In the graveyard antemor.., p.11
In the Graveyard Antemortem, page 11
“But why would Sternhardt bother goin’ all the way to Shilling to check out some squatters? That’s not even his town.”
“True,” I admitted. “But Shilling’s even smaller than Ruthsford. Maybe the towns share police services or something? Still,” I said to appease her, “this is great information. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Truly, I didn’t. She was my eyes and ears in Ruthsford. And however unfocused Tina could be, I was always impressed with her dedication as a friend.
“So what’s happening on your end? Interrogate your uncle yet?”
“Interrogate is probably not the right word. I’ve talked to him a bit, I guess. But let’s just say he’s a little—quiet. Not exactly the best guy to get information out of. I’ve been trying to play it safe. See what I can find out on my own. But I’ve been a little—distracted by something else going on.”
“Distracted? By what?”
“It’s not important. What’s important is, thanks to you, I now have a new idea to get my investigation on track.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve inspired me. I think it’s time I go a little Scarecrow and Mrs. King myself.”
Chapter 14
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Emerald Bridge
The small stone cottage looked like something out of a fairytale, with its slanted roof, vine-covered exterior, and stone walkway. I had found it on one of my walks. It was nestled among a grove of mature maples near the crematorium. I approached unannounced with a couple of assumptions. The first was that Uncle Clayton would be preoccupied enough with work that he would not return to his home until later that evening. The second was that he wouldn’t bother locking his door.
Bees swarmed the densely planted chrysanthemums on either side of the door. I paused for a moment with my hand on the knob, working up the nerve to cross into breaking and entering territory. With a quick twist and a shove, the door opened—sort of. It jammed a quarter of the way, snagging against the stone floor. Must be the humidity. I squeezed through the tight opening. And there I was. Inside. Line firmly crossed.
The place smelled of must. From the entryway, I could see a bit into the open kitchen and modest living room. But it was dark. The shades were drawn. And I didn’t have a flashlight. Yet even though it was daytime, I knew enough about sleuthing not to be lifting shades or turning lights on and off. So I used what bit of natural light I had to inspect the rooms.
I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. Anything related to my father. Anything that would lead me to the truth about Clayton Jacobs. The man who, according to Richard, had abducted my mother shortly before her death. The man who had never reached out to be a part of my life until after my father had died. The man who was hell bent on keeping me trapped at Grand Hallow without allowing so much as a phone call to the outside world.
In the living room, I focused on a bookshelf. It was filled with books and stacks of magazines with such titles as Mortuary Management, American Funeral Director, and American Cemetery, all with glossy covers of serene cemetery landscapes and impressive mausoleums. I supposed his reading material was normal enough for a man who had built a funeral and interment empire.
Yet something peculiar did draw my attention. The sun coming through the edge of the shade reflected strikingly off something silver. It was tucked behind a tall pile of magazines. I placed the stack on the coffee table, revealing a metal picture frame. And as I grabbed the frame, my heart stopped. It was covered in dust. I blew on it to get a clearer view of the photograph, to see if my eyes were truly seeing what I thought they saw.
It was a photograph of my dad and Uncle Clayton. They stood in front of the very same Grand Hallow gates that I had passed through. Yet behind them, headstones dotted only a small portion of the hills. And there was only one small building, not the giant campus that I knew. It was surreal. Obviously, I had never seen them together. It was from a different time. They looked so young. Happy.
It was shocking enough, seeing the brothers standing together in front of what seemed to be an early version of Grand Hallow. But that wasn’t what made my heart skip a beat. It was that between them stood—my mother. Despite the colors being washed out, her hair defied the print and shone through as a pretty golden blonde. She wore a wide grin, as if she were caught in the middle of a laugh when the photo was snapped. And to my amazement, on a chain halfway down her chest, was a purple pendant. The necklace was real. It wasn’t just a figment of Richard’s childhood mind. Cut in the shape of a diamond, the gem called attention to itself, glistening even in the faded photograph.
I had seen very few pictures of my mother. There were a few in a scrapbook from when she and my dad were dating. There were a few from their wedding. Those I had seen, I had memorized. And along with Richard’s memory of her, they made up the skeletal framework of her story. In a way, seeing the newly discovered photo was like meeting her again—or at least a piece of her that had been missing. I wanted so badly to keep it. My heart ached as I placed it back upon the shelf and carefully hid it once more behind the stack of magazines.
I suspected the feud between my dad and my uncle had been the reason why the photograph had been tucked out of view. Yet as I made my way down the hall and inspected the master bedroom and office, I took note that there were no other photos on display either. None of Uncle Clayton’s wife. None of his daughters. It was not exactly suspicious. Just curious.
Having found nothing else remarkable in the tiny bungalow, I approached the last room at the end of the hall. The door to this room was shut—and locked. As an amateur sleuth, this naturally piqued my interest. I couldn’t simply break down the door. So I tried the next best thing: I felt above it for a key. My dad would say that sometimes the simplest ideas are the ones most likely to find the solution. And there it was. One of those generic keys that work on most bedroom and bathroom doors.
As soon as I swung open the door, a rush of dust wafted toward me. Immediately, I sneezed. I fished for a light switch. The bulbs were dim in the ceiling fan that slowly began to rotate, dumping more dust into the air as it fell from the blades. It suddenly became apparent I stood in some sort of tomb. And judging from the amount of dust, it hadn’t been opened in years.
The carpet was pink. So too were the curtains. And the wallpaper had a pink-and-white striped pattern like a strawberry candy cane. The double closet doors were open, displaying an impressive array of oversize stuffed animals and dolls. Among the stuffed animals were a giant purple gorilla and a life-size python. And the dolls seemed to line the shelves by the hundreds. Many were porcelain, but there was also an entire set of Holly Hobbie rag dolls. Nearby sat a wooden doll house that was surely custom-made. It included all the detail of a real house and was large enough for a whole family of dolls to comfortably call home. Beside the house was a fleet of toy cars, boats, and planes ready to transport the dolls to any desired destination.
There was a vanity covered in a mess of plastic necklaces and brushes, still with strands of hair in the bristles. On the other side of the room was a craft table with opened tubs of Play-Doh. A winter scene made with the long-hardened dough was frozen in time; it had two snowmen covered with sprinkles of silver glitter. The table also held two Easy-Bake Ovens. And in the corner hung two marionette bird puppets covered in colorful feathers. Basically, it was the childhood bedroom of my dreams.
In the center of the room were two twin beds. They were turned down, exposing Strawberry Shortcake sheets. It was a fascinating time capsule, but also sad—and immensely creepy. It gave me chills, standing in what had to be—
“My daughters’ bedroom.” Uncle Clayton stood in the doorway with a look of anger mixed with anguish.
I was mortified. I couldn’t swallow. “How—how did you?”
“The next time you plan to go sneaking through my home, try to remember my office window has a clear line of sight of this house. So I am quite aware of anyone coming or going.”
I panicked. “I just came—looking for answers,” I said truthfully, spilling my intentions, which, on the surface, were innocent enough. However, I realized quickly this insinuated I didn’t trust him. I didn’t. But I didn’t need him knowing that. The man wasn’t entirely stable. I had to be careful. Handle the situation delicately. But beyond that, I still owed him a better response. Because at my core, I also felt incredibly guilty. It was a sacred place for him, a place of remembrance of his daughters. And there I was, literally trespassing on top of that memory. So I revised my initial response to a grovel: “I am so sorry. I had no idea. I shouldn’t be here. Please, take away my Walkman if you’d like. I shouldn’t be here,” I repeated with remorse.
He entered the room and marveled at it, almost as much as I had. A sudden change came over him once he stepped upon the pink carpeting, something he obviously hadn’t done in years. He looked as if he was simply enchanted. “I’ve kept this room exactly how it was when they were alive,” he boasted. “And then one day, I locked it up. It’s not that unusual, Lisa. You know, they’ve done the same thing with Elvis Presley’s bedroom. It’s exactly the way he left it the day he died. His cologne, his toothpaste. Hell, even his hair dye. They are still sitting on his sink, in the same position he left them that final day. The windows are sealed airtight. It’s controlled for RH, that’s relative humidity, and temperature—or so I hear. I’d imagine it’s kept around a constant seventy degrees with an RH of fifty.” I stood frozen in the middle of the room, between the beds, as he made his way toward me. “Oh, it’s just the type of sordid topic we mortuary types gossip about at conferences.”
He was about to sit on one of the beds and then stopped, looking at the preserved crease in the comforter. After appearing to make peace, he gently sat as if he had just entered a warm bath, finally able to relax. He motioned for me to take a seat on the opposite bed. I did so uneasily, feeling as if I had caused a blemish in driven snow. There, we sat face-to-face. He looked to me with that same smile plastered across his face like a slick preacher, the smile he used to hide whatever truly percolated beneath his skin. I kept notice of the door in my peripheral vision. And I kept one foot on the carpet, ready to bolt if need be. “So what kind of answers did you come here looking for?” he asked.
Shit! I contemplated my response for a while and finally went with, “Well what I wanted to know was—what happened between you and my dad? Why didn’t you get along? Why haven’t I ever met you until now?” I figured it was better than asking, “Did you murder my father?”
“You mean he never told you?” I shook my head. “He never told you anything?”
“No,” I professed. “I knew you existed. But that’s about it, to be honest.”
“Well, my dear. Grand Hallow, it was your father’s idea.”
“My dad’s idea? I find that hard to believe.”
“Yes, it’s positively true. Oh, he probably never imagined it quite at this scale, but he surely was the impetus for it. You see, he was looking to start a small business. He was tired of working on assembly lines with bosses becoming younger than him. He said he had heard the funeral industry was a good investment. He was my older brother. I trusted him. Believed in him. So when he asked if I wanted to go in with him, make it a family business, I had no reservations.
“He had found this little cemetery out in the middle of nowhere. The owner was looking to sell. It was nothing really. Desolate. Hundred or so graves. We started small with cemetery maintenance and burial services. From the proceeds and our own investments, we built a funeral parlor. Not the one you see now, of course,” he softly laughed. “It only had one viewing room. But we managed. We did OK. And then . . . well, then, we found we just weren’t able to make it work.”
“Well, it seemed to work. I mean, look at this place.”
“Oh no, the business grew beautifully. He was right about that. Things just started to—unravel between your father and me. A falling out, I suppose you could call it. We just could never get along after we started the business. Just could not make it work. Well, he ended up pulling out. He moved to Ruthsford and started his own business, his service and gas station, of course. And I kept Grand Hallow.”
“I guess I should’ve just asked what happened between you and my dad in the first place instead of snooping around.”
“Well, I’m glad you finally did.”
“So what was the falling out over?” I asked. “Why exactly did he quit the business?”
“Let’s just say some details are best left in the past—to save a bit of embarrassment, for your father, but mostly for myself,” he said with a wink. “The short of it is, we were just two stubborn fools who later turned into two old stubborn fools. Yes, I suppose the lesson here is you shouldn’t go into business with family. Ah well, I guess history is destined to repeat itself.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh nothing at all,” he said and then cleared his throat. “Your brother. He is now running the family business, no? Your business?”
“My dad’s business. Yes, but that’s just temporary.”
“It’s not my place. But you seem to have a good head on your shoulders, Lisa. Your brother, on the other hand. He seems a bit, well, reckless with his choices.”
“Richard’s a mess. But he’s harmless.”
“Is he?” he asked with a raise of his brow. I was stunned. Was he implying Richard was capable of worse than being a deadbeat? Finally, after leaving me to contemplate his insinuation, he continued, “I didn’t want to tell you this. But Richard asked me for money at your father’s funeral. A great sum in fact. I gave it to him. That’s not important,” he said, waving his hands. “It just tells me a great deal about his character.” So that explained what Richard was doing pulling him aside at the funeral. I should’ve known.
“But you. You haven’t asked for a thing. That tells me a great deal about your character as well. Ned told me you helped with a casket sale? You could be a great asset to the service station business, for sure. But as well you could be a great asset to a place like Grand Hallow.”
I didn’t know what to say. All I could hear was David calling me Bette Davis. I didn’t want to insult Uncle Clayton. But the thought of spending another moment longer than I had to at Grand Hallow made my stomach roll. “Thank you,” I finally replied, not giving away my thoughts on the idea. My dad always told me to never turn down an opportunity, especially one that paid. But how weird would it have been working at the very business my dad had left because of the rotten feelings in his gut? He likely agonized watching his idea grow beyond his wildest expectations—without him—as he struggled with the service station.
“Well!” Uncle Clayton slapped the palms of his hands against his lap and stood. “If your curiosity is now sufficiently satiated, I best be getting back to work. And I’m sure Ned would appreciate your helping hand. That is, if you’re free.”
“Sure. No problem. But I do have one more question.” I couldn’t imagine a better opportunity to ask. As awkward as each of my exchanges with Uncle Clayton had been, that afternoon in his daughters’ bedroom was off the charts. So I decided to go for it with the assumption it couldn’t get any more awkward. “I hate to ask since I’ve invaded so much of your privacy already, but if you don’t mind. What happened to your wife? Your daughters? How did they die?”
He turned away from me and caressed his chin for a moment. “Emerald Bridge happened,” he finally replied. “Emerald Bridge killed them.”
“Emerald Bridge?”
“It was February,” he began, gazing off to another time. “She was taking them to a ballet class in Shilling. Now to get to Shilling from Grand Hallow, one must cross the Emerald Street Bridge over the Emerald River. It’s an old wooden bridge just outside the Grand Hallow property line. There was heavy freezing rain that night. It coated the bridge in glare ice. She lost control. The car bounced off the loose guardrails like a pinball until a section finally gave way. The car, it slipped over the edge and fell seventy feet, plunging beneath the ice. They were trapped. Didn’t stand a chance.
“When they didn’t come home, I went out looking for them. When I finally made it to the bridge, I saw the broken guardrail and the break in the ice. I was too late. Several hours had passed by then. There were no emergency vehicles that could get out there in a reasonable timeframe, especially during an ice storm. So I gathered a few staff members. And we brought our own equipment. It was I who dragged that car out of the river. It was I who took their frozen bodies back to Grand Hallow.”
“How horrible,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
He sighed deeply as his mind returned to the room. “Truth be told, my wife was the real brains of the operation. After your father left, it was she who ran this place. I know enough, I suppose. Can keep it up and running. Maintain the status quo. But it was she who made the decisions that mattered. Without her, I’m lost. And the twins . . .” He moved to a covered frame above the dresser. “What happened to them is just too painful. That’s why I keep this room closed. That’s why I covered this portrait.” He yanked off the dust covering in grief.
I began to tremble. The portrait was of red-headed twin girls. They held hands upon a grassy hill with a vast blue sky behind them. “What’s going on?” I asked as I stood, my voice shaking. “Those girls. I’ve seen them. Out in the cemetery. Playing.”
Immediately, Uncle Clayton’s demeanor changed. His eyes squinted and his lips frowned as if he had just tasted a sour lemon. “Why would you say that, Lisa? That’s impossible. Elizabeth and Imogene died—three years ago! Why would you say such a thing?”
“But I—” My knees began to wobble. I was speechless. The girls, Elizabeth and Imogene, stared at me from their portrait. The clothes they wore were different from my encounters with them, Elizabeth in a yellow sundress and Imogene in a green skirt. But it was them, their red hair parted and curled. “What’s going on?” I asked again under my breath as I slowly walked backward toward the door. Was I going crazy? “I should go,” I announced. I just wanted to get out of that room. “I should go. Now.”
