Cold River by Carla Neggers

think we had one of our walks after Bowie’s arrest.”
    “What about Hannah?”
    “Ah. She’s another story. Drew was like the rest of us in that he wanted to see her happy. There isn’t anyone in Black Falls who doesn’t wish Hannah well, but she doesn’t know it.”
    “She thinks she’s on her own and we’re all out to judge her.” Sean noticed car headlights far down Ridge Road. That would be Jo and Elijah. “You should go back inside, Reverend. Lock your doors just in case.”
    “Just in case what, Sean?”
    “That it wasn’t a ghost or the wind that knocked over that rock onto Bowie and Hannah.”
    “Hannah’s good to us. So are you.”
    Sean smiled in spite of his uneasiness. “Well, don’t tell anyone and ruin my reputation.”
    McBane shuffled back up the sanded walk. Sean was aware that, by his own design, very few people knew he had bought the former tavern a year ago and made the McBanes life tenants. They paid for utilities and basic upkeep and were entitled to live there rent-free the rest of their days. He’d run and biked past the tavern as a kid and pictured it fixed up, with vegetable gardens and fruit trees and a clothesline, with a tire swing tied to the sugar maple near its old stone wall. Wanderlust hadn’t gripped him yet, and he’d yet to even hear about the people who parachuted into wildland fires out west—or to experience January in Southern California versus January in Vermont.
    When he’d heard the McBanes were struggling to stay in their home—after decades in parsonages—he’d knocked on their door and made them an offer.
    He’d told them he liked the idea of owning a haunted house.
    He headed back across the road and took the shortcut through the cemetery, as he had when he’d heard the falling rock and Hannah’s yell of pain and surprise. He hadn’t seen anyone else, human or animal—just the tarp blowing in the wind, and then Hannah leaping for the wooded hill. Would she have been as sure of herself if it’d been anyone but Bowie’s van, Bowie’s dog barking?
    Sean didn’t turn on the flashlight until he came to the crypt. Jo would have his head if he interfered with a crime scene. He circled the beam of light at the rock and debris, the tarp, the splatters of blood. Bowie’s blood. Hannah hadn’t bled as much.
    The thick wood door to the crypt was shut, its only “lock” a stick shoved into the latch where a padlock should have been. Sean removed the stick and managed a smile at what passed for security. The door creaked as he opened it, shining the flashlight into the dark, windowless space. It was surprisingly high—at least eight feet, presumably to provide space for stacking coffins.
    With a grimace, Sean stepped inside. There was no electricity. He shone the beam of light into the corners of the crypt, just to make sure a raccoon or other animal hadn’t somehow taken up residence there. Heavy metal scaffolding provided spots for coffins, but despite the cold weather, no bodies were yet being held over the winter for spring interment. A wooden shelf kept coffins from having to rest on the concrete floor. The walls were laid stone that had been pointed and in some places sealed with cement. The ceiling was framed in, plastic-backed plywood added as a protective measure against moisture.
    It was one dark, dank and creepy place, but there was nothing there.
    Sean returned to the lane. Maybe Bowie had a point. He was a stonemason. Stonemasons got hurt.
    Jo and Elijah arrived, greeting Sean briefly, and he filled them in on what had happened. When he finished, Jo squatted down in front of the fallen rock and debris. Blood had splattered on chunks of ice.
    “Is Hannah with Bowie now?” Jo asked without looking up.
    “They left separately.” Sean glanced at his brother. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions. Bowie hit his head. He could have called Hannah’s name and not realized it. This all could be nothing.”
    “You know Jo,” Elijah said.