Cemetery Dance

Chapter 15

The Rolls passed through a pair of gates set into a faux — brick wall, decorated with plastic ivy stapled haphazardly across its front. A sign amid the ivy informed visitors that they had arrived at Whispering Oaks Cemetery and Mausoleum. Beyond the wall lay an expanse of green lawn, bordered by freshly planted oak trees kept vertical by guy wires. Everything was new and raw. The graveyard itself was virtually empty, and D'Agosta could still see the seams where the turf had been rolled down. Half a dozen gigantic, polished granite gravestones were clustered in one corner. Ahead, a mausoleum rose up from the center of the greensward, bone white, stark, and charmless.

Proctor guided the Rolls up the asphalt drive and came to a halt in front of the building. A strip of flower bed before the mausoleum was bursting with flowers, despite the fall season, and as he emerged from the car D'Agosta prodded one with his foot.

Plastic.

They stood in the parking lot, looking around. "Where is everybody?" D'Agosta asked, looking at his watch. "The guy was supposed to be here at noon."

"Gentlemen?" A man had emerged, ghost — like, from the rear of the mausoleum. D'Agosta was startled by his appearance: slender, wearing a well — cut black suit, his skin unnaturally white. The man hurried over, hands clasped obsequiously in front of him, and went straight up to Pendergast. "How may I help you, sir?"

"We are here with regard to the remains of Colin Fearing."

"Ah, yes, the poor fellow we interred, what, almost two weeks ago?" The man beamed, looking Pendergast up and down. "You must be in the business. I can always tell a man in the business!"

Pendergast slowly dipped a hand into his pocket.

"Yes, yes," the man went on, "I remember the interment well. Poor fellow, there was just his sister and the priest. I was surprised — the young ones usually draw a crowd. Well! What mortuary are you gentlemen from, and how can I be of service?"

Pendergast's hand had finally withdrawn a leather case from his pocket, which he held up, allowing it to drop open.

The man stared. "What — what's this?"

"Alas, we are not 'in the business,' as you so charmingly put it."

The man paled even further, saying nothing.

D'Agosta stepped up and handed him an envelope. "We're here about the court — ordered exhumation of Colin Fearing. The papers are all in there."

"Exhumation? I don't know a thing about it."

"I talked to a Mr. Radcliffe about it last night," said D'Agosta.

"Mr. Radcliffe didn't tell me anything. He never tells me anything." The man's voice rose in querulous complaint.

"That's too bad," said D'Agosta, the foul mood he had been in since the murder surfacing again. "Let's get this over with."

The man was clearly frightened. He seemed to sway in place. "We've… we've never had this sort of thing happen before."

"Always a first time, Mr. — " "Lille. Maurice Lille."

Now the M.E.'s much — abused van came rattling down the drive, laying down a cloud of blue smoke. It swung around the curve too fast — D'Agosta wondered why they always drove like maniacs — and came to a halt with a little screech, the vehicle rocking back and forth on a bad suspension. A couple of med techs in white overalls got out, walked to the back, threw open the doors, and slid out a gurney on which lay an empty body bag. Then they approached across the parking lot, pushing the gurney in front.

"Where's the mort?" bawled the thinner of the two, a freckle — faced kid with carroty hair.

Silence.

"Mr. Lille?" D'Agosta asked after a moment.

"The… mort?"

"You know," said the tech. "The stiff. We don't got all day."

Lille shook himself out of his shock. "Yes. Yes, of course. Please, follow me into the mausoleum."

He led the way to the front door, punched a code into a keypad, and the faux — bronze door clicked open, revealing a high, white space with crypts rising from floor to ceiling on all four walls. Two enormous bunches of plastic flowers spilled out of a pair of gigantic Italianate plaster urns. Only a few of the crypts were marked with black, incised lettering giving names and dates. D'Agosta couldn't help but test the air for that smell he knew so well, but it was clean, fresh, perfumed. Definitely perfumed.Place like this, he thought,must have one hell of a forced — air system.

"I'm sorry. You did say it was Colin Fearing?" Despite the excessive air — conditioning, Lille was sweating.

"That's right." D'Agosta glanced with irritation at Pendergast, who had gone off on a stroll, hands behind his back, lips pursed, looking around the place. He always seemed to disappear at the wrong time.

"Just a moment, please." Lille went through a glass door that led to his office and came back out clutching a clipboard, looking up at the vast wall of crypts, his lips moving as if counting. After a moment, he stopped.

"There it is. Colin Fearing." He pointed at one of the marked crypts, then stepped back, the grimace of an attempted smile on his face.

"Mr. Lille?" said D'Agosta. "The key?"

"Key?" A look of panic took hold. "You want me to open it?"

"That's what an exhumation is all about, right?" said D'Agosta.

"But, you see, I'm not authorized. I'm just a salesman."

D'Agosta exhaled. "You'll find all the paperwork in that envelope. All you have to do is sign the top page — and get us the key."

Lille looked down and discovered, as if for the first time, the manila envelope he was clutching in his hand.

"But I'm not authorized. I'll have to call Mr. Radcliffe."

D'Agosta rolled his eyes.

Lille went back into his office, leaving the door open. D'Agosta listened. The conversation started off low, but soon Lille's shrill voice was echoing through the mausoleum like the cries of a kicked dog. Mr. Radcliffe, apparently, was not interested in cooperation.

Lille came back out. "Mr. Radcliffe is coming in."

"How long will that take?"

"An hour."

"Forget it. I already explained this to Radcliffe. Open the crypt. Now."

Lille wrung his hands, his face contorted. "Oh dear. I just… can't."

"That's a court order in your hand, pal, not a permission request. If you don't open that crypt, I'll cite you for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty."

"But Mr. Racliffe will fire me!" Lille wailed.

Pendergast swung back around from his self — guided tour, strolling casually up to the group. He approached the face of Fearing's crypt and read aloud: "Colin Fearing, age thirty — eight.Sad when they die young, don't you think, Mr. Lille?"

Lille didn't seem to hear. Pendergast laid a hand on the marble, as if caressing it. "You say no one came to the funeral?"

"Just the sister."

"How sad. And who paid for it?"

"I'm… I'm not sure. The sister paid the bill, I think from the mother's estate."

"But the mother is non compos mentis." The agent turned to D'Agosta. "I wonder if the sister had a power of attorney? Worth looking into."

"Good idea."

Pendergast's white fingers continued to stroke the marble, drawing back a small, hidden plate, exposing a lock. His other hand dipped into his breast pocket and emerged with a small object, like a comb with only a few short teeth at one end. He inserted it into the lock, gave it a wiggle.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're…" Lille began, his voice dying away as the crypt door swung open noiselessly on oiled hinges. "No, wait, you mustn't do this—"

The med techs pushed the gurney forward, raising it with a little shake to the level of the crypt. A small flashlight appeared in Pendergast's hand, and he aimed it into the darkness, peering inside.

There was a short silence. Then Pendergast said: "I don't think we'll be needing the gurney."

The two med techs paused, uncertain.

Pendergast straightened up and turned to Lille. "Pray tell, who keeps the keys to these crypts?"

"The keys?" The man was shaking. "I do."

"Where?"

"I keep them locked up in my office."

"And the second set?"

"Mr. Radcliffe keeps them off site. I don't know where."

"Vincent?" Pendergast stepped back, motioned toward the open crypt.

D'Agosta stepped up and peered in the dark cavity, his eye following the narrow beam of the flashlight.

"The damn thing's empty!" he said.

"Impossible," quavered Lille. "I saw the body put in there with my own eyes…" His voice choked off and he clutched at his tie.

The carroty — haired med tech peered in, to see for himself. "Well fuck me twice on Sunday," he said, staring.

"Not quite empty, Vincent." Pendergast snapped on a latex glove and reached inside, gingerly withdrawing an object and displaying it to the others in the palm of his hand. It was a tiny coffin, crudely fashioned from papier — mâché and bits of cloth, its folded — paper lid ajar. Inside lay a grinning skeleton composed of tiny, white — painted toothpicks.

"There is an interment in here — of sorts," he said in his mellifluous voice. There was a gasp, followed by a soft, collapsing sound. D'Agosta turned. Maurice Lille had fainted.