Graveyard Girl, part 3 of 6
September 1, Sunday
MY EYES opened and I immediately groaned. My entire body ached from spending most of yesterday helping Sawyer clean up the vandalized Whisper Graveyard, and we'd made scant progress.
But the physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional toll of seeing the graves desecrated, especially after Sawyer had put so much time into restoring and repairing the headstones. Sawyer had shown me the monuments weren't just random grave markers—they represented people. Lives lived, loves lost, stories untold… people who deserved to rest in peace. Yet someone had shattered that sanctity with spray paint and sledgehammers.
I pushed up gingerly, then climbed out of bed slowly and stretched high. A glance in the mirror elicited another groan—I'd gone to bed with wet hair, too tired to bother with drying it after a hot shower. When an insistent cock-a-doodle-doo! reached my ears, I sighed. The chickens didn't care how scary I looked. Even so, I skimmed my basic brown hair back into a ponytail and dressed in sturdy clothes. With the cemetery still in shambles, no way would I be able to relax long enough to work on my novel.
As I made my way downstairs, my phone pinged with a text from Sawyer:
Swinging by later to finish cleanup. Bringing reinforcements.
The text warmed me because it signified a new level in our… friendship. Indeed, working side by side had made me feel closer to him, and to the Whisper property. The damage to the gravestones had felt like a personal assault because it had happened on my watch, so to speak.
Then I frowned, wondering who the "reinforcements" might be. More muscle to help with the heavy lifting and dirty work? Or maybe he'd called in law enforcement?
Except Irving didn't have a police department and I doubted that vandalism to a country cemetery would be serious enough for the Birmingham police to do more than file a report.
My pondering was interrupted by an unholy screech from outside. I raced to the kitchen window, half-expecting to see witches flying by on broomsticks after yesterday's violation. Instead, Satan the white goat seemed to be in a showdown with the black rooster. I hurried outside to break up the rumble and tossed down a few handfuls of chicken feed to distract the chickens while I raided their nests.
Butterscotch, however, was wise to my ways. She sat perched on her nest, delivering strategic pecks as I removed two warm eggs from beneath her rump. I'd come to think of them as love bites.
And ouch , love hurt.
As I walked back toward the Whisper House, Sawyer's truck rolled up. He honked and waved as he passed. A veritable caravan followed him, at least half a dozen vehicles, all packed with people and loaded with tools.
I stowed the eggs and hurried down to the cemetery. The mornings were cooler now, hinting at the arrival of Fall, although I wasn't sure how cool it would get this far south.
When I arrived at the graveyard, Sawyer caught my gaze and gave me a little smile. He was dressed for hard work and emanated a competency that comforted me. I recognized faces from town. There was Coleman from the grocery, Tilda from the library and her twin teenage daughters, plus Franny from the jewelry store and Wayne from the bookshop. Their faces were grim as they surveyed the damage, and the Benson twins cried openly.
"Who could've done this?" Wayne asked.
Tilda nodded to a stocky man in his forties who stood apart from the others. "I'll bet he knows."
Instead of being defensive, the man simply shook his head. "I don't."
She didn't seem convinced. "Maybe someone in your congregation, Reverend?"
The tension was palpable, but the man didn't respond.
Sawyer cleared his throat. "John said he doesn't know. He called off Sunday morning service to pitch in. Doesn't that tell you something?"
Tilda scoffed. "Tells me he's feeling guilty."
"Sis," Franny chided. "Let's get to work."
"Right," Sawyer chimed in. "Everyone, grab a rake or a scrub brush and start anywhere."
The group broke up and traipsed back to the vehicles and soon everyone was busy trying to remove the paint marring the headstones. I scrubbed, too, but even with paint remover spray, it was slow-going.
As we worked, I found myself next to Franny. She was scrubbing Nell Benson's headstone with grim efficiency. The granite slab over the grave that had previously been dislodged was now broken into two chunks. The jagged edge of the crack struck me as especially violent.
"This is my great-aunt's grave," Franny murmured.
"Rose's grandmother," I added.
She seemed surprised. "That's right."
"Were you and Rose close?"
She looked torn. "She was much younger, and there was lots of family conflict, but Rose didn't deserve what happened to her."
I chose my words carefully. "I understood she committed suicide." Although I'd overheard Franny's sister Tilda announce to a group of Wiccans that Rose had been murdered.
Franny glanced around furtively, then leaned in. "Listen, be careful. There are forces at work here that—"
"Franny!" Coleman called out. "Can you give me a hand over here?"
"Coming!" To me, she added, "Just watch yourself, okay?"
I stared after her, my mind whirling. The drama simmering in Irving was akin to a bubbling cauldron.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of manual labor and hushed conversations. I caught snippets here and there—whispers about curses and old feuds. It seemed everyone had a theory about who was behind the vandalism, ranging from lawless kids to someone with a darker intent.
By early afternoon, the graveyard was looking much better. We couldn't fix the broken headstones, but the debris was cleared and most of the graffiti scrubbed away.
As the impromptu clean-up crew began to disperse, Wayne sidled up to me. "Crazy stuff, huh? Almost like something out of a book." He gave me a pointed look.
I conjured up an apologetic smile. "I haven't finished reading your manuscript yet." In truth, I had finished it and had passed it to the tour guide Edra Waco so she could tell me how much of his story about the local witch feud was true.
"No rush. But I'm eager to know what you think."
"So far, I'm enjoying it." My assurance seemed to satisfy him.
When I walked back to the truck, Sawyer was stowing a rake.
"Are you okay?" we asked at the same time, then smiled.
"A little sore," I admitted.
"Same," he said. "But now that the cleanup is done, I can begin repairs." He gave me a little smile. "Looks like I'll be spending even more time here."
I confess I liked the sound of that, but plucking at the back of my mind was the reminder that I still wanted to ask him about his relationship with Rose Whisper. To change the channel in my mind, I asked, "Did you report the vandalism to the police?"
He nodded. "The Birmingham dispatcher asked me to send the photos I took when I first got here. I was told they'd look into it, but I doubt it."
The conversation reminded me of a call I needed to make, a promise I'd made, never thinking I'd have to follow up.
To Atlanta Detective Jack Terry.