Im sorry, Danny said.
If youre doing a ghost tour, Im assuming it makes a good story, and its not your fault, David assured him.
And you tell the story, too, right? David asked.
Im sorry, Danny said.
If youre doing a ghost tour, Im assuming it makes a good story, and its not your fault, David assured him.
Danny looked around awkwardly for a moment. Hey, you want some ice cream?
David shook his head. No, thanks, Danny. You know, you said that you retell the story on your tours. What do you say?
Danny looked pale suddenly. I-I-
You say that I was under suspicion, right?
No, no, nothing like that. He was lying; he was lying out of kindness, so it seemed.
Do you remember what really happened? David asked.
What do you mean, what really happened? I wasnt working either day. You were working for me, dont you remember?
Of course, I remember that. But what do you remember?
Not much, man.
What did you do the night of her murder with your free time?
Danny thought a minute. I had a few drinks at one of the joints on Duval. And I was down at Mallory Square. Then I went home. I woke up the next morning when I heard all the sirens-I was living in an apartment on Elizabeth Street back then. I came outside and saw the cops and the M.E.s car over at the museum and walked over.
Did you see Tanya at all that night? David asked.
Noyes! Early. Well, it was late afternoon, I guess. Around five. I saw her down in one of the bars. I talked to her, I think. Yes, I did talk to her. Id heard she was leaving town, and that things had kind of faded apart between you two. She said she had a few people to see that night, and that shed be taking a rental up to Miami, and flying out from there the next day.
So, five oclock. Where?
Danny shook his head. I thinkmaybe, yeah! I was toward the south side of Duval. It might even have been Katies uncles place.
Thanks, Danny, David told him. Did you tell the cops that at the time?
Im sure that I did, Danny told him. Why?
Because her killer has never been caught, David said.
Right, Danny said.
Well, good to see you, and thanks again, David told him.
Sure thing. Sure. And I really cant give you an ice cream?
No, but thanks, David told him.
He waved to Danny and left.
Five oclock. If Danny was right, Tanya had been at OHaras at five oclock on the Saturday night she had been murdered.
And Danny hadnt seen her again.
Important, if it was the truth. If he wasnt covering up.
For himself.
Or for someone else.
It was Dannys story then, and it was Dannys story now. He had seen Tanya at five. Sometime in the next few hours, shed been murdered, and sometime after that-certainly after midnight, after the museum had closed-she had been laid out in place of Elena de Hoyos.
David had returned for the first tour the following morning.
Had she been laid out just for him to find?
The answer to that question might be the answer to her murder.
People arent really to be found at the cemetery, you know, Bartholomew said. Well, most people. The thing is, of course, that most of us move on. And we remain behind only in the memories of those who loved us. Or hated us. Well, usually, people move on. Okay, okay, well, sometimes you can find people wandering around a cemetery, but Well, thats because they have to remain because Wait, why am I remaining? Oh, hmm. I think it may be because of you. But I digress. You will not find Craig Beckett in this cemetery. He was a good man, and his conscience was clean. Hes moved on.
I know that hes not in the cemetery, Katie said.
Thenwhy are we here? Bartholomew asked.
You dont have to be here, she said.
No, I dont have to be here. But you do not behave with the intelligence you were granted at birth. Therefore, I feel it is my cross to bear in life to follow you around, Bartholomew told her.
Hey! I am not your cross to bear, and I do behave intelligently, Katie said, shaking her head and praying for patience. Its broad daylight. There are tourists all over the cemetery.
But why are we here?
Whether the person is here or not-and, of course, I dont begin to assume that Craig Becketts soul would be in his worn and embalmed body in his tomb-I just like to come. Its beautiful, and its a place where I can think. When other people, alive or dead, are not driving me right up the wall.
What is it you need to think about? Bartholomew demanded.
Craig. I just want to remember him. Could I have a bit of respectful silence? she asked.
The Key West cemetery was on a high point in the center of the island. In 1846, a massive hurricane had washed up a number of earlier graves and sent bodies down Duval Street in a flood. After that, high ground was chosen. Now, many of the graves were in the ground, but many more were above-ground graves. Tombs, shelves and strange grave sites dotted the cemetery, along with more typical mausoleum-type graves.
It was estimated that there were one-hundred-thousand people interred at the Key West cemetery, in one way or another, triple the actual full-time population of the island.
Katie did love the cemetery. It was just like the island itself, historic and eccentric, full of the old and the new. There were Civil War soldiers buried here, there was a monument to those lost aboard the Maine and there were many graves with curious sentiments, her favorite being, I told you I was sick!
Craig Beckett was in a family mausoleum that had been there since the majority of the islands dead had been moved here. One of the most beautiful angel sculptures in the cemetery stood high atop the roof of the mausoleum, and tourists were frequently near, taking pictures of the sculpture. When the Beckett family had originally purchased their final resting place, the cost had been minimal. Now such a structure, along with the small spit of ground it stood upon, would cost in the mid-to-high hundreds of thousands of dollars.
There she is! Bartholomew said suddenly.
Who? Where? Katie asked.
The woman in white, Bartholomew said. There, where the oldest graves are.
Bartholomew was right. She was standing above one of the graves. Her head was lowered, and her hands were folded before her.
Im going to talk to her, Bartholomew said.
I dont think she wants to talk, Katie said. Bartholomew, you should wait.
He didnt want to wait. He left Katie and went striding quickly toward the beautiful ghost figure in long, flowing white. As he neared her, she turned. She saw him.
And then she was gone.
Katie shook her head. Sadly, the world of relationships was always hard. Even for ghosts. Maybe more so for ghosts.
She heard laughter and turned. A group of tourists was coming along; they had just been visiting the area of the monument to the survivors of the Maine; a wrought-iron fence encircled a single bronze sailor who looked out over the markers of his companions.
They were now coming to take pictures of the Beckett tomb with its beautiful, high-rising angel. Katie decided to slip away.
She walked around to an area where graves were stacked mausoleum-style in several rows, and stood where she wouldnt be seen. The group was a happy one, and she knew that visiting the historic and unusual cemetery was something that people did. Since life was basically a circle and all men died, it seemed a good thing that people enjoyed a walk in the cemetery. But today, for some reason, the laughter irritated her.
Bartholomew remained around the oldest graves. He had gone down on one knee, and she assumed he was trying to read the etching on some of the gravestones.
As she waited and watched, she was surprised to see the woman in white appear again. She was behind Bartholomew. Bartholomew didnt see her. As Katie watched, the woman started to place a hand on his shoulder.
Again, the group of tourists seemed to issue, in unison, a loud stream of laughter. The woman turned to fog, and she was gone.
But there was someone else there. A girl. She was also in white, but she was wearing a more modern gown, one similar to the famous halter dress in which Marilyn Monroe had been immortalized in dozens of pictures.
She, too, watched Bartholomew.
She looked around, though, and saw Katie. She seemed to panic.
Then she, too, was gone.
Katie frowned; there had been something about that particular ghost-something that seemed to stir inside her. Katie should have recognized her.
But she didnt. Irritated, Katie dismissed the idea.
Ghosts everywhere! she thought.
Well, she was in a cemetery. But, as Bartholomew had said, ghosts didnt really linger that often in cemeteries. They haunted the areas where they had been happy, where they had faced trauma or where they searched for something they hadnt found in life.
Hiding?
The very real, solid and almost tangible sound of a deep male voice made her jump. Katie swung around.
David Beckett had come to the cemetery.
Hiding? No. Just-waiting, she said.
I guess its a good thing that a cemetery, even an active cemetery, draws the laughter of the living, David said. He watched as the loud group moved on.
You came to see your grandfather? she asked.
My grandfather isnt here, he said.
She smiled. No. When did you see him last?
Right before I headed out to Kenya, he said, looking toward the mausoleum.
Oh, Katie said.
He looked at her with a tight smile. I didnt desert my grandfather, Miss OHara, though that seems to be the consensus here. I didnt like my home anymore, and I cant help it. I like living a life where you dont stare into faces every day that are speculative-are you or are you not a murderer? I met Craig in Miami often enough, even Key Largo and sometimes Orlando. Imagine. Craig loved theme parks. Heres the thing of which I am certain-if there is a heaven, Craig is there, and hes with my grandmother. They had a beautiful love that was quite complete. They will not be misty ghouls running around a graveyard.
You know, you sound defensive, Katie observed.
He shook his head. Yep. I have a big chip on my shoulder. He lifted his hands and she saw that he carried a beautiful bouquet of lilacs. Grams favorites, he said.
The tourists were gone. Katie followed him back to the Beckett mausoleum. He set the bouquet right before the wrought-iron doors.
Very nice-pretty flowers, Katie said.
They seem forlorn, David said.
She shook her head. No, thats forlorn, she told him, pointing to a family graveyard that was surrounded by an iron fence. Cemetery maintenance was kept up, but no one had been to see the graves in decades. The stones were broken, a stray weed was growing through here and there and all within the site were long forgotten, not even their names remaining legibly upon the stones.