Chapter 7 - The Empty Grave
Maria Sofia Caruso was buried in St. Catherine Cemetery.
At least that was what everyone believed.
The grave stood beneath an old oak tree on the private Caruso plot.
Dominic had visited it every October for thirty-one years.
He had brought white roses.
He had stood in rain.
Snow.
Heat.
He had spoken to a stone.
By noon, he no longer knew whether anyone was beneath it.
Rosa recognized the coordinates immediately.
“They’re the cemetery.”
Dominic looked at her.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Then why write coordinates instead of the name?”
“Because your mother trusted numbers more than people.”
The next decision belonged to lawyers and cemetery officials.
Dominic made calls.
Permits were requested.
Records were pulled.
The original burial documents contained irregularities.
The casket had been sealed before the family viewing.
Maria’s supposed injuries from the accident had been described as severe.
Franco Caruso had ordered a closed funeral.
The body identification form had been signed by Vittorio.
Not by Dominic’s father.
Not by Rosa.
Not by a physician the family knew.
Vittorio.
By evening, Dominic was standing in the kitchen while I made coffee.
He had not eaten.
Neither had I.
I placed a sandwich in front of him.
He looked at it.
“What is this?”
“Turkey.”
“I know what turkey looks like.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
He looked at me.
I pointed at the plate.
“Eat.”
People probably did not order Dominic Caruso to eat very often.
Apparently that was why it worked.
He took one bite.
I poured coffee.
After a minute, he said,
“You changed the kitchen table.”
I froze.
“I rotated it.”
“Why?”
“Morning light.”
He looked toward the window.
“You put the lemon tree in the foyer.”
“It was dying in the breakfast room.”
“You moved three chairs from the east sitting room.”
“Nobody sat in them.”
“They’re eighteenth century.”
“They still have legs.”
He stared at me.
Then something unbelievable happened.
Dominic laughed.
Not loudly.
Not for long.
But genuinely.
The sound transformed his face.
For one second I understood why Rosa still looked at him like the ten-year-old boy in Maria’s photograph.
Then Marco entered.
The laughter vanished.
He carried a folder.
“The cemetery records came back.”
Dominic stood.
Marco set down the folder.
“There was no autopsy.”
“Why?”
“Your father waived it.”
Dominic’s expression darkened.
Marco continued.
“But that’s not the worst part.”
He opened another page.
“The funeral home employee who handled Maria’s casket disappeared two weeks after the burial.”
Rosa entered behind him.
Her face tightened.
“Name?”
“Samuel Pritchard.”
She gripped the back of a chair.
“You know him?” Dominic asked.
“No.”
Then she corrected herself.
“I know the surname.”
Everyone looked at her.
Rosa whispered,
“Your mother’s closest friend before she married your father was Evelyn Pritchard.”
The woman in the photograph from the chapel had been standing beside Maria.
Marco placed the photograph next to an old employee image.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Samuel Pritchard had been Evelyn’s younger brother.
Dominic stared at the picture.
His voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“My mother had help.”
Marco nodded.
“And if they switched the body before the funeral…”
May you like
Dominic finished the sentence.
“She may not have died in that car.”
