The main path into the cemetery branches off into gravel footpaths between rows and rows of granite tombstones and bronze grave markers. In the middle of the cemetery stands a little New England chapel the size and shape of a two-car garage, with a small steeple on top. The chapel is white, with the black silhouette of a dog painted on the steeple. Beyond the chapel, at the far end of the cemetery, a statue of Christ stands on a grassy knoll. Above the statue’s outstretched arms the highway traffic rumbles by. Just off the main path to my right an elderly couple were holding hands in front of a grave marker. There were flowers on the grave.
I was a few minutes early, so I wandered down one of the footpaths. To a casual observer the place seemed like a human cemetery—a human cemetery, that is, where the dead preferred to be remembered by their nicknames. Each tombstone and grave marker bore the name of the pet (Pugs, Blackie, Cutie, Laddy), its dates of birth and death, an epitaph, and the names of its owners. Near the main path stood a large granite tombstone with the following legend:
BABY PRINCESS
7/2/76
11/30/84
Till we meet again,
We will be faithful and true,
‘Cause no one in the whole wide world
Was loved as much as you.
MOMMY AND DADDY BROWN
I walked along the path, reading the epitaphs: “He Gave So Much and Asked So Little”; “Always a Lady”; “Our Beloved Baby”; “Mommy’s Sweetie and Daddy’s Boy—Our Little Boss”; “A Little Gentleman: Ever Loving and Faithful”; “So Small, So Sweet, So Soon”; “Momma’s Itty-Bitty Poopie.”
Some of the tombstones were crowned with miniature statues of the pets. A bronze beagle sat on top of a large slab of black marble; etched in the marble was a poem to the memory of Pugs:
As the chapel chimes softly ring,
Hark, hear those happy barks,
Pugs plays now where angels sing,
And pain’s no longer in his heart.
There were framed photographs of the deceased on several tombstones and grave markers. Judging from the photographs, Wagging Tail Estates was the final resting place not just for dogs but also for cats, birds, a turtle, and a Shetland pony.
I checked my watch. It was time to meet Wagging Tail’s owner and operator. She had told me her office was in the back of the chapel, just beyond something called the Slumber Room.
Following the pawprints in the cement pathway that led to the chapel, I tried to imagine what possibly could have brought Graham Anderson Marshall to Wagging Tail Estates. It was like finding a LaSalle Street trust officer at a professional wrestling match, standing on a folding chair and waving a Hulk Hogan pennant. I’ve owned pets, and I know the grief that can lead to a pet cemetery. But men like Graham Anderson Marshall don’t bury pets in Wagging Tail Estates.
I walked through the front door of the chapel and into the Slumber Room. In the center of the darkened room a tiny black casket rested on a small wooden bier. The casket was open. Inside, a miniature poodle was arranged on a silk cushion, a white ribbon on its head and a rubber fire hydrant between its forepaws. One milky eye was open. I shuddered and moved on to the door at the back of the room. I knocked softly.
“It’s open!” a hearty voice shouted from within.
I walked into the cluttered office, squinting in the bright light. A beefy woman was sitting behind the desk, slitting open her mail with what appeared to be a Bowie knife. She gave me a big grin.
“You must be the lawyer, right?”
I introduced myself and we shook hands. She had a strong grip.
“Well, glad to meet you, Rachel” she said. “I’m Maggie Sullivan. This here is my place. You get a chance to look around some?” She had bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and the beginnings of a double chin. Her frosted hair was set in that ubiquitous short-bouffant style of middle-aged mothers.
“I did. You have quite a place here.”
She smiled and stood up. “I’m proud of it. Our tenth anniversary will be this October. We’ve come a long way since we buried my little girl out there ten years ago.”
“Your little girl?”
“Patty. A cocker spaniel. A real sweetie. Carl and I looked around for a nice place to bury her. Didn’t like what we saw. Too damn stuffy. So we started our own place out here. We love it. My Carl, bless his soul, joined her four years ago.”
“Your husband is buried out there?” My God.
“He and two other folks. Don’t look so shocked, honey. Nine families have bought plots out there. It’s happening more and more. Check around and you’ll see. Pat Blosser over at Paw Print Gardens—she’s sold plenty of family plots. Hell, I’ll be joining Carl and my little girl out there someday too. But not for a while. This old gal’s in no hurry.” She laughed and sat back down. “So I take it you didn’t come out here to buy yourself a plot, huh?”
“No, not this time.”
“Do you have a pet?”
“A golden retriever.”
“Nice animal.”
“The best.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to find some information on a pet you may have buried out here. The name is Canaan. C-a-n-a-a-n.”
“Canaan, huh? Sure is a lotta interest in that grave lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had two other calls on it this month.”
Two? One must have been from someone at Abbott & Windsor; Ishmael Richardson had mentioned it. But who was the second caller?
“From whom?” I asked aloud.
“They wouldn’t say.”
“What did they want to know?”
“What was in the grave. When it was buried. What kind of records I had on it. That kind of stuff.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I didn’t give out that kind of information over the phone. Especially to strangers. That’s one of my rules. If they want to find out more, they have to come on down to my office.”
“Did they?”
“Nope. Never heard from either guy again.”
“Both were men?”
“Yep.”
I frowned. “That’s odd.”
“Well, not really. I get a few calls like that each year.”
“About Canaan?”
“Oh, no. About other graves. I get all kinds of calls. Someone wants to complain about the condition of the gravesite. Someone’s ex-husband wants to know if the dog was wearing the diamond collar when it was buried.” She chuckled. “Last winter a poor man called after he read an article about cloning. He wanted to dig up his cat, cut off one of her legs, and try to find a scientist who could clone the cells and grow a perfect copy of her.”
“Good heavens.”
“I had him come down here.”
“And?”
Maggie shook her head, smiling. “I talked him out of it, and then I called the local pet store. I found him a cute little kitten. He’s happy as a clam these days.”
I smiled. “That’s sweet.”
“Yeah.” She paused to light a Camel cigarette with a kitchen match. “So what do you want to find out?”
“Whatever you know about Canaan. It was buried here by a Mr. Marshall. Graham Anderson Marshall.”
“Just a sec.” She reached up behind her and lugged a large blue ledger book off the shelf. “I got over six hundred pets out there. Let’s see what I got on Canaan.”
She leafed through the ledger book, running a thick forefinger slowly down each page. I stood up and walked over to the display shelves on the side wall. There were two rows of little coffins and a row of cremation urns. The sample coffins ranged from a simple Styrofoam box to a sleek stainless-steel model which was, according to the manufacturer’s display card, “airtight, waterproof, and guaranteed until the Judgment Day.”
The urns included a little doghouse and a pint-size red fire hydrant. The back wall was decorated with news clippings, awards, letters of gratitude, certificates—all mounted and framed. Apparently, Maggie Sullivan had been president of the National Association of Pet Cemeteries several years back.
“Here we go,” she said. “Marshall, Graham A.”
“Pardon?”
“The grave. You’re right. A Mr. Graham A. Marshall bought the plot. Oh, yeah, I remember that guy.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She frowned. “Tell me something. What are you doing out here?”
“I’ve been asked to collect some facts about the pet.”
“By him?”
“Well, indirectly,” I answered. “By his partners.”
“And what’s that mean?”
“It’s kind of complicated to explain. And very personal. I had hoped I could just come down here and—”
“Forget I asked.” She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Lawyers.”
I smiled. “All I need to know is what’s buried out there.”
“It’s not that easy. This Marshall guy—he’s a real fruitcake.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Real secretive. Wouldn’t let me see his pet. Wouldn’t even tell me what it was. He just showed up one day.” She looked at the ledger book. “Back in May of 1986. Asked a lot of questions. Wanted to know what happened if I died or sold the place. What would happen to the grave and all. I explained the whole thing—about the NAPC and their rules and regulations, about how it would always be a pet cemetery. About the laws and all.” She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on her desk. “Well, he finally bought a casket—our top-of-the-line model. Asked me if it was waterproof. Then he asked me to show him the warranty.” She shook her head and grinned. “Damn lawyers. Well, he finally bought it. But he took it with him. That was the weird part. Our clients either bring us the pet or have us pick it up. We have our own pickup service, you know. But this guy, this Marshall, he takes off with the casket and brings it back the next day, sealed shut. Wouldn’t let that casket out of his sight. Watched us bury it. Didn’t want a ceremony.” She looked at me, puzzled, and then shook her head. “Never seen him since. Never visits the grave. But every year he sends me three hundred bucks for the care and maintenance of that grave. Between you and me, honey, I don’t think that guy’s got all his oars in the water.”
“You really don’t know what kind of pet it is?”
“Don’t know a damn thing. I asked him when he first came out. Wouldn’t tell me.”
“Do you know where the grave is?”
“Sure. Let’s see.” She looked back in her book. “Number two thirty-nine. That would be…back and over…right. It’s halfway down the first row to your right behind the chapel. What’s up, sweetheart?”
I turned around to see a teenaged girl standing at the door, her hands in the back pockets of her faded blue jeans.
“The Johnsons just called, Mom. They’ll be here tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Good. That means I can get over to the zoo this afternoon.” She turned back to me. “Brookfield Zoo. One of their hippos died on Saturday. You know, Gus the Hippo. It was in yesterday’s papers. He had lots of fans. I called the zoo this morning and told them Wagging Tail would be honored to be his final resting place. Kind of took them by surprise. They’ve never had a funeral for one of their animals. I told them I’d handle all the arrangements. They’re going to think it over and present it to their board. I’m going to go out there now to give them a goose. Wouldn’t that be something?” She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “A hippo at Wagging Tail. What a catch!”
“Where do they have Gus now?” I asked.
“In a meat locker in Cicero. They offered him to the museum, to stuff and mount him for an exhibit. But I don’t think the museum needs another hippo.” She smiled. “I think I have the inside track on Gus. Can you imagine the media coverage this cemetery would get?”
“Front page, and the ten o’clock news.” I was grinning.
“You better believe it, honey.”
We both stood up.
“Good luck with the zoo, Maggie. And thanks for your time.”
“No problem. That guy Marshall—he’s an odd duck, that one. Sorry I wasn’t more help.”
I gave her my business card and told her to call me if she remembered anything else. She walked me to the back door, shook my hand, and slapped me on the back as I walked out.
My back was still smarting when I reached the gravesite. There was a small block of granite, on which was carved the following:
CANAAN
1985
A Nickname for Providence
Graham Anderson Marshall III
Chapter Three
The law firm of Abbott & Windsor occupies the top six floors of the Lake Michigan Bank Building, one of the many modern skyscrapers on or near LaSalle Street that have transformed the less-is-more catechism of modern architecture into a more-or-less blight of steel and glass.
I took the express elevator to the forty-first floor and stepped out onto the beige carpeting of the main reception area. Everything looked familiar except the receptionist behind the large oak desk. When I left Abbott & Windsor, the receptionist was a former Playboy bunny. The senior partners eventually decided that her provocative torso clashed with the subdued decor of the reception area. No such problems with the bunny’s replacement: Her gray hair was wrapped tightly in an unforgiving bun, and her breasts were bound and gagged beneath the protective camouflage of a suit jacket the same color as the carpeting.
Graham Marshall’s secretary had apparently left word with the receptionist that I was to be sent down when I arrived. I had called her from the pet cemetery, explained that I was working for the firm, and told her I needed to take a look through Graham Marshall’s office. The receptionist buzzed her to announce my arrival, and then waved me on after I said I knew my way around.
I walked down the long, carpeted corridor past the secretaries in their little cubicles. Some of them smiled at me with vague recollection. One of the partners—Hamilton Frederick—came out of his office as I walked past.
“Ah, Miss Gold,” he said, pausing to light his pipe with a gold Dunhill lighter. “I haven’t seen you on our floor for some time. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”
“Really?” I said. “About what?”
“It’s that Carter case.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and tamped it with a gold pipe tool. He’d put on a few pounds since I last saw him: the middle button on his navy-blue vest had already given way. “You’ll be quite interested to know that we’ve decided to move for summary judgment on the fraud count.” He obviously thought I still worked at Abbott & Windsor. “I’d like you and another associate to start working on the brief right away.”
“Summary judgment?” This was fun. “That case is a loser, Ham.” He hated that name. “Why don’t you quit churning the file and settle that dog? Give the client a break.”
“What!”
One of the secretaries giggled.
“Gotta run, Ham.” I left him standing there, sputtering.
I rounded the corner and headed toward Marshall’s corner office. The corridor walls were hung with the usual collection of abstract paintings, art show posters, and Andy Warhol ripoffs that have become de rigueur for corporate law firms.
Helen Marston was standing in the doorway of Graham Marshall’s office. A tall, angular widow with short gray hair, she had been Graham Marshall’s secretary for at least twenty years.
“Hello, Rachel.” Helen smiled at me. Although she looked like the stern elementary-school teacher who patrolled the lunchroom with a ruler clenched in a bony fist, she was actually quite nice, in a formal sort of way.
“Hi, Helen.” I paused. “I’m awful sorry about Mr
. Marshall.”
“Thank you, Rachel. You’re very kind.”
I looked around. “It’s been a while.”
“That it has. We miss you.”
“I was afraid I wouldn’t get here before five. I was out on the southwest side.”
“I would have been willing to wait for you. I’ve stayed down late over the years more times than I care to remember. Come on inside. I’m afraid his things are already packed in boxes.”
We went into Marshall’s office. I walked over to the large window behind his oval glass-and-chrome desk. The sidewalks below were jammed with commuters and the streets were clogged with fat yellow cabs.
“Can I be of some help, Rachel?” Helen Marston stood by the couch.
“I’m working with the firm on some estate matters for Mr. Marshall. Very confidential, Helen. Something to do with a pet called Canaan. Do you remember anything like that?”
She frowned in concentration. “Canaan? I’m not aware that Mr. Marshall ever owned a pet. I believe his wife is quite allergic to them.”
“That’s what I’ve been told. Maybe it was a friend’s pet.”
“Perhaps. He certainly never discussed any pet with me.”
I glanced at the credenza. “I see they’ve already taken his computer.” The dark outline of the terminal base was still visible on the wood surface of the credenza.
“They removed it three weeks ago.”
Graham Marshall had been an early convert to the value of computer-based litigation support and had helped pioneer the law firm’s use of computers in complex lawsuits. His own terminal had been tied in directly to the main Bottles & Cans computer. One of my stronger memories of the countless late nights I had spent at Abbott & Windsor during my years with the firm is the image of Marshall’s terminal screen glowing green in his empty, darkened office.
“Who has it now?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. So far as I know, Calvin Pemberton has the only other terminal linked to the Bottles and Cans computer. Perhaps they’ll give Mr. Marshall’s terminal to Mr. Charles.”
Grave Designs Page 3
