Ghosts of Graveyards Past by Laura Briggs Page B

you?” she asked, waving Jenna through a dark foyer into a living space that was crowded with antique furniture and oil paintings. Mahogany stairs led to the upper story, where faded wallpaper was peeling away from the hall.
    “We’ve never met,” Jenna admitted. “I was hoping to speak with her about some research I’m doing for a manuscript. It concerns forgotten cemeteries—”
    “Pour her some tea, Mollie,” a quivering voice instructed from somewhere close by.
    Glancing in its direction, the nurse had hesitated only a second before she motioned for Jenna to follow her through a set of open double doors. There, on the flower garden’s patio, Josephine Maudell waited expectantly.
    “You are someone from the newspaper,” the older woman surmised, looking Jenna over with vague interest. “They called last week, wanting to send someone about the festival.” Before her was spread a tea service, bone white china with tiny pink roses to decorate the rims.
    “Miss Cade is an author,” the secretary corrected, filling one of the cups to set before Jenna. “She’s researching a book about cemeteries.”
    A raised eyebrow greeted this news. “And wonders that I’m not yet part of one, no doubt.” The woman chuckled, leaning forward. “I may be the oldest native of this town, Miss Cade, but that’s not what makes me special. It’s my habit of saving pieces from the past that sets me apart from any of my neighbors. “
    “Yes, I know,” Jenna said. She took a sip from the steaming brew, finding it bitter. “They told me about you at the historical society. I was hoping you could tell me about the town’s Civil War history.”
    Josephine nodded, a faint jerk of the head. “I used to be chairwoman there. Did they tell you that? Oh, I suppose most have forgotten, but I did quite a bit for them.” Without warning, she changed the subject. “What do you think of my flower garden? It’s as old as most things I have, older than some. The roses were cultivated by my husband’s ancestor back in the 1880s.”
    “It’s a beautiful arrangement,” Jenna told her, recognizing some of the varieties from gardens she toured in Annapolis. Most of the plants were dormant in the fall chill, but the section of asters blossomed in glorious shades of red, pink, purple, and blue. There were toad lilies that resembled orchids and a vine-like clematis snaked around the trellis.
    “Prize-winning peonies,” Josephine continued, stretching a shaky hand towards plants clustered beside the porch railing. “My husband bred them especially. His hobby, once he retired from banking.” She fell silent with this mention of her spouse, fingers stroking the china cup by her hand. Her thoughts were now somewhere else entirely, a blankness haunting her expression.
    Behind them, the nurse gave a tiny cough and a nod in Jenna’s direction, as if giving permission to move things back on track.
    “Mrs. Maudell,” Jenna began as she set aside her cup. “I wanted to ask you about the old cemetery. The one in the woods.”
    Something akin to interest dawned in the green gaze that flicked back in her direction. “The wooded cemetery—I saw it once as a child. Back then, the Sanders owned the property; they were from down East, a little aloof and unfriendly. No one went there anymore.”
    “Well, it’s public property, now,” Jenna told her, “and the county has given me permission to recover its damaged headstones. Over twenty, so far.”
    The woman leaned suddenly forward, clutching at her arm. “Tell me, have you found any Widlows among them?”
    Jenna thought of the marble headstones beside the doctor’s grave, one engraved with the sword and shield motif. “There are two Widlows,” she admitted. “One with a military symbol—”
    “You’ve found him.” Josephine sucked in a ragged breath, a hand pressing against her mouth. Her eyes grew brighter. “You found Arthur,” she said, voice raspy in her throat.
    Jenna’s pen