and there was an old green Plymouth parked in front of it. An elderly guy in a raincoat and hat was getting ready to close the other gate-half, but he stopped when my headlights picked him up. He stood there with a padlock in one hand, squinting in my direction.
I set the brake and got out without shutting off the engine. When I came up to him he said, “Sorry, neighbor. Closing up now; you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” I said. “I’m a stranger in town.”
“Too bad,” he said, but not as if he meant it.
“I only need five to ten minutes. I want to take a look at one of the mausoleums.”
“Can’t spare the time. Another night, maybe, but I got to be out to Penngrove by five-thirty. Lodge doings.”
“Well, maybe you can tell me what I need to know. That is, if you’re the regular caretaker here.”
“Now who else would I be? A graverobber?” He thought that was funny and laughed to prove it. “A graverobber,” he said, and waited like a stand-up comic for his laugh.
I obliged him, just to keep him friendly. “I’m trying to find out about a woman named Chiyoko Wakasa-”
“Who?”
“Chiyoko Wakasa. One of the mausoleums is hers.”
“Oh, yeah, the Jap woman. Can’t tell you nothing about her, neighbor. She was before my time.”
“You remember the date of her death, offhand?”
“No. Look, I got to take off now. Else I won’t make Penngrove by five-thirty.”
Now that I was here, I was reluctant to leave empty-handed. So I said, “How would it be if you went to Penngrove and I went in and took a look at the Wakasa mausoleum? I won’t be more than a few minutes and I’ll padlock the gate for you when I go.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do that, neighbor. Against the rules. Besides, I don’t know you.”
“What do I look like?” I said. “A graverobber?”
I laughed and he laughed with me. Then his expression got crafty; and that was good, because it meant he was going to be the one to bring up money. “Well now,” he said, “if it’s that important to you, and if you was to show me some identification, and if you was to maybe pay me a little something to ease my conscience, I guess maybe I could allow it.”
“How does five dollars sound?”
“Five dollars always sounds good, neighbor. But ten dollars sounds even better.”
“Then again,” I said, “Five dollars sounds a lot better than nothing at all.”
We grinned at each other like a couple of sly vultures. And I got my wallet out and showed him my driver’s license and then watched him produce a scrap of paper from his pocket and write down my name and the license number of my car. After which I gave him the five dollars, and he said, “A pleasant evening to you, neighbor,” and handed me the padlock.
He didn’t leave right away; he waited until I drove inside, got out again, and shut the other half of the gate. Then he was satisfied. The Plymouth disappeared, and I headed up the cypress-lined drive toward the cemetery’s older section.
Up there, the graves were laid out in big squarish plots with raised cement borders, some family and some communal, like lots in a miniature housing development. Narrow roadways and narrower paths, all rough and unpaved and strewn with storm residue, made a kind of irregular grid pattern over the grounds. It was pretty dark now, and there wasn’t any form of night-lighting; but the mausoleums were still visibly outlined against the restless sky. I turned toward the nearest one. My headlamps splashed wobbles of light over the dark looming shapes of the trees, over tall marble obelisks and squat stone monuments and ancient wooden markers like bleached bones imbedded in the earth.
When I came abreast of the first mausoleum I unclipped the flashlight I keep under the dash and went to look at the inscription over the door. Not the right one. I got a bearing on a second mausoleum, higher up and back toward the rear perimeter fence, and moved behind the wheel again and drove up there.
This was the oldest part of Cypress Hill, judging from the condition of the plots and the look of the tombstones. The grave next to the mausoleum had buckled and collapsed in the middle from the
encroachment of tree roots; moss grew thickly in the chips and cracks of the cement. The headlights were aimed at the stone marker when I braked to a stop, and I could read part of its date: DIED 1875. AGED 44 YEARS, 9 MONTHS.
The burial vault itself bulked up in the shadows of a pair of live oaks. It was about the size of a large shed, made out of cut-stone blocks, its entrance flanked by two Corinthian columns and two sculpted stone urns overflowing with moss. It looked as though it had been there for a good many years. I took it to be the final resting place of one of Petaluma’s pioneering families-the town had been founded back in the 1850s, on land that had once belonged to the Mexican general Vallejo-but I got out with the flashlight to make sure.
And it turned out I was wrong. This was the mausoleum I was looking for, the one Kazuo Hama had built not so long ago. Words and dates cut into the stone above the entrance read:
CHIYOKO WAKASA
1924–1947
“THERE THE WICKED CEASE FROM TROUBLING, AND THE WEARY BE AT REST”
I stood for a time, holding the flash beam on the inscription. She’d been twenty-three years old when she died. Twenty-three was too young for death; she had hardly even lived. Who was she? What had happened to her?
“There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary be at rest.” I wasn’t familiar with the quotation, though it was probably Biblical. An odd sort of inscription for one Japanese-American to put on the tomb of another-almost as odd as erecting the mausoleum itself. Did it imply that Chiyoko Wakasa had been wicked and weary both, at the age of twenty-three?
I made a circuit of the building, to see if there were any other markings. There weren’t. A stained-glass window had been set into the rear wall-a religious cross in yellow and red, indicating that Chiyoko Wakasa had been a Catholic-but that was all I found. Back at the entrance again, I paused and played my flash over the decorative iron gate that barred the door. Then, without any conscious purpose, the way you do things sometimes, I reached out and tugged at one of the bars.
The latch made a clicking noise and the gate popped open in my hand.
I hadn’t been aware of the wind before, but now I felt it like a cold caress on the back of my neck. There were marks, scratches, on the gate’s side; I could see them in the torchlight. Not brand-new scratches, but not old ones either. I moved the flash over to the latch plate set into the wall. Marks there, too, gouges in the metal and chips in the stone. The gate had been forced open with some kind of tool, probably a crowbar, and then reclosed so the caretakers and groundsmen wouldn’t notice the tampering.
Kazuo Hama wouldn’t have done it, I thought. There would not have been any need; he’d built the mausoleum and that meant he’d had a key, or at least access to a key. The person who’d killed Hama and the others, then? But why? Why break into a mausoleum?
The door was made out of some kind of heavy wood bound with iron strips. I switched the flash to my left hand and reached down and caught hold of the handle. Nothing happened when I pulled on it. But when I shoved against the door, it creaked open like the one on the old “Inner Sanctum” radio program.
I smelled the flowers immediately, even before I saw them in the flash beam. The fragrance seemed to rush out at me like something sentient that had been trapped in there-a musty-sweet, cloying fragrance, intensified by the cold night air, that made you think of death and slow decay. Then the light picked up the flowers, and it was like looking into a dark room in a funeral parlor, the room where they lay a body out in its coffin so mourners can look at it.
Roses, mostly-yellow and pink, red and white. Cut roses in cans of water, some fresh and some dry and blackened and rotting. Small rose bushes in planter tubs. Carnations, gladiola, lilies, two or three other varieties I couldn’t identify. Covering most of the floor space in there, leaning against the walls, draped over the stone bier set under the stained-glass window.
Smelling the flowers, seeing them in there by torchlight, made my hackles rise. It was eerie; and it smacked of aberration and madness. No sane mind could have broken into the mausoleum of a woman dead for thirty-six years and filled it with all those floral tributes.
