“It’s a technicality as to whether that makes it two or three, then,” Nikki said with a laugh. “Of course, some Southerners would say that the most important president ever is buried there.”
“This book was written by an Englishman,” Genevieve said, reading the cover blurb. “We’ll assume that he really didn’t take a side.”
Nikki grinned, as they drove into the cemetery and parked. They went into the office, where they pretended to be relatives of William Morton so they could get directions to his grave.
As they started walking, Genevieve felt an odd sense of unease slipping over her, despite the beauty of the setting. “Nikki?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Are we here because you’re hoping to, uh, talk to William Morton?”
“Who knows? It’s worth a try.”
Genevieve found herself distracted when she saw a sign pointing to the grave of George Pickett, famous for Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg. She wandered over to the grave and studied it, saddened by thoughts of how much had been lost when the country had been torn in two by war.
“Nikki?” she said, then realized the other woman wasn’t with her, so she started walking again in what she hoped was the direction of William Morton’s grave.
Then she turned a corner and froze.
There were ghosts, and she knew they were ghosts, standing right in front of her. A man, tall, slender, gaunt even, and very stately, with graying hair and strong, tormented features. And a woman. Very tall, as well, in eighteen-fifties dress. She was of medium build, a very handsome woman, but looking as tormented as the man.
Genevieve’s jaw locked, and she shook her head.
They were just there on the path, surrounded by stone angels.
As she stood transfixed, another man came up to the pair. He wore a gray uniform with butternut trim, a handsome officer’s jacket and a cockade hat. The officer said something to the couple, then tipped his hat and turned to walk down the path.
Right toward Genevieve.
As he got closer, she realized that she could see right through him.
He was a handsome man, and as he passed her, he tipped his hat as if it were perfectly natural that she should see him.
She sensed someone behind her, and she couldn’t help it. She screamed.
“Genevieve! What on earth is the matter?”
She turned to see Nikki standing there.
“You’ve seen someone,” the other woman said.
All Genevieve could do at first was point.
“That’s Jefferson Davis’s grave. His wife is buried right next to him, and there are a number of Confederate officers nearby.”
Genevieve stared at Nikki. “I—I can’t do this.” She gulped for air. “I just can’t….”
“Just breathe and you’ll be fine. And then I want you to come with me. I’ve found William Morton’s grave. It’s just over there, and I was thinking you might be able to sense something, because you have a connection to this case that I don’t.”
“Do you see these people all the time?” Genevieve asked, finally able to speak coherently again.
“Not all the time, but often enough. You really do get used to it,” Nikki told her. “I swear to you, Genevieve. You’ll be all right. You haven’t passed out, and that’s a good sign.”
Why pass out when she was certifiably crazy? Gen thought.
Then she straightened her shoulders. It was still daylight. The cemetery wasn’t shrouded in mist. In fact, it was beautiful, filled with monuments to the dead, to the persistence of love beyond the grave. She took a deep breath. “Show me the grave,” she said to Nikki.
CHAPTER 17
At first the police weren’t as cooperative as Joe had hoped for, but then Brent asked to see Detective Ryan Wilkins, and after several minutes the detective came out and greeted Brent warmly, suggesting they go around the corner to a coffee shop to talk.
The day was warm, so they sat at an outside table, and Wilkins produced a file. “I copied everything we have for you. Told the chief about your research down here maybe helping put an end to our cold case, and he was obliging.”
“Thanks. This is terrific,” Joe said, opening the file.
A lot of the information was dry. He started with the medical examiner’s report, and the cause of death was simple: strangulation by a right-handed killer.
“We had no clues. Nothing to go on. To begin with, the Mortons were very neat and orderly people. There was no dust on the basement floor, so…no footprints.”
“The house hadn’t been broken into?” Joe asked.
Wilkins, a handsome black man of about forty, shook his head. “No. No sign of forced entry in any way. The house is out in the country. No close neighbors. Mrs. Morton was at a meeting of her garden club when it happened.”