Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [82]
There were no dates chiseled on the Brown baby’s headstones.
I rushed across the smooth grass to Detective Hud, who was ten rows away, and told him what I’d discovered.
“So?” he said, not nearly as excited as I was.
“So, that means something. Look at all the children’s graves we’ve seen. They’ve all had the birth and death dates.”
“Not that graveyard in Estrella,” he pointed out.
I impatiently waved his words away. “A lot of those people couldn’t afford expensive headstones. The Browns could. Why wouldn’t they put the dates on the headstones?”
“Maybe because they didn’t feel like it. You’re reaching for something that isn’t there. I think you’ve been in the sun too long.”
“You’re jealous because I thought of it and you didn’t.”
“And you’re delusional. Go back to the truck and have a Coke.”
“I’m sure I’ve hit on something, and we’re not getting anywhere trying to chase down a headstone that resembles this rubbing. We could be looking for days, and I haven’t got that much time. In case you forgot, this isn’t my real job. Let’s go back to San Celina’s Cemetery.”
“Even if you have hit on something, and I’m not saying you have, what possible good is going back?”
“We could ask Mr. Foglino. He knows tons of stuff about people buried in the cemetery and he’s belonged to the historical society for fifty years. If anyone would know why the tombstones are blank, he would.” I started back toward the truck. “Are you coming or not?”
He trotted up beside me. “We really should finish looking through this cemetery. We’re just going to have to come back if you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.” Before he could answer, I added, “But even if I am wrong, I won’t be coming back, you will, so it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Don’t you have a cell phone? Can’t we just call him?”
“No phone in the maintenance shed.”
He complained under his breath, but kept following me. On the ride back down the grade toward San Celina, I chewed my thumbnail, hoping I wasn’t leading us on a wild-goose chase. When we reached the San Celina’s Cemetery, I jumped out before he switched off the engine, called out at Scout to stay, and ran over to the maintenance building. Mr. Foglino was just locking the weathered steel door.
“I’m glad I caught you,” I said, panting.
“Whoa, slow down there, missy,” he said, pocketing his huge set of keys. “What’s up?”
Detective Hudson walked up beside me, then stood there with his arms folded and his legs spread, his body language stating his feelings about this extra trip. I ignored him and asked Mr. Foglino, “Why don’t the four Brown girls’ markers have dates on them?”
An almost indiscernible grunt came from behind me.
“Now, that’s a real good question,” he said, glancing over at the disparaging expression on Detective Hudson’s face. “You’ve got a sharp eye.”
I turned and gave the detective a triumphant look. He rolled his eyes and impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.
“Did he ever find himself a men’s room?” Mr. Foglino asked.
“Ignore him,” I said. “Tell me the story behind the markers.”
“I reckon it’s not real common knowledge, having happened so long ago and all, but the reason there’s no dates is cause those little babies aren’t really buried there.”
A tiny jolt of electricity sparked at the base of my neck. “Why not?”
“Story goes that Rose Brown was so distraught over the death of her babies in such a short period, her family didn’t want her reminded of them when she visited the family graves. Both her sisters and her mother’s buried here. They all died during a flu epidemic, as well as some Brown cousins and John Madison Brown’s father and mother, who came to live out here from Virginia after the Depression took everything they owned. Rose Brown used to come once a week with roses for all her kinfolk’s graves until