“How exactly did she die?” I pressed.
He spoke quietly. “You don’t want the details. Trust me on that.”
I thought about the way his gaze had skidded away that first night in the cemetery when I’d asked about the cause of death. I wondered now if his reluctance to divulge certain aspects of the murders—both old and new—was professional discretion or if his upbringing and personality had something to do with the circumspect way he answered my questions. From what I’d seen, he was something of a throwback to past generations and might well regard his role of protector as extending beyond his duties as a police detective.
Strangely, I wasn’t offended by this outdated attitude. I think on some level it fed into an adolescent fantasy that had been nurtured in those lonely years by a steady diet of
Regardless, I was no less determined to get the whole story from him. He seemed to sense this, and to my surprise, continued without further prompting.
“How familiar are you with secret societies on college campuses?”
“Not at all really. I know about Skull and Bones. I also know that those kinds of organizations tend to use a lot of mortuary imagery and that their emblems and symbols sometimes turn up on old headstones.”
“The imagery is very deliberate,” he said. “Mostly, it’s used to create a sense of gravitas and intimidation.”
“Mostly?”
His expression didn’t outwardly change, but I sensed a subtle tension in his features, an imperceptible tightening of his mouth and jaw. “The society at Emerson was known as the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. It had a long tradition on campus. Legacy pledges went back for generations. Some people think that at the time of her death, Afton Delacourt was involved with a Claw, that he lured her here to the cemetery and murdered her in some sort of initiation ritual.”
I felt moisture in the breeze that drifted through the old oak trees. It seemed sinister somehow, like the cold, dank touch of a corpse. “Was he arrested?”
“No one on the outside knew who he was and no one in the Order would give up a fellow Claw. Loyalty is valued, second only to secrecy.”
“Is? This group still exists?”
“They were denounced by the university after the murder, but a lot of people believe that rather than disbanding, they went deeper underground and still retain a shadow presence on campus to this day.”
I don’t know if I’d picked up on something in his voice or if it was an independent thought, but a couple of puzzle pieces suddenly clicked together. “Those people you mentioned earlier…the police chief, the newspaper editor, the mayor…were they Claws?”
“Like I said, membership in the Order is a highly guarded secret.”
“But it makes sense, doesn’t it? The cover-up wasn’t about Emerson’s reputation. It was about protecting another Claw.” My voice grew animated with my certainty. “Now I’m beginning to understand why you showed up at my house yesterday morning with all those questions about headstone symbolism and imagery. You think whoever committed this recent murder may be somehow connected to this Order.”
He never got the chance to respond. Someone called out his name and he turned with a jerk. “I’m over here!”
“We found something!” the officer shouted back. “You’ll want to see this!”
“Wait here,” he said over his shoulder as he started up the path.
I did wait…for maybe half a minute before I felt compelled to follow him through the muddle of headstones into the older section of the cemetery.
Crossing through the arched divide, I caught a glimpse of a pointed roof straight ahead. The Bedford Mausoleum was the oldest in the cemetery, erected in 1853 to commemorate the passing of Dorothea Prescott Bedford and her descendants. The design was Gothic, topped with a series of crosses. The body of the structure had been carved out of the side of a hillock, which made it unique. Elevated terrain was an anomaly in the Lowcountry and one of the reasons I found Oak Grove so unsettling. The topography was somehow off kilter.
As I walked deeper into the gloom, the temperature noticeably dropped. Swaying manes of curly moss blocked most of the light, allowing tentacles of ivy to ensnare statues and monuments already blackened with lichen. Where light managed to penetrate, water beads glistened like crystals on giant philodendrons. It was like stepping into the heart of a primordial rainforest.
I’d lost sight of Devlin, but as I came to the end of the overgrown pathway, I heard his voice. He was somewhere to the right of the mausoleum. As I disentangled myself from a wild grapevine, I spotted him. He stood with a group of bedraggled-looking men in sweaty shirts and mud-spattered trousers. They were gathered around a grave marked with a tablet headstone.
Slowly, I walked toward them, expecting Devlin to turn and order me back at any moment. But he said nothing even as I moved up beside him.
I stared down into the mottled light, searching for what had captured their attention.
Then I saw it.
A skeletal hand rising out of the dead leaves like an early spring crocus.
Ten
Within half an hour, they arrived in droves—cops in civvies and uniforms, swatting mosquitoes and mopping sweaty faces as they emerged from the overgrown brush to vie for a peek at the latest discovery. They were professionals, so they kept a respectable distance while the Charleston County coroner, a tiny, redheaded dynamo named Regina Sparks, examined the remains. I’d never met anyone whose name suited her more. Even standing stock-still beside the grave, the woman radiated a kind of manic energy that belied her unruffled demeanor.
I’d retreated to the background where I could observe without being in the way. After a lengthy consultation with some of his cohorts, Devlin came to find me.
“You okay?”
“As okay as one can be under the circumstances.” I hesitated, reluctant to give voice to the terrible thoughts rolling around inside my brain. “This can’t be a coincidence, can it? What if there are others that haven’t been found yet? What if this is the beginning of something…” I grappled for the right word. “You know what I mean.”
Devlin’s expression remained guarded, but I could sense an underlying anxiety that did nothing to relieve my dread. “It’s best not to make that kind of leap until we have all the facts. Right now, I’d like to ask you some questions about Oak Grove. I need to know about this place and you’re the only one who can help me out.”
I nodded, grateful to have something useful to do.
“What’s the first thing you do when you take on a job like this?”
The question surprised me a little, but I answered without hesitation. “I walk the whole cemetery. Even before I start to photograph.”
“So you’ve been all over this place. Even back here?”
“I’ve walked it, yes. But I’d barely begun photographing last Friday when the clouds moved in.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in either section?”
I glanced toward the skeletal remains. “Nothing like that, I assure you.”
“I’m talking more along the lines of that outward-facing headstone we discussed yesterday. Are there any more of those in here?”
“Not that I recall.”
He frowned. “Wouldn’t you remember?”
“Not necessarily. I told you before, an outward-facing headstone is not really that unusual. It only seems so now in context. At the time I walked the cemetery, I would have been preoccupied with Oak Grove’s more extraordinary features.”
“Such as?”
“Seven slot-and-tab box tombs with the lids still intact. Those are really rare, especially in South Carolina.”
