Page 145 of 1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Forty-Two

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “As he left that day,Benjamin Robertson seemed distracted. There was a writer fellow who came, onewho wanted to interview him about the decorations that would be set out forHalloween. They were talking and, well, perhaps he forgot to lock the vault. Iwas there, and I don’t remember him with his keys.”

“That was three months ago, give or take a day?” Angelasaid.

The ghost nodded seriously. “I heard some of theconversation, much of what went into the article. I managed to read it when atourist forgot a pile of her papers along with the article. She left them onold Rory’s grave over there.” He nodded toward another of the abovegroundtombs. “People are always leaving things in cemeteries.”

Angela glanced at Jackson. He knew they were both likelythinking two things: The writer of the article needed to come in, and theymight find something by the tomb.

One would imagine this murderer would be careful, but...

He’d started killing at least three months ago. Until now,he’d seemingly gotten away with it. But that might mean he was gettingcomfortable. Possibly careless.

He couldn’t have returned to the mausoleum to check once thenews had gone out that his victims were discovered. The police had closed theplace, and they were being vigilant.

“I can ask around,” Clayborn told them. “There aren’t manyof us here. And as you can imagine, we spend most of our time away from hereamong the living, watching over our descendants. But we sometimes gather atnight when nothing much else is going on. You are welcome to check back withme.” He grinned. “I hang here. This is my tomb. If you’re looking for me, I’llbe here. Hang. Funny expression, but I hear it all the time.”

“So they weren’t saying that during the Revolution, eh?”Angela teased.

He grinned. “They were not. But every decade, every year itseems, we have new expressions. New problems. And, sadly, old problems keepreemerging. Seek me out again. It’s been quite lovely to spend time with you.”

“It’s been our pleasure, sir,” Jackson assured him. “And wethank you, sincerely.”

“I am here to do what I can,” he said.

Angela smiled and thanked him again, then turned and walkedtoward the Robertson mausoleum. Jackson joined her after nodding to Clayborn.

“He must have been an incredible man,” Angela murmured.

“An amazing man, an amazing soul,” Jackson said. “Of course,the dead don’t naturally haunt the cemetery or graveyard where they lay. Notmuch sense in that. But... hopefully, he will find someone who saw something.”He grinned. “While hanging around.”

“Right,” Angela said. “Oh, and technically, this started offas a graveyard. There was a church, which moved when the congregation grew toobig. It’s called a graveyard when there are burials around a church. Cemeteriesreally came into being during Victorian times. And while we refer to the familymausoleums as vaults, a vault is usually in a cliff.It’s a tomb or mausoleum when it’s free-standing on grounds such as these.”

A smile graced his lips. “Always a font of knowledge.”Arching a brow, he asked, “And?”

“Right. That doesn’t help us at all.” She laughed. “Justtalking. And here we are.”

They stopped at the entrance to the Robertson tomb. The doorremained ajar, just as the crime scene units had left it.

But Jackson started walking the area in front of the heavymetal doors.

A patch of grass and a small walkway led down to the windinggravel lanes that went through the cemetery. He moved slowly, studying everytiny stone, speck of dirt, and blade of grass. Of course, he reminded himselfthat the area had been trampled in the time between now and when the killer hadleft their last victim. Forensic experts had been in the vault along with themedical examiners. But their concentration had been on the tomb and the newlydead.

Nothing, nothing, nothing...

Then, something just a little off-color in the grass anddirt caught his attention—amber rather than white or the brownish color of thedirt or the green of the grass.

He bent low, reached into his pocket for an evidence bag,and carefully extracted what he had found.

It was the butt of a cigarette.

The MEs and crime scene techs would never have been smokingat a crime scene, even if they did smoke. Of course, anyone might have beenwalking in front of the tomb. But it might well lead them to someone theyalready had on their radar.

He wanted the DNA from it.

“Angela?”

With the butt safely in the evidence bag, he stood andlooked around. She was nowhere to be found. He circled the tomb again, thenrealized the door was further ajar.

She had gone on in. He hurriedly entered himself.