Free Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) by Vincent Zandri Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
the missing Girvins.
As I exit the bedroom and start back down the stairs, I
picture old lady and old man Girvin, the blood trail they left behind, and the
Derringer that had been freshly fired. For now, Balkis and I have to work
together to solve this thing. No choice but to swallow my suspicions about his
having had everything to do with the old couple’s disappearance. Everything to
do with their murder.
20
The drive to the Albany Rural Cemetery takes only three minutes
at most. What won’t take only three minutes is locating the Rathbone plots. But
then, if the cemetery visitor center is still open, we might be able to scarf a
registry documenting the one hundred seventy years’ worth of men, women, and
children who’ve been buried here, including my dad.
Turning into the main entry gates, I follow the winding,
tree-lined road into the heart of the old, historic cemetery and take it
downhill to the single-story, chapel-like, stone building that serves as its
visitor’s center. Parking the truck out front, Balkis and I then enter the
building through a front, solid wood, six-paneled door that must be at least a
century old.
Inside the cavernous vestibule, I spot a bulletin board
that’s tacked with several announcements, including one for a Civil War
reenactment which is to take place on the lower, undeveloped grounds of the
cemetery property tomorrow morning. Another announcement asks visitors to keep
the grounds clean and to carry out what you haul in, that is, if your idea of a
good time is to enjoy a picnic lunch on top of dead people.
“You supposed to be doing battle tomorrow, Mr. Civil War
Reenactment Aficionado?”
Balkis turns a shade of pale. “I am indeed expected to
participate in the morning. However, my significant other is also expected to
be there. Rather, ex-significant other who fights for the Union Army. It could
all get a little messy.”
“Cavorting with the enemy, Balkis,” I say. “Tsk tsk.”
“Let’s just say I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t
have.”
“The jilted Confederate lover and the Union Yankee meet on
the field of battle. Could there be anything worse? You’d better watch your
back.”
Below the bulletin board is a stack of papers, each one
offers a brief history of the old cemetery as well as a listing of nearly all
the names belonging to the dead people who occupy each of its plots.
“Bingo,” Balkis says, grabbing the sheet. He pats the
pockets on his trousers and his vest. “I don’t have my reading specs,” he adds.
I take the paper from him and begin searching through the
list of names until I come to the name Rathbone .
“Henry Riggs Rathbone,” I say. “Plot number ninety-six.
Dad’s plot was number three thousand and six, which tells me the Rathbone plots
must be located in the older part of the cemetery.”
A man enters the vestibule through an interior wood door.
He’s a small, mostly bald, old man who looks like he was employed by the
cemetery back when it opened in 1841. Smoothing out the jacket on his black
suit and straightening his bow tie, he gazes upon Balkis with wide eyes.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says, his voice mild mannered and high
pitched. “But the Civil War reenactment isn’t until tomorrow.”
Balkis stands tall, sucking in his beer gut.
“I am not reenacting anything presently, my good sir,” he
says. “This is my wardrobe of choice.”
“My name is Christopher Kendris,” the old man states. “I am
the cemetery historian.” Then, giving Balkis a look, like he’s met him before,
and perhaps he has, considering the professor’s employment at the university
and his participation in the war reenactments. “Pardon me for saying so, sir.
But you look like John Wilkes Booth…With a couple of extra pounds around the
gut.”
Balkis sneers. Before he backhands the little guy, I step in
between them. Okay, maybe they don’t know one another.
“Excuse
As I exit the bedroom and start back down the stairs, I
picture old lady and old man Girvin, the blood trail they left behind, and the
Derringer that had been freshly fired. For now, Balkis and I have to work
together to solve this thing. No choice but to swallow my suspicions about his
having had everything to do with the old couple’s disappearance. Everything to
do with their murder.
20
The drive to the Albany Rural Cemetery takes only three minutes
at most. What won’t take only three minutes is locating the Rathbone plots. But
then, if the cemetery visitor center is still open, we might be able to scarf a
registry documenting the one hundred seventy years’ worth of men, women, and
children who’ve been buried here, including my dad.
Turning into the main entry gates, I follow the winding,
tree-lined road into the heart of the old, historic cemetery and take it
downhill to the single-story, chapel-like, stone building that serves as its
visitor’s center. Parking the truck out front, Balkis and I then enter the
building through a front, solid wood, six-paneled door that must be at least a
century old.
Inside the cavernous vestibule, I spot a bulletin board
that’s tacked with several announcements, including one for a Civil War
reenactment which is to take place on the lower, undeveloped grounds of the
cemetery property tomorrow morning. Another announcement asks visitors to keep
the grounds clean and to carry out what you haul in, that is, if your idea of a
good time is to enjoy a picnic lunch on top of dead people.
“You supposed to be doing battle tomorrow, Mr. Civil War
Reenactment Aficionado?”
Balkis turns a shade of pale. “I am indeed expected to
participate in the morning. However, my significant other is also expected to
be there. Rather, ex-significant other who fights for the Union Army. It could
all get a little messy.”
“Cavorting with the enemy, Balkis,” I say. “Tsk tsk.”
“Let’s just say I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t
have.”
“The jilted Confederate lover and the Union Yankee meet on
the field of battle. Could there be anything worse? You’d better watch your
back.”
Below the bulletin board is a stack of papers, each one
offers a brief history of the old cemetery as well as a listing of nearly all
the names belonging to the dead people who occupy each of its plots.
“Bingo,” Balkis says, grabbing the sheet. He pats the
pockets on his trousers and his vest. “I don’t have my reading specs,” he adds.
I take the paper from him and begin searching through the
list of names until I come to the name Rathbone .
“Henry Riggs Rathbone,” I say. “Plot number ninety-six.
Dad’s plot was number three thousand and six, which tells me the Rathbone plots
must be located in the older part of the cemetery.”
A man enters the vestibule through an interior wood door.
He’s a small, mostly bald, old man who looks like he was employed by the
cemetery back when it opened in 1841. Smoothing out the jacket on his black
suit and straightening his bow tie, he gazes upon Balkis with wide eyes.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says, his voice mild mannered and high
pitched. “But the Civil War reenactment isn’t until tomorrow.”
Balkis stands tall, sucking in his beer gut.
“I am not reenacting anything presently, my good sir,” he
says. “This is my wardrobe of choice.”
“My name is Christopher Kendris,” the old man states. “I am
the cemetery historian.” Then, giving Balkis a look, like he’s met him before,
and perhaps he has, considering the professor’s employment at the university
and his participation in the war reenactments. “Pardon me for saying so, sir.
But you look like John Wilkes Booth…With a couple of extra pounds around the
gut.”
Balkis sneers. Before he backhands the little guy, I step in
between them. Okay, maybe they don’t know one another.
“Excuse
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