7

Now that I got a good look at him, the man reminded me of a young, sandy-haired movie star. Which wasn’t a bad thing, except that right now, he seemed angry. Reed stopped as if he’d hit a wall of ice. He lifted his hands. “I can explain.”

Muttering into his mustache, the man jerked his head toward one of the houses lining Route 267. “Go on. She’s waiting.”

Reed’s head drooped. As annoying as I'd found the boy moments ago, I was now even more annoyed with this man—who, based on the clear family resemblance, had to be Reed’s father. Reed’s particular brand of exuberance may not be to my taste, but that didn't mean I enjoyed watching him wilt in the face of paternal judgment.

Reed sloped off, half turning to bid me farewell with a despondent wave.

The man shot me a narrow look, as if this entire scenario were my fault. He then turned and jogged away to catch up with Reed, engaging him in a low-voiced but heated conversation as the two stalked across the snow toward the house.

I could hear snatches from Reed. “…I know…but I told you I wouldn't...I don't care about that...”

His father’s responses were too quiet for me to hear.

Determined not to waste any emotional energy on a situation that clearly wasn't my problem—or even my business—I humped my shoulders to protect my ice-chipped ears and quick-stepped toward the highway, orienting myself with the layout of the town. Coming back a different way had not only saved me time, but also landed me plop in the center of the village directly behind the The Olde Birchardville Store and straight across from my second planned stop of the day: the Birchardville Cemetery. I'd been curious about it, and not just because it was one of the only things in Birchardville listed on Internet maps.

Leah had learned that some of the Roth family members had been buried there in the late 1800s. She recommended I snap a few photos of their headstones to post with the show notes for the Roth Brothers episode.

I stepped among the headstones. The oldest stones seemed to be toward the front, with the more modern-looking ones fanning out toward the back. Based on those lines of slick marble, the cemetery was probably still in use.

I scanned the stones, enjoying the old-timey names. Phineas. Lavinia. Ida. Elnora. Clarence. Abijah. Hiram. Leviticus. Gertrude. Clifton. Although many stones prominently featured the name Birchard, there were other family names represented as well. Chamberlin, Bixby, Snyder, Stoltz, Griffis, Wheatcroft, Booth.

So quaint. I loved them all.

A tall, crumbling monolith caught my eye. Immediately to its right perched a diminutive gray headstone, parts bleached white by wind and sun. It was topped with the legend Betsy E. Under her name, her husband’s name, date of death, and age, appeared a block of faded text. A poem? I squatted on my heels, squinting at the spidery script.

Stop and see, as you pass by.

As you are now, so once was I.

As I am now, so you will be.

Prepare for death and follow me.

Awesome.

I pulled out my cell phone and leaned back, trying to fit the entire headstone into the frame without taking the trouble to stand up and move.

Which is why, when a voice spoke directly behind me, I lurched sideways into the snow.