The Restorer. Amanda Stevens

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      I placed him somewhere in his early to mid-thirties, but the shadows under his eyes and the hollow cheekbones aged him by at least a decade, depending on the angle and light. There was something troubling in his eyes. Something that made me think again that here was a man who knew things. Here was a man who had seen many dark things.

      But such morbid speculation seemed out of place in a sun-dappled garden perfumed by my neighbor’s magnolia trees.

      He put out a hand and reluctantly I took it, allowing him to help me to my feet. A thrill raced up my arm, an electric charge that made the world stop for a moment as I caught my breath.

      I pulled my hand away, wondering if he had felt it, too. He was either totally unaffected or as much an expert as I in disguising his feelings.

      Then he turned his head slightly and I noticed a curious throb at his temple, as if maybe, just maybe he wasn’t quite as impassive as he would have me believe.

      I thought that over for a moment. Did his reaction make me feel better or worse? It certainly excited me. My heart was still pounding and I drew in some air to try and slow it.

      Awkwardly, I dusted my hands on my shorts. “What brings you by so early? You didn’t find my briefcase, did you?”

      “No, sorry. I want to talk to you about these.” He held out copies of the images I’d sent to him the night before. I recognized the top photo as the grave where the victim had been buried. “Did you have a look at these?”

      “Yes. I went over that particular photo thoroughly with a magnifier last night. I didn’t see any evidence that the grave had been disturbed.”

      “When did you take these?”

      “Last Friday. I’d have to look at the digital fingerprint to give you an exact time, but considering the location of the grave, it was sometime in the afternoon. I finished with that area around three and was just about to move into the older section when the clouds rolled in and I lost the light. I packed up everything and left before four. Does that help with your timeline?”

      “It’s a start.”

      He glanced down at the picture and I stared down at his hands. They were strong and graceful, those hands. And warm. I could still feel the heat from his previous touch. It made me start to wonder about other things. If I’d reacted so intensely to the mere grasp of his fingers, what would it be like if he kissed me?

      Not that that would ever happen. I couldn’t let it happen. Even if Devlin was accommodating.

      His eyes were very dark as he regarded me. I was happy he couldn’t read my inappropriate thoughts, though I certainly wished I could read his. “You say you didn’t see any sign that the grave had been disturbed, but did you notice anything else? Anything unusual or out of place in this or any of the other images?”

      “Like what?” I bent to pick up the basket of shells and stones. A few spilled out and he stooped to retrieve them. Again, I noticed the flash of silver around his neck, a teasing glimpse of a dark medallion that swung out of his shirt collar when he leaned over.

      He straightened and the medallion slipped back into place. “You’re the expert.”

      “I haven’t had a chance to examine the other images as thoroughly, so I can’t say for certain. The only thing somewhat out of the ordinary about that particular grave is the placement of the headstone. The inscription is facing away from the body.”

      He took another look at the photograph. “How can you tell? It’s not like the graves are in neat rows, and the vegetation is so thick, you can barely see some of the headstones.”

      “Because as I said, I took that picture in the afternoon. I was shooting into the sun. The next image is the face of the headstone and the sun is behind me.”

      “So?”

      “If the inscription was turned inward, toward the grave, the body would be facing west. See?” I took the photograph, careful not to brush his fingers as I demonstrated what I meant. “Almost all the old Southern cemeteries are laid out so that the bodies face east, toward the rising sun. People tend to think the orientation is a Christian tradition, but it actually dates back to the Egyptians.”

      “Is this east-west situation common knowledge or is it something only someone like you would pick up on?”

      “Well, it’s certainly not a secret. You could learn everything I just told you from a simple internet search. But I doubt most people would give much thought to the layout of a graveyard, old or new.” Absently, I plucked one of the stones from the basket and rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you think the killer is someone who has some interest in cemeteries?”

      “I’m not ruling out the possibility. Of all the graves to choose from, why that one? What’s the significance of an outward-facing headstone?”

      I shrugged. “Usually, it’s a matter of preference. Or sometimes the layout of the cemetery will dictate headstone placement, but that’s obviously not the case in Oak Grove. Of course, there’s also the old superstition that an outward-facing or backward headstone was placed on the grave of a witch, but I doubt that’s a consideration, either.” I glanced down at the picture. “The person who was buried in this grave was a fourteen-year-old girl who died of scarlet fever in the late nineteenth century. I found nothing unusual about her death in the county records or in the university archives.”

      “What about the epitaph? Or the designs on the headstone? What do they mean?”

      “The epitaph is fairly standard Victorian verse and the symbols are open to interpretation. You ask five experts, you’ll likely get five different answers. And meanings can change from place to place and from year to year. Given the inscription and the age of the deceased, I’d say the severed willow bow symbolizes the sorrow of a broken family and the entwined morning glory vine represents resurrection. Morning glories were also used as a symbol of youth and beauty.”

      “What about the feather at the bottom of the stone?”

      “It suggests the flight of the soul, although it’s a little more ambiguous than a dove or a winged effigy.”

      He glanced up. “What the devil is a winged effigy?”

      “Just what it sounds like—a winged face, sometimes a skull. You’ll also hear them called soul effigies or death’s heads. These types of symbols are much more prevalent in the old New England cemeteries where the puritan stonecutters favored a more morbid and literal representation—skull and crossbones, bodies in coffins, skeletons…” I trailed off and glanced at him. “Sorry. I get a little carried away.”

      “No, it’s all good stuff. Keep going.” He didn’t sound the least bit impatient at my rambling and I appreciated that.

      “It wasn’t until the turn of the nineteenth century that gravestone art became more ethereal and symbolic and more open to a variety of interpretations, like the ones you see on this headstone.”

      “So what you’re telling me is that the meanings of these symbols are sometimes in the eye of the beholder,” he said thoughtfully.

      “They can be.” I tossed the pebble back into the basket. “Why don’t you come inside СКАЧАТЬ