Cemetery Plot First Three Chapters

                                                                          Chapter 1 

   On a Wednesday in the fall of 1986 my newspaper, The Stanton, Illinois, Post-Times, sent me to a small town called Goddard, about twenty miles south, to look into a grave robbery. I recall the day, a Wednesday, because I was to have a drink with a new staffer, and we’d chosen a Wednesday evening to get together. I remember the year because I’d just turned forty and was struggling a little bit with that. 

   When I headed down there we didn’t have much to go on. Our stringer had seen a blurb in the local weekly and phoned it in. Here is that little item, verbatim:

Vandals Violate a Grave

   A grave in the Goddard Cemetery has been dug up. The sheriff’s office is investigating. Persons with information are asked to call Sheriff Overman or Elvin Tarwood at the funeral home.

Our state editor telephoned the funeral home, and the sheriff too, but all he got was “no comment.” So somebody had to go down there. As it turned out, the state editor was busy with other stuff. “Morrison, you go,” our news editor called out to me. He could speak up like that and be heard easily in our small newsroom.

   It’s about twenty miles from Stanton to Goddard. As I drove, careful to follow the speed limit, I thought about the assignment and what I’d find. Usually, when I took on something like this, no clue as to the angle, I just lifted the lids off a few garbage cans. If I smelled something funny, I nosed around some more. Reporters’ basic questions— what, where, when, why, how, who— were just openers.

   Arriving in Goddard, I headed southeast toward the cemetery. The day was sunny, cool, breezy—one of those snappy fall days. To me, it was bass fishing weather. On such a day you could send a two-inch Rapala arching out over rippling blue water—crank, crank, crank, bam!—and in a few minutes land a feisty two-pound bass.

   On the edge of town I passed a string of double-wides, set back on septic-system lots. Further on, where the trailers tapered off, I drove along between big cornfields, now and then seeing a two-story house set among old oaks. We were past Labor Day, so there was no corn, only stubble, and lots of pheasants, I was sure. Goddard sits just south of the glacial moraine and, for whatever reason, the pheasants never go south of town.

   About five miles further along I arrived at the graveyard. Fronting the place was a fancy iron gate, closed. That was it. No fence. I parked, walked around the gate, and followed the path, taking my time, smelling newly cut grass, listening to the caws of crows.  

   I read tombstones along the way. One small old stone bore only a first name, “Sadie,” and beneath that the word “Companion.” The monument next to it was inscribed “Fielder A. Clark, 1763-1838.” I wondered if Sadie had first been his slave. Illinois had not been a slave state, but slaves had been traded.

   One gravestone, with a horse’s head in bas-relief, said, “Thomas Jennings, God’s little cowboy, Dec. 2, 1931-Feb. 18, 1942.” In 1942, civilians didn’t have access to penicillin, as I knew. 

   Toward the back of the cemetery I came to the dug-up grave, marked by yellow crime-scene tape. I saw a toppled stone and a pile of dirt. The hole had been squared off, but once the digger had gotten about halfway down he’d quit being so tidy. I smelled the smell you get when you turn over a rock looking for night crawlers. 

   The hole was too neat to have been dug on a whim, I thought. It could have been a prank, of course, ghoulish as that might be. Goddard was only a half hour or so from Stanton, with its rows of splendid fraternity and sorority houses. 

   I wondered who’d discovered the hole. I doubted people showed up every day. Probably the caretaker. I didn’t plan to drop by the Goddard County Sheriff’s Office to get the answer to this question, or to any other question, for that matter. A while back I had found out that the sheriff’s son, who was one of his deputies, was scamming the families of teenage drivers.   We didn’t print my story, but I got the sheriff’s message that I should stay out of Goddard. So when I went down again, on a totally different story, deputies found two empty beer cans in my car. I do not drink beer. And nobody drinks in my car, either. They charged me with open containers. As I stood looking at that hole in the ground, my court hearing was about three weeks away.

   Unable to see into the grave very well in the fading late-afternoon light, I walked back to the car for my flashlight. When I pointed it down into the hole, it was still hard to see, but I could make out torn bits of rotted wood and stained fabric. No bones, nothing. The burial had been on the cheap, I thought. No vault, just a plain pine box tarted up with velour.

A few leaves lay across the inscription on the tipped-over headstone, but I made it out. “Richard Hartley, Feb. 7, 1925-Jan. 15, 1941. RIP.” Just a kid. Having lain for about forty-five years in a rotting pine box in damp soil, his bones would have been pretty bare. As I looked around the immediate area I did see one thing, an odd tint in the dirt just inside the yellow tape. Reaching down, I picked up a broken piece of chalk that stained my fingers blue. I put it in my pocket.

   A few yards away from where I stood I saw a fenced private plot. In the center on a pedestal was a concrete angel, lips turned up in what Thomas Wolfe once described, to my delight, as “a smile of soft stone idiocy.”

   As I stood looking at the angel I recalled another of his lines: “Destinies can be touched by that dark miracle of chance that makes new magic in a dusty world.” Wolfe wrote with remarkable, rich, adolescent fervor. I was fervent myself when I read that stuff, a freshman in high school, excited by books (and by all the other things that excite a boy going through puberty).

   Over the years, as I’ve occasionally recalled my visit to the cemetery on that crisp fall day, and all that followed, his remark about destiny has played in my head.

I walked over to look closer at the angel. The low iron gate to the enclosure was shut but not locked. I pulled it open and went in. The plinth said “TARWOOD.” I counted about eight headstones, some not so old.

   Walking out and away from the enclosure, heading back out of the cemetery, I paused to read the inscription on the tilted tombstone of a boy who’d been only fourteen months old when he died in 1924. “Allan Ramsay, beloved son.” A discolored wreath was wired to the headstone. For a moment I felt lonely. We don’t all get to grow old. And people don’t live forever to put flowers and toys on the graves of their dead children.

   Wandering, I read more stones. One interred boy, James Leroy Eckert, had been fourteen when he died in 1940. Another, Samuel Bass, had been fourteen as well when he died in 1943. Using my light to read inscriptions in descending dusk, I came across the grave of a boy of twelve, buried in 1938, and a boy of eleven, buried in 1946. 

   I could go to the county clerk’s office to get copies of the death certificates, or, to draw less attention to myself, I could inquire at the County Historical Society. I doubted if I’d learn anything. Lots of people had seen these tombstones of boys dead within a few years of each other. But you never knew.

   I figured I could get to a phone, call in what I had for the AP wire, and still get to the funeral home in time to talk to the owner. The story in the weekly had said his name was Elvin Tarwood.

                                                                          Chapter 2

   The asphalt of the Tarwood Funeral Home parking lot was black as obsidian beneath my feet. Pristine white pillars propped up the two-story entry into the one-story red-brick building. Entering the foyer, I stepped into carpeted silence, a whiff of flower blossoms, and the faint odor of formaldehyde. A skinny young guy in the hall, carrying a tall vase of gladioli, was startled to see me and almost dropped it—not exactly the sort of person you want greeting people at your funeral parlor.

   This no doubt explained the hurry in the step of a large man in a good gray suit who came striding up the hall, his big face set in welcome. Elvin Tarwood, funeral director, no doubt in my mind. Sixty or sixty-five, maybe. Straight back. Flat gut. Looked like he could clean and jerk two hundred pounds and more.

   “May I help you?”

   I stuck out my hand. “Morrison. Stanton Post-Times. Have you got a few minutes, Mr. Tarwood?”

   My intuition about his name put him off a little. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got maybe a minute.”

   On the bookcase in his office, flanking several leather-bound volumes, stood two tall, white china angels. He seated himself behind his maple desk as I took one of the two facing chairs. “So. How can I help you?” he asked. His inflection suggested he didn’t plan to.

   “I’m covering the grave robbery,” I said.

   He shook his head. “I doubt I can add anything to what’s been said.”

   Already convinced how this interview would go, I tried indirection. “How long have you been running the funeral home, Mr. Tarwood?”

   Puzzled, he cocked his head and said, “Twenty years?”

   “Have you had any other grave robberies?”

   “No.”

   “So this was unusual?”

   He sighed. “Look. We don’t need a media circus here.”

   The image almost made me smile, but I suppressed it. “Maybe a story in my paper would help you find out who did it,” I said.

   “We already had the story in the Gazette.”

   “With deference,” I said, “we do have a bigger circulation, in a wider area.” As I listened for a response I heard a small noise outside the door.

   “To tell you the truth,” he said, “that’s what I’m afraid of, young fella.”

   “What’s that?”

   “Bad publicity.”

   When somebody says, “To tell you the truth,” I wonder what I’ve been hearing so far. The word “publicity” in reference to my work also gets my attention. “Do you think your grave digger might be from around here?” I asked.

   “I have no idea. Look, we really don’t need any more publicity.”

   “Yes. Well, the cat’s already out of the bag,” I said. “We put what we had on the AP wire.”

   He grimaced. “Who said you could do that?”

   I could not resist. “The U.S. Constitution. The First Amendment, I think.”

   “Huh. What do you think this person would do if he saw a story in the Post-Times, young man?”

   “Let me ask you,” I said. “Why would somebody dig up a grave right next to your family plot?”

   It hadn’t occurred to him that I’d already been out there. His eyes betrayed anger. “I have no idea.” 

   “Who was the boy?” I asked. “Do you know?”

   More in control of himself, he looked at his watch. “That was a long time ago.”

   When people try to con me they develop what I call liar’s rhythm, offering a response to everything, but revealing nothing.

   “Pretty young, fifteen,” I said. “How did he die?”

   “As I told you, Mr. Morrison, it was before my time.”

   “Can you help me get in touch with the family?”

   “I don’t believe they live around here.”

   “Then why was he buried here, Mr. Tarwood?”

   “Look, Mr. Morrison, my time really is up.”

   “I’d prefer to get the story directly from you, Mr. Tarwood, but I guess I’ll have to go somewhere else.”

   “Be careful, Mr. Morrison,” he said. “You’re not on your own turf here.”

   I gave him a wide-eyed look.

   “Don’t get the wrong idea.” He switched on a fake smile. “Country people tend to put a high value on their privacy, that’s all.” 

   Somewhere outside the room I heard the sound of an organ.

   I thanked Tarwood for his time and put my card on his desk. As I walked down the hall to the exit I passed a viewing room where the young man I’d seen earlier was arranging flowers around a lustrous, bronze-colored casket. Yet, the organ music was still in the air. Canned.

   “Goodbye, now,” I said to the young man. 

   He didn’t look up.

   As I went out into the parking lot the sky was darker and the air was cold. Leaving town, I drove past the municipal building and headed north. Pretty quickly I became aware of a motorcycle behind me. For a moment I wondered if a sheriff’s deputy had spotted me in town. The bike like a pebble in my shoe, I drove with an occasional glance at my speedometer.

   I reflected on what I’d learned. The boy, Richard Hartley, had been just fifteen years old when he’d died in 1941, and had been buried near the Tarwood family plot. The Tarwood plot was still in use, and the cemetery itself was certainly well known to Elvin Tarwood. Yet, Tarwood claimed he knew nothing about him. Things to ponder, nothing to write.

   I’d had a long day. I’d agreed to meet our new staffer, Lee Ann Thomas, our publisher’s latest find, at Tony Spuds, a café a block from our office. She’d said, “You’re the eminence grise around here. I’d really like to know what you do, get your perspective on the paper.” She was cute, as our publisher appeared to require, but, I bet, also a pain in the ass. 

   Eminence grise. A flatterer, or, sadly, respectful of the years I had on her. Eight or ten, maybe? After a day like this one, I needed a drink. Having it with a pretty young lady would be okay. As I drove across the White River Bridge, recently rechristened the Dawdle Bridge after a local developer, lightning hit like a giant flash bulb popping. As I looked in the mirror, another strike lit things up. The motorcycle had disappeared. Hail banged like gravel on the roof of the car.

                                                 Chapter 3

   As I walked soggily into Tony Spuds the elegant guy at the piano was playing Old Paint and singing it softly. It was a pretty tune, and the opaque lyrics appealed to my delight in the mysterious. The owner greeted me by name. I hung my coat on my chair back, slid into the chair, and asked the waiter for a martini.

   Lee Ann Thomas appraised me over the top of her wine glass. “How was your day?” Blue eyes, longish face with high cheekbones set off by a closely cropped, straight blonde mane—sort of how I imagined a Dutch boy might look. I think I got that image off a paint can. Blue silk blouse. Button earrings.

   I’d gone down for my walk through the cemetery in jeans, a work shirt and fishing jacket, so I was losing on style points here.

   “Learn anything more?”

   This question suggested she knew where I’d been, why I’d been there, and what I’d called in for the wire.

   “Not really. The funeral director’s not talking, and I guess the sheriff isn’t either.”

   “You guess? I gather you didn’t talk to him. As I understand it, he wants your head on a pike.” 

   “Fosdick talks too much,” I said genially.

   “Who?”

   “Fearless Fosdick, our editor-in-chief.”

   When she smiled her upper lip rose slightly higher on the right. Sardonic. “Ah. Al Capp. You know what? Cartoons are about animals now. No more poking fun at people in the funnies. Oh, well. As to Mr. Fosden, he was giving me perspective on how the paper operates, instructive commentary. And yes, we talked about you and the sheriff.”

   “Okay,” I said, staying positive. “Here’s some perspective for you. On Friday nights, Rodney Overman, that’s the sheriff’s son, who happens to be one of his deputies—”

   “Mr. Fosden told me,” she said. “He stops kids for speeding—or running red lights, whatever. He books them for alcohol or drug infractions. The charges are almost always bogus, or so the kids and their parents tell you. Mr. Fosden isn’t so sure.” She sipped her wine. “How does it work, this scam?” she asked.

   “Okay,” I said. “Parents show up at the jail, usually in the middle of the night. So they’re plenty worried. They’ve never experienced anything like this. They want to get their kid home. It’s pretty scary for them. This is a jail, you know. Outside their limited experience. The jailer recommends a particular lawyer, always the same guy. Okay, so the parents bail the kid out, and after a rough night they call the lawyer. The lawyer quotes a flat fee, fifteen hundred dollars, to take the case. Just hearing his words—‘to take the case’—is alarming to the parents, of course. The lawyer then says he can probably get the kid off with a four-hundred-dollar fine plus ten weeks of driving school. Now we’re up over two thousand dollars. The parents find a way to get the money.” I paused to let this sink in. “Well. No surprise, another buddy of Rodney’s runs the driving school. You getting it?”

   She nodded. “Just that observation, ‘He can probably get the kid off,’ would freak me out.”

   I agreed. “A couple months ago, Deputy Rodney gets drunk at a bar, and tells some people he’s made a fair amount of money on this little dodge.” I paused, took a sip.

   She flicked three fingers. “Unwarranted stops, unwarranted charges, kickbacks.”

   “Umm. When this came to my attention, as such things will, I checked with a few of the parents and wrote the story. But Bert Lahr squashed it.”

   “Bert Lahr?” she said.

   “Our cowardly lawyer.”

   That interesting smile again. “Do you have pet names for everybody at the office? Anyway, as I get the story, a few weeks back they stopped you on some violation or other and found a little something in your car.”

   I shook my head, took a sip. “Correction. They put something in my car. Two empty beer cans.”

   “Okay, they planted them, which reinforces your belief that you’re on to something.”

   “Yep. So I pleaded not guilty. Number one, I don’t drink beer. Number two, I want these kids’ parents to realize they can fight these people.”

   “So who are you?” she asked, “Don Quixote?”

   I shrugged.

   She considered me. “The sheriff runs the county, not everything in his domain is kosher, and he has it in for you.”

   I waited for her point.

   “So why do you go down there when Ralph can do it without stirring up trouble? It’s his beat, right?”

   Clearly she already knew Ralph Petros, our state editor, and what his beat was, just like she knew Fosdick, and of course, our publisher, Mr. Ritchie. “Ralph was busy and I was available,” I said.

   She pondered. “So what’s your real job, Mr. Morrison? What do you cover?”

   I slipped my moorings a little.  "Young lady--"

   “Stop,” she said. Slivered-almond eyes. “My name is Lee Ann, Lee Ann Thomas. I just wanted to know what you do, Mr. Morrison. To interact around here I have to find out what people do. That’s why I’m asking questions. But I am not ‘young lady.’” In the blink of an eye she regained her sangfroid. “So tell me about today.”

   With that kind of balance, she could walk an I-beam like a Mohawk. I sipped and realigned my behavior. “The kid was fifteen years old,” I said.

   “This was a child?”

   “Yeah. And here’s the thing. I counted six or seven other graves of boys around that age, all from 1940, more or less.

   She leaned in. “What? You think you tripped over child abuse? Murder?”

   I shrugged. “All things are possible.”

   Two dimples came into play. “I think you just murdered a line from Candide.”

   Well, she had a funny bone.

   “No matter what kind of scuz the sheriff might be,” she said, “I seriously doubt he’d ignore child abuse. The guy at the funeral home, too. Not likely.”

   I figured I’d just gotten her official opinion, which she’d dole out in her report to management on our conversation. “You’d think so,” I said. “But, as you appear to know, Goddard County law enforcement is not as advanced as it is in a lot of other downstate counties. So you don’t know who gets away with what.”

   She smiled. “Maybe. But I do know this. When you catch a fish on the surface you can catch bigger ones deeper down.”

   Before I could switch the main topic to fishing, she went on. “It frustrates me,” she lectured, “that you get to go on an assignment like this, outside your job description, and I don’t. Since joining this paper—what, three months ago?—I’ve been editing, doing rewrite, handling wire copy. Nobody’s asked me to go on a special assignment.”

   “So why is that, do you think?”

   “’Big things are ahead for you, Lee Ann,’” she mimicked. “‘We’re grooming you for an editor’s position, Lee Ann,’ That’s why I’m here having a drink with you tonight, Mr. Morrison, trying to figure out how you get away with coming and going the way you do.”

   “You’re picking my brain to get my job?”

   She turned the conversation back to Goddard. “What if they already know who dug up the grave?” she said. “What if it’s a local nut? They could just be pretending to look for the guy, you know?”

   “Why?” I said.

   “I don’t know. Maybe the family has clout.” 

   I was tired. “Ralph was pissed about my going, which you probably already know,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ll get  get to go back.”

   “Maybe he’s jealous. I would be.” She glanced at her watch, finished her wine and stood up. ,"Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate it. I have to go feed the cat.”

   Then she was gone, as abrupt in action as she was in speech. She looked from the rear like Jane Fonda walking away in Cat Ballou, a film I saw about the time I reached puberty. There was something else about her. Here was this playful, smart, good-looking girl—woman—but there was something else. What? Wise beyond her years, maybe. She’d come from New York. Maybe that was it.

   It was full dark outside. The man at the piano had been through some jazz and pop and was back to playing old cowboy songs. This one was Streets of Laredo. I smelled steaks cooking. Where was she going? And what about her? Talking about me, we hadn’t talked about her. What was she after, really?