Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [78]
“Hey, Mr. Foglino.”
“Well, hello, Benni Harper,” he said, standing up and wiping his greasy hands on the thighs of his gray mechanic’s overalls. Mr. Foglino had been the head custodian at San Celina High School for thirty-two years. We’d all loved his wry, gentle sense of humor and the Tootsie Roll pops he passed out with gruff impartiality. When he retired, he went to work for his son who owned two local mortuaries and the San Celina’s Cemetery. He’d overseen the digging of Jack’s grave and many other San Celinans’ graves with the same serious respect he’d exacted over the shiny floors of San Celina High School. Mr. Foglino knew a lot of secrets about the families in this town, including who visited whose graves, how many times, how often, and why. Like a good bartender, he’d probably heard more confessions than Father Mark down at St. Celine’s Catholic Church and was just as discreet. He’d caught me a time or two sitting on Jack’s grave, my face slick with tears, and wordlessly handed me a package of tissues from his overalls’ deep pockets before going back to his mowing.
“How’s life treating you?” I asked.
“Can’t complain. Got job security and a new recliner. Life’s good.”
I laughed and gave him a quick hug. “I have a question for you. Where’s the Brown section?”
I didn’t have to say which Browns. His bushy gray eyebrows raised in question told me he knew who I was talking about.
“That family’s sure had its sorrows,” he said, scratching his cheek absentmindedly, leaving a thin streak of black oil on a cheek as weathered as barn siding. “Then again, haven’t we all?”
“Yes, we have.”
“How’s that grandma of yours? Tell her I’m sure looking forward to Christmas and some of her delicious fudge. I dole it out to myself a piece a day to try and make it last longer.”
“She’s feisty as ever. I’ll tell her to make you a double batch this year.”
“And your daddy?”
“He’s good. Been having trouble with some new heifers he bought up north. Prolapsed uterus and some leg problems in one. It’s getting better now, though. His arthritis has been acting up a little.”
“I hear you there. I tell you, getting old isn’t for weaklings. You give him my sympathy.”
“Sure will.”
“Heard your cousin’s back in town.”
“Yes, sir. He works for the paper.”
“He was a good, respectful boy, I remember.”
“Yes, he was. He’s grown into a nice man, too.”
“Well, that’s real fine.”
I could hear Detective Hudson shift behind me, then let out an impatient breath. I ignored him. The one thing about Mr. Foglino was you couldn’t rush him.
“So,” Mr. Foglino said. “Hear you got yourself involved with another family’s hullabaloo.”
“Not on purpose. I was just there when it happened. I...” Then I grinned at him. “Well, yes, I guess I have. But I’m doing my best to stay away from any large falling objects.”
He chuckled and wagged a crooked, dirt-stained finger at me. “You’re a trial to that husband of yours, missy. You know that?”
“So I’ve been told a few times.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Ornery as ever, but I guess I’ll keep him.”
“He’s a good police chief. We’re lucky to have him.”
“I think so.”
I heard Detective Hudson shift behind me again and clear his throat. I turned around and frowned him silent.
Mr. Foglino looked back down at the engine of the rider mower. “Over east of the pyramid, and there’s a restroom over there, too, for your ants-in-the-pants friend.” He looked up, his pale old eyes amused. “I’m assuming that’s why he’s dancing around like that.”
“Thanks,” I said, winking at him. “I’ll give Dove and Daddy your regards.”
“That was a waste of a good half hour,” Detective Hudson grumbled.
I cut across the springy graveyard grass weaving around gravestones. “You know,” I said over my shoulder, “you’d get a lot more information out of people around here if you learned how to chitchat a little.”
He grunted in reply.
We passed by the famous pyramid mausoleum with the single name WYLIE on the front. Made of concrete and patterned after the real Egyptian pyramids, it was an incongruous monument among the sedate white headstones