Dead and Buried

by Karin Kaufman

  “I’d like to suggest we lock rooms that aren’t on the tour,” Emily said, plopping down on a sofa. “Or rope them off or put a sign on them.”

  “That door should have been locked,” Olivia replied, sitting across from her. “I don’t like the idea of ropes or signs. They’re too messy and touristy.”

  “I could check on doors before our first tour of each evening,” Emily said. “I’d be happy to make sure the right ones are locked. The thing is, guests at the back of a tour group can easily open doors they’re not supposed to, and the guide would never see them. Jonathan didn’t know Kate and I left the tour.”

  As Emily talked, I eyed the walls, as casually as I could, looking for smaller headstone rubbings. I’d already spotted a large one, framed in black and sitting on the fireplace mantel, and now I saw another, hung between two windows and also framed in black. Olivia certainly had a thing for graves.

  “Perhaps we might do that,” Olivia said, brushing hair from her cheek and delicately crossing her legs. “Let me think about it—and of course talk to Jonathan and get his opinion, of whatever value that might be. We do want to prevent another incident.”

  Incident? I squelched a laugh. For goodness’ sake.

  “I don’t think curiosity is the worry,” Emily said. “It’s theft, isn’t it?”

  Emily was about to get bold.

  “What would people steal, lamps?” Olivia said. “Drapes? Dressers?”

  “Things like that antique doll. Or books from the library.”

  “Good luck getting that or anything else out the front door.”

  “What about Fairfield family belongings left behind in wardrobes and dresser drawers? I just worry. I know I haven’t worked at the mansion nearly as long as you, but I already feel protective of it.”

  “Can I help you, Kate?”

  My head jerked. “That’s . . .” I gestured at the rubbing between the windows. “That’s so beautiful. Almost Gothic looking. Do you mind?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I strolled to the rubbing, trying my best to look artistically impressed and not just nosy in an accusatory way.

  “You’re right, it’s Gothic,” I heard Olivia say. “It’s a tombstone in an old English churchyard.” In a flash she was standing next to me. “I bought it in London.”

  “You didn’t make it?”

  “I do rubbings, but not this one.”

  “And this?” I’d spotted another frame, this one smaller and square.

  “That’s from a cemetery in Massachusetts.”

  Oh no, it most certainly was not. “Maria Hamilton,” I said. “She died so young. Massachusetts, you say?”

  “Yes, near Boston.” Olivia sniffed. “She probably died of cholera or pneumonia. Now this one”—she tapped my shoulder, directing me toward the fireplace—“is from Mount Hope. It’s one of the very earliest headstones in the cemetery, but the inscription is surprisingly readable. The writing on many of the older stones is worn down, but not on this one.”

  I watched her as she proudly told me it was one of her first rubbings, and that it had taken four tries to get it sufficiently acceptable for her nitpicking self, but I couldn’t take my mind from the Hamilton rubbing behind me. Emily left the couch, stood next to me, and sneaked a look over her shoulder.

  “If you’re interested, I could teach you sometime,” Olivia said. “All it requires are a few supplies and patience.”

  “I might do that,” I said.

  Olivia continued to draw our attention away from the Hamilton rubbing. “This London one is lovely, but it’s so satisfying to make your own rubbings.”

  I felt Emily nudge me. Hard.

  “Purchased rubbings are sometimes artificially enhanced,” Olivia went on. “Look at this here.” She closed to within a foot of the frame and pointed.

  Emily nudged me again. I moved closer to Olivia, but not before giving Emily the eye. Wide-eyed, she tilted her head toward the other side of the room.

  “This can’t be part of the original,” Olivia said, persevering in her discussion of the London rubbing. “It’s too neat, too clean. Original rubbings inevitably have blank and worn spots. Now this . . .” She pointed again. “You see how the letter has been enhanced?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and to my horror saw Minette fluttering inches from another rubbing like a giant pink bug. “Holy cow.” I whipped back and instantly fixed my eyes on Olivia. “That’s dishonest.”

  She paused, her finger poised over the offending letter. “It’s not that bad. It still makes a great wall decoration.”

  “But they shouldn’t do that,” I said. “It’s outrageous.”

  “Calm down, Kate. It’s not a crime. Any purchased rubbing will have fixes.”

  “But I’d rather have the blemishes.”

  “So would I.” She squinted at me. “Would you like some water?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “What’s that sound?” She glanced from me to the ceiling. “It sounds like a moth hitting a light bulb. You’d think they’d all be dead by now.”

  “A big moth,” I said, raising my voice. “Well, the more it flies around, the more likely it is to be whacked with a flyswatter. I’m about to leave or I’d stay and whack it myself. I’d say it’s got thirty more seconds.”

  Olivia was gaping at me, looking like she might bolt at any moment. She’d opened her door to a madwoman. “I’ve been killing my own moths since I was a child, thank you. I can handle it.”

  Emily seized my coat sleeve. “We’ll be going now.”

  “Should we?” I said.

  “Yes, it’s fine, everything’s good,” she said, pulling me along. “Thank you for your time, Olivia, and for showing us your headstone rubbings.”

  “Any time,” she answered. “I guess.”

  We left a baffled Olivia standing in her foyer. She’d followed us there, no doubt to make sure we actually left her house and didn’t slip upstairs to hide in a closet.

  “She’s in my pocket,” Emily whispered as we marched down the brick path for my Jeep.

  I pulled myself into my seat, waited for Emily to shut her door, and then hissed, “Minette!”

  A small, sweet voice issued from Emily’s coat pocket. “Thank you for keeping me safe, Emily and Kate.”

  She disarmed me with that one sentence. I couldn’t get angry at her now, least of all in front of Olivia’s house. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to survive fifty-seven years, Minette. You’re going to give me a heart attack. We need to have a talk tonight.”

  She poked her head above the pocket trim. “I saw another child’s headstone. Will Benton.”

  I checked the photos on my phone. “That’s the second headstone we found in the mansion. Olivia Atkinson is such a thief.”

  “Speaking of thieves,” Emily said. “See that car pulling into Olivia’s drive? It belongs to Charlotte King.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “I’m not going in,” Emily said. “You go. I can’t deal with Rancourt right now. Then we need to stop for lunch, because I’m starving.”

  I shut off my engine. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”

  “I’ll stay here and make sure Minette doesn’t get into trouble.”

  “That will be challenging,” I said, taking the threatening note Emily had found out of my glove compartment, folding it, and sliding it in my coat pocket. If there had been fingerprints on it—I doubted there were—they’d long since been ruined by all the handling. “Rancourt probably isn’t in. I’ll have to leave it for him.”

  I’d found a parking spot half a block down from the police station on Falmouth Street, so I grabbed my umbrella in case the rain started again on my way out of the station. Not only did I have to show Rancourt the note, but I had to tell him about the headstones in the mansion, the sexton’s confirmation that they were from Mount Hope, and Olivia’s rubbings. Then, as a kind of trade-off, I hoped he would tell me if there was any news in the case.


  At the front desk, I asked for Rancourt and was told by the officer that he was out and wasn’t expected back anytime soon.

  “Can I leave something for him?” I unfolded the note and placed it on the desk, facing the officer’s way. “This is in reference to Patti Albert’s murder. I found it on my windshield last night, when my car was parked in front of the Fairfield Mansion.”

  The officer gave his chin a rub. “It looks like a ransom note. Do you have an idea who left it?”

  “Someone who works at the Fairfield.”

  The officer’s gaze rose as someone passed behind me. “Bouchard, got a sec?”

  “Yeah.” Bouchard strode to the desk, greeted me with a chin nod, then said, “What’s happening?”

  The desk officer angled the note Bouchard’s way. “You’re working the Albert case. This lady wanted to leave Rancourt a note she found on her windshield. She thinks someone who works at the Fairfield Mansion is threatening her.”

  “There’s more.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I showed Bouchard the first of my headstone photos. “These were stolen from Mount Hope and hidden in the mansion. The sexton verified they were stolen. And rubbings taken from these stones are in the possession of Olivia Atkinson, who works for the historical society.”

  “Okay . . .” Bouchard said.

  He had no idea how to put the pieces together. As far as he was concerned, I was delivering three disparate messages, none of which had to do with Patti Albert. Or him.

  “Someone at the Fairfield wants me to stop asking questions about Patti’s murder,” I said, tapping the note. “And I believe Charlotte King and Olivia Atkinson from the historical society are stealing headstones from Mount Hope and reselling them. Though Olivia likes to make rubbings first and decorate her home with them.”

  Bouchard, slack-jawed, continued to stare at me, waiting for the lights to come on.

  “The thing is, Officer Bouchard, someone at the Fairfield is stealing old headstones from the cemetery. I don’t know if the thefts are connected to Patti’s murder, but they might be, considering where her body was first found. Regardless, the sexton is very upset and would like the police to help him get his headstones back.”

  “The sexton needs his headstones back. Check.” As Bouchard’s growing annoyance overcame his confusion, he said, “What if Olivia Atkinson took those rubbings while the headstones were still with the graves?” he asked. “That’s what people usually do.”

  This was going nowhere. “How do you explain that both those missing headstones are now rubbings on her wall? That’s too much of a coincidence. Besides, she was very nervous when she found me and my friend coming out the room where the headstones were hidden, and Charlotte King was behaving strangely too.”

  “Okay, yup, I’ll look into it,” he said dismissively.

  “Any news on Patti Albert’s cause of death or the real murder weapon?” I asked. “Did anyone check for soil or blood evidence in car trunks? The body had to have been moved in a car.”

  A buttery grin slanted across Bouchard’s face. “Mrs. Brewer, you know I can’t tell you that. Anyway, if they’re stealing headstones, they’d have soil in their car trunks, wouldn’t they? Come back later and talk to Detective Rancourt. I’ll let him know you were here, all right ma’am?”

  “And why I was here?” I looked from the desk officer to Bouchard. “Tell him exactly what I told you, please. All three things.”

  “Yup.” He snapped up the threatening note, but before he could walk away, I stopped him.

  “And Officer Bouchard, I am not some late-middle-aged busybody bringing you useless information.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He and the desk officer exchanged glances. Clearly, they found me entertaining.

  “Anything else, ma’am?” Bouchard asked.

  You pipsqueak. “Not a thing.” I spun on my heels and marched out of the station. Since October I’d given Bouchard the benefit of the doubt, putting his faults down to his young age and inexperience, and while those two things did indeed work against him, his real problem was he was a know-it-all brat.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t raining. I’d had my fill of November rain. I stood at the base of the station’s steps, gathering my thoughts and wondering how to contact Rancourt. Bouchard and the desk officer were chuckling about me at that very moment, I was certain of it. How blind could Bouchard be not to see the connection between the headstones and Patti’s death? Both involved the cemetery, both involved the historical society. Take a deep breath and count your blessings.

  By the time I returned to my Jeep, I’d calmed down and decided not to mention Bouchard’s pigheadedness to Emily. We drove to Angelo’s Pizzeria just north of downtown, ordered sandwiches, and took them back to the car.

  I cleared spare change and tissue paper from the cupholders for our coffee and tea and unwrapped my Italian sandwich.

  “All I had for breakfast was that croissant,” Emily said.

  “I’m dying.” I bit into my sandwich, sending olive oil dripping to the wax paper on my lap.

  After we’d taken our first few bites—Emily gave Minette a sprig of parsley from her sandwich—we discussed where we were on the murder case.

  “I’m sure we need to find a motive before we find the killer,” I said. “Tell me more about Patti Albert. Why did she close the mansion’s third floor to tours when she became executive director? Zane said it was because she loved the library, but I don’t see what one thing has to do with another, unless she just didn’t like strangers mucking about in her favorite room.”

  “She did love that library,” Emily said. “Zane said she cataloged its books—she loved old books—and maybe that’s part of the reason she spent so much time there. She loved history and genealogy, and she loved that cemetery. The more I think about it, the more I realize that she was the perfect person to run the historical society, in spite of her faults.” Emily gestured with her head at the Styrofoam cup in my hands. “How’s your tea?”

  “Questionable. Did Olivia and Jonathan fight over who was going to take Patti’s place?”

  “I don’t know. I think Jonathan was the presumed heir because he worked directly under Patti—and he’s older, too. But Olivia sees herself as the more obvious choice, and she openly needles Jonathan about some of his decisions.”

  “What kind of decisions?”

  “It’s usually something minor, like where to put a lamp or table. If Jonathan says here, Olivia says two inches to the left, and vice versa. It’s amazing they get anything done the way the second-guess and stall each other.”

  “Did any of the others want to be executive director?” I asked.

  “The way Zane talks, he does. He cares about the mansion, and I think he really believes it’s haunted. He’d go full-tilt on the haunted angle, unlike Patti, who cherished the normal history of the place. Brodie is ambitious too, but not as much as Olivia and Jonathan. Charlotte doesn’t care in the least. She told me she intends to stay a volunteer, and now we know why. She’s making money stealing from the cemetery.”

  “She’s not doing it alone. I think Charlotte is doing the heavy lifting—literally—and Olivia is selling the stones.”

  “Are we positive Olivia is involved?”

  “She’d have the connections to sell the headstones. And remember when she saw that antique doll on the bed in the spare bedroom? How did she know it wasn’t there before unless she’d recently been in the room?”

  “And she told us no one ever goes in there.”

  “So what do we think we know?” I set my Italian sandwich on the wax paper and began counting off on my fingers. “Olivia and Charlotte are stealing headstones from Mount Hope. Olivia may have encouraged Charlotte to join the historical society for that very purpose. We know Charlotte doesn’t give a rip about the mansion, the cemetery, or history in general. No one in the society really liked Patti, and both Olivia and Jonathan are ambitious enough to have wanted her out of the way. Zane seems
truly frightened of the third floor, but that could be an act. We also don’t know if the story he told us about finding Patti standing at the library window is true.”

  “I think it’s true.” Emily downed her coffee, then set her cup in the holder before turning in her seat to face me. “He told me about it the day he saw her, and he wasn’t trying to scare me, Kate. He was scared. I thought he was being foolish, but . . .” She shrugged. “No, he wasn’t playing around. After he saw Patti, he wouldn’t go to the library by himself, even in the daytime. He said it changed people. He said they saw things out the window and . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It’s absurd, I know, but not to Zane.”

  “Him and his ectoplasm. How do the others feel about the library?”

  “I’ve seen Jonathan in there, and he doesn’t seem frightened. Olivia half believes in the ghost stories, and she gets nervous if she has to be alone there. She tries to hide it behind professional-sounding jargon, but I can tell. Charlotte doesn’t like the red paint and all the dust, but other than that she’s not bothered by it, and Brodie thinks it’s an interesting room that should be spruced up a little rather than played up as a murder room.”

  “Has Brodie ever tried to convince the others to do that?”

  “He’s Jonathan’s little puppy, eager to please him, so the answer is no. He’s said it to me and Zane, and maybe Charlotte, but not the others. He feels strongly about it, but he won’t broach the subject with Jonathan.”

  We finished our sandwiches in silence, then dropped our wax paper and napkins into the restaurant’s plastic bag. I took another hesitant sip of tea, shuddered at the taste, then opened the car door and emptied the cup into the street. Minette had eaten her parsley, stem and all, and was sitting cross-legged on the floor mat, leaning against the base of the console, when I turned to her. “Do you need to go home?”

  She gazed up, her emerald eyes gleaming. “We haven’t finished.”

  It was only one o’clock, but I was tired and discouraged. “I don’t know how we’re going to finish, unless we find out why someone wanted to kill Patti and frame Emily.”