Solomon's Grave (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

The basement of Hillcrest Baptist Church once housed the Dreyfus family’s workroom and wine cellar, but had slowly been converted to a hall for church functions. It was wider than the church itself, running under the full length of the house, with a two-foot high stage for the occasional children’s play and group meetings. This room was as familiar to Nathan as his parents’ home. Every other Sunday for eighteen years, the Dinnecks joined other families of the parish in this hall for fellowship dinner, a community breaking bread together and discussing everything from the morning’s sermon to the Patriots’ chances that afternoon. The tables usually filled quickly, though today many people chose to stand and mingle among the larger-than-normal crowd. According to Hayden, the last time Sunday service had been this crowded was Easter.

The room filled with the scent of brewing coffee, orange juice, meatballs, pasta and pies. Children wandered toward the dessert tables, only to be pulled away by a parent who forced them to fill their plates with “good food” first.

As promised, both of his parents came, though his father had fidgeted more than usual during the service. Nathan had also spied his friend Josh Everson smiling at him from the last row of folding chairs. Like Elizabeth, Josh was never a diligent churchgoer. Nathan had always been more forward about inviting him, but had also known when to lighten up. Nathan often wondered why he’d hung out with so many people who weren’t believers rather than with more kids from his parish. In life you didn’t always get to pick your friends, not that Nathan had complaints. Josh was one of the good ones. They hadn’t seen each other since Nathan came up for his last interview, but the two were in constant contact via email and the occasional phone call.

When their spot in the receiving line reached him, Nathan embraced his parents. He’d tried to get them to come forward and greet him first but Beverly insisted on waiting her turn. Pulling away, he said, “It’s good to see you today, Dad. What did you think?”

Art Dinneck offered a sheepish grin and said, “You did well, Nate. Kept your mother awake; that’s the important part.” He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially but loud enough for her to hear, “You know how she tends to drift off.”

Nathan gave his father’s arm a squeeze in conjunction with the playful slap from Bev. Before he could stop himself, he said, “See you again next week?”

Art’s smile faded and his face lost much of the healthy color it had begun to show. He looked away. “We’ll see. I’ll try.” But Nathan knew he’d overstepped the line his father had drawn between them the other day. Art glanced across the room and behind him, hesitating for a moment before noting with another wave of his hand the length of the waiting line. “We’ll move over there,” he said, nodding to one of the tables. “Catch up to us when you’re done here.”

They moved on. Nathan greeted the next person, a shy older woman with thin gray hair. Pastor Hayden conversed comfortably across the room with a small group of people. This was a welcome reception for the new pastor, but next week would be the send off for the only other minister many of these people had known. Nathan felt a pang of guilt at all the attention he was getting this morning.

Josh Everson had his turn and Nathan embraced him with as much vigor as he’d given to his parents.

“Father Dinneck, I presume,” the young man said with a flourish.

Nathan laughed. “It’s Reverend Dinneck, Buddy.”

Josh smirked. “Close enough.”

“I see you got my email.”

“Yep, I replied, but never heard back.”

“A few minutes after sending you the note, I was in a cab heading for the bus station.” He patted the bulge in his sport coat where the cell phone lay hidden. “This baby’s got text messaging now. I’ll give you the address. How’s work going?”

 “I tell you, Nate, the
Greedy
would surely fold without my stellar management.”
The Greedy Grocer
was the town’s only convenience store, tucked into the end of the strip mall a half mile away on Main Street. Both Nathan and Josh had worked there at various times in their teenage years. Josh continued part-time as he attended Wachusett Community College to earn a two-year Associates in Business Management. A few months after graduation, he was offered the job of manager at the store. Lately, their banter across the Internet had focused on the parallels between them. Nathan returning after college to his hometown church, Josh to
The Greedy Grocer
. Of course, his friend was quick to specify which was more significant a homecoming.
You can’t get milk at church at ten o’clock at night
, he’d explained in one letter. Josh said, “Good to have any kind of a job these days. Nice service, Nate. I admit I couldn’t help over-examining the fact that my best friend was the one talking, but I got used to it after a while.”

“Come again next week.”

“I just might.” Nathan hoped that was true. Josh gave him a rap on the shoulder and moved on with a “Talk to you later.” Any longer a reunion would have to wait. The man who greeted Nathan next introduced himself as Manny Paulson.

“I’m a friend of your dad’s. He said a lot of nice things about you.” At his father’s mention, Nathan looked across the room. Art Dinneck was staring back at them, with what Nate could not mistake as anything but apprehension. When his father caught Nathan’s gaze, the look was replaced with a smile and a perfunctory wave. Paulson nodded in return and turned back to the minister.

“A good sermon, Pastor,” he said. “I’ll admit I’m not much of a church-goer myself, but when I heard Art’s first born was the new pastor, I just had to meet you.”

Nathan thought
first born
was an odd way of putting it, but he thanked the man and perfunctorily said he hoped to see him more often.

“Careful what you wish for.” The man laughed at his own joke and moved in Art’s direction.

When Nathan turned to greet the next person in line, the church hall disappeared. Two stone angels towered over him, their faces dripping with a lightly falling rain. He watched them, expecting their heads to lower and stare at him, perhaps take flight like gargoyles. He stared, unable to collect his thoughts, feeling the rain across his face.

“Pastor? Are you all right?”

The scene spun around like dirty water. He closed his eyes, fought down a sudden nausea. When he opened them again, a woman was holding his hand. He was in the church hall again, still standing and greeting a young mother with two bashful children hiding behind her dress. He felt himself sinking. His knees buckled but he caught himself. “Reverend!” the woman shouted.

Nathan waved away her concern with his free hand. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice only a whisper. But he wasn’t fine. He was exhausted. Perhaps he
had
just been in the cemetery, looking at the angels, then run back into line. No, that made no sense. It had been raining. He looked out the window, which was now very far above him. The world outside was clear and sunny.

Someone yelled. He was on the floor, the children hiding further behind their mother’s skirt. “I’m OK, really,” he murmured, before the world went dark.

Chapter Twelve

Nothing about the man standing on his porch—neither his neat appearance nor his quiet, affable manner—was threatening. Yet as Vincent shook his hand, the disquiet plaguing him these past few weeks re-ignited.
Bad Guy
, the feeling said. Perhaps it was the man’s eyes. Blue and clear, but with a dark, mocking gleam in them. A knowing, half-smile on his lips. Vincent shook the feeling off and silently cursed his paranoia. No wonder people thought he was nuts.

Johnson continued barking his displeasure at the trespasser through the door as Vincent muttered, “Mr. Quinn. Can I help you with something?”

Quinn nodded toward the front door. “Maybe we could discuss this inside?”

Vincent gestured to a pair of wicker chairs crowded onto the small porch. There was a reason Vincent insisted on meetings with clergy and the town’s funeral director on the cemetery grounds. Allowing anyone inside the house, stepping into his refuge so close to the secret box with its records and history, felt too much like opening himself up for scrutiny. He did not like scrutiny. The man before him had nothing but good intentions, he was sure, but that didn’t change matters. Vincent was too old to change much of
anything
of his life.

“Obviously, my dog seems a bit uptight at the moment. Best we talk out here.”

Quinn nodded and without objection sat in one chair. Vincent pulled the other a slight distance away, sat and waited.

“As you may or may not know, I am Grand See—a rather silly title I suppose, when it comes down to it—of a relatively new organization in town called the Hillcrest Men’s Club.”

 “I’ve heard of them.”
Entry 798
, he thought absently. Already he was yearning to get free of this man, open his notebook and make entry 818:
strange man from Hillcrest Men’s Club visits me.

Quinn leaned forward, elbows on knees, and occasionally cast an annoyed glance at the door, behind which Johnson was busy trying to dig a hole through the wood. “Yes, well, we feel it’s time, having been officially in Hillcrest for half a year, to give a little something back to the community. We thought perhaps to place flower arrangements on the graves of local veterans.” He opened his hands, palms up. “It’s the least we could do.”

If he noticed Vincent’s startled look, he did not show it. He merely sat back, eyebrows raised, and waited for an answer.

They know
, Vincent thought.
Who knows? A bunch of drunks? It’s a nice gesture. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, honestly.

God, give me clarity of thought again.

He composed himself, forced his breathing to a measured rhythm, then mirrored Quinn’s act of leaning back in his chair. Whether or not his paranoia was finally boiling over, Vincent couldn’t afford to let down his guard. Specifically, he had to act
normal
!

“That’s a kind gesture, to be sure,” he said, feeling his face flushing and hoping the man didn’t notice. “But, I mean, the Boy Scouts generally do that. It’s a merit badge requirement.”

Quinn looked thoughtful, nodded his head once. “Yes, I’d thought that might be the case. However, they usually do so on Veterans Day. That won’t be for another two months. By then, any tokens we might leave would need replacing anyway.” Another smile. There was something odd about the man’s voice. Vincent’s ears itched. He was just being stupid.
Daft
.

The man’s argument had merit, though. Saying “no” would make no sense under any other circumstance. Asking too many additional questions would risk too much, especially if his long-feared enemies were close. He doubted it. How could they know?

The grave is marked
John Solomon
, not
Enrique Jorgenson,
don’t forget. There are twin cherubim hovering over its crypt. Of
course
they could figure it out, if they happened to stumble upon it
. He wondered, not for the first time, at the thinking, or
lack
of thought, behind such an obvious clue to leave in public.

Forgive me, Father. I do not want to question you.

The man before him was patient. He sat, hands on his lap and open like the sacrificial statue of Molech....

Stop it
! Vincent scolded himself.

“819” coming right up.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said quickly. “Any chance we have to honor our veterans is welcome. Was there a particular day you were thinking of?” He wanted this man to
leave, leave, leave
and let him go inside.

Calm. You’re doing fine. I am always with you.

He couldn’t place the verse, if it
was
a verse, especially not the
You’re doing fine
part. Its effect was soothing nevertheless.

Quinn finally moved those placating hands off his lap and said, “Thank you. There is a bit of planning, ordering the flowers, et cetera. Why don’t we just leave the date open-ended? Sometime this month, make it a surprise.”

Was that a threat?
No, everything is fine. I’m doing fine
. Vincent offered another neutral nod and got to his feet.

“Fair enough. Thanks for coming by.”

“It was my pleasure.” Quinn stood and offered a perfunctory hand shake. After walking down the two steps of the porch, he turned around as if having remembered something.

“Oh,” he said, “I also understand the minister of the Baptist church is leaving town a week from tomorrow. Retiring, is he?”

Vincent furrowed his brows, feeling the weight of the statement,
leaving town
. Was Hayden leaving that soon? He nodded, but said nothing.

“A pity to lose such a holy man, as I understand from Mr. Dinneck. Art Dinneck, I mean. I understand Reverend Hayden will be spending time in a monastery.”

In fact, Vincent had no idea
where
Hayden was planning on going. He’d thought the man was moving into an apartment somewhere in town. “What Reverend Hayden does is really none of my business.”

Quinn nodded and looked down for a moment, muttering, “No, I suppose it’s none of my business, either. Still,” he added, looking back up with those clear blue eyes, “he deserves a rest after such a long time serving the town. I should offer my congratulations on his retirement but, well, I don’t really know the man.” He shrugged, smiled, and gave Vincent a perfunctory wave before walking to his car. He didn’t look back toward the house.

As the car drove down the road, Vincent felt exhausted, like he’d just caught the flu. At least his ears had stopped itching. Their short discussion about the flowers had shaken him, but this last part of the conversation—added more as an after-thought by the stranger—was confusing.

Hayden was leaving town. If there
was
a threat to what lay under Greenwood Street Cemetery, it would need to be moved. The words of the prior caretaker came back to him.
Neither you nor I
, Ruth had said,
are allowed to move it. We are caretakers only. Even from the earliest days of Moses and Solomon, only the Lord’s priests may touch it, move it to a new location
.