Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 51995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
“Ever heard of Aurelian Hills?” the other man asked, following the promptings of the GPS.
“I have not.”
“It’s roughly an hour north of us. A small gold rush town steeped in history. A body was found at a local cemetery. The Garden of Memories.”
Wait. He blinked. “A body…at a cemetery?” This required an investigation?
“The place is landlocked, with no new burials for years. Apparently, someone dug up a grave, opened the coffin and dropped in our vic. A thirty to forty-something male. The onsite groundskeeper claims she found him while doing morning rounds. Sheriff is at the scene and says the guy has a pretty fresh head wound.”
“Possible accident?” An attempted grave robbing gone wrong?
“Not likely. The sheriff also mentioned a cleanup job. There are no footprints coming or going other than the groundskeeper’s.”
So. Someone, or multiple someones, committed the murder and, what? Tried to hide the body in a coffin, only to be interrupted and scared away before finishing the job?
Think this through. The groundskeeper wasn't a probable culprit. She would’ve had time and opportunity to clean up the site with no one the wiser. Unless she endeavored to play cat and mouse games with authorities like the last perpetrator. Always a possibility.
Honestly, nothing surprised him anymore.
For the rest of the drive, Barrow chatted about his family. How he’d driven to this soccer game and attended that dance recital. Conrad made the appropriate noises to indicate he was listening. When you lost your parents and a younger sibling at the age of ten, spent a couple years bouncing from foster home to foster home, then all but rotted inside a center for troubled youths knowing no one was coming to your rescue, family ceased to be a source of solace.
His chest clenched. Without thought, he traced his fingers over the tattoos that extended past the cuff of his dress shirt. Images his little brother Corbin had drawn just before his death. Stick figures depicting their family of four. An almost unrecognizable representation of their lab, Burp–the name Conrad and Corbin had chosen, thinking they were hilarious. A rainbow because they’d just heard the story of Noah’s ark in Sunday school.
The clenching worsened. Focus. Conrad shook the tension from his hands and worked to center his mind. Somewhere in Aurelian Hills, people waited to learn how and why a loved one had died. He couldn't bring back the dead, but he could help them seek justice.
“…so there I was, driving to bakery after bakery to find the quote unquote perfect unicorn cupcakes,” Barrow continued, and Conrad realized he’d lost track of the conversation. “I truly thought–”
“In five hundred feet, turn left,” the GPS interjected.
As the agent started up again, they passed a welcome sign. Stay and seek your fortune.
Conrad scanned the area. Typical small town, with a main street, city square and multiple antique shops. Picturesque and quaint. The kind of place that could have come from an airbrushed photograph.
Barrow chuckled. “They take their gold seriously. Look at those names. The Gilded Scissor. The Treasure Room. Yellow Brick Abode Library. Gold Rush Museum. Maybe I should bring the kids here for a tour.”
Poor kids. Conrad considered any organized event an unnecessary torture. No thank you.
Barrow missed a turn along the back country roads, but GPS rerouted. Soon they approached a stretch of land filled with an array of pine, wisteria and magnolia trees, fenced in by both stone walls and overgrown hedgerows. From a sea of businesses, car lots and residences to this. An oasis.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS announced.
This was a cemetery? A massive wrought-iron gate loomed before them, agape. Conrad examined the landscape with murder in mind as Barrow followed a winding gravel path at a snail’s pace, passing colorful flower bushes, crypts and a small rock bridge. Where were the—ah. There. The headstones. They peppered the hills and somehow added to the beauty of the surroundings.
“This place is massive,” he said. Lush green grass stretched for miles.
“File says seventy-five acres. The caretaker’s cottage is at the northeast edge of the property.” His partner shuddered. “Can you imagine it? Living out here among the dead?”
Conrad arched a brow. “You work with the dead every day.”
“Yes, but I don’t take the corpses home with me,” the guy said, approaching a small, quirky cottage with ivy climbing over the walls. Rocking chairs decorated a wraparound porch.
Barrow parked under the shade of a giant oak, next to the sheriff’s cruiser and a hearse. No one waited nearby.
“Do you know the location of the burial site?” Conrad asked, scanning a maze of cobblestone pathways without signs.
“Only that it’s plot number thirty-nine.”
Which could be in any direction. “All right. Have a look around the immediate area, and I’ll see if the groundskeeper is inside.”
They emerged into the hot summer day.
Barrow wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”