Colder Than Death

softly. I introduced them. Quilla managed a weak “Hello” and Vaughn nodded his head. He returned to his Jeep. We followed him.

“There should be a notebook and couple of pens in the glove compartment,” I said.

Quilla clicked it open and looked inside. She removed a black Pentel, a red Bic pen and a stenographer’s notebook.

“You write in the notebook. Tear out a few sheets for me. Put down the family name on each headstone. When we meet Perry we’ll go over them and see if any strike a chord.”

She nodded as she neatly removed the pages from the notebook. Vaughn slowed down and came to a stop. I did the same, pulling to a stop a dozen yards behind him.

“Give me a second with Vaughn before we start,” I said. Quilla nodded yes, then I went to the Jeep. Before I said a word he handed me a regulation Police issue flashlight. “You want to give me an inkling of what this is all about?”

I explained Quilla’s theory and our plan to check the names.

“Worth a shot,” he said. “Most people buried there came from Belgium, Germany and Switzerland. Had a huge migration in the late nineteenth century. I’d help you, but my sciatica starts acting up in October. Gotta keep these old bones of mine in a sitting position. Swing by before you leave.”

I nodded. Vaughn took off. Quilla had gotten out of the car and was leaning against the rear fender, holding the notebook and pages I’d asked her to tear out.

“You take this,” I said as I handed her Vaughn’s flashlight. “And I’ll take that.” I took the loose pages. She kept the Pentel and gave me the red pen, then I opened the trunk and got another flashlight for myself.

“Ready?” I asked. We were about ten feet apart.

“How should we do this?”

“One at a time. You take this row and I’ll do that one. Write down the year they died and the names?”

The first name I wrote down was Frungel. They were a husband and wife. The male died in 1889. The wife in 1892.

“Why did Vaughn become your father figure?”

“After we buried my father, I developed a morbid fascination with visiting my dad’s grave. I was spending too much time here. My Dad was cremated. I didn’t see any reason why he should be out here in the middle of nowhere alone… when he could be home. I came to get him. Vaughn caught me. I thought he was gonna call the cops, but instead he said he just talked to me.”

“‘Leaving a loved one behind’s something I have strong feelings about,” he said. “I know someone who got left. It was a sad, terrible thing. When I was thirteen I had this little girlfriend. Her name was Christine Framingham. She was the same age as me.’ He paused for a few seconds, then said, ‘Let me see your eyes.’”

“Quickly, he shone the flashlight beam about five inches from my eyes and kept it there for a few seconds.”

“‘You have honest eyes,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. I want to show you a grave.’”

“‘A grave?’”

“‘Not just any grave. It’s a grave that somebody tried to dig up a long time ago. Somebody like you. Let’s go.’”

“I didn’t know what to think. I was petrified. I didn’t know if he was some old pervert or if he was gonna call the cops or my mother, so I said, ‘Look, it’s late and… can I just go home?’”

“‘I’ll give you a choice, lad. I can call the Chief of Police, a man by the name of Chester Cobb and he can book you for attempted grave-robbing or you can come with me.’”

“‘Alright. Okay.’”

“‘Glad you’re seeing it my way. Let’s go.’ He started walking. I followed. ‘Now, understand that this happened over sixty years ago. Christine got scarlet fever and died. She was my first experience with death and I took it real hard. My father knew how close me and Christine were, so when he was trying to console me he told me that even if I couldn’t be with Christine anymore I could still visit her for as long as I wanted. Of course, he was talking about visiting her grave.’ We arrived at Vaughn’s pick-up truck.”

“‘Jump in,’ he said.”

“As he walked around to the driver’s side I thought about making a run for it, but I remembered that he still had my ID card, so I got in the truck.”

“‘Understand something else,’ he continued as he started the engine and drove off. ‘I didn’t know much about paying respects back then. My folks and I came to town without knowing a soul, so it wasn’t like we had a bunch of relatives buried here. Until Chrissie passed on I’d never even been in a cemetery. The second my old man said I’d be able to visit her for as long as I wanted, a peacefulness came over me. Kinda like the feeling you get when you know the worst of something is over. But let’s get back to you. When you started digging into your father’s grave, I bet you were just thinking of this ache inside, right?’ I nodded yes. ‘Some hateful kind of pain that you thought would only go away if what’s left of your father is home safe with you, right?’”

“‘Yes.’”

“‘The thought of your father bein’ alone out here gets to you. I know the feeling.’ He made a right turn. We seemed to be going further into the cemetery. I had no idea where we were. He slammed on the brakes. I was jolted forward. ‘Here we are.’ He slid smoothly out of the truck and started walking without waiting for me.”

“‘Come on!’” he yelled. I ran to catch up to him. “’You like flowers?’”

“‘I guess.’”

“‘Then you’re in for a nice surprise. Ideally, it should be seen in nicer weather — Spring or Summer — and in the daytime to be fully appreciated, but you’ll get the idea.’”

“Vaughn had the flashlight on, but it was pointed towards the ground directly in front of us. As we trudged past the gravestones and foreboding mausoleums, the light bounced helter-skelter on the ground, landing on the top of one old headstone for an instant, then beaming onto a stretch of grass, then back onto another headstone with the figure of a praying angel on top. We walked about another twenty yards or so until we came to a stretch of shrubbery about three feet long and seven or eight feet high.”

“‘Gets a little tricky now,’ said Vaughn. ‘Just do what I tell you. Here.’ He handed me the flashlight. ‘Go. I’ll be right behind you.’”

“‘Okay.’”

“In a few seconds I’d reached a huge weeping willow tree, then as I passed it I raised the flashlight and, as if it were a camera, panned the area in front of me. That’s when I saw it. Christine Framingham’s grave. But it wasn’t so much a gravesite, as a flower garden.

I moved closer, following the flashlight beam and realized it was actually more like a shrine.

I looked at the inscription on the headstone:

Here Lies

Christine Framingham

Born April 6,1920

Died December 2,1933

Our beloved daughter taken from

this Earth into God’s loving hands

But what made the grave stand out were the flowers on it and surrounding it. It was Fall and they weren’t in full bloom, but I could see that there were hundreds of them and they were engulfed by a white picket fence that stood about a foot high. And it didn’t only surround Christine’s grave. It went around what amounted to the area of four graves, but it was obvious that only one person was buried there. Because it was so dark I couldn’t make out what kinds of flowers were there, but I could tell that they were planted with care because there was a pattern.

It was really like a tiny garden that somebody might have in their back yard, only it wasn’t in a back yard, it was in a cemetery. I had a pretty good idea of who was responsible for it.”

“‘Whattya think?’” asked Vaughn.”