The Art of Death by Margarite St. John Read Free Book Online

mausoleum, the north side coated with moss, the south side smothered with vines. “This thing looks like the stones were left the way nature made them and set without mortar,” Steve observed.
    “Dug right out of the field, according to what old Chester told me once,” Dougie said.  “When that vine begins blooming later this month, it’s beautiful, wild pink roses.”
    “The whole place needs some work. That willow’s roots are going to grow right into the graves and you’ll have caskets poking out of the ground. The headstones need to be cleaned and reset. Some of them have sunk into the ground, others look like they’re about to fall over.”
    “I’d do some work in here if I could, but I’ve been told not to.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t know.”
    After trying to read a few inscriptions, Steve asked, “What’s the oldest headstone in here?”
    “Over here,” Dougie said, leading Steve to the far northeast corner, where a weathered flat piece of limestone had sunk several inches below ground level. He knelt to scrape the dead leaves away. “You can barely read the inscription, but it says, ‘Naomi Bauer Apfeldorf, b. August 25, 1798, d. December 20, 1818, and baby girl, wife and daughter of Heinrich. Among the stars now.’”
    “How sad. Naomi probably died in childbirth right before Christmas and the family must have just arrived from the East, probably by flatboat down the Ohio River.”
    “That’s what I think,” Dougie said, though in fact he hadn’t known before how the settlers arrived in Indiana. “The last name got changed to Appledorn a few years after Naomi died. Thirteen other headstones here. Then the mausoleum was constructed. Two slots are left, one for Chester and one for Miss Appledorn. Dorothy’s already there, of course, been there twelve-fifteen years. Notice the wrought iron gates on either end. Don’t see workmanship like that anymore.”
    “Are the gates locked?”
    Dougie shrugged. “I never checked.” He walked to the west side. The gate swung open with a light tug. “What do you know? They’re not locked. I always thought they were.”
    “I should bring Lexie out here sometime. She loves old cemeteries. Relishes the old-fashioned names, tries to guess the cause of death and link it up with history. Once, in Savannah, we spent a whole day going through one cemetery after another. Deaths from childbirth, cholera, smallpox, war, yellow fever, malaria, influenza, even duels.”
    “Can’t say I like cemeteries that much,” Dougie said, spitting between two headstones, “but I don’t mind this one. Very peaceful, sort of nice so many generations still together.” He eyed Steve quizzically. “Don’t tell me you never seen this cemetery when you were married to Miss Appledorn.”
    “Oh, I did, but I didn’t linger out here. I spent more time in the mausoleum.”
    “Mouse-o what?”
    “Mausoleum. That’s what these big tombs are called.”
    “Didn’t know that. You want to see the barn then?”
    “Lead the way.”
    Once inside the barn, Steve stopped and looked around. “Looks pretty clean, pretty tight except for the roof. So what’s Miss Appledorn want done exactly?”
    “For starters, a special temperature-controlled room for a new 3-D printer she’s having installed. The one she’s using now is a couple years old. She uses it a lot. It’s over where the mules used to be stalled.”
    “Never heard of such a thing. Sounds like science fiction.”
    “It’s real enough. You ever see Jeff Dunham, that comedian with the puppet he calls Achmed the Dead Terrorist?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you can catch him on YouTube. He’s hilarious.” Dougie laughed, pitched his face forward, frowned threateningly, and screeched in the strangled falsetto of Achmed the Dead Terrorist, “Silence. I kill you.”
    When Steve squinted in surprise, Dougie said, “That’s Achmed. You gotta see him. Well, anyway, Dunham made the head of that puppet -- or maybe it was