Deeper Than the Grave

by Tina Whittle

  “Tai Randolph?” she said.

  I looked up quickly. “That’s me.”

  “Detective Anita Perez, Cobb County Police.”

  Her voice wasn’t Southern. There was a lilt there I couldn’t place, a singsong rhythm she was trying to cover with a crisp official tone. Her skin was the color of honey, her dark eyes thick-lashed without a lick of mascara. She was plain, but it was a carefully orchestrated plain, designed to conceal as much as any makeup.

  She unbuttoned her rain racket. “Heard you found a skull?”

  “That I did.”

  “Care to tell me the story?”

  And so I did. She listened without interrupting, her field-issue recorder clicking away while I talked. She took notes too, little jottings in a notebook, almost afterthoughts. Trey waited in the background—poised, alert, a black-and-white silhouette against the muted splendor of the stained glass.

  “And that was the only body part you found?” she said.

  “Yes. I stopped looking when Mrs. Amberdecker showed up locked and loaded.”

  “How about any of the other artifacts?”

  “None that belonged to the private. Here’s the list.” I pulled out Uncle Dexter’s tally sheet and handed it to her. “There were some personal items, buttons, and a CSA belt buckle, but my Uncle Dexter provided the flags, a Confederate Stars and Bars and a state flag of Georgia. Those were replicas, but the personal artifacts were real.”

  She examined the list. “Nobody found any of this?”

  I looked at Trey—he’d been in charge of the master tally—but he shook his head. Perez’s eyes tracked the items. She looked at lists the same way Trey did, as if feeding data directly into her brain, and her lips moved slightly as she added up figures in her head.

  “This stuff is antique, right?” She ran her tongue behind her front teeth, calculating. “How much money are we talking here?”

  “I’d have to do a little research to let you know the range. Depends on the condition, provenance, all that.”

  “Were they worth enough to rob a grave?”

  I saw what she was getting at. If there had been nothing in the coffin but dusty old bones, there would be nothing to find in the field but the same, and the metal detector would have been useless.

  “I suppose so. But that would have been unlikely.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because they buried him in a mausoleum, an aboveground tomb, and until that tornado ripped it open, the thing was sealed shut.” I looked at Trey. “Didn’t you tell me that one of Richard’s men found the coffin?”

  Trey nodded. “That was the report, yes. I didn’t get a chance to confirm, however.”

  Perez didn’t say anything. She was keeping some information in her back pocket, I could tell. That was how the game worked. I’d been on the suspect side of the table enough times to recognize that particular play.

  “Any idea who our non-historical bones belong to?” I said.

  She wiped water from her nose. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”

  “I’m not the one who can help you, Detective. I’m assuming you’ve asked Richard and Rose this question.”

  She shook her head. “I like to talk to whoever discovered the body first.”

  “Not a body. Just a skull.” I pointed at the tally sheet. “And a non-CSA belt buckle. But where there’s a belt, there’s usually pants, and where there’s pants, there’s usually a wallet. Did you find one?”

  She stared at me for two seconds, then smiled. “My job is to wait for the ME to finish his report. Until then, nobody touches a thing. Not even if that skull had a damn driver’s license between its teeth. Because…” She looked at my chest, frowned. “Is that a Confederate flag on your shirt?”

  I looked down. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” I pointed to the words underneath. “That’s my shop. Dexter’s Guns and More. Currently the ‘more’ part means Civil War gear, both authentic and replica, including—”

  “Key rings? Like this one?”

  She pulled out her cell phone and showed me a photo of a grimy hunk of metal. Despite the bad lighting, I could make out the familiar crossed bars of the Confederate Battle Flag, etched in the blacksmithed iron. I felt my heart skip faster.

  Perez peered at me, her eyes narrowed. “You recognize it?”

  “I do.”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a similar one, only instead of being clogged with gore, mine was polished by constant handling, dinged on the edges. I handed it to her.

  She held it side by side with her photograph. “Do you still sell these?”

  “They’ve never been for sale. My uncle made it for me, as a gift.”

  She examined it closer. “Do you mind if I borrow it?”

  “Actually—”

  “I’ll keep it safe. I need to do a comparison, that’s all.”

  “With the one you found on the body, right?”

  Her expression gave nothing away. “I can’t discuss specifics. But I’ll give it right back as soon as I’ve got some photos. I promise.”

  Suddenly, the door to the church flew open. It was an entrance so abrupt it startled even Trey, who immediately went into a defensive stance, slipping one hand under his jacket. I put a hand on his shoulder as a woman stomped down the aisle, her eyes blazing under a khaki slouch hat, her boots echoing against the stone floor. Unlike the uniformed police officers hurrying behind her, she wore sturdy jeans tucked into a pair of high mud boots, a dirt-stained corduroy jacket, and thick oilskin gloves.

  She ripped off her hat. “Who the hell authorized this?”

  Perez rounded on her. “Excuse me?”

  The woman flung a hand toward the door. “Do your people know anything about in situ preservation? Shovel-testing? Subsurface reconstruction? The archaeological record of this land is an artifact in its own right, and until I get my team together, you are under direction of the Department of Natural Resources to cease and desist the disturbance of this previously filed archaeological dig site.”

  Perez listened to this spiel with patience. So did Trey. His hand no longer hovered near the hem of his jacket, but he stayed in neutral stance, eyes keen, utterly fascinated.

  Perez looked straight at the woman. “You’re Rose’s daughter. Evie Amberdecker.”

  Evie’s eyes flashed. “Doctor Evie Amberdecker.”

  “Did your mother call you?”

  She folded her arms. “No. The state archaeologist did.”

  Perez nodded. “Right. I’ve already talked to him too. I promised he’d hear from me again as soon as the ME finished his report as per Georgia Code Section 45-16-24 which states that any law enforcement agency notified of the discovery or disturbance, destruction, defacing, mutilation, removal, or exposure of interred human remains shall immediately report such notification to the coroner or medical examiner of the county where the human remains are located, who shall determine whether investigation of the death is required.”

  Evie looked askance. “Don’t quote the law at me, I know it backwards and forwards.”

  “Then you know that since the ME has said that yes, indeed, an investigation is required, that’s my scene out there, not yours, not your family’s. Mine.” She still had the dazzling toothpaste-ad smile on her face. “Now stick that in your dig site and shovel-test it.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I can. I did. And if you or any of your people interfere, I will clap you in handcuffs and haul you to jail and charge you with violation of said Georgia code plus interfering with an ongoing investigation. So put away the trowel, Dr. Amberdecker, and go get some coffee. You’re gonna be sitting this one out.”

  Evie flushed crimson, and I could have sworn I hear a sound like a kettle whistling. She glared at me, glared at Trey, then turned on her heel and stomped
out.

  Perez pulled out a radio. “Hey Jim, it’s Anita. If Little Miss Thang tries to cross the tape, throw her in a squad car, won’t you? You’re a peach.” Then she turned back to Trey and me. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll have this key ring back in a second.”

  She squeaked out of the church, her galoshes flopping with each step. Trey watched her go. I watched him just as carefully, but he no longer seemed likely to shoot up the vestibule, so I relaxed. “Your thoughts?”

  “I think this situation just became even more complicated.”

  “I think the same. Luckily, that’s not my problem. My problem is that Uncle Dexter is apparently connected to that grotty skull.” I stood. “Perez said there was coffee. I’m going to get some. Wash it down with a nicotine patch and some more suckers. You want to stay here, or come with?”

  He reached for his umbrella.

  Chapter Twelve

  The coffee came courtesy of Richard, who had a giant metal urn set up in the back of his truck. It tasted like someone had stewed a rusty nail in creek water, but I didn’t care. The warm cup felt good in my hands, and the caffeine went straight into my bloodstream.

  Trey chose to stay at the edge of the police tape-enclosed area. He’d given over his sketches and grids to the police officers and watched as they used them to make notes, navigate the area. He stood stoically, arms folded, keen on their every move but unable to participate. I felt a pang for him.

  Richard refilled my cup. “Your boyfriend did a good job.”

  “Yeah. His heart beats for this stuff.”

  I could see flashlights every now and then beyond the timberline, bobbing and weaving like giant fireflies. Detective Perez was finishing up her interviews. Dr. Evie Amberdecker remained apart from the cluster of people, talking on her cell phone. So far no one was telling her what she wanted to hear—that she could kick Perez and company off her land.

  “Evie assisted with the first dig?”

  “Yep. Almost two years ago.” Richard leaned closer. “Between you and me and the gatepost, Evie wants this whole place dug up and put on display. Rose, however, wants everything left exactly as it was two hundred years ago. But Evie’s got that exhibit to think of.”

  “The one at the History Center? It’s opening this weekend, isn’t it?”

  Richard nodded. “In the new wing. Which Evie is hoping will soon become the Amberdecker Wing. All she has to do is convince the board to make the exhibit a permanent display.”

  I remembered the History Center. Rico and I had spent an afternoon there the weekend of Uncle Dexter’s funeral, during that blazingly bewildered time after I’d learned about his will, and my inheritance. Dexter had volunteered at the Center as a docent, dressing in his 1865-era working clothes, beating out metal on the blacksmith’s forge. The new wing had been in process then, a mass of hammers and drills as noisy as the dark smith barn.

  “It was under construction the last time I was there.”

  “You should see it now. Evie’s pulled together some serious donations, but the hardest part was convincing her mother to give up the family goods. Like I said, Rose wanted things to stay the same, and that included all the stuff in the house and all the relics buried out here. She wanted them in the dirt.”

  Something in his voice caught my attention. “You disagree?”

  He sipped his coffee, looked thoughtful. “Rose is a sensible woman, and I agree with her on most things, but leaving that stuff in the ground ain’t right. Every soldier, no matter what side he fought on, deserves respect and honor. The dirt don’t honor nobody.”

  “So you support the exhibit?”

  He shrugged. “Better than the dirt. But personal effects belong with the families, not in a museum. The swords and buckles need to go home the same way those boys needed to go home. Proper like.”

  So he didn’t support either approach one hundred percent. This was an interesting tug of war—Richard and Rose and Evie, all pulling hard on their own agendas. Across the field, Trey put his phone to his ear. Marisa again, I was betting, wanting an update on either his Amberdecker assignment or his progress with the resilient security systems report. I guessed the latter when he started back toward the chapel.

  I wrapped my hands tighter around the coffee. “One of my favorite parts of my job is reuniting people with things that belonged to one of their kinfolk. It doesn’t matter if it’s valuable or not. Just being able to hold some real thing, no matter how small, matters.”

  “It does. That’s why I hate looters. Looters don’t see nothing but price tags.”

  “I suppose I look like a looter to Evie.”

  “Everybody looks like a looter to Evie. And Rose.”

  I laughed, but Richard’s eyes were far away, and I knew what he was thinking about Dexter, and the last time they’d been on this soil together. As we gazed over the three hundred acres of Amberdecker land, I wondered how many stories remained under that dirt. How many women and men and children, with no stone to mark their graves? There had been slaves here, indentured servants too, and before them, the Cherokee and the Creek and the Muscogee, all the way back to the Stone Age. They had died and returned to the earth. But now they rested unmarked, uncherished, unknown.

  Richard wiped his forehead. “As if looters weren’t bad enough, now a tornado comes and tears up the place. Rose is gonna rip me a new one.”

  “For what? Calling me in to help?”

  He laughed. “For letting a tornado in.”

  “You can’t help a tornado.”

  “No. And you can’t help Rose, either. She’s a force of nature herself.”

  He said it with pride in his voice, the peculiar Southern appreciation for the rebellious and stubborn, but something else too. Something deeper. I was having a hard time sharing his appreciation. Having been in Rose’s crosshairs, I was inclined to classify her as a cantankerous nut job with a possessive streak. But I didn’t say such to Richard.

  He jabbed his chin toward the chapel. “On the upside, there might be some restoration funds coming in now, especially for the roof and the gravestones. And the publicity would be good for Evie’s exhibit. I may not agree with everything Evie’s doing, but I gotta say, I was glad she got those windows taken care of.”

  “You mean the stained glass ones?”

  He nodded. “Evie got a restoration team down here to fix them up, and they look mighty nice now. She’s right, that chapel is going to wreckage out here, and I don’t know much that can save it, short of taking it apart stone by stone and rebuilding it someplace stable.” He shoved his hat back. “But Rose won’t listen. She says she’d rather it crumble on Amberdecker land than stand forever on someone else’s.”

  I shook my head at him, suddenly confused. “Wait, those are the real windows?”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  I remembered the smooth sheened glass, free from bumps and occlusions. “I don’t know, they seemed so…perfect.”

  “They’re restored. Evie got the team together herself.”

  “But—”

  “Tai. Don’t be messing with the windows, you hear?”

  He had an edge in his voice, and I realized I’d blundered into a minefield of some kind.

  “I hear,” I said.

  “Good.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out later, all by yourself. I’m sure of it.”

  Together, we looked out over the field, beautiful even in ruin. When the fog settled this way, wet from the mountain, the movements of the men shrouded in it, I could believe that the past rose from the ground like a slumbering beast, tangible and real. Like the ghosts might actually start talking.

  “Dexter told me you were the one who found the bones the first time,” I said.

  “Me and one of my workers, out near the park border. One of the oaks fell, and I found Braxton’s skull tangle
d in the roots. I remember walking in the house that morning, bright summer day, everybody having lunch. Evie got on the phone in two seconds flat, started the whole process with the state.”

  “And the rest of them?”

  “Rose wasn’t too happy about none of it, of course. She doesn’t like the government messing around private affairs, and I don’t blame her. But there’s rules, you know, when you find bones. And she calmed down when Evie promised to return him to family soil as soon as possible. No labs, no exhibition. Bury him where he belongs, here, on his homeland.”

  I remembered the photos of the reburial. Dexter and Richard in full dress grays, the cannon smoke rolling through these fields, brilliant with fall color. It had taken the family several months to work through the red tape surrounding the recovery of human remains, and to build the tomb. Much time and money, now all for naught.

  “What did the other daughter think about the situation?”

  “Chelsea?” Richard snorted. “She didn’t have an opinion one way or the other. Just between you and me, that girl won’t look at nothing what ain’t wearing tight jeans and driving a fast car.”

  “I thought she was engaged to what’s-his-name? The guy whose family runs the New York Stock Exchange now.”

  Richard thumbed a cigarette out of his pack. He offered me one, but I shook my head, and he stuck it between his lips, cupped his hands and lit it. I rubbed the nicotine patch harder, thought of England, France, Turkey, anything but the sweetly acrid hit of the smoke.

  Richard held the cigarette at his side. “Chelsea snagged her a fine young man, that’s for sure. Back in the day, though…She had a taste for wild game, that one.”

  I filed that idea away. The older responsible daughter with a vested interest in the bones, the younger wild child who was bringing home some bacon in a completely different way. All of it riches for the Amberdecker coffers. All of it a nicely wrought life preserver made of wads and wads of money.

  “You have any idea who the skull belongs to?” I said.

  Richard shook his head. “Nope. But I’m betting that lady detective does.”