Cheat the Hangman

by Gloria Ferris

  Gazing down into the coffin, I saw that Clive Ainsdale had been a veteran. His service beret rested on his chest along with a medal that I recognized as the Victoria Cross.

  “A pretty high honour, Clive,” I said to him silently. “My generation acknowledges your service and thanks you. I hope the next one never forgets the sacrifices our soldiers made during World War II.”

  Once Clive was young and courageous, anxious to serve his country. And he left his new bride behind to help stop the terror of Hitler’s demonic campaign. We’re more sophisticated now, not so quick to trust politicians, faster to empathize with people half a world away. But in 1939, they had no reservations. They had to save democracy and the free world from the Beast of Berlin, although the cost to young Canadian lives was enormous.

  And what about Clive? He came back, but what horrors did he see when he closed his eyes at night? Did he look at his wife and wonder if she sought comfort in the arms of another man during those dark years? Did he look at his young son and count the months, wondering if conception had occurred before or after he went overseas?

  “Lyris. Move along. You’re holding everybody up.” Patsy pushed me away from the coffin, and we squeezed our way through the crowd back into the hall.

  “Come on, this way.” I led Patsy into another reception room, this one empty of both coffin and mourners. The carpeting and draperies were similar in both parlours, beige to blend with the earth tone fabrics of the various sofas and easy chairs.

  “You’re not going to look through confidential funeral home records, are you?” Patsy asked in a plaintive whine, just a hop and a skip from whimpering.

  “I sure am. Give me a minute to get my bearings. The room where they used to keep their files is down this hall and downstairs. As long as the door isn’t locked, we should be in and out in a couple of minutes.”

  “I’ll wait right here.” Patsy plopped herself in a beige floral armchair and crossed her arms.

  “Did I tell you why I’m going to look at the funeral home’s records? It’s a very interesting theory.” Wheedling often worked on Patsy.

  “You have one minute to explain yourself.” To my surprise, she stepped behind the drapes. While I outlined my suspicions to her, the drapes billowed and bulged like a stage act was about to come bursting out.

  When she emerged one minute later, she was without jacket or pantyhose, having stuffed these items into the carryall she always slung over one shoulder.

  “Why don’t you just tell Marc about this theory of yours? He can look through the records, legally. We can’t. And it’s a pretty wild theory, by the way.”

  “Marc isn’t interested in Tommy’s murder. He says he’ll look into it after he catches the gang who’s robbing all these houses in Blackshore. And he doesn’t mind if I do some investigating. He said so.”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t suggest you perform a felony break and enter at the funeral home.”

  I felt exhausted. I wasn’t doing this for the fun of it. Contrary to Patsy’s belief that I liked to live on the edge and take wild chances for no other reason than the thrill of it, I preferred a quiet life free of strife and turmoil. It wasn’t my fault things happened to me all the time.

  “If you don’t want to help, I understand. You can wait outside for me. I shouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, knock it off, you over-grown baby. You know perfectly well I’ll help you. If we wind up in jail, it will just be embarrassing, not the end of the world I guess. It’s not like my job can be jeopardized”

  “Thanks, Patsy.” I gave her a hug. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll go in alone, and you wait outside in the hall. If anybody comes along, you say you were looking for the bathroom and follow the person back upstairs. I’ll make my own way out later. Any questions?”

  She opened her mouth, but I didn’t wait. We found the door to the basement. It wasn’t locked, and we were able to descend the stairs without being noticed.

  Luck was with me. The door to the office at the far end of the corridor was unlocked as well. A flip of the light switch inside the door verified that the room was just as I had remembered it more than twenty years ago—filled with a row of filing cabinets and a scarred oak desk. I had spent my fifteenth summer filing little cards and folders into these cabinets, and it was obvious that the Lavettes still believed in hiring student slaves during summer months.

  Before I closed the door on Patsy, she asked, “What are you going to do if you find proof in there? You know you can’t use illegally obtained evidence. You’ll have to tell Marc anyway…”

  “If I’m right, we won’t need proof. Nobody is going to be accused of anything. It’s too late. Now, if somebody comes, let me know by knocking once on the door. Then get out of here.”

  I was relieved to see that the Lavette family still maintained organized business files. Every funeral and burial transaction was documented both by name and by plot.

  First, I went to the filing cabinet marked P and thumbed through until I found the name Pembrooke. In fact, most of the P’s were Pembrookes, and they were broken down further by initial, not date of burial.

  Seven Thomas Pembrookes were buried in the Gates of Heaven Cemetery, spanning many years. None of them were buried between 1941 and 1946. I scanned through the whole P group again in case a student had misfiled the relevant Thomas.

  He wasn’t there. Undecided where to look next, I was jolted by a strong tingling between my shoulders. I felt like I had been stabbed by a cattle prod.

  “Stop it.” I looked over my shoulder, trying to locate the cause of my discomfort. There was no one there. I was momentarily relieved until I considered the alternative. Was an earth-bound soul trying to get my attention? What better place for a spirit than a funeral home?

  The pressure between my shoulder blades increased. Shit. Were Luke and Florence following me around now?

  I raised my head to discover that I was standing in front of a map that covered one entire wall.

  I moved closer. The map was a schematic drawing of the cemetery layout. All plots were numbered, and when one was filled, the initials of the occupant were printed beside the number.

  It didn’t take long to locate the plot where the memorial to Blackshore’s World War II fallen stood. It was plot 176 and marked with a simple M. All around were other numbers and initials, but no TP appeared anywhere in the vicinity, including the perimeter of the cemetery.

  I carried a chair over to the front of the map and checked my watch. Ten minutes had passed since I first entered the basement office. Patsy would be beside herself by now. Climbing onto the chair, I put nose to map.

  At the exact spot I expected would show Thomas’s hidden grave was the number 153 pencilled in, and beside it was a black daub, like something had been inked out. I scratched at the spot with my fingernail, but a sharp rap on the door interrupted me.

  I jumped from the chair and extinguished the light. I stood quietly and listened to Patsy ask someone where the powder room was, then waited while two sets of footsteps faded away.

  I stayed where I was for a few minutes longer. Then I snapped on the light and resumed scratching at the blotch.

  “Damn.” A tiny piece of paper from the map fluttered to the floor.

  I retrieved the torn piece, wet my finger, and stuck the scrap back on. The map was no doubt an antique, and I had damaged it. I shouldn’t be allowed near anything old.

  I lowered myself onto the chair and looked around while I considered my next move.

  Another shock struck my back. And a muffled voice said, How’s it going, Lyris? Call me Leander.

  What the hell. I stood up and whirled about, scanning the room, expecting to see a body to go with the voice. I was alone.

  Don’t mean to scare you, Lyris, but I can’t wait any longer. I drew the short straw and was assigned as your spirit guide. I’ve been trying to get your attention for years, but you’ve refused to open the channel and let me throug
h. I can see you’re going to be a pain in the ass to work with.

  I felt light-headed, and I sucked some air back into my lungs so I could make a break for the door. Nothing doing, I felt as if my feet were immersed in hardened cement.

  Go look in the desk, Lyris. And make it snappy.

  I can’t. I’m paralyzed. Oh God, I was hearing and talking in my head.

  Don’t be melodramatic. You aren’t paralyzed.

  It…he―whatever―was right. I wasn’t. My eyes darted around the room, still hoping for something, anything, to explain the voice. There was nothing.

  If you want what you came for, go to the desk and open the top drawer.

  Looking warily around, I obeyed. The voice was inside my head, and I wasn’t really hearing it, more like feeling it.

  The only thing in the top drawer of the desk was a key. I picked it up and waited for further direction. No response. I pulled on one of the left bottom drawers and found it locked. My fingers were trembling badly, but I found the keyhole. With a twist of the key, the drawer opened. I reached in and lifted out a long metal box.

  Get with it, kid. You’re running out of time.

  Inside the box were sheets of paper, of various quality and age. My eyes skimmed the top document, dated 11 years ago.

  The burial of a male infant, stillborn, in plot 534 was detailed. No parents were listed, just the name of the baby, Alexander Pembrooke. I looked over at the map, trying to spot another inked-out plot.

  Quit dawdling. You have one minute left before you’re interrupted.

  I snatched up the next piece of paper. A female infant, unnamed, was buried in plot 477, on October 21, 1967. The initials “SH/PM” were the only identifiers. Despite my panic and fear, I was fascinated by those papers.

  For crying out loud, will you get a move on?

  Then I found it. The cream-coloured page in my hand stated that Thomas Charles Pembrooke was buried in plot 153 on July 24, 1943. No other information.

  The metal box held records of secret burials. I was tempted to fold up the papers, lift my skirt, shove the papers down my thong, and run like hell. This evidence proved that the Lavettes had been party to mysterious burials for generations. Perhaps all funeral home directors helped out their clients with such unorthodox requests.

  You’re out of time. Go.

  Reluctantly, I thrust the papers back into the box and returned it to its drawer. Locking the drawer, I replaced the key and stood up on shaking legs.

  From the door, I cast one last glance around the room and shut off the light. How could I have missed finding the metal box that long-ago summer?

  Move it, move it.

  I moved it. Upstairs, I saw that if I had waited a few minutes longer, I would have had to break out of the building. A few stragglers were taking their leave of the family. I managed to slip around them and out the door into the oppressive heat. The night was black and I stopped under a lamppost to glance at my watch. Ten o’clock. I jumped a foot when Patsy’s form detached from the trunk of a nearby tree.

  She appeared wilted and a little cranky. “Where have you been? You’ve been hours in there. I thought I would have to go back in and tell Mr. Lavette where you were.”

  “Good thing you didn’t, Patsy. He might have had to add two more files to the metal box.”

  “What? What are you talking about? Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes. And then some.” It was lucky for me Patsy was so agitated, and it was too dark to see clearly. Otherwise, she would have noticed I looked like I had seen a ghost, which was closer to the truth than I cared to acknowledge. And the contents of the metal box were going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Life before Leander was so simple, when I only had Conklin to contend with.

  CHAPTER 19

  Two colossal tents arrived on Friday morning at eight o’clock. One was set up on the sunniest part of the front lawn, as close to the gates as possible, and the other in the empty field, where the motor homes, tent trailers and pup tents would sprout like toadstools right after lunch.

  I drank a cup of ginseng tea and allowed Caroline to feed me an egg salad sandwich to give me energy, and then dashed outside again at the toot of another horn.

  The Wooter Brothers Sanitation flatbed truck was backing under the pines, and I sensed Conklin wince as the tires sank into the still-green grass. It seemed he was determined to stick to me like Velcro.

  Mitch and Tiffany rounded the house from the car park, and I called to them to put their things in the rooms they had used last weekend, then rest for a while. I would see them at ten o’clock in the drawing room.

  I turned my attention back to Benny and Donny Wooter, who were setting up the ramp they used to roll down the units. They did this in an efficient manner, while I avoided looking at Benny’s butt crack. His jeans hung low under his enormous belly, and when he leaned over to secure the unit on the rollers, Conklin and I were treated to a sight only Benny’s wife should have been forced to witness.

  Other than a pair of work gloves, the sagging jeans were his only garments. I sighed to myself. At least his brother Donny wore coveralls with his gloves.

  “There you are, Lyris. Three units. We have to get going. We got to deliver these others to the Pedofsky farm. Their young Lisa’s getting married tomorrow. We got a lot of weddings this weekend. And there’s a granddaddy of a coon on the road back to town.”

  The Wooter brothers had a sideline to their sanitation business. They picked up road kill and were paid per head, or per carcass. Sometimes the head was gone. I’m not sure if they had to show the county clerk the bodies or just sent in an invoice each month.

  Anyway, Benny wasn’t slipping by me that easily. “We agreed on eight units. I want another five, please.” If he could renege on our deal, I would lie with a clear conscience.

  He took off his Oilers ball cap and scratched his woolly black hair. “Can’t. I already said there’s a lot of weddings this weekend. I can’t spare you more than three total.”

  “You listen here, Benny Wooter. Three porta-potties are not enough for three hundred people. I want another five.”

  He looked pained and shook his head. If a two by four had been handy, it would be upside Benny’s ear.

  “Benny, if you’re looking for more money, I’ll…”

  He held up a meaty hand, now devoid of glove. “It has nothing to do with money, Lyris. I just can’t spare them.” Sincerity filled his eyes and threatened to overflow in tears. What a phony.

  Conklin was beginning to rattle and stir beside me. Before he could jump in, I said, “I know where you live, Benny.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know you have rows of porta-potties sitting in your back field.”

  “Those are spoke for. There are lots of weddings…”

  “If you don’t give me five more, I will have no choice but to arrange a regular shuttle service to your field. Every twenty minutes ought to do it. These folk will have to go, and I can’t have them going in the bushes or on the grounds.”

  “But you can’t…”

  “If they can’t go here, they’ll go at your place. I see no alternative.”

  The brothers glared at one another, then at Conklin for help. Not happening.

  “Okay, I might give you two more. Absolutely that’s it.”

  “Three. Two here and one in the field.” We stared into each other’s eyes. I won.

  Benny said to Donny, “Unload Tintagel and Brigadoon. Shangri-la goes in the field.”

  One of the more charming facets of the Wooter operation was the name gilded in gothic script on the door of each porta-pottie. They had already off-loaded Camelot, Avalon and Xanadu. I was touched to see one called Hammersleigh on the truck, but Benny didn’t offer me that one.

  With a baleful glance in my direction, Benny sped off with Donny by his side to drop Shangri-la in the field. Conklin winced even harder as a few clumps of grass flew into the air.

&n
bsp; “Don’t forget the coon,” I yelled after them.

  I viewed the row of five porta-potties with satisfaction. The one in the field was a bonus I hadn’t expected.

  “Well played, Madam,” Conklin said. “Two more than last year. This should help considerably.”

  Things started to happen fast. The spring water arrived in the form of seven cooling systems and a hundred five-gallon containers. An electrician installed a portable generator to run the coolers and strung up some temporary lights in the field. Throughout this activity, teenagers slouched up the driveway in twos and threes and were directed to wait for me in the sitting room.

  I was writing cheques with abandon. It was Uncle Patrick’s money, so I felt nary a twinge in my cheap bone, as Mitch used to call my disinclination to part with hard-earned cash to pay for hundred-dollar athletic shoes.

  I took a minute to run upstairs to change my T-shirt for a tank top. On the way down, I paused to sniff. There had been nothing last night when I went up to bed, and there was nothing now. Somehow I knew it was gone for good. And Leander had better keep his bony fingers to himself from now on.

  In the sitting room I surveyed the sullen crowd of fifteen young people standing or sitting apart from Mitch and Tiffany. They were all related to each other, and to me, in one way or another. I had recruited them by calling their parents who were more than happy to offer their children’s services for the weekend. That way, they figured I would be responsible for the kids and leave the parents free to enjoy the reunion.

  Of course I planned to pay the kids, and without exception, they perked up when they heard that. They were all younger than Mitch and Tiffany, between fifteen and seventeen.

  They were a motley crew, dressed in everything from baggy jeans and expensive sneakers to bicycle shorts and mesh T-shirts. A few of the young ladies were blossoming right out of their halter tops.

  “First of all, does anyone here have St. John’s Ambulance training? Six of you? Good, move to the other side of the room, please. Now here’s the deal. Mitch is in charge of security. Everyone on this side of the room will report to him. I have baseball caps here in this box, black with white lettering.” I held one up for all to see, then passed them out. “They say ‘Security’ on them.”