The Burnt Island Burial Ground: A Lindsay Harding Mystery (Lindsay Harding Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  The Burnt Island Burial Ground

  Lindsay Harding Mystery, No. 3

  Mindy Quigley

  For all Hohensteins and former Hohensteins

  And for anyone who has ever been

  Hohensteined

  Little Spot Publishing

  http://littlespotforstories.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Mindy Quigley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission.

  Cover design by Genevieve LaVO Cosdon

  Other novels in the Lindsay Harding series:

  A Murder in Mount Moriah

  A Death in Duck

  Chapter 1

  As far as chaplain Lindsay Harding could tell, the HVAC system that serviced the chaplains’ offices at Mount Moriah Regional Medical Center had only two settings: “blast furnace” and “Siberia.” It was late April, and despite the typically mild weather of the North Carolina spring outside, today was a Siberia day. Inside the small windowless office where she and her fellow hospital chaplains were based, the air conditioning units hurled out cold air with such vigor that Lindsay half-expected to see a team of sled dogs rocket through the door. When she settled down at her desk to complete her end-of-shift paperwork, Lindsay realized that she had lost track of her cardigan at some point during the day. She tried to tough out the cold as she filled in the first few patient contact reports, but quickly decided that without an extra layer on, she’d soon be frozen into a state of suspended animation.

  Lindsay retraced her steps, working her way backward through the shift she had just completed. She’d spent the late afternoon in the Labor and Delivery Unit with an anxious first-time father who’d held her hand so tightly that her pinkie finger was still a little numb. Before that, she’d eaten lunch in the hospital cafeteria, during which time she’d been summoned to the Emergency Department to pray with a frantic couple whose son had swallowed half a dozen marbles. After the couple had been assured by the doctor that nature would eliminate the danger in due course, Lindsay had headed up to the oncology department. When the cardigan failed to materialize in any of those places, she walked to the chapel, where she’d conducted the usual Saturday morning service.

  Mount Moriah Medical Center’s chapel, a small interior room on the ground floor of the hospital, had been redecorated a few years earlier to transform it from an overtly Christian worship space into someone’s idea of “interfaith,” which, in this case, meant that the large wooden cross that formerly stood against the wall next to the pulpit had been replaced by a series of ill-conceived, wall-mounted quilts. The hangings were alleged to depict the sun and moon locked in an embrace, embodying, according to a small explanatory plaque, the themes of Hope and Peace. It was never entirely clear why Peace looked almost exactly like an angry pig dancing with an enormous banana.

  The windowless chapel now stood in semi-darkness, with only two small floor lights on the dais providing illumination. Having spent time in this room almost every day during the four years she’d worked at the hospital, Lindsay knew the space almost as well as she knew her own house. She walked briskly past the rows of wooden chairs without pausing to switch on the lights, her footsteps echoing off the wood-paneled walls. She scanned the area around the pulpit, but her sweater was nowhere to be seen. As she turned to head back toward the door, she skidded to a halt, her heart thudding in her chest. Near the back of the room, a dot of glowing red light illuminated the outline of a seated figure. Lindsay pushed back her rising fear as she groped along the wall near the podium for the room’s other set of light switches.

  “Hello,” she called out, her voice faltering slightly.

  “Hey,” a youthful female voice drawled back carelessly in return.

  Everything’s okay, Lindsay whispered to herself. It’s just a young woman. A hospital full of people is right outside the door. All you have to do is scream, and someone will come and help you.

  Any normal person might be taken by surprise at the unexpected presence of a stranger in a darkened room, but for Lindsay, the deep terror that engulfed her went far beyond the norm. A few months earlier, Lindsay’s mother’s psychotic ex-boyfriend, an ex-con named Leander Swoopes, had embarked on a violent rampage, brutally attacking Lindsay before disappearing in the aftermath. Ever since, she’d been left to wonder if he’d drowned in the ocean during an escape attempt or managed to get away. The thought of that dreadful time, and the idea that her attacker could still be hiding out somewhere, had turned every unexpected noise, every dark corner, and every encounter with an unknown person into a panic-inducing nightmare. Since that time, Lindsay’s nerve fibers had become like trip wires, set off with terrifying ease by even the slightest disturbance.

  At last, Lindsay’s trembling fingers found the switch, and the room was flooded with a bright yellow glow. The girl threw her arm over her face to shield her eyes.

  “Can I help you with something?” she asked. “I’m in here trying to engage in quiet reflection or whatever, and you’re kind of interrupting.”

  “Sorry,” Lindsay said reflexively, her heart still pounding. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.” She caught sight of the object that had been glowing a moment before—the electronic cigarette in the girl’s upraised hand. It appeared that the girl, like many people before her, had ducked into the always-unlocked chapel to “quietly reflect” on her nicotine habit in a place where she was unlikely to get busted for violating the hospital’s smoke-free policy.

  The girl lowered her hand from her eyes and glared at Lindsay. Even wearing a petulant scowl, her face was breathtakingly beautiful, with iridescent amber-colored eyes and a tawny complexion that looked like it had been retouched in Photoshop. “Yes?” the girl asked, arching an eyebrow at Lindsay.

  “Sorry,” Lindsay sputtered again, realizing that she had been staring. The girl’s flawless face and elegant, willowy figure had the peculiar effect of conjuring up an intense feeling of pity in Lindsay. Features like that must attract as many eyeballs as a burn victim’s crepe-paper skin or an amputee’s empty sleeve. Lindsay regained her composure, smiled at the girl, and gestured to the cigarette. “I’m afraid those aren’t allowed in here. Not even the electronic ones.”

  The girl let out a world-weary sigh, flicked a switch on the device, and shoved it into her purse. “There. Happy now?”

  “I’m Lindsay, one of the chaplains here,” Lindsay said, in a softer tone.

  Lindsay proffered her hand in greeting. The girl looked at it warily. Then suddenly the girl flashed a toothpaste commercial smile and extended her slender hand. “Jess.”

  The shift of expression had been so abrupt and complete, Lindsay momentarily wondered if she’d imagined the girl’s initial hostility. Looking more closely, though, she saw that Jess seemed to have pulled her smile across her face—a thin, glossy covering for an ice sculpture.

  “What brings you to the chapel, Jess?” Lindsay asked.

  “Like I said, quiet reflection,” Jess replied, arching a perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

  “Or…whatever.” Lindsay echoed Jess’s words back to her and matched the girl’s Mona Lisa smile. “Are you visiting someone in the hospital?”

  “My grandfather’s in here.” She paused. “He’s dying for real this time.” For a moment, Lindsay thought she saw a flicker of grief or pain pass across Jess’s face, but no sooner did the emotion register than it disappeared. Jess pressed her lips together, forming a slight pout. “My mom’s probably gonna be here for hours, so now I have to wait until one of my friends can come and give me a ride home.”

  “You don’t have your license?” Lindsay asked. Like many extraordinarily beautiful women, Jess had an ageless quality. She could’ve been fourteen or forty.

  Jess shook her head. “It’s super annoying because I already have a car and everything. I got it for my birthday when I turned eighteen in February. But the Driver’s Ed teacher at school was trying to make me retake the course because she doesn’t like me, and she’s got this huge stick up her butt about it. My dad was gonna sue last year, but I told him to just chill out. I mean, I still have to go there all this year. But I’m graduating at the end of next month, so I’m taking private lessons now.”

  “Well, that’s good, right?”

  “Yeah, they’re way better. The car we had to practice in at school smelled like cats, and Mrs. Travis doesn’t let you play the radio.”

  “Is Mrs. Travis still teaching Driver’s Ed?” Lindsay asked. “I graduated from Mount Moriah High School,” she added, in response to Jess’s upraised eyebrows.

  Jess gave her a pitying look.

  “What?” Lindsay prompted.

  “Nothing. Well, it’s just that you’re a lifer. I thought maybe you weren’t because your accent isn’t very strong and you have hipster glasses. Most lifers wouldn’t wear those.”

  Lindsay quietly re
gistered the backhanded compliment, or was it a forehand insult? She asked, “What’s a lifer?”

  “You know, one of those people who never leave the town they grew up in. Settle down near their parents. Marry somebody they’ve known forever. That’s what my mom and dad are—lifers. All the lifer women get their hair done at Violet’s or the place in the mall and drive around in minivans with the little stick people family decals stuck to the back windows. And all the lifer men talk about high school sports like it’s so freakin’ amazing to watch some idiots in spandex toss around a stupid little ball.” She paused to twist a tendril of her chestnut hair around the end of her finger. “No offense,” she added.

  “None taken,” Lindsay replied evenly. “So I take it you’re not planning to become a lifer?”

  “I’m not staying a minute longer than I have to. Literally the second I graduate, I’m moving to New York to become an actress. I already have people interested in signing me to model, which should get me started.”

  “Wow,” Lindsay said. “That’ll be a big change from little old Mount Moriah. Do you think it’ll be a culture shock?”

  “Do you mean, will I be shocked that people up there actually have culture? Um, no.” While she’d been talking, her large, satchel-like purse had tipped over, spilling a book and notepad onto the floor.

  Lindsay picked the things up and handed them to Jess. The pad of paper was covered in triangles and angles, numbers and lines—it looked like trigonometry homework. Lindsay recited the book title out loud. “Pocket Sky Atlas. Are you into astronomy?”

  Jess snatched it back. “It’s for school. Just some boring homework.” Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse and tapped out a message on the screen. “My ride’s here.” She tossed the phone back into her bag and extracted a little tube of watermelon-pink lip gloss and a small mirror. “Here, can you hold this a sec?” she said, not waiting for a reply before passing the mirror to Lindsay. Jess took hold of Lindsay’s hand and maneuvered it into position. Leaning closer to the small circle of her reflection, she dragged the colored wand across her lips. “There. Perfect.” She smacked her lips together and took the mirror from Lindsay’s hand. “Thanks. You’re a star.”

  As Jess glided out of the room, Lindsay could almost feel a cool breeze wash over her. She sat there for a moment, wondering what car-crash combination of nature and nurture had given rise to such a creature. The mental chill from Lindsay’s initial panic at encountering Jess in the dark chapel hadn’t entirely abated, and it reminded Lindsay once again of her missing cardigan. She headed upstairs to the Geriatric Unit to continue her search, re-visiting patients she’d seen earlier that morning until she found herself standing in the doorway of one of the first patients she’d seen that day. She knocked gently on the propped-open door and stepped inside.

  Mr. Meeks, an elderly man with smooth brown skin, a wild shock of white hair, and Coke bottle glasses looked up at her. He had the bedcovers pulled up right to his chin, his stubby fingers curling over the top of them like a mouse’s paws.

  “I’m glad you’re here, doctor,” he said. “This woman is trying to steal my television.”

  Lindsay cast a glance at the sturdy, dimpled nurse who stood at Mr. Meeks’s bedside holding the television remote.

  The nurse shot Lindsay an amused look and then turned to the old man. “Now, Mr. Meeks, you know I ain’t trying to steal your TV. I’m Angel, remember? The nurse who takes care of you during the day.”

  The elderly man had undergone a knee operation a few days before. He was in the early stages of dementia, and the temporary move to the hospital from his familiar surroundings at Rest Haven, Mount Moriah’s nursing home, had exacerbated his confusion.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Meeks?” Lindsay asked, smiling reassuringly.

  Mr. Meeks pursed his lips and turned his myopic gaze on her. “Well, doctor,” he said, “I don’t like to complain, but my leg aches something fearsome.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The doctor will be in to see you later, and you can talk to her about your leg. I’m one of the hospital chaplains. We said a prayer together earlier today, and we talked about your grandson.”

  Mr. Meeks nodded his head but then immediately continued. “As long as you’re here, doctor, I wanted you to look at that thing on my backside. It still ain’t right,” Mr. Meeks said as he began to wriggle out from under the covers.

  Lindsay took a step forward and opened her mouth to protest, but the words foundered on her tongue when she observed that Mr. Meeks was wearing a green, wool cardigan several sizes too small for him. Despite being at least half a foot taller than the petite chaplain and of considerable girth, Mr. Meeks had managed to fasten all the buttons. The material encircled his torso like a sausage skin, and his wrinkled wrists protruded from the ends of the sleeves. “How did you…”

  Mr. Meeks cut off the rest of Lindsay’s question with a flick of his upraised hand. He looked at her closely, his eyes narrowing. “Hush up a minute. I just figured out you’re not a doctor at all. You’re that lady minister from the news. The one who escaped from the killer.”

  Lindsay blushed and shrugged. Much of the extensive news coverage that followed her confrontation with Leander Swoopes had focused on her, sensationalizing her role and attributing fake quotes to her that made her sound like a tough movie action hero. Although she’d avoided the press as much as she could and given no interviews, even after all these months, stories about her still seemed to emerge with disconcerting regularity.

  “How come you were pretending to be a doctor?” he demanded. Before she could answer, he whipped his head back to Angel. “And how come you’re still holding my television clicker, missy?”

  “I’m just not sure this is the best program for you to be watching. Remember how upset you got yesterday when they showed that poor woman’s dead body on this show? We talked about how maybe you didn’t want to watch CSI no more. Why don’t we turn on Andy Griffith? That’s a real nice program. When you’re hurting, laughter’s the best medicine, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Meeks furrowed his brow as if giving the question deep consideration. “Is it really laughter? I’d have sworn it was penicillin. Because when I got the clap in Korea after the war…”

  “Oh, look! They found bone fragments in the fireplace!” Lindsay practically shouted at the television screen.

  “Christ Almighty! Will y’all keep it down over there? Can’t a person just die in peace around here?” a low voice rasped from the far side of the room divider curtain.

  Angel took advantage of Mr. Meeks’s temporary distraction to flip the TV over to the soothing black-and-white world of Mayberry. Lindsay, meanwhile, crossed to the far side of Mr. Meeks’s bed and stood in front of the drawn curtain.

  “Sorry for disturbing you, sir.” When her apology was met with silence, she continued, “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “I’m not home,” the voice replied testily.

  Lindsay glanced at Angel, who just rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth.

  “I understand if you want privacy. I just wondered if you might let me apologize face to face,” Lindsay said.

  “That’s how you religious types work, isn’t it? I once made the mistake of opening my door to some Jehovah’s Witnesses. Next thing you know, I’m getting their newsletter every month.”

  “I promise I don’t have a newsletter.”

  “You can’t help me, so just leave me be,” the man snapped.

  “Okay. Just let Angel know if you ever think you might want somebody to talk to. That’s what I’m here for.”

  When Lindsay’s last entreaty was again met with a stony silence, she turned back to Mr. Meeks. “Mr. Meeks, do you think I could have my cardigan back?”

  Mr. Meeks fingered the top button, which threatened to ping off at any moment under the strain. He regarded Lindsay suspiciously for a long moment. “No,” he said. “Get your own.”

  “Now Mr. Meeks…” Angel began.

  “Don’t know why she’s talkin’ to him anyhow,” Meeks said. “That man is a stone cold killer. I heard him say so with my own two ears. He thinks I don’t hear him talkin’ to hisself, but I do.” He turned his head toward the curtain that separated the room in half. “I hear you talking, murderer!” he shouted. “And you and you,” he said, pointing to Angel and Lindsay in turn, “are thieves.” He snatched the remote from Angel’s hand. “Keep your thieving hands off of my television, and tell that pretend doctor over there to stop trying to steal my very best sweater.”