For those of you who haven’t yet read The Cemetery Club, here is part of the first chapter that began the whole Darcy and Flora, mother and daughter sleuth series.
When I awoke to sunshine, blue skies, and the fragrance of freshly perked coffee that morning, I had no inkling that a few hours later the sun would be blotted out by menacing clouds or that my mother and I would stumble upon a dead body in a brush pile in Goshen Cemetery. Mom’s purpose in coming to the cemetery was to see what needed to be done before Decoration Day, which would happen on the third Sunday of this month of May. My purpose was simply to be with her.
But there it was–a bare human foot sticking stiffly from a mound of dirt and tree limbs heaped in the oldest part of the ancient graveyard called Goshen. Nature itself seemed to recoil at the horror before us. Trees bowed and swayed in a macabre dance with the wild wind while angry clouds brooded over gray headstones. I had seen more than one dead body in my years as an investigative reporter, but this shocked me to the core because it was so unexpected and horrible.
Mom grabbed my arm. “Darcy,” she said, “is that what I think it is?”
I swallowed before I could answer. “I’m afraid so.”
“But–but how can that be?” Mom’s voice quavered. “Who is it? Come on, let’s uncover him. Maybe he is alive. Maybe we can help.” She started toward the pile of debris.
I grabbed her hand. “No. Don’t go there. We need to get the sheriff. Whoever is under that brush is beyond all help.”
Flora Tucker did not take advice easily. She pulled away from me and made a beeline for the grisly object. Past examples of her courage flashed through my mind: Mom gently carrying me to the doctor when, as a child, I fell from a tree and broke my arm; another time, she loaded Dad’s old rifle and poked around the foundation of our barn until she found and shot the copperhead that bit my father. She was not a large woman, but she had a lot of grit.
Nevertheless, I tried to stop her. “You shouldn’t see what’s under there,” I pleaded. “Think about it, Mom. This is a job for the authorities.”
She shook off my hand as if I were a pesky mosquito, grabbed a stick from that pile of trash, and began scooting away the limbs and rocks until she uncovered a green plaid shirt. Removing a few more sticks revealed arms folded across a man’s chest and a few inches under his arms gaped a ragged, dark bullet hole. Another two seconds of digging and the dead man’s face appeared. He had a dark complexion and longish gray hair.
Mom gasped and shuddered like the limbs of the surrounding cedars. “It–it’s Ben,” she whispered.
I held my nose and leaned forward. She was right. Ben Ventris, a longtime neighbor of Mom and Dad’s, lay before me. I had visited in the Ventris home many years ago when Mrs. Ventris was alive. I remembered a comfortable house and the scent of wood smoke. Their farm connected to land owned by my grandmother. But now, here was Ben, still and lifeless, thrown away like someone’s trash. Tears stung my eyes.
Something else about Ben Ventris did not look right, besides the fact that he was quite dead. Mom noticed it at the same time as I. Her hand on my arm felt like a vise. “Look!” she whispered hoarsely. “Oh dear Lord! Darcy, look at Ben’s poor hand.”
I looked. Only a bloody stump remained where the third finger of Ben’s left hand should have been.
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