A Catered Valentine's Day. Isis Crawford
Bernie corrected.
Clayton grunted and kept driving. Now they were on a narrow unpaved road. As they traveled along, Bernie noticed rows of small crosses on either side. They had a homemade look about them. Despite her vow she tapped Marvin’s father on the shoulder again.
“Who is buried up here?” she asked him.
“People who can’t afford a funeral.”
“So this is a potter’s field.”
Marvin’s father didn’t answer.
Bernie looked around. She’d read about them, but she hadn’t known they actually existed in this day and age.
“Well, is it?” Bernie repeated.
“We don’t use that name,” Clayton said.
“I wonder where the word potter comes from,” Bernie mused. “Of course in old Scottish dialect a pot used to mean a deep hole, and then there’s going to pot, which means going to ruin, in the sense of deteriorating which is what bodies do.”
“Fascinating,” Clayton commented.
Bernie ignored the sarcasm and continued. “Now, the concept itself comes from a verse in the Bible, Matthew, I believe, which states that there’s supposed to be a place of burial for the stranger and the friendless poor.”
“You’re just a mine of useless information, aren’t you?” Marvin’s father noted as he pulled the limo to a stop.
For once Libby was in agreement with him.
“I guess it depends on your point of view,” Bernie told him.
“We’re getting out here,” Clayton said.
“Why?” Bernie asked. “I don’t see anything.”
“There.” He pointed. Bernie followed his finger. “We’re going up there.” And with that he got out of the car and hurried toward what looked like a mound of dirt.
Libby got out of the car as well. Bernie joined her.
“I think that’s a grave site he’s heading to,” she said to her sister.
Libby pulled her jacket around her. “I think it is too. Yuck.”
“What do you think this is about?” Bernie asked her.
Libby shook her head, “Nothing good.” The gesture said that she really didn’t know.
By now they were behind Clayton because Bernie’s heels kept getting stuck in the dirt.
“I told you not to wear those,” Libby said.
“Like you knew we’d be doing this,” Bernie told her.
Libby opened her mouth and closed it again. What was the point?
Marvin’s father had stopped by the edge of the pile of dirt and was waving at them impatiently to hurry up.
“Definitely a grave site,” Bernie said.
Libby shuddered. “On second thought,” she said, “I’m glad you’re wearing those shoes.”
Bernie grinned at her. “Me too. Let’s get a grip. How bad could this be?”
“About two bars of chocolate bad. No. Make that three.”
“I’d make it three shots of scotch myself.”
Bernie agreed. After all, what could be so bad? Being in a cemetery? An open grave? A distressed funeral director? You put them all together and you got something icky. Unless you were like Amber and liked this sort of thing. Now, she would be running up the hill.
Bernie stopped for a moment to pull her stiletto out of the dirt. And she was the one that had fixed Libby up with Marvin. She actually pushed the two of them together. If she hadn’t done that, then Marvin’s father wouldn’t be showing them whatever it was he was about to. Bernie shook her head. Sometimes even she admitted she went a little too far. Not too often, but sometimes. Okay, more than sometimes.
“Hurry up,” Marvin’s father called to them.
“I’m moving as fast as I can,” Bernie lied. Which wasn’t exactly true, but she wasn’t planning on breaking the heels on her Jimmy Choos.
Finally she and Libby reached the edge of the dirt pile. Yup. Just as she suspected. An open grave. Libby hung back while Bernie peered over the edge. She could see a casket lying there. The hole wasn’t very deep. In fact, it was pretty shallow—as if someone had dug it in a hurry. Libby came up and looked over her shoulder.
“The coffin looks flimsy,” she observed.
“Like a cardboard box,” Bernie said.
“Well, not that bad,” Libby objected.
Maybe, Bernie thought, but it sure didn’t look like the ones in Marvin’s father’s funeral home. Those were made out of mahogany and teak. They had brass fittings. The woods were polished to a high gloss. Some were lined with steel or lead and they all cost a lot of money. Bernie decided that if she was going to be buried at all, she’d like to be buried in a coffin shaped like a giant high heel, maybe a strappy wedge. Libby’s coffin, on the other hand, would probably be a chocolate bar or a blueberry muffin. She was just going to ask Clayton if that were possible when he coughed and started to speak.
“This is the problem,” he said as he pointed to the casket.
“Someone vandalized the grave?” Libby asked. “If that’s the case I think you should go to the police. I’m sure they’ll do a much better job than Bernie and I can.”
“That’s not the problem,” Clayton said.
“Then what is?” Bernie asked. “Grave robbing? That’s so nineteenth century.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Clayton answered.
Libby felt herself at a loss. What else could it be?
Bernie watched while Clayton rubbed his hands together. Did she detect a crack in his veneer?
“What I’m about to show you is strictly between ourselves. You are not to tell anyone about it,” he said.
Bernie looked at Libby and Libby looked at her.
“Well?” Clayton demanded when neither of the sisters answered.
“Maybe you shouldn’t show us,” Bernie said.
“We won’t tell anyone,” Libby said.
Clayton looked at Bernie.
“How can I promise when I don’t know what I’m promising?” she asked. It didn’t seem like an unreasonable question to her.
Libby took Bernie’s hand in hers. “Please,” she begged.
Bernie snorted. “If it means that much to you, fine.” She lifted her hand up. “I promise. Girl Scout word of honor.”
So what if she’d never been a Girl Scout? Big deal.
Clayton looked from one of them to the other and nodded.
“Fine,” he said.
Then before Bernie could say anything, he got into the grave.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“You’ll see,” Clayton said.
“I’d prefer I didn’t,” Bernie told him.
But Clayton didn’t listen. Instead he leaned over and began to lift up the coffin lid.
“Don’t,” Libby cried.
But it was too late. The coffin lid hit the ground with a thud.
For a second Bernie thought Libby was going