Hailey Lind [Annie Kinca

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just buried closer together and without headstones. And they
don t own the land.
I thought of the vagrants and friendless folk who had
ended up buried in Potter s Field, and wondered if it mat-
tered to them. Did their souls linger, unable to shuffle off
this mortal coil until they were reunited with home and
loved ones? What if they had no home or loved ones? What
about professional vagabonds, like my grandfather? Then
again, Georges claimed Paris as his spiritual home. He d
probably want to be buried in P�re Lachaise, the final rest-
ing place of such immortals as Mozart, Chopin, and our very
own Jim Morrison.
I shifted, trying to get comfortable. The marble sepulcher
was cold against my back, the stone tiles hard beneath my
rear.
So what was in the box? I asked. If the ghouls were
going to murder us over it, I wanted to know what the hell
was in there.
A couple of photographs. Some little metal toys, an old
220 Hailey Lind
pocket watch, a few cards and letters. It looked like junk,
frankly. I didn t get to go through it cause Evangeline was
all freaked out, she wouldn t even look. She was standing
guard near the road, which was why she got busted and I
didn t. Good thing I buried it, huh, or the cops would have
taken it.
It would have been better if they had, I pointed out. I
should have turned it over to them the minute I laid my
hands on it.
Why didn t you?
I thought it might have something to do with La Forna-
rina.
And cause you re stubborn as a mule.
There is that.
How come you had the box in the first place?
I gave her a quick rundown on my encounter with Cindy
Tanaka at Louis Spencer s crypt.
Do you think the box is connected to her death? Mary
asked, her voice troubled.
I don t know. It seems awfully coincidental, but the po-
lice are convinced it was suicide. Maybe they ll investigate
more when we tell them what happened tonight.
Um, I don t think that s such a good idea.
Why not?
I m kinda in trouble already. I didn t want to tell you
cause I knew you d worry.
Oh Lord. What did you do this time?
Hey! You should talk.
Sorry. What happened?
There was a little dustup at the club last week, and I m
kinda on probation. That s also why I hid when the cops
came. Think Evangeline will understand?
Oh, sure. It s a matter of sisterly solidarity.
That s what I figured, too. That s why we can t tell the
BRUSH WITH DEATH 221
cops what happened tonight. They might start wondering
what I was doing here.
But if those ghouls return
I bet we could take them. They only got the upper hand
cause they surprised me, and I freaked out a little bit when I
saw those masks. I mean, I was all alone and it is a graveyard.
Don t blame yourself, I said.
She leaned her head on my shoulder. Despite spending
hours in this crypt she smelled of shampoo and baby pow-
der. I felt a surge of protectiveness and rested my head back
against the sepulcher.
I awakened to the sounds of rain and a distant car engine.
Blinking at the dim light that fought its way through barred
windows and cobwebs, I extricated my arm from beneath
Mary s head, wincing at the needle pricks that signaled the
resumption of circulation, and struggled to my feet. Through
the little window in the door I spied Helena walking near the
access road, sheltering herself with an umbrella decorated
with Monet s Water Lilies. With her were Pete s mother and
aunt, huddled together under a plain black umbrella, listen-
ing as the docent pointed to various markers and chattered
nonstop.
Is someone there? Mary croaked from behind me.
Yell!
I hesitated. I wasn t sure why I was hiding from the head
docent, except that I didn t like her and she obviously didn t
like me. Plus, I suspected Helena s first instinct would be to
call the cops. Better to try our luck with a kindly gardener.
The women headed down the path. Pressing my face
against the door to scope out the scene, I felt it move. All of
a sudden the door swung open, and I stumbled out.
Annie! Mary scrambled after me. What did you do?
Nothing, I said, pointing to the padlock, which hung
open on the metal hinge.
222 Hailey Lind
Mary and I gaped at each other; then I closed the door
and we scurried across the cemetery as fast as we could,
brushing dust and cobwebs and all manner of crypt detritus
from our clothing and hair but getting soaked as we ran
through the rain. As we skirted Potter s Field, I noticed a
section of the border fence had been recently repaired and at
the edge of a much older section of cemetery stood a shiny
new monument to the memory of Chad Garner.
Aaron Garner s son. I had painted his portrait what
seemed like ages ago, long before getting involved with his
grieving mother.
Mary and I detoured around the brick cottage housing the
cemetery s offices and headed for the main gates. Glancing
over my shoulder, I saw Curly Top at the leaded glass win-
dow, watching us with flat, expressionless eyes.
Back at my apartment, Mary ducked into the shower
while I checked my messages. Two, both from Josh. I
sighed. I had to do something about that relationship, and
soon. Josh deserved someone who would value him for his
many virtues, and I deserved someone who would value me
despite my lack of same.
The bathroom door opened and a cloud of steam escaped.
It s all yours! Mary called out. She d been in a great
mood since she realized her night in the cemetery meant
she d achieved a Goth Personal Best. There may not be
much hot water, though.
I stood under the frigid spray long enough to scrub my-
self raw in an effort to rid my pores of dank, stale, moldy
crypt air.
I made coffee and sourdough toast, and my assistant and I
sat at my pine kitchen table, sipping, munching, and avoiding
one another s eyes. I was dressed in a fresh white T-shirt and
comfortable old jeans. Mary was too tall for my pants, so I lent
BRUSH WITH DEATH 223
her a short black skirt and a Grateful Dead T-shirt that had
hitched a ride home from the Laundromat last week.
The arms of my Krazy Kat kitchen clock read nine thirty. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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