The Gift of the Magpie by Donna Andrews

Author:Donna Andrews
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter 18

I headed over to Trinity Episcopal and managed to dash inside just as the rain was revving up again. As I was shedding my raincoat and finding a place for my umbrella in one of the metal trash cans in the vestibule I ran into Robyn.

She looked worried.

“Meg, I heard about poor Harvey Dunlop. Have his relatives been contacted? Should I go over and call on them, in case they want us to handle the funeral?”

“Was he a parishioner?” I asked. “Or even Episcopalian? Not that he would have to be, of course—”

“No, of course he wouldn’t have to be, but actually he might be. I told you he has family buried here, didn’t I? So I assume they attended at some point.”

Or perhaps had taken advantage of the welcoming policies of Robyn’s predecessors.

“Yes, you mentioned it,” I said. “Where are they? We don’t know much about his family, and I’m curious.”

“Over by the big camellia, on the west side of the graveyard,” she said. “Come down to the parish hall when you’re done—you should see this quilt.”

With that she dashed toward the corridor that led to the parish hall. I retrieved my umbrella and trudged out into the graveyard.

There were eight Dunlops buried by the big camellia, in what would be a pleasant, shady spot in the spring, when the surrounding oaks got their leaves back. And the burials probably covered four generations. From their birth and death dates I deduced that Wilberforce and Miriam Dunlop were probably Harvey’s great-grandparents, Aristede Senior and Jane his grandparents, Aristede Junior and Alice his parents. Sad—Alice had died young, at only twenty-eight, when Harvey was nine. Aristede Junior had outlived her by decades and died fifteen years ago. There were two small headstones for little girls who’d died young, at eighteen months and not quite two years—Aristede Junior’s younger sisters, the ones whose hair was in the mourning brooch. No other graves. I wondered if there were children or siblings who had been buried elsewhere or if this was all the Dunlops there ever had been.

I took pictures of all of the tombstones, the oldest replete with carvings and biblical verses, the newest very plain, with nothing carved on them but names and dates. Maybe the maiden names of the women would lead us to other relatives. It would be nice if Harvey had mourners other than the Haverhills.

I sloshed inside again, stashed my umbrella, and headed for the parish hall.

It was a beehive of activity, though I couldn’t immediately figure out what some of it had to do with Mrs. Dinwiddie’s quilt. There were quilters in the end where I’d entered, yes. In the middle of the room, one of Randall Shiffley’s cousins appeared to be teaching a hands-on class in lamp repair. And the far end was filled with dogs. Puzzling. We’d had the annual blessing of the animals right on schedule, in October. And while I’d heard of places organizing canine nativities, I hadn’t heard that Robyn was planning one at Trinity.

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