by Scott Cook
He shrugged, “That’sa fine. Is money wella spent, according to Alex.”
“You’re all right if I get tough with the security man?” I asked.
“Si.”
“On that account,” I said, leaning back and puffing elegantly, “What has he said when you’ve asked him just how in the hell he’s managed to allow no less than three exhumations in a week?”
Palermo sighed, “Ina truth… the property is quite large. Three hundreda acres. About… a third of a mile alonga the street and it goesa back twice thata far. One man can’ta really effectively guard the place.”
“So he’s more a comfort to the bereaved,” I stated. “And the cameras?”
Palermo shrugged, “These are more for families to… see the grounds froma the distance, huh? Not a completea security system.”
I pondered that for a moment, “And I assume that a review of the footage shows nothing?”
Palermo sighed once again, “Two ofa them are not functional.”
“Uh-huh,” I said significantly and puffed. “And are they large cameras? Easily spotted?”
Alexandra smiled at me. Palermo shook his head, “No… verya small. Placed to give the best views but… how do you say… inconspicuous.”
“Indeed,” I stated, tapping some ash out of the bowl of my pipe. “So the grave robbers had to neutralize the cameras before they did their ghoulish deeds. That means they had to know where they were placed. Which means they had a prior knowledge of this… or were told where to look.”
“That’sa not a comforting thought,” Palermo gloomed.
“No,” I said. “Certainly not for your security guard. I’ll need to examine your employee records at the property. Past and current.”
“That’s no aproblem,” Palermo assured me. “I’ll let the caretaker know.”
“I think I have enough to get started,” I said. “I will need a three-day retainer, Mr. Palermo. I hope that’s acceptable.”
He smiled, relief evident in his expression, “Si, si! I’ma grateful fora your help, signore.”
We stood and shook hands and I walked them out. At the outer door, Alexandra paused and squeezed my hand, “Thank you, Scott. This has really been bothering him. He’s a very kind and sensitive man.”
“I can see that,” I said and pecked her on the cheek. “I’m glad to help.”
After stopping at the bank and depositing Virginia’s and Mr. Palermo’s checks, I shaped a course for the old Jarvis homestead. It was just after one in the afternoon and I needed to get dinner started.
Morgan and Rocky met me at the inner garage door with wagging tails and looks of urgency on their remarkably expressive doggy fizzes. I petted and hugged them and let myself be licked and led them out onto the porch and into the yard. They immediately turned and made their way to what was now the designated gentledog’s convenience. I left them to their defilement of the land and went back inside.
Out of my fridge I pulled several packages of pork chops. There was a mixture of center cut bone-in and boneless as well. I laid these on the counter to warm up a bit and pulled out a large stewing pan and poured a couple of tablespoons of a Tuscan olive oil into it. The oil was infused with basil, oregano and rosemary and made a great sautéing base for meats.
I opened the chops and seasoned them with salt and pepper and laid them two at a time, seasoning down, into the heated pan. Then I seasoned the face-up side before flipping them. The chops only got about a minute and a half on each side. Just enough to brown them and make some yummy brown bits in the pan.
Once all were browned, I deglazed the pan with about a cup of white wine, added three cans of cream of chicken soup, gravy master, some chopped onions and other seasonings including about half a cup of chicken broth. Then I added the chops, covered and set the stove to a simmer.
Now you’re probably asking yourself, “Is this my beautiful house? Is this my beautiful wife?”
To which I would respond that you should focus on the food preparation! It might seem odd to add chicken soup and broth to chops… yet after five or six hours on simmer, the chops and their bones perform an amazing transformation. They convert the chicken base into a pork base and your chops become fork tender and are cooked in their own pork gravy. Simply mash some taters and add a veggie of your choice. I often do this with peas, only because this very simple yet yummy dish is a traditional New England favorite.
I played fetch with the lads for about a half hour and then sat on my porch and unfolded the list of graves that Mr. Palermo had given me. The first was Ezekiel Tobias, born 1834, died 1865 as a Sergeant in the confederate army. There wasn’t any information as to what might have been buried along with the soldier. I had to assume that there was some reason these ghouls dug him up, though.
The next was a Mrs. Lucinda Granger, born 1914 and died in 1985… beloved of Michael, Susanna and Richard. No other information on this lady, either. Was she buried with a lot of jewelry or something?
The final name was Jonathan Nelson, born 1951, died 2015. The epitaph notes said he was survived and beloved by his only daughter… I found that oddly vague. Why not mention a name?
Something about this last one struck a chord with me. There was an unsettling familiarity about the name or the dates or something. I couldn’t shake the feeling that in some strange way, I had a connection to John Nelson.
“Why?” I muttered aloud, laying the paper on my lap. “I don’t know anybody named Nelson… do I? With an unnamed daughter… who died five years ago… out in Davenport…? Curious, that, eh Watson?”
Watson chose not to respond.
Stupid Watson.
I decided that I needed some exercise to try and shake the cobwebs loose. It was a gorgeous afternoon, so I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went out for a run.
My house is in a small neighborhood called Chickasaw Oaks. The neighborhood was started in the mid-1980’s and was the last of the old-guard sub-divisions at the south end of Chickasaw before the newer Lee Vista developments began. Interestingly, it wasn’t even the only Chickasaw Oaks on the street.
If you went left at either of the entrances, you would proceed south on Chickasaw Trail, past the Newport sub-divisions, a large townhome development, another couple of neighborhoods and end up at the intersection of Lee Vista Boulevard. Along this mile or so section of Chickasaw, near Newport, was a large retention lake about a half-mile long and half as wide. The lake had been dug in the early 2000’s to provide fill dirt for the many new housing developments in the area. It was over forty feet deep at its center and a pleasant feature of the region. I liked to run or walk along it, the now maturing oaks on the lake’s street-side bank providing shade in the summer heat… yet the spot now held a different memory for me, one that wasn’t quite so pleasant.
I hadn’t started running yet, walking for ten minutes or so to loosen up the muscles. So when I neared a certain spot about halfway along the shoreline, I left the double-wide sidewalk and stood near the water’s edge in silence. She wasn’t here, of course… yet Sheila Clarence’s essence seemed to cling to this spot for me… the spot where she’d lost her life.
Almost five months before, a madman named Shade had caused, although indirectly, a bomb to go off on Wayne’s car after he and Sheila, his long-time girlfriend, had come to my house for dinner. We were on the way to get ice cream when the explosion sent Wayne’s car rocketing over the curb and down the incline into the lake. It’d happened so fast, and perhaps because the Mustang had a rag top that the car didn’t even float for a short time. It seemed to torpedo right into the lake and submerged.
Lisa and I had been right behind them in my Jeep and I pulled off and dove in after the car. I’d managed to pull them both out, but they were drowned and Lisa and I frantically pumped the water from their lungs and performed CPR. Sheila hadn’t responded, either to my efforts or to defibrillation when the ambulances had arrived. She was officially pronounced dead less than an hour later.
&nbs
p; Perhaps it was all the grave robbing stuff, but when I passed by the spot, unmarked by anything but my crystal-clear memory, I felt an overwhelming urge to stop. Almost as if Sheila was calling out to me. So I stood there and remembered for a while… not so much that one horrible night in August, but instead, I focused on years of happiness that she’d brought to all of our lives. Picnics, boating trips…
I felt a lump in my throat and cleared it, “We miss you, Sheila. You’re always with us…”
After a few more minutes, I centered myself and turned back to the sidewalk and began running in earnest. I ran for about an hour, an easy seven mile per hour pace and looped around onto Lee Vista and then back to my house. No ideas came to me, but the almost overpowering weight of loss had melted away.
After getting cleaned up, I began working on peeling potatoes. The gang was coming over for dinner and I wanted everything laid along so there’d be minimal work when the time came. At a little after five, Lisa’s Mercedes GLC pulled into the driveway, followed by Sharon’s silver Toyota Camry and Wayne’s new Toyota Forerunner Pro. Lisa came in first, lifting up on tiptoe to kiss me.
“How’d it go?” She asked.
“Interesting…” I mused. “I’ll fill you in a little later.”
“Mmm…” She said with that proprietary angel with the devil eyes look she saved just for me.
I quickly turned on the stereo and activated my Spotify playlist before Sharon and Juan entered. Didn’t need any flack about how there were no tunes. Ziggy Marley’s live version of “Forward to Love began to play just as they entered.
“What’s up, Sherlock?” Sharon asked as she set a heavy plastic bag on my counter.
“Presents?” I asked with a grin.
“Si,” Juan replied in an overly exaggerated Hispanic accent. “La senora wanted the liquors for you to make los drinkos.”
“Jesus, amigo,” I said as I shook his hand. “She’s corrupting you.”
“Every chance I get,” Sharon said and pinched Juan’s butt after hugging me. “Brought a bottle of Jamo and some Bailey’s. Figured it might get a little chilly tonight and you could make us Irish coffees or hot toddies or something.”
“Yo, yo, yo!” Wayne’s voice called out from the garage. “What it is, honkies!”
Wayne’s broad shouldered and muscular six-foot two frame filled the door and his broad smile filled the room, “Smells like true love in here, homey.”
I pumped his hand, “That’s my cologne.”
Wayne winked at me, “I got a surprise for you, brother.”
Sharon beamed but said nothing. Juan only grinned. Lisa and I met each other’s eyes with questioning looks.
“What… did you actually bring something to eat this time?” I needled. “You know… instead of just your empty gut?”
Wayne chuckled and moved aside. Behind him, a tall chocolate skinned woman stood just outside the door in the garage. Her low heels gave her almost as much height as Wayne and me, and in spite of her slacks and silk floral blouse belted at the waist, it was clear that she had outstanding curves. Her lustrous dark hair flowed well below her shoulders and her face was model pretty and her smile a little mischievous… and I knew her.
“Keisha…?” I inquired, feeling a little stunned.
“In the flesh, baby,” she replied and stepped up to hug me. “You’re looking fine as usual.”
Keisha Rains was twenty-three and a former Miss Alabama. I’d met her a little over a year before while temporarily working for a once-prominent pop star turned TV star. Jillian Moore’s TV show, Live Like a Pop Star was now in its third season and Keisha had been one of the contestants during my brief and tumultuous involvement as Jillian’s bodyguard.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re as gorgeous as I remember. How’d you fair on the show, by the way?”
Keisha cocked an eyebrow at me, “You didn’t watch?”
I scoffed, “You’re shittin’ me, right?”
Keisha laughed, “I didn’t win, but did pick up some local work and things are going well enough I might be quitting my day job. I’m an architect… well, I do CAD work for now… but that’s not nearly as fun as singing and acting.”
“Amazing…” I said, casting a glance at Wayne. “And you somehow found and took pity on my boy over there. You’re a true sweet spirit, Keisha. How’s Cheryl, by the way?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear that either, huh?” Keisha replied with a smile. “She came in second place. She’s got such a voice that girl… she’s in California now working on an album.”
“No way…” I mused. “Good for her.”
I introduced Keisha to everyone and we began the evening with my galactically-renowned, secret recipe and utterly irresistible margaritas. Upon her first sip, Keisha proposed to me. Although Lisa said she understood, she claimed first dibs.
4
“So let me get this straight,” Wayne said as I served out the chops. “Some nutjobs are snatching bodies from some boneyard?”
“Uh-huh…” I said cautiously, sensing what was about to happen.
Wayne’s eyes twinkled, “Sounds like a grave matter.”
Groans and snickers around the dining room table. I glowered.
“Hopefully you’ll be able to dig something up,” Keisha joined in, trying hard not to laugh.
“You wanna eat?” I asked with narrowed eyes. She tittered and nodded.
“Now, come on you guys,” Sharon admonished. “You should take this more seriously.”
“Thank you,” I said, not believing her sincerity for a moment.
“You’re welcome…” Sharon added, patting my hand as I laid a chop on her plate. “If anybody can uncover the plot, it’s you! Heheheheheee!”
Lisa’s face was growing redder by the second. I frowned at her, “Don’t you staht… start.”
“Oh, baby…” She said. “These guys are just having a little fun. I’m more interested in this supposed bad security guard… Mr. Palermo should probably just fire him… cut him out of the staff like a malignant tomb-ber!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake…” I mumbled.
Juan came in from the kitchen and set a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table, “I’m sorry, hermano. These guys should be ashamed of themselves.”
“To quote Stephen Maturin, he who would pun would pick a pocket,” I rejoined.
“Says the guy who does it to us all the time,” Sharon pointed out.
“Now, amore,” Juan said as he sat and started doling out the taters. “I think Scott has had enough teasing. Let’s deep six it!”
“That’s good advice, ya’ buncha dicks,” I cranked. “Or you might be assisting me with long-term surveillance of the damned place… from beneath the sod.”
After everyone had their laugh out, including me, we began to dig into the chops. Everyone expressed deep appreciation for my culinary skill.
“These are so good,” Keisha declared. “You don’t even need a knife. These mashed potatoes are yum, too. Have you ever thought of putting these chops over rice, though?”
“A favorite from your neck of the woods,” I commented. “And yeah, I have and it’s delish.”
“So any ideas on this cemetery deal?” Sharon asked.
I shrugged, “Not really… although the fact that it’s in Davenport and that Virginia Chandler is having some strange troubles with her property not far away… seems a little odd.”
Sharon’s brows rose, “Davenport, really? What’s the name of the place?”
“Lookin’ to grab a plot early?” Keisha asked teasingly.
“Probably a good idea,” Wayne said and then paused. “I hear folks are dying to get in!”
“Good grief…” I muttered. “The name… I think its Serenity Hill, something like that. I have it written down, why do you…”
The ashen look on Sharon’s face stopped me.
“My God, Sharon, what is it?” Lisa asked.
“Do… do you have the names of the graves that were vand
alized…? And what was done to them?” Sharon asked quietly.
I rattled the names off. When I got to John Nelson, Sharon’s pallor became almost ghostly. Juan put a hand on her arm to comfort her, but Sharon only leapt out of her chair and fled into the small hallway and one of the two spare bedrooms. For a long moment, all we could do was stare at each other in shock. Juan started to rise but I put out a hand.
“I’ll talk to her, Juan,” I said calmly. “You guys enjoy dinner, we’ll be back in a minute.”
My house was small with a split bedroom plan. The great room and kitchen took up the center while the master suite one side. The other side featured two bedrooms with a bathroom between.
The front bedroom was really more of a catch-all. There was a desk, a comfortable reading chair and a pull-out sofa set against one wall. A very large arched window looked out over the front lawn and this is where I found Sharon. She stood looking out at the last tendrils of daylight that clung to the western sky with her arms folded across her chest. I quietly closed the door behind me and moved to put my arms around her.
Sharon leaned in close and I could feel her body shivering slightly, “Hey, you okay?”
“No, Scott…” Sharon said softly. She turned and buried her face in my chest and tears began to soak into the fabric.
“You want to talk about it? I can’t remember the last time I saw you crying.”
“I’m not crying,” she sniffed. “I sat on my keys.”
I chuckled, “It’s this graveyard business, isn’t it? Does this… somehow remind you of… of your dad?”
She looked up at me and her cornflower blue eyes were sparkling with their tears. They really were remarkably beautiful. A rare color that seemed to go on forever, yet now held vast depths of sorrow in them.
“It’s not that it reminds me of him…” Sharon said, taking a breath. “You know I don’t talk about dad much.”
I nodded, “You’ve never said very much about him. I think I know more about your uncle Rick than I do your dad. Except that he and Rick Eagle Feather grew up together, shared some crazy adventures and that he died from cancer in 2015… is that what it is? The date on that guy’s tombstone?”
