The elderly man appeared from behind the cemetery office and headed across the grass toward the patrol car. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, a black tie, and yellow galoshes. That might have seemed odd had the lawn not been a slick, muddy mire.
The man hurried toward Steve with careful steps, as if he were afraid that his rubber boots might turn into water skis at any moment. Steve ignored him, concentrating his attention on a set of muddy tire ruts that led up the hill, stopping at April’s grave. The ruts seemed completely out of place, simply because Steve knew that he hadn’t made them. He hadn’t driven his car over the grass. And it wasn’t that he had forgotten doing it-judging from the size of the ruts, the tires that had done the damage were those huge, balloon-like things that kids mounted on their trucks.
Steve drove a ’66 Dodge Monaco. He couldn’t have made the tracks.
Mystery number one. There it was, but Steve didn’t let it rattle him. The ruts were mostly filled with water, but in a few places they were dry. Maybe the lab boys could get some plaster casts. That would certainly turn attention in another direction, away from him. If this investigation ever threatened to turn in his direction, which was something Steve doubted with the self-assurance of a man who had seen his share of unsolved crimes and then some.
Steve heard slick little rubber footsteps. Sharp little gasps. He raised his head and found that the man in black clothes and yellow boots was holding out a very white hand. A rictus grin was plastered on the undertaker’s face. The grin became an embarrassed smile. “Good morning, officer. I appreciate your prompt attention. This is all so awful.”
“Yeah, my boots are going to be a mess,” Steve said, knowing full well that wasn’t anything close to the undertaker’s definition of awful.
The man flushed. “I’m sorry about the water. The sprinklers come on at four. Last night we watered the Eternal Garden-that’s what we call this section. On at four and off at six-thirty. We rotate our watering schedule. For instance, we left the sprinklers off last night in the Meditation Garden, as we’re having a service there this morning. It doesn’t do to have wet grass during a service.” The man paused as if expecting a reply. Steve rewarded him with nothing more than a long moment of silence. It could have been an eternal moment in the Eternal Garden for all he cared. He was enjoying the hysterical picture of himself hip-deep in the dreamweaver’s grave, and the sprinklers coming on. It was a good thing he hadn’t lingered over his work.
The undertaker glanced discreetly at Steve’s patrol car, then studied his gold wristwatch. He spoke without making eye contact. “Officer? Would it be possible for you to park behind the office? As I said, the Meditation Garden is just across from us. We’re having a graveside service in about an hour. It might be upsetting if-”
“I don’t see how this is going to take an hour.”
“Very well, then.” The undertaker strained to maintain the pleasant, chirpy tone of the professionally unflappable. His gaze traveled to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the curling drive as if he expected a hearse and a line of rented Caddys to appear early because the family had other things to do today and they were real eager to plant Uncle Bob. “I just don’t want to upset anyone unnecessarily,” he explained.
“No problem. I’ll move this along as best I can. And don’t worry about upsetting me-my boots will clean right up.”
Steve stared at his reflection in the milky water that filled the tire ruts, stared at the emerald grass. “Beautiful lawn.” He spied cleat marks on a nearby grave. He hadn’t been dreaming. Damn. That meant he’d really had a no-hitter going when the little umpire interrupted his game. “Y’know, I wish I could get my lawn to look like this. What do you do to it? You use some special fertilizer?”
The undertaker blanched.
“Oh, Jeez.” Steve chuckled. “I didn’t mean that. Special fertilizer. Oh, Jeez. I wasn’t trying to make a bad joke or anything.”
“I understand.” The undertaker straightened his black coat, seemingly oblivious to the comical way his pants cuffs gathered at the tops of his yellow boots.
Steve dipped his thumbs under his gun belt. The hand-tooled leather creaked, and his keys jangled. “Okay,” he said, taking a little notebook from his perfectly creased pocket. “Let’s you and me try to figure out what happened here.”
It took nearly five minutes to get the undertaker’s story. His name was Ernest Kellogg, and he had arrived at work shortly after seven. Usually he was an on-the-dot kind of guy, but this morning his dog had done a nasty on the living room carpet, something Ernest hadn’t noticed until he put his foot in it on his way out the door.
Steve figured that the open grave was in the same league as the dog’s nasty. It upset Ernest, but it wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. After spotting the tire tracks and the open grave from the safety of his office window, Ernest had called the cops, because, unlike the dog shit, he figured that he could get a lawman to clean up this mess for him.
“Is there a caretaker?” Steve asked.
“We’ve got three men. Two work during the day. Gravediggers.” He pointed in the direction of the Meditation Garden. “They arrived shortly after I did. As you can see, I’ve already put them to work in preparation for this morning’s activities. Our other works at night-he’s an old fellow, more of a watchman than anything else.”
Steve almost asked, What’s the umpire’s name? But he kept that one to himself. “What’s the night man’s name?”
“Lewis…Royce Lewis.”
“Did he work last night?”
“I…I don’t know. I mean, I think so. He was scheduled. But he wasn’t here when I arrived this morning.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Yes. Royce and I almost always have a cup of coffee before he goes home. I believe in maintaining good relations with my employees, no matter how humble their position.” Ernest Kellogg paused. “Wait a minute. The coffeepot was on in my office. I smelled the coffee when I was on the phone. Royce must have made it. He must have been here last night.”
“Is his car around? I mean, where does he park?”
“Royce lives not far from here. He walks to work. Likes to take the air, he says.”
Steve pointed at the tire tracks. “Know anything about these?”
“No.” Once again, the undertaker glanced at his watch. “The tracks were here when I arrived.”
Steve glanced at his watch, too. Two more minutes had passed. Probably warming up the old hearse right this minute, he thought. Getting old Uncle Bob battened down for his last ride, yessiree.
Yessiree, Bob.
“Look,” Ernest Kellogg said, “is there any possibility that we could do this in my office?”
“Only if you’ve got another open grave in there.” Steve remembered the heft of the shovel and the crazy cartoon clang it made when it bashed Royce Lewis’s head, remembered how the handle had vibrated in his hands for a short second upon impact. He looked again at the tire tracks and his grin held, but he began to wonder why he hadn’t seen Royce Lewis lying dead on the ground where he’d left him, between the headstone that had served as second base and the grave that had been the pitcher’s mound.
Okay. The tire tracks. Someone else had been here.
And the night man was missing.
Maybe I don’t have anything to smile about, Steve thought. But he kept smiling. “Have you looked at the grave?”
“No. I thought it would be prudent to wait for you. I…I wasn’t sure about disturbing the evidence.”
Steve grinned. “You’re not squeamish, are you?”
“Jesus!” Ernest Kellogg leaned heavily against the granite cross that bore April Louise Destino’s name.
