Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [79]
“What’s the story behind this thing?” Detective Hudson asked.
“From what I was always told, some rich rancher moved here early in the century and built this for his wife and three sons. The youngest son got in a fight with the father and left the ranch to find his fortune in Alaska. The other two stayed home, never married, and worked the ranch. All of them eventually died, leaving no heirs. They were entombed here according to the father’s wishes. Everyone except the third son. According to the terms of the will, the monument can’t be permanently closed until the last son’s body is reunited with the family.”
“Which is probably the last thing on earth he’d want,” Detective Hudson said, his voice suddenly bitter.
I glanced over at him, surprised.
His face stared at the pyramid with a raw, angry look that hardened his farm-boy features. He caught my glance, and just as quickly a smile replaced the angry look. “Time’s a-wastin’, ranch girl. Which way?”
Puzzled by his swift change of emotion, I pointed to a group of expensive headstones behind the pyramid. He strode away from me, whistling a tuneless melody under his breath. I watched him, wondering what family situation he’d truly left behind in Texas.
We glanced over the fifteen stones that made up the Brown family plot. Inside the square concrete edging around John Madison Brown’s and Rose Jewel Brown’s large, dark granite headstones were the four tiny headstones of the babies who’d died. Just the baby’s names and a small lamb were carved on each one—Daisy Jewel Brown, Dahlia Jewel Brown, Beulah Jewel Brown, Bethany Jewel Brown. I stared at the tiny headstones while Detective Hudson went from headstone to headstone looking for something that resembled the grave rubbing.
“Not a lily to be seen, carved or otherwise,” he called.
On Rose Brown’s stone her name and birthdate were already chipped into the black shiny granite. The only thing left to fill in was her day of death. I wondered if it bothered her to have a headstone with her name already chiseled in. I knew death was inevitable for all of us, but that was just a little too organized and concrete for me. I’d bought two plots side by side when Jack died, having been encouraged to do so by the mortuary, but buying and carving a headstone—that was a little too obsessively neat and tidy. Look at me now, married to Gabe. Where did I want my earthly remains to rest? Next to Jack or to Gabe? Which was more appropriate? Should Gabe be buried next to the mother of his child to make it easier for Sam and his future children to visit their graves? And really, did it matter? Multiple marriages sure made the business of dying complicated.
Oh, honeybun, Dove’s voice sang in my head. What does it matter where your old bones are when your soul is dancing with Jesus?
“Nothing even close here,” he said, coming back to where I stood. “What’re you looking at?”
“Just these tiny headstones. Wondering what it was like for a mother to lose four of her seven children.”
“Guess that’s how it was back then. Even the rich didn’t have access to very good health care.”
“No one ever mentioned what they died of.”
“With no antibiotics and horrible sanitary conditions, it could have been something as simple as the flu or as complicated as TB or diphtheria. It’s a wonder as many people lived as they