The wheelbarrow squealed as Kathleen jolted to a stop.
“What’s that screeching noise?” A young voice quavered.
“Buzzy, somebody’s out there.”
“Haven’t you ever heard an owl?” Buzzy’s equally youthful, but more forceful voice dripped disdain. “That’s why they’re called screech owls.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t like it here.” The words came in uneven spurts, likely a product of struggling breaths. “This is a lousy idea.
Everybody around is dead. Let’s get out of here. ” I wafted inside the mausoleum.
A tall skinny boy pulled at the crowbar jammed beneath the edge of the greyhound’s pedestal. “What’s the matter, Marvin. You scared?” Plaster crackled, drifted down toward the floor.
Marvin held the flashlight trained on Maurice’s tomb. “Who, me?
No way. But this is a stupid bet, and if anybody finds us we’ll end up in jail and Mom will yank my car keys for the rest of my life. Anyway, that dog’s probably too heavy to move even if we get him free.” I flew into action. I don’t know how many times I’d brought flowers to graves and I always stopped at the Pritchard mausoleum to Ca ro ly n H a rt
smooth the dog’s head and run my fingers over the cat’s whiskers. I was furious. Halloween fun was one thing, say draping the statues with plastic leis, even a touch of washable paint. But defacing a tomb . . .
I grabbed the crowbar away from Buzzy and flung it out into the darkness, where it clattered down the steps.
Buzzy stared at his empty hands. “How’d you do that, Marvin?” Marvin, eyes wide as saucers, tried to speak, couldn’t.
Outside, the wheelbarrow screeched. Where was Kathleen going?
Marvin’s head jerked, seeking the source of the shrill whine.
“Something’s out there. And something weird’s going on in here.” He began to edge toward the exit.
“That wasn’t funny, Marvin.” Buzzy’s straight dark brows drew down in a frown. “Go get the crowbar. I can’t get the dog loose without it.” I marched over to Marvin, yanked the flashlight from his hand, twirled it in a circle. Light swung disco-quick around the walls of the mausoleum.
Marvin yelped, flung himself toward the entrance. Buzzy outran him.
I followed, sweeping the flashlight high and low. That turned out to be a mistake. I intended to scare them sufficiently to discourage a return, but the light swept over Daryl Murdoch lying on his back a few feet from the steps into the mausoleum.
Marvin flailed his hands in panic, then broke into a lumbering run, trying to catch up with Buzzy.
I turned off the flashlight and it was dark.
Excited shouts, the thud of running feet, and grunts marked the teenagers’ progress as they careened around headstones. When silence once again cloaked the cemetery, I turned on the light.
“Kathleen?” I called softly. No answer. I’d not expected one. That high rasp of the wheelbarrow when I was inside the mausoleum must have signaled her departure.
G h o s t at Wo r k
Murdoch was lying on his back near the first step. The tarp was gone as well as the wheelbarrow. I hoped Kathleen shook the tarp well and put it in its customary place and returned the wheelbarrow to the shed. Perhaps I’d better check with her before I departed, though I doubted she would be pleased to see me. Or not see me.
Now I felt a need to make amends to Daryl Murdoch. I placed the flashlight on the top step. The beam illuminated him and perhaps five feet or so beyond. I folded his hands on his chest and straightened his legs. He looked quite peaceful, though I wondered how pleasant his face had been in life. But I mustn’t make assumptions just because Kathleen didn’t like him. There was a lovely bouquet of artificial chrysanthemums in a nearby vase. I selected a bright yellow bloom and placed it in his hands, then said a prayer to speed him on his way and for his family’s comfort.
Sirens wailed in the distance. I lifted my head, listened. At least two sirens rose and fell. The wail increased in volume. I smiled. The boys were good citizens despite their Halloween prank. I must move quickly.
I dropped to one knee beside the body. The ground was cold. I shivered as the frosty wind whistled around me. I was reaching for his wallet when a ding-dong bell sounded very near. I stared at the body. The sound, which reminded me of long-ago cartoon music, emanated from his jacket pocket. How odd.
I reached in the pocket and brought out a small hard plastic oblong not much larger than a fancy compact. The musical tones sounded three more times, then cut off. How curious. I shrugged, replaced the object, and focused on my task. Once I had the wallet out of his pocket, I flipped through it. His driver’s license gave his address as 1906 Laurel Lane, not an address I knew.
The sirens were loud enough now to wake the dead. The quip was irresistible. Red lights flashed. One police car, then a second jolted to a stop on the paved road about fifty yards south of the mausoleum.
Car doors opened, interior lights flashing.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
A woman’s voice shouted, “Police. Don’t move. Put your hands up. Police.” A low murmur ensued and two dark shapes moved cau-tiously toward the mausoleum, flashlights sweeping back and forth.
I replaced the wallet. As I stood, one of the lights swept near me and I saw the track of the wheelbarrow in soft dirt near the path. Heavens, I should have checked the area first. Now there was no time to lose or the police might track the wheelbarrow back to the rectory. I scooped up Marvin’s flashlight. I had no choice but to turn it on.
