Charlaine Harris - Grave Surprise

There are several people who helped me with information for this book, and though I may not have used it correctly, I want to acknowledge their good intentions and their freely given time. First and foremost is my friend Treva Jackson, who has helped me with details in this book and a few others. Her daughter Miller has chimed in, too, from time to time. My fellow writer Robin Burcell was also a great help, not only in giving me some tips on police procedure but in introducing me to FBI Agent George Fong, who is nothing like the agent in this book. My college pal Ed Uthman also provided some funny reminiscences about his college years in Memphis. Julie Wray Herman and Rochelle Krich straightened out some of my mistaken ideas about the Jewish faith in the kindest way possible. I appreciate you all very much.

I didnt like Clyde Nunley the first time I met him face-to-face in the old cemetery. There was nothing wrong with the exterior of the man: he was dressed like a regular person would dress for the mild winter weather of southern Tennessee, especially considering the task at hand. His old blue jeans, work boots, shapeless hat, flannel shirt, and down vest were reasonable attire. But Dr. Nunley had a smug, smooth, air about him that said that hed brought me here to be an object of derision, said hed never believed I was anything but a fraud.

He shook my hand, standing right in front of me. He was having a great time, scanning the faces of my brother and me, as we waited side by side for his directions.

Offered under the aegis of the anthropology department of Bingham College, the course Dr. Clyde Nunley taught was titled An Open Mind: Experiences Outside the Box. I noted the irony.

Last week we had a medium, he said.

For lunch? I asked, and got a scowl for my reward.

I glanced sideways at Tolliver. His eyes narrowed slightly, letting me know he was amused but warning me to play nice.

If it hadnt been for the presence of that asshole of a professor, I would have been brimming with anticipation. I drew in a deep breath as I glanced past Dr. Nunley at the tombstones, worn and weathered. This was my kind of place.

By American standards, the cemetery was an old one. The trees had had nearly two centuries to mature. Some of these hardwoods could have been saplings when the denizens of St. Margarets churchyard had been laid to rest. Now they were tall, with thick branches; in the summer, their shade would be a blessing. Right now, in November, the branches were bare, and the grass was bleached and strewn with dead leaves. The sky was that chill, leaden gray that makes the heart sad.

I would have been as subdued as the rest of the people gathered there if I hadnt had a treat in store. The headstones still upright were uneven, both in lodgment and in color. Below them, the dead waited for me.

It hadnt rained in a week or two, so I was wearing Pumas rather than boots. I would have better contact if I took the Pumas off, but the students and the professor would doubtless interpret that as further evidence of my eccentricity. Also, it was a bit too cold for going around barefoot.

Nunleys students were there to watch my demonstration. That was the point. Of the twenty or so in the group, two were older; one, a woman, was in her forties. I was willing to bet shed arrived in the minivan now sitting frumpily among the other vehicles pulled up to the wire strung between white posts to separate the gravel parking lot from the grass of the churchyard. Her face was open and curious as she evaluated me.

The other nontraditional class member was a man I placed in his early thirties, who was dressed in cords and a heathery sweater. The thirties man was the shining Colorado pickup. Clyde Nunley would be the ancient Toyota. The four other cars, battered and small, would be those of the traditional students who formed the bulk of the little crowd here to watch. Though St. Margarets was actually on the campus grounds, the old church was tucked far back into the reaches of Bingham College, beyond the little stadium, the tennis courts, the soccer fieldso it wasnt surprising that the students who could, had driven, especially in the chilly weather. The kids were in the typical college eighteen-to-twenty-one age bracket, and with an odd jolt I realized that made them only a bit younger than me. They were wearing the usual uniform of blue jeans, sneakers, and padded jacketsmore or less what Tolliver and I were wearing.