“Old bones. What can they tell?” Pewter sniffed.
“Sometimes if a bone is cut or smashed they know how a person was killed. And they most always can determine gender. ’Course, that’s easy with these bones. Sometimes they can determine race and age, too. We’ll see,” Mrs. Murphy pronounced.
While the five humans, two cats, and one dog waited for the forensic team to show up, Reverend Jones did read the service for the dead and the humans acted as witnesses and mourners.
Not only did the sheriff’s department get there, but so did Channel 29, Channel 6 had a stringer, and The Daily Progress sent a reporter. This was going to be a big story.
As the skeleton was removed the Progress reporter asked Harry what she thought.
“There are so many stories about buried treasure at the old estates. Well, one turned out to be true.”
“Reverend Jones,” the reporter asked, “did you hear stories about buried treasure in the graveyard?”
“No, but I believe everyone in here is a buried treasure.”
Finally on the way home, Mrs. Murphy said to her two friends and Harry, if she could understand, “I wonder who will get the pearl necklace?”
“It should go to the church,” Tucker forcefully said.
“Nothing is that easy,” Pewter grumped. “That necklace is worth a fortune.”
“A bloody fortune,” Mrs. Murphy added.
Harry commented as she turned down the dirt and gravel road to the farm. “It’s been quite a day.”
The blue jay swooped in front of the Volvo, screaming at Pewter inside.
“Fatty Fatty!”
“I understand why people will kill one another. I will kill that blue jay. I will. I will,” the gray cat vowed.
Harry finished up the early-evening chores, her mind whirring. She never saw it coming with MaryJo. She never imagined a richly laden pile of bones would be tucked away in St. Luke’s graveyard, either.
Petting Shortro, one of the horses, as she brought him in, she said to the handsome gray fellow as the cats and dog listened, “Shortro, I’m not as smart as I’d hoped I’d be.”
“Humans worry too much.” The gentle horse nuzzled her. “Some things you’re not supposed to know.”
Pewter piped up. “And even when you find out, if you do, what difference does it make?”
Harry walked Shortro, followed by his friends, into the barn. She looked at the evening star, large and luminous light in the sky, and wondered if it shone that brightly on the night the woman was killed.
Then wondered who desecrated the grave.
Shrugging, she stared again at the blazing star, said to her animal friends, “I wonder if we’ll ever know who is behind this. If stars, trees, rocks could talk, we’d know most everything. Maybe it’s better we don’t.”
Pewter blinked. “I can’t believe she said that, the world’s most curious human.”
Mrs. Murphy’s whiskers swept forward. “It’s true, though. What do we really need to know? The evening star saw as we changed from saber-toothed tigers to house cats.”
“Oh, Murph, the saber-toothed tiger turned into a tiger.” Tucker laughed.
“Well, the evening star can watch you get swatted!” Pewter reached out to smack the dog, who dashed away.
So the evening star observed one puzzled, tired human as well as a merry chase.
October 15, 1786 Sunday
St. Luke’s structure, washed in late-afternoon sun, testified to the progress Charles and the builders had achieved. The church itself, framed up, stood in the middle of the two wings, more or less roughed in as were the two smaller buildings, duplicates of each other at the ends of the arches. Charles decided to build with wood first, then cover that with stone. Usually the stone was done first but the press of oncoming winter encouraged him to try something different. The large log structure, now hidden behind the church, could serve indefinitely, but Charles learned if people could see progress they chipped in more readily.
The entire congregation of St. Luke’s gathered in the new graveyard in the rear, the stone walls already constructed. The Taylors, respected and admired, drew friends from St. Mary’s, as well as the Episcopal Church along with the various smaller Baptist churches. Father Donatello came, as did clergy from the other houses of worship.
Michael and Margaret Taylor, formerly strong and productive had wasted away. The cause was deemed the sweating sickness, malaria. At the end, both had lost so much weight as to be almost unrecognizable. In early middle age, they worked hard. He built snake fences, showing others how to do it, as well as stone fences. Michael oversaw the lovely stone fence for St. Luke’s graveyard. It was he who told Charles that while buildings, important though they were, excited the parishioners, a proper graveyard needed to come first. The dead must always be respected and cherished. Who could have believed he and his wife would be placed there together on a brilliant mid-October day? Margaret expired first, Michael two hours later.
He had whispered to his eldest child, eighteen years of age, that he was sorry to leave her and her brothers, but he couldn’t imagine life without his perfect Margaret.
To find the right mate provided progress, love, and respect. Catherine and John stood next to Rachel and Charles. Each of these young people knew of the fragility of life and each, like Michael, couldn’t imagine a life without his or her partner.
The funeral was late in the afternoon so people from the other churches could attend. The Taylors had died that morning. As it was not unexpected, word traveled fast. The number of mourners testified to that.
Maureen and Jeffrey attended. Well, just about everybody did, but Maureen wanted everyone to see the carriage her husband had built with his father. Indeed, it was a beauty and people marveled that a local cabinetmaker mastered the skills so quickly. Just getting the angle of the big wheels correct on the axle took some doing. Jeffrey was not afraid to ask for help and to import same. The coach-in-four gleamed a deep maroon with gold pinstriping. On the doors, Maureen’s crest had been painted. Yes, it was not the thing to do in a new republic, but Maureen’s defense was that she was from the Caribbean. No one argued. Of course, there were those who thought she should return to the Caribbean.
The Shippenworths from Philadelphia were also there, having stayed in Virginia for the better part of the year. Their carriage, splendid but not flashy, would carry the Holloways and themselves to Hot Springs. If General Washington and Thomas Jefferson could take the waters there, so could the Shippenworths and the Holloways. The springs remained warm regardless of the season. Many swore by their medicinal powers.
The service, dignified, closed with “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Tears filled many eyes.
Rachel, wiping her own, said in a low voice, “They left us too soon, but they left us with a good example.”
Charles, arm around her waist, nodded. “A short good life is better than a long, useless one.”
As the assembled walked toward the log building, the main church was not yet ready for people, the delicious scent of food filled the air.
Inside, Bettina, Serena, even Bumbee, busied themselves. Ewing had asked them to honor the Taylors. He paid them, too, for intruding on their Sundays. The women and the other slaves working in the makeshift kitchen liked the Taylors. Bettina, having lost her own husband at a young age, thought death made all people equal, king as well as slave. It was not an equality she soon wished to experience.