This church had its own graveyard. He knew this because he’d kept USGS topographic maps of all of Memphis, ever since he learned that they showed the locations of cemeteries, old and new. America’s woodlands were speckled with abandoned graveyards and he loved the poetry of leaving a new corpse among the old ones. It was one of his favorite disposal strategies. Once he realized that Frida would be buried in a graveyard that was a century and a half old, nothing could have kept him from detouring to see it.
He arrived at the funeral early, so that he could park at the graveyard’s secluded lot, barely a quarter mile past the church, and give himself a personal tour. He was in ecstasy as he strolled the unpaved woodland path that led from the road to the graveyard. From there, another path, stone-paved, would take him from the graveyard to the church, but first he wanted to soak it all in.
It was an enchanted place where they would be leaving Frida, an old, old burying ground encircled by massive trees and an elaborate wrought-iron fence. A tall granite obelisk stood at the very center, surrounded by a handful of above-ground crypts, one of them large enough to accept at least a half-dozen members of an affluent family. Its door stood askew and he longed to open it wide, laying eyes on a century of rot.
But Frida was not being buried in a rich woman’s mausoleum. A rectangular hole waited for her.
Someone had dug Frida’s grave with a machine. He would gladly have done it for her with his own hands. Her grave was surrounded by flower arrangements on flimsy wire stands. He reached out to one of them and plucked the tiniest possible sprig of baby’s breath, delicate and perfect. It rested in his pocket now.
With the flower as his hidden talisman, he walked the stone path leading to the church, knowing that he would find Faye Longchamp-Mantooth there.
And he did. She was waiting for him and she had dressed appropriately. If his luck held, he could snatch her in the aftermath of the somber ceremony, while she was still wearing a dress, pristine and so black that the blood wouldn’t even show.
Chapter Thirty-five
Flowers. There were flowers everywhere.
Faye didn’t imagine that Frida had known many people with money to spare, yet there were so many flowers. Garlands of flowers covered her casket. Arrangements on wire stands stood in the corners of the room where mourners had gathered to view her body. She had passed through the old church’s small sanctuary to get to Frida, and it was festooned with flowers, too. Its old woodwork was an effective foil for their vibrant colors.
She had watched Kali cross the threshold into the room where her mother lay in her casket. The child had taken in a long slow breath. Then, to no one in particular, she had said, “It looks like she’s in heaven.”
Laneer had taken her by the hand and said, “She is, baby. Somewhere, your mama is walking with the angels.”
“No, she isn’t, honey,” Sylvia told her, patting the little hand she held. “She’s dancing with the angels and she’s looking down at you.”
Faye wouldn’t have expected Mayfield to own a suit, nor Linton, but either they did or they had borrowed them, and ties, too. Like Faye, they had come to this room to join the mourners gathered to say one last good-bye to Frida before her funeral. With their sober clothing and sober faces, they blended in with the other mourners. Mayfield’s body, rangy when he wore his convenience store uniform of golf-shirt and khakis, had a model’s elegance when wrapped in the wide-shouldered jacket and tapered pants of a dress suit. Linton’s jacket emphasized his burly shoulders, hung smooth over his torso, then nipped in at his narrow waist. Even his tie was black, like a streak of grief on his ironed white dress shirt. Their suits were not expensive, but youth and strength don’t require custom-tailoring to shine. It came in little glimpses, but from time to time, Faye could see what Frida had seen in these men.
Laneer, too, looked dignified in a black suit with lapels that whispered, “Nineteen-Seventies Chic.” He held Kali by the hand, and they stood amid the crowd of hovering grievers, doing their duty by greeting them one by one.
Laneer called them each by name, shaking their hands or hugging their necks, as the case may be. Time and again, he inclined his gray head and responded to whatever expression of grief or sympathy was pouring from a person’s mouth.
“It’s just so hard.”
“I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”
“I do thank you for that wonderful casserole you sent.”
Kali was too young to be expected to engage in the language of grief, so she was spared this onslaught, which must have been grueling for a man of Laneer’s age. She stood silent beside him, wearing the dress that Faye had bought for her.
The stores are not full of clothes that make little girls look like crows, so Faye had done the best that she could. The child’s sundress was made of cotton fabric that was mostly black, but was printed with tiny white leaves and flowers to acknowledge that Kali was still just a little girl. Black grosgrain straps were tied in bows over her shoulders, and a sparkly belt was tied at her waist. Faye thought that, under other circumstances, those sparkles would have made the little girl smile, which is why she bought it.
Laneer or Sylvia had combed her hair into a high ponytail and tied it in a huge white satin bow. The hank of hair should have bobbed when she
