twenty-three

Francine pulled the car to a stop near the place where the ambulance had picked up Dick Raden earlier in the day. She, Charlotte, and Joy climbed out of the car. Charlotte teetered right and left as though she’d gotten off a Tilt-A-Whirl at a summer carnival. “Could you have driven any faster over those ruts? You know how I get car sick.”

The comment irritated Francine. They were in Charlotte’s big Buick, not her car, and she had been extra careful to take it slow. “Quit complaining. This car is big enough to stay righted in the face of a tidal wave.”

“If you’re going to throw up,” Joy said, “please do it over there in the brush so I don’t have to hear it or smell it.”

Charlotte clutched Francine’s right arm. “I’ll probably be okay, but hold on to me just in case.”

Francine would have done that anyway. The divots in the path caused by farm machinery going to the fields were treacherous enough for someone with good stability, let alone Charlotte. “Joy, can you help on Charlotte’s other side?”

Joy took up Charlotte’s flailing arm and the three women picked their way toward the forest where the cemetery was.

Once they got off the rough path, the wooded environs returned. The grass was frozen by the dusting of snow and the cold temperatures, and it crunched under their boots. The trees were mostly maples, and they passed a station where a tap had been driven into the trunk of a tree that had to be ten feet in circumference. Charlotte held them back. “Maple syrup,” she noted. “Cass Carter doesn’t strike me as the type of person who would go to the trouble to make maple syrup.”

Joy peered inside the wooden bucket that hung from the peg. “She probably rents the trees to someone who makes it from the raw sap. Can we move along here? I’m cold. I don’t see how maple syrup is involved with the mystery anyway.”

The women approached the cemetery slowly as if they expected a ghost to rise up any moment. “It looks peaceful,” Joy said, “but it feels creepy.”

Francine could understand that. On the one hand, the area looked serene. The powdery snow, sustained by the cold, sat on the branches of the trees. An occasionally slight breeze would cause a dusting to float to the ground. They went by a small stand of pines and it smelled like a Christmas tree farm.

But on the other hand, the quiet of the deserted area coupled with the limited light making its way through the bare branches made her feel insecure. The gravestones, only partially covered by snow, reminded her that this was a place of the dead.

She tried to observe it without letting her emotions get the better of her. The cemetery had been carved out of the woods and occupied about a half-acre. One populous section boasted gravestones that were mostly old and worn. They were laid out in lines that weren’t straight. Other areas were devoid of upright grave markers. A few small monuments were interspersed throughout.

Francine noticed how long the grass was. Though partially covered by snow and ice, the cemetery looked unkempt. Couldn’t have been mowed any more recently than October, she thought. Who even takes care of it? She found it ironic that Cass married into the family, divorced her way out of it, and still ended up with a family cemetery in which she had no relatives buried. I guess there’s not much motivation to take care of it. “I wonder if the township should take responsibility for it,” she said aloud.

“What?” Charlotte asked.

“This cemetery. The township is required to care for private cemeteries under certain conditions. I can’t remember what they are now, but being private and not cared for is part of it.”

Charlotte had moved ahead and was studying the gravestones. “Some of these are so weathered you can’t read the names or dates anymore.” She moved down a few gravestones until she found one she could read. “Here’s one that goes back to 1902.”

“Long time ago,” Joy said. “I’m guessing the ones that are short and weather-damaged are all from about that time. Which one was centered in the photograph?”

Charlotte pulled the photos from the depths of her orange down coat. She was wearing mittens, and after a few fumbled attempts to sort through the photos, handed them off to Francine, who was wearing gloves. “Can you figure it out?”

Francine sorted through them trying to get her bearings. She backed up to the point in the graveyard where her view matched that of the photograph. “The headstone we’re looking for is more to the right,” she said. “Joy, move toward me, then go to the end of that short row. It’s probably second or third from the end.”

Joy did as she was instructed. “This one?”

“Next one or the one after. Can you read either?”

Joy stopped in place. “The grass has matted over the stone. With the snow and ice on top of it, I can’t make anything out. Let me brush it off.”

She bent down and extended her glove toward it.

And the sound of a rifle shot split the serenity of the cemetery.

Francine screamed. At least, she thought it was her. It could have been Joy or Charlotte or all three of them. The sound echoed in her ears as she crouched to the ground. Her heart pounded in her chest. She hadn’t heard the bullet hit anything. She wondered if it had been a warning shot, maybe fired in the air.

She checked on her companions. Joy, who had been bent over the gravestone, was now on her hands and knees trying to make herself as small as possible. Charlotte had ducked behind one of the small monuments. She peered out from behind it looking back to where they’d left the car. Joy was also staring in that direction.

Francine held her breath and listened. The sound of the shot still echoed in her ear, but she could also hear the brush of someone walking through the snow and ice. She looked around trying to find the source of it.

Charlotte spoke up first. “Who are you?” She didn’t shout but spoke louder than normal. The words carried in the stillness.

The walking ceased. There was no response. The three of them held their positions. Slowly Joy stood. She used the grave marker to brace herself. As she did, the snow and ice fell off it. She swept the overgrown grass and weeds aside to look at what it said.

And a second blast was fired. This time Francine was certain they all screamed. The bullet hit in Joy’s vicinity, pinging off a grave to her right. Joy dove back on her hands and knees.

Charlotte called again, this time louder, “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” the voice responded. “And why’re you on my property?”

It was a woman’s voice with a slight rural Indiana accent, soudning a bit countryish. Although she didn’t know Cass Carter well, Francine was certain it was her. She didn’t know who else would claim ownership and be female.

“Cass Carter, is that you?” Charlotte said. “It’s me, Charlotte Reinhardt. We worked together at Brownsburg High a long time ago.”

Francine hoped Charlotte would be able to make a connection before Cass fired again. She struggled to stand, trying to keep her hands raised in a surrender position.

“What brings you to my woods, Charlotte?” The woman asked it like she didn’t recognize Charlotte but used her name because it had been given to her. She strode into view from behind a clump of evergreens on the west side of the cemetery. She wore dark sunglasses that hid her eyes, and her long black hair rested silky-smooth along the cut of her fur-lined winter coat. Her slim leather gloves gripped the rifle.

“We’re not armed and we’re not dangerous,” Francine announced. “I’m Francine McNamara. You’ve met Charlotte; the other woman is Joy McQueen.” Joy and Charlotte leveraged their way to standing positions.

Cass shifted her rifle so it pointed at Francine. “You’re not the usual troublemakers.”

Usual troublemakers? Francine wondered who those would include. “We’re here to see your cemetery.”

“Point of fact is, it’s not mine, although I guard it for the Carters. And even if it was mine, who told you it was okay to come?”

Francine couldn’t come up with good answer, and apparently neither could Joy or Charlotte. They remained silent.

Cass continued to advance. She entered the cemetery near Joy. “I recognize you,” she said. “You’re that reporter from Good Morning America.”

Joy brightened and stood taller. “Yes, I am.”

“That’s not a thing to be proud of, darlin’. I don’t like reporters.” Cass shifted the rifle so it pointed at Joy, making her raise her arms to show she had no weapon.

“We’re just interested in one particular grave. If you’ll let us look at it, we’ll be on our way in no time,” Joy said.

“You’ll be on your way in no time if I let you see it or not,” Cass answered. “What grave is it?”

“This one right here,” Joy answered. Francine could hear the tremble in her voice. She was scared. They were all scared.

“Back away from that grave.”

Joy did it slowly, carefully looking behind her as she stepped. Francine thought she could see a cell phone in Joy’s hand.

“What are you doing here?” Cass asked.

“Looking into the death of Camille Ledfelter,” Francine answered.

“Ah, Camille. Now she is one of the usual troublemakers. I’d like to say I’m sorry she’s gone, but that’d be a lie.”

“Usual troublemakers?” Charlotte asked. “What did she do?”

“She was an unwelcome visitor to this cemetery. She was told not to come back, but she did, time after time after time.”

Francine could smell the gun’s discharge of the bullet casing. It made her nervous, but she couldn’t stop now. “It would help our investigation if you’d just let us look.”

Cass swung the rifle barrel toward her. “First, why’re you looking into the investigation? Shouldn’t that be a police matter? And second, what’s this grave got to do with Camille’s death?”

The rifle being pointed at her chest stopped Francine in her tracks. “We don’t know that it does,” she said. “We found a series of photographs in her possession. They pointed to that grave.”

Cass worked her jaw. “I want you out of here. Now!” She clamped the rifle between the crook of her arm and her body on one side and slid back the coat sleeve on the other hand. She looked at her wristwatch. “Go!”

None of them needed further invitation. They scurried back to the car.