Miss Gloria and I perched on the cement-block wall opposite the in-ground crypt and watched as Isaac poked around the bottom edges of the grave. “Nothing obvious is wrong here,” he said. “Other than the iguana markings, it doesn’t appear that anyone’s been digging. But it does smell worse than Mount Trashmore.” The Stock Island dump. He wrinkled his nose.
Within minutes, I saw a police SUV bump onto the sidewalk near the north entrance to the cemetery. Bransford got out and strode toward us. “This better be good,” he said when he arrived.
Before I could answer, Jane steamed back from the office, two city workers in tan uniforms huffing behind her. “The grave belongs to the Mastin family. They bought this plot some years ago when the first one filled up. They haven’t had the need to replace the old grave, so they just left it as it was. Edwin is on the way over from his restaurant, but he said go ahead and open it up if you feel it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Who the hell knows whether any of this is necessary,” Bransford grumbled.
Isaac moved forward to chip a little cement that had been used for previous makeshift repairs. Then he helped the city workers slide the heavy lid off the grave. Once they had settled it on the grass, Isaac and the head worker crouched down and peered into the hole.
“There’s not a damn thing here,” said the worker, adding under his breath, “As if we didn’t have enough to do already.”
Bransford borrowed one of their shovels and poked around the interior, dislodging a brown animal even bigger than the green one that had frightened us earlier. The animal puffed up his head, hissing and bobbing as he bounded out of the grave. Bransford leaped back, yelping an obscenity. I stumbled away from the grave site and stationed myself across the road to avoid anything else with four legs and scales scrambling in my direction.
Edwin Mastin pedaled up on his bike, his face red and his shirt collar damp from the ride over.
“What’s the story? Is there a problem with my property?”
“Nothing but damn iguanas here,” said Isaac, who now stood by the wrought-iron fence.
“Sorry to have troubled you for no reason,” said Bransford. He brushed his hands off on his pants and then waved Mastin closer. “We jumped the gun on opening things up. Seems like your plot is going to need some work.”
“It was time we did some repairs anyway,” Mastin said, his big hands on his hips, looking down at the hole.
I leaned against a crypt designed to stack three deceased family members, one on top of another, watching the men try to put the grave back together. I decided that the leaf-blower noise I’d heard earlier was more likely a wood chipper; probably one of the local landscaping companies trimming and grinding up palm fronds. The flat gray clouds scudding above the horizon made the sky look more painted than real.
Gradually the terrible odor I’d smelled earlier registered again, this time even stronger. I stood up straight and turned to peer at the multilayer crypt. The top layer had an opening, a couple of inches wide. There seemed to be scrape marks around the square seams. The edges of the block did not quite line up, almost as if it had been removed but then shoved back into place in a hurry. On closer inspection, the left seam was damp. Could that possibly be a whisper of blond hair sticking through the crack?
I crouched to the ground, took a couple of shuddering breaths, and tried to convince myself I was just jumpy. This was a cemetery, after all. People were buried here. Bodies belonged here. And some of the funeral parlors on the island probably had a better handle on the fine points of embalming than others.
Should I speak up again or leave it alone? Even from thirty feet away, I could see the annoyance creasing Bransford’s face. In the end, I heaved myself up from the cement block I perched on and crossed the road closer to him.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes?” he asked, his voice icy with challenge.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t believe me, but something’s very wrong over there. Two seconds, can I show you?” I started back to the crypt, hoping he’d follow. “The smell is coming from that grave. And someone’s been working on the cement. And I’m afraid that there’s hair—”
He jogged around in front of me to look at what I’d found. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “Move away right now.”
19
“People say the lemon makes them think of their childhood,” Bell told her when she arrived. “Couples in love order the chocolate mint, and lonely people go for your Boston cream.”
—Caroline Leavitt, Is This Tomorrow
Bransford whistled to get the attention of the city workers, who had finished piecing together the lid on the other crypt and reloading it onto the grave. They were heading toward the Frances Street entrance of the cemetery. As they ambled back to the grave site, Bransford called over to Jane and Isaac.
“Would you consider it normal for something to leak from one of these containers?”
“Absolutely not,” they said in unison, and hurried over to join us. Bransford extracted a small flashlight from his belt and began to shine it around the cracks of the tomb. Jane took her bigger light out and shone it on the stone too.
“Do you see what I was saying?” I asked as his gaze approached the section where I’d seen the dampness. In the light, it almost looked like drips.
“I see it,” he said brusquely, moving his body in front of the structure like a human shield. “All of you stand back and stay where you are.”
“We weren’t going anywhere,” I muttered. “We’re not all idiots.” No wonder all those raging anticop letters ended up in the paper. He treated civilians like enemies. I watched the beam of his flashlight pause and hover over the inches on the left side where I’d imagined I’d seen the hair. The blond strands glinted in his light. He took a few steps away and whipped out his phone.
“I need backup at the cemetery. Now. Possible four-one-nine.”
Which I knew—from keeping too much company with cops—meant “dead human body.” Common enough in a cemetery, but the dispatcher must have had the sense not to make a bad joke and point that out.
Bransford described our location, and in the distance, a siren wailed in astonishingly quick response. Within minutes, our area of the cemetery was swarming with cops. Torrence roared up last and did not even look at me as he stormed over to Bransford.
“I didn’t do a thing wrong,” I said as he passed by. “You won’t find my fingerprints on that tomb. Everything by the book.” He ignored me completely.
Edwin Mastin rolled his bike over to stand with me. “What in the world is going on now?”
“We’re not sure,” I said. “But the terrible odor I thought was coming from the grave site in your plot seems to be located here”—I gestured at the stone edifice—“and the cops seem to be preparing for the worst.”
He scratched his head. “Meaning what exactly?”
“Something’s stuffed in there that doesn’t belong.” I lifted my chin toward the grave. “I think there may be an extra body in that tomb. Something newer than the burial date engraved on the stone.”
He frowned as he glanced around at the gawkers who had clustered behind us, standing on graves and leaning on gravestones. “I know this place is a big draw for tourists, but sideshows like this make the idea of closing the cemetery to anyone who doesn’t have relatives buried here seem appealing.”
We stood watching with Miss Gloria while the police talked with Jane and Isaac. Then the city workers were waved over and they set about discussing how to pry the front cover away without disturbing either the grave or its contents.
By this time, a crowd was pushing closer to the crypt. There were tourists in flip-flops and shorts and crop tops, a small gaggle of elderly women who had been tracing grave etchings in the Jewish corner of the cemetery, and even a couple of homeless men carrying ragged packs. The uniformed cops began to herd everyone back, barking at the gawkers to get off the graves nearest the crypt. As fast as the police pushed
them back, the rubberneckers wormed closer in.
Using tools that looked like oversized chisels, Bransford, Isaac, and one of the city workers pried the front cover off the crypt. I didn’t know whether to protect my ears against the loud scraping of metal against stone or shield my nose from the odor that mushroomed from the crypt, stronger and stronger. But when the square of stone had been removed, I wished I had covered my eyes. I would never be able to unsee the collapsing face of the woman who had been stuffed inside; the rats’ nest of blond curls, the blurry tattoo circling her upper arm, the black rope dangling from her neck. And worst of all, the bugs. Everywhere bugs scuttling to hide from the sudden light.
“Don’t even look.” I tried to spin Miss Gloria around. But her gaze was focused on Edwin Mastin, whose face had turned into a slack-jawed mask of horror.
“It’s Cheryl Lynn,” he gasped, and then rushed forward. At the last moment, he was repelled by a wall of blue. Torrence grabbed his arm and towed him back.
“You need to get away, sir,” he said gruffly.
“It’s my goddaughter,” the restaurant owner said to Torrence. “Oh my god, it’s Cheryl Lynn.” He dropped to his knees and began to sob.
As the presence of the decaying body and the distraught man registered, the police grew deadly serious about clearing the area. The tourists and the homeless men were escorted out of the cemetery and the iron gates clanged shut, closed to any further traffic. Pictures were taken, yellow crime scene tape unfurled, and I was cut out of the pack as a witness.
“Either wait for me at the sexton’s office or get a cab home,” I called to Miss Gloria. “I don’t think I’ll be long. I don’t really have anything to tell them.” Although I knew from past interactions, the amount of information a person thought she had did not always correspond to the length of time spent getting interrogated.
Bransford and a lady cop pulled me aside.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” the cop asked, and pointed to the cement-block wall surrounding a group of small marble stones. A vase of faded plastic roses stood sentry alongside a miniature American flag.
“I’m fine,” I said, gritting my teeth against the queasiness of my stomach and legs that felt like cooked noodles.
“Did you know there was an extra body in that tomb?” the cop asked.
I swiveled to look at Bransford, my eyes narrowing. “Of course I didn’t know that. But I could smell something terrible. I explained that to the detective here, but it took him a while to believe me.”
“That’s not exactly how it went. First we had the employees dig up another tomb at her suggestion,” he explained to the lady cop. “It wasn’t like we weren’t doing anything about what she reported. But she’s not always a credible witness.”
“I tell you what I notice,” I said in a soft, fierce voice. “And I can’t help it if I notice a lot. And I can’t just close my eyes and ignore things. How long might it have been before you guys found this body?”
“How do you know Edwin Mastin?” the lady cop asked me, pointing at the distraught restaurant owner who was now talking to Lieutenant Torrence.
“I don’t really know him well,” I said. “I’ve interviewed him for an article I’m writing about his restaurant. And we had dinner at his place the other night. It’s that new boat on the harbor.” I was grateful to have something else to focus on, even if it was a foodie rant. “The menu is kind of pseudo-Japanese—they’re still finding their way with the right mix of dishes—”
“Thank you, Hayley,” Bransford cut in. “We can’t be sure about the identity of the victim until the medical examiner has a chance to confirm it. But do you know this person named Cheryl Lynn?”
I did a quick mental assessment, trying to figure out how much to say. I knew of her, but I didn’t know her. That was the truth. And that’s what I told them. “Lorenzo knows her, as I’m sure you’re aware,” I added. “He had some suspicions that she was the cemetery burglar.” Oh lordy, he had told them this bit of news, hadn’t he? I couldn’t remember what had happened when. Had I just thrown him under the bus?
“This would explain why there haven’t been any new reports this week,” muttered the cop to Bransford. And to me, she said, “We will probably need to talk to you again.”
“Detective Bransford has all my contact information,” I told her, not looking at him.
As I stalked away, Lieutenant Torrence beckoned me over. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said.
“I’ll get over it,” I answered in a breezy voice, though I wasn’t at all sure I would.
“Your friend Lorenzo was released from jail this morning,” he added. “There was a concern about him being a flight risk, but he’s got a good lawyer and someone posted a whopping bond. And this is unusual, but the barrister promised that Lorenzo would stay with you until the trial date. Eric Altman assured them this arrangement would work. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting there now.”
“That’s fine,” I said and mustered a cheerful smile. It seemed weird that they’d send him to our place, but I’d do anything to help. He would be devastated by the news about Cheryl Lynn. I knew he’d take her death as a personal failure. “We’re happy to have him.”
“The thing is, this”—Torrence waved at the cluster of policemen still gathered around Cheryl Lynn’s body—“changes everything. All the money in the world isn’t going to spring him from jail this time.”
“Thanks,” I said, and reeled away to find Miss Gloria.
20
The next morning my roommate made us pancakes, and we three ate them while she tried to deduce what had happened. None of us really knew.
—Linnie Greene, “Crossing a Threshold and Not Looking Back,” The New York Times
By the time Miss Gloria and I had parked in the Tarpon Pier lot and trudged up to our houseboat, Eric had arrived with Lorenzo. Lorenzo hugged us like a starved man would embrace a sack lunch. He was probably famished, if the chow at the Stock Island prison was anything like that in Miss Gloria’s favorite TV show, Orange Is the New Black. We settled everyone into the kitchen banquette and I put on water for coffee. Miss Gloria took out a bag of oatmeal-raisin cookies that we stashed in the freezer for emergencies and loaded them onto a plate. Neither one of us said a word.
Eric narrowed his eyes as I brought mugs of coffee to the table. “You two don’t look so good. Like there’s been a death in the family.”
Miss Gloria gulped. “There sort of was.”
They both looked worried now. I perched next to Lorenzo and took his hand with both of mine. “We’ve had some terrible news. Cheryl Lynn was murdered.”
“And her body was stuffed into an empty crypt in the cemetery,” Miss Gloria added.
His hands flew to his mouth and a couple of tears squeezed out of his eyes and started to run down his cheeks. “Oh my god,” he said. “I wasn’t wrong about the red. I’d never seen a color that strong.” He got up and strode out to the back deck, the screen door banging behind him. He crouched down among the potted herbs and tomatoes, his face in his hands, making low noises like an animal in pain. The three of us remaining exchanged glances, and then Miss Gloria hurried after him.
“What can we do for you?” she asked through the screen. “Do you want some company?”
He shook his head. “Maybe in a bit.”
“Let’s give him some privacy,” Eric said in a low voice. “Maybe sit out in the sun until he’s ready to talk?” Miss Gloria nodded and followed him out to the front deck with the cats. Only Lola stayed behind, rubbing her face on the back door screen, watching Lorenzo mourn.
“I’ll be here in the kitchen,” I called after Eric. Though I hardly needed to tell him that—everyone knows that cooking is how I handle stress. Heading to my short shelf of cookbooks, I pulled out my recipe for hazelnut fudge. This was an easy recipe, simple to make yet bursting with flavor. It didn’t need baking, just a couple of hours in the refrigerator. And if Lorenzo stayed here for a
while, we would need it later. It was the kind of treat that said, “You deserve this lump of sweetness. We love you. We’re so, so, so sorry.” Half-frozen oatmeal-raisin cookies simply couldn’t do the same job. They couldn’t shoulder the same emotional load as organic hazelnut fudge sprinkled with pink sea salt.
From the front deck, I could hear the murmur of Miss Gloria’s and Eric’s voices as I warmed the chocolate hazelnut mixture with butter, sweetened condensed milk, and chocolate chips in the top of my double boiler. Every few minutes, snatches of their conversation floated in—Miss Gloria’s description of a symbolic cemetery ornament, her amazement about the mass of police gathered around the tomb, and her sadness about the way Edwin Mastin had broken down after seeing his goddaughter.
Finally the back door squeaked and Lorenzo returned to the kitchen from the small deck where he’d been sitting. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to hear the whole story.”
“Absolutely. Could you please stir this for a moment?” I asked, holding out a wooden spoon coated in chocolate. “I’ll get the others.”
I came back to the galley with Miss Gloria and Eric and got them settled at the kitchen table. Then we told the two men exactly what had happened in the cemetery earlier. I described the iguana’s nest, the terrible odor, and how the workers had removed the cover of the low crypt but found nothing.
“I backed away to watch from a distance,” I said, “because Bransford was there and he was so darn cranky. I was leaning against this triple-decker crypt and the smell was overwhelming.” I wrinkled my nose, reminding myself not to be too graphic, for Lorenzo’s sake.
“But then I saw something leaking and some blond hair and so I called the police over. Bransford, of course, didn’t want to believe me. But it was pretty clear there was something wrong with that crypt. So they pried the cover off and found the woman. I wouldn’t have known her”—I stopped myself from saying she was virtually unrecognizable because of the shape she was in—“because I don’t know her. But Edwin Mastin was there. His family owns the plot where the first tomb was dug up and they needed his permission to open the crypt. This time around, the cops didn’t ask anyone. As you can imagine, Edwin was just sick when he recognized Cheryl Lynn.”
Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 17
