No Gravestone Left Unturned

Prologue

As the flesh melted off her bones, Jane Ladling didn’t allow herself to whimper…more than a dozen times. Like everyone else born and raised in Aurelian Hills, Georgia, she knew how to thrive amid each of the twelve seasons. Yes, twelve. The town had just escaped the Pollenating and Definitely Probably Spring to enter Summer’s First Kiss, a time when cool mornings mutated into sizzling afternoons. Unfortunately, today’s sizzling afternoon came with intermittent, tornado-level gusts of wind. 

After collecting and disposing of a piece of trash, she blew her bangs out of her eyes. Or tried to. Sweat soaked her brow, making dark hanks of hair adhere to her skin. Didn’t help that she wore a thousand pounds of dirt and protective clothing for gardening. Long-sleeved shirt. Overalls. Apron. Gloves. Rubber boots. A backpack of supplies. And a sunhat. 

Every day, Jane worked tirelessly to ensure every plot, stone and blade of grass looked its best. As the sole owner and operator of the landlocked Garden of Memories Cemetery, she carried the full weight of responsibility for its maintenance. A thankless job, considering most of the residents had been dead for decades or centuries, but she relished every second. Well, maybe not every second. 

With only a meager budget supplied by the cemetery’s trust, she had to choose between food and proper equipment. Food won, ensuring weed-whacking Wednesday got completed with a pair of shears, a tiny shovel, and a positive attitude. 

Massaging her aching lower back, she headed to the final area in need of attention. A spot at the farthest edge of the property known as the Valley of Dolls. She frowned when a flash of white caught the afternoon sun. Was that…?

Oh, no, no, no. She stalked across the distance at a faster clip, closing in on a thick-stemmed, three-foot plant. A gasp caught in her throat. It was—and there wasn’t just one stalk but many, some already heavy with spiked yellow pods. Why, the area fairly teemed with the stuff. 

Her heart sank. Thorn apple. Aka a gardener’s worst nightmare, according to her Grandma Lily, God rest her soul. Others sometimes referred to this horror of nature as jimsonweed, the devil’s snare, and moonflower. But whatever the name, it was a triple threat: invasive, poisonous, and as rank as stinky feet. 

Why hadn’t she noticed this infestation yesterday? Or the day before? She’d been fully attentive during her morning rounds. Mostly attentive. Okay, so she’d been a wee bit distracted lately. Not her fault. There was kinda sorta a new man in her life, and he tended to consume her thoughts.  

An image of Special Agent Conrad Ryan flashed through her mind. Tall and broad shouldered, with well-defined strength in every part of his body. Thick black hair. Dreamy amber eyes. The best part, all that masculine goodness came with a big, hard, imposing…badge. But she wasn’t going to think about him right now. Nope. She had some damage control to do. Exactly how long had the creeping vine grown without her notice? 

Nose wrinkling, she withdrew a cell from a pocket of her apron to study this week’s security feed of the area. Wait. None of the cameras reached this far out. Dang it!

Grandma Lily’s voice suddenly filled her head. If ever you see this garbage shrub, you gear up and go to war without delay, young lady. You hear me? Thorn apple is a curse. A plague! A disaster in the making.

Before the dear woman died of cancer a few years back, she’d created a journal filled with notes Jane had photographed and now carried in her phone. She keyed up the one dedicated to thorn apple, written after the eradication of an infestation, and read over the highlighted passages.

Invasive. Highly aggressive. Must be uprooted ASAP or it will overtake the entire 75-acre property. Toxic to animals and people. If seeds are consumed, expect a racing heartbeat, incontinence, hallucinations, and unwarranted hostility. If you survive, that is. 

The “toxic to animals” part cinched the deal. There wasn’t a more dedicated fur-mom than Jane, who had the honor and privilege of raising Rolex, the world’s sweetest cat. The precious darling usually perched at her side while she gardened; thanks to the high velocity of the wind, she’d left him tucked safely inside their cottage. 

So. There was no better time to gather and torch this 4×4 patch of thorn apple, sending it back to its maker down below. 

Already geared up, Jane grabbed a thick, black trash bag from her backpack. Since this was to be her last weed whacking battle of the day—and the most important—she decided to part with her dwindling supply of water. 

She used her canteen to drench the soil, then settled on her knees, wrapped gloved hands around a thick purple stem, and tugged. To her surprise, the roots hadn’t yet gripped; they slid free with great ease. Onto the next. 

While she worked, wind whistling and sun glaring, she wished at least one person had been buried out here, so she’d have someone to converse with. But this far from the actual grounds, two ancient oaks and their root systems prevented it. Well, prevented it for the once-living. 

As a little girl, she’d laid to rest three of her favorite dolls out here. Miss EmmyLou, who’d developed advanced, incurable Cooties. Lady Agnes, who’d caught the dreaded Cattywampus fever. And Prince Snugglebug, who’d “accidentally” fallen out of a tree. Jane had always entertained suspicions about the incident. Pops, Grandma Lily, and Lily’s best friend Fiona Lawrence had attended the funerals, wiping pretend tears from their eyes as Jane led the services. Afterwards, the four of them planted wildflowers atop each mound. The buttercups, verbena and thimbleberry now grew in abandon, the blooms a wonderful reminder of favorite childhood memories.

Another sweltering wind kicked up, snatching the sunhat from Jane’s head. The wide-brimmed beauty tumbled over bushes before her mind gave the command to give chase. Which she did. Though she flailed and leaped, a new gust carried the hat over a wrought-iron fence and out of sight. 

Argh! Earlier, she’d lost her sunglasses. What would be next? Her good sense? Her dignity? Or had she already parted with those?     

Sighing, she returned to the thorn apple. Only two stalks to go. After carefully maneuvering one into the trash bag, she turned to the final abomination. The wind blustered again, and the stem bent, slapping her in the mouth. She gasped as a small pellet-like object shot across her tongue. In reflex, she swallowed.  

Please be a bug. Please, please, please. But what if she’d ingested thorn apple?

Jane leaped to her feet, her mind dispensing rapid-fire reminders. Incontinence. Hallucinations. Hostility. If you survive. Panic set in, deluging her veins with fire and ice. What should she do? What the heck should she do?! Make herself throw up, just in case? Yes, yes. Better safe than sorry. 

Jane tore off her gloves, uncaring about the sweat glistening on her fingers. Deep breath in. “You are a Ladling, a caretaker of the dead, and you can do anything. Even this.” So. Down the hatch. Except, though she tried her best, she expelled nothing, merely gagging a couple of times.

The panic worsened. She keyed up Grandma Lily’s notes to gloss over suggested precautions. Come to terms with your impending death. Drink plenty of water. 

Water. Yes! Jane raced for her canteen—and got nothing, not even a drop. Empty. She whimpered. Best go home to die then. Trembling, eyes welling, she strode… jogged… sprinted home to say goodbye to Rolex. The thought of her beloved pet sparked hope. If she survived this journey, she would guzzle gallons of water straight from the faucet. And maybe she’d call 911 along the way. Or Fiona, who’d become her dearest companion after Grandma Lily passed. Or Beau, a childhood friend who’d moved away in elementary school, only to return a few months ago. Or Conrad, who probably resented her by now. He’d recently attempted to initiate a meaningful conversation about their relationship, but she’d bailed faster than a cat in a room of rocking chairs, as Grandma Lily liked to say. For reasons! Amazing ones. The best. Another whimper escaped.

The ten trillion-mile voyage home zapped her of strength at the halfway point, and she tripped to a halt. Oh no! Her heart galloped with abandon, thumping against her ribs. Wasn’t that a symptom of thorn apple consumption? 

What if she died of cardiac arrest?

Huffing for every breath, Jane decided to do it. To notify 911. Except, she paused before pressing the final number. The second she made this call, word would spread throughout town. Jane Ladling, that weird cemetery girl, is doing drugs with the dead. No thank you. She’d rather die.

She pulled up Fiona’s number instead. Except, once again, she hesitated to dial. The dear woman was a worrier. At sixty-two-years-youngish, the grandmother of two didn’t need the added stress. And what if Jane died in the middle of the conversation, huh? Could she truly leave her beloved Fiona with such an atrocious memory?

Beau might be the better choice. Since returning from his last tour of duty, he’d acted as Jane’s sidekick, helping her with a murder investigation. Long story. Anyway, he tended to exhibit unflappable calm in all situations. A trait gained from his military training. But…

He might need a break from all things death. Which left Conrad, the prime-cut slab of grade A beefcake. He was her boyfriend, but not really her boyfriend, even though technically he was, in fact, her boyfriend, even though he wasn’t truly her boyfriend. Whatever. It made sense in her head. 

Except, Conrad the Concerned would insist on calling an ambulance and giving the emergency vehicle a police escort. As a special agent with Georgia Bureau of Homicide, he could do it. What if she experienced incontinence while they were together? 

I’m going to pee myself, aren’t I? Her heartbeat went nuclear, the organ hammering against her ribs. There was no way—zero, none—she was discussing urinary health with Conrad.

She had to call someone for help, though. But who—a laugh exploded from her, and she blinked. A laugh? Here? Now?