Death at Gills Rock by Patricia Skalka Page A

fire brought him back to the gravesides. Three men in dress blues had raised their weapons and fired off a three-volley salute. The deafening sound stunned the onlookers and then slowly faded into an unearthly silence that was disturbed only by the faint whisper of wind through the surrounding trees. In the uneasy quiet, a lone soldier raised his trumpet and played Taps. When it seemed there were no more tears to be shed, no more emotion left to be wrung from the mourners, a contingent of bright young navy officers stepped forward and in a mesmerizing, synchronized motion lifted the flags from the coffins and folded them in half lengthwise, and then in half again, and then again and again. A triangle of cloth and memory for each widow, presented “On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation …”
    Mercifully, the service ended. The mourners were released to drift away, the widows left to bid their private farewells. The women were quick about it and soon walked down the hill to where the crowd had gathered. The people were hungry, and it was time to eat. Good plain food cooked by neighbors and served in the church dining room was the reward for sorrow.
    In the dim basement hallway, Ida, Stella, and Olive took up their positions in a shoulder-to-shoulder receiving line, greeting friends and neighbors as they entered the church hall for lunch.
    Cubiak lingered outside. He was looking for Roger when Gary Dotson, the coast guard station chief, approached.
    â€œThis certainly changes our plans,” Dotson said.
    â€œYou heard about what happened at Huntsman’s place?”
    The chief nodded. “You wouldn’t mind coming by tomorrow to go over things again?”
    â€œCourse not.”
    â€œGood.” Dotson frowned.
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œNothing.”
    Cubiak was sure there was something more bothering Dotson. He started to ask again when a woman in a threadbare brown-plaid coat hurried toward them clutching a casserole dish. She averted her face as she passed the men but the sheriff remembered seeing her in church. She’d sat directly behind the pallbearers, amid the closest friends and neighbors.
    Seconds later, there was a crash in the church basement, followed by a scream.
    Cubiak hurtled through the open doorway and down the stairs. In the cramped foyer, he collided with the woman in brown, who stood facing the three widows. The trio’s black dresses dripped with red wormy strands and bloodlike splotches. Pieces of crockery lay in a pool of red at their feet.
    Cubiak grabbed the woman in brown by the shoulders and spun her around. Her hands were smeared red as well. An ugly yellow bruise spread above her right eye.
    â€œWho are you?” he said.
    She blinked and said nothing.
    Several men rushed from the dining hall but Rowe and Bathard elbowed past them into the entryway.
    â€œKeep everyone inside. And close the doors,” the sheriff told the deputy.
    While the doctor tended to the three stunned women, Cubiak propelled the assailant up the stairs into the church. The aroma of incense lingered in the air. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows and lit the funeral flowers on the altar, creating an air of softness and peace.
    â€œWho are you?” he said again.
    â€œGod’s servant.” The woman’s voice was hard and defiant.
    â€œWhat’s this all about?”
    â€œJustice. I killed the son-of-a-bitch.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Who did you kill?”
    â€œMy husband. The man who ruined my life.” The woman held her hands out as if expecting him to cuff her. “He got what he deserved. They all did.”
    â€œWho?” Cubiak said.
    The woman spat on the floor. “All of them—four of a kind.”
    W hile Cubiak questioned the woman, Rowe ducked into the nave. He motioned the sheriff aside. The red liquid was beet juice. The wormy threads, sliced beets. Ida, Stella, and Olive were