“She was a very superstitious woman,” Devlin said. “She wore amulets to bring good luck, painted all the doors and windows in the house blue to ward off evil spirits. I thought it charming…at first…”
I pictured the amulet underneath my pillow, felt the coolness of the stone I wore around my neck. And I wondered what Devlin would say to the rules I’d followed all my life.
“I’m going inside,” he announced abruptly.
“Inside the mausoleum? There can’t be any evidence after all this time.” Then I realized that his intent might have nothing to do with Afton Delacourt’s murder and everything to do with his wife. “Should I wait out here?”
“Only if you’re too spooked to go in.”
“I’m not at all spooked. I’ve been in lots of mausoleums. I’ve never been bothered by any of them, and even if I were, I’d be hard-pressed to avoid them in my line of work.”
“That’s a very sensible outlook. Sometimes you surprise me.”
“I do?”
He hesitated. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but those photos in your office were very revealing,” he said. “I wager you feel safer in your cemeteries than you do in the city, in the company of people.”
“Not an unreasonable assessment,” I admitted.
He nodded. “It seems you’ve created your own world be hind these walls, and yet at times you can be stunningly practical.”
Yes, a practical woman who consulted with directors of parapsychology institutes about shadow beings and egregores. Who followed her father’s rules to the letter so that the ghosts floating through the veil at twilight wouldn’t latch onto her and drain away her life force.
“Speaking of practical,” I said, as I followed him up the steps, “rattlesnakes tend to like these kinds of places. Take care sticking your hand in a vault.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pushed open the dilapidated door and stepped inside.
Late-afternoon sunlight slanted in through the broken windows, illuminating the thick cobweb drapes that hung from the ceiling and in every corner. There was a smell, too, something earthy and ancient.
I paused just inside and glanced around. Nothing slithered away. No telltale sound of a rattle. That was a relief.
Vines and briars crept in through the windows and moss carpeted the brick floor. Layers of dust covered everything. I wondered if anyone had been inside since Afton Delacourt’s body had been recovered fifteen years ago.
“Where was she found?” My voice sounded harsh and intrusive in the utter stillness of the mausoleum.
“On the floor. About here, I’d say.” By contrast, Devlin’s voice was silky smooth.
I glanced down at the floor. The bloodstains had long since disappeared with the crumbled brick and mortar.
“Who found her?” I asked, shooing away a fly that buzzed around my head.
“There was a groundskeeper back then. He didn’t do much in the way of upkeep, obviously. His job was to chase away trespassers, mainly kids climbing over the wall to party. He spotted the body in here. The door was open, sunlight shining through…”
Just like now, I thought.
“Was he a suspect?”
“He was questioned, but he was an old guy. He died of a heart attack within weeks of finding the body.”
“Shock or coincidence?”
“A little of both, I would guess.”
I moved to the back wall where the vaults were better preserved. Using my hand to sweep away some of the grime, I read the vertical row of names—Dorothea Prescott Bedford, Mary Bedford Abbott, Alice Bedford Rhames, Eliza Bedford Thorpe—slowly lowering myself until I squatted before the bottom vault that had once housed the remains of Dorothea’s youngest daughter, Virginia Bedford, who had died only weeks before her mother.
And now blessed sleep.
Above the inscription was a symbol of a broken chain hanging from a disembodied hand. A broken chain, a broken family.
I went back and reread the last two lines of the epitaph:
There was another symbol at the bottom of the plaque. I had to press my head almost to the floor to see it. Three poppies tied together with a ribbon, the symbol of eternal sleep.
Once again I returned to the verse, absently swatting a fly from my face. It landed at the corner of the plaque and slipped through a crack in the vault door. I watched in disgust as another followed suit. Then another and another…
I scooted back, slapping at my hair.
Devlin saw me and came to my side. “Are you okay?”
“I hate flies.”
“What?”
“Don’t you see them? There must be dozens.”
He knelt beside me and I pointed toward the plaque where several had alighted. One by one they disappeared through the crevice.
“Where are they coming from?” I asked, still shooing them away from my hair.
“The better question is, where are they going?” Devlin muttered, reaching inside his pocket for a penknife. He inserted the blade at the edge of the vault and pried open the door. Then he lowered himself all the way to the floor to peer into the chamber.
“Do you see anything? There can’t be a body in there.” I was almost afraid to hear his answer.
“No body, but I think I see something farther back. I need a flashlight.”
“I have one in my bag.” I scrambled to my feet. “Hang on. I’ll go get it.”
Outside the sun was low, splashing crimson through the trees and across the monuments. I could smell marsh and pine and honeysuckle in the air, and the scent that lingered over every cemetery—the gentle perfume of mortality.
It was quiet outside, though I fancied I could hear voices in the distance. Cops milling around outside the walls perhaps, chatting about what they’d seen, reflecting on the grim business of murder.
I ran down the steps and as I bent to grab my backpack, I could have sworn I felt someone’s gaze on me. Slowly, I straightened and turned. Nothing there. Just the yawning doorway of the mausoleum.
Clutching the straps of my bag, I hurried back inside, back to Devlin.
He was halfway inside the chamber. I could see nothing of his body past his knees.
“What are you doing?” I asked in alarm.
He backed out, brushing dust from his shirt. A cobweb clung to his eyelashes and I reached up to remove it. I must have startled him because he caught my hand reflexively, an automatic response to a sudden move.
“Sorry. You have a…” I motioned with my finger. “On your eyelash.”
He swept the strand aside, his gaze inscrutable in the grayish light. “Did you find a flashlight?”
“Oh, right here.” That incident rattled me a little and I felt clumsy as I fumbled through my bag, searching for one of two flashlights I always kept handy.
He turned on the light, tested the strength of the beam on the wall, then flattened himself on the floor and shined the light back into the chamber.
I lowered myself, as well, and peered into the opening.
