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MARY HAD NOT WANTED Christena to come with her to the interview with Dr. Applegate. But afterwards, she wondered if it might have gone better with her aunt present.
Christena had a way of putting people at ease, so that they often revealed very personal aspects of themselves without even noticing. Mary envied that ability. She was herself perhaps a bit too intense, too pushy when trying to draw information from a reluctant subject. Next time, she vowed, she would model her behavior after Christena’s, and take the slow, disarming approach.
But there was one thing her aunt had done that Mary still didn’t approve of.
“Tena?” Mary said, as the two of them walked toward the Dillmont cemetery.
“Yes?” her aunt replied, holding her parasol high. Why she had bothered to bring it, Mary didn’t know, as Christena already had her broad straw hat planted firmly on her head, and the sky was cloudy.
“Do you think Edmond and Paul will really come to Mackinac?”
Christena stopped in her tracks and turned to Mary. “Why in the world do you ask? Do you think they won’t?”
“I almost wish that they wouldn’t,” Mary said, a bit churlishly.
Christena looked puzzled. “But I thought we’d all agreed it would be great fun.”
The two were standing right in the middle of the road and had to move aside for a two-horse van that came rattling slowly through. The white-haired driver nodded to them and they waved back, as they once again continued on their way.
“Yes, we did agree,” Mary said. “But you know, I’ve never really been with Edmond in a social setting. Well, I mean...”
Christena gave her a sideways glance. “You mean you’re concerned that Edmond won’t fit in on Mackinac? Because he’s not of the right class?”
Mary fidgeted with the bouquet she was carrying, feeling flustered. How could she explain what seemed to be a snobbish attitude on her part?
“I really don’t give a fig about social classes. Or the fact that Edmond has Indian blood. One of the reasons I like him is because he’s exactly who he seems to be. No pretense, no arrogance.” She paused. “But the upper crust can be cruel to outsiders.”
“Miserably cruel,” Christena agreed. “But I think you might be too concerned about how Edmond would handle a slight. I suspect both he and Paul would merely shrug it off. They are both rich in talent, after all. No snotty aristocrat could ever snatch that away from them.”
Mary smiled at her aunt. “You’re really quite taken with Paul, aren’t you?”
A slight blush came across Christena’s cheeks. “I suppose I am. I find him such a delightful conversationalist. He’s very interested in Egyptology, you know. Said he would love to visit the pyramids and the Valley of the Kings some day. And so would I.”
By now they had reached the intersection where another, narrower lane led up to their destination. An ornate wrought-iron front gate informed them that they had arrived at the Shady Rest Cemetery. The graveyard occupied a rustic patch of three or four acres dotted with old oaks. Mary and Christena began to amble up and down the ranks of headstones, looking for a relatively fresh grave.
As Christena stopped to admire a particularly florid piece of funerary art—a flight of cherubim carved into a large marble tombstone—Mary continued her search for Mrs. Olcott’s grave.
Mary had never much enjoyed funerals and cemeteries. It depressed her to think that every vibrant life ended up here, huddled under the earth. The awful memory of her own mother’s funeral still haunted her. Mary had been only eight years old, but she could still remember the morbid details. Vividly. Especially, how that person in the coffin had not looked anything like Alice MacDougall. More like some awful waxworks effigy.
Nearing the cemetery fence, she spied a mound of dirt a couple of rows away. “There’s something over there, Tena,” she yelled.
The new grave had a wooden cross standing over it, just as Merton Olcott had described. A little brass plate affixed to it was engraved with the initials “A. O.” Sparse grass and weeds were starting to grow on the raw patch of soil. It certainly didn’t show much care or concern.
First, Mary took out her Kodak Brownie box camera and snapped a picture. Then she placed her bouquet—lilacs from Mrs. Wingate’s backyard—on the grave and took another snap.
“Poor woman,” she said to Christena, who had joined her. “Put in the ground so far from home. No one to visit or tend to her grave.”
“Poor dear, indeed,” came a voice from behind.
Both Mary and Christena twirled around to find a middle-aged woman standing there, wearing a solemn expression. She was quite short and had the sturdy build of a farmer’s wife.
“But then they’re all poor dears that die in that place,” she continued, moving closer to Mary and Christena. “My cousin works there at Westerholm, you know. Sometimes in the asylum, sometimes in the infirmary.”
“It’s not just an infirmary?” Mary asked, surprised.
“Not at all,” the woman answered. “Westerholm Institution for Women, it’s called. Mostly an asylum, you know, for those females that are...” She tapped her temple with an index finger. “Mrs. Westerholm built it and her trust keeps it going. It was because of her daughter, who wasn’t quite right in the head. The old lady saw a need for such a place in this part of the state. She had a generous heart, no doubt of that.”
“Very generous,” Christena echoed.
“Now the infirmary has twelve beds, more than enough for the inmates who get sick. So the superintendent opened it up to locals. That was a godsend, let me tell you. Otherwise people in Dillmont had to go all the way up to Sault Ste. Marie when they needed a hospital.” The chatty woman finally paused and looked Mary and Christena up and down. “Did you know the deceased?”
“No, not personally,” Mary replied.
“A terrible way to die,” the woman said.
“So I hear.” Mary gave an involuntary shiver. Dr. Burns’s description of the disease was still lodged in her mind.
“My cousin said she died in the morning, after quite a struggle. But now she is finally at peace.”
“Did you hear anything about her symptoms?” Mary asked eagerly. “The details of her case?”
The woman looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, no. Why would I want to know such things? Makes me fell sick just to think of it.”
Christena broke the ungainly silence that followed. “My name is Christena MacDougall and this is my niece Mary. We are here on our way to Mackinac. And you are?”
“Mrs. Tilda Gray.” The woman smiled broadly, revealing a gap between her teeth. “Well, I suppose I’d best get over there to my husband’s plot. I try to visit him every few weeks, rest his soul. He left us four years ago, but my sons handle all the work at the sawmill just fine. You ladies have yourselves a wonderful time on the island.” And with that, she briskly strode off.
Mary and Christena went in the opposite direction, heading for the cemetery gate. As they approached it, a black buggy came rattling in, so sharp and clean that it almost glinted. On the side of the buggy Mary spied a name in handsome silver Roman type: Van Pelt & Sons, Undertakers.
There was a thin young man in the driver’s seat, in an old-fashioned black suit—no doubt one of the sons. He tipped his bowler hat to the two ladies and continued on into the graveyard.
Mary stopped in her tracks, staring at the receding buggy.
“What is it, Mary?” asked Christena.
“One final opportunity, perhaps,” Mary answered and began trudging after the Van Pelt buggy. “Come on, Tena.”
They caught up to the gentleman in front of a shed not far from Agnes Olcott’s grave. He was standing there talking to some laborer holding a spade, a string bean of a fellow in dirty dungarees. Probably the gravedigger. They both regarded Mary and Christena a bit curiously and quickly concluded their conversation. The laborer went off and the suited man turned his attention to the MacDougalls, doffing his bowler hat.
“Good afternoon, ladies. How may I help you?”
“Are you one of the Van Pelts?” Mary asked.
“That I am,” he nodded. “Abraham Van Pelt. I operate Van Pelt & Sons with my older brother and my father. Do you have some need of our services, miss? Or is it missus?”
He had a pale, clean-shaven face shaped like a V, severe and clearly not given to any frivolity.
“Thankfully, not just yet,” Mary replied. “And it’s Miss MacDougall. But my aunt and I have stopped off in Dillmont as a favor for a friend of ours, whose mother died here some weeks ago. The grave is just over there, the new one with the wooden cross.”
Mr. Van Pelt peered in the direction that Mary pointed. “Ah yes, the poor woman from Westerholm.”
“We were hoping you could give us some details of her burial, to convey to our friend.” Mary clasped her hands, as if about to pray.
Mr. Van Pelt maintained his sober demeanor. “Yes, of course. I remember that day well, Miss MacDougall. Dr. Applegate handled the details. He came to my house early that morning and said that he needed a coffin immediately for someone at Westerholm.”
“So the body was put into the coffin soon after she passed away?” Mary asked.
“I don’t know the exact hour of death,” he said. “I just know that my brother and I and one of our employees brought in the coffin, a modest pine model that we make here in our shop. Embalming was not asked for.”
At that point his features turned mournful.
“The dearly departed was wrapped in a shroud. Only her face and a few tendrils of red hair were visible.” Looking down, he paused and shook his head, as if at the wonder of it. “I have seen death in many forms. But, apart from the passing of children, few things have ever touched me so deeply as seeing the doctor and his attendant place the deceased—very gently and respectfully, I might add—into that plain wooden coffin.”
Mary couldn’t tell if he really meant it, or if he was merely exercising the morose drama inherent in his somber trade.
“And then you conveyed her here?”
“Yes, we buried her that very afternoon. Reverend Pascal said a few words, as he always does for the folks from Westerholm. Dr. Applegate, bless his heart, came as well.”
“And her husband was there, of course,” Mary said.
The undertaker shook his head, looking puzzled. “No. No one else attended.”
Mary frowned. Even if Merton Olcott wasn’t a killer, it was inexcusable that he had not attended the graveside service.
“It is a rather primitive marker,” observed Christena. “Is it not?”
“Yes, you’re right,” he said. “But that was what was asked for.”
“Have there been any other burials from Westerholm in recent months?” Mary was curious to know if Mrs. Olcott’s cholera was an isolated incident.
The young undertaker pondered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Typically, they are interred at the little graveyard at Westerholm. But I gather her family asked that she be buried here.”
“Well, thank you so much, Mr. Van Pelt. I’m sure your account will give great comfort to my friend.”
They once again headed toward the cemetery gate.
“Do you believe it?” Christena grumbled. “The man didn’t even attend his wife’s interment. The gall of him. Incredible!”
“Yes,” Mary agreed angrily, “it does beggar belief. Why wouldn’t he have been there? I’ll bet he was too anxious to get home and start plundering the company accounts. What a dreadful man. I felt it about him from the first moment we saw him in his office.”
They walked a few minutes more in silence. “Well,” Christena observed, “short of digging up Mrs. Olcott and reanimating her, I think you’ve done all you can on Clara McColley’s behalf, wouldn’t you say?”
Mary wrinkled her forehead. “I guess I have. But it doesn’t feel like I’ve learned much. I hate to charge Mrs. McColley even five dollars for such threadbare results.” She thought a moment. “I wonder if I should go to the infirmary and talk to someone there.”
“If Dr. Applegate wouldn’t tell you anything, why do you think someone at Westerholm will? Besides, Mrs. Wingate said it’s quite a hike to get there, and it’s almost dinnertime. And to be perfectly honest, my feet are getting sore.”
Mary supposed her aunt made a good point. As inadequate as it seemed, she had done what she could to find out about Agnes Olcott’s death. The only thing left was to write up her report once they got to Mackinac Island, and send it back to her client in Duluth.
There was, however, one small question that lingered in her mind.
