Cavanaugh or Death (14 page)

* * *

“What have you got against us, Detective?” Weaver moaned as he grudgingly led the way to the gravesite specified in the court order.

“Absolutely nothing,” Moira promised him. “The way I see it, we're trying to keep you from being a victim of some kind of crime.”

“The way
I
see it, you're doing more harm to my cemetery than an infestation of gophers,” Weaver complained, no doubt putting it into terms he was comfortable using.

Weaver looked the court order over intently one last time, then folded it and put it into his back pocket. “Everything looks in order,” he muttered, annoyed. “But you put everything back the way you found it,” he warned sternly.

But he couldn't quite pull it off. His lower lip had quivered, giving him away.

“Provided we don't find any evidence of a crime,” Moira clarified.

The groundskeeper didn't look overly happy about the coda. Frowning, he ambled over to the side, out of the crime scene investigators' way.

* * *

“Everything looks all right to me,” one of the CSI agents reported once the grave had been opened and the coffin lid raised.

This time, Moira forced herself to look at the body.

“Wait,” she requested just before the investigator was about to close the coffin lid again. “Let me see something,” she requested.

O'Shea, the other investigator who had also been present at the first exhumation, looked at her with interest. A fresh pair of eyes was always welcome. “Something catch your eye?”

She stepped around the lid, her gaze never leaving the body in the coffin. “Look at the way the body is lying in the coffin,” she directed. When no one commented she said, “It's off to one side.”

“So?” Davis asked, still not seeing what she was pointing out.

“So, when they lower the coffin into the grave, it's level on both sides, right? The body would remain in the middle, not slide off to one side.”

Davis didn't see it as a big breakthrough. “Maybe someone slipped.”

But Moira shook her head. “Hardly likely. These coffins are constructed so that the ‘dearly departed' don't rattle around.” She looked back at what was left of Marjorie Owens. “This body's been deliberately moved.”

“Why would someone dig up a coffin just to move the body around?” O'Shea verbalized what the others were thinking. “That's pretty sick.”

“Maybe she was moved around because they were looking for something,” Davis suggested, speaking up. He tried not to notice the way the woman who was currently sharing his car lit up. And he definitely tried not to notice how seeing her that way warmed him.

“Like what?” O'Shea asked.

“Best guess is money,” Davis answered.

“Or jewelry from a jewelry heist,” Moira added, trying to contain the exhilarated feeling she was experiencing because someone finally saw what she did.

“That's insane,” Weaver protested. He'd come forward when the discussion had taken a turn in this direction and his eyes were now as huge as saucers as he stared into the interior of the coffin.

Undoubtedly imagining it filled with money and jewels, Moira thought.

Chapter 13

“O
kay, what do these two people have in common?” Moira asked.

She and Davis were back in her squad room again. Pulling some strings, she had been able to commandeer a mobile bulletin board, placing it in a small, unused corner of the squad room near the watercooler. At the moment she had DMV photographs of the two women whose graves had been disturbed tacked up on that bulletin board.

“They're both dead,” Davis said drolly. He was nursing a deep black cup of coffee that looked to be one step removed from solid asphalt.

Because of the bulletin board, they had decided to set up shop in this corner, using a folding banquet table to accommodate them instead of regular desks. Moira had her laptop on her side of the table while Davis seemed content with just a pad and pen.

“Other than that,” she said pointedly before volunteering the first thing that had occurred to her when she'd looked at the vehicle license photos. “They were both buried twenty years ago and neither seems to have had any available next of kin. They're also both women, but I don't know if that has anything to do with any of this.”

Davis seemed to think her words over before commenting. “That would point to someone having knowledge of both dead people and to something possibly being stashed in their coffins
now.
”

There was one thing wrong with that theory. “Except that we didn't find anything in either one of the coffins.”

Davis didn't seem quite ready to give up his idea. “Maybe whatever it was wasn't supposed to be there for long.”

But Moira shook her head. “That just seems like too much trouble to go through for something that temporary.” She stared at the two photographs, as if looking at them long enough might yield some sort of a viable answer. “Why not just stash whatever it is in a locker of some sort? It's less conspicuous that way—and there's no shoveling involved.”

Davis frowned at her. Much as he hated to admit it, she was right. “You've got a point,” he grudgingly admitted. “Did CSI trace the shovel you found at the second grave to a buyer?”

“Would have been nice,” Moira agreed, “but, no, they didn't. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the shovel and, unfortunately, shovels don't come with serial numbers.”

“Fingerprints?” he suggested. After all, if it was used, someone had to hold the handle.

“Gloves,” Moira answered. “These people planned ahead.”

Davis blew out a frustrated breath. “They're obviously not the amateurs we thought they were.” Thinking for a moment, he raised his eyes to hers as a thought suddenly occurred to him, and asked, “What if there are more?”

“More what?” she asked. “More people involved?”

Davis shook his head. “No, more tampered graves.”

She'd completely overlooked that possibility. Maybe there
were
more and, with more, there just might be an answer to all this.

Pleased, Moira smiled broadly at him. “Knew there was a reason I wanted to partner up with you. Sorry,” she immediately corrected herself, realizing that the word he objected to so strongly had accidentally slipped out. “I mean, I wanted to go steady with you.”

It took effort to keep his jaw from dropping. “What?”

Moira spread her arms wide. She tried for an innocent look, as well, but it refused to take. “Well, you said you don't want me using the word ‘partner,' but you didn't say you had anything against my using the phrase ‘going steady.'”

“There's no need for any kind of a ‘phrase' or ‘term.' We're
working
together for the time being. That should be enough,” Davis fairly snapped at her.

“Don't ruin the moment,” she warned him. Then, growing serious, she began making plans. “First thing tomorrow, we're going back to St. Joe's to see if any of its other permanent occupants have had their eternal rest disturbed.”

“Can't wait,” Davis muttered. Uncrossing his ankles, he swung his long legs to the floor. “Is that all, boss-lady?”

“If that title dripped with any more sarcasm, you'd be in serious danger of drowning,” Moira glibly pointed out.

“I know how to swim,” was his rejoinder. “See you in the morning, Cavanaugh.”

So, apparently, they were back in their corners, she thought. But not for long, she silently vowed.

“See you,” she echoed. “And make sure you give what I said at the fast-food place about coming to the christening some more thought,” she requested.

“Answer'll still be the same whether I think about it or not,” he promised, raising his voice. Then, in case there was any doubt as to what that answer would be, he tendered it. “No.”

“If the answer's the same, that means you haven't really put any thought into it,” she noted.

“No, that just means I was right in the first place and there isn't anything to expand on.” Instead of leaving, he caught himself pinning her in place with his eyes for a moment. “Why use fifty words when five will do?”

The first reason that came to her mind was voiced. “To avoid misunderstandings.”

Davis laughed shortly. “Now you sound like a lawyer. Only lawyers use a hundred words to describe ordinary, everyday items.”

“I don't need a hundred. I just want to hear one,” she told him as he started walking away. “That word's ‘yes,'” she called after him.

He didn't bother turning around. Instead he just kept walking as he said, “Not going to happen.”

The problem was that as much as he had the courage of his convictions, he wasn't a hundred percent convinced that what he'd just said was going to transpire.

This particular Cavanaugh was far too stubborn for
his
own good.

* * *

Because two of the gravesites had already been recently disturbed, there was enough probable cause to order a temporary shutdown of the cemetery, during which time Moira and the people assigned to her could conduct a thorough search of the grounds for more disturbed graves.

The search turned up two more.

“Just two?” Moira asked, almost disappointed as she looked at the group of five police officers she and Davis had been able to get assigned to the search. “You're sure?”

“We could go through the grounds again, Detective, but that's all we found,” a seven-year veteran of the force named Jefferson Wakefield told her.

“I suppose two's better than nothing,” Moira murmured.

“All it'll take is one to provide us with the key to all this,” Davis reminded her.

“You're right,” she agreed. Turning to the officer closest to her, she requested, “Show me where the graves are.”

The graves were at opposite ends of the cemetery. The first was in the same section as the first two had been found. The second, however, was located in the section reserved for the more expensive plots. These faced the morning sun, which in turn meant that they were in the shade for the hotter part of the day, which was an added benefit in the summer. Also, the view in this particular section was better, both of which could be considered as important points for the family of the deceased, not the actual deceased, Moira thought.

And that, in turn, might turn out to be to their benefit.

“I take it that—” she paused to read the name inscribed on the gravestone “—Shirley Reynolds has next of kin.”

“Don't know yet,” Davis told her. For that, they needed Montgomery, or at least his access to the information. “But I'd say it is a safe bet. Or, at the very least, the woman had next of kin when she died.”

Moira looked around the immediate vicinity. “Where is our friendly neighborhood groundskeeper?” she asked.

Weaver had been the one they had served papers on when they had first arrived. The man had looked overwhelmed with all the rhetoric in the papers so she had explained it to him, telling him that, for the time being, the cemetery had to be closed to the public and to all visitors for the officers to be able to do their job.

“Haven't seen him since we got started,” Davis told her. “My guess is that the guy's probably off hiding somewhere.”

She tended to agree. “Or making himself very, very scarce.” Was that because he was brooding over this invasion of his “space”? she wondered. Or was it because the groundskeeper had some sort of connection to the disturbed graves?

Davis looked at her, shaking his head. “Our boy Weaver's not smart enough to be part of something like this.”

“To engineer it, no,” Moira agreed. “But he's definitely smart enough to look the other way if someone paid him to.”

Davis gave her a rather dubious look. “Be serious. Would you trust Weaver with your secret?”

“No, but I'm smarter than the average criminal,” she told him.

Davis laughed shortly. “Beauty, brains and modesty, what a combo,” he quipped.

“What part of that was sarcasm?” Moira asked, pretending to bat her lashes at him.

There was something almost seductive about her when she did that and he found himself doing what he could to block it. To keep her from guessing what was on his mind, what passed for a smile fleetingly touched his lips.

“That's for you to figure out.” He glanced back at the second grave. The exhumation count was going up. “More court orders?” he proposed.

She nodded. “Unless Shirley or Anne back there have next of kin we can actually talk to.”

“Next of kin might say no,” he reminded her, adding, “I certainly wouldn't want Uncle Alfred dug up on the say-so of some wet-behind-the-ears detective.”

“Uncle Alfred?” she questioned, instantly curious.

Did he have family, after all? Family he wasn't owning up to? And if he did, why did he act as if there was no family for him to turn to?

Again, Davis could all but read her mind. He knew where she was going with this. “Figure of speech,” he told her. “There is no Uncle Alfred.”

She let that go for now. But she wasn't done yet. “And the ‘wet-behind-the-ears-detective' comment refers to...?”

He'd found out a long time ago that the less he said specifically, the less he could be blamed for. And the less that would come back to bite him.

“You're primary on this, but I've been with the force longer. You figure it out.”

She reacted to his tone rather than to his words. “You are a cup of sunshine, Gilroy.”

“Never claimed to be.”

She turned toward the two officers who were closest to her. “Rope off the two graves we just found and don't let anyone near them. The detective and I are going to request permission to shed a little more daylight on this case,” she said so that the officers were kept in the loop and knew what was going on.

Davis looked at his watch. It was already past noon. “This might take a while,” he pointed out.

She stopped and turned around. “You're right. Sommerville,” she called out to another officer. When the latter crossed to her, Moira took out several large bills and handed them to the officer. “Get yourself and the officers something to eat. We'll be back as soon as we can,” she promised. “In the meantime, nobody goes near the graves—this means the groundskeeper if he ever turns up again.”

“You think because you fed them, you bought their loyalty?” Davis asked as they headed toward the cemetery's main exit.

“No,” she contradicted, “I think because I treated them like people, not ‘underlings,' I created some good will.” She looked at him pointedly as they returned to his vehicle. “I believe in treating people the way I like being treated.”

He thought of her continual harping on this so-called christening she wanted him to attend.

“So what you're telling me is that you like being ordered around and forced to do things you don't want to do.”

She knew immediately what he was referring to. Moira grinned at him as they reached his car. “You are definitely a challenge, Davis. But, in case you haven't really realized it yet, Cavanaughs—”

“Never give up. Yes, I know. So you keep telling me. There's another thing that Cavanaughs are,” he told her, getting into the car on his side.

Moira pulled the passenger door open and got in. “What?”

“Annoying.”

Moira laughed. “I'll be sure to pass that along to the Chief of Ds,” she told him with a grin.

Davis started up his car. The comment he muttered under his breath was lost in the noise. Moira decided it was best that way.

* * *

As with the other two deceased occupants of disturbed graves before her, Anne Hemmings had no immediate next of kin. Shirley Reynolds, however, did. A distant nephew named Michael McFarland.

But McFarland was off on a European cruise and couldn't be reached currently. Exhumation of her grave had to be temporarily put off. But the one for Anne Hemmings went ahead.

With, it turned out, the same end results.

* * *

“I think this can now be officially labeled a wild-goose chase,” Davis told her in exasperation.

Glancing at Moira, he was tempted to say something about backing dead horses, or something even more sarcastic, but she seemed far too disappointed for him to rub salt into her wounds.

He had to be getting soft in his old age, he told himself.

Davis thought back to his initial idea that a fraternity was behind the disturbed graves. Possibly, in all likelihood, that was it.

“Maybe it's just nothing more than a prank or a practical joke,” he suggested.

Hardly paying attention to what he was saying, Moira squatted beside the exhumed coffin. Temporarily ignoring the dead person in it, she looked intently into its interior. Not only had the deceased been moved awkwardly to one side, but she thought she saw a slight tear in the lining of the coffin.

She examined it closely for a moment. Rising, she looked at the lead crime scene investigator. “Take this into the lab for further examination.”