The Restorer

“It’s a start.”

He glanced down at the picture and I stared down at his hands. They were strong and graceful, those hands. And warm. I could still feel the heat from his previous touch. It made me start to wonder about other things. If I’d reacted so intensely to the mere grasp of his fingers, what would it be like if he kissed me?

Not that that would ever happen. I couldn’t let it happen. Even if Devlin was accommodating.

His eyes were very dark as he regarded me. I was happy he couldn’t read my inappropriate thoughts, though I certainly wished I could read his. “You say you didn’t see any sign that the grave had been disturbed, but did you notice anything else? Anything unusual or out of place in this or any of the other images?”

“Like what?” I bent to pick up the basket of shells and stones. A few spilled out and he stooped to retrieve them. Again, I noticed the flash of silver around his neck, a teasing glimpse of a dark medallion that swung out of his shirt collar when he leaned over.

He straightened and the medallion slipped back into place. “You’re the expert.”

“I haven’t had a chance to examine the other images as thoroughly, so I can’t say for certain. The only thing somewhat out of the ordinary about that particular grave is the placement of the headstone. The inscription is facing away from the body.”

He took another look at the photograph. “How can you tell? It’s not like the graves are in neat rows, and the vegetation is so thick, you can barely see some of the headstones.”

“Because as I said, I took that picture in the afternoon. I was shooting into the sun. The next image is the face of the headstone and the sun is behind me.”

“So?”

“If the inscription was turned inward, toward the grave, the body would be facing west. See?” I took the photograph, careful not to brush his fingers as I demonstrated what I meant. “Almost all the old Southern cemeteries are laid out so that the bodies face east, toward the rising sun. People tend to think the orientation is a Christian tradition, but it actually dates back to the Egyptians.”

“Is this east-west situation common knowledge or is it something only someone like you would pick up on?”

“Well, it’s certainly not a secret. You could learn everything I just told you from a simple internet search. But I doubt most people would give much thought to the layout of a graveyard, old or new.” Absently, I plucked one of the stones from the basket and rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you think the killer is someone who has some interest in cemeteries?”

“I’m not ruling out the possibility. Of all the graves to choose from, why that one? What’s the significance of an outward-facing headstone?”

I shrugged. “Usually, it’s a matter of preference. Or sometimes the layout of the cemetery will dictate headstone placement, but that’s obviously not the case in Oak Grove. Of course, there’s also the old superstition that an outward-facing or backward headstone was placed on the grave of a witch, but I doubt that’s a consideration, either.” I glanced down at the picture. “The person who was buried in this grave was a fourteen-year-old girl who died of scarlet fever in the late nineteenth century. I found nothing unusual about her death in the county records or in the university archives.”

“What about the epitaph? Or the designs on the headstone? What do they mean?”

“The epitaph is fairly standard Victorian verse and the symbols are open to interpretation. You ask five experts, you’ll likely get five different answers. And meanings can change from place to place and from year to year. Given the inscription and the age of the deceased, I’d say the severed willow bow symbolizes the sorrow of a broken family and the entwined morning glory vine represents resurrection. Morning glories were also used as a symbol of youth and beauty.”

“What about the feather at the bottom of the stone?”

“It suggests the flight of the soul, although it’s a little more ambiguous than a dove or a winged effigy.”

He glanced up. “What the devil is a winged effigy?”

“Just what it sounds like—a winged face, sometimes a skull. You’ll also hear them called soul effigies or death’s heads. These types of symbols are much more prevalent in the old New England cemeteries where the puritan stonecutters favored a more morbid and literal representation—skull and crossbones, bodies in coffins, skeletons…” I trailed off and glanced at him. “Sorry. I get a little carried away.”

“No, it’s all good stuff. Keep going.” He didn’t sound the least bit impatient at my rambling and I appreciated that.

“It wasn’t until the turn of the nineteenth century that gravestone art became more ethereal and symbolic and more open to a variety of interpretations, like the ones you see on this headstone.”

“So what you’re telling me is that the meanings of these symbols are sometimes in the eye of the beholder,” he said thoughtfully.

“They can be.” I tossed the pebble back into the basket. “Why don’t you come inside for a minute? If you really want to learn about gravestone symbology, I have some books you might find helpful.”

It probably wasn’t a good idea to invite him into my home, but he needed my help and at the moment his ghosts were safely tucked away behind the veil.

I led him into the house by way of the side garden, then through the kitchen and back to my office. The sunlight streaming in through the higher windows was soft and yellow and shimmering with dust.

Choosing a couple of volumes from my collection, I turned to hand them to Devlin. His gaze was riveted to a display of framed photographs on one wall.

He walked over to take a closer look. “Did you take these?”

“Yes.” His scrutiny made me oddly nervous. Other than the few I’d posted on Digging Graves, no one had ever seen my photographs.

“You double-exposed the film. Interesting the way you superimposed all those old graveyards over cityscapes. There’s a definite theme and point of view. Also, a hidden message, I suspect.”

I came to stand beside him. “Not really. Like gravestone art, the message is in the eye of the beholder.”

He studied the images for a moment longer. “I find them…lonely. Beautiful, but intensely lonely. They make me uneasy.” He glanced at me then. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that as an insult.”

“I didn’t take it as one. I’m glad they make you feel.”

His gaze lingered, searching. “You like cemeteries, don’t you?”

“They’re my livelihood,” I said with a shrug.

“I’m guessing they’re more than that.” He turned back to the pictures, frowning. “There’s a sense of isolation, but not in the graveyards. In the cities. Within the people. These images are very revealing, I think.”

I suppressed a shiver. His observation made me feel exposed and vulnerable. “I wouldn’t read too much into them. I like playing around with interesting compositions and different techniques. There’s no deep meaning here.”

“I disagree,” he said. “But perhaps that’s a discussion best left for another day.”

SEVEN

“Here.” I handed him the books. “Why don’t you browse through these while I go wash my hands?”

I left him perched on the edge of a corner chaise, thumbing through one of the volumes, while I hurried down the hallway.

In the bathroom, I washed my face and hands, resuscitated my ponytail and pulled on a clean T-shirt. Beyond that, I didn’t bother with the mirror. I tend to be a little too hard on myself even though I’m aware of my attractiveness. I’m what people call a quiet pretty. Blond hair, blue eyes, a nice complexion and a generous mouth. I’m thin but my muscles are strong and taut from all those years of working in cemeteries. I enjoy my share of admiring glances, but in no way would I ever be considered exotic or sultry, like the woman who haunted Devlin. Why that mattered to me even a little bit was not something I cared to contemplate.

I couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes, but when I returned to my office, I found Devlin stretched out on the chaise, sound asleep. One of the books rested on his chest, the other on the floor beside him.

This was an unexpected turn of events.

I walked over to his side and stared down at him. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and I resisted the urge to sweep it aside.

Touching him was out of the question. So I said his name instead, but he didn’t rouse.

He looked so deeply under, I was a little apprehensive about startling him awake. He was an armed police detective, after all.

I stood in a quandary, wondering if I should just let him sleep. He was probably exhausted and he looked so peaceful. But this was odd. A first for me.

Taking advantage of the situation, I gave him another thorough appraisal. He had a scar beneath his bottom lip that I hadn’t noticed before. It was small but indented, as if something very sharp had punctured the skin. A knife, perhaps. The thought of that drew a shiver.