P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

“My business is with Mrs. DeFoe. Is she here?”

The man stared at Louis for a moment, then pushed the door open wider. “Oh, all right, come in, then.”

He sauntered away, leaving Louis to close the door. Louis followed the tinkle of ice cubes through the cold foyer, down a dark paneled hallway, to a room on the left, set off by leaded-glass double doors. The room was lit only by two small table lamps and the soft glow of spotlights arching over the oil paintings, but Louis had a sense of dark paneling, heavy drapes, and plump chairs.

The man in the yellow sweater had faded into a shadowed corner. Louis heard the kiss of ice against glass as a refill was poured. The man came back toward Louis, the old wood floors groaning softly under his slippered feet.

“Wait here,” he said. And he was gone, trailing scotch.

Louis stood in the center of the room. It smelled of furniture polish, must, and smoke from the dead fireplace. It made him remember that time when he was working on the force in Black Pool, Mississippi, and had gone to the funeral home to retrieve some evidence. The owner had made him wait, and Louis had sat there, listening to the weeping of a grandmother’s mourners in the next room, listening and taking in the dusty perfume of the old woman’s dissipating spirit.

He tried to imagine Phillip in this room. Tried to imagine him as a young man in love with a woman whose hair smelled like lilacs.

“My son said you wanted to see me?”

Louis turned. Eloise DeFoe was tall and brittle thin in a dark blue wool dress with a high collar. Her hair was white and cut in a severe chin-length bob with a slash of bangs. There was another slash of bright red at her lips. She had a silver-tipped ebony cane, but as she came into the room it appeared more an ornament than a necessity.

“Louis Kincaid,” he said, coming forward with an outstretched hand.

She gave him her cold dry hand as she stared at him. She had the same pale brown eyes as her son, who had come up behind her and was leaning against the door frame.

“Rodney said you’re an investigator,” she said.

“Yes, I’m here about your daughter, Claudia.”

She blinked. “My daughter is dead. She died in 1972.”

Rodney came toward Louis. “I can’t imagine what business you might have-”

“Just a moment, Rodney,” the old woman said sharply, holding up a hand. She looked back at Louis. “What exactly do you want, Mr. .?”

“Kincaid. Something else has come up, ma’am,” Louis said. “In the process of relocating the remains-”

“Relocating?” she interrupted. “What do you mean relocating?”

Louis hesitated, his confusion echoing Eloise DeFoe’s. “Well, as part of Hidden Lake’s closing down, they have to move the graves and your-”

Rodney pushed forward. “Mother, the hospital called about this a couple weeks ago. You haven’t been well lately and I just didn’t see any reason to bother you with something routine.”

Louis stared at the guy. Routine?

“I wish you had told me, Rodney,” Eloise DeFoe said.

“Everything is taken care of, Mother.”

Louis watched them carefully. Eloise DeFoe was probably in her eighties, but she looked anything but feeble. There was a steeliness in her eyes that was disarming. She seemed mildly upset, but Louis couldn’t tell if it was because he had brought up her dead daughter or because her son had left her out of the loop.

“Look, Mr. Kincaid, we can take care of this,” Rodney said, taking his arm and leading him toward the door. “If there is something else I need to sign-”

Louis pulled away. “No, my business here isn’t quite done. I came to tell you something else.”

Eloise DeFoe was looking at him expectantly. Rodney had retreated behind the rim of his glass. Louis watched their faces carefully as he spoke.

“When we opened your daughter’s casket, it was filled with rocks.”

“Rocks?” Eloise DeFoe stared at him for a moment, then sank into a chair. “Good Lord,” she murmured.

Louis looked at Rodney. He had gone pale.

A clock chimed out in the foyer three times before Eloise DeFoe spoke again. “Well, where are my daughter’s remains then?”

There was nothing in the woman’s face to read, not surprise, horror, or grief. Louis realized she was assuming he was working for the hospital and he decided to use this assumption to his advantage. “We haven’t been able to locate them,” he said.

Rodney set the glass down with a thud. “You’re saying you’ve lost my sister?”

“We don’t know,” Louis said carefully. “We are looking into it and-”

“This is outrageous,” Rodney said. “You can just go back to that hospital and tell your boss to expect a letter from my lawyer.”

Louis glanced at the mother. She was just sitting there, stunned. He knew he was about to get thrown out and that he wasn’t going to get any information about Claudia’s past. He decided his best chance was to keep up the pretense of working for Hidden Lake.

“Now calm down, Mr. DeFoe,” Louis said to Rodney.

“You can help us out. Surely when your sister died, you were given some paperwork, a death certificate. Anything you have might help us.”

“You lost all her records, too? I want you out of our house. Now.”

Louis turned to the mother. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Please, just go,” she said softly.

Rodney followed him to the door and waited stone-faced as Louis stepped outside.

“My mother isn’t well,” Rodney said. “Don’t call her, don’t come back here.”

Louis started down the steps but then turned back. He couldn’t let this go. “You don’t care, do you?” Louis said. “You don’t care at all where your sister’s remains are. What kind of brother are you?”

Rodney slammed the door.

Louis checked his watch. Just after nine. He had left Plymouth before his foster parents were awake, not wanting to give Phillip the chance to come along to Hidden Lake. There was a growing chill in the Lawrence house, and Louis didn’t want to give Frances any more reason for suspicion.

There were only three cars in the parking lot when he pulled up to the hospital. He zipped up his jacket and got out, letting his gaze wander over the grounds.

From what he could see, the compound was huge, enclosed in a wrought-iron fence that had once been very elegant but was now topped with loops of razor wire. He could see maybe a half-dozen red brick buildings, some small and utilitarian looking, others large and elaborate with steep-sloped roofs and peaked dormer windows, spires, chimneys, and bell towers. He could see the top of three brick smokestacks attached to what he guessed was some kind of power plant. Beyond the smokestacks, more red brick buildings, and then a border of bare trees.

He remembered the schematic on the bulletin board back at John Spera’s office. It had shown a lake on the property, but he couldn’t see one. There was a narrow asphalt road that stretched from the parking lot and up the hill, disappearing into the pines. Maybe he would drive it when he was done inside. If it wasn’t closed.

Louis jogged across the parking lot to the building signposted ADMINISTRATION. Like all the others, it was red brick but with an imposing stone portico of three columned arches. Carved in the portico was ANNO DOMINI 1895.

Louis found himself trying to imagine what the building might have looked like a hundred years ago, before the harsh Michigan winters had scarred the bricks and eaten away the stone steps, before the ivy, snaking over the stone arches and pillars, had gone brown and brittle.

A water-stained sign was taped to the front door that read CLOSING, DECEMBER 31, 1988. ALL VISITORS CLAIMING RECORDS OR LOVED ONES MUST REPORT TO THE MAIN NURSE’S STATION ON THE SECOND FLOOR.