Romancing the Gravestone

by Gena Showalter

  Romancing the Gravestone

  Gena Showalter

  Jill Monroe

  Copyright 2021 Author Talk Media LLC

  All rights reserved. In accordance of the U.S. Copyright Act of 1975, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by federal law enforcement agencies and is punishable by up to five years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  * * *

  Cover Created by Leni Kauffman

  Editing by AZ Editing

  Proofreading by Naomi Lane

  The following images through Depositphotos.com:

  Chapter Header: chempina

  Ornamental Breaks: esancai

  Thank you to our families for their endless encouragement and our pets who inspire us.

  ·

  Special thanks to Ginny at AZ Editing.

  ·

  Thanks also goes to Leni Kauffman who captured Jane perfectly in her cover design.

  ·

  Much love to Naomi Lane for keeping us on track.

  ·

  A shout out to Lauren Floyd and everyone on our reader team. You guys ROCK!

  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

  About Gena Showalter

  Also by Gena Showalter

  About Jill Monroe

  Also By Jill Monroe

  Chapter One

  Edward Jacobs

  I don’t have time for death. I’ll be back soon.

  Plot 47, Garden of Memories

  Jane Ladling brushed her bangs aside and peered into the fresh grave. Her mind whirled, different observations hitting her. Plot 39. Six-foot hole. Open casket. Pretty standard for the Garden of Memories, a private cemetery she’d inherited from her mother’s side of the family. Except this resident had been underground for the better part of a century, in a closed casket, alone. Someone—or someones—had redug the pit, unsealed his final resting place and given him a friend.

  Two of the dead pressed chest to chest. It was almost…beautiful. Should I make couples coffins a new thing?

  They just looked so peaceful together. If you ignored the fact that Rhonda Burgundy, the older resident, was nothing but hair and bone. Honestly? She looked better than the new guy who still had flesh and blood.

  Was this the afterlife’s version of robbing the cradle?

  Bad Jane. Bad! Focus. How had this happened? Accident? Foul play? She’d been walking the grounds, doing her morning chores, when she’d noticed an unauthorized pile of dirt and hurried over.

  Now, she rocked back on her heels and cast her gaze over the surrounding plots, trying to make sense of everything. Morning sunshine drenched plush green grass. Shade cast by a full-figured magnolia tree and a scattering of cypresses bathed different headstones. A row of smaller, moss-covered cypresses lined a babbling brook. Flowers bloomed here and there, drawing a handful of bees. Nothing appeared disturbed, but honestly, Jane doubted the newcomer had died of natural causes.

  She had a perfect view of his back. Droplets of crimson matted his hair. A cap of blond curls she thought she might recognize. Maybe? Possibly? So familiar.

  Her coworker, Rolex, weaved through her feet. Rolex-speak for Feed me, peasant. In exchange for room and board, he deigned to watch over Jane and the property. He also worked as the resident meal inspector.

  Two years ago, the little house panther had wandered into the cemetery and promptly declared his ownership of it, as well as of Jane. They’d been together ever since.

  “Breakfast needs to wait, baby. For the both of us. I’ve got to tell the sheriff about our squatter.”

  Jane, who’d been compiling her to-do list for the day, had to quit halfway for the first time. She turned on the heels of her black flats and headed home. A two-story caretaker’s cottage, aka ancestral estate, that dated back multiple generations and bordered the cemetery.

  Having spent the bulk of her twenty-six years here, tending gravesites, she’d developed what the good folks of Aurelian Hills, Georgia called “an inability to grasp the gravity of death.” Perhaps they were right. But why mourn the dead? Most times, they made better friends than the living.

  As Jane trekked over the rolling hills and beautiful grounds she preserved in pristine condition, Rolex kept pace at her side. A fragrant bouquet of magnolia, gardenia and rose blossoms perfumed the warm spring air. Her favorite collection of scents in the world. All too soon, new aromas would weave into the mix. Car exhaust. A plethora of colognes and perfumes. Stale coffee, probably. And the sounds! The damage! Law enforcement—or rather, the living, the bane of Rolex’s existence—would trek all over the place.

  “On second thought, breakfast should not be delayed. You’ll be too busy hissing and swiping your murder mittens at everyone to eat.” His way of letting visitors know they had no right to breathe his air in his kingdom without his permission.

  Boards groaned as she ascended the porch steps, and hinges creaked as she opened the door. A familiar symphony. She kept the cottage updated as much as possible, but funds were tight, and the biggest, most needful repairs had yet to be completed. Or started. One day!

  In the foyer, she paused as she always paused when faced with Grandma Lily’s furnishings. The orange velvet sofa, with a hand-knitted blanket draped over the side. The floral print chairs flanking the unlit hearth, where all that knitting had taken place. The coffee table with hundreds of Jane’s accidental nicks. Love spots, according to her grandmother.

  Three years had passed since the cancer had taken Grandma Lily. With every fiber of Jane’s being, she missed the dear woman who’d raised her. No one had been kinder, or more encouraging.

  Rolex meowed at her feet, pulling her from her reverie.

  “All right, all right. Let’s make you less inclined to commit a felony today. One a day is enough.” In the kitchen, she opened a new tube of chicken pâté and squeezed the disgusting blob onto the cat’s dish.

  Rolex dove in. He loved the stuff and refused to approve of anything else.

  When she’d first found him, he’d been outside, half starved, sitting atop a jar of pickles she’d tossed out the day before. The jar had fallen to the ground right side up and he’d perched on the lid, reminding her of a gargoyle atop a castle, guarding his territory. Her initial thought—watch cat. Her second—Rolex. She barely remembered her grandpa, but she’d never forgotten his obsession with the wristwatch he’d touted as “pure luxury.”

  She washed and
dried her hands, then headed to the office at the back of the house. The room was an addition Pops had added just before he’d died fifteen years ago. Because of his arthritic hips, he hadn’t enjoyed walking to the main office on the other side of the property, near the cemetery’s entrance.

  Jane preferred this workspace, anyway. The spacious room contained an elaborate antique desk, metal filing cabinets filled with records she’d begun logging digitally last year—only three hundred more to go—and framed photos of her favorite people. Grandma Lily and Pops. Rolex, of course. Fiona Lawrence, her grandmother’s best friend. Truth be told, the sixty-two-year-old was Jane’s best friend, too.

  There was a single image of Jane’s mother and father, from their high school graduation. Oh yes, and there was also a gilt-framed cross-stitched Henry Cavill that Jane purchased at a garage sale. What? The twenty dollars she’d spent was well worth it, considering they’d been dating in her mind for a year. Her longest relationship to date!

  After locating the file for plot 39, she phoned the non-emergency number to the sheriff’s department to explain the situation. Unsurprisingly, the head law enforcement officer answered the call himself. As a former mining town, Aurelian Hills boasted roughly ten thousand citizens and employed only a sheriff and his deputy. There was no need for anyone else. Other than the occasional teen swiping makeup at the drugstore or a tourist skipping out on their bill at the Golden Spoon—the best diner in all the world—people tended to behave themselves. The crime rate remained low.

  Sheriff Raymond Moore muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “Who is this again?”

  “Jane. Jane Ladling. Um…the Cemetery Girl?” A nickname she’d received in elementary school. “I mean, the Cemetery Girl. A statement, not a question. I know who I am.”

  “Are you sure you saw a body and not a blow-up doll or something, Jane? Kids like to play pranks nowadays.”

  “Well, there’s blood, so… But no, I didn’t touch the body to verify my initial observation. Just give me an hour to haul a ladder to the site and—”

  “No. Forget it. No ladder, and no touching. I’ll be right out to check things out for myself.” He heaved a sigh. “This had to happen now, didn’t it?” he grumbled. To himself? “I’m due to retire in a matter of weeks and—” Click. The line went dead.

  The (seemingly) gruff grandfather of eight had been planning his retirement for the past six years. He’d become an Aurelian Hills staple, and Jane couldn’t imagine the town without him. He often passed out Safety Citizen badges to elementary school kids, gave stern lectures about the dangers of drinking or texting while driving to middle and high schoolers, and rushed to the rescue for any and every disaster, ready to utilize his solid strength or offer a comforting presence.

  Jane exited the house, emerging onto the wraparound porch complete with a sitting area and a swing. She kept the screen door open, ensuring Rolex had optimal viewing of the coming proceedings.

  Standing at the wood rail, she waited, serenaded by chirping crickets and buzzing locusts. About half an hour later, the sheriff rolled up in his black-and-white, parked in her gravel driveway, and climbed from the car. Sunlight glinted from his bald head. A full silver beard covered his jaw. Broad shoulders led to a barrel chest and lean hips.

  His familiar, grim face loosened surprising stress knots between her shoulder blades. But then, something about his grizzled expression and hard jaw had always eased her. If only Fiona were here. Jane’s dearest friend had a love of gossip—er, information and harbored a secret crush on the widower. One she’d nursed for years.

  “Take me to the body,” he said, withdrawing a small notepad and a pen from the pocket of his button-down.

  “Yes, of course.” Getting straight to business. Excellent. “Plot 39 is in Autumn Grove. This way.”

  After blowing Rolex a kiss, she led the sheriff along a cobblestone path.

  “Don’t you have a golf cart we can use?” the sheriff asked, already huffing and puffing a little.

  “Disturb the peace of the grounds and its residents? For shame!” Caretakers of the Garden of Memories had relied on their own two legs for five generations, not motorized vehicles, and Jane wasn’t about to change things up. Her grandmother would flip in her grave.

  “The employees of Aurelian Hills Cemetery use golf carts,” he groused.

  Aurelian Hills Cemetery. Her fiercest competition and the only other cemetery in town.

  Hot-button alert! Jane didn’t care. She lifted her nose and jutted her chin. “The employees of Aurelian Hills Cemetery treat their dead the same way they treat the living—horribly. I wouldn’t bury a goldfish in their plots.”

  “My apologies.” The sheriff swiped a handkerchief over his sweat-glistened brow. “Didn’t mean to offend.” He hurried to return to business. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary this morning?”

  “Not until I crested the hill and spied the mound of fresh dirt.”

  “A mound of dirt isn’t standard fare for you?”

  “With the town growing around us, we’re landlocked,” she reminded him. No new plots meant no new residents. “Our last occupant moved in about six years ago.”

  The Garden of Memories consisted of seventy-five acres of history and beauty, and she loved every inch. Opened soon after Georgia’s gold rush, the land boasted ornate crypts, elaborate mausoleums, and angelic sculptures. There was even an arched bridge that bisected a babbling brook, adding a sense of mysticism. Trees, bushes and flowers abounded. Everything from wisteria to maple.

  When they reached their destination, Sheriff Moore peered down the six-foot hole and whistled. “Well, I’ll be darned. You know who this is?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s Rhonda Burgundy, and she—”

  “Not the corpse. Well, not the old one.”

  Oh. “Unfortunately, no. I mean, there’s a niggle in the back of my brain, but I’m not sure what it means. Do you know who this is?”

  “Not yet, but I have a niggle, too.” He scrubbed a hand over his weary features. “Whoever it is, townsfolk are about to revolt. There hasn’t been a murder since I took over for Sheriff Bollersox.”

  He’d taken over, what? Fifteen years ago? “What makes you suspect foul play? What if the poor guy tripped and fell?” He’d trespassed in the middle of the night. His vision had been limited. The creepy setting and sounds might have spooked him. But why raid the coffin in the first place? To steal the bones?

  “Did you catch someone trespassing?” he asked, ignoring her questions. “Spot someone lurking around?”

  “I didn’t hear any digging, no.” The gravesite was too far from her cottage. “I didn’t see anyone lurking around, either. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I usually finish my evening rounds at eight p.m.” Her cheeks burned a little bit. How had she not known what was happening on her own land? Especially someone who’d hung out long enough to dig a six-foot hole. “Do you suspect foul play?” she asked again.

  The sheriff opened his mouth, as if he planned to respond, only to close it with a snap. “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss details about an open case with you, Miss Ladling.”

  Understandable. Had foul play occurred? “The ladder is in the work shed. I’ll fetch it so you can get a closer look.”

  “Thank you. I phoned GBH on the way over, just in case. As soon as they get my update, they’ll head this way.”

  Georgia Bureau of Homicide. For a potential murder. This was getting serious. “I’ll be right back.” Except, she took forever. The ladder was heavy, and the trek was long. An hour passed before she made the trek back to the cottage to await the agents.

  Her plan? Escort them to the site to prevent any destruction of her lawn.

  Jane hurried, the hem of her purple dress dancing around her thighs. She always wore a dress when walking the grounds. As a little girl, she’d adored the fancy clothes worn by funeral attendees, and she’d followed suit. The habit had stuck. Though she preferred bright colors t
o black. To her, a cemetery wasn’t a place of mourning but celebration.

  Uh-oh. A dark SUV waited in her winding driveway. An older guy in the process of removing a GBH jacket stood beside the vehicle while someone in a dark gray suit knocked on her door—two hard rasps from knuckles seemingly made of steel. Rolex growled and batted at the mesh screen that separated them.

  “Hi. Hello,” she called, waving as she picked up the pace. “You’re looking for me.”

  Both men turned, facing her. Oh wow. Gaze zeroed in on the tall, muscular prime cut beef on her porch, she stopped. Her eyes went wide. Thick dark hair framed a solid, rugged face. Sunglasses obscured the color of his irises, but not the prominent brows above them. He had a strong nose, bronze skin and a thicker-than-normal five o’clock shadow, a combination lethal to good sense. A gun rested at his hip, and a badge gleamed from his belt. A watch circled a strong wrist. And just when had she started noticing wrists? Anyway. He was without a tie, his collar unbuttoned. Business casual on hormone supplements.

  Thoughts began to derail, speeding down wrong roads. When the singles in Aurelian Hills spotted him, he would get mobbed. Guaranteed. Of course, the singles mobbed anyone, since the pickings in town were so slim. Jane herself hadn’t been on a date in…yikes! A year? A tourist had asked her out, and she’d said yes because she’d envisioned a fun night with friendly conversation and multiple laughs. As soon as he’d learned about the cemetery, he’d launched into nonstop questions about dead bodies and things to do with them. There hadn’t been a second outing.

  A couple other guys had invited her to dinner, but she’d declined. Why bother? She already knew how any relationship would end—at the mercy of the Ladling curse.