Jamison said, “Do you want to be buried here?”
“I don’t want to die at all, but it’s not up to me, is it?”
There was a brick wall over six feet high set around the site, surrounded by thick trees, which threw everything into gloomy relief.
“Yes, it is very oppressive here,” said Baron, perhaps reacting to Jamison’s subdued expression.
He took a key from his pocket and opened a rusty wrought iron gate, the only entrance to the burial ground.
He pointed to an inscription written on a brass plate bolted to the wall next to the gate.
“That’s Latin?” said Jamison.
“Very good, Alex,” said Baron.
“What does it say?” asked Decker.
“Something like, ‘Screw unto others as you would have them screw unto you,’” replied Baron.
“It does not say that,” Jamison said with a laugh.
“Well, perhaps just in spirit. The loose translation is something like, ‘Here lie the mighty Barons for all time. Peons take notice.’”
Jamison laughed again.
He led them inside the spacious grounds. Most of the graves were marked by an elaborate piece of marble or granite with the name of the dead on them. The stones were all neatly arranged and perfectly straight and upright. Someone clearly had been taking care of them. In the very center of the site was a large marble mausoleum badly stained by the elements.
Baron led them over to it and patted the rusted wrought iron door that was the entrance to the structure. All around the door the marble was stained with patina from the metal leaching onto the stone. The exterior walls were covered in dirt and grime and streaks of white mixed with rust stains and clumps of fungus.
“In here lies our founder and benefactor, the aforementioned John Quarles Baron the First,” he announced. “He along with his wife, Abigail, and their children reside in there. Along with other family members who died after them.”
“It must be spacious inside,” noted Decker.
“It represents another bone of contention with those living in Baronville that the Baron dead here are housed better than they are.”
Decker noted that on one side the mausoleum had sunk a few inches into the ground. “Structural problems?” he asked.
“I think we can blame it on his being cheap, even with his final resting place.”
“It’s pretty grimy,” observed Jamison.
“I come down here from time to time to take care of the grounds and the other grave markers. But I don’t bother with this one. You can’t power wash this thing or use acid. It would just damage it or cause the marble to disintegrate. And I’m not scrubbing it by hand. I wouldn’t do that even if I had loved Baron the First, which I don’t.”
He held up another key. “Would you like to see inside?”
Jamison immediately drew back, but Decker said, “Sure.”
Baron unlocked the door and pushed it open. He led the way inside.
Decker followed and Jamison reluctantly brought up the rear.
On either side of the space were crypts set in long shelves on the walls. In the very center was a large granite crypt stained with age and moisture. Baron led them up to it.
“My ancestor, if not in the flesh, at least in the bone. He of course had to take center stage.”
Decker and Jamison gazed down at the last resting place of John Baron the First.
“Impressive,” said Decker. “Is everyone in here a Baron?”
Baron shrugged. “I haven’t actually been in here since I was a little boy and my grandmother died. That’s her spot over there,” he added, pointing to a crypt along the left side of the wall. “I remember that this was the creepiest place I’d ever been in, and could barely wait to get out.”
Decker continued to look around the space. The smell of mildew was fierce in here. Two of the walls were blackened with what looked like mold or fungus. Another wall had heavy smears of white, which mirrored those on the outside. The ceiling was blotched and stained with water damage.
He moved forward and bumped his leg against one crypt that jutted out into the main space.
Rubbing his thigh, he looked down at the etched name on the marble.
Abigail Baron.
Baron noted what Decker was looking at and said, “The man obviously wanted his eternal life all to himself, with even his wife shunted off to the side.” He looked around. “It’s full now, so no more admissions are possible. My spot is outside.”
“I can see why you wanted to get out of here when you were little,” said Jamison, slowly looking around. “I mean, it’s all about... death.”
Baron led them back outside and locked the door.
Jamison stepped off to one side of the mausoleum and inspected what looked to be the newest graves on the grounds, though from the dates on the tombstones they were over thirty years old.
“Are these your parents?” she asked.
Baron slowly turned from the mausoleum and looked at the twin tombstones.
“My father, Benjamin, and my mother, Dorothy. Dearly departed, as they say.”
Decker walked over and read the information on the grave markers. “They were only in their forties. And they died on the same day. What happened?”
“Not really sure,” said Baron as he joined them.
Decker and Jamison stared at him. “What do you mean?” Decker asked. “You should know how they died.”
“There are certain people who believe they died in an accident. And there are certain people who believe they committed suicide.”
“Which one do you believe?” asked Jamison.
“Neither.”
“So how do you think they died?” she said.
He looked directly at her. “I think they were murdered.”
“Those are three very different possibilities,” said a clearly surprised Jamison.
“Yes, they are.”
“Why do you think they were murdered?” asked Decker.
“Let’s take a walk. There’s a large pond on the grounds. And while their blooming period is long over, the foliage of the rhododendrons is still quite lovely,” he added in a somber tone.
Baron led them down a well-worn path through stands of trees. Farther down he turned right.
“The grounds used to encompass the land all the way to the bottom where you reach the road heading into town,” he explained. “But the property was sold off over the years. There’s not much left, but what is, I think, are the prettiest parts.”
He led them out of the woods and past a long column of rhododendrons to a large pond whose surface was half covered with vegetation. The ground sloped down toward it on all sides.
“I would come here as a child,” said Baron, gazing at the water as they neared the edge. “We could never swim in it. You see the plant growth? The vines reach all the way to the bottom. You can easily become entangled. Indeed, one of my ancestors nearly drowned in there. Ever since then we would only come down to admire it. Or take a little rowboat across to the other side. It’s quite deep in the center. And it used to have fish stocked, but that was a long time ago.”
“And your parents?” prompted Jamison.
“My parents died in there,” he said simply.
“But you just said no one went swimming in there.”
“They weren’t swimming. They were in their car.”
Decker said, “How did a car get here?”
“Back then there was a road leading from the house to here. A long time ago my great-grandfather had it put in. That was when money was more plentiful. They would drive their cars here and picnic. They’d spend the whole day here, I was told. When I was a child, I remember my father bringing me and my mother down here, though we never had the luxury of an all-day picnic. But it was still very nice. Some of my happiest times here were with my parents.”