Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

"As a family, the Cartrights display an admirable consistency of bad taste," Bill remarked, studying the unprepossessing structure. "It's a simple rectangle; hard to go wrong with a form like that, but there's something about the proportions ..."

"Granite," Simon murmured. "Dark as night, hard as adamant. Could one conceive of resurrection from such a habitation?"

"Don't be fanciful," Peggy said. "This is where the fun begins. Take your clippers, ladies and gentlemen."

Karen had to force herself to kneel. The grass enveloped her as it had the stones, pressing in on either side, bending in over her head to form a green canopy.

It took over an hour for them to clear the plot, and all three were hot and perspiring by the time they finished. Studying Peggy's flushed face, shiny with sweat and speckled with green grass clippings, Simon decreed a pause for rest and refreshment. The bottled water was lukewarm, but they gulped it down, leaning against the car and catching their breaths.

"Did we find them all?" Karen asked.

"No." Peggy swabbed at her face with her sleeve. "I don't think so. Some have sunk under the ground. And they, as you might expect, are the oldest ones."

"Hence the trowels," Bill said morosely. "Let's get at it, then."

"Sorry you came?" Undaunted, Peggy grinned at him.

"No." He gave Karen a soulful look.

"I will be recorder," Simon announced, corking the bottle. "Call out to me the inscriptions as you find them. In that way you will not have to carry writing materials with you."

"Glad you came?" Peggy asked.

"I would not have missed it for the world."

His suggestion saved a good deal of time. How long they would have been at it—and how she could possibly have survived the ordeal—without Simon's assistance Karen could not imagine. Not only did he record the inscriptions but he produced a neat plan, with numbers keying the stones to the inscriptions. The plan also enabled them to see gaps in the placement of the graves; following that lead, Bill dug out two of the missing stones. The inscription on one was so worn it was illegible. The other bore a name Karen recognized; it had been in the genealogy. Poor little Jacob Cartright, born 1796, died 1798; the firstborn son of that generation, he had been given a more elaborate stone than most of the dead infants.

The majority of the remaining tombstones were of a later date than the ones with which they were concerned. One of these caught Karen's attention, and she lingered long enough to clear away the heaped-up earth at its base so she could read the inscription. Eliza Cartright, world traveler and would-be authoress, had lived to a ripe old age even by modern standards. She had been eighty-one when she died in 1912. She had never married; that, Karen realized, was why she was here, in her family plot. A married woman would have lost even that feeble and final independence, joining her husband in death as she had in life. A long poem praised Eliza's virtues and expressed her expectation of immortality. It was so bad Karen suspected Eliza had composed it herself.

As the day went on the sun rose over the trees and shone full upon them. Pollen, dust and bits of grass stuck to the sweat that covered exposed skin to form a conglomerate that looked terrible and itched like fury. Increasingly miserable though she was, Karen did not want to be the first to call for mercy. She was infinitely relieved to hear Simon announce, "We have visitors."

The other vehicle had pulled up behind Peggy's car. "Oh, Lord," Karen exclaimed, "it's a police car. Do you suppose we're breaking some law by being here?"

"Trespassing, probably." Bill didn't sound particularly worried. "Let's go talk to the gentleman. A bold front is the best defense."

One of the officers got out of the car and approached the gate. Apparently he decided not to get his nice neat uniform dirty by squeezing through, for he awaited them there.

"Good morning," Simon began.

"It's afternoon" was the unsmiling reply. "You folks enjoying yourself?"

"We are engaged in serious historical research," Peggy informed him.

The young man's official countenance cracked into a smile. "Right, lady. You look it. Mr. Hayes notified us you might be coming out here today and asked us to swing by and make sure everything was all right. No problems?"

"None at all," Karen said, relieved. "It was kind of you—"

"What kind of problems did you have in mind?" Bill interrupted.

"The usual. Vagrants, drunks, vandals, kids looking for some quiet place to do drugs and make out." He inspected Bill's tall frame and broad shoulders approvingly, and added, "Mr. Hayes only mentioned the two ladies. Some of these characters can get mean, especially if they're high on something. But there's nothing for you to worry about."

"Thanks anyhow," Bill said, squaring his shoulders and looking manly. Karen smothered a laugh, and he grinned at her.

The officer nodded. "We've had some complaints about a pack of dogs," he said casually. "Not rabid, so far's we know; just wild. They've savaged a couple of calves, but they won't attack people."

"How does he know they won't?" Karen asked, as the police car pulled away.

Simon, a city boy born and bred, looked apprehensive. "I should never have left the safe streets of Baltimore for this dangerous region. Vandals, drug addicts, wild dogs . . . We can't accomplish any more here without equipment heavier than those little trowels. Haven't you learned all you can, Peggy?"

Peggy shrugged. "If you guys are going to strike, I'll have to give in. Actually, you're right, Simon. The person who composed the genealogy must have gotten her information from the gravestones. I haven't found anything new."

"Then . . . then ..." Simon choked. "This was a complete waste of time? All these hours of misery—"

"It was not a waste of time. I had to find out." Flexing her shoulders, she surveyed the sea of green, in which their hard