“Was he easily frightened?” Joe asked.
The man frowned, clearly curious as to Joe’s line of questioning, so Joe showed him his license. “My friends and I are looking into the recent murders in New York,” he said.
The man’s eyes widened. “You think…?”
“We don’t know.”
“Look, I’m done here, so I can show you Bradley’s grave, if you want. Poor guy. He died there, and now he’s buried there. I’m James Boer, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
Joe made the introductions to the rest of the group, and then they got back in their car and followed James.
Bradley Hicks had been buried in a very old cemetery, rich with funerary art, slightly overgrown, and melancholy. The Hicks family had been in Baltimore for a long time. The first interment had been in eighteen-ten, and there were literally dozens of names inscribed on the tomb.
“Can all of those people really fit in there?” Nikki asked doubtfully.
“I imagine some are cremations,” Joe said in reply.
“They found him in there, though. There are shelves on three sides, and a couple of tombs on the ground where you go in,” James told them. “Hey, you can see for yourselves. You can look through the grating.”
Joe stepped up and looked in. Though shadows hid some things, the interior was just as James had described it.
“Here, use my flashlight,” Adam volunteered, handing over his keychain, which had a small but powerful penlight attached. When Joe looked at him in surprise, the older man just shrugged. “I encounter more tombs than you do,” he said lightly.
The beam showed Joe what he needed to know. On the other side of the grating was a wooden door, now open. Inside, there were four stone coffins on the ground and a number of others filling the shelves.
“That’s Bradley, over there,” James said, moving up and pointing. Bradley Hicks was resting on the top shelf on the right-hand side.
“Who keeps the keys to the mausoleums?” Joe asked James.
“The families, of course, and the cemetery manager has one,” James said.
“You want to get in?” Adam asked. Joe nodded, and Adam said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Take the car,” Brent suggested, tossing him the keys. “It’s a long walk back to the office.”
Adam nodded, and Nikki decided to go with him.
“What are you trying to prove?” James asked.
“I’m just trying to see how he could have thought he’d locked himself in,” Joe explained, then was startled by a choked-off scream. He turned quickly to see Genevieve and Brent standing together on the narrow path leading to the tomb. The scream had come from behind them, where a young woman of about twenty was standing, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
Genevieve hurried over to her, frowning.
“No,” the young woman mouthed, wide-eyed.
“It’s all right,” Genevieve said, touching her shoulder gently.
The woman ignored her, raised a finger and pointed at James. “You were here!” she said accusingly. “You were here the day that man died.”
“No, I wasn’t,” James protested. He looked at the others, shaking his head. “I swear, I was working.” He turned back to the young woman. “I’m a tour guide,” he said quickly. “I dress like this for work, but except for today, I’ve never come here in costume.”
“Calm down, everyone,” Joe said. “Miss, were you here when Mr. Hicks died?”
She nodded.
“Are you related to him?” When she shook her head, Joe went on, “So you were here because…?” he asked.
She pointed to another family mausoleum about fifty yards away. In bold letters it announced the name ‘Adair.’
“Your family?” Genevieve asked, trying to draw her out.
Another nod, then, “I’m Sarah Adair.”
“What happened?” Genevieve pursued.
“I…came to bring my grandmother flowers. I like to come. Our tomb is always open. It’s like a little chapel,” she said.
“Did you see Mr. Hicks that day?” Joe asked. “Before he died?
She shook her head. “No, I only heard about it later. But I saw him!” She pointed at James.
“I’m telling you, I wasn’t here,” James said.
She studied his face. “Okay. I saw someone who looked like you.”
“Someone who looked like Edgar Allan Poe, you mean?” Joe asked.
She shrugged. “I guess. Like Poe.” She suddenly clamped her hand over her mouth. “The paper said the man who died loved Poe. He wrote an article about him or something.”