Tricia opened her container to find two pieces of fried chicken, a small scoop of potato salad, two deviled egg halves, and a small plastic container that held what looked like pickled watermelon rind. “Oh, how lovely,” she said.
“Very American,” Michele said, pouring tea for them both. It was unsweetened with lemon, just what Tricia was used to.
“What did you take on a picnic in England?” Tricia asked, accepting the paper napkins Michele handed her.
“Cornish pasties. Scotch eggs. Grosvenor pie. Cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, or perhaps sausage rolls. I must make a batch soon—I’ve had a hankering for them for a while now.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had them.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ll save you some.”
Tricia tasted the potato salad. It needed salt. As though anticipating her request, Michele dug through the basket and came up with a shaker. She opened the lid and handed it to Tricia.
“I must say, I prefer to salt my food myself, don’t you?” she asked Tricia.
“Yes.” She sprinkled a little on the salad. Perfect.
They ate for a minute or two in silence, enjoying the quiet as a gentle breeze caused the leafy branches above them to sway.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come here today,” Michele said at last.
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I’m concerned about what happened to Janet Koch.”
“You mean you think that her accident and Pete’s death are connected?”
Michele nodded. “I’m very interested in the history and the upkeep of dear old cemeteries such as this, but I must admit, I’m a bit worried about doing the ghost walks—at least until your friend Chief Baker catches the person responsible for the attacks.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” Tricia said, and took a bite of chicken leg.
Michele shook her head. “I’m probably just being paranoid, but for now I’ve decided not to talk about it to anyone.”
“Have you told the Historical Society that you’ve changed your mind?”
Again she shook her head. “I still want to do the talks—and will prepare for them—but for the time being I would prefer not to advertise the fact. Now that Janet is out of commission, I’m not sure who to speak to at the Society.”
“I’m pretty sure Mr. Everett knows everyone there. In fact, he told me this morning that there’s to be a wake for Pete Renquist at the pub tonight. He and his wife intend to attend.”
Michele nodded. “I’ll ask him then. I’ve asked my bartender Shawn not to mention the ghost walks, and I’m asking you to do the same.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Michele picked at her potato salad.
“Are you afraid?” Tricia asked.
“I’m a Brit. Stiff upper lip and all that, but I am concerned. I shouldn’t like to be the next victim.”
Tricia looked down at her half-eaten lunch. She’d lost her appetite. She closed the lid on the foam box. At least she’d have leftovers for another lunch or dinner. It was time to change the subject. “What have you got planned for Pete’s pseudo wake?”
Michele shrugged. “Not much. Just a gathering where people can toast their friend and colleague. Nigela Ricita has authorized me to order eats from the Brookview Inn.” She laughed. “Company discount and all that. I’m sure Pete would have approved.”
Tricia would have to thank Angelica for that, too. Somehow she’d missed—or ignored—seeing Angelica’s softer, more thoughtful side, and felt a bit ashamed.
“You will be there,” Michele said. It almost sounded like a commandment.
“Of course.”
Michele smiled and nodded, then she, too, looked at her unfinished lunch and closed the lid. “I think I’ve had my fill for now. Would you like a brief tour of some of the older headstones and the stories I’ve learned about those buried beneath them?”
“Why not,” Tricia said.
They repacked the picnic basket and stood. Michele led the way.
They walked for several minutes in companionable silence until they came upon a stately granite obelisk. “I know who’s in this grave,” Tricia said. “Hiram Stone, founder of Stoneham.”
“You’ve got that right. I’m wondering what to say about him. I read the Founder’s Day pap on the official Stoneham website.”
“And you don’t agree?”
“Oh, the facts are mainly right, but they’ve painted the man as a saint, and he was far from that.”
“What’s the dirt?” Tricia asked, intrigued.
“The man was a notorious drunk and a letch who was enamored with the local temperance leader.”
“You made that up.”
“No, I didn’t—I promise you,” Michele said, smiling. “He was so bad, the village leaders thought it best to try and marry him off. That didn’t work, of course, because he was a dedicated skirt chaser. He was engaged to several women—probably gold diggers—who ultimately dumped him because they couldn’t stand his philandering.”
“He looks like such a staunch community leader in the portrait hanging in the village meeting hall.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret not many know. That isn’t Hiram Stone.”
“Who is it?” Tricia asked, shocked.
Michele shrugged. “At some point the village board decided they needed to honor the man, but all they had was this monument,” she said, indicating the tall pillar of granite before them. “One of the selectmen went on a trip to New York and bought the painting at an auction house. When he returned, the board announced finding a long-lost portrait of the village founder.”
Tricia shook her head, smiling wryly. “It makes a good story.”
“But I’m not sure the current Board of Selectmen would want me to tell it. Don’t worry. My research isn’t quite finished. I’ll find other wonderful stories to tell about the old gent.”
“I have no doubt you will,” Tricia said, a smile tugging at her lips.
They walked deeper into the cemetery, Michele pointing out several of the more unusual monuments with a funny or poignant story to go with each of them. Saddest of all were the graves of a family of children who’d died as the result of a virus. It was so sad to think that the diseases of the past had taken such a devastating toll on those with no access to the wonder drugs available to protect today’s children. How had their parents fared with such overwhelming loss? How had they carried on without those babies they’d loved with such tender care?
Finally, they wound their way back to the cemetery’s front entrance and their cars. The lot was empty now, but in the distance Tricia saw a figure watching them from the far side of the graveyard. It was a man, or at least she thought so, but from such a distance she really couldn’t be sure. And why was he staring at them?
Then again, maybe she was paranoid. The person was probably just facing in their direction, staring at a headstone, grieving for a loved one. She turned back to Michele.
“Thank you for a lovely lunch.”
“Don’t forget your leftovers,” Michele said, opening the picnic basket and extracting Tricia’s foam container, handing it to her.
“Thank you. I guess I’ll see you later this evening.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“See you then,” Tricia said, and got into her car. She started the engine and backed out of the parking space. But before she hit the accelerator to leave, she could have sworn she saw that the figure in the graveyard was still staring at them.
SIXTEEN
“It wasn’t that big a deal. We ate fried chicken and potato salad and did a lot of girl talk.”
“About what?” Mariana pressed.
Tricia shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t record our conversation.”