Murder in the Graveyard, page 3
’Twas the season.
“My bet is Tasha and the tour guide,” Kristen said. “Maddie and Britt will be late.”
No need to see Kristen’s face to know she was rolling her eyes. Maddie Petrosian, the Golden Girl in our class, was a success in business, marriage, family—you name it, she could do it. Our friendship had been strained until a year ago when I’d managed to stop a would-be killer taking aim at her. The near tragedy had brought us closer, and I was grateful.
But while she often said the incident had made her realize the importance of time with old friends, it hadn’t made her any better at being on time.
“That’s gotta drive Britt nuts,” I said. “The queen of planners and schedules.” We’d met Britt Lindstrom in high school. Thanks to stock options and a sky-high salary, she’d retired early from one of the tech companies headquartered on the Eastside—meaning east of Lake Washington, the long freshwater lake visible from the top of the cemetery and the source of its name. Now her life revolved around a different kind of stock, breeding and training racehorses on a picture-perfect horse farm. As kids, Britt and Allison Kerry, who died a few years after graduation, had been peas in a pod. Lately, Britt had been spending a lot of time with Maddie, often staying with her when she came into Seattle.
“Opposites attract,” Kristen said, an old joke that applied equally to us and referred to much more than her long blond hair and my short, dark, spiky do.
“Why do you suppose Tasha invited us? Did she come to Allison’s funeral? I don’t think she’s come to any of the reunions.” Although personally, I understood the reunion thing. At ten years, personalities and alliances were much the same and those classmates not yet knocked sideways by fate and fortune seemed blissfully unaware that their time would come. By twenty, the subtle changes life works had begun to show, but comparisons and judgments still seeped into conversations. This past summer, a small group had gathered to mark our twenty-fifth and for the first time, I could honestly say I’d enjoyed myself. Yes, I never had finished my degree. Yes, I was divorced and had no children. Yes, I’d fallen off one career track but unexpectedly landed on another, buying the Spice Shop and discovering that my life’s purpose lay in rosemary and retail. I’m shallow enough to admit that having Nate, my tall, gorgeous fisherman boyfriend, beside me had boosted my confidence higher than any stilettos could ever do. A good thing, because I refuse to wear them.
“Just that Tasha’s visiting—I think her mom’s sick—and she’d always wanted to do this,” Kristen said. “Probably wasn’t anyone else she could ask. She left Seattle right after graduation.”
“I certainly don’t remember her having a thing for graveyards. Or Halloween.” Halloween may be the second-biggest retail holiday now, but when we were kids, it was just for fun. And while we always think we know the people we’ve known forever, the truth is that we don’t.
Just below the top of the ridge lay the most visited graves in the city. The martial artist, philosopher, and actor Bruce Lee and his son Brandon are buried side by side, and their fans often leave flowers, photos, and other mementos. A walkway and a wrought iron fence had been erected a few years ago to protect their graves and those nearby. I resisted the urge to switch on the heavy flashlight in my pocket, the one I’d grabbed from the trunk of my car, and see what offerings had been left for them. Handy as cell phone flashlights are, you never know when you’ll need the real thing. But the Lees deserved peace and quiet, and so did anyone making a late-night pilgrimage.
Each step brought out the sharp, slightly moldy smell of damp autumn leaves. At the top of the ridge, we paused to catch our breath. Before us stretched a monochromatic scene of dimly moonlit stones and monuments amid leafless trees, a few hardy shrubs still clinging to their flower petal dreams.
“There.” Kristen pointed.
The monument Tasha had chosen for our meeting spot dominates this section of the cemetery, though its story is lost to living memory. We made our way toward it, careful where our feet fell.
On the tall, intricately carved marble base, a bas-relief panel shows an older woman, hair in a top knot, reaching over a rail fence to feed a horse. Birds, cattle, and an eager fox look on. Below is the single name, WILSON. On top, the same woman—presumably Mrs. Wilson—sits in a chair, a young girl standing in front of her. Thirty years ago, when we rode our bikes through the cemetery, the monument had captivated and puzzled me. Who was the girl, whom I’d nicknamed Alice in Wonderland for her long hair and the full-skirted dress that fell below her knees? Why was she destined to spend eternity at this woman’s knee?
A lot of people find cemeteries spooky or scary, but to me, they’re fascinating time capsules. They give us glimpses of history, amid the art and architecture of bygone eras. A stone plinth and brass marker commemorate the woman known as Princess Angeline, daughter of Chief Sealth. In high school, we’d learned that she’d refused to leave her home along the waterfront, near what is now Pike Place Market, when the Suquamish were forced onto a reservation so the fledgling city named for her father could grow.
Many of Seattle’s early white settlers are buried here, families who gave our streets their names. Every grave is a story. Who doesn’t choke up at the sight of a carved lamb marking the resting place of a two-year-old who died in 1918, at the height of the flu epidemic? Or the stone for two brothers killed in World War II, the outline of the battleship they died on etched above their names? Even so, a cold sense of dread had dogged me from the moment we stepped off the city sidewalk and into the cemetery. I gritted my teeth and wriggled my shoulders, trying to shake it off, but foreboding never wants to let go.
“Where is Tasha?” Kristen muttered. Eyes on her phone, she stumbled, catching herself before stepping on a modern marker, flush with the lawn. “No message from her.”
“Looking for me?”
I jumped, hearing the voice before I saw the source, a woman dressed in flowing black and what looked like an entire rack of scarves from Nordstrom. Or Spirit Halloween, the seasonal pop-up retailer. All she needed was a pointy hat atop her long, straight hair.
I clapped my hand to my chest. “Geez, Tasha. It’s been how many years and you greet us by scaring the beejeebers out of us?” Whatever beejeebers are.
Her laugh echoed off the marble and granite, sharp and hollow.
“Here we are!” A more familiar voice broke in. Maddie. It wasn’t until I’d exchanged hugs with her and Britt that I noticed none of us had taken a step toward Tasha. She was standing a few feet away, as she always had, an expression that didn’t quite reach a smile frozen on her face. Pushed away, or holding herself apart to avoid the inevitable?
“What did you bring?” I asked, pointing to the basket at her feet. “Are we having a midnight picnic? You should have told us—we’d have brought Bailey’s or spiced cocoa. Or some of the spiced pumpkin cake Kristen’s daughter baked tonight. With caramel sauce. To die for.” Anything to warm us up.
Another laugh. Tasha really did cackle like a witch. Maybe it was the outfit. Or my brain, feeling the strain of the late night and the atmosphere.
“Oh, Pepper. You’ll see,” she said. “It’s all very special.”
“Where’s the tour guide?” Britt looked around. The moon had disappeared again behind a wispy cloud, leaving a thin yellow-gray glow. “He’s late.”
“Tasha, what’s going on?” Maddie said, and I heard her wariness. “We agreed to meet up because you said you’d always wanted to take a midnight tour of the cemetery and you invited us for old times’ sake. But if you have something else in mind—”
“Oh, I do,” Tasha said. “Believe me, this will be a night you’ll never forget.”
Honestly, I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to scare us in fun, in the spirit of the season, or for real.
Either way, it was working.
She picked up the lantern at her feet. Its soft pink glow bounced off the gray and white veins on the marble base of Mrs. Wilson’s monument, casting enough light for me to see my three friends, each holding themselves warily. Battling to keep their fear from showing, just as I was.
“That direction.” Tasha gestured with the lantern. The fringe on one of her scarves fluttered in a gust of wind like the dried-up leaves of the weeping willow a few feet away.
“What about the tour guide?” Britt repeated.
“Britt, dear, you be the guide. You know the way.”
Now I knew, from Tasha’s icy tone, that this was not in fun. What was really going on? Something about her seemed brittle, fragile. Would she be safe if we left? If we were fulfilling one of her bucket list wishes, as she’d claimed, it no longer felt like one I wanted to be part of. But at the moment, I didn’t see that we had much choice.
“Go,” she commanded, and I shivered. The four of us drew closer, our shoulders almost touching. From behind, Tasha urged us forward like a collie herding sheep, the pink light flitting back and forth across our path. I glanced up, hoping for more moonlight. Hoping for other visitors. For someone visiting the Lees to hear noises and investigate. For—for an explanation.
All I saw were the branches of the leafless ornamental cherry trees, crooked black fingers against the shrouded sky.
After minutes that felt like hours, Tasha called out. “Stop.”
We’d reached the back corner of the cemetery, separated from Volunteer Park by a dense row of evergreens, blue-green hemlock by day, pitch black by night. Tasha set the lantern on the concrete pad surrounding a monument I’d never noticed before. A stone chair, wide enough for two. The ends resembled tree trunks, branches for arms. The back read CRAWFORD, the carving stained by age and mildew. It had a creepy, gothic feel, though I suspected that when it was installed—1912, according to the date on the pad—it would have been the height of funerary style. Crawford relatives and friends could sit for a chat when they visited their dead. Inviting, in a strange, old-fashioned way.
Who were the Crawfords? They weren’t our long-gone friend Allison’s family. That might have made some sense, though I didn’t think she and Tasha had been particularly close. In a small school like ours, we’d all been friendly if not friends, everyone connected by some class or club or neighborhood. Quite the web. But Allison was buried in the Catholic cemetery north of the university. I couldn’t recall any Crawfords in our year.
Tasha set the basket on the seat, unfolded the cloth liner, and reached inside.
“Tasha, what—” Kristen began.
“Shut up.” Tasha drew her hand out of the basket and set a small object on the ground, next to the lantern. A little house, Tudor style with dark beams against tan walls, not more than five inches high. Like the house Maddie grew up in. Tasha reached in again and pulled out a matched set of salt and pepper shakers. A symbol of my business, and my name?
Tasha’s evasive bluster was starting to feel like bullying to me. “What is this place?” I asked. “Why are we—?”
“This place,” she said before I could finish, as she set the shakers next to the house, “is the Devil’s Chair.”
I swear, I’d been cold before but now I felt flash frozen. I let out a long breath, steadying myself. “Why is it called that?”
Tasha brought another object out of the basket, though I couldn’t see what it was.
“You tell them, Britt. After all, you’re the one who told me. You and Allison.”
My confusion grew. “Allison? What’s she got to do with this? She’s been dead more than twenty years.”
Tasha opened her hand to reveal a small statue of a horse. A reddish-brown horse with a white blaze. Like the horse Britt had been riding in a photo in the latest alumni newsletter.
In the lantern’s glow, I could see that Britt’s face had gone ghostly pale.
“You haven’t figured this out, have you?” Tasha said. “All of you so smart and successful. Unlike me.”
“What do you mean, unlike you?” Kristen asked. “We don’t know—”
“That’s right. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about me or my life. You don’t care one whit. You never did. Any of you.”
I felt Maddie move before I saw her step to the left, slowly, surreptitiously.
“Don’t even think about it,” Tasha said. She grabbed Maddie, who let out a yelp and staggered.
“Stop it,” I said. “She’s been through enough. We all have.” I reached for Maddie’s arm, not sure how steady she was. Outwardly, she appeared fully recovered, but the gunshot to her head had caused a traumatic brain injury that left her with a movement disorder. Occasionally her body shudders involuntarily or a foot drags. She has to be careful on steps or uneven ground. Like a graveyard. Stress aggravates the tics and the loss of balance.
What was supposed to be a fun, quirky outing with old girlfriends had become the definition of stress.
“Enough?” Tasha snapped. “The Golden Girl of Capitol Hill? Whatever problems you think you’ve had, I guarantee, it’s nothing like what I’ve been through.”
“You don’t know any more about our lives than we do about yours,” I replied. Maybe she hadn’t heard about the attack on Maddie, but this was not the time or place to fill her in on all our ups and downs. “We’re leaving.”
“You aren’t going anywhere, not until I’m finished with you.”
And that’s when we saw the pistol in Tasha’s hand. Small, with a silver barrel and a bone handle. An antique? I’d have thought it a toy if not for the expression on Tasha’s face.
She dropped the tiny horse onto the grass and crushed it with her foot. “You.” She waved the gun at Britt, motioning to the Crawford family monument. “Sit.”
“Tasha, you know I can’t do that,” Britt said, the calm voice that reassured skittish horses and anxious jockeys now thin and shaky. “Anyone who sits on the Devil’s Chair will die within a year.”
Now I was thoroughly confused.
“And you’ll die sooner if you don’t,” Tasha said.
“This is ridiculous.” I was determined to regain control. “We all came out here for a harmless bit of fun, to indulge you, and you’ve turned it into something—”
What, I couldn’t say. Macabre, at best, terrifying at worst. Or did she have something even more sinister in mind?
“Something you all deserve,” Tasha said. “For the way you treated me.”
“What?” Kristen said. “What are you talking about?” The refrain of the night.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Your Halloween party junior year. You were so magnanimous, inviting the class outcast so you and your pals could mock me and play a nasty trick.”
“You weren’t an outcast, Tasha,” Kristen said, and I could hear her confusion, too. “Yeah, maybe we didn’t hang out much, but you lived way up by Northgate and had to catch a city bus right after school so you could watch your little sister.”
I’d forgotten that. Tasha’s mother had been divorced or widowed and left with two girls. Where had she worked? A bank, maybe? Catholic schools hadn’t been so exorbitantly expensive back then, but Tasha must have had a scholarship. I’d never given it any thought.
“Right,” Tasha said. “You’re conveniently forgetting your two gal pals who said they wouldn’t come if you invited me.”
“And I didn’t give in. I told them, ‘too bad, so sad, you’ll miss the party of the year.’ They thought I’d cave and I didn’t, because I wanted you to come.” Kristen leaned into the words, punctuating them with her index finger.
“So you could play Lady Bountiful. You even dressed the part.” Tasha’s words dripped with sarcasm.
Unlike me, Kristen loves costumes. Her house—the one where she still lives, in her family for more than a hundred years—had been the headquarters of the Catholic peace and justice community she and I were raised in. My family had lived there with hers until we were twelve. The cavernous unfinished basement had served as an informal storage locker for every group anyone in the household had been part of, including her great-grandmother’s amateur theatrical society. The year of the big Halloween party, if I remembered right, Kristen had worn an elegant, shimmering gown straight from the pages of F. Scott Fitzgerald and a rhinestone-studded headband. She’d persuaded me to dress as a pirate. I’d worn the eye patch but drew the line at a live parrot.
“You’ve made your point, Tasha,” Kristen said, in the voice accustomed to separating squabbling teenage girls. “You’ve scared us. Now put that gun away and that will be the end of it. Maybe we can meet for a boozy brunch on Sunday and laugh about all this.”
“You don’t get it, do you? You all made my life a living hell.”
I was about to protest when I saw Britt’s face, and Maddie’s. Was that guilt they wore?
“Okay,” I said, hoping the negotiation skills I’d learned working HR and then running a retail shop would be enough. “You talk, we’ll listen. But not at gunpoint. Put that thing in the basket and tell us what happened. What’s this story about the Devil’s Chair?”
“We don’t have time for this,” Britt said. “Let’s all just go home and forget it.”
“No,” Tasha said. She still held the gun, though she’d lowered it. Her hand twitched.
“Tash,” Maddie said, her tone low and soothing. “You’re right. Or half-right. Pepper and Kristen never did anything to you. Me, I’ve been ashamed of myself for years, though I have never said so. Please, accept my apology.”
For a long moment, all of us were—there is no other way to say it—as silent as the grave. Then Tasha spoke.
“I saved my lunch money for weeks to buy a dress. My little sister gave me her birthday money for a new pair of shoes. And it was nothing but a joke.”
Her dark gaze swept across us.
“They didn’t know,” Maddie said, then angled toward us to explain. “I knew she liked Matt—Matt O’Neill—so I sent her fake notes pretending to be from him, inviting her to the senior dance.”
