Death in the Memorial Garden Read online

  Neola would also be mortified that the Millers’ funeral attire consisted of blue jeans and windbreakers. The couple looked none too happy, either. Neola had promised a bequest to the church, and each seemed to be the type who would begrudge the loss of a few thousand dollars to charity.

  Henry, the church caretaker, given the important title of “sexton” on occasions like this, was about to plunge a shovel into the soggy ground. The matching shirt and pants worn by the stocky, steel-gray-haired man presented quite a contrast to the white robes worn by the priest, deacon and crucifer. Ordinarily the hole itself was dug ahead of time and covered by a piece of turf, but in her funeral instructions Neola had opted for as much drama as possible.

  Father Robert had to hand off the black plastic box containing Neola’s ashes to his deacon, Mary, in order to read the next part of the internment service. As he recited the familiar words, “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection ….” he mused upon the role of the deacon, which he regarded, irreverently he supposed, as “doing the dirty work.” Even in the earliest days of the Christian church, the apostles had figured out a way to hand off the housekeeping tasks by creating the deacon’s order. Tradition dictated that deacons worked for free or, to put it more positively, for the love of God.

  Deacon Mary was the one who collected toys to give away at Christmas, found spare shelter beds for their homeless regulars, “set the table” for communion, and put things away afterwards. Mary was truly the rock of their church, and Robert didn’t know what he’d do without her. She was practical, too. His best loafers were soaked, while the galoshes peeking out from under her robe performed perfectly. Her civilian clothes were sensible, too, running to plaid blouses, crew-neck sweaters, and khaki skirts. Her pixie cut seemed impervious to the rain and wind.

  Mary’s job, once the hole was dug, was to bend down, remove the top from the box, turn it over and shake hard, making sure that Neola’s earthly remains settled into their final resting place near her husband Fred’s. No fancy urns were necessary or permitted, since the garden’s occupants had all agreed (in advance, of course) that their dust would return directly to the dust to keep the lawn green for Easter egg hunts, animal blessings, and summer coffee hours.

  Earlier in the day Henry had removed the top layer of turf, so the dirt should have yielded easily, given the water-saturated ground. However, Henry seemed to be having trouble. He retracted the shovel, took a breath and plunged it in with his right foot. The sharp crack of splitting wood emanated from the earth.

  * * *

  Amidst the gasps and cries inspired by the cracking sound, Deacon Mary clutched the box containing Neola’s ashes to her chest and stepped quickly out of Robert’s way so that he could reach over to support Henry. The sexton had dropped the shovel and was hopping around on one leg, the other having been thrown into spasm by the sharp impact. The rest of the mourners had the appearance of a Greek chorus, alternately surging forward under their umbrellas to peer at the point of impact, then scooting backward to escape whatever dark forces the earth might release. Their rational minds must realize that the obstacle was benign, but Mary knew that their irrational minds were conjuring up a century-old coffin.

  Neola’s family seemed to share this vision and was hopping up and down along with Henry. Seeing a need for her pastoral skills, Mary stepped sideways through the group until she reached them. She remembered when Neola’s daughter Audrey had faithfully attended Grace church with her parents, even after her early first marriage. However, the almost hysterical woman in front of her was a very different Audrey. She’d have to find out what had happened.

  Right now she had a more pressing concern. Only five feet tall herself, she knew it would be difficult to herd Audrey and her husband off to the side while at the same time juggling the box.

  She spied a white robe at the other edge of the crowd and barked, “Daniel, come here and hold Neola!” To the young organist’s Who, me? look peeking through his long, curly mop, she responded with a Yes, you! look of her own. In a minute he was at her side, gingerly accepting the handoff.

  “Now, just calm down, everyone!” Father Robert, having ensured that both of Henry’s legs were on firm ground, was facing off the group, which by now had grown in size as clients emerging from the food bank located in the church basement stopped to stare. Mary noticed that Raymond, the police officer who provided off-duty security at the food bank, was among them. She signaled to him by leaping up and down and waving over the crowd, and was relieved to see him moving toward the burial site.

  Father Robert and Raymond conferred for a minute, and then gestured to Henry, who nodded a little uncertainly, shook his leg out, and resumed his position. This time he moved the shovel a foot back from the original cut and pushed it in carefully. Mary realized that they planned to unearth the obstacle before planting Neola’s ashes and explained to Neola’s daughter and son-in-law that there’d be a short delay. Henry seemed to be meeting no resistance and continued, making a circle. The watchers stood by in silence, but persisted in bending forward slightly with each push and backward as the shovel came out.

  Neola’s daughter, Audrey, on the other hand, cringed each time the shovel went in, and began muttering a rambling prayer. “Protect us, Lord, from the dark forces that have invaded Mother’s resting place. Help us remove Mother and Daddy’s ashes from this evil spot to one which your Holy Spirit blesses.” She suddenly turned to Mary, demanding, “Give me my mother’s ashes!”

  Mary held out her empty hands while scanning the crowd. Where had Daniel gone?

  * * *

  The obstacle, once unearthed, proved to be the size and shape of a wine crate. It was a wine crate, Robert Vickers realized. As a matter of fact, he told Raymond, the security officer, it was the same type of crate that held the sweet wine used by Grace Church for communion services. The top looked to have been removed and then crudely re-nailed.

  “Good job, Henry! Now go to the tool closet and bring back a crowbar,” he ordered.

  While they were waiting, the priest noticed that the number of food bank clients and other spectators had swelled and were spilling into the street. A man in a turban jostled against another sporting a suit and fedora. A woman wearing a long navy blue dress and veil was offering her potatoes to a Hawaiian-shirted fellow in exchange for his rice.

  The babble of many languages rose on the rainy breeze, lending the scene the air of a modern-day Pentecost. All that was missing was the dove, although there were plenty of pigeons underfoot, hoping for a handout. Robert was not surprised to see the tall figure of Clare, known to all as the Pigeon Lady, among the crowd, swathed head to foot in a hooded brown robe.

  Wherever she went, the pigeons followed, even though the Health Officer had persuaded her to stop feeding them. Robert also spotted Marjory, Clare’s caretaker, standing nearby and shaking her head as if to say, “What can I do?” Clare’s arms were outstretched, as if to bless them all, bird and human alike.

  A baby-blue police cruiser poked its way up the street through the crowd. The vehicle stopped midstream, and then its door pushed open against the surrounding bodies. A curly blonde head and blue-clad torso emerged and loomed over the crowd. The patrol officer waded toward Raymond and Father Vickers, using her broad shoulders to part the waters. Once on the other side, she eyed the pile of dirt, the hole in the ground and the split box, and asked Raymond, “Well, well, Officer Chen. Got funeral duty today?”

  “Very funny, Officer Hitchcock,” he replied, brown eyes meeting her baby blues. “What I’ve got is a big mess. Father Vickers here was trying to bury some remains when the gravedigger ran into this box.”

  Joyce Hitchcock glanced around the garden area. “This doesn’t look like a graveyard to me.”

  Robert intervened. “It’s a memorial garden, officer, consecrated for the purpose of interring the ashes of the deceased of this church. It’s—oh, it doesn’t matter—I want to find out what’s inside this box. We were just getting ready to open it.”

  “But what if there’s a body inside?” croaked Henry the sexton, crowbar at the ready. Realizing from the quizzical looks he was receiving that a wine box wasn’t quite large enough for this purpose, he amended his question in a more forceful tone, “Well, what if there’s a body part inside?”

  This brought Neola’s son-in-law to attention. He escaped from Deacon Mary’s comforting grasp and poked his head into the circle, sputtering, “Look here, you … you … you’ve dis— diser— deserated my mother-in-law’s funeral. Officers, I demand that you take some action!”

  “We are taking some action, sir,” Raymond answered. “We’re going to open this box.”

  “Well, could you please do it,” urged Joyce, “sooner rather than later? I’d like to get this crowd dispersed before the TV helicopters descend on us.”

  “TV?” shouted the son-in-law, attracting more of the crowd’s attention. “Audrey,” he shouted louder, “the TV helicopters are coming!”

  * * *

  Robert removed a handkerchief from the hidden pocket in his robe and wiped his broad forehead. Of all the infernal things to happen right now, this took the cake. “NOW JUST CALM DOWN!” the frustrated Father exhorted, glaring at Neola’s son-in-law. “If you’re so worried about des-e-cra-tion, you’d be wise to put your lips together and serve as a SILENT, REVERENT witness to the opening of this box. Now, Henry, you may proceed.”

  It took only a minute for Henry to dislodge the loose nails. Everyone in the immediate vicinity leaned in yet again, and with a final Craaack, the top of the box came off, revealing its contents: a plastic container much like the one holding Neola’s ashes and a pair of black patent-leather lace-up shoes with chunky heels. The laces were red, or had been. The items were a lit
tle the worse for wear, since dirt had sifted through the seams of the crate. The shoes were showing signs of mildew and the container was stained.

  Henry stared bug-eyed at the sight. Then a sound like a big mouse would make came from the direction of the rhododendrons. Robert looked up to see his organist Daniel opening and closing his mouth, but was immediately distracted by the son-in-law shouting, “What’s that box doing there? And those funny shoes with the red laces? Are Dad’s ashes in that box? Is—?”

  “Calm. Down. Sir,” chorused Robert and officers Chu and Hitchcock.

  As Robert looked up to confer with the officers over the next course of action, his eyes widened, and he broke away from the circle. Lucy Lawrence was holding her throat and gasping.

  * * *

  “Lucy! Lucy! Are you all right?”

  Lucy peered into Father Robert’s eyes, made huge by the thick lenses of his glasses, which were two inches away from her face.

  “I’m, I’m, I don’t know … How could the shoes …?”

  “What about the shoes?” he answered. “Never mind. Don’t talk right now.”

  She felt herself being supported by Father and two of the onlookers “I’m fine, just a little lightheaded,” she assured them in a sturdy voice she willed not to quaver. “Please don’t hover! You’ve got more important things to attend to. I’ll just go inside and have a cup of tea and a cookie.”

  Oh, darn, darn, blast and darn, she thought as she walked toward the parish hall. Why did I blurt that out about the shoes? Maybe Father will forget. But what if he doesn’t? What shall I say? I’ll just say they reminded me of some shoes I need to pick up from the repair shop. Ridiculous! He’d see through that in a second. I’ll think of something plausible as I drink my tea.

  * * *

  Officer Hitchcock called out, “Hey, Pastor, come over here. There are ashes in the container.” She poked her finger around. “And look at this, Pastor, there’s a few pieces of bone floating around in here.”

  Robert peered in, and commented, “That happens sometimes.”

  “It’s a large box, and it’s heavy.” the officer said. “Maybe its two people’s ashes.”

  “No,” Robert said. “Cremains—that’s the word they use—weigh between three and eight pounds, depending on the person’s size.”

  Neola’s son-in-law, who’d been peering over the officer’s shoulder, turned and gagged.

  “Officer,” he spluttered, wiping his mouth, “you’ll need to fill out a police report.”

  * * *

  Officer Hitchcock disagreed. “Now why should I take the trouble to file a report saying there’s been ashes found in a graveyard? And these funny shoes with the red laces? Who’d want them?”

  The son-in-law continued, “But—but whose are they? Why are they in our family’s plot? Isn’t that theft—of something?”

  “Well,” the officer replied, “I could look in the criminal code, but I doubt we’d find a category for theft of a piece of grass.” As she finished speaking, her hand rose to the top of her police hat to keep it on. “And with this wind coming up, I think we should wrap up this service. Raymond, what do you think? Raymond?”

  Raymond was staring across the lawn at the side entry to the church, where a stone was just then crashing onto the cement, spraying gray chips in every direction. It was about two feet square and six inches thick, a fine specimen of the local Wilkinson sandstone cladding the building.

  The group, led by Neola’s family, screamed at the sound and sight of flying chips and leapt back, even though the point of impact was at least twenty-five feet away. All heads turned up and scanned the façade to see if more stones were coming.

  “Stay back, everyone,” said Officer Hitchcock. I’ll get some hazard tape out of my cruiser.”

  Henry, the sexton, pulled his gaze from the unearthed crate and piped up. “Don’t bother. We have some left over from the last time a stone fell. What did I tell you?” he added, turning toward Robert.

  * * *

  “Thank you, Henry, for letting everyone know.” Robert turned to the officer. “That stone isn’t part of the tower structure; it’s a piece of the stone cladding. We’ve been doing spot repairs until we raise enough funds for a major restoration.” The grout around it hasn’t been redone in—let’s see—a while.”

  “It’s been ninety years!” shouted Henry.

  Robert noticed what appeared to be dollar signs in the son-in-law’s eyes as the man exclaimed, “We could sue, ah, you could be sued over this!” Mr. Miller stood up straight and removed his baseball cap. “I happen to know something about buildings. Hey you,” he continued, nodding toward Henry. “Since it looks like this burial is over for now, come with me while I give this building the onceover. Then I’ll report my findings to the, what’s he called, Audrey?”

  “He’s called the Bishop,” she answered. “And I’ll tell you right now,” she continued, setting her sights on Robert, “he should shut this place down. It’s old and crumbly and dark and cold and the seats are uncomfortable.” She looked at the motley crew surrounding them. “And God knows who just used the bathroom before you.” She clasped her arms around her. “And after today, I never, ever, want to see this place again!”

  Before Robert could protest, Mr. Miller and Henry were off and Audrey was herding her children toward the parish hall and the refreshments.

  Joyce took out a pad, made a note, and commented to Robert, “A real neat freak, huh?

  “Now pastor, your church is in my patrol area and I expect to see that tape up until the powers that be in the city engineering office decide it can come down. Raymond, I say we let the pastor dispose of the ashes and other items however he wants while we clear up this crowd and get back to work.”

  * * *

  Lucy, still paused at the door of the parish hall, almost fainted again. Dispose of them? Impossible! Whose ashes were they? And why were the special shoes there? Even though it touched upon her deepest fears and regrets, she couldn’t allow this mystery to go unsolved. She’d have to speak to Father and a few of the others. She resolved to do so quickly … after a cookie and a cup of tea.

  * * *

  Rick Chase, who’d arrived just as the crate was being unearthed and stood at the edge of the crowd throughout the rest of the proceedings, shook his head. No way was he going to meet the family now. They had lawsuit written all over them. And all these other people—like a mini-United Nations. He had no idea it was so busy here during the week, having only attended on Sundays and for evening vestry meetings.

  It was definitely time for a talk with Glenn, his real-estate developer friend. This scene was 180 degrees from the ambience they’d planned for the Church Square Development. Two things were for sure: the food bank had to go and this so-called Memorial Garden needed to be enclosed by a tall, locked fence.

  * * *

  Waving goodbye to Officer Hitchcock, Robert tried to wrap his brain around everything he needed to do. First was to track down his organist and retrieve Neola’s ashes. They’d have to delay the internment, but they might as well go on with the reception. On his way to the church he saw Rick Chase, his vestry member, edging away from the throng. He seemed distinctly uncomfortable being jostled about by food bank clients and street people. Did he think the church grounds were quiet and pristine between his Sunday visits?

  Of all the people to see the cladding stone come off the tower, Rick was the worst. Under ordinary circumstances he’d ask Rick to help with repair planning, since his vestry member was an engineer. But he was beginning to wonder if “repair” was what Rick had in mind.

  Turning toward the church, Robert saw a flash of movement inside one of the tall rhododendrons surrounding the garden. He shouted, “Daniel! I see you hiding there. Come out now, and bring Neola with you!”

  * * *

  Hours later, after everyone had left, Robert beckoned Deacon Mary to follow him to his office. The crate of ashes and shoes they’d unearthed in the Memorial Garden was in the middle of the floor. Robert was notorious for using the floor as a combination filing cabinet and staging area for stacks of paper, stray candlesticks, and other things no one knew what to do with.