Chapter 1 – I’m Late and Overhear Stuff

I was fifteen minutes late to the funeral, pulling into the funeral home parking lot just as the police directed the last few cars onto the road heading to the gravesite. As the ward of Lady Elizabeth Southwell, I had been trained to be on time, and in truth, she would be livid if she found out I was late. “Bliss, to be prompt is a precious gift to your host, and the behavior of a true lady,” Liz had told me many times. Too many times. I decided I was blaming my tardiness on the dress, or the shoes, they both were using my well-defined fashion sense against me.

My conflict was what to wear to the funeral of an acquaintance, it was tricky. I am five feet – ten inches tall, of average weight and have a pretty good figure. I guess most would say I have that “girl next door” look. I thought I had a pretty good eye for fashion but if I over or under dressed, I might embarrass the deceased’s family, or myself. Worse I might wind up in an article in the social column of the local paper.

A man approached my window. “Are you with the Jernigan funeral?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Bliss Carter,” I replied.

He nodded and plopped a magnetic black flag on the hood. “Turn your lights on and follow the last car.”

I did so and in fifteen minutes was outside of town, heading north on Highway 97. In another ten minutes, the line of cars turned left onto a well-kept paved road, then seconds later onto a paved driveway between two red brick columns that marked the entrance to the Jernigan family cemetery. Men dressed in black suits stood to either side, as if holding open the tall wrought-iron gates that would have normally blocked access. I smiled at the display. There were plenty of towns in the Deep South where great old families had great old plantation estates, servants, and family cemeteries­ — Savannah came to mind — but Pensacola was not one of them. So, the Jernigan family cemetery was more a show of power than tradition. I remembered that John H. Jernigan the First established the cemetery in the 1920s and moved the Jernigans who occupied other cemeteries from their original resting place to this cemetery at a horrendous cost.

I pulled my car onto the grass just behind the Mercedes and Jaguars ahead of me. I was pretty sure most of the other twenty-somethings had their rides given to them, but making one’s way in life was one of Lady Liz’s highest values, hence her decision to have me purchase my own car, a high-end Hyundai sedan.

I watched as friends and family walked into the shade of the huge live oaks. I figured some of the old trees must be a few hundred years old and might have even been here when Hernando de Soto first visited the Pensacola Bay in the mid-1500s. Overall, the landscaping was pretty and took great advantage of traditional flora, as demonstrated by the large established trees shading the bushy undergrowth of trimmed azalea hedges and oleanders.

The voices disappeared as they walked deeper into the cemetery, along paths made of huge slabs of limestone that must have cost a bunch to ship from northern states. The paving stone paths lead to the large marble, dare I say “ghostly”, mausoleums of the Jernigan family. Borders of tall canna lilies, the dark red blooms contrasting boldly against white ones lining the paved path, stood like walls and added to the feeling one was entering a maze.

I was fifty feet from my car when a drop of rain splatted against my Ray-Bans. I tipped the sunglasses down my nose and looked into the sky, my forehead crinkling in annoyance. It was mostly sunny but clouds were drifting in from the west, and in late summer in the Sunshine State, rain was always a possibility. The Floridian heat and humidity had caused me to consider light materials for their coolness and my concern was that, if I got stuck in a downpour I might as well have attended this sacred ceremony in my bra and panties.

I turned back to my car, unlocked the trunk with my fob and spent three minutes digging around the beach chairs and other gear that identified my love for sand and surf, looking for my small folding umbrella. By the time I found it and closed the trunk, the other guests had disappeared. I started in the direction I had seen the others go and soon made out muted voices, the hushed yelling that people think is somehow outside the range of human hearing.

The trees and bushes were doing a good job of shading the path. They cut the sunlight by at least a third, and when a cloud passed in front of the sun, it suddenly looked like dusk. The voices got louder but I could see nothing except a couple smaller tombs, several raised graves, and head stones.

I passed one of the first tombs and the weathered brass plaque read Williams, presumably an in-law to the Jernigans. A man’s voice came from around the side of one of the tall cement structures. I stopped and listened as the voice took on a normal tone and volume that told me the discussion was escalating. “Yes, Mr. Alexander, I checked twice. The body is gone.”

“It can’t be gone, Peter,” said the other man that I assumed was Mr. Alexander.

“But it is, sir,” Peter replied, in a voice halfway between pleading and a whine.

“Peter, it’s not that I don’t believe you. I’m saying that maybe Gregory Jernigan’s body was removed years ago, or perhaps something happened and it was never there in the first place. Good god man, he was buried in 1850 something, anything could have happened.”

“Yes, sir, and I would love to believe that something happened years ago, but I was just in the tomb three months ago for cleaning and to check all the lights, and I’m telling you the panel to Gregory Jernigan’s crypt was on tight. They were all on, it’s part of the checklist, but last week, when I did my monthly check, I saw it ajar. I opened it all the way and saw that the coffin lid was also loose, so I pulled it out a few feet and looked. There is no body. No bones, nothing but some scraps of cloth, stained liner and some hair.”

There was what seemed like a full minute of dead air, then Mr. Alexander spoke. “So, you placed the lid back on, pushed it back into the crypt, and replaced the panel, correct?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t know what else to do,” Peter said.

“No, you did well. Look …”

“Mr. Alexander,” Peter said, interrupting. “You’re probably going to ask me to forget it, and I will because I don’t think this is anything you’re involved with, but consider this my notice. I can’t be involved with this anymore. First, Marylynn Jernigan last year, then Robert Jernigan six months ago, and then the bones of that old slave woman, Grenada something, the servant of the first John Henry Jernigan — all disappeared from their resting place. It’s not right, sir. Somebody needs to be told, the family needs to be told.”

I thought I might be pressing my luck by continuing to stand there because eventually they would be needed back at the gravesite, so I backed quietly down the path twenty feet, then proceeded with a scuff of my shoe and a cough. Two men stepped out from the side of the tomb. One, an older gentleman dressed in a mid-range black suit I assumed was Mr. Alexander, while the second was a young red-headed man who must have been Peter. “May I help you, miss? Are you with the Jernigan party?” Peter asked.

“Oh,” I stopped suddenly and faked a stumble. “You startled me. Yes, I got here late and seem to be lost.”

“Yes, miss, straight up the path, then veer to the right at the fork. The John Harland Jernigan family mausoleum is just past the large azalea bushes on your left.”

I looked ahead, as if getting my bearings, then pointed. “Yes, okay, I see. Thank you.”

Thirty feet up the walkway, I turned to see they were still watching me. I touched the umbrella to my head in salute, then turned back and continued up the path.