Mausoleum

by Justin Scott

  Scooter asked, “Is this about Scupper?”

  “Nothing new on Scupper, yet. I need your help on the Brian killing. Sooner I get it wrapped up I can get back to your brother. Give me twenty minutes.”

  Having worked since he was six years old at a newspaper founded by his great grandfather, Scooter McKay is a walking Wikipedia of Newbury present and past. I’d begun turning to him for facts I would have gone to Connie for before her memory started failing. Though today I had a secondary motive: I needed some private time with his computer.

  “Is Aunt Connie still mad at me?” Scooter boomed as he sat down. He never modulates his big voice, so I had already carried our coffee to an outdoor table in front. Talking indoors with him makes my ears ache.

  “What makes you think Connie was mad?”

  “She called my grandmother a pig farmer in front of the whole town.”

  “Scooter, you surprise me. I’ve always assumed that the richest man on Main Street stands aloof from public humiliation.”

  “Wealthy people don’t have feelings?” Scooter boomed, aggrievedly.

  “Let me soften the blow. Connie called your great-grandmother a pig farmer. Which she was.”

  “Granny Em had two pigs in the backyard. That’s not being a pig farmer.”

  “But Connie’s mother, who was Emily’s neighbor, did not keep pigs in her backyard, and as pigs tend to be loud and smell bad and dig under fences to root up neighbors’ gardens, it is not surprising that your family was considered to be pig farmers. At least in the eyes, ears, and nostrils of Connie’s family.”

  “What are you picking my brain about?”

  “The Village Cemetery.”

  “You know they’re shopping for a new president?”

  “Which will be a short-term job if they lose control.”

  “Unless they choose one of the new crowd,” said Scooter.

  “Why would they choose one of their enemies?”

  “They may not know he’s an enemy.”

  “I knew you knew something. Who’s switching sides?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Sealed. What else do you want to know?”

  “Where’d the Association get all their land?”

  “The town laid it out in 1709.”

  “No, that’s just two or three acres in the lower portion. Where we are.”

  “What you mean, ‘we’ White Man?”

  “Abbotts and Adams and Littles and Barretts, Fisks, Hopkinses and Carters, Botsfords, etcetera. Sorry, no Johnny-come-lately McKays in our section. They were still in Scotland inventing golf.”

  “The steam engine,” said Scooter, who had paid a genealogist to discover a nano-thin strand of James Watt in the family DNA.

  “Where’d the Cemetery Association get the rest of their land?”

  “Glommed onto the Ram Pasture when the Town Flock expired.”

  Until the early 20th Century, Scooter reminded me, sheep from several flocks were combined, with their ears notched to distinguish the owners who hired a shepherd to move them from pasture to pasture to mow and fertilize.

  “Then Aunt Connie gave them a batch—you should ask her.”

  “I know that part. Connie inherited chunks of the Ram Pasture that her relatives had bought up. But where did they get the big woods behind the place?”

  “Castle Hill?”

  “Right. Castle Hill.”

  An immense private home used to stand on top of that hill on the edge of the Borough. People had called it “The Castle.” Really old people, like our great-grandparents had called it “Morrison’s Castle.” It had burned down years before we were born.

  “How’d they get that hundred acres?”

  “More like a hundred and fifty,” said Scooter. “Old Man Morrison deeded it over in his will.”

  “That was some generous gift.”

  Scooter smiled. “According to my grandfather, Gerard Botsford snookered him out of it.”

  I said, “Of course, a hundred fifty acres wasn’t worth what it is now.”

  Scooter laughed at me as only the very well off can laugh at the feckless. “Gerard knew what it was worth. And what it could become worth. Smack in the middle of town?”

  “Wonder how he talked him out of it.”

  “Why don’t you ask Grace?”

  “What is that weird smile about?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Come on!”

  “I’m serious. I’ve heard a story, but I’m not repeating it.”

  “When did Old Man Morrison die?”

  “Thirty years ago. At least. Thirty-five. I could look it up.”

  “Let’s.”

  We carried our coffee containers down Church Hill to the Clarion office. Scooter poked his computer and brought it up a lot faster than the Clarion’s official website’s “Archive Search,” which was the lamest I’d ever searched. “Thirty-eight years ago. Time flies.”

  I was standing next to Scooter’s chair. He was still staring at the screen, and I watched his face as I asked, “Was it anything to do with Dan Adams?”

  “Dan was two years old.”

  “Or Dan’s father?”

  Scooter looked up at me and boomed, “Shrewd guess! But wrong—listen, I gotta get down to the press room. You know the way out.”

  “Could I check my email?”

  “Can’t you wait til you get home?”

  “My computer’s down.”

  “Again?”

  “Cat hair.”

  “By my guest.”

  He went downstairs to the press.

  I sat in his chair and logged on using the Newbury Clarion website email address instead of mine. Sneaky, I know, but it wasn’t like I was buying software on his account. I was merely dashing off a quick email under the screen name “editor@newburyclarion.com.”

  When I finished writing, I perched the cursor over Send.

  Then, using my cell phone, for the benefit of Dan Adams’ Caller ID, I rang his office at the new bank.

  “Hey, it’s Ben. Got a minute?”

  “Not if it involves privacy issues.”

  “Relax. I’m not asking, I’m reporting. You keep bugging me how it’s going; I had a second free, so I wanted to fill you in where I’m at the moment.” Slowly, attempting to make it boring, I told him essentially what I had told Grace Botsford last Friday regarding the hunt for Charlie, minus Father Bobby, who so far had been a real disappointment calling only once and then only to complain. I added that I was looking more deeply into Brian Grose’s background.

  “Why?”

  “Standard operating procedure.” I blathered on. “You know—what did Brian do that pissed somebody off enough to shoot him? Are there other incidents like the lawn kid rip-off the cops are talking about? Did Brian really retire from California real estate? Did he retire at all?”

  I hit Send.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In ten seconds I heard Dan’s computer tell him he had mail. I blathered on until I heard Dan suck in his breath and blurt, “Oh shit!”

  That answered a very big question. I knew now who had been Brian Grose’s local partner. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. He went to the right bank. And, sadly, to the right man.

  “You okay, Dan?”

  “Later, Ben. Got to go.”

  Quickly I went to Scooter’s Mail You’ve Sent and deleted “Condo Rumor?” which had read:

  “Dear Dan,

  “Can you give me a hand running down these crazy rumors about the Castle Hill Condo proposal? Is it true you guys are underwriting it? How many units? Age restricted or school kids? Any idea what P & Z will say? And, last but not least, is it as mega-huge as they say? Or is the whole think a crock?”

  Thanks,

  Scooter

  PS: The reason I copied Ben, BTW, is that he’s working for the Associati
on, which of course owns all that land. I figure what you don’t know, he might.”

  I raced home, jumped in my anonymous Pink rental and parked down Church Hill from the new bank’s cookie cutter office. A tap on Dan’s telephone might let me listen in on frantic calls to God knew whom. But I had no tap, of course. Nor did I believe he would trust the telephone. Seconds later, Dan’s red Jeep Grand Cherokee came screeching out of the parking lot. I followed, hoping for a glimpse of his partners.

  He drove straight to the Village Cemetery, and parked by the gate. I circled the Ram Pasture, and watched from the other side, wondering who would show. I doubted Rick Bowland, only because he would be at work at IBM a full hour away. Wes Little? Maybe. Or some other trustee of the association I hadn’t even considered.

  Dan got out of the Jeep and started pacing. He stopped pacing when a silver Prius came along.

  “Now what is going on?” I muttered to myself. I recognized the Prius, of course. Between their two vehicles, the Adams’ were famously averaging twenty-two miles to a gallon.

  The hybrid pulled alongside the guzzler. Dan opened its door, extended his hand and out stepped Priscilla. Priscilla kissed him firmly on the mouth and hugged him. Then Dan took his lovely wife’s hand and led her through the gates into the cemetery. They walked slowly, along a path, on and off the grass, circling headstones, holding hands, heads bowed, clearly troubled.

  They stayed in the old section. Their wanderings never took them near Brian’s mausoleum. Several times Priscilla slung a comforting arm around his waist. Finally, in the shade of an elm, they stopped and leaned against the trunk, heads still low, still talking. If Norman Rockwell had been alive to paint the scene he would have titled it, “Talking It Out.” Or “For Better, for Worse.”

  I titled it, “All The Confirmation I Needed.” Dan Adams had partnered with Brian Grose to take over the Village Cemetery Association and grab its reserve land to build a development that would change the town for worse and forever.

  The fact that my sneaky email had sent him directly to Priscilla suggested that Dan had no other partners. Although he could have made a quick phone call, now, he was just turning to his wife to say: Not only has the deal fallen through, and not only are we not going to be as rich as we thought, but when it all comes out I’m going to get blamed for betraying the town, and our friends and neighbors anyway.

  My problem was, so what? Underhanded as the scheme might seem, it still did not explain why Brian was murdered. Or by whom.

  I left the rental parked by the Ram Pasture and walked to Grace Botsford’s office and reported what I knew.

  Grace said, “They never would have dared if Dad had lived.”

  “But he must have started it while your father was still alive.”

  “Well, Dad would have finished it dead in its tracks. But it is such a frightening reminder of how institutions are inherently fragile. Volunteer institutions all the more so. Look at the regional theaters that fold, look at the colleges that disappear because their trustees either failed to raise money, conserve assets, or groom a new generation to lead them. That is why this association needs a strong, young new president, Ben.”

  I said, “When the association hired me to investigate this, you reminded me that I went to prison.”

  “I’m sorry about that. That was out of line.”

  “Now I’m reminded how I got there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I have been a fool for love. I know what it’s like to be used. When you first find out, you feel robbed and stupid. More stupid than robbed. It’s impossible to change the fact of what happened. You can’t go back. And it’s also impossible to undo the memory. But like most bad memories it doesn’t actually fade away, but eventually it gets shoved aside by the weight of new ones, bad and good.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I’m talking about a love affair with Brian Grose.”

  “Well, I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  “It’s not. Unless it’s why you didn’t want to me investigate for the Association.”

  Grace looked me in the face. “No offense, Ben, but I didn’t believe that your investigatory talents would uncover something that personal in my life.”

  “Have the police asked you about it?”

  She practically flinched.

  “How’d they find out?” I asked.

  “Cell phone records.”

  “Was it over?”

  “Good God, yes. Yes, it was over.” Suddenly she laughed. “I under-rated myself. I always thought he did it to get his mausoleum. I should have known he wormed his way in for the land. If anyone should have known he used me for the land, it was me.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you ever wonder how I became treasurer of the Village Cemetery Association at the tender age of twenty-one?”

  “I figured your father wanted you and few objected.”

  “Oh, they objected, all right. Dan’s father fought Dad tooth and nail. Of course, the Adams were against everything. Still are. Sourest family. Dad used to call them the Acrid Adams—when he wasn’t calling them something worse. But truth be told I was very young and just out of school.”

  I didn’t know why she was telling me this, but I thought I should encourage her, so I asked, “Were you an accounting major?”

  “History. I was going to teach—which meant that Dad was asking the other trustees for quite a leap of faith.”

  She sat back and gazed up at the painting of her and her father casting thin, knowing smiles on the office.

  I said, “ They were right, in the end. You turned out fine. I guess you learned on the job. Like you learned insurance on the job.”

  “I didn’t ‘turn out fine,’ thank you Ben. I began ‘fine.’”

  “Yes, but like you say, you weren’t that qualified. At least looking at it by the numbers. They’d expect a treasurer to know something about numbers. That’s why I asked if you were an accounting major.”

  Grace got color in her cheeks and a proud smile on her face. “Numbers? Here is a number: One-hundred-and-sixty-two point seven-four.”

  “One-hundred-and-sixty-two point seven-four? What is one-hundred-and-sixty-two point seven-four?”

  “That is how many acres I brought into the Village Cemetery Association. Five times the land it held before my contribution.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Where do you think Castle Hill came from, Ben?”

  “Old Man Morrison.”

  “‘Old Man’ Morrison was younger than my father, dear.”

  I looked at her. She smiled. “Get it?”

  “Ummm.”

  She continued to smile so frankly, openly, happily that I felt welcome to ask, “So he was the reason you came home? Remember we talked about coming back to Newbury? I came home disgraced and destroyed to the only place that would take me.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s much more complicated than that, Ben. It certainly was for me. I came home for many reasons. I missed my father. I missed Newbury. I missed home. I was a twenty-year-old very-old soul. I couldn’t connect at college. I never did. Kids my age were marching in the streets for Civil Rights and against the war. I knew I should, too. I was too strait laced, too old—old soul. My first lover was a fifty year old professor. My second was a graduate student only five years older than me and he was a terrible disappointment. But I wanted to do something important, something to help, like the kids marching were. I was home for Christmas in my junior year and Dad sent me up to talk to Andrew.”

  “Andrew?”

  “Andrew Morrison. He lived in the gardener’s cottage since the “Castle” burned down. He had become a painter after he lost his money. He was somewhat reclusive. Not entirely. He had clients in New York. He did this painting of Dad and me.”

  “Gorgeous work.”

  “Oh yes, he wa
s very talented, very skilled. I was dazzled. I’ve always admired skills. Dad at the piano. Your cousin Renny with automobiles. I enjoyed watching you cook the other night—Anyway, I called him Mr. Morrison. And then I called him Andrew. And then I called him Andy. When Dad asked was I falling love with Andy, I told him that I was falling in love with winter afternoons in front of the fire—Biter bit, Ben.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brian Grose used me to get to Dad the way I got to Andy Morrison and dropped me as soon as he did. But it never struck me until you walked in with news of his condo project that it wasn’t about that stupid mausoleum. He wanted the land. Thank God he didn’t live to make it real.”

  “They just couldn’t take the land.”

  “Who would stop them? With Dad out of the picture and me losing control to small town wannabe deal makers like Dan Adams? Whoever controls the association ultimately controls its assets. Cash, machinery, contracts, and land. Unscrupulous trustees could assert, that for the good of the Association, reserve land should be sold to keep the cemetery solvent. There’s nothing written in stone that says our land is not an ‘asset.’ In truth it is not an asset. It’s a reserve. We’ll need that land for graves, one day. Perhaps not in my life time, or yours, but someday. Unfortunately, that is not written in stone. They can do anything. They’ll play the public-good cards. You know: that asset belongs to everyone in town, not just the Association. Or, the town needs affordable housing; or, it would generate more income, create jobs, lower school taxes. They’ll throw up all the developer excuses until one sticks.” She looked at me, sternly. “Which is why the Association needs real leadership.”

  I said, “Let’s ask Dan to meet with us.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out if the condo scheme is on or off.”

  Without hesitating, Grace telephoned the bank. She was told Dan was away from his desk. “Would you ask him to call Grace Botsford at his earlier convenience?”

  They must have beeped him, because he called back within a minute. Ten minutes later he walked into Grace’s office. Before he could speak, Grace said, “Let’s not beat about the bush. Are you going to push this condo thing, or drop it?”