themselves, but the prejudice will be there. The fact is that the character of their town is being called into question, and they’ll be looking for the easiest way back to normalcy. In their minds, I guarantee you, that way will be to indict and then convict Solemn.”
“That’s a lot of speculation, Jo.”
“I know how juries think. That’s part of what I do. It may be that the questions you ask lead nowhere. Suppose Charlotte was sexually abused. Does that mean it necessarily had anything to do with her death?”
“Jo, they’re going to charge Solemn with murder eventually. First-degree, second-degree, whatever. I promised him I would help. This is how I do that.”
“I understand that, Cork. And I hope you understand that I’m trying to handle a very delicate situation here, a balance between my client’s needs at this point, the prejudice of this community, the long-term effect of every move we make, and the fact that you can’t even sneeze in this town without everyone knowing it.
“Charlotte’s been dead for several months. Will another week or two change anything? Once Solemn’s been officially charged you can ask your questions. People will expect it then. They may not like it any better, but they’ll understand.”
“You ask for my help and then you ask me to sit on my hands.”
“I know.”
Cork stooped and picked up a bean that had fallen to the floor. He looked at it, hard and black in the palm of his hand. That was him inside.
“All right,” he said. He threw the bean onto the counter and turned toward the side door.
“Where are you going?” Jo asked.
“I need to be by myself for a while.”
He opened the kitchen door.
“Cork,” Jo said to his back. “It’s good information. I’m sure it will be a big help if we have to go to the mat for Solemn. Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
He stepped out under the early night sky and walked away into the gathering dark.
19
The first miracle occurred a few days later, on Memorial Day.
Every year on that holiday, weather permitting, the O’Connors had a backyard barbeque. They invited friends and neighbors, and over the coals of a couple of grills, they cooked up hamburgers and hot dogs that they served with Rose’s famous potato salad. Everyone who came brought a dish to share. Cork nestled beer and pop in a half- barrel full of ice, and the kids made lemonade from real lemons. The piece de resistance was a tub of vanilla ice cream handmade in an oak bucket filled with ice and rock salt, and everyone had to take a turn at the crank.
Memorial Day weekend was a big one for tourists. Cork could have made a tidy profit keeping Sam’s Place open, but for him family came first. If he was going to flip burgers, he’d just as soon do it in the company of people he loved for people he cared about.
Rose was late. She had planned to come early with Father Mal so that she could help the rest of the O’Connor clan get everything ready. When she hadn’t arrived by one, Jo called the rectory. The phone rang half a dozen times before Father Kelsey picked up. He’d been invited, as always, but Father Kelsey seldom left the rectory anymore. He preferred the comfort of his easy chair in front of the television.
The priest said that Rose and Father Mal had left some time ago after Mal got a phone call. Something odd at the cemetery. Father Kelsey didn’t know what kind of oddness, or why anyone would call out the priest, or what made Rose feel she needed to accompany him.
Cork was about to start the coals when Jo reported all this to him and asked if he’d mind popping over to the cemetery to check things out. As Cork headed toward his Bronco, Stevie ran to him begging to go along.
Lakeview Cemetery occupied the crown of a big hill at the southern end of town. The site was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence, built tall so that deer couldn’t jump it to feed on the flowers inside. Because this was Memorial Day, Cork expected to see a number of people there, paying their respects to loved ones who existed now only in memory, but he was surprised to find the cemetery looking nearly deserted.
Gus Finlayson, the cemetery groundskeeper, stood smoking a pipe under a burr oak tree just inside the gate. Cork stopped. “Where is everybody?”
“Way to the other side,” Gus said. “You ain’t heard?”
“What?”
“Best go on and see for yourself.”
Cork drove ahead, threading his way down the narrow lanes between the rows of gravestones. He soon saw the place, dozens of cars parked on a hillside at the distant end of the cemetery. As Cork approached, Stevie stuck his head out the window.
“It smells pretty,” he said.
And it did. The air was redolent with the scent of roses.
Cork parked behind Mal Thorne’s Nova. Just ahead of that was a sheriff’s department Crown Victoria. Randy Gooding stood next to the cruiser, his arms crossed. Mal and Rose were with him.
“What’s up?” Cork said.
Gooding nodded down the hillside where a crowd had gathered. “Check it out.”
Cork glanced at Mal, who looked a little mystified. Rose glowed and seemed about to speak, but she held herself back.
Cork descended the hill with Stevie at his side. A quiet murmur came from the gathering. In the gaps between people, Cork glimpsed deep red, like a pool of blood, at the center of things. He found an open space and moved in. It was not blood but rose petals, thousands of them, a foot deep over the grave and covering the grass around it in a circle several yards wide.
Then he looked at the gravestone.
Fletcher Kane had paid a pretty penny for the stone that marked his daughter’s grave, bought her a white marble obelisk six feet tall. Carved in relief above Charlotte’s name was a beautiful angel with eyes cast toward heaven.
“Look, Dad,” Stevie said. “The angel is bleeding.”
Not exactly bleeding, Cork thought. Weeping. Tears of blood, it seemed, dark red trickles that ran glistening from the angel’s eyes all the way down the white face of the stone into the petals that lay deep around the base.
A few of the crowd were on their knees, praying. Most of the others simply stared at the weeping angel with a quiet reverence. Cork turned away and walked back up the hill.
“Where did the petals come from?” he asked.
Gooding shrugged. “The question of the day.”
“It’s like they fell from the sky.” Rose lifted her hands, as if to catch any petals that might yet flutter down. “And the angel, Cork. Did you see the tears?”
“I’d take a sample of those tears, if I were you,” Cork said to Gooding.
“I already have. Over great objection from the true believers down there.”
The priest gave Cork a dazzling smile. “Don’t you feel it? Something absolutely amazing has happened here.”
“Amazing all right,” Cork said. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble. Did Gus Finlayson see anything?”
Gooding shook his head. “It was like this when he opened the gate this morning. Says there was nothing last night when he locked up.”
“Does Arne know?”
Gooding said, “Sheriff’s over in Hibbing, spending the day with Big Mike and the rest of his family. I didn’t see any reason to haul him back here for this. No harm done, so far as I can see. I’m guessing at some point somebody will come forward and we’ll find out it was just some kind of extravagant gesture.”
“No one will,” Rose said. There was a look in her eyes that was a little like madness. Cork wasn’t sure he’d
