Free Creola's Moonbeam by Milam McGraw Propst Page B

Cemetery’s heavy black iron entry gate closed, but also it was tightly secured with a big, heavy chain and a padlock!
    I jumped out and hurried to take my turn yanking on the gate. I grasped at a straw and suggested optimistically, “Maybe the nice guard left us a key so we could leave when we were ready?”
    “Yeah, right! You’re dreaming if you believe that.”
    I suggested we go to the business office. Of course, no one was there, but we had something of a triumph. “See, Beau!” I said, “Here’s an emergency number. You memorize the first three numbers, and I’ll memorize the last four. Now, where’s your cell phone?”
    “At the hotel, on the top of the TV.”
    “No comment.”
    “Look, I didn’t plan to make a bunch of phone calls from the graveyard.”
    “Okay, let’s move to Plan B. I noticed that there’s a house near the back of the grounds.”
    His dwindling lack of power took control of Beau. He screeched off and drove through the memorials as if he were competing in the Daytona 500. I buckled my seat belt and closed my eyes. “It’s a good thing all the residents of Calvary are already dead.”
    My husband floored the accelerator.
    “See, there it is, Beau! The house, right over there!”
    He frantically honked the car horn. I jumped out, and like a monkey clinging to his wire cage, I shook the chain length fence. “Help, help, can someone please help us?” I wanted to be heard over Beau’s honking. An elderly lady slowly opened her screen door and cautiously shuffled over toward me. “Yeah, whatcha want?”
    I explained our dilemma. Beau stopped me before I got to the part about the wedding. “Uh, Honey, we’re in a bit of a time situation here.”
    Over and over, I repeated the emergency number to the woman. Moving at the speed of a dying snail, she shuffled back inside. It took more than ten minutes, seemed hours longer, but she eventually returned to the fence. “I managed to git somebody. They’s comin.”
    “Oh, thank you, thank you,” I gushed.
    “Don’t get your hopes up,” Beau countered.
    “And you don’t be so pessimistic.”
    We drove back to the entrance. Minutes ticked by as we sat waiting for the rescuer who would set us free. The sun was setting. We wouldn’t have any time to relax before the wedding. Even my optimistic spirit was beginning to dwindle.
    “I’m going for help,” Beau announced. “You stay here, and if the guy comes with a key, drive out and pick me up. I’m gonna go to that auto parts store we passed and call a cab.”
    “Please be careful,” I warned.
    The last thing he said was, “Lock the car doors.”
    The cemetery was located in a terrible part of town, one known for weekly, if not daily, shootings, along with crack houses and creepy people in general. It was getting dark. I comforted myself, saying, “At least, you can see Beau every step of the way. As long as he’s in sight, he’s safe.” At that exact moment, he disappeared behind a big, brick wall.
    Swallowing, I began to pray. You’re letting your imagination get the best of you , Creola whispered.
    The sun went down. The flaming heavenly body dropped like a gigantic orange bowling ball. Along with the sun went my courage. Shrouded in pitch black, only the car’s dashboard gave off any light. I was locked in Calvary Cemetery on Elvis Presley Boulevard. It was the thirteenth day of the month, and every horror movie I’d ever watched began to replay in my head. Beau had been gone for at least fifteen minutes. More prayers. I turned on the car radio.
    Ah hah, Prairie Home Companion would be on shortly. Surely Garrison Keillor would provide a bright spot. The entertainer/storyteller’s radio show had been our delight on many an evening.
    “Beau will be back any minute, and we’d have a big laugh,” I said aloud, talking to Creola.
    Garrison’s voice caught my attention. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’re fortunate to have with us a world-famous performer