Harriett had wanted to bury the girl in her garden, but that would have broken a dozen laws and the morgue had refused to deliver the body to Woodland Drive. So she’d purchased space in a local graveyard instead. When she took Jo and Nessa to see the plot, they were surprised to find that Harriett had picked a barren corner on a hill overlooking the highway for the girl’s final resting place.
“Are you sure this is the best spot?” Nessa had asked. There was no shade in sight and the grass beneath their feet was brown and brittle. “There are plots on the other side of the cemetery with flowers and trees.”
“I bought three plots side by side,” Harriett had told her. “That should be enough room for what I have in mind. Don’t worry about grass. There will be plenty of that soon enough.”
Now the brown grass was gone. In its place was a meadow filled with orange daylilies, purple ironweed, and white Queen Anne’s lace. A path just wide enough for a coffin and pallbearers led to a clearing in the center of the flowers. A mound of dirt sat at the head of the open grave, and the mourners had gathered on either side. At the bottom of the hole, a biodegradable cardboard casket lay with a linen shroud on top of it. Harriett hadn’t wanted a casket at all. Burial was meant to return a person to nature, she’d argued passionately. Wrapping the girl’s body in a toxic cocoon of plastic and chemicals would defeat the purpose. The ecofriendly solution was the compromise they’d arrived at. Nessa had insisted on the linen covering, knowing her friends from church would take one look at a cardboard casket and assume she’d gone with the cheapest option.
Jo watched Nessa arrive on Franklin’s arm, bearing her grief bravely. She, Art, and Lucy stood among the church ladies. Her own family, while proud of their heritage, had not been religious. Growing up, she’d been inside more churches than synagogues. The rites and rituals of Christianity were familiar, but they weren’t her own. As a little girl, she’d been fascinated by the Christian vision of heaven, with its white-robed God and plump little cherubs. A friend had told her heaven is where Methodists go if they’ve led a good life. Her mother had tutted when Jo repeated that.
“Anyone who needs a reward to be good isn’t good. They just like rewards. Good people do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do.”
Those words had stuck in Jo’s head for forty years—and they were still there, long after her mother had met her own reward. Jo remained skeptical of those who wore their religion on their sleeves. But she had no doubts where Nessa was concerned. If there was one person alive whose goodness could counter the world’s evil, it was the woman who’d just come to bury a girl she’d never known.
Harriett was another story, Jo thought. She had purchased the plots. She had planted the flowers. For all Jo knew, Harriett might even have dug the hole. But she hadn’t done it out of pure benevolence. Harriett’s motivations weren’t so easy to comprehend, but Jo was certain she had her eyes on a goal as well. As the pastor spoke, Jo let her gaze linger on the tall, regal woman with the mane of silver-blond hair. She wore a long, sleeveless dress of unbleached linen and though her feet were hidden, Jo knew they were bare.
Once the pastor had finished, Nessa and her daughters left ahead of the others so they could get home before their guests arrived at the funeral reception. Harriett didn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave, and Lucy seemed keen to stay by Harriett’s side.
“You worked wonders on the gravesite,” Jo told Harriett. “It’s lovely.”
“Yes.” Harriett no longer had time for false modesty. “But I’m not finished.”
“Do you want a ride to Nessa’s house?” Jo asked Harriett. “We’re heading over there now.”
“If you don’t mind, I could use a hand before you leave.” Harriett picked up the two shovels that lay atop the mound of dirt by the grave and held one out to the Levison family.
“You’re kidding,” Art Levison said with a nervous grin. His wife and daughter knew it wasn’t a joke.
“I’ll help!” Lucy offered eagerly.
“Great!” Harriett passed the second shovel to the little girl without a second thought. Lucy, dressed in her best shoes, hopped right into action.
Art looked over at his wife. “Is this okay with you?” he muttered.
Jo shrugged. “I know it’s weird, but I guess it still counts as a mitzvah.”
“I hope so,” he said as they watched their eleven-year-old daughter shovel dirt into an open grave. “Isn’t there someone at the cemetery who gets paid to do this?” Art asked Harriett.
“Yes, of course,” Harriett replied. “But if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. And find an eleven-year-old kid to help you. Am I right, Lucy?”
“Yeah!” Lucy said.
When the hole was almost filled and both Lucy and Harriett were covered with dirt, Harriett pulled a small burlap pouch out of her bag. “I’ll do the rest of the shoveling. Take one of these and plant it when I’m done.”
“What are they?” Jo asked.
“Brugmansia insignis. Angel’s trumpet.” Harriett opened the bag and pulled out a strange seed, which she placed in the palm of Lucy’s hand. “Amazing, isn’t it? One of these tiny seeds will grow into a twelve-foot-tall monster. Each of its flowers will be the size of a party hat, and every part of the plant will be chock full of poison.”
“Wow.” Lucy marveled as she studied the seed up close.
“You’re planting a giant poisonous bush on this girl’s grave.” Jo didn’t know what to say.
“Yes, because when the plant is in flower, it’s impossible to ignore.” Harriett pointed past the cemetery’s fence at the highway that stretched from the city to the end of the island. “I want everyone passing by to look. I want whoever did this to know that the girl buried here hasn’t been forgotten. I want him to see what we can do. And I want that motherfucker to worry.”
“Woohoo!” Lucy cheered.
Jo felt her phone buzz in her pocket. When she pulled it out, she saw the call was coming from her gym, where she’d left her assistant manager in charge.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” Heather was speaking so softly that Jo strained to hear. “But you need to come to the gym as soon as you can. The police are here.”
“What? Why?” Jo asked.
“One of our clients passed away. They want access to her locker. I’ve told them I can’t do anything without your permission.”
Jo felt the energy flowing beneath her skin. Her body sensed where the conversation was going. The phone’s connection briefly faltered. “Which client?” Jo asked.
“Rosamund Harding,” Heather said.
A second surge made the line crackle. “Ask all the clients to leave. Tell them there’s a plumbing emergency. I’ll be at the gym in three minutes.”
“Trouble at work?” Art asked when she hung up. Harriett had paused from her labors to hear what had happened.