She knew Mellon had first been buried in Homewood Cemetery. Part memorial, part park, founded in the late 19th century, it sat at Pittsburgh’s affluent east end and served as the final resting place for the city’s elite. She’d never known there was a difference between a cemetery and a graveyard, but Joe Levy had enlightened her.
“Graveyards are just that,” he said. “Land set aside for burials. Usually churches or a government maintain them. Cemeteries are much more. Rules and regulations control the plots. There are dos and don’ts. They’re more elaborate and provide for perpetual care. Like institutions, in and of themselves.”
“Is this an interest of yours?”
He smiled. “I like history. So I read a lot.”
She’d heard Cotton say the same thing many times, and flying over Homewood she began to understand what Levy was saying. In the fading light she saw acres of rolling landscapes, open meadows, winding roads, a pond, and lots of tall trees. Monuments were everywhere, some just markers, others more like temples, a few larger than houses. One in particular caught her eye, shaped as a pyramid.
“It’s really impressive,” Levy said as they gazed out the cabin windows.
Evening was rapidly fading, the sun setting to the west. The pilot swung the chopper around and landed in a paved parking lot devoid of cars, except for one. A man waited for them beyond the rotor wash and they quickly exited the helicopter. He introduced himself as the superintendent and explained that a call from the White House had alerted him to their visit.
“I understand you want to see the Mellon tomb.”
And they climbed into the lone vehicle.
Darkness enveloped during the drive through the quiet grounds. No lights illuminated anything. But why would they be needed?
“The Mellon plot is located in Section 14, among an array of our more elaborate mausoleums,” the superintendent told them. “It was built for James Mellon, when he died in 1934. Andrew, James’ brother, was laid to rest there, too, in 1937, but he was moved decades later to Virginia.”
This man had no idea why they were there and she offered nothing.
“James Mellon was president of our board of directors until his death. He exerted a profound influence on the cemetery’s development.”
A touch of pride laced the statement.
They wound through the shedding trees. A carpet of leaves shone in the headlights, lining the road on both sides. Finally they stopped, and the superintendent indicated that they should all exit.
“I have flashlights in the trunk. I thought you might need them.”
He retrieved three and handed two over. Stephanie switched hers on and played the beam off toward the mausoleum where she saw white marble walls, a pedimented front, and columns that cast the look of a Greek temple. Iron doors blocked the way inside beneath the word MELLON carved in stone. A bronze statue sat between the road and three short steps that led to the entrance. A haggard-looking man, cradling a little girl on his lap. She stepped closer and saw the word MOTHERLESS carved into its base.
“That was in James Mellon’s garden,” their host said. “There are a lot of tales about it. Some say it represented the premature death of a Mellon woman, and the father took up the charge of raising the child. But the simple truth is James had it made in Scotland as a lawn ornament. The artist named it Motherless. After James died it was moved here as adornment. No mystery at all.”
But it was striking.
“I was told,” the superintendent said, “that you wanted to be brought here. Unfortunately, I can’t open the doors. That would violate our rules. Only the family can allow that.”
She needed this man to leave. “Could you excuse us. Come back in half an hour or so.”
She saw the perplexed look on his face, but he left with no argument. She assumed the White House had also requested privacy.
They stood silent until the car’s taillights faded down the road.
“That key,” Levy said. “You think it opens the lock?”
“Let’s find out.”
They walked across the soft grass and stepped up to the iron doors. A notched hole was visible in the right bronze panel. She removed the key from her pocket, the one Mellon had left inside the painting, and slipped it in.
Which fit perfectly.
She worked the stem right, then left, and freed the lock, releasing the latch with a distinctive click.
“Looks like we don’t need the family’s permission,” she said.
They opened the doors and shined their lights inside. More white marble could be seen, the walls lined with markers where Mellon relations lay. She studied the dates and saw that there hadn’t been a burial here since 1970. One section was blank, its marble front gone, the stone niche beyond it empty.
“That must have been for Andrew,” Levy said. “Before he was moved.”
She agreed.
“What now?” Levy asked.
She surveyed the interior, trying to make sense of what Mellon had left. And then she saw it. Marble outlined with a thin border of gold. She stepped across. The panel measured about eighteen inches square. Atop its face was carved a Roman numeral.
XVI.
“Not exactly X marks the spot,” she said. “But close enough.”
The Roman numerals had been etched into a separate piece of thin marble, maybe four inches square. So far Mellon had kept things simple and direct. No reason to doubt he’d stopped now.
She tested the Maglite in her right hand. Sturdy. More than capable. So she reversed the flashlight in her grip, then slammed its weighted butt into the numerals.
The stone easily shattered.
Just as she suspected.
She cleared away the remaining bits and pieces and saw a gold lock.
“You know it fits,” Levy said.
She inserted the key and turned, revealing that the panel was actually a door.
Their combined lights exposed a compartment about two feet deep. A stack of brown and brittle parchments lay inside, a few rolled and bound by leather straps. Other sheets were lighter in color. Vellum, she assumed, stacked loosely about six inches high thanks to bulky waves and curves. She aimed the light while Levy carefully removed them.
“They’re promissory notes,” he said.