by Mary Marks
“Get out,” Jazz said.
“The story is legend around here. Back in the 1800s, Lafayette was the county seat. A local man, Gus Marple, was tried and convicted of murdering his mother’s boyfriend. They say the mother, Anna, who was a witch, put him up to it.”
“Mothers and sons,” Jazz said. “I could write a book.”
“Watch it!” Lucy warned. “I’ve got five boys of my own.”
“Anyway,” Birdie said, “they hanged Gus right there in the cemetery. Anna watched her only son die. When it was over, she cursed the town of Lafayette. She condemned it to burn down three times. Since then, the town has been destroyed by fire twice.”
Lucy, who swore she had a sixth sense, listened to the story closely. “What about the third time?”
“They’re still waiting.”
The hearse made a left-hand turn on a dirt road outside the hamlet of Lafayette. A small wooden sign nailed to the scaly trunk of a western white pine tree read PIONEER CEMETERY, ESTABLISHED 1850. Our cars snaked carefully through the neglected graveyard, where wild grasses and weeds grew knee-high. Over the decades, a relentless army of trees from the surrounding forest had invaded that resting place, swallowing the graves as it progressed. Their roots strangled many of the headstones, reducing them to jagged rubble. The surviving grave markers were so worn by the frequent rains of the Northwest, they appeared to be nearly unreadable. A few of the oldest headstones were still discernible several yards deep into the forest.
Yoder stopped near the tree line at the edge of the cemetery, just behind a battered blue Ford Taurus on the narrow road. A woman wearing a flowing white caftan emerged from the Taurus, carrying a large cardboard carton with holes punched in the sides. Her gray hair, crowned by a wreath of flowers, fell loosely to her waist. She placed the carton by an open grave and made her way quickly toward us.
She and Birdie fell into an embrace.
“Phoebe dear. How long has it been?”
“When did you and Russell leave Aquarius? Forty years ago? More?”
Birdie introduced us. “This is my old friend, Phoebe Marple.”
Marple? As in the ghost’s family?
Denver and Rainbow joined them, and Phoebe embraced each in turn. “I’m so glad the universe has brought us back together again.”
Three women wearing identical purple robes emerged from Phoebe’s Taurus, carrying shallow drums and rawhide mallets. They drifted toward the grave and stood together at the foot.
Lucy scanned the area and whispered, “I thought Yoder said the minister was already here.”
Jazz tilted his head in Phoebe’s direction. “I think he was referring to the head forest fairy over there.”
Phoebe grabbed Birdie’s hand. “Are you ready?”
“First, I want you to meet someone.” Birdie walked over to Jazz, took his hand, and led him to the circle of friends. “This is Jazz Fletcher. He was the love of Russell’s life. They were going to be married.”
Phoebe searched Jazz’s eyes and in the gentlest of voices said, “I am so very sorry for your loss. I can see the love. I can feel the suffering.”
Jazz’s whole posture slumped, and he covered his face with both hands. Through his tears, he managed to choke out, “Thank you.”
Phoebe didn’t hesitate to hug him as warmly as she had hugged her old friends. “Pain, like pleasure, is transitory, Jazz. You will eventually achieve a new balance. But for now, let your tears flow.”
While Birdie talked to her friends, I inspected the Watson family plot. Unlike the rest of the cemetery, someone had paid to keep the weeds cut and the trees from invading. Although weathered, the ancient headstones were still readable. I studied the ones closest to where I stood.
ISAIAH WATSON, 1807-1870, GONE TO THE LORD
SARAH, 1818-1850, WIFE AND MOTHER
JOSIAH WATSON, 1836-1837.
AN ANGEL TAKEN TOO SOON
Poor Sarah hadn’t been entitled to a last name or an epitaph on her tombstone. Back in those days, a married woman rarely had an identity of her own, apart from her husband’s. Even Sarah’s friends might have addressed her as “Mrs. Watson,” according to the convention of the times.
Yoder and three assistants rolled Russell’s casket out of the back of the hearse. They placed it on heavy industrial straps suspended over the freshly dug hole.
Yoder nodded at Phoebe. “We’re ready whenever you are.”
She stationed Birdie and Jazz on one side of the grave and Denver and Rainbow on the other. Then Phoebe took her place at the head of the grave. She closed her eyes and spread her arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “We call the spirits of the departed, who sleep in this sacred ground, and upon the elemental deities. Come forth!”
The three purple-robed women beat the drums. “Arise ye souls from glad repose,” they chanted.
Lucy nudged me with her elbow.
Phoebe opened her eyes and looked toward the sky. “We entreat you. Gather round your kin Russell Watson and welcome his spirit into the generations.”
“Welcome, welcome,” pulsed the chorus and drums.
Eyes closed once again, Phoebe began to sing in a reedy voice, “I Shall Be Released.”
Bob Dylan?
Yoder’s face wore a disapproving scowl.
Phoebe lowered her arms when she finished, and all her commune friends snapped their fingers in applause, while the chorus tapped a rapid rhythm on the drums.
Jazz looked bewildered.
“Would anyone like to say a few words about our friend Russell?” Phoebe asked.
Slowly at first, people began to recall the ways in which Russell Watson had touched their lives, or the role he played in arranging loans to family and friends over the years. Cousin Johnny recalled fishing trips on the Columbia River all the boy cousins had taken with their grandfather.
Birdie began to speak softly. “Russell and I dated each other in college. At the time, I didn’t know he was gay. When we went to live in Aquarius, we both found happiness with other people, but we always remained best friends. Around the time Russell left Aquarius, I traveled to India, where I had a traumatic experience that changed my life. When I returned to the States, I suffered a kind of breakdown. Nowadays you’d call it PTSD. Anyway, Russell offered me a sheltered life and promised to always care for me and keep me safe. So we married.”
All the time Birdie spoke, Denver never took his gaze off her. I read both anguish and rage on his face.
Birdie cleared her throat. “For more than forty years, Russell kept his promise. I never wanted for anything material. He worked hard to keep me financially secure. And I kept my half of our arrangement by protecting his secrets. We depended on each other. About twenty-five years ago, Russell fell in love with a talented young man, Jazz Fletcher.” Birdie grabbed Jazz’s hand. “They were going to be married. After all those years, Russell was finally ready to come out of the closet.”
She stepped forward and put her other hand on the coffin lid. Her voice quavered. “But then he was murdered. I’m so sorry, Russell dear. You deserved better.”
All eyes were focused on Jazz, who had removed Zsa Zsa from the yellow tote bag on his arm and was now holding her to his chest.
He looked around nervously. “He was my knight in shining armor. He was my everything.” Tears streamed down his face. “I don’t know how I’ll live without you, Rusty.” Jazz buried his face in Zsa Zsa’s long white fur and sobbed.
Birdie patted his back.
Right on cue, the ladies in the robes pounded out a slow dirge and moaned in high, arching voices, “Ahhh. Ohhhh.”
Denver cleared his throat. “I’d like to say something. Russ was my brother, and I had a brother’s love for him growing up. Now I realize he may’ve helped some of you financially, but he was also a selfish, self-centered SOB who took something that should have been mine.”
Everyone gasped. Jazz stopped crying and became a thundercloud, opening and closing his fists. Birdie put a calming
hand on his arm.
“Didn’t see that coming,” Lucy whispered in my ear.
Denver’s face had hardened. “Wherever he is right now, he’s got a lot to answer for.”
Agent Tucker had emerged from somewhere in the background and deliberately placed himself in Denver’s line of sight. Denver clamped his mouth shut and took a small step back from the grave. He bumped into Agent O’Neal, who’d materialized right behind him.
Phoebe continued unruffled. “Let us now help our friend on his journey to an eternal oneness with the universe.” Phoebe signaled the four men, who loosened the straps under the coffin and slowly lowered Russell Watson into the ground.
Jazz renewed his sobs.
Removing a little leather-bound book from a pocket, Phoebe read, “Spirits of the forest, spirits of the earth, sky, water, and fire—we commend this soul into your care. Guide him on his journey to the universe. Show him the way.”
She paused and turned the page. “And now I speak to the soul of Russell Watson. Hark! Depart not in regret, but sally forth with joy, safe in the knowledge all is as it should be.”
Drums boomed again as Phoebe bent down and opened the cardboard box. Several pigeons cooed inside. With an elaborate arm gesture, Phoebe commanded them to “Fly!” But the birds just sat.
“Fly!” she ordered them again. They still didn’t move, so she lifted the box and turned it upside down. Six fat pigeons slid to the ground. Five of them waddled toward the tall grass, looking for food. The sixth rolled into the grave and landed on top of Russell’s coffin. He lifted his tail feathers, deposited a runny white glob, and flew out of the hole.
Lucy’s body, next to me, was shaking with silent laughter.
Phoebe scowled and swiveled her head as if she were looking for something. “That’s not funny, Gus!”
She’s talking to the ghost!
Phoebe closed the slender book, put it in the pocket of her garment, and reached for a long-handled shovel. Thrusting it in the mound of dirt next to the grave, she scooped a small amount into the hole. It landed with a soft thud on top of the mahogany casket. She passed the shovel to Birdie who, with shaking hands, did the same. Jazz couldn’t bring himself to bury his lover. He handed the shovel to Rainbow, who performed the task quickly and efficiently. Denver thrust the shovel deep into the dirt and poured a heaping amount of soil on top of his brother. Twice.
When everyone had had a turn with the shovel, Yoder made a short announcement. “Please join the family immediately following for a reception and tea at the Yamhill Country Inn on Evans Street.”
My stomach had been growling throughout the service. It was two in the afternoon and we hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Are you as hungry as I am, Lucy?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Did you see how angry Denver Watson is? We have to keep an eye on Birdie.”
“Don’t worry, girlfriend.” Lucy tucked her arm through mine and walked me back to the Caddy. “We can multitask. Eat and worry at the same time.”
CHAPTER 26
We parked in front of a charming, Victorian-era hotel, the Yamhill Country Inn. A wide porch, populated with white iron tables and wicker chairs, wrapped around the front and sides of the well-kept building. Stained-glass flowers and fruit adorned the windows along the façade.
“We had a lot of buildings just like this in Wyoming,” said Lucy as she pushed open the heavy oak door.
Antique Edwardian sofas and chairs upholstered in dark green velvet sat in the lobby. William Morris wallpaper featured a background of light green papyrus plants. Pairs of white cranes faced each other with outstretched wings and necks curved symmetrically, forming the shape of a heart.
Lucy’s gaze slid around the room and she sighed. “This looks just like my granny’s house in Gillette.”
The proprietor, a pleasant woman in a lace blouse, came out from behind an old mahogany bar-turned-reception desk and addressed Russell’s brother. “Hello, Denver. We have your reception set up in the Rose Room.”
Denver removed his hat. “Much obliged, Ruthie.”
The woman escorted our group to a private parlor off to the side. “The servers will arrive shortly. Please make yourselves comfortable.”
Four round tables, each surrounded by six chairs, were covered in crisp white linen and set with bone china. Crystal vases of summer roses and forest ferns sat in the middle, completing the genteel ambiance. The other mourners began arriving in small groups, including the head forest fairy and her purple chorus. Agent Lancet stood quietly just inside the door. Tucker stationed himself in the lobby. O’Neal stayed on the porch with Arthur.
Denver led Birdie to the table closest to the window and pulled out her chair. “You’ll like the view, Twink.”
Jazz quickly claimed the seat on her other side. He seemed as determined as Lucy and I were to not leave Birdie alone with Denver Watson.
Rainbow, Lucy, and I arranged ourselves in the other three seats.
Lucy placed her napkin in her lap. “This place is gorgeous, hon. How’d you know about it?”
Birdie smiled at Russell’s brother. “Actually, I didn’t. Denny made these arrangements. Since he lives here, he knows just about everyone in town.”
Denver Watson reached over and gently clasped Birdie’s hand in both of his. “Right now, there’s only one person I want to know.”
Jazz shifted in his seat and twisted his mouth to the side.
Two servers came in the room bearing silver trays and passed around crystal flutes of bubbling champagne.
Rainbow stood. Something about the woman exuded control, and the room became silent. “I’d like to propose a toast to Russell Watson, our husband, brother, fiancé, cousin, and friend.”
Denver frowned and pushed his glass away.
Everyone else stood and responded, “To Russell.”
When we sat down again, Denver got up and walked to a corner of the room where a scuffed instrument case stood against the wall. He removed a well-used acoustic guitar, sat back down at our table, and announced, “I’d like to dedicate this song to Birdie.” He looked at her and the room fell silent. In a heartbreaking voice, he crooned words of love and longing from “Unchained Melody.”
Birdie covered her mouth with her hands, and tears streamed down her face. When he finished, her voice was nearly drowned out by the applause in the room, “You remembered.”
“How could I forget?”
I nudged Lucy’s foot under the table, and whispered, “I don’t like where this is going.”
She nodded and whispered back, “I think we’re too late. Birdie and Denver are on a runaway train.”
The servers offered a parade of several savory and sweet finger foods. They also provided endless pots of tea.
Denver gestured for the server to fill our glasses. “You have to try our local Pinot Noir. We grow some of the best grapes in the world.”
I had to admit, the man was charming, regaling us with funny stories about the strange food concoctions Birdie and Rainbow sometimes prepared in the commune. “The weirdest one was the feta cheese tacos with dried figs wrapped in kale leaves. But they turned out to be everyone’s favorite.”
Rainbow laughed. “They still are. Kale tacos are one of our biggest sellers.”
I thought about the hundreds of little taquerías in the barrios of LA. “You own a taco stand?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “A few of them.”
By the end of our meal, the volume had been turned up on the conversations and laughter filled the room. Several people came to our table for private conversations with Birdie and Denver. An older man with a long gray ponytail, wearing jeans and a tie-dyed Nehru jacket, walked over to Rainbow and kissed her on the cheek.
“Cody!” She brightened. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
He ran the palm of his hand over his very receding hairline and laughed. “Neither have you. You’re still the prettiest woman in the room.” He squatted down next to her c
hair and lightly stroked her arm. “I hear you found your pot of gold, sweet cheeks.”
As they reminisced, I turned my attention to Jazz, who clutched Zsa Zsa in his arms and looked miserable.
I pointed to the little Maltese. “She looks adorable, Jazz. I’m sure Russell would love what she’s wearing.”
Jazz had changed her into party clothes on the way over from the cemetery. She wore a pink velvet dress with eyelet lace ruffles, a rhinestone collar, and a pink ribbon in her hair.
His lower lip trembled. “Thank you for noticing.” He pulled off a tiny piece of salmon from the top of a cracker and fed it to the dog on the tip of his finger.
When the servers began to clear the empty plates, Birdie announced to our table, “I’ve changed your hotel reservations. We were originally booked into the Comfort Inn, but I thought the four of you might have more fun staying here. This is a literary hotel. Each room is decorated in the style of a famous author, including a selection of their books for you to read. Martha, you’re staying in the Faye Kellerman room. Lucy, you’re in the Tony Hillerman.” She turned to Jazz and winked. “And you get the Truman Capote room.”
Jazz rolled his eyes. “I get it. The gay guy gets the gay author. Well, for your information, I happen to be a huge fan of Nicholas Sparks. So, which room did you choose for yourself, Birdie?”
She looked down and blushed. “Actually, I won’t be staying here. Denver has invited me to be a guest at his ranch.”
The hairs stood on the back of my neck. How could I persuade her to stay with us where she’d be safe? “I thought it would be fun to take a run at that great fabric store tomorrow. And what about Rainbow? She’s flown all this way to see you. Don’t you want to spend some time with her?”
Birdie held up her hand. “I know what I’m doing, Martha dear. I’ll see you in a couple of days. If you need me, you can call my cell phone.”
My mind raced for a way to keep her with the three of us. I also wanted to ask her about the diary but didn’t want to alert Denver of its existence. I stood and walked over to her chair. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
