Burial Plot (A Jonelle Sweet Mystery Book 1)

by R. Lanier Clemons

  BURIAL PLOT

  By

  R. Lanier Clemons

  Copyright © 2015 by R. Lanier Clemons

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Were the headstones always this close together? Artificial flowers lay in front of the markers, faded and dusty, their plastic stems wilting in the August heat. Blades of grass sprouted here and there, like hands praying for relief from the blazing sun.

  Jonelle Sweet stopped at the grave. She placed sweaty hands on ample hips, and frowned. The perennials she planted last month lay crushed and strewn about. Worse, somebody named Maude Goodson, Beloved Mom and Grandmother, lay in the grave that formally contained her husband, Delbert Sweet. Jonelle reached out and fingered the stone’s smooth inscription as if by doing so it would magically erase the name and replace it with the one she knew. She touched her hair. The damp air expanded the blunt cut style, giving it the appearance of a mushroom cap sitting on her shoulders. Jonelle pondered the dying mums clutched in her damp fist. “Well, here I am. Where the hell’re you?”

  Puzzled now, Jonelle threaded her way from one headstone to the next. She avoided two large, yellow construction trucks parked at the end of the row and thought maybe she forgot where Del was buried. She walked several plots over, but nothing in the area looked familiar. How strange, she thought, turning around in a circle. Jonelle returned to the place she started. The large oak tree that she remembered from the burial stood to the right of the concrete birdbath near the grave, now occupied by someone else. She fingered her gold handcuff and pistol necklace. More curious than worried, she ambled over to the church, dropping the limp mums next to a marble angel statue bathed in bird droppings.

  The dark gray, almost black, stone building looked oddly cool. She hesitated a moment in front of the incongruous red door. Never a regular churchgoer, Jonelle took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold. She paused inside until her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Not sure of what to do next, she waited, thinking maybe someone heard the door open and would ask what she was doing there.

  When no one appeared, Jonelle wandered down the aisle, past several rows of mahogany pews, polished to a high gloss. She nearly genuflected, right hand poised to make the sign of the cross. A brief smile played on her lips. Old habits died hard. Hearing a soft humming noise coming from the right, she headed toward the sound and a set of stairs. A sign said “Office” and an arrow pointed down.

  An open entryway lay at the bottom of the stairs. She knocked once on the door-less frame and entered a small, tidy office with beige walls. The smell of lemon furniture polish and stale flowers filled the room. Two upholstered chairs, the one lampshade covering a wooden floor lamp, and even the area rug were tan. The hardwood floor shone. At the far end of the room a small alcove enclosed a woman behind a counter, frowning at a computer screen. Jonelle made a beeline for her.

  “Um, excuse me,” Jonelle said to the woman. “I can’t find my husband.” Jonelle eyed a small nameplate that read Marcia Cutter.

  The receptionist’s face barely cleared the small partition. She brushed thin, brown hair from her forehead and stared, mouth slightly open.

  “What I mean is,” Jonelle said, “the place where he’s supposed to be buried? Well, he’s not there. And I searched the area, and he doesn’t seem to be anywhere. I know this is the right cemetery.”

  “Uh-huh,” the clerk said. She surveyed Jonelle with pale blue eyes, the left one staring someplace over Jonelle’s right shoulder.

  “Look, don’t you guys keep records or something?”

  “’Course we do.” The clerk punched a few keys. “What’s the name?”

  “His name was, is, Delbert Sweet.”

  “Yeah, I got it. He’s in plot twenty-four.”

  “Okay, so now look up Maude Goodson. That’s s-o-n,” Jonelle said.

  The clerk gave her a peculiar look with the one good eye.

  “I’m not sure I’m supposed to—”

  “Humor me, okay?” Jonelle leaned her forearms on the counter. Holding the girl’s gaze, she added, “Just tell me what plot Grandma Goodson is in so I can sort this out.”

  The clerk gaped at the computer. “How is this possible? It says here Maude Goodson is in plot twenty-four.”

  “What have you done with my husband?” Jonelle demanded. “I paid for a single, not a double!”

  The woman scratched her head with the tip of a ballpoint pen. “Um, hold on a minute.” She gave Jonelle a sideways glance and reached for the phone. “Reverend Clarkson? There’s a lady out here who wants to know what happened to her husband’s body.” She lowered her voice. “Seems we buried someone else in the same plot, plot number twenty-four.”

  A few minutes later, the pastor, with unusually thick, black hair and arms that hung loosely by his side, entered the reception area. He smiled, exposing teeth so white and straight Jonelle figured they were as real as his hair.

  “Hello, I’m Gerard Clarkson, Pastor and Director of Pleasant Valley Perpetual Rest Cemetery,” he said, extending his hand and moving closer.

  Jonelle could almost see her reflection in his shiny, black suit. Cheap cologne enveloped the air around him, making her nose twitch.

  Sniffing, she took the offered hand.

  “We can clear this up quickly,” he said, putting his hand in his pocket. “Marcia, call the groundskeepers and have them check the plot.”

  Jonelle’s foot tapped out a staccato beat on the floor. The pastor and clerk exchanged nervous glances. Jonelle said nothing.

  A few minutes later a middle-aged black man dressed in a khaki work shirt and pants, accompanied by a similarly attired Hispanic man, arrived through a side door. About two shades lighter than Jonelle’s own mocha skin tone, the black man looked at her curiously through blue-gray eyes.

  “This is Cornelius Manross and Jorge Bustamante, two of the groundsmen here at Pleasant Valley,” Clarkson said. The two nodded at Jonelle. “Cornelius, it seems as though Mrs…?”

  “My name is Jonelle Sweet and my husband is Delbert Sweet.”

  “Right. Our records show Mrs. Sweet’s
husband was buried in plot twenty-four, and now he’s not there. Do you have any idea how this happened?”

  “We buried Mrs. Goodson in that plot last week,” the black man said, still staring at Jonelle.

  Clarkson fiddled with his shirt collar and cleared his throat. “Do you happen to remember if there was a body in that plot before you dug for Mrs. Goodson?”

  Manross’ eyes widened. It reminded Jonelle of her former goldfish, Barney Fife, before he took that fatal leap from bowl to carpet.

  “Of course not,” Manross said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jorge and me would never do such a thing.”

  Bustamante’s eyes wandered from Clarkson to Jonelle. A white line formed around his clenched lips.

  Jonelle smacked her hand on the counter. “Just what have you people done with my husband!”

  Manross jumped back and glanced at the door. Bustamante scurried over and grabbed the knob.

  Clarkson frowned. “No need to get upset, Ma’am. Marcia, check to see if someone authorized to have Mr. Sweet moved.”

  He turned toward Jonelle. A nervous smile danced on his lips. “Um, I don’t know what to tell you ma’am. This hasn’t happened before.” He squinted. “You know, I don’t remember the ceremony. And I don’t think you’re a member of this congregation, am I right?”

  “Del wasn’t very religious and neither am I. But the fact is he did attend this church. Every Easter and Christmas for the past three years.”

  Clarkson raised his eyebrows.

  “We didn’t have a formal interment,” Jonelle said, “only my family and a couple of his friends said a few words. He didn’t have any close living relatives, except for me.” She cleared her throat. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Look, I need to know where he is,” Jonelle said softly. “This is our anniversary.” She looked at each person in turn. “He proposed two years ago today.”

  An awkward silence filled the office.

  “Uh, can we go now, Reverend?” Manross asked, looking everywhere except at Jonelle. “Jorge and me got a lot of work to do.”

  Clarkson nodded, and the two men dashed out the door.

  Jonelle murmured, “This isn’t happening. No one I know moved Del’s body.” She looked into Clarkson’s eyes. “You wouldn’t relocate him without letting me know, would you? I mean, just because he wasn’t a church member, would you just dig him up to make room for someone else?”

  A red flush crept up Clarkson’s neck. “Now, just hold on Mrs. Sweet. Don’t think for one minute that anyone here would dare do something like that.” He pulled at his collar. “But I will direct Marcia to go through all of our records to be sure. I’m confident he’s here someplace. When we find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Shouting a quick, “Thanks for nothing,” Jonelle whirled around and flew from the overly scented office and out the side door, letting it slam behind her.

  She ran down the winding path from the church and toward the gravel parking lot. She reached her vehicle, fumbled for the keys, dropped them—“Shit!”—picked them up again, and jammed the key in the lock.

  Seated behind the wheel of her six-year-old Jeep, Jonelle turned on the ignition and dialed the air conditioner to its highest setting. Leaning back against the seat, she let the tears flow. “I don’t need this. They won’t get away…”

  The crunch of tires on loose stone interrupted her thoughts. She sat up. A blue pickup entered the parking lot several feet to her right. She watched Manross approach the truck. He shook his head, right index finger jabbing the air. Though Jonelle couldn’t hear what they said, she could tell that, besides the driver, someone sat in the passenger seat. After waving both arms in the air, Manross turned away and stomped back to the cemetery grounds. As the vehicle sped from the lot, Jonelle noticed the license plate. It read DIGGER.

  CHAPTER 2

  The day’s events took its toll on Jonelle’s psyche. She craved something comforting, something familiar. Settled behind the steering wheel of the Jeep, she reached for her cellphone and punched in the second number on her speed dial.

  “Hello?”

  The sound of her uncle’s bass voice rendered Jonelle momentarily speechless.

  “Hello? Anyone there? If you don’t say something I’m hanging up.”

  “Don’t hang up, Uncle Marvin. It’s me, Jonnie.”

  “What’s the matter? You sound funny.”

  “I’m okay,” Jonelle said, though she felt anything but. “Is it all right if I stop by?”

  “Since when do you have to ask? We’ve got a half bushel of crabs, corn on the cob, potato salad, plenty of beer, and your Aunt’s peach cobbler for dessert.”

  “I’m on my way,” she said.

  Jonelle drove the thirty minutes to her uncle’s house in a fog. I’ll wake up and this whole day will be just a bad dream. “If that’s the case,” she muttered to herself, “then what the hell am I doing on I-95?”

  She merged onto the Baltimore exit and headed up Northern Parkway. Though the residents of this upper middle-class neighborhood were a diverse group, African Americans predominated. Strictly residential, the people of this community had fought successfully over the years against any zoning laws that would have allowed retailers in the area. Their efforts resulted in a quiet neighborhood of carefully maintained houses and neatly manicured lawns.

  Jonelle parked in the driveway of her Uncle Marvin’s house and sat for a moment, admiring the view. The three-bedroom red brick colonial had black shutters on the eight windows facing the street—four upstairs and four downstairs—and a black door with a brass knocker. A concrete walkway curved to the house. Jonelle got out of the Jeep and followed the small path that led to the backyard. Though the only people there were Marvin Shorter and his wife Teresa, Jonelle marveled, not for the first time, how the two seemed to really enjoy each other’s company.

  Marvin glanced up. “There she is! Jonnie come over here and get some crabs.”

  Jonelle grabbed a beer from the cooler and sat next to Teresa, while her uncle heaped several crabs on the newspaper spread in front of her.

  “You okay, sweetie?” Teresa asked.

  Jonelle nodded to her aunt and considered her uncle. For as long as she could remember, her mother’s brother held a favorite spot in her heart. She adored him. She loved the way his deep brown, almost black eyes poured into hers whenever she spoke. As she grew up, she confided in him whenever life threatened to overwhelm her. In fact, there were things he and Teresa knew that she had never told her own parents.

  In her eyes, Marvin had changed little over the years. At sixty-five years old, his thinning close-cropped hair now contained more gray than black. Still, the years had not softened the muscles on his compact frame.

  Marvin still awoke at the crack of dawn five times a week to lift weights at a Baltimore gym. After consuming his daily breakfast of oatmeal, bran muffin, and orange juice, Marvin headed to the detective agency he started over thirty years ago.

  When he returned to the states from serving as a captain in the Gulf War, Marvin married his high school sweetheart, took out a small business loan, and never looked back.

  “Talk to me, girl,” he said. “I can tell something’s bothering you.”

  Jonelle recounted her visit to the cemetery.

  When she finished, Marvin shook his head. “Who steals a body? And for what? Jonelle, are you sure you remembered the grave’s location? Isn’t it possible you made a mistake?”

  “No way, Uncle Marvin. I looked all around that place. Even the cemetery workers knew he was buried in that plot. Now somebody else is in it.”

  “Marv, go call the police,” Teresa demanded.

  “Ohmigosh!” Jonelle’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “What is it? Did you remember something?” Marvin asked.

  “Suppose they ran out of space and to make room they dumped his body in the woods or something. There were construction trucks all over that place.”

  Teresa
’s head bobbed up and down. “I remember reading a long time ago about how some cemeteries started dumping bodies and burning them because they ran out of money and space.” She pointed to her husband. “Marv, call the police. Have them investigate that place.”

  Marvin raised his hands as if warding off an attack. “Now hold on a minute you two. I agree something strange is going on, but let’s not jump to conclusions.” He reached for Jonelle’s hand and clasped it in both of his.

  “Tell you what, Jonnie. Tomorrow’s Sunday, but as soon as I get to the office Monday, I’ll make some calls. See if anyone’s lodged any complaints against the cemetery.”

  “And run the truck’s tags, would you please?” Jonelle asked.

  “Look,” Teresa said, “on those TV crime shows they say that after a certain number of hours the body starts to decompose, depending on what the temperature is. And it’s been stifling this year.”

  Jonelle dropped the wooden mallet before using it on a crab claw. A sick expression came over her face. She looked at Teresa in horror.

  Never missing a crime drama, whether fact or fiction, belied Teresa’s public image. No one would ever imagine the trim woman, always immaculate in her appearance, obsessed over the down and dirty tales of homicide detectives, crime scene investigators, and medical examiners. Retired from her job as consultant for a management firm, she had more time to learn about the dark side of human behavior.

  “Oh, Jonnie, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Let me get you some peach cobbler. And how about some vanilla ice cream to go with it?” Without waiting for an answer, Teresa patted Jonelle’s shoulder and scurried into the kitchen to retrieve the dessert.

  Jonelle turned to Marvin. “Do you think she could be right? Something tells me it’s too early to go to the police about this. I don’t want them to dismiss me as just another crazy woman.”

  Marvin sat back down. “First, let me check out the cemetery, and we’ll go from there.” He paused. “I have to ask, Jonelle, was Delbert into something questionable? Is that the reason why you don’t want the police involved?”

  Jonelle knew this was coming. Though always polite to Del whenever they were together, her aunt and uncle didn’t care for him.