Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan

Author:Eleanor Boylan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-05-10T16:52:48+00:00

12

TINA WAS RIGHT.

Holy Martyrs had to be seen to be believed. Even from the expressway, the prospect was surreal, especially with the thousands of monuments crusted with snow giving the impression of a marble forest.

The sun went under as we drove through the gate—one of six, Martin said—and into a vast preserve where every symbol of Christian consolation met the eye, numberless stone angels looked homeward toward Brooklyn, and granite saints galore pointed to a smoggy horizon.

“Drive straight ahead till I tell you.” Martin leaned forward and breathed fragrantly on my neck. Whether from enforced sobriety or the excitement of the jaunt, he'd become increasingly talkative as we approached the sacred premises. Sadd, thanks perhaps to the Chinese tea, now maneuvered the narrow, not perfectly plowed roads extremely well, squeezing past oncoming cars and edging around mourners on foot. He said:

“This is a Siberian maze! Martin, how can you possibly know where you're going?”

“I have Maura's poem.” Martin took from his pocket a crumpled paper. “I kind of know it by heart, but I've never been here in the snow before. Things look different. Here—you read it, Mrs....”

Whatever your name is. I took the paper and held it to the poor light of the window. Sadd peered out of his and said:

“The paths are named. This one is ... St. Ignatius.”

“Good.” Martin actually bounced a bit. “Only two more to St. Ambrose.”

I read the smudged, penciled words aloud:

Left on St. Ambrose, right on St. John

Cross St. Peter, then go right on

Till you come to Lazarus wearing a crown

Turn left on St. Joachim and Dawson you've found!

“Wonderful!” Sadd chuckled. “Sounds healthily male-dominated. Here we are at St. Ambrose, where we hang a left. Did Maura Cavanaugh write it? The girl was a dream.”

“She was an angel.”

I shivered. How many angelic girls had crossed Jim Cavanaugh's path? I said:

“Then Maura knew about the mausoleum before she—she went back to Ireland?”

“Oh, sure. She used to come out here and watch while it was being built. She said it was the ugliest thing in the United States of America.”

“Whoops!—right on St. John!” Sadd made a sudden turn, and we lurched around a corner to where the road wound between increasingly bigger monuments and what looked like small houses.

“The vaults begin here,” said Martin.

“What's the difference between a vault and a mausoleum?” I asked.

“Just size,” said Martin. “The mausoleums are the biggies.”

We moved along between higher and higher snowbanks. The day was growing grayer.

“Martin,” I said, laying some groundwork, “you showed me a key to the Dawson mausoleum the other night. Do you have it with you?”

“I always have it with me.”

“Do you suppose we could take a look inside?”

“Sure. Uncle Jim loves visitors. So do his buddies.”

Sadd's hands tightened on the wheel. He said: “Tell us about these buddies. Who else besides you knows they're in there?”

“Cassidy.”

“Frank Cassidy?” Sadd and I spoke as one, startled.

“'Across St. Peter'”—Martin pointed ahead—"'then go right on.’ What comes next, Mrs....”

“Er—‘till you come to Lazarus wearing a crown.'”

Cassidy? Sadd was looking at me with a wild, questioning frown.

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