The mausoleum had been re-sealed, but the yellow police crime scene ribbons still cordoned off the area. Within seconds we were standing three feet in front of the entrance. Quilla looked at the gloomy, marble structure that stood roughly eight feet high and ten feet deep.
“Looks like a cement beach cabana,” she smirked, then ducked under the police ribbon and stepped slowly to the door. It was as if she were approaching her Aunt’s body in a coffin. She walked around the mausoleum, studying it closely, as if she were looking for something.
She placed her right hand, palm up, onto the door and lowered her head as if in some silent prayer or reverie and remained in that pose for about thirty seconds. I heard the sniffle again, but this time she didn’t try to hide it. She pulled back her hand and looked at me.
“How did the guy who killed my Aunt get into this thing? It looks totally break-in-proof.”
“Some of the old ones have loose stones. Remove one or two and it’s easy to slip inside. My guess is that whoever did made sure nobody else could get in unless they broke in through the door like the guys who stumbled onto her body.”
“What a horrible way to die,” said Quilla, then without warning she ran straight back to the hearse, almost tripping over an in-the-ground headstone. As I walked back I watched her yank open the door and climb inside. She put her hands to her face to hide the tears.
I could hear the sobbing twenty yards away. I stayed back, pretending not to hear her. She struck me as someone who would be embarrassed to be seen crying so vehemently. To give her privacy I stood behind a four-foot high headstone with sheaves of wheat carved into it, symbolizing that the deceased had lived to a ripe old age.
As I listened to Quilla cry I remembered my conversation with Perry, specifically, how I had told him that the killer had to know something about cemeteries, especially this cemetery. I wondered if he had acted on that. But I also wondered if I was right. Maybe the killer came up with the idea of hiding the body in a mausoleum in a remote part of an old cemetery from watching a horror movie. Or maybe it was just a good guess or a dumb luck decision that worked for the past nine years.
But the more I thought about it, the more I felt in my gut that my initial assumption had to be right. A cemetery buff had killed Brandy Parker. Either that or someone who knew a cemetery buff and had picked up enough knowledge from being around him. Or her. Choosing this mausoleum in this part of the cemetery was no good guess, no random selection. It was a clever, calculated decision.
As Vaughn always said when he was convinced of something, I felt it in my bones.
Chapter 9
I gave Quilla about five minutes alone to work through her tears before I made my way back to the hearse. I slid in and said, “You okay?” and she muttered a soft, choked up “Yeah,” that told me she wasn’t.
I turned the key in the ignition and drove back to Mel’s office. Again, I left Quilla in the car while I ran inside and had Mel work up the paperwork for the purchase, opening and closing of Brandy Parker’s grave. Within five minutes I was back in the hearse and Quilla and I were heading to Dankworth. I decided that she probably needed silence and that there would be no conversation unless she started it.
She didn’t say a word for about five minutes. All she did was fiddle with the knob on the glove compartment. I concentrated on driving, then suddenly, Quilla asked me a question that caught me totally off guard. “Do you know any private detectives?”
I hesitated for a moment. “No. Why?”
“I want to hire one to find the guy who killed my Aunt.”
“I changed my mind. Understand something… nobody cares who killed my Aunt except me. My mother could care less. When the call came about finding the body her only reaction was that it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Know why? She and her husband were going on vacation this week.”
I was curious that she didn’t refer to Suzanne’s husband as her father. “You mean your father?”
“My father lives in California. He’s a jerk. I hate him. Alan is my stepfather. He’s only half-a-jerk and I hate him too. I can’t wait for them to leave. I’ll be alone for fourteen days and have some peace and quiet.” She bit her lower lip. “My mother didn’t even cry. And when Cobb called her she didn’t even ask him about what he’s gonna do to find out who did it. That’s why I’ll be the only one who does anything about finding out who killed my aunt.”
“What will you do?” I was fascinated by her tenacity and not for one second did I find her passion false.
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Look. I have a professional relationship with Perry. I can find out if he’s doing anything.”
“I can find out too,” she almost barked. “I have a relationship with Greg.”
“Greg’s not somebody Perry would tell crucial facts to.”
“And like he’d tell things to you — a mortician?” she snapped.
“Perry and I go way back. I’ll set up a meeting between you two. You can tell him everything you know about your aunt, starting with the fact that you have her things and that she has notebooks.”
“He’ll want to read them. I don’t like the idea of him knowing her thoughts.”
“You can’t think like that. Whatever piece of her that you possess, no matter how personal and intimate, if it’ll provide a clue to her killer, you have to turn it over.”
She paused for a few more seconds. “Why are you being so nice to me? I mean, it’s almost like you really give a damn.” She arched her eyebrows. “Or is this all part of the Funeral Director act?”
“You’re not the typical grieving person I deal with.”
“There’s something more going on, isn’t there? You don’t come off like some perv child molester who’s acting like you feel sorry for me so you can get in my pants. It’s just… your motivation confuses me.”
“I’m touched by your love for your Aunt. It makes me want to help you.”
“But why? I keep getting vibes from you that, like, this is somehow personal to you.”
I averted her eyes. Her perception was alarming. At fifteen she had the ability to pinpoint truth or the lack thereof. It made me uncomfortable.
“I understand loss,” I said. “And the importance of closure. I never got it with Alyssa.”
“I know all about closure. I’ve been waiting for it nine years. I got it yesterday.”
“Not completely. You won’t have full closure until you find out who killed your Aunt.”
Quilla was silent for a moment. “Do I have to wear a dress when I come to the Funeral Home tonight? And does it have to be black?”
“Wear what you think your aunt would have worn.”
Quilla shot me a smile. “Cool.”
After dropping Quilla off, my next destination was the Coroner’s to pick up Brandy Parker’s remains. I didn’t tell Quilla where I was going.
From my iPhone I called the Home to let Clint and Nolan know that we had another body coming in. If it hadn’t been such a hectic week I would’ve had Clint come with me to pick up the remains. He only accompanied me, or I him, on removals when the corpse was inordinately heavy and difficult for one person to manage alone.
Nolan took the call. The words weren’t even out of my mouth before he asked if it would be a full service.