Seven Sisters (26 page)

“Mr. Foglino said he thought their graves might be up on the hill,” I said, pointing to a hill in front of us with a sharp, steep embankment covered in brambles.

“Is there a road?” he asked, glancing down at his fancy ostrich boots.

“You should carry a pair of work boots in your truck,” I said, pointing to a small, overgrown path behind the outhouse.

“Yes, Mom,” he said and took off toward the path.

It was about a quarter mile on a steep path to the upper part of the cemetery. On the hilltop, the trees were thicker; the leaves and brush crackled like tiny firecrackers under our feet. Blue oaks laced with overcoats of Spanish moss gave the deepening forest a spooky, bayou feel.

“Watch out for poison ivy,” I said, ducking under a still-leafy oak branch. “It’s bad this time of year.”

I saw him flinch and subtly pull his arms closer, though in reality I didn’t see any near enough to cause us any problems. I laughed silently to myself, recognizing a nature neophyte when I saw one. I stepped over some wild grape vines, stopping a moment to pick some volunteer grapes and squeeze them in my fingers. The sweet smell perfumed the air for a moment.

A rustling sound ahead of us caused Scout to take off into the underbrush, his tail straight out, a low growl deep in his throat.

“What was that?” the detective asked, his voice slightly apprehensive.

I raised my eyebrows. He wasn’t lying about one thing; he was definitely a city boy.

“Probably just a mountain lion,” I said casually, watching his back stiffen and trying not to laugh.
Yep, that was a definite stiffening.
“But don’t worry, most times they don’t bother humans. You’re not wearing any cologne, by any chance?”

He turned around, his sweating face trying hard not to show panic. “Why?”

I kept my face serious, chewing my lower lip for effect. “Just wondered. They’re kind of intrigued by the smell.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

I shook my head solemnly. “Wish I was.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“Aramis is their favorite,” I continued, keeping a straight face. “But I’ve heard the lions around here have been preferring Polo lately.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, his lips thin with irritation. “Very funny.”

I giggled. “Yeah, I thought so.”

He took off ahead of me, obviously angry, and I felt a small twinge of shame for putting him on. A very small tinge.

When we reached the graves, he surveyed the area and gruffly told me to start on the west end and work toward him. “You have your camera?”

“Right here.” I held it up.

“Film?”

“Yes, Detective. They tend to work better that way.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

He strode off toward the east side of the cemetery, his anger still apparent in his stride. I whistled for Scout who eventually appeared out of some scrub brush, his nose wet and dirty, his tongue hanging out in obvious pleasure at chasing the rabbit or squirrel that had probably made the sounds prompting my practical joke on the detective.

“Didn’t catch it, did you?” I commented, when he sat down and furiously scratched behind his ear. “You guys are all alike, running through the brush, chasing nothing important, but thrilled to your bones you get to chase it.”

He sneezed twice in reply.

I started on my end, doing my best not to miss any graves, easy to do in this old, very disorganized graveyard. I was assuming the four sisters would all be buried together, but since the fact they were even buried in this old cemetery wasn’t logical, I didn’t expect how they were buried to make any more sense.

Once again I was struck emotionally by how many of the dead were infants and small children. So many of these graves hadn’t been disturbed or visited in years. One especially touched me, bearing the inscription NATHAN RAY MONROE—AUGUST 10, 1882-DECEMBER 12, 1882, “CROWN’D WITHOUT THE CONFLICT.” The baby had been four months old when he died. Walking in and out of the light cast by the thick maples, cottonwoods, and oaks, I felt a chill, as psychological as much as physical, when I read the headstones. One whole family, a father, mother, and six children, surrounded by a rusty Victorian iron fence, had been wiped out by influenza during the same month in 1917. I sat down on a flat rock, overwhelmed for a moment by the tragedy.

“I found them!” Detective Hudson’s voice echoed from across the cemetery.

“Scout, come,” I called and started running toward the detective’s voice, dodging broken markers and uneven sunken spots.

He stood in front of four identical markers, standing in a row like a just-started fence. On the front of each of them was carved a lily of the valley.

“It
is
about the babies,” I whispered.

Then there was a sharp pop, and something whizzed past my ear. With a howl, Scout started toward the trees.

“Scout, down!” I started to run toward him, then found myself flat on my chest, the breath knocked out of me. Detective Hudson’s solid, muscular body pinned me to the ground.

“Don’t move,” he snapped. His thighs instinctively tightened around mine.

Move? I couldn’t even get a breath. Gasping, I tried to talk. To tell him I needed oxygen. To tell him it felt like I was dying. I felt his hip bone jab into me as he struggled to pull his gun out of his holster.

Another pop cracked through the silence. Dirt and leaves jumped a few feet from our prone bodies. His thighs tightened again.

I moaned, trying to get a breath, trying to tell him to get off me.

“Hush,” he said, pushing my face into the sharp, dry leaves. They scratched my face, and I squirmed, trying to get a hand out to push them away.

“Lie still!” His harsh voice caused me to freeze. My heart
thump-thumped
in my ears, sounding as loud as the ocean.

Though his body grew heavy on mine, gradually my breath came back, and I managed to take short gulps of cool, soil-scented air. As we lay there, the noise of the forest slowly resumed, the chirping of crickets and the chattering of birds telling us our assailant had departed. I could feel Detective Hudson’s breath warm and rapid on my neck, then gradually felt the muscles in his arms and legs relax around me.

“Listen,” he whispered. In the distance the rumbling sound of a truck’s engine moved farther away.

“Good,” I mumbled into the dirt and leaves. “You can get off me now.” With the immediate threat of danger gone, our position was entirely too personal for my tastes, though I had to admit he had pretty nice thighs.

He laughed softly in my ear, his lips brushing against my hair. His thighs tightened around mine again, voluntarily this time. “I don’t know, it was just starting to get fun.”

I spit a leaf out of my mouth. “Get off me, you jerk.” I shoved my elbow as hard as I could into his chest.

He laughed again, then rolled off me and stood up, reholstering his pistol. He held out his hand. “Someone sure isn’t happy with us finding these graves.”

Ignoring his offer of help, I scrambled up. “Where’s Scout?” I looked around frantically for my dog.

He lay flat on the ground a few feet away, whimpering.

“Scout, come,” I said. He jumped up and ran over to me. “What a good, good boy you are.” He licked my face as I ran my hands over his body, checking for injuries. “Are you okay, Scooby-doo?” I crooned, hugging his thick body.

“Shoot, he’s fine,” Detective Hudson said, rubbing his lower back. “I’m the one who just pulled a muscle because of that dimestore Daniel Boone sniper. Bet you a taco dinner it was someone hired by the Browns. They must’ve been following us all day. Dang it all, I was so busy haggling with you I let them get the slip on me.”

“So why didn’t you go after them, Mr. Purple Heart, and find out who they were?” Hair at the back of my neck was damp from heat and fear. I lifted it up, letting the small breeze cool my skin.

“My mama might’ve raised a fool, but my daddy taught me never to get into a fight I didn’t have at least a fifty percent chance of winning. No way was I running into those woods. They had the advantage and they knew it. There wasn’t a chance this side of Lubbock I would be able to catch them.”

“Hmmp,” was all I said, tenderly touching a raw place on my cheek.

“Sorry I had to throw you down so hard,” he said, tilting his head to look at me. His grin belied his apology. “But you were a perfect target.”

“Some excuse.”

“I saved your life!”

“Don’t deny you enjoyed knocking the air out of me.”

“Well, it was right peaceful for a few minutes there, what with your mouth not moving and all.”

“Eat dirt.” I walked back over to the babies’ graves, took a notebook out of my back pocket and started writing down the information on the headstones.

Detective Hudson went over and picked up the camera that had flown out of my hands when the sniper shot at us. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Think this will still work?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m copying down the information.”

He came up behind me and took a dozen or so shots of the markers. These did have dates, though nothing else appeared on the plain white marble stones except the lily of the valley.

DAISY JEWEL BROWN—May 1, 1925-November 3, 1925
DAHLIA JEWEL BROWN—May 1, 1925-March 12, 1926
BEULAH JEWEL BROWN—January 25, 1927-June 15, 1927
BETHANY JEWEL BROWN—January 25, 1927-September 9, 1927

“I wonder what they died from?” I asked out loud.

Detective Hudson shrugged. “Does it matter?”

I looked at him, surprised. “Of course it does! It’s obvious that whatever Giles was blackmailing the family with has something to do with these babies. How they died might be the key. I mean, maybe someone killed them or something.”

He pointed to the lichen-covered markers. “The dates of death don’t support that theory. They most likely died of influenza or diphtheria or who knows what else. Look at all the other graves of children here. You’re really reaching now.”

“If they died innocently, why is someone shooting at us?”

He was silent for a moment, knowing I had him there. Then he said, “I don’t know. Might just be that this person wanted to scare us off investigating altogether and after following us all day decided that out here in the boonies was the safest place for him . . .”

“Or her,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Miss Feminist,
or her
, to shoot at us. I mean, when else would they? When we were at the folk art museum? Or in the San Celina’s Cemetery? This was the best opportunity.”

“Except we’ve been in other isolated graveyards today, like the Estrella one. Nobody shot at us there. They were warning us away from this particular cemetery.”

“Benni, if they didn’t want us to get here, they would have done something while we were out on the road. There’s absolutely no evidence to support your theory.”

“You haven’t even looked for evidence to support it! You’re dismissing it without any serious consideration. That’s very poor detective work. I find it hard to believe your success rate is as good as you say with a pessimistic attitude like yours.”

“Don’t tell
me
how to do my job! Criminy, you can be a pain in the ass.”

I ignored his comment and crossed my arms. He knew I was right. Eventually he’d admit it, though not without some whining.

Back at his truck, he searched the ground for tire tracks. The grass had definitely been flattened, but the dirt was too hard to leave any hints as to what kind of vehicle the shooter was driving.

“You know,” he said, driving back down the winding country road toward the interstate, “there’s a good possibility that all of this is a ruse to distract us from who the real killer is. Did you ever think about that?”

“Okay,” I finally conceded. “You could be right. So where does that leave us?”

“Not much of anywhere, but it’s something to consider. Do you happen to be carrying your cell phone?”

I dug through my purse and handed him the phone. While trying to ignore his exaggerated excuses to Heidi, I thought about what he said. If it didn’t have to do with the babies, then why was Giles killed? His determination to take over the winery was still a possibility, so maybe it was Etta who shot him in a passionate moment, and her sisters helped cover it up. I thought about the Seven Sisters quilt pattern I’d looked up the other day—how it was a pattern of six stars revolving around one in the center, much like the constellation Bliss and I had searched for. Like the pattern and the constellation, there was a center to this, a something or someone all the other events circled around. Was it the grandmother, Rose Brown, and her four dead children? Or was it simpler than that—a moment of anger, a handy loaded gun, a family adept at covering up, showing a good face to the world? After he was finished with his excuses to Heidi, I tried calling Gabe at the office and got his voice mail. Then I called home and got the answering machine, a practice that had been happening a little too frequently this week.

The detective dropped me off at the folk art museum at seven o’clock, and we said a quick good-bye without any more discussion about what we should do next. He was anxious to get to his date, and I was eager to go home and tell Gabe about what had happened, come truly clean about how much I was involved. Then what? Those tiny graves kept reappearing in my head. I wanted to know more about the four babies even if they didn’t have anything to do with finding out who killed Giles. I knew someone who worked in the county records department—a girl I went to college with. Tomorrow I’d go downtown and see if she could find their death certificates for me.

The house was dark when I got home. I immediately went into the kitchen and fed Scout, who was two hours past his regular dinner time and was giving me a soulful look telling me so. As I watched him gobble his dinner, I went in and checked the answering machine. There were only two messages—mine and an old one that told me Gabe had most likely been home and gone out again after listening to the message. It better not be Lydia’s voice, I thought as I hit replay.

“Chief!” Miguel’s voice croaked over the phone. “I’m down at General Hospital. I couldn’t find your cell phone number so I hope you get this soon. Bliss took one in the shoulder. I thought you’d want to know.” The message time was 5:02 p.m.