By her side, Jonas circled her waist with his arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
They were attending this funeral at Winding Vines Cemetery in Lancaster and standing in front of Rowan Vaughn’s family mausoleum. As her gaze swept away from this mausoleum to the rest of the cemetery, she spotted other mausoleums and sections of burial plots. Older plots were commemorated with memorials in shapes of angels, crosses, emblems, and towers. Many more recent graves were simply memorialized with flat gravestones.
“Would you ever want your family to be buried in a mausoleum?” Daisy asked.
“Not particularly,” Jonas answered with a husky catch in his voice.
They’d both lost loved ones. They’d seen death close up. Since they’d been involved in murder investigations, they’d also seen the repercussions of death.
Daisy couldn’t help but say, “They’re so gloomy. It’s got to be dark and damp inside the building. I like trees and sky and sunshine. Loved ones should be surrounded by that in some way.”
“There are so many ways to look at this,” Jonas said. “Most of them maudlin. Mausoleums are more of a tribute to a family than to a loved one.”
“Maybe only rich families have mausoleums.”
“Or families with very long bloodlines,” Jonas added. “There’s upkeep on a building like this.”
Gray columns rose from the ground to the ceiling on either side of the mausoleum’s doorway. At the wider side of the structure, there was a family emblem. A bas-relief angel with a wide wingspan soared above the emblem. Arborvitae had been maintained at the four corners and rose higher than the roofline.
Daisy felt chilled to the bone. November had descended with a cold grip, and today was a perfect example of a steel-gray day with the reminder of winter in any wind that blew. A green canopy had been set up a short distance from the mausoleum with Astroturf, folding chairs, and a platform for Margaret’s casket.
Jonas gave Daisy a little nudge. “We really should go over there.”
As they walked toward the site where a short service would be held, Rowan caught Daisy’s eye. Disengaging himself from the group of men he’d been speaking to, he came toward them.
Stopping when he reached Daisy, he asked, “Did you think any more about what I requested?”
While Daisy studied Rowan, she considered the fact that he looked like a man in mourning. He appeared a little more disheveled than any other time she’d seen him. His expensive suit jacket had a few creases. His tie was crooked. His usually styled hair was windswept.
She took a tighter grip on her clutch purse. “I spoke with Vanna. That didn’t lead anywhere important, but I did learn some things I didn’t know before. I was surprised that Vanna didn’t know Margaret’s stage name. Can you tell me what it was?”
“Yes. It was Luna Larkin. Unique, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it is.” Daisy actually thought it sounded more like a Las Vegas showgirl’s name than an actress’s. But she didn’t say that. Both her gaze and Rowan’s went to the group of people standing at the chairs under the canopy. Rowan pointed to a beautiful African-American woman with shoulder-length curly black hair that was pulled back on either side by gold barrettes. Her skin was unlined and her big brown eyes darted here and there.
“That’s Keisha Washington, the stage manager Margaret brought in from New York. The man next to her is Ward Cooper. He’s the lighting technician.”
Ward Cooper was tall and thin with ears that wouldn’t look so big if he didn’t have his hair cut so short. He was wearing a herringbone-patterned sweater coat, black slacks, and a light gray scarf wrapped around his neck in a style common to many men now. Other members of the cast were also present—Daniel Copeland, Heidi Korn, Arden Botterill, and Jasper Lazar. Glenda Nurmi was speaking with Heidi.
The minister beckoned to Rowan, who excused himself and headed toward the front row under the canopy. Daisy leaned close to Jonas. “Since Glenda’s here, I’ll speak to her after the service.”
“She might be too upset to talk.”
“She might be. If she is, I’ll set up another time.”
The minister gave a signal that it was time for the mausoleum service. Daisy had never been to a service like this one. But she was learning new experiences happened every day.
The minister didn’t simply read from the Bible. He spoke about Margaret as if he had known her, and Daisy wondered if he had, or if Rowan had just given him details.
After the minister finished, Rowan went to the podium. He said, “Margaret probably didn’t want a funeral service that was traditional. But I thought in a way her roots should be evident. However, I also know she would like me to recite lines from writers she admired.”
After Rowan said that, he read quotes from William Blake, Wordsworth, and Ibsen. After he finished, the pallbearers took the casket to the mausoleum. Daisy stared at the small building. She knew at some point she had to confront her fear of enclosed spaces. Maybe today was the day to do it. She wanted to wait until everyone who was inside the mausoleum left.
While Jonas spoke with someone he knew, she walked the path around the edifice. Somehow a pebble got into her shoe, and she stopped to shake it out. She heard voices and realized one of the windows of the mausoleum had been opened. It was above her head so she couldn’t see who was inside. But she could hear.
After listening for a while, she thought one of the people inside was Glenda. The other person was a man, but Daisy couldn’t quite make out their words. Still . . . she heard Margaret’s name uttered.
Was this about the funeral service? Or was it about Margaret herself? Maybe it concerned her murder. Daisy stayed where she was. When the voices stopped, she stepped to the edge of the side of
