A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [104]
“Come on.”
Stratton followed him to the gravesite. Many of the plots were recently turned; others remained untouched, the gravestones bare—prepruchased, Florida-style.
They walked to the end of a long row before Stratton saw what the old man meant. The caretaker stopped and pointed up and down the column of graves. “Look what they did!”
“They” had gone amok, toppling the headstones, shredding the flowers, trampling and thrashing the soil. On one grave sat a mound of rotting garbage, with bright blue flies buzzing obscenely. Another was peppered with broken whiskey bottles. Still another grave had been defaced with bright crayons. Stratton bent over the granite slab and read:
There was an old geezer named Saul
Who dropped dead in the Hillsborough Mall
His wife called a cop
Then went back to the shop
So she wouldn’t miss the sale, after all.
“Cute,” Stratton muttered.
“It’s sick,” the old caretaker said. “Teenagers, that’s all.”
One double headstone read: “Eva and Bernard Melman.” Beneath the names, smeared in burgundy, was a Nazi swastika. In dripping letters at the base of the tombstone, someone had painted the words MORE DEAD JEWS.
Stratton stepped closer to study the vandalism. After a few moments he turned to the caretaker and asked, “Did you call the police?”
“Of course. They sent a man. So what? What can they do?”
The old man moved forward and pointed with his foot to an area around the Melmans’ granite slab. The dirt was dark and moist and loose, as if a shovel had been plunged into the ground and withdrawn.
“I figured they were interrupted by a car,” the old man speculated.
“What about Aunt Sarah?” Stratton asked.
The caretaker pointed to the next headstone on the row:
SARAH ROSE STEINWAY
1919—1983
The only mark of vandalism was another swastika, this one drawn in orange crayon between the “Sarah” and the “Rose.”
“Look at that,” Stratton said disgustedly.
“That’ll come right off, mister. I can get it with some turpentine, or some real strong acetate. Won’t harm the marble, either. I’ll clean it off this afternoon.”
Stratton set the flowers on the grave and stepped back to the footpath. The caretaker took a deep breath. “It’s impossible to guard a place like this twenty-four hours a day. You understand, don’t you? We’re just a small cemetery—I mean, we’ve got a watchman, but he’s old and he doesn’t hear so well.”
Stratton was only half listening. He concentrated on the Steinway grave. The sod around the marker was puckered in several places, and badly gashed near the headstone.
“When did all this happen?”
“Either last night or the night before. See, I don’t get around to this side every day. I mow it three times a week, though, and if there’s a visitor like yourself, or the men who came a couple of days ago, then I’ll bring ’em here to show the way.”
“What men?”
“They brought flowers for your Aunt Sarah there …” the caretaker began.
A lovely touch, Stratton thought.
“How many men?”
“Two. Said they were good friends of the deceased.”
The old man dabbed at his neck with the handkerchief. “I’m trying to remember their names. One of them was a thin fellow, about forty-five, fifty maybe. Had black hair. Dressed kind of bright for the cemetery. The other guy looked Japanese. He didn’t say much. Last time I saw them they were just sitting on the bench, talking quietly. I’m glad they weren’t here to see what happened to their flowers.”
STRATTON FOUND two motels within a half mile of the small cemetery. He went first to the Holiday Inn. The young junior-college student at the registration desk was helpful. He allowed Stratton to study the check-in cards going back for seven days; there were no Oriental names registered. Stratton asked the young desk clerk if he remembered an American and a Chinese staying there. The clerk shook his head no.
“And I probably would have noticed them,” the clerk said. “This is the slow time of the year. A lot of our business is lunch hour.” He winked.
Across the street at the Bay Vista Court, Stratton was greeted by an attractive, middle-aged