The Restorer (11 page)

As I walked deeper into the gloom, the temperature noticeably dropped. Swaying manes of curly moss blocked most of the light, allowing tentacles of ivy to ensnare statues and monuments already blackened with lichen. Where light managed to penetrate, water beads glistened like crystals on giant philodendrons. It was like stepping into the heart of a primordial rainforest.

I’d lost sight of Devlin, but as I came to the end of the overgrown pathway, I heard his voice. He was somewhere to the right of the mausoleum. As I disentangled myself from a wild grapevine, I spotted him. He stood with a group of bedraggled-looking men in sweaty shirts and mud-spattered trousers. They were gathered around a grave marked with a tablet headstone.

Slowly, I walked toward them, expecting Devlin to turn and order me back at any moment. But he said nothing even as I moved up beside him.

I stared down into the mottled light, searching for what had captured their attention.

Then I saw it.

A skeletal hand rising out of the dead leaves like an early spring crocus.

TEN

W
ithin half an hour, they arrived in droves—cops in civvies and uniforms, swatting mosquitoes and mopping sweaty faces as they emerged from the overgrown brush to vie for a peek at the latest discovery. They were professionals, so they kept a respectable distance while the Charleston County coroner, a tiny, redheaded dynamo named Regina Sparks, examined the remains. I’d never met anyone whose name suited her more. Even standing stock-still beside the grave, the woman radiated a kind of manic energy that belied her unruffled demeanor.

I’d retreated to the background where I could observe without being in the way. After a lengthy consultation with some of his cohorts, Devlin came to find me.

“You okay?”

“As okay as one can be under the circumstances.” I hesitated, reluctant to give voice to the terrible thoughts rolling around inside my brain. “This can’t be a coincidence, can it? What if there are others that haven’t been found yet? What if this is the beginning of something…” I grappled for the right word. “You know what I mean.”

Devlin’s expression remained guarded, but I could sense an underlying anxiety that did nothing to relieve my dread. “It’s best not to make that kind of leap until we have all the facts. Right now, I’d like to ask you some questions about Oak Grove. I need to know about this place and you’re the only one who can help me out.”

I nodded, grateful to have something useful to do.

“What’s the first thing you do when you take on a job like this?”

The question surprised me a little, but I answered without hesitation. “I walk the whole cemetery. Even before I start to photograph.”

“So you’ve been all over this place. Even back here?”

“I’ve walked it, yes. But I’d barely begun photographing last Friday when the clouds moved in.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in either section?”

I glanced toward the skeletal remains. “Nothing like that, I assure you.”

“I’m talking more along the lines of that outward-facing headstone we discussed yesterday. Are there any more of those in here?”

“Not that I recall.”

He frowned. “Wouldn’t you remember?”

“Not necessarily. I told you before, an outward-facing headstone is not really that unusual. It only seems so now in context. At the time I walked the cemetery, I would have been preoccupied with Oak Grove’s more extraordinary features.”

“Such as?”

“Seven slot-and-tab box tombs with the lids still intact. Those are really rare, especially in South Carolina.”

“What’s a…what you just said?”

“Slot-and-tab box tomb, and it’s exactly what it sounds like—a horizontal tomb in the shape of a box. Slots are cut into the lid so that it fits down over vertical head and foot stones. The only other ones I’ve come across were in northeast Georgia. And, of course, there’s the Bedford Mausoleum.” I turned and studied the towers and points, barely visible through the lush vegetation. “It’s built into a hillside. You just don’t see that in the Lowcountry.”

“Man-made?”

“The hillside? It would have to be. The whole structure is covered in kudzu so I can’t tell much about the construction. Anyway, as I said, those are some of the features that caught my attention. I don’t remember any more outward-facing headstones, but there could be others. We’d have to rewalk the cemetery to know for sure.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” he said.

Regina Sparks came up just then, her round face glistening in the heat. Lifting up her hair, she fanned the back of her neck with her hand. “It’s hotter than a two-peckered alley cat up in here. Humidity must be close to a hundred.” She sized me up with a friendly smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Regina Sparks.”

“Amelia Gray.”

“She’s the cemetery expert I told you about the other night,” Devlin said.

Her gaze fastened on him before she turned to me. It seemed she wasn’t altogether immune to Devlin’s magnetism, either. “The one they call the Graveyard Queen?”

“Yes, but how did you know?” I was both pleased and embarrassed that she knew my nickname.

“My aunt lives in Samara, Georgia. She sent me the video of your interview and the hovering ‘ghost,’” she said with air quotes. “That was the biggest news to hit that place in forty years. She couldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Small world,” I murmured.

“No kidding. Wait’ll she hears about this. You don’t have a headstone rubbing or something you could sign for her, do you?”

“Uh, no, sorry. And I don’t recommend rubbings, anyway. The process can actually be damaging to headstones.”

“Really? Well, that’s too bad. She would have gotten a kick out of something like that.”

“Do you mind?” Devlin cut in. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to hear your initial assessment.”

“Of Amelia?” Regina gave me a wink. “Lovely girl, handled herself well on camera.”

“I’m talking about the remains,” he said drily.

“Oh, him. Dead as a doornail.”

Regina’s wisecracks were probably a little hard for someone like Devlin to take. He was all business and I’d yet to see anything more than a hint of a smile. But those who were haunted often had a grim demeanor. One could hardly blame them.

She pushed back her bangs, giving herself an odd plumed appearance that I doubted was the look she’d been aiming for. “I don’t exactly have a lot to work with here. I can’t even say for certain we’re looking at an intrusive burial. The hand looks pretty damn clean. No muscle or ligament, just bone. Whoever that poor bastard was, he’s been here for years.”

“She,” I said, garnering simultaneous eyebrow lifts. “If the bones are from the original burial, the remains are most likely female.”

“You don’t say.” Regina swatted a mosquito, leaving a bloody smear on her arm. Absently, she wiped her hand on her jeans. “I’m mighty curious as to how you came to that conclusion. The inscription on the tombstone is illegible.”

“If you look at the top of the stone, you can just make out a floral motif…a rose, which is almost always used to symbolize the feminine. Whether the rose is a bud, flower or somewhere in between indicates the age of the deceased. A bud, a child under twelve. A partial bloom, a teenager and so on. A full bloom and a bud are sometimes used together to represent a dual burial of mother and child. I only saw one rose in full bloom on this stone.”

Regina turned to Devlin. “I guess they don’t call her the Graveyard Queen for nothing.”

“Evidently not.” His eyes in the shade looked almost black. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Yes, and it’s a bit of a coincidence, considering our previous conversation. If you look closely, you can also make out the outline of a winged effigy. Not a death’s head, but a cherub, which is more common to the mid-nineteenth century.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” Regina said, scratching the bug bite.

I gave her the top-line version. “A skull—a death’s head—was used to represent the grimmer aspects of death like mortality and penance, but the evolution of cherubs and the like symbolized a more hopeful outlook—the soul in flight and the ascension to heaven.”

“The soul in flight,” Devlin said thoughtfully. “Like the feather on the other headstone?”

There it was. A connection between the body found last night and the skeletal remains discovered less than an hour ago. Neither of us said anything, but I knew our minds had gone to the same dark place.

Regina’s gaze hopped back and forth. “Well?”

Devlin gave her a rundown of our previous conversation.

She heard him out with a pensive scowl. “I’ve never given much thought to what they put on tombstones, but wouldn’t anything to do with wings and feathers—all that soul in flight stuff—be pretty common in a Christian cemetery?”

“It’s not uncommon,” I agreed. “Especially in a graveyard as old as Oak Grove. Different eras evoke different imagery, but certain symbols never go away. They just evolve.”

Regina turned back to Devlin. “You really think there’s something to this?”

“I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. It’s too early to consider the symbols anything more than an interesting observation.”

“Interesting is right.” She glanced at me. “You got anything else for us?”

“Just this. If the bones are from the original burial, you’ll need to notify the Office of the State Archaeologist. Remains over a hundred years old fall under her jurisdiction. Her name is Temple Lee. I can make the call for you if you like.”

Regina shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. We’ll need Shaw for the exhumation and I’ll have to line up an entomologist to help us determine PMI.”

“What’s PMI?”

“Postmortem interval. The amount of time passed since death.”

“I thought Shaw was still in Haiti,” Devlin said.

Regina snagged a phone from her back pocket. “One way to find out.” She walked away to make the call, leaving me alone once again with Devlin.

“Would she be referring to Ethan Shaw?”

He looked surprised. “Yes. He’s the forensic anthropologist we normally use in these kinds of cases. I take it you know him?”

“I met him once, very briefly, through his father.”

“The ghost hunter?”

“Rupert Shaw is more than a ghost hunter. He runs one of the most respected institutes for parapsychology studies in the state.”

“Hardly an overwhelming endorsement,” Devlin said. “Don’t tell me you believe in all that mumbo jumbo.”

“I try to keep an open mind. Do you know Dr. Shaw?”

“Our paths have crossed.”

Something in his voice caught my attention. “Crossed professionally?”

“Look, I’m probably not the best person to ask about Rupert Shaw. I think he’s at best a kook and at worst a fraud. Though I can’t say I’m surprised he’s been able to make a name for himself in this city. Charlestonians have always had a high regard for the eccentric.”

“But not you.”

A shadow flicked across his face. “I don’t place much stock in anything I can’t see with my own two eyes.”

Something told me I should let the matter drop, but apparently I wasn’t too keen on listening to warnings these days, internal or otherwise. “What about emotions? Fear, loneliness, grief. Or even love. Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

He froze, and I saw something waver in his eyes, a darkness that made me tremble before he shook off whatever cloud had passed over him.

“Just a friendly word of advice about Rupert Shaw. I don’t know what kind of dealings you’ve had with the man, but I’d be careful of any future associations.”

“I appreciate your concern, but unless you can offer something more concrete than your disdain for his profession, I see no need to alter my opinion or my relationship with Dr. Shaw. He’s been nothing but kind to me.”

“Have it your way,” he muttered.

I thought that was the end of the subject, but then he took my arm and ushered me deeper into the shadows, where we wouldn’t be overheard. We were standing so close I could smell the graveyard on his clothing. Not the putrid odor of death, but the sensual earthiness of a lush, secret garden.

It wasn’t fair, I thought. The cemetery was supposed to be my domain, so how come I was the one short of breath here? How come I was the one with tingling flesh where his fingers circled my arm?

As if sensing my discomfort, he dropped his hand. “You asked earlier about an arrest in the Afton Delacourt murder. No one was ever formally charged, but Rupert Shaw was brought in for questioning.”

“On what grounds?”

“He used to be a professor at Emerson University. He taught classes in ancient burial practices, primitive funeral rites, that sort of thing. After Afton’s murder, some of his students came forward to say that they’d attended séances with him at his home and in a mausoleum here at this cemetery. They said he had a theory about death that he was obsessed with proving.”

“Which was?”

“According to him, when someone dies, a door or gate opens, which allows an observer a glimpse into the other side. The slower the death, the longer the door stays open, so that one might even be able to pass through and come back out.”

Papa’s voice darted through my head.
Once that door has opened…it cannot be closed.

Alarmed, I stared up at him. “What does that theory have to do with Afton Delacourt?”

His expression didn’t waver. “She was tortured in such a way that her death was a long time coming.”

“That’s horrible, but it hardly proves—”

“Her body was found in the mausoleum where Shaw allegedly held his séances.”

I had no response to that. My mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“I’m not saying he’s guilty of anything,” Devlin added. “Just be careful. Don’t get too involved with him or that shady institute of his.”

It had been less than forty-eight hours since I’d first set eyes on John Devlin, and yet neither of us seemed to think twice about his meddlesome interest in my personal affairs.

“How do you know so much about this?” I asked uneasily. “You said the investigation was kept quiet back then and you’re too young to have been on the police force.”