The Restorer (10 page)

That explained why time was suddenly of the essence after decades of shameful neglect.

Several responses leapt to mind, all of which I prudently kept to myself. Nor did I point out the difficulty of getting a graveyard, even one as old as Oak Grove, listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Camille Ashby would know as well as I the rigid criteria governing cemetery eligibility and how best to get around them.

So I smiled and nodded and assured her once again that barring any further complications, I would bring the project in on time and on budget.

Luckily, the ding of her phone alerted her to an incoming text and she became momentarily distracted as she scanned the message. “Something’s come up,” she said in a clipped tone and dropped the phone back into her bag. “I have to get back to the office. I’ll have someone on my staff contact you for regular progress reports.”

“That’s fine,” I murmured, although I hated nothing more than having someone watch over my shoulder.

She glanced at Devlin, who was still on the phone. “Tell John I’ll be in touch. And tell him…I’m counting on him. He’ll know what I mean.”

I watched her hurry away, annoyed with myself for allowing her to intimidate me. Whatever else I might be lacking, I had the utmost confidence in my professional abilities—even on cemeteries as run-down as Oak Grove. The process of stripping away years of neglect was akin to restoring an old painting. It took patience, skill and almost obsessive dedication.

In the two years since I’d started my business, I’d worked very hard to establish an impeccable reputation. No one could fault my education, but my age and slender portfolio some times worked against me, despite the fact that I’d spent the whole of my childhood and adolescence learning about cemetery upkeep from my father.

I considered myself a dedicated artisan, but I was also a businesswoman and I need Camille Ashby’s goodwill and glowing recommendation when the project was completed. So I swallowed my irritation and made a mental note to send her weekly updates, both written and visual, without her having to ask for them.

I had my back to Devlin while I waited for him to conclude his phone conversation, but once again, I knew the moment he stepped up behind me. The hair at my nape rose and I put up a hand to rub away the tingles as I turned to face him.

My father’s voice whispered a warning.
Promise me you will never see this man again.

I took a deep breath and very deliberately closed him out.
Sorry, Papa.

“Did Camille leave?” Devlin asked.

The use of her first name did not escape me. “Yes. She had to get back to the office. I’m to tell you she’ll be in touch and that…she’s counting on you. She said you’d know what that meant.”

He shrugged, as if the message was of no consequence to him, but a brief flicker of irritation made me even more curious about his relationship with Camille Ashby. They referred to one another by their given names, which seemed to indicate more than a passing acquaintance, as did the overheard conversation and the way she’d touched his arm. She was older than Devlin, but not by much, and age didn’t seem to matter for a woman as attractive as Camille.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“What? No…sorry. Just daydreaming.”

I wondered if he realized the power of his stare. If he had any idea the effect it had on me. Perhaps that should have been another warning—the fact that I couldn’t tear my gaze from him. It was as if he had some sort of hold over me, but I couldn’t put the blame on him. I was solely responsible for my actions. I hadn’t made the trek to the cemetery to see Camille Ashby. She’d just made things convenient for me. I’d come here in pursuit of the forbidden, though I had never done anything remotely reckless in my whole life.

Some of the searchers were moving toward us and I tried to quell my nerves by refocusing my attention on them. “Must be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” I murmured. “Won’t the rain have washed away any physical evidence like footprints and bloodstains?” All those years of self-discipline normalized my voice even though my heart thumped erratically.

“Not all of it. Something always gets left behind. We just have to keep looking until we find it.”

“And if you don’t?”

Devlin’s gaze met mine again and I felt a deep shudder go through me. “Then we’ll have to let her lead us to the killer.”

“Her?”

“The victim. The dead have a lot to say if you’re willing to listen.”

The irony of his statement stunned me. I had a sudden image of the ghost child, tugging on his pants, patting his leg, trying her best to get his attention. What was she trying to tell him? And why wasn’t he listening?

She’d come to me, too, but I had good reason to rebuff her. Papa was right. I knew only too well the consequences of breaking the rules. To acknowledge the ghost child was to invite her into my life, offer her the sustenance of my warmth and energy until I became nothing more than a walking, breathing shell. No matter what she wanted from me, I had to protect myself at any cost. To remain safe, I had to distance myself from Devlin and his ghosts.

Yet there I stood, enthralled by his very nearness.

He turned to look out over the cemetery, so lost in concentration for a moment that he seemed to have forgotten my presence. I took the opportunity to study his profile, following the line of his jaw and chin, lingering in that shadowy, sensual place beneath his full bottom lip where that indented scar marred an otherwise flawless profile. For some reason, that one imperfection mesmerized me. The harder I tried to avert my eyes, the stronger I felt its pull.

“I have a confession to make,” I said.

I didn’t think he’d heard me at first, but then he turned, one brow lifting ever so slightly as he waited for my admission.

“When I first came up, I overheard you and Dr. Ashby talking about another body that was found here.”

His expression never changed, but I sensed his wariness, like an animal catching wind of a possible threat. “What about it?”

“When did it happen?”

“Years ago,” he said vaguely.

His reluctance to elaborate only whetted my curiosity. He couldn’t know it yet, but my persistence could sometimes border on obsession when I set my mind to something.

“Was the killer caught?”

“No.”

“Is there any chance the two murders could be connected? I only ask,” I hastened to add, “because I’ll be spending a lot of time here alone. This is all a little unnerving, to say the least.”

His expression was shuttered, his whole demeanor guarded as he stared down at me. “After fifteen years, I’d say a connection is a long shot, but I still wouldn’t recommend coming out here alone. Even though it’s within the city limits, this place is pretty remote.”

“And metropolitan cemeteries, particularly those off the beaten path, can be magnets for the criminal element,” I said.

“Yes, exactly. Don’t you have someone who works with you? An assistant or something?”

“I’ll have plenty of help for the cleanup stage. Until then, I’ll be careful.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but instead he turned away with a brief nod.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?” That hesitation again. That same veiled wariness.

“I’ve spent hours and hours researching Oak Grove, and yet this is the first mention I’ve heard of another murder. How is that possible?”

“Maybe you weren’t looking in the right places.”

“I doubt that. I always read everything I can get my hands on about each cemetery I restore. Not just county records and church books. I also spend a lot of time scanning newspaper archives.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“It’s hard to explain, but immersing myself in the history gives me a unique perspective. Restoration isn’t just about whacking weeds and scrubbing headstones. It’s about
restoration.”

“You sound pretty passionate about it.”

“I’d find another line of work if I wasn’t. Wouldn’t you?”

His gaze whisked over me, straying to places that made me grow a little warm. “I suppose I would,” he murmured, his voice like cool silk.

“About that body…” I prompted.

He returned to the subject with reluctance. “There’s a reason you didn’t find anything in the newspapers.”

“What reason?”

“There was a concentrated effort by certain parties, including the girl’s family, to keep the investigation quiet.”

“How did they manage that?”

“In this city, it’s all about who you know. Especially among the upper class. People in positions of power and influence tend to close rank.” His voice betrayed an old contempt, and I remembered my aunt’s remarks about the South of Broad Devlins, a wealthy, aristocratic family who could trace their roots back to the city’s founding. If Devlin was a cousin from the wrong side of the tracks, that might explain his scorn.

“At the time of the murder, the police chief, the mayor and the editor of the largest local daily newspaper were all Emerson alumni,” he said. “A murder on school property would have done a lot of damage to the school’s reputation.”

I rubbed the inside of my elbow where a mosquito had vectored in on the one area I’d missed with bug spray. “But why would the victim’s family participate in a cover-up?”

“The Delacourts are Charleston royalty. If you’re at all familiar with this city’s mansion class, you’ll know that scandal is to be avoided at any cost. I’ve pretty much seen it all, and yet I can still be shocked at the lengths those people will go to in order to protect the family name.”

“Even hush up a murder?”

“If that murder brings humiliation and disgrace, yes. Afton Delacourt was a seventeen-year-old party girl. A promiscuous thrill-seeker who abused drugs and alcohol and, according to the rumor mill, dabbled in the occult. That’s pretty sensational stuff.”

Something in his voice, in that careful gaze accelerated my pulse. “What do you mean, she dabbled in the occult? Like Ouija boards?”

“It was a little darker than that.”

“Darker…how?”

He didn’t answer.

“How exactly did she die?” I pressed.

He spoke quietly. “You don’t want the details. Trust me on that.”

I thought about the way his gaze had skidded away that first night in the cemetery when I’d asked about the cause of death. I wondered now if his reluctance to divulge certain aspects of the murders—both old and new—was professional discretion or if his upbringing and personality had something to do with the circumspect way he answered my questions. From what I’d seen, he was something of a throwback to past generations and might well regard his role of protector as extending beyond his duties as a police detective.

Strangely, I wasn’t offended by this outdated attitude. I think on some level it fed into an adolescent fantasy that had been nurtured in those lonely years by a steady diet of
Jane Eyre
and Mr. Rochester, of
Buffy
and
Angel.

Regardless, I was no less determined to get the whole story from him. He seemed to sense this, and to my surprise, continued without further prompting.

“How familiar are you with secret societies on college campuses?”

“Not at all really. I know about Skull and Bones. I also know that those kinds of organizations tend to use a lot of mortuary imagery and that their emblems and symbols sometimes turn up on old headstones.”

“The imagery is very deliberate,” he said. “Mostly, it’s used to create a sense of gravitas and intimidation.”

“Mostly?”

His expression didn’t outwardly change, but I sensed a subtle tension in his features, an imperceptible tightening of his mouth and jaw. “The society at Emerson was known as the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. It had a long tradition on campus. Legacy pledges went back for generations. Some people think that at the time of her death, Afton Delacourt was involved with a Claw, that he lured her here to the cemetery and murdered her in some sort of initiation ritual.”

I felt moisture in the breeze that drifted through the old oak trees. It seemed sinister somehow, like the cold, dank touch of a corpse. “Was he arrested?”

“No one on the outside knew who he was and no one in the Order would give up a fellow Claw. Loyalty is valued, second only to secrecy.”

“Is? This group still exists?”

“They were denounced by the university after the murder, but a lot of people believe that rather than disbanding, they went deeper underground and still retain a shadow presence on campus to this day.”

I don’t know if I’d picked up on something in his voice or if it was an independent thought, but a couple of puzzle pieces suddenly clicked together. “Those people you mentioned earlier…the police chief, the newspaper editor, the mayor…were they Claws?”

“Like I said, membership in the Order is a highly guarded secret.”

“But it makes sense, doesn’t it? The cover-up wasn’t about Emerson’s reputation. It was about protecting another Claw.” My voice grew animated with my certainty. “Now I’m beginning to understand why you showed up at my house yesterday morning with all those questions about headstone symbolism and imagery. You think whoever committed this recent murder may be somehow connected to this Order.”

He never got the chance to respond. Someone called out his name and he turned with a jerk. “I’m over here!”

“We found something!” the officer shouted back. “You’ll want to see this!”

“Wait here,” he said over his shoulder as he started up the path.

I did wait…for maybe half a minute before I felt compelled to follow him through the muddle of headstones into the older section of the cemetery.

Crossing through the arched divide, I caught a glimpse of a pointed roof straight ahead. The Bedford Mausoleum was the oldest in the cemetery, erected in 1853 to commemorate the passing of Dorothea Prescott Bedford and her descendants. The design was Gothic, topped with a series of crosses. The body of the structure had been carved out of the side of a hillock, which made it unique. Elevated terrain was an anomaly in the Lowcountry and one of the reasons I found Oak Grove so unsettling. The topography was somehow off kilter.