Authors: Charlaine Harris
Dead Over Heels (21 page)
Well, maybe that was going a little far.
But I still didn’t feel like seeing anyone I knew, just at the moment.
I went where I often go when human companionship seems undesirable: to the Lawrenceton cemetery. I always park by my great-grandmother.
A narrow gravel driveway makes a figure eight inside the cemetery fence, to allow for parking at funerals and for easier access to the graves. My great-grandmother is one of the few people buried between the encircling driveway and the fence. She was from a farming family; maybe she wanted to be close to the surrounding fields.
Shady Rest is an old cemetery, maintained by a coalition of Lawrenceton’s white churches. The segregation of death is much stricter than segregation is in life, now. The black cemetery, Mount Zion, is on the southern edge of town, while Shady Rest is a little out in the country on the west.
Shady Rest is a very ordinary cemetery, traditional, none of this flush-with-the-lawn marker stuff. The earliest tombstones date about twenty years before the Civil War, when Lawrenceton became more than a tiny settlement. There are live oaks and other hardwoods; there is close-clipped grass covering the gently rolling ground. Tiny iron fences interrupted by little gates surround some of the older family plots. There is a high, fancy, ironwork fence enclosing the whole cemetery; but there is no gate to close over the main entrance, though the two other back entrances are gated and usually locked, except during a funeral. There has never been vandalism at Shady Rest, though I’m sure some day there will be. Every now and then, someone donates a cement bench to sit beside one of the two narrow drives that cross through the graves, though I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone sit on them but me.
After nodding to my great-grandmother, I go sit by Mr. Early Lawrence, most times. Naturally, he was the man Lawrenceton was named after, and he earned it by hustle; an early entrepreneur, was Mr. Early Lawrence. Though his descendants don’t like to talk about it, somehow Early held on to his money and increased it after the War. Even today, none of the Lawrences are poor folks.
Early Lawrence had a magnificent tombstone, perhaps ten feet tall because it was topped with a stone angel whose hands were outstretched, palms up, pleading—perhaps urging passersby to feel sorry for Early? To remember to mow the grass? I had never quite understood that beseeching gesture, and I often pondered it when more immediate things gave me pain or anxiety.
After the heavy rain of the morning, the ground was soggy. I pulled out the old towel I kept in the trunk of my car, since the bench had a damp look. I picked my way to my chosen spot, spread my flowered towel, and sat down with a sigh.
Close to the center of the cemetery, the green tent was set up over the hole dug to receive Jack Burns, I noted approvingly; Jasper Funeral Home was on the ball. The chairs for the family were unfolded and ready with green covers slipped on. Artificial turf discreetly covered the mound of dirt at the back of the tent. The artificial green was gleaming with water droplets.
I wandered over to have a closer look, and found that the lowering device was in place over the grave, the green webbing stretched across to receive the casket. I wondered which of the levers on the side released the webbing to let the casket descend, but I was certainly not about to experiment. Sheer interest in the mechanism kept me there for a few moments, until I recollected that into this hole would descend the body of a man I knew, and I beat a shamefaced retreat to Early Lawrence.
I looked up at the angel, again studying that calm face for some trace of a clue as to its intent. I wondered who had sculpted it; did he churn them out, or make each one as it was commissioned? He’d enjoyed doing the wings, I could tell . . . they were full and beautiful, as feathery as stone could look.
I thought the usual thoughts—what would they say, all these dead Lawrencetonians, if they could see the town now, look over the horizon and see Atlanta approaching, encroaching? What if my maternal grandmother, whom I could faintly remember (she was over there close to Great-grandmother, but within the driveway), could give judgment on her daughter’s successes and her grandaughter’s peculiar life?
We were not a fertile family; I was the only child of an only child, and according to the specialist, I could not even have that one my mother and grandmother had been granted. I’d known now for two months; but sometimes I still cried when I thought about it. I had to get over that. I began counting my breaths, slow and even; in, out, one, two, three, four . . . self-pity was a drug. I must not become addicted. Self-pity is like chocolate; as you get older, you can only afford a little bit.
I heard a robin, then a mockingbird. Bees did their thing among all the flowering bushes and a few premature Easter lilies, set by gravestones. Here and there was a red foil-covered pot filled with shriveled remains of poinsettias, but on the whole folks took better care of their dead than that.
So peaceful. I deliberately took off my watch and dropped it in my purse. After a while, my tears dried and I cut loose from my worries, letting my mind drift. It was as though the countless religious ceremonies held here had drenched the soil not with anguish, but with calm detachment, thoughts of eternity. Every now and then I’d see a car go by; Shady Rest was perilously close to one of the new housing developments.
When at last I rose I’d achieved peace, or at least calm.
I really wouldn’t have had Charlie Gorman on a platter.
I
was making my way back to my car, taking my time and reading headstones, when I actually began to think. It seemed to me I hadn’t been asking the right questions. I’d been asking
why
these bizarre things were happening,
who
could be doing them, instead of
how
.
was making my way back to my car, taking my time and reading headstones, when I actually began to think. It seemed to me I hadn’t been asking the right questions. I’d been asking
why
these bizarre things were happening,
who
could be doing them, instead of
how
.
I was convinced that all the events of the past couple of weeks were related: the murders of Jack Burns and Beverly Rillington, the murderous attacks on Shelby and Arthur Smith.
Jack Burns had been dumped from an airplane, so the killer had to know how to fly. Jack had been killed by a blow to the head (last night’s local paper had said), as had Beverly Rillington, so the killer was strong and not afraid of violence.
Since somehow the killer had approached Shelby, who still had no memory of the attack, either (for convenience’s sake I’d term the killer male) he was someone known to Shelby, someone Shelby had no reason to fear; or he was used to stealth.
And if the stabbing of Arthur in the middle of a crowd was any indication, this person was getting increasingly reckless. The stabbing had to have been impulsive; the weapon was probably a lowly pocketknife, if the gossip I’d heard had been correct. So someone in the crowd around Arthur had been overwhelmed with fury so sudden and devastating that he’d risked all to injure Arthur.
And somehow, somewhere, he’d concealed the weapon so that none of the police on the scene had been able to find a trace of it. Could a pocketknife be swallowed? I wondered wildly. We’d all been searched. Where the hell could it be? This was a crucial
how
. How had it been concealed?
how
. How had it been concealed?
It was the sort of puzzle that I eagerly moved on to find the answer to in every fictional mystery I read. I never tried to figure it out myself when I knew the writer would supply the solution in a page or two. But I couldn’t flip to the end of the book now . . .
I rolled down the car window, letting the cool breeze toss my hair. I looked at the proper green tent-roof over Jack Burns’s grave. On its surface I replayed the banquet’s ending.
Martin and I walked out the door, and he took my hand. Arthur and his date were behind us. I remembered how irritated I’d been with Arthur; how he’d eyed me.
And when I remembered that, a little cold trickle started down my spine.
But I ignored it with a great effort of will. I was going to track this memory.
The cool, sweet evening. The parking lot. The little knot of people on the sidewalk. The quiet voices exchanging pleasantries. Jesse Prentiss introducing Verna, a stout sixty-year-old with a narrow mouth and a tight perm, to the anxious Andersons, who wanted only to be gone. Perry asking Jenny Tankersley if she wanted to go to his place for a drink . . . Paul with his hand in his pocket to retrieve his car keys, his date standing with her arms crossed on her chest; probably having circulation problems because her blue jeans were acting as tourniquets. Who else? Marnie Sands, groping in her purse, looking annoyed. I remembered thinking she couldn’t find her keys.
We’d moved to the right, facing out into the parking lot, preparing to cross to Martin’s Mercedes. The dog and the cat had provided the diversion necessary for the attacker to make up his mind; he’d try for Arthur . . . the idea of what extreme anger must be necessary to prompt such risk-taking made me shiver.
Then, of course, my fall to the pavement. I touched my bruised face; I had a blue bump on my right forehead, and a little scrape on my right cheek. I’d been lucky.
The confusion, the screaming, the moan and curse from Arthur. Martin helping me up, trying to find out where I’d been hurt. Jesse Prentiss, unexpectedly authoritative, telling Perry to run inside to call the ambulance . . . the sound of Perry taking off. There’d been running feet to and from the scene on the sidewalk: Dryden had run up to us, and Perry had run away.
Paul Allison had said, too late, that he’d called it in from his car already; Perry had been in the building by the time Paul had told us. Perry had had a perfect opportunity to get rid of the knife.
Okay, what about Dryden? His presence at the end of the parking lot was explainable; he was guarding the Andersons. But could he have thrown a knife, somehow? No, I decided reluctantly. Arthur had been facing Dryden’s car, and the wound had been in the back of Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur’s date, the little gal with the ponytail? Nope. Not only did it not ring true, but she’d been searched. So had Deena Cotton, who hadn’t been carrying a purse; and if she’d had a gnat in the pocket of those jeans, I would’ve been able to count its legs. Jesse and Verna Prentiss had been standing too far away to reach Arthur, by any stretch of their arms or my imagination. Martin and I had been holding hands and had been in front of Arthur. Marnie Sands had been in the right position and had had her hand in her huge shoulder bag . . . but how could she have gotten through the search?
Paul had watched us every minute until his fellow officers had arrived, unless . . . yes, there’d been the seconds he’d knelt beside Arthur, his hand supporting Arthur’s head; he’d been staring down at his wounded colleague. There’d been seconds, then.
But as I’d left the community center, I’d seen the police officers examining the area where Arthur had been stabbed. If the knife had been there—and it could only have been concealed hastily—they would’ve found it.
No. Somehow, some way, Perry had concealed the knife on his way into the community center. Had to be Perry.
I thought of my friend Sally, about how cheerful she’d been the day we took the punching bag to the airport. She’d already been through so much with Perry, his bouts with depression and his run-in with drugs; the prospect of Jenny Tankersley as a daughter-in-law had to look like Easy Street in comparison. It was inescapable, though, that Perry looked like the best bet for this series of horrible events. He’d looked at Angel with wanting eyes; he’d had a chance to hide the knife.
But that wasn’t enough, even close to enough, evidence for an arrest.
I started the car and drove out of the cemetery slowly, not having the slightest idea of where I was going. It was noon, lunchtime. I bought a sandwich from our local barbecue place and ate it sitting in the car, a practice I normally detest. Maybe I should have called Martin. I thought of doing it, then I remembered the day before when I’d had to track him down, and I childishly thought it might do him good to wonder where
I
was for a while. But those were surface thoughts, ideas that just skated through the front of my brain.
I
was for a while. But those were surface thoughts, ideas that just skated through the front of my brain.
I had the feeling you get when everyone begins roaring with laughter at a joke, and you sit anxiously waiting for the punch line to make sense. There was something big and obvious right in front of me, and I couldn’t see it. It was like there was a hole in my glasses. In that spot, I was blind, though I could see clearly all around it.
Chapter Ten
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