Peter Pan Must Die (10 page)

As Gurney was heading up the path, the door opened and a woman who seemed not to notice him emerged onto a broad stone step. She was casually dressed, as if for some light gardening, a notion underscored by a small pruning scissors in her hand.

Gurney guessed her age to be mid-fifties. Her most noticeable feature was her hair, which was pure white and arranged in a short layered style, ending in choppy little points around her forehead and cheeks. He recalled his mother having that hairdo when it was first fashionable in his childhood. He even recalled its name: the artichoke. That word in turn produced a fleeting feeling of unease.

The woman glanced with surprise at Gurney. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you drive up. I was just coming out to take care of a few things. I’m Paulette Purley. How can I help you?”

During his drive to Long Falls, Gurney had considered various ways of answering questions about his visit and had decided on an approach that he labeled in his own mind “minimal honesty”—which meant telling enough of the truth to avoid being caught in a lie, but telling it in a way to avoid setting off unnecessary alarms.

“I’m not sure yet.” He smiled innocently. “Would it be all right for me to take a stroll around the grounds?”

Her unremarkable hazel eyes seemed to be appraising him. “Have you been here before?”

“This is my first visit. But I do have a satellite map I printed out from Google.”

A cloud of skepticism crossed her face. “Wait just a moment.” She turned and went into the cottage. A few seconds later she returned with a colorful brochure. “Just in case your Google thing isn’t entirely clear, this may be useful.” She paused. “May I direct you to the resting place of a specific friend or relative?”

“No. But thank you. It’s such a lovely day, I think I’d prefer to find my own way.”

She cast a worried look at the sky, which was half blue, half clouds. “They’ve been talking about the possibility of rain. If you’d tell me the name—”

“You’re very kind,” he said, backing away, “but I’ll be fine.” He retreated to the small parking area and saw on the opposite side of it a flagstone pathway passing under a rose-covered trellis beside which a
sign read
PEDESTRIAN ENTRANCE
. As he walked through it, he glanced back. Paulette Purley was still standing in front of the cottage, watching him with a look of anxious curiosity.

It didn’t take Gurney long to realize what Hardwick had meant when he referred to Willow Rest as “seriously peculiar.” The place bore little resemblance to any cemetery he’d ever seen. Yet there also was something familiar about it. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

The basic layout consisted of a gently curving cobblestone lane that paralleled the low brick wall surrounding the property. Smaller lanes branched from it in toward the center of the cemetery grounds at regular intervals amid a profusion of lush rhododendrons, lilacs, and hemlocks. These lanes had offshoots of still smaller lanes, each of which terminated like a driveway at a mowed grassy area the size of a small backyard, separated from its neighbors by rows of waist-high spireas and beds of daylilies. In each of the grassy areas he entered, there were several marble grave markers, flush with the ground. In addition to the name of the interred, each marker bore only a single date instead of the traditional birth and death dates.

Next to each “driveway” was a plain black mailbox with a family name stenciled on the side. He opened a few of the mailboxes as he made his way along the lanes, but found nothing in any of them. About twenty minutes into his exploration, he came upon a mailbox that bore the name Spalter. It marked the entrance to the largest of the plots he’d encountered so far. The plot occupied what seemed to be one of the higher points in Willow Rest, a gentle rise from which the narrow river was visible beyond the perimeter wall. Beyond the river was the state highway that bisected Long Falls. On the far side of the highway a block of three-story apartment buildings faced the cemetery.

Gurney was already familiar with the basic topography, structures, angles, and distances. All of that had been documented in the case file. But actually seeing
the
building, and then pinpointing
the
window, from which the fatal bullet was fired—fired toward the area where he was now standing—had a jarring effect. It was the effect of reality colliding with preconception. It was an experience he’d had at countless crime scenes. That gap between the mental picture and the actual sensory impact was what made
being there
so important.

A physical crime scene was concrete and unfiltered in a way that no photo or description ever could be. It held answers you could find if you looked with open eyes and an open mind. If you looked carefully, it could tell you a story. It gave you, quite literally, a place to stand, a place from which you could survey the real possibilities.

After conducting a preliminary 360-degree examination of his general surroundings, Gurney focused on the details of the Spalter plot itself. More than twice the size of the next largest he’d come upon, he estimated the dimensions of the central mowed area as fifty by seventy feet. A low border of well-kept rosebushes surrounded it.

He counted eight flat marble grave markers lying just below the height of the grass, arranged in rows that allocated a space of approximately six feet by twelve feet for each burial. The earliest date, 1899, appeared on marker that bore the name Emmerling Spalter. The most recent date, 1970, was on a marker that bore the name Carl Spalter. The edges of the letters on the glossy surface of the marble were
distinctly sharp and freshly carved. But obviously the date was not of his death. His birth, then? Probably.

As Gurney gazed down at the marker he saw that it was next to one for Mary Spalter, the mother at whose funeral Carl had been fatally wounded. On the other side of Mary Spalter’s grave was a marker bearing the name Joseph Spalter. Father and mother and murdered son. A peculiar family gathering, in this thoroughly peculiar cemetery. Father and mother and murdered son—the son who hoped to be governor—all reduced to nothing at all.

As he was pondering the sad smallness of human lives, he heard a low mechanical hum behind him. He turned to see an electric golf cart coming to a silent stop at the rose border of the Spalter plot. The driver was Paulette Purley, smiling inquisitively.

“Hello, again, Mr.…? Sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

“Dave Gurney.”

“Hello, Dave.” She stepped out of the cart. “I was about to make my rounds when I noticed those rain clouds getting closer.” She gestured vaguely toward some gray clouds in the west. “I thought you might need an umbrella. You don’t want to be out here in a downpour without one.” As she was speaking, she took a bright blue umbrella from the floor of the cart and brought it to him. “Getting wet is fine if you’re swimming, but otherwise not so pleasant.”

He took the umbrella, thanked her, and waited for her to segue to her real purpose, which he was sure had nothing to do with keeping him dry.

“Just drop it off at the cottage on your way out.” She started back to the cart, then stopped as though another thought had just occurred to her. “Were you able to find your way all right?”

“Yes, I was. Of course, this particular plot would—”

“Property,” she interjected.

“Beg pardon?”

“At Willow Rest we prefer not to use the vocabulary of cemeteries. We offer ‘properties’ to families, not depressing little ‘plots.’ I take it you’re not a member of the family?”

“No, I’m not.”

“A family friend, perhaps?”

“In a way, yes. But may I ask why you’re asking?”

She appeared to be searching his face for a clue on how she should proceed. Then something in his expression seemed to reassure her. Her voice dropped into a confidential register. “I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t mean any offense. But the Spalter property, you can understand I’m sure, is a special case. We sometimes have a problem with … what shall I call them? Sensation seekers, I suppose.
Ghouls
, when you come right down to it.” She curled her lips in an expression of distaste. “When something tragic occurs, people come to gawk, take pictures. It’s disgusting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a
tragedy
. A horrible family
tragedy
. Can you imagine? A man is shot at his own mother’s funeral? Shot in the brain! Crippled! A completely paralyzed cripple! A vegetable! Then he dies! And his own wife turns out to be the murderer! That’s a terrible, terrible
tragedy
! And what do people do? They show up here with cameras.
Cameras
. Some of them even tried to steal our rosebushes. As souvenirs! Can you imagine that? Of course, as resident manager, it all ends up being
my
responsibility. It makes me sick talking about it. Sick to my stomach! I can’t even …” She waved her hand in a gesture of helplessness.

The lady doth protest too much
, thought Gurney.
She sounds every bit as enlivened by the “tragedy” as the people she’s condemning
. But, he reflected, that wasn’t unusual. Few behaviors of other people are more irritating than those that display our own faults in an unattractive way.

His next thought was that her apparent appetite for drama might give him a useful opening. He looked into her eyes as if he and she were having a deep meeting of the minds. “You really care about this, don’t you?”

She blinked. “Care? Of course I do. Isn’t that obvious?”

Instead of answering, he turned away thoughtfully, walked toward the rose border, and poked absently in the mulch with the tip of the umbrella she’d handed him.

“Who are you?” she finally asked. He thought he heard a touch of excitement in the question.

He continued prodding the mulch. “I told you, my name is Dave Gurney.”

“Why are you here?”

Again he spoke without turning. “I’ll tell you in a minute. But first let me ask you a question. What was your reaction—the very first thing you felt—when you found out that Carl Spalter had been shot?”

She hesitated. “Are you a reporter?”

He turned toward her, took out his wallet, and held it up, displaying his gold NYPD detective’s shield. She was standing far enough away that the word “Retired” at the bottom of the shield would not be legible, and she didn’t come any closer to examine it. He closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket.

“You’re a detective?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh …” She looked alternately confused, curious, excited. “What … what would you want here?”

“I need to get a better understanding of what happened.”

She blinked rapidly several times. “What is there to understand? I thought everything was … resolved.”

He took a few steps closer to her, spoke as if he were sharing privileged information. “The conviction is being appealed. There are some open questions, possible gaps in the evidence.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Aren’t all murder convictions appealed automatically?”

“Yes. And the vast majority of the convictions are upheld. But this case may be different.”

“Different?”

“Let me ask you again. What was your reaction—
the very first thing you felt
—when you found out that Carl had been shot?”

“Found out? You mean, when I noticed it.”

“
Noticed
it?”

“I was the first one to see it.”

“See what?”

“The little hole in his temple. At first I wasn’t sure it was a hole. It just looked like a round red spot. But then a tiny red trickle started down the side of his forehead. And I knew, I just
knew
.”

“You pointed it out to the first responders?”

“Of course.”

“Fascinating. Tell me more.”

She pointed at the ground a few feet from where Gurney was standing. “That’s where it was, right there—where the first drop of blood from the side of his forehead fell onto the snow. I can almost see it now. Have you ever seen blood on snow?” Her eyes seemed to widen at the memory. “It’s the reddest red you can imagine.”

“What makes you so sure it was in that precise—”

She answered before he could finish. “Because of
that
.” She indicated another point on the ground, a foot or so farther away.

It wasn’t until Gurney took a step toward it that he saw a small green disc below the grass level. It had pinhole perforations around its circumference. “A watering system?”

“His head was face down just a few inches short of it.” She stepped over to the spot and placed her foot next to the watering head. “Right there.”

Gurney was struck by the coldness, the hostility, of the gesture.

“Do you attend all the funerals here?”

“Yes and no. As the resident manager, I’m never far away. But I always maintain a discreet distance. Funerals, I believe, are for invited family and friends. Of course, in the case of the Spalter funeral, I was more present.”

“More present?”

“Well, I didn’t feel it was appropriate to sit with Mr. Spalter’s family and personal associates, so I remained a bit to the side—but I was certainly more present than at other interments.”

“Why was that?”

She looked surprised at the question. “Because of my relationship.”

“Which was what?”

“Spalter Realty is my employer.”

“The Spalters own Willow Rest?”

“I thought that was common knowledge. Willow Rest was founded by Emmerling Spalter, the grandfather of … the recently deceased. Didn’t you know that?”

“You’ll have to be patient with me. I’m new to the case, and I’m new to Long Falls.” He saw something critical in her expression, and he added with the hint of a conspiratorial tone, “You see, I was brought here for a completely fresh perspective.” He gave her a moment or two
to absorb the implications of that statement, then went on. “Now let’s go back to my question about the feeling you had when you realized—
noticed
—what had happened.”

She hesitated, her lips tightening. “Why is that important?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. In the meantime, let me ask you another question. What did you feel when you learned that Kay Spalter had been arrested?”