemetery. It was more like a deserted field that had been by-passed by a superhighway and the broken tombstones were more like rocks scattered about, tilting backwards or sideways or crumbled in heaps on the strawlike grass.
No one came to pay respects to these people anymore. And even if some long lost relative had shown up, odds are the burial site would never have been found. Mel had no records of the people here. Mel himself never even knew about the existence of the Division until he had been Manager of the cemetery for two years, and he didn't find out until Vaughn had fallen and broken his hip and, while recuperating at Dankworth General Hospital, asked to see Mel. When Mel came to Vaughn's bedside not only did he tell him about the forgotten burial ground, but he informed him of the fact that he owned a plot there in which he wanted to be buried.
Vaughn also confided to Mel that only two others knew about this secret burial ground: Alton Held and me. I knew because I would be handling the burial. Alton was told because, as Vaughn's replacement as Head Groundskeeper, he needed to know. Vaughn would be the last person to be buried in the secret area, primarily because there was no more room.
Space had also become a problem in the Original Division. No new gravesites were available. The only burials taking place in it were in family plots that had been purchased generations ago. Early in the twentieth century, when people tended to remain in the general vicini
ty of where they were raised, families of means bought plots, starting with four graves and expanding as necessary. Not only was it a practical decision, but also more economically sound than buying individual graves upon need.
The Modern Division is where the vast majority of burials take place. Unlike the oppressive mausoleums and crypts of the Original Division, it has the look and ambiance of the modern cemetery--”modern” going back to the 1950s when many newly created cemeteries forbade ostentatious monuments and apogees. In modern cemeteries headstones must be flat and in the ground. Gone were the imposing granite testimonials to the dead, usually chosen by the living as some final recognition to the deceased's wealth or status in life.
Vaughn felt that the larger and more elaborate and more expensive the headstone, the more guilt the survivors had for not adequately loving or honoring the deceased when he or she was alive. I believed that too.
*****
Quilla was still staring morosely out the window as we came to a stop in front of the Administration building. I explained to her that I would go inside and find out where her Grandparents were buried, then she and I would go to the graves to see if there was a site that met with her approval.
In the event that she would be uncomfortable being alone in the hearse, I asked her if she wanted to come with me. She yawned, said no and immediately began texting. I went inside. Mel had the information within a minute: New Division, Section 19, Plots 15 and 16. The information was a tad unsettling. My father's grave was less than thirty yards away. The area was actually very pleasant, near one of the man-made ponds and under a cheery-looking pine tree that provided nice shade in the summer.
Mel punched a couple of buttons on the computer to show the Plot availability in the area. No problem. There were plenty of openings only a few feet away. Brandy Parker could be laid to rest near her parents. Had I come out to the cemetery alone I wouldn't have bothered to check out the site. Mel and I could have taken care of business at his desk. But I knew Quilla would want to inspect the area and select the gravesite herself. I returned to the hearse and told her there was space available. In the brief time it took to get there she was silent. So was I. We didn't stay long.
I pointed out the plot nearest to Quilla's grandparents' graves. She stared at it for several seconds, then glanced at the headstone on her grandparents' graves. I thought she might take a moment to say a prayer, but she didn't. She just turned to me and said, “Aunt Brandy didn't like her mother and father. I don't think she'd want to be buried so close to them. Does it have to be right here? Can it be farther away?”
“It can be anywhere you want,” I said. “But didn't your mother say she wanted her buried with your grandparents?”
Quilla shrugged. “After the funeral, she'll never come to the grave again. I will, so I'll decide where she'll be buried. Can I walk around and find a spot that feels right?”
I nodded yes. “Take your time.” She wandered off.
To give her privacy, I ambled over to my dad's grave and stared at the marble stone, then at his name Dillard Coltrane, Jr. under which were the words Beloved Husband And Father along with his year of birth and death.
I didn't so much pray as reflect on the loss: he of his life, me of my father, my mother of her husband, us of our family. Despite the fact that he'd been gone nearly twenty years, it still seemed like I'd only seen him yesterday. He was young, 36, and even though he would now be 56 I couldn't picture him at that age. He would be eternally 36 in my mind.
“Why is your name on that gravestone?” said Quilla much too loudly for a cemetery. I turned. She was standing next to me, looking down at my father's grave.
“It's my father,” I said.
“If you have a kid are you gonna name him Dillard Coltrane the fourth?”
“I don't plan on having kids.”
“Why not? You'd be a good father.”
“How do you know?” I said, a little surprised and touched at her observation.
“I have good instincts. And I've had two so-called fathers. One's a world-class loser, the other's a world class bastard. I have friends who mostly have idiots for fathers. But you're like the dads of the two or three kids I know with fathers who behave like fathers should.” She bent down and touched my father's headstone. “This is nice here. Would you mind if my Aunt was buried near your father?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” She pointed to an empty swatch of grass three plots over. “Doesn't look like anyone's buried there.” I glanced at where she was gesturing. There was an expanse of land allotted for ten plots. “Then this is the place.” She smiled. She seemed happy and pleased with herself.
“All I have to do is check back in the office to see if the specific plot is unclaimed and it's yours.”
As we headed back to the hearse, I said, “You're the youngest person I've known to pick out a grave site. Most kids your age couldn't handle it.”
“I'm not like most kids my age,” she said, defiantly.
“Quite frankly, most adults can't handle it. You're a pretty special kid.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “I'm glad somebody thinks so.” There was an almost frightening sarcasm in her tone.
When we got back to the hearse I started to open the door for her, but she stopped me saying, “I hate gentlemen.” She opened the door and jumped in.
I walked around to my side and slid in.
“I want to see where my Aunt's body was found.”
I looked at her hesitantly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said emphatically.
******
It took about two minutes to drive to the mausoleum. We didn't talk. I glanced over at her once. She was shaking. I think I heard her teeth chattering. I brought the hearse to a stop directly in front of the sign indicating that we had come to Section 12. We got out and walked side by side, but as we got closer to the mausoleum where Brandy Parker's body was found, Quilla slowed her pace and walked behind me.
The mausoleum had been re-sealed, but the yellow police crime scene ribbons still cordoned off the area. Within seconds we were standing three feet in front of the entrance. Quilla looked at the gloomy, marble structure that stood roughly eight feet high and ten feet deep.
“Looks like a cement beach cabana,” she smirked, then ducked under the police ribbon and stepped slowly to the door. It was as if she were approaching her Aunt's body in a coffin. She walked around the mausoleum, studying it closely, as if she were looking for something.
She placed her right hand, palm up, onto the door and lowered her head as if in some silent prayer or reverie and remained in that pose for about thirty seconds. I heard the sniffle again, but this time she didn't try to hide it. She pulled back her hand and looked at me.
“How did the guy who killed my Aunt get into this thing? It looks totally break-in-proof.”
“Some of the old ones have loose stones. Remove one or two and it's easy to slip inside. My guess is that whoever did made sure nobody else could get in unless they broke in through the door like the guys who stumbled onto her body.”
“What a horrible way to die,” said Quilla, then without warning she ran straight back to the hearse, almost tripping over an in-the-ground headstone. As I walked back I watched her yank open the door and climb inside. She put her hands to her face to hide the tears.
I could hear the sobbing twenty yards away. I stayed back, pretending not to hear her. She struck me as someone who would be embarrassed to be seen crying so vehemently. To give her privacy I stood behind a four-foot high headstone with sheaves of wheat carved into it, symbolizing that the deceased had lived to a ripe old age.
As I listened to Quilla cry I remembered my conversation with Perry, specifically, how I had told him that the killer had to know something about cemeteries, especially this cemetery. I wondered if he had acted on that. But I also wondered if I was right. Maybe the killer came up with the idea of hiding the body in a mausoleum in a remote part of
an old cemetery from watching a horror movie. Or maybe it was just a good guess or a dumb luck decision that worked for the past nine years.
But the more I thought about it, the more I felt in my gut that my initial assumption had to be right. A cemetery buff had killed Brandy Parker. Either that or someone who knew a cemetery buff and had picked up enough knowledge from being around him. Or her. Choosing this mausoleum in this part of the cemetery was no good guess, no random selection. It was a clever, calculated decision.
As Vaughn always said when he was convinced of something, I felt it in my bones.
Chapter 9
I gave Quilla about five minutes alone to work through her tears before I made my way back to the hearse. I slid in and said, “You okay?” and she muttered a soft, choked up “Yeah,” that told me she wasn't.
I turned the key in the ignition and drove back to Mel's office. Again, I left Quilla in the car while I ran inside and had Mel work up the paperwork for the purchase, opening and closing of Brandy Parker's grave. Within five minutes I was back in the hearse and Quilla and I were heading to Dankworth. I decided that she probably needed silence and that there would be no conversation unless she started it.
She didn't say a word for about five minutes. All she did was fiddle with the knob on the glove compartment. I concentrated on driving, then suddenly, Quilla asked me a question that caught me totally off guard. “Do you know any private detectives?”
I hesitated for a moment. “No. Why?”
“I want to hire one to find the guy who killed my Aunt.”
“I changed my mind. Understand something... nobody cares who killed my Aunt except me. My mother could care less. When the call came about finding the body her only reaction was that it couldn't have come at a worse time. Know why? She and her husband were going on vacation this week.”