Ghosts of Graveyards Past (11 page)

Con thought he detected a stronger emotion beneath the concession, something akin to the pride of a teacher reviewing his pupil's progress.

When he had polished and sealed it, they set its foundation among the other rows in the burial ground. Sunlight bathed the etchings to show a skill that surprised its creator, whose accomplishment was tinged with a sense of emptiness now that it was finally done.

It was August by then, roughly a week before classes were scheduled to start.

Returning to the shop, Con began the ritual of sweeping and tool care when Sawyer told him, “Reckon your debts been paid, then. You'll, uh, not be needing to come in tomorrow.” His voice was gruff as usual, but the tone one of calm as he stowed a sack of gravel in the corner.

Con stood still, fingers gripping the broom handle. “I could stay,” he said after a moment, sounding more like a question than an offer. Muscles tensed as he waited for the answer.

“Can't afford a full-time assistant,” the older man said, wiping his hands on a rag from the work bench. “You'd earn more sacking stuff down at the grocery store.”

Con's glance roamed the shop with its collection of archaic tools and gravestone patterns pinned to the walls like a collage. Some were his—the sketches of the lamb design and the rubbings he'd taken of the original stone's lettering to make stencils. “I'm not really interested in the grocery business. You know, as a career.”

Sawyer's lined features cracked slowly into a smile of understanding. “All right then,” he said. “Come in after school next week.”

Con reached to seal the bargain with a handshake.

 



 

The Lesley headstones might be a coincidence; the photograph in the newspaper was a sign. Con saw it almost as soon as he fetched his morning mail. A thank you card from a customer in Birmingham, an inquiry from a potential client somewhere much further away. And the latest issue of
The County Times
, the headline story devoted to the upcoming festival.

Images from last year's event were spread across the front page. Game booths and vendor's tents filled the town square, as a garish-looking banner danced overhead like something from a Renaissance fair married to a Scottish Games celebration.

He started to turn the page and then paused as an idea came to him. Pulling open a drawer in the work bench, he fished a magnifying glass from its jumbled contents. When he placed it over the photograph, a murmur of interest escaped his lips.

Slowly, his gaze traveled to the paper fastened to the corkboard, to the crayon rubbing made by the writer, her strokes bold and sure compared to his wife's gentler chalk ones. Instinct had told him to throw it away, that he would never call the number scrawled at the bottom.

But instinct, it seemed, had been wrong.

 

 

 

 

10

 

“My granddaddy used to say it was weeds that grew on the graves of the wicked, and flowers on those of the good. That's the kind of superstitious talk folks learn as children and forget to leave behind as they grow.” The woman who spoke these words was closer to a hundred than ninety in terms of appearance. Lipstick smudged the puckered mouth, a vintage shade that hinted at a time before lines had creased her face. Gray hair was kept in a tidy knot, a strand of pearls visible above the collar of a silk blouse. Bony fingers tugged the necklace, her eyes fixed on Jenna with a shrewd gleam from across the patio table. “Folklore's in our blood here,” she said. “Faith, too, though some might argue it's not always the right balance.”

They had been talking for nearly an hour, Jenna finding the Maudell residence as soon as she left the historical society. A big Victorian house on a lot just off Main Street, it bore a touch of the gothic in its ornamental turret and steeple. The paint was flecking away in places, a crack visible in the trim above the bay window.

The door was answered by an ample figure in nurse's scrubs, her features lined with middle-age and a sense of authority. She heard Jenna's explanation with a surprised smile, her accent a strong Southern flavor when she spoke.

“Is Mrs. Maudell expecting you?” she asked, waving Jenna through a dark foyer into a living space that was crowded with antique furniture and oil paintings. Mahogany stairs led to the upper story, where faded wallpaper was peeling away from the hall.

“We've never met,” Jenna admitted. “I was hoping to speak with her about some research I'm doing for a manuscript. It concerns forgotten cemeteries—”

“Pour her some tea, Mollie,” a quivering voice instructed from somewhere close by.

Glancing in its direction, the nurse had hesitated only a second before she motioned for Jenna to follow her through a set of open double doors. There, on the flower garden's patio, Josephine Maudell waited expectantly.

“You are someone from the newspaper,” the older woman surmised, looking Jenna over with vague interest. “They called last week, wanting to send someone about the festival.” Before her was spread a tea service, bone white china with tiny pink roses to decorate the rims.

“Miss Cade is an author,” the secretary corrected, filling one of the cups to set before Jenna. “She's researching a book about cemeteries.”

A raised eyebrow greeted this news. “And wonders that I'm not yet part of one, no doubt.” The woman chuckled, leaning forward. “I may be the oldest native of this town, Miss Cade, but that's not what makes me special. It's my habit of saving pieces from the past that sets me apart from any of my neighbors. “

“Yes, I know,” Jenna said. She took a sip from the steaming brew, finding it bitter. “They told me about you at the historical society. I was hoping you could tell me about the town's Civil War history.”

Josephine nodded, a faint jerk of the head. “I used to be chairwoman there. Did they tell you that? Oh, I suppose most have forgotten, but I did quite a bit for them.” Without warning, she changed the subject. “What do you think of my flower garden? It's as old as most things I have, older than some. The roses were cultivated by my husband's ancestor back in the 1880s.”

“It's a beautiful arrangement,” Jenna told her, recognizing some of the varieties from gardens she toured in Annapolis. Most of the plants were dormant in the fall chill, but the section of asters blossomed in glorious shades of red, pink, purple, and blue. There were toad lilies that resembled orchids and a vine-like clematis snaked around the trellis.

“Prize-winning peonies,” Josephine continued, stretching a shaky hand towards plants clustered beside the porch railing. “My husband bred them especially. His hobby, once he retired from banking.” She fell silent with this mention of her spouse, fingers stroking the china cup by her hand. Her thoughts were now somewhere else entirely, a blankness haunting her expression.

Behind them, the nurse gave a tiny cough and a nod in Jenna's direction, as if giving permission to move things back on track.

“Mrs. Maudell,” Jenna began as she set aside her cup. “I wanted to ask you about the old cemetery. The one in the woods.”

Something akin to interest dawned in the green gaze that flicked back in her direction. “The wooded cemetery—I saw it once as a child. Back then, the Sanders owned the property; they were from down East, a little aloof and unfriendly. No one went there anymore.”

“Well, it's public property, now,” Jenna told her, “and the county has given me permission to recover its damaged headstones. Over twenty, so far.”

The woman leaned suddenly forward, clutching at her arm. “Tell me, have you found any Widlows among them?”

Jenna thought of the marble headstones beside the doctor's grave, one engraved with the sword and shield motif. “There are two Widlows,” she admitted. “One with a military symbol—”

“You've found him.” Josephine sucked in a ragged breath, a hand pressing against her mouth. Her eyes grew brighter. “You found Arthur,” she said, voice raspy in her throat.

Jenna's pen hastily scratched the name alongside her original notes on the headstone. “Mr. Widlow is part of your family tree?” she guessed.

“Arthur Widlow was my great-great-grandfather on my mother's side and the last of the Widlow name in this county. I have his papers, his uniform—where is Arthur's uniform?” She twisted around to address the nurse, who was looking alarmed by this sudden display of emotion in her employer.

Josephine continued to babble excitedly. “I have copies of his enlistment papers somewhere. There are letters he wrote, as well, from the campsites. And the uniform, of course; we must find the uniform and let you see for yourself…” She gripped her chair, as if planning to rise and perform the task that very instant.

Worried, Jenna touched her hand. “I would love to see Mr. Widlow's uniform and the other belongings. But for now, why don't you just tell me about him? Everything you know of him, from the stories in your family and the town. It would be a great help, believe me.”

Josephine began to speak. There was much reverence for Arthur's war service, the fact he fought in many skirmishes and sustained terrible injury. Such scars were thought to have influenced his support for a county hospital in later years, though he was known as well for having invested in the town's grist mill.

“He was a farmer,” Josephine said, “farmed his father's land all his life. But there were dreams from his youth, I think, that made him imagine other possibilities.”

“Do you know anything about his wife? Your great-great grandmother?” Jenna asked, thinking of the matching marble headstone, with its simple engraving of a violet.

“His wife.” The woman across from her blinked, looking confused by the question. “I have heard something of her, some stories, but can't recall. They knew each other before the war, I believe.”

“Then she was also a native,” Jenna guessed. “Maybe I can trace her story, as well.”

Josephine frowned. “There wer stories of something—a tragedy. An illness.”

“You mean that Mrs. Widlow was ill?” Jenna's pen grew still with the question.

“No, no.” She shook her head impatiently. “Other people were, all through the town. There were wild stories about it being a punishment for something to do with the war.”

“A curse,” said Jenna, making a connection to the town's upcoming festival. She was beginning to understand the origins for that commemoration, though its finer details continued to prove elusive.

“That was the old ways, you know—to blame the spirits for trouble in the mortal world. All this time, and still no one can say what truly caused their suffering. It was a mystery, what happened to make the town believe dark forces plagued it.” Josephine recalled only stories of children falling ill, and general misfortunes that were taken as a bad omen. “So much fear,” she said mournfully. “And not enough faith to water it down, I suppose.”

When the clock inside chimed three, the nurse rose and placed a hand on her employer's shoulder. “Time for your medicine, Mrs. Maudell. Remember what the doctor said—you shouldn't excite yourself so much.”

“You must come and see me again,” Josephine ordered Jenna. “Come this same time tomorrow. No, the next day—Mollie will need time to find the uniform and other things. They're to be used for the festival this year, anyway, borrowed by the historical society. See Miss Cade to the door, Mollie.”

The nurse was apologetic for the invalid's blunt ways. “She used to be real important in the town, heading committees and all. It's been hard on her adjusting to this condition.”

“Has she been ill very long?” Jenna asked, presuming she referred to something other than age.

“A few years. Tumors, slow growing, but painful at times. The doctor says it may be soon, though.” Her voice caught, betraying a fondness for the town matriarch. “Used to, she could tell you every name in her family tree, and those in her husband's, too. Lately, though, the illness has taken its toll on her thinking.”

“I'm grateful to her,” said Jenna. “Her stories will help to bring my book alive. People will want to read about this. Believe me.”

Discomfort stole briefly across the other woman's face. “I'm awful glad you feel that way,” she said, “but don't expect too much from her. Even on her good days, Mrs. Maudell's a little careful what she shares about the town. It's her only real care these days, you know.”

“Of course,” said Jenna. Though she doubted very much that anything would deter Josephine Maudell from helping her learn the truth about the past, especially when her ancestor might turn out to be the hero of the story.

 



 

Jenna left her agent a voicemail and two texts before she drove away from the Maudell residence.
This
was the twist in the story that she felt certain would win over Joyce. A soldier's romance set against the backdrop of a town consumed by tragedy and fear. Her skin tingled just thinking about it, fingers itching to type the words into the first draft on her laptop.

She pulled into a parking space at the inn, shutting off the car engine in time to remove the ringing cellphone from her purse. Without even glancing at the number, she flipped it open and said, “Joyce, you are gonna love me for this. I mean it; this will blow you away.”

“Guess again,” said the voice on the other end.

Not her agent, but someone decidedly masculine and with a gravelly tone. Young though, she felt certain. Checking the screen, she saw the number was both local and unfamiliar. “Mr. Taggart?” she asked.

“I remembered something,” he explained. “About that gravestone symbol you showed me.”

“That's great.” She slid from the car seat, its fabric cool from the windows being cracked. “Do you mind if we talk about it in person? I just got back to my room in town, but I can meet you somewhere. Your workshop, even.”