Janet Evanovich - Wicked Appetite

Oyster Hill Road runs up Oyster Hill and heads west. The cemetery and church are at the crest of the hill. The surrounding land is rocky, not lending itself to development. The small, white, steepled church is two hundred years old. The cemetery is much older. Witches were forbidden from resting in hallowed ground, but legend has it several were secretly buried in Oyster Hill Cemetery in the dark of night by grief-stricken relatives. I figured chances were good one of them was in the More family plot.

Diesel wound his way up the hill and parked in the small lot next to the church. We were the only car parked. The church looked locked up tight. It was the middle of the day, but the sky was overcast, threatening rain.

Carl glanced up from his movie and saw the boneyard. “Eep!”

The cemetery was to the rear of the church. It covered a couple acres and was a jumble of centuries-old, weathered headstones hodgepodged in with new. The grass was trimmed. Not nearly golf course quality but not hardscrabble, either. A footpath led to an elaborate wrought-iron gate and continued on to the center of the cemetery. The gate was open, welcoming all who might enter. There was no fence attached to the gate. Just the gate. The three of us got out of the car and walked to the edge of the cemetery.

“How are we going to find Uncle Phil?” I asked Diesel.

“We’re going to wander around and look for him.”

“Oh joy.”

He tugged at my ponytail and took my hand. “Stick close to me, and I’ll keep the zombies away.”

His hand was warm over mine, and the heat radiated up my arm and spread to my chest and headed south.

“Jeez,” I whispered.

Diesel looked down at me. “Are you feeling the heat?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Let me know when you decide,” Diesel said.

He led me through the gate and along the path, with Carl following close on our heels. We walked past the Hagard family first. Some of their stones were too old to read, the carving worn away by rain and time. Emily Hagard was missed by her sons. She died in 1817. Lily Hagard had an angel carved into her headstone. Lily was stillborn. The Ramsey family was farther up the hill. Again, some of the stones were rounded and worn smooth. Bernard Ramsey and his wife, Catherine, had an elaborate eight-foot-tall angel carved into granite looking out for them. Across the footpath, Elijah Beemer was also protected by a large winged angel.

“Lots of angels here,” I said. “I like the concept of angels, but I have a hard time with the wings. Can you imagine growing something like that out of your back? You’d have to sleep standing up.”

The More family plot was about twenty feet past Elijah Beemer’s angel, almost at the top of the hill, almost dead center of the cemetery. There were a lot of Mores crammed into the small space. Christian More, Marion More, Andrew More, Ana More, Harry More, and more Mores. Philip James More had the newest headstone. Cave Cave Deus Videt was carved into the granite.

“Do you know what the inscription means?” I asked Diesel.

“It’s Latin. Beware, Beware, God Sees. It’s from the Hieronymus Bosch painting The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things. Bosch completed the paint-on-wood panels in 1485.”

“What are the four last things?”

“Death, Last Judgment, Heaven, and Hell.”

A chill ran through me. Cave Cave Deus Videt was a grim departing message. “Phil took his role as guardian of the sins seriously.”

“Yes. And obviously there was no one next in line he felt he could trust with the power.”

“Why didn’t he turn it over to your Marshalls?”

Diesel shrugged. “He might not have known about the BUM. For that matter, I’m not sure he was an Unmentionable. The More family could have been guarding the Stone since the Middle Ages or before.”

I looked around. “So some of the other people buried here might have been guardians.”

“It’s possible,” Diesel said, reading the inscriptions on nearby gravestones, pausing at a stone that resembled Phil’s. “Harry More died in 1965, and he has the Latin warning on his stone. He could have been the one to pass the Stone to Phil.”

“Here’s another,” I said. “Alicia More Riddley died in 1901. The warning is on her marker. Plus, there’s a very old stone next to hers that looks like it has the warning. The date of death was 1603 or 1608. The inscription is only partially visible.”

“Interesting stuff, but it doesn’t help me,” Diesel said. “I was hoping Phil would talk to us.” He nudged me forward. “Stand on his grave and see if you get anything.”

“No way! That’s creepy and irreverent and sacrilegious.”

“It’s grass and dirt and none of the above.”

“Then why do you want me to stand on it if it’s only grass?”

“I want to know if something empowered was buried with Phil.”

“There’s five feet of dirt between him and me. I’m not going to feel anything.”

Diesel picked me up and set me down in front of Phil’s headstone. “Give it a shot.”

I sunk my teeth into my lower lip, stopped breathing, and concentrated.

“Well?” Diesel asked.

“This is icky.”

“Do you notice anything unusual about Phil’s grave?” Diesel asked.

I looked around. “No.”

“Look more closely. The sod has been cut. And some of the grass surrounding the grave has soil on top of it. Phil was buried seven years ago. This ground should be settled, but it has some give to it.”

“Which means?”

“I think Phil might have very recently gone for a walk.”

“Get out!”

There was the sound of a car turning into the parking lot. The engine cut off, and a door slammed. A moment later, a second door slammed shut. After a few seconds, a figure appeared at the edge of the cemetery. It was Shirley, and she was carrying a large cardboard box. She soldiered up the hill, head down, laboring. She raised her head when she was halfway up the hill and gave an audible gasp when she spied us at graveside. Her eyes narrowed, and she forged ahead.

Diesel draped an arm around me. “She doesn’t look happy to see us.”

“Gee, big surprise.”

Shirley stopped just short of Phil’s grave and pressed her lips together, her arms wrapped around the box.

“Hey,” I said.

“How’s it goin’?” Diesel asked Shirley.

“Gobble,” Shirley said. “Gobble, gobble.”

It was hard to believe Glo could quote a bunch of words from Ripple’s and turn Shirley into a turkey. My first instinct was to yell at Shirley and tell her to stop fooling around. My second instinct was to look for cover in case she started shooting.

“What’s in the box?” Diesel asked.

Shirley stepped forward, turned the carton upside down, and dumped a load of packaged food onto Phil’s grave. Opened boxes of cereal, Oreos, Wheat Thins, macaroni, saltines, taco shells. Bags of M &M’s, chips, popcorn, raisin bread, peanut butter cups, pretzel nuggets, jelly beans. Jars of spaghetti sauce, pickles, mayo, peanut butter, and grape jelly.

“Gobble!” Shirley said to Phil’s headstone. She stuck her tongue out at it and made a face. “Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,” she said, her voice rising to a pitch that could break glass. “Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!” She jumped up and down on the boxes of crackers and bags of candy. Her face turned red, and she worked up a sweat. “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE!” She stopped to catch her breath, and she looked at the mess of smashed food and boxes. “Hmph,” she said. She tipped her nose up, spun around on her heel, and without giving us so much as a glance, she swished off down the hill.