“Hello, detectives.”He offers Rachel an uncomfortable smile that she doesn’t return, though Stevens does.“I’ll help you,” the reverend tells Julie.
As they get to work, Rachel studies the office.It’s like the temporary trailers that home builders set up on the muddy fields of future developments to welcome new buyers.Those people sell the dream of a bright future to new families; their employees help homeowners select paint colour and floor tiles as they picture their lives in a brand-new home on an undersized and barren lot.But she supposes Julie helps buyers pick out their “forever home,” too, in a way, as they envision spending eternity resting in this spot.And in some ways, it’s a better deal than a new home.You don’t have to worry about noisy neighbours, and you even get free landscaping thrown into the deal.
Rachel rolls her shoulders back, a little uncomfortable.Her grandparents and some other family members are buried here, but she only visits the graves twice a year: once on the anniversary of her grandmother Dora’s death, and again on Christmas Eve.Otherwise, she prefers to avoid it.
After a few minutes of continued muttering and effort, Julie and Reverend Holland shove six cardboard banker boxes across the thin carpet.Rachel and Stevens kneel down next to them.
“They go back to about halfway through the 1800s,” Julie says.“We don’t have anything before that.The cemetery itself was established along with the church in, what?”She looks to the reverend.
“In 1832,” he says, with a proud nod of his narrow head.
Rachel will need to get another good look at the body, but from what she saw, its state of decomposition likely means it’s more recent than 1832.
“All right.Let’s get started, then,” she says.“We’ll each take two boxes and go from there.”She pushes the nearest two to Stevens.She takes another two, as does Julie, who glances at Reverend Holland.
“I can assist,” he says, brow furrowing.
“No, we’ve got it in hand, Reverend,” Rachel says forcefully.“I’m sure you have things to do.Some sermon to prepare.”
He stares down at her, and she doesn’t like the height differential.She stands.
“Rachel…” he begins, protest thick in his tone.
“Detective Mackenzie,” she corrects him.“If we have any questions, we know where to find you.”
His lips purse, but he retreats down the short hallway leading to the main building and his own office at the back of the church.Rachel can feel Stevens’s curious eyes on her.
Julie swallows, her throat twitching beneath the mousy brown hair that lands at her jawline in a bob.“I really don’t think we’re going to find anything,” she says, her tone aiming for offhand.“I understand why we have to do this first, but when I started here, I went through and double-checked the records from my predecessor.I’m sure I would have caught this if there had been a record-keeping error.”
Rachel likes Julie, and doesn’t want her to have messed up, primarily because she can already tell Reverend Holland might be an ass about it.She remembers Julie’s meticulous nature from high school, how she underlined titles with red pen and a ruler, was never late to class.Never broke the rules.A lot like Rachel, really.But the fact remains they have a body in a graveyard, and despite her argument with Green, Rachel reluctantly acknowledges that human error is a reasonable hypothesis here, the Occam’s razor.Millgate is a tiny hamlet of a town with a nearly non-existent crime rate.The only crimes reported here in the last five years were some minor B and E’s—mostly of vacant cottage properties in the off-season and, once, a neighbourly spat over a property line that ended in some bloodied lips, one broken rib and a giant embarrassment hangover for both parties.
“And you could be right,” Rachel concedes.“Is that the plot map?”she adds, nodding at the wall behind Julie’s little desk.
“Yes.Here, I’ll show you where the woman is,” she says, before Rachel even asks.
“We don’t know it’s a woman yet,” Rachel corrects her as they walk over, followed by Stevens.She’s pretty sure itisa female body, but this is exactly how rumours get started, ripping through gossip-starved small towns like fire through dry August grass.
“Sorry, I mean the body.Here.”Julie indicates the location.“Plot 135.Close to that big maple.The Richards family chose it specifically.”
“Do you know why?”Rachel asks.
“They said he was a ‘larger than life’ man.Big, like the tree.”
That could be true.Or not.“I’ll speak with them,” Rachel tells her.“I’ll need their contact information.”
“Sure.I have to call them today anyway,” Julie says a little nervously.“We can’t use it as the site now, and the funeral’s on Saturday.”
Rachel frowns, feeling a little sorry for her.“Call them in, and we’ll talk to them together,” she says.“If they take issue with it, you can blame the police service.But I’m sure there are loads of other nice plots available.”
“There are.All the ones around it, see?Available plots have a green sticker.”Julie points to the map, and Rachel leans in closer.The plots are laid out in an imperfect grid, some varying in shape but all about the same overall size.The maple tree is surrounded by several other numbers, all with green stickers.Her eyes rove over the map, drawn to Dora and Walter’s graves.
“When did these start being numbered, Julie?”
“Ohh”—her eyes grow large—“as far back as the records go.These”—she circles the central area of the cemetery—“were labelled from one to about a hundred before my predecessor arrived, and he laid out the rest of the cemetery, all the way up to about two hundred gravesites.”
“How many people do you have buried here?”
“Ninety-four, plus twenty-one in the children’s cemetery.That’s it there.”She points to a small area on the western side of the property.
