Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [85]
“Sorry,” Detective Hudson murmured
“Right at the next split in the road,” I said.
The cemetery lay on our left with no parking lot, but merely a wide spot in the weeds. We climbed out and walked over to the rusty gate. It was closed, but not locked. I turned and called Scout, since there was no one in this old cemetery who would care if he romped among the gravestones. I left my purse in the locked truck and just took my camera, a pen, and a pocket-sized notebook.
I followed Detective Hudson inside the weed- and wildflower-choked grounds. Except for an old outhouse that was long past its prime, there were only the overgrown graves shaded by oaks that had been here two hundred years or longer.
“Mr. Foglino said he thought their graves might be up on the hill,” I said, pointing to a hill in front of us with a sharp, steep embankment covered in brambles.
“Is there a road?” he asked, glancing down at his fancy ostrich boots.
“You should carry a pair of work boots in your truck,” I said, pointing to a small, overgrown path behind the outhouse.
“Yes, Mom,” he said and took off toward the path.
It was about a quarter mile on a steep path to the upper part of the cemetery. On the hilltop, the trees were thicker; the leaves and brush crackled like tiny firecrackers under our feet. Blue oaks laced with overcoats of Spanish moss gave the deepening forest a spooky, bayou feel.
“Watch out for poison ivy,” I said, ducking under a still-leafy oak branch. “It’s bad this time of year.”
I saw him flinch and subtly pull his arms closer, though in reality I didn’t see any near enough to cause us any problems. I laughed silently to myself, recognizing a nature neophyte when I saw one. I stepped over some wild grape vines, stopping a moment to pick some volunteer grapes and squeeze them in my fingers. The sweet smell perfumed the air for a moment.
A rustling sound ahead of us caused Scout to take off into the underbrush, his tail straight out, a low growl deep in his throat.
“What was that?” the detective asked, his voice slightly apprehensive.
I raised my eyebrows. He wasn’t lying about one thing; he was definitely a city boy.
“Probably just a mountain lion,” I said casually, watching his back stiffen and trying not to laugh. Yep, that was a definite stiffening. “But don’t worry, most times they don’t bother humans. You’re not wearing any cologne, by any chance?”
He turned around, his sweating face trying hard not to show panic. “Why?”
I kept my face serious, chewing my lower lip for effect. “Just wondered. They’re kind of intrigued by the smell.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
I shook my head solemnly. “Wish I was.”
His nostrils flared slightly.
“Aramis is their favorite,” I continued, keeping a straight face. “But I’ve heard the lions around here have been preferring Polo lately.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, his lips thin with irritation. “Very funny.”
I giggled. “Yeah, I thought so.”
He took off ahead of me, obviously angry, and I felt a small twinge of shame for putting him on. A very small tinge.
When we reached the graves, he surveyed the area and gruffly told me to start on the west end and work toward him. “You have your camera?”
“Right here.” I held it up.
“Film?”
“Yes, Detective. They tend to work better that way.”
“Then let’s get to work.”
He strode off toward the east side of the cemetery, his anger still apparent in his stride. I whistled for Scout who eventually appeared out of some scrub brush, his nose wet and dirty, his tongue hanging out in obvious pleasure at chasing the rabbit or squirrel that had probably made the sounds prompting my practical joke on the detective.
“Didn’t catch it, did you?” I commented, when he sat down and furiously scratched behind his