The House by the Cemetery, page 1
Also by Lisa Childs
The Bane Island Novels
THE RUNAWAY
THE HUNTED
THE MISSING
THE BURIED
The House by the Cemetery
LISA CHILDS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
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Copyright © 2024 by Lisa Childs
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-4900-0 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4899-7
This book is for the real-life “grave digger” I knew when
I was teenager.
He passed away long ago, but he had an impact
on my life and my imagination.
Chapter 1
He was dying. Despite everything Gregory Gold had done to put it off, to look younger and feel younger, to try to defy death, it was coming for him. And he was powerless to stop it. He couldn’t move. He was literally frozen like one of the memorial statues in the cemetery outside his bedroom window. He would have suspected he was having a stroke, but there had been no warning. No headache. No blurred vision.
He could clearly see his own image reflecting back at him from the mirror above his vanity. He sat stiffly in front of it next to the open window where the evening breeze teased the curtains. His face was pale but nearly unlined despite his age, and his hair was thick and dark. But he was drooling now, like the old man he’d fought so hard to never become. He tried to close his eyes, to shut out that image, but he couldn’t even blink.
He’d been sitting in his private dressing room, studying his reflection for any sign of his age when the paralysis had hit. His arms locked, and he was unable to lift his hands. His feet were stuck to the ground, too heavy for his legs to pry from the carpet. And while his mouth had dropped open slightly, it wasn’t lower on one side or the other. He hadn’t had a stroke. He just couldn’t move. He could barely even draw a breath anymore, his lungs as numb as his body.
But his mind continued to move as nimbly as it always had, and he quickly drew the only possible conclusion. He’d been poisoned. He knew it. And he knew that it had to be one of them: one of the people who were supposed to love him or at least respect and maybe even fear him. His family . . . or employees. . . but so many of them were one and the same and had complete access to him.
One of them had to have slipped the poison into something he ate or drank. But he was always so careful, avoiding alcohol, eating only organic foods . . . doing everything he could to stay healthy. To stay vital. To stay relevant.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that the man who’d made his fortune off death was afraid of dying. He worked out, ate well, took vitamins, and as he’d aged despite his efforts, he’d even sought medical intervention. Surgery. Botox. Hair plugs. He’d also removed the people from his life who aged him, like his first wife and his second and now . . .
He’d taken every action so that the man staring back at him from the mirror looked young and vital. His body fit, his face perfect despite his slightly open mouth and blank expression. The only thing that moved on him was the look in his dark eyes as it turned to one of terror. Because nothing that he’d spent most of his eighty-five years doing mattered at all.
Maybe it had even caused this . . .
Death.
And through that open window, he glimpsed the wavering light of a lantern moving through the cemetery. Then, moments later, the faint scrape of metal against stone rang out. This was the urban legend that teenagers, after they’d trespassed in Gold Memorial Gardens, had spread around town for more than three decades; they claimed to have seen the ghost of the grave digger. Before the business had had the money to invest in specialized equipment like the small backhoe, a man dug, by hand, most of the graves in the cemetery. Even many years after the machinery had been purchased and the business had flourished, the man had insisted on continuing to dig the graves by hand, making them perfect for the caskets that would be lowered into them the next day.
That man, Lyle McGinty, had died more than thirty years ago, but those teenagers swore they saw that lantern light moving through the cemetery at night and that they could hear him digging graves, the blade of his shovel hitting rocks and stones.
So when Gregory saw that light and heard that scraping sound, he knew those kids hadn’t been lying. And he knew what it meant . . .
The grave digger was digging his grave.
* * *
“You need to come home.”
Ever since River Gold ran away sixteen years ago, her mother told her this every time they spoke either over the phone or on the rare occasions when Fiona Gold had pried herself away from Gold Memorial Gardens and Funeral Services. But River couldn’t ignore the statement like she usually did because there was something new in her mother’s voice, as it cracked through the cell speaker with an urgency she’d never heard before. Then the tears came. While her mother had pleaded and cajoled in the past, she had never cried like this before.
“Mom! What’s wrong?” River asked, her own voice cracking a bit to hear her always optimistic mother so upset. “Are you okay?”
“It’s not me,” Fiona said. “I’m fine. But your . . .”
“My what?”
Everyone else River cared about was in the house with her. This house was nothing like the one where River had grown up; this one was bright and full of light with white walls and whitewashed floors and even the vaulted wood ceiling was painted white. But that brightness wasn’t everywhere. And that was where the other people she loved were. Her daughter was in her room, with its black walls, probably brooding over something, and her grandmother was in her room, with its burgundy walls, probably brooding over something. Neither of them was anything like River’s mother, who was always upbeat and happy even when she shouldn’t be.
Until now . . .
“Mom,” River prompted Fiona, “tell me what’s going on.” And stop crying. The sobs were making River’s eyes tear up and had a heaviness weighing on her heart. “Please . . .”
“Your father.” Fiona finally got out the words like she was gasping them between sobs. “He’s dead, my darling. I’m so sorry . . .”
“My father . . .” River whispered. She had never been certain who her father was, but she knew the man her mother claimed was her father. Gregory Gold I. She’d just never felt any particular emotional connection with him even though, for the first seventeen years of her life, she and her mother had lived with him in his house by the cemetery. But once River ran away she’d vowed to never go back to that creepy place.
Gold Memorial Gardens and Funeral Services, specifically its first location in Gold Creek, Michigan, a wealthy enclave of vast estates just minutes from the Lake Michigan shoreline, was where River had grown up. But there was no view of the crystal-blue lake or the sandy shore and dunes at that huge mausoleum of a “home.” The brick and stone building had parlors, showing rooms, and offices on the main level, its living quarters on the second and third floors, and, in the basement, the embalming rooms and crematorium. And the only view, if the heavy drapes were pulled open over the many windows, was of the memorial “gardens” that surrounded it. While there were flowers and trees, there were also all those headstones and monuments and statues, mausoleums and fountains. The cemetery wasn’t a garden any more than the funeral parlor was a home. It was a house of death.
But the one person River had never expected to die was Gregory Gold I. In the seventeen years she had lived with him, he’d almost seemed to be aging in reverse like he’d made some pact to retain his youth. She suspected he’d traded his soul and his personality in exchange for looking a little younger.
But still . . .
He was gone. While she didn’t necessarily feel a sense of loss, a pang of s adness struck her. River had never been close to the man, but he had given her both her names. His last and even her first. When he’d brought his pregnant bride home to Gold Creek, Fiona had made a comment about how the creek was so wide and deep with rushing currents that it should have been called a river instead. And he’d said that was what they should call their daughter. Or at least that was the story that Fiona told whenever someone had asked about her daughter’s unusual first name.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said.
Fiona Gold had been totally devoted to her much older husband and not for the reason his ex-wives and other family had claimed. She hadn’t cared a bit about his money. He’d offered her something else she’d wanted so much more: security. And not through his money but through the career of her own she’d developed with his guidance. Even though Fiona probably didn’t need him anymore, she stayed with him out of devotion and gratitude as well.
“I don’t know when the funeral is going to be . . .” Fiona muttered, and she sounded flustered and confused. “I don’t know what’s going on . . .”
“You’re his wife,” River said. “You’re the one who should be planning his funeral.”
But she could imagine the others taking over, pushing Fiona aside now that Gregory Gold I wasn’t there to protect her. But River would; she had to, her mother wasn’t strong enough to deal with the Golds even when she wasn’t grieving.
“I’ll get on the next plane to Michigan,” she promised. “I’ll be there for you as soon as I can get there.”
“You should be here for him,” Fiona said, her voice cracking with her grief. “He was your father.”
That wasn’t what anyone else had believed, probably not even him, although he’d been too proud to ever admit that anyone could or would try to trick him. River felt a pang of guilt for doubting her mother because she knew all too well how painful it was to have one’s integrity questioned. Which was another reason she’d vowed to never return to Gold Creek, Michigan, where that original location of Gold Memorial Gardens and Funeral Services was located. There were franchises all over, probably one in every state by now. Gregory Gold I had expanded his family’s original one-location business into a vast empire of death, and now, with his death, that empire would be up for grabs.
River suspected that all of them were probably fighting over it already, fighting to keep it away from her mother especially. They wouldn’t want her to inherit anything. River didn’t care about the money herself and she cared even less about the morbid business.
But she cared a lot about her mother. She didn’t want her to get hurt.
Knowing how vicious his family could be meant that going back to Gold Creek and to that horrible house by the cemetery was going to be dangerous. For many reasons . . .
* * *
What had she done?
Fiona clicked off her cell and dropped it onto the bed next to her, atop all the crumpled, damp tissues.
River was really coming home. That was a good thing. Maybe...
No. That was a good thing. The child never should have left, especially not the way and for the reason that she had. Every day she’d been gone, Fiona had missed her, had felt this empty ache inside her. She pressed her hand against her heart, which pounded so hard inside her chest that she could feel it on the outside of the robe she wore over her nightgown.
No. It was good that her daughter was coming home. But Fiona couldn’t help but fear that with River’s return, the truth would come out.
Chapter 2
The house by the cemetery . . .
Everyone had been calling the Golds’ home that for years, probably long before Sheriff Luke Sebastian was even born. But that brick and stone mausoleum was much more than a house. Right now it was possibly a crime scene.
At least that was why Luke was presently driving through the ornate wrought iron gates . . . because he’d been called here in his official capacity as the newly elected sheriff of Gold Creek. Surprisingly, despite all the years he’d been gone, he’d drawn a lot of support from the locals, including the Golds, during the election. But that was probably more because Luke’s father was a popular albeit retired Gold Creek minister than because of anything to do with him personally. Despite that support, Luke was still a little stunned he’d won and even more stunned he’d actually run for the position. Hell, he was stunned he’d even returned to Gold Creek.
But after everything that had happened . . .
Gold Creek had seemed like the safest place to be, and Luke had run for sheriff so that he could keep it that way. But if the dispatcher was right, and someone had been murdered . . .
Then Luke had been wrong. And he’d failed.
Again.
He pulled his SUV into one of the open parking spots in the large lot at the side of the house. On the other side of the house stretched the “gardens” with all the memorial statues and headstones. When he pushed open the driver’s door and stepped out, he could hear the gurgle of water from one of the fountains. Like a golf course, the grass was lush and green, shaded by the trees that towered over the lawn. While some of the trees were as green as the grass, with moss hanging from the limbs, other trees had leaves that had begun to turn into colors nearly as vibrant as some of the yellow, orange, and red flowers planted in beds and around the headstones.
As beautiful as the place was, revulsion gripped Luke, but that wasn’t just because of the cemetery. Death wasn’t the only loss this place represented for him.
He lifted one hand, which shook a little, to his head to shove his overly long brown hair back. He needed to get it cut. But there was never enough time. Being sheriff wasn’t the easy job he’d figured it would be. And coming out here was just one more complication in his already complicated life. He drew in a steadying breath and headed toward the long portico that led to the double front doors at the entry to the “house.” Those doors opened onto a large lobby where Dr. Jeffries waited for him.
“Thank God, you’re here, Sheriff,” the doctor said. The man was in his mid-sixties with white hair and finely lined skin; he probably could have retired years ago but kept working. Maybe he loved what he did; he was obviously devoted to his patients because he was one of the few doctors who still made house calls.
But this was Gold Creek, and a lot of people here had the kind of money and influence that entitled them to special treatment. Or so they thought.
While some of them were insufferable, nobody else acted as entitled as the Gold family. That was probably because the damn town had been named after them, which was one reason why Luke hadn’t intended to ever move back after he’d left for boot camp.
But circumstances had changed.
“So you actually think there’s been a murder here?” Luke asked for clarification. The dispatcher had been breathless with excitement when she’d called him, so breathless that she’d been a little hard to understand.
Dr. Jeffries grabbed his arm and tugged him back outside. In a whisper, he said, “Gregory told me if anything happened to him that it would probably be murder.”
Luke hadn’t had to be back long for the gossips to confirm to him that Gregory Gold I hadn’t changed; the old man still believed he could live forever. Apparently, he’d been proven wrong. But that didn’t mean that he hadn’t died of natural causes.
“You want there to be an autopsy?” Luke asked.
The older man nodded. “Gregory insisted that I make sure one was performed on him.”
Luke nodded. “Well then, we’ll make sure that there is one. Unless . . .” There was a crematorium on-site, in the basement. “They haven’t already disposed of his body, have they?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. They waited for me to sign the death certificate.”
“And then what did they do?”
“I haven’t signed it yet,” he replied. “And I won’t until I know what he died from.”
