BACKYARD BURIAL ISBN 1-4241-3372-6 by Janet McGuire Hendershot Chapter 1 The partygoers gathered around Lucifer, a gray German Shepherd who had dug a large hole in John Fleming’s rose garden. Mrs. Gunthrey, John's housekeeper, stood with her hands on her hips and scowled at the animal. Matrina McCoy put her hand to her mouth in shock. How could her sister allow this dog to tear up John's backyard? Granted, the dog did belong to Andy Douglas, Rosie's latest flame, and Andy did look a lot like Tom Cruise, drop-dead gorgeous, only taller. How long the flame would last would be anyone's guess. Matrina shook her head in acceptance of Rosie's latest escapade. "Rosie," she said, "you guys can’t allow that dog to dig up John's yard like this." "We can’t stop him," Rosie said. She sipped her wine cooler and moved away from the dirt that flew from Lucifer’s efforts. She stood closer to Andy. "He’s a cadaver dog that they use at the Sheriff’s Department where Andy works. Lucifer only digs where there’s something dead." Matrina wished she could stop the worry that enveloped her when it came to Rosie. Their mother died in their eighteenth and eighth year, and after that, Matrina assumed the surrogate mother role. Their busy dad allowed it, and through the years, two decades of them, the worry had not subsided. Matrina prayed for Rosie daily, but so far, God held to His "hands off" policy. Matrina had to admire Rosie’s ability to roll with life and have fun no matter what the situation, the immediate situation being the destruction of John's backyard on their first visit to his home. "Andy says there’s something buried here, and we have to let him find out what it is," Rosie said. "It’s probably an old dog someone buried years ago." "No. It’s got to be pretty current, and it’s got to be a human." "Oh, Rosie," Matrina said. "John? A body buried in his backyard? Get real." "You never know. Sometimes still waters run deep," Rosie said. John went over to speak with Andy. They exchanged views on the digging, and John agreed to allow the dog to continue. The host continued across the yard to Matrina and Rosie. "I said the dog could keep digging," he said. "Your Andy says this dog only reacts to human remains. How can I refuse? If I’ve got a body buried in my backyard, I guess I need to know about it." David Rogers crossed the yard and stood beside John. "I didn't know my move into your area would be so exciting," he said. "Usually being a deacon in the Baptist church means you just stand around and deacon. Here we are having a bar-be-cue with church members and some dog thinks you have a body buried back here?" "That’s the rumor," John said. "This dog is a cadaver dog owned by the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. Matrina's sister, Rosie's boyfriend, Andy’s a deputy, so I’m letting the dog dig. If there’s a body out here, I certainly don’t want it to stay here." "How would it get here?" David said. "Must have been here since before I moved in," John said. "I've been here over a year, and I know for sure there’s been no bodies buried since I’ve lived here." The frenzy of the dog faded, and he stopped the storm of dirt. John walked over to the gapping hole. Andy already stood beside the hole to oversee the dog’s work. "There’s a body down here," Andy said. "I have a duty to report it." He dialed nine-one-one on his cell phone. "Since I work for Sarasota County," he said to John, "and you live in Manatee County, we’ll have to call Manatee." "Call away," John said. Matrina watched him wrinkle his brow. She wondered what he thought of all this. Matrina's year-long friendship with John, based on their common interest in investigative work and their trials as widowed single parents, had not yet crossed the threshold to shared brain waves. Darkness encompassed the yard, except for the intervention of the yard lights strung to give the yard a festive glow. In the glow of the gentle, swinging lights that tried to push back the struggling shadows of night, Matrina watched as John tried to make out the image of the man down in the hole. The body wore a plaid sport shirt and beige khakis, and the back of his head showed through the disturbed soil. He had dark hair. John peered through the blotchy darkness, and Matrina watched as a faint glimmer of recognition painted John’s face with an element of disbelief. Matrina moved closer to where John stood. "There really is a body down there?" she said. "Yes," John said. "And it’s not been buried long either, maybe a week ago." "How’s that possible?" "Wish I knew." "John, you could be in real trouble here." "Oh, Matrina, who would think I had anything to do with this? I'm a church-going security guy, with a good job and nice kids. Nobody would hold me responsible for this, whatever it is." "It’s not every day you find bodies in your backyard," she said. She moved a loose stone with her foot and it fell back into the hole. She winced. "Body," John said. "Only one body, not bodies." "Only one. Now I feel better." She rolled her eyes upward in frustration. Sirens wailed and uniforms filed through the house to the hole in the backyard. An ambulance arrived, and men lifted the body from the shallow grave. The Manatee County Sheriff’s Department officials pulled the body out of the grave. Matrina moved closer to the grave for a better look. She saw the corpse had been shot in the back of the head and buried face down. She turned away. Her hand touched John’s shoulder and felt his neck stiffen. He inhaled out of step with his breathing. "Do you know him?" she said. She sensed the reaction of familiarity. "Yes. He’s Robert Walker. He goes to our church. We all know him. We called him, ‘Slats.’ How crazy is this?" "Someone you know?" David said. He came to join John and Matrina. "Someone you know, too," John said. "It’s Slats. Robert Walker." "From church? How can this be?" "I have no idea," John said. "I think we ought to go to God with this," David said. "People, let’s have moment of silent prayer for this brother who is no longer with us." The picnickers gathered about the opened grave and bowed their heads. The blooms of the surrounding roses bent to the sultry evening breeze, and Matrina felt tears in her eyes despite the fact that she had never known the deceased man. The uniformed officers paused and bowed their heads as well. "Amen," David said. "Carry on, gentlemen." He spoke to the officers. The men loaded the body onto a gurney and strapped it down. "Guess I'd better get back to my grill," John said. His husky voice sounded grim. "At least that's something I understand." Matrina nodded her head and felt helpless. No intelligent words made their way from her mind to her mouth. Burgers and steaks crackled on the grill, and people stood about and waited for the picnic to continue. Petunias lined the fence around the backyard, and Matrina suspected this to be the work of Mrs. Gunthrey. John didn’t seem like a petunia kind of guy. John flipped the burgers and removed the steaks. "Well, these will soon be crispy critters," he said. "No one will care," Matrina said. She held the plate for the steaks. "Just dish it up, holler, 'Soup's on,' and hit the deck." "Soup's on," John said. He smiled at Matrina as his three children stormed out of the house. "How'd you do that?" "I'm a mom," Matrina said. She held another plate for the burgers. "I know this stuff." While the emergency staff finalized the removal of the body, the church people filled their plates from the buffet lined up on one of the picnic tables. No one seemed to mind the overdone meat. A somber, quiet mood overcast the backyard bar-be-cue. John approached a fifty-something couple who sat at one of the other picnic tables scattered about the backyard. The couple sipped cans of Dr. Pepper and munched Cheetos from a small bowl. Their plates of steak and salad were before them. "Matrina," John said, "I’d like you to meet David and Ida Rogers. David is a deacon in the church, and they’re new in our area." Matrina held her plate, and Ida patted a place at the table for her to sit. "Please, join us," Ida said. She smiled at Matrina and put A-1 sauce on her steak. Matrina climbed over the bench of the table and sat down. She put catsup on her hamburger and studied David Rogers and his wife. They smelled like they had stepped from a Dial soap commercial, and his plaid cotton shirt and Docker trousers were impeccably pressed. Mrs. Rogers wore a crisp flowered sun dress. All the other ladies present wore jeans or shorts and sport shirts, which included Matrina, who wore comfortable Wranglers and a short-sleeved tee shirt. "Glad to meet you," Matrina said. She extended her hand, and the Rogers accepted her hand and smiled back at her. "Do you live in Bradenton?" David said. "No," Matrina said. She shook her head as she spoke. "I live in Sarasota." Dee-Dee, John’s twelve-year-old daughter, carried a tray of canned sodas and juice among the guests. Matrina accepted a can of Diet Coke and smiled at Dee-Dee as their eyes met. "You go to the Baptist church down there?" David said. "Actually, no," Matrina said. "I know John from security work. You probably already know, he works for the Publix grocery store chain, and I work for Apex Cyberspace Security. We don’t know each other from church." "Oh," David said. His smile faded. "So, where do you attend church?" "I don’t actually attend anywhere right now," she said. "I’m kind of between churches at the moment." "I see," David said. He used his very best, disapproving deacon tone of voice. "And your husband doesn’t attend church either, I would assume?" "I’m a widow. My husband died on nine-eleven. He was a firefighter, and he died at the twin towers." "Oh, I’m so sorry," David said. "So am I," Matrina said. She tried to think of something to break the silence that followed. "So, where are you from, since you just moved here?" That ought to be a more comfortable subject. "We’re from Jamestown, New York," Ida Rogers said. She seemed to join Matrina in the attempt to change the subject. "You’re kidding," Matrina said. She cut her hamburger in half. "My mother was from Jamestown." "Isn’t that something," Ida said. "Did you hear that, David? This lady’s mother is from Jamestown." "That’s quite a coincidence," David said. "Does she still live in Jamestown?" Matrina shook her head. "Oh, no," she said, "my mom, and my dad passed away several years ago. But she lived in Jamestown when she was a little girl. Then she met my dad, and they moved down state to Long Island. That’s where I was born." "So, you’re from Long Island?" David said. "Yes, until recently. After Mike’s death, I felt the children and I needed a fresh start, so we moved to Florida, to Sarasota last winter." "And you’re happy with your move?" David said. Matrina figured he always played the role of counselor, always the elder, always happy to offer aid and advice. "Yes," Matrina said. "It’s been very good for all of us." "You said you work," Ida said. "You said security, like John?" "Yes. I’m an investigator for Apex Cyberspace Security. They call it ACS." "That sounds interesting," Ida said. "It is," Matrina said. "Sometimes it can be too interesting." "Have you been dating John long?" Ida said. "Oh, we don’t date," Matrina said. "We’re just friends because we have so much in common with our jobs and our kids. We’re both still married to people who aren’t here anymore. I still wear my wedding rings, and so does John. I guess you’ve noticed that. Neither one of us is ready to date anyone. I don’t know that I'll ever be ready for that." "Nine-eleven had to be a terrible experience for you, for all of us, but you especially," Ida said. "Were you able to provide a proper funeral for your husband?" "No. Nothing of him was found, except for his wedding band which surfaced in the debris from the site. I wear it around my neck." Matrina hauled the band of gold from inside her shirt. It hung around her neck on a gold chain. "I see," Ida said. "Your job sounds like a dangerous job for a woman," David said. He cut a piece of his steak and put it into his mouth. "Not really," Matrina said. "I don’t carry a gun or anything like that." "You don’t?" David sounded surprised. He chewed his steak and ate a forkful of potato salad. "No," Matrina said. "I told them that for the money they pay me, if there’s a crisis, my plan would be to run to the nearest phone and dial nine-one-one." John came and stood beside the picnic table. "I know her boss," he said. "And I can attest to that being her exact comment." Matrina wanted to take her leave of these religious people before she dug herself into a deeper hole. "Well," she said, "it's been so nice meeting you. But I guess I’d better go and see if I can help Mrs. Gunthrey." She neglected to add that she had already offered to do that and been kicked to the curb. "Yes, of course," David said. He added salt to his potato salad. Ida smiled at her. "It has been nice chatting with you," she said. "I do hope we’ll get a chance to chat further." "I’m sure we will," Matrina said. She smiled back at Ida, picked up her plate and left the table. * * * Matrina walked back into the house, and John followed close behind. They went through the utilitarian kitchen. No curtains fluttered at the kitchen windows, and no multi-piece canister sat on the sink shelf. The counter did boast a coffee pot and a microwave. The clean dishtowels didn’t match, and no rug lay in front of the sink on the beige tiled floor. Mrs. Gunthrey, still on duty, made coffee and grumbled orders to whomever stood within earshot. ". . .between churches?" John said in a low tone of voice at the back of Matrina's head. "It’s all I could come up with on the fly," Matrina said. She put her used paper plate into the plastic bag that lined the trash can. "I told you we wouldn’t fit in with your friends. I feel embarrassed I even came to this party." "That’s ridiculous. They need to loosen up. You’re fine. You and I are good friends. They can understand me better by getting to know you better." "Right. And once they get to know Rosie, they may have more understanding than they can handle. You may have more understanding than you can handle." "Rosie's fine. You worry too much." "Did you notice she brought wine coolers to a non-drinking Baptist Church bar-be-cue?" "That's okay. Different strokes. I don't care who drinks what. I'll drink what I like, and they can drink what they like. What difference can it make?" Matrina walked into the neat living room. Brown carpeting lay beneath sturdy furniture. A couch upholstered in ecru fabric stood beneath scenic pictures on the walls. She saw no flowers or knickknacks, but crocheted or embroidered doilies rested on every end table. The coffee table sported a large circular crocheted doily with a variety of tiny crocheted mauve flowers splattered over it. She paused and studied the lovely table coverings. Had Delores, John’s deceased wife, made these? They were the solitary touches of femininity in this otherwise masculine home. A large screen TV sat in one corner of the living room and an expensive sound system in the other corner. Music must be John’s one vice, big time. The small dining room contained a large, round oak table that occupied the center of the room. The table took up too much space and a pale pink, round, embroidered tablecloth covered it. No centerpiece sat in the middle of the table, and six oak chairs sat around it. The computer crammed into a corner of the dining room rested on a small table rather than a computer stand. "So, the sound system, that’s your big hobby?" Matrina said. She touched the embroidered tablecloth and admired the workmanship. "That and my gun collection," John said. "You have a gun collection?" Matrina said. "Yes. Come on. I'll show it to you," John said. "I think it’s a classic. All cops, well, ex-cops, have gun collections, you know." "I guess it’s an occupational hazard," Matrina said. "I had forgotten you used to be a cop. You have that in common with Andy." "Yes, that’s interesting," John said. "Maybe I’ll get to swap cop stories with him one of these days." "That should be fun," Matrina said. John led the way into his den where his gun collection sat in a glass cabinet. Red leather furniture filled the den, and beneath the furniture lay the same brown carpeting that covered the rest of the floors in the house. Trophies for marksmanship sat around on several side tables on the every-present crocheted doilies, and a large picture of a pheasant that cruised over a field of wheat hung on the far wall. Piles of file folders lay on the large, highly-polished desk that sat in one corner of the room. Matrina noted the extensive display of guns in his gun cabinet. She felt awe-struck. The firearms looked like new. "So, do you know what any of these guns are?" John said. He opened the cabinet with a key he removed from the center drawer of his desk. "Of course not," Matrina said. "I don’t think I ever took ‘Guns 101’ when I worked in security for Wal-Mart back on Long Island. I just had to catch shoplifters, and I didn’t need a gun for that. A whistle would have come in handy, and maybe a baseball bat, but I didn’t have a gun." John removed one of the guns. "This one is my favorite. This is a 1902 American Eagle Luger. Very rare. It’s worth over four thousand dollars. Dee bought it for me at a yard sale for a hundred bucks. She had no idea of its value, and neither did the seller, obviously." "I’ve never even seen a gun that looks like that," Matrina said. She reached out, but withdrew her finger without touching it. "Dee brought it home and gave it to me, and I was just dumbfounded. She got all upset because she thought I was mad because she’d paid so much money for a gun. She started to cry, and offered to take it back." "She didn’t know what a good deal she had gotten?" "No. She didn’t have a clue, and I was so shocked she would know to buy such a valuable gun. But she said she thought it was ‘different.’ Boy, she was right in that aspect of it." "She must have loved you very much." John paused and caught his breath. He caressed the barrel of the gun. "So, anyway, I felt guilty about paying so little for the gun. I couldn’t pay what it was worth, but I wanted to give the people who sold it to Dee another couple of hundred bucks more anyway." "That was nice of you." "I didn’t want God to get me for being unfair, so we drove back to where the yard sale was, but they were gone, lock, stock and barrel. They had been set up in the little trailer park outside Little Falls, and we guessed they just sold what they could, packed up everything else and moved on." "What did you do then?" "I looked for them for weeks in other towns around the Mohawk Valley, and I never did find them. They probably never knew what they had, or they would have sold it for more." "So, what are these other guns?" Matrina said. "This one here is a 45 Long Colt, Hartford Model, and this one is a 1873 single action." John continued through his collection and explained each gun to her. "Do you worry about John and Matt being around guns like this?" Matrina said. She would have worried to have two young boys in the house with all these firearms. She would worry to have her twelve-year-old son, Turner, in a house with all these firearms. "Oh, I don’t have any bullets in the house," John said. "The guns, I love. But I don’t have much use for bullets." Matrina chuckled. They left the den and she followed John back to the backyard and the subdued partygoers. * * * After the police left, and the ambulance left, and the deacon and his wife left, and the other church guests left, and Rosie and Andy removed Andy’s dog and left, Matrina sat at a picnic table with John over a cup of coffee. Mrs. Gunthrey brought a cup for herself and joined them. The capable housekeeper, usually quite vocal about the happenings in John’s life, sat beside the gaping hole in the backyard and said nothing. Matrina sat there as well and enjoyed the evening breeze that had dropped the late June temperature a few degrees. No words came to her mind either that would make any difference. After a few minutes, a thought came to her. "We need to tell George," she said. She patted John’s hand as he picked paint from the picnic table. "George might have some insight into this situation." "George is just your boss and my friend. I don’t see how he could help." "He’s ex-FBI. He’s got connections. They could come and sweep the yard for DNA and other evidence." "The Manatee Sheriffs will do that." "Well, if they do, that’ll be good," Mrs. Gunthrey said. She sipped her coffee. "They’ll find all this has no connection to you." "I knew him," John said. "He was found dead here in my back yard. He appears to have been shot. I have guns. That’s what they call means and opportunity." "What about motive? There’s certainly no motive," Mrs. Gunthrey said. The space of silence that stopped the conversation made Matrina uncomfortable. She never knew what to do with awkward silences. "Yeah, they might come up with a motive," John said. He continued to flick chips of paint from the table top. "It would be a weak motive, at best. I really don’t think anyone could put me in the loop on this." "What kind of a motive would anyone have?" Matrina said. "We didn’t get along well, Slats and I. He always borrowed money from me and never paid me back." "You’re not the type person who would kill someone over an unpaid debt," Matrina said. "You're not the type of person who would even get angry over an unpaid debt." "People have killed people over less." Now Matrina generated the silence. Mrs. Gunthrey continued to sip her coffee, and Matrina noticed her bright gray eyes looked sullen and dark. When elderly women worry, their eyes betray them. The end of chapter 1 Backyard Burial, published by Publish America, is now available at your local bookstore and at all on-line book web sites.
Published by Publish America
Available in all bookstores and Publish America website now. www.publishamerica.com
Copyright © 2005 . All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2005 . All Rights Reserved.
