The urn was almost as tall as the men moving it. The foot and lip of the vessel appeared to be about the same size, probably about two to three feet in diameter. But the girth of the urn had to be a good four or five feet in circumference. Unlike the many ornate ones she’d seen that decorated the famous above-ground cemeteries in and about New Orleans, the design of Patsy’s urn was smooth and simplistic to the extreme. And though its simplicity was its beauty, it was also a major problem for the workers.
Getting a good hold on it was almost impossible. Both men were drenched in sweat from their efforts, and by the sounds of the grunts coming from them, Charlotte decided that the thing had to weight an enormous amount.
The workers almost had it out from beneath the overhang of the porch. But the going was slow, and Charlotte began to wonder if they would be able to make it all the way to the pond.
“A whole person could fit inside that thing,” she murmured, watching the men struggle.
“Be careful with that,” Patsy demanded. “It’s old and—”
The words had no sooner left Patsy’s mouth when one of the men lost his grip and dropped his side. The movement caused the other worker’s hold to slip, and the urn hit the flagstone patio with a resounding thud.
Patsy shrieked in horror. “Now look!” she cried. “Just look what you’ve done to my beautiful urn. You’ve cracked it.”
Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, Charlotte stepped closer. Sure enough, there was definitely a large half-moon-shaped crack on one side just above the foot of the base.
For long minutes, Patsy, the two workers, and Charlotte simply stared at the crack. Finally the larger of the two men spoke up. “It can be fixed, ma’am,” he said nervously. “I—I know a man down in da Quarter who does dat kind of ting. He can fix it so you never know it wuz ever cracked.”
Patsy shifted her gaze to glare at the worker. After several moments, she finally emitted a large sigh and nodded. “Yes—yes, of course it can,” she retorted, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “But until then—” She motioned toward the porch with a jerky movement of her arm. “Let’s move it back for the time being. But pu-lease—move it ve-ry carefully,” she added, dragging out her words as if instructing a couple of two-year-olds instead of grown men.
Both workers looked so relieved it was comical. The larger of the two nodded at the smaller one. “On three,” he said gruffly. Both men squared their feet on either side of the urn and each grabbed hold. “One…two…three—”
The moment the men picked up the urn and moved it, the cracked portion broke loose.
“Wait!” Patsy shouted. “Stop!”
But the men had already shuffled a couple of steps sideways and the damage was done.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Patsy cried, staring at the bottom portion that had fallen free. “Now look what you’ve done!”
But Charlotte went stone still. “Oh, no,” she murmured, her eyes on the gaping hole in the bottom of the urn. The urn hadn’t been empty, and almost immediately she recognized what had fallen out of the hole.
Bones.
Large bones that looked suspiciously like a hand and fingers. Charlotte shivered. But were they really human bones?
A deep dread spread within her. No matter how much she would have preferred them to be the bones of some poor animal who had crawled in the urn and died, she had a horrible feeling that they were exactly what they appeared to be.
“Charlotte? What’s wrong?” Patsy glanced over at Charlotte.
At the moment Charlotte couldn’t utter a sound, nor could she take her eyes off the bones. All she could do was point at the bones.
With a puzzled frown, Patsy followed Charlotte’s gaze back to the hole, then stepped closer to the urn. As she bent to inspect the hole more closely, her eyes widened in horror. With an earsplitting scream, she threw up her hands to either side of her head and quickly backed away.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2003 by Barbara Colley
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6575-3
Death Tidies Up Page 27
