Page 182 of Heartless Legacy

I’m standing in front of the space where plot number sixty-two is on the map. There’s nothing here. No gravestone, no marker. I retrace my steps down the row to make sure I didn’t miss it, and check the next few rows just in case the map is wrong. Ten minutes later, I’m back in the same empty spot.

There are headstones on either side of the empty space. The one on the right is well cared for. The one on the left looks like no one’s been here to pay their respect in years. The headstone is soold; the stone is crumbling. The weeds woven through the cracks are probably the only thing holding it together.

At the base of the headstone is a small trench of what looks like sand, and smooth, finished rocks. There are traces of seashells and coral inside the sand, as if at one time someone put beach items as a memorial to the person buried here. The headstone belongs to Gillespie Croft, who died on March 8, 1985.

I’m unable to find a copy of the death certificate for Gillespie Croft online, so I make my way to the office to speak with the clerk, hoping to get a name and number for his next of kin. “Hello.” She asks, giving me a customer service smile. “How can I help you?”

I can’t tell her I’m on a scavenger hunt for a secret society, so I lie. “I’m looking for a community service project to add to my law school resume. I was thinking about a beautification project for some of the older headstones. One in particular has caught my eye, and I was wondering if you had the contact information for the family so I can get permission to replace it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

I channel Finn, who would be much better for this. “I understand it might be an unusual request. Maybe you could call them for me? That way, you’re not giving out their private information? I really would like to give some dignity back to Mr. Croft. His headstone is in a serious state of disrepair. I will be funding the entire project, of course.”

“Croft, did you say?”

“That’s right. Gillespie Croft.”

“Oh, my. Um…. Sure. I’ll reach out to the point of contact. One second.”

She grabs the cordless phone and walks to the end of the counter, speaking in hushed tones to the person on the other endof the line. When she returns, she hands me a number on a sticky note. “She’s waiting for your call.”

There’s a reason I couldn’t find a death certificate for Gillespie Croft. I spoke to the woman listed as a contact number for him, and she explained the person buried in the plot is a woman nameGiselleCroft.

Giselle died alone, so her neighbors and coworkers got together to raise money for her burial. There was a mixup at the funeral home and cemetery. Someone misspelled her name on the paperwork, and that’s how Gillespie wound up on the headstone. The group didn’t have money to pay for the correction. The woman had a lot to say about the lovely Giselle. I forced myself to listen to her, and eventually got around to asking about plot number sixty-two.

The empty burial plot was owned by a man whose remains were the subject of a custody battle between his children, ex-wife and new younger wife. In the end, the kids claimed his remains and moved the body somewhere else. She also mentioned something about the man’s half sister who died ten years ago, and a missing safe deposit box, which everyone assumed had a will or a family heirloom in it.

A quick search of the family brings up a slew of articles, as well as the obituary of the sister, an avid theater patron, who traveled the country watching local theaters put on productions of her favorite shows, Grease, Chicago, and Hairspray.

I call Finn on my way to the airport. He sounds out of breath when he answers the phone. “Bad time?”

“Nah, just following our girl. She’s out for a jog today and thinks she’s fast enough to ditch me. So what’s up?”

“I’m on my way back, but I’ve got a thread for you to run down, if you can manage to drag yourself away from Thea long enough.”

“I might be able to get away. Go, on.”

Finn

“Check over there!” The guy with the red mask orders. I’m not over there. I’m above them, lying flat against the top of the storage container. Holden and I were being truthful when we told Thea we thought the team building event was an absolute disaster, because we didn’t find whatever challenge items we were supposed to.

Her comment about the hidden thing not beinginthe theater spun our search in a whole new direction. Holden’s always seeing patterns when it comes to numbers, and the string of numbers in the clue from Thea and Pax’s group prompted him to look into Colorado cemeteries. After finding another clue, he looked into plays the theater put on from the late 1990s to mid2000s, while I went to the newspaper storage place and dug through the lifestyle and entertainment pages.

After hours of digging, I found an article about a patron from Colorado bequeathing a desk to the theater. That’s when it all clicked. The team building challenges weren’t simply about us collaborating within our assigned teams, but within the league and across various committees.

I went back to the Brinkmeyer Theater for a copy of their prop inventory list, which included a desk. I searched that place twice, and there was no desk there. I found copies of credit cards statements n the theater manager’s office, with a recurring payment for a storage locker.

Which brings me to now, and the predicament I’m in. The storage locker was empty, except for the theater’s replica of a resolute desk with a locked drawer. I picked the lock, but the drawer was empty.

After relaying that information to Holden, he asked for pictures of the desk from all angles. There was a label plate on the underside of the desk, with a key taped to it. I’d just finished snapping my last photo when I heard the footsteps in the hall. I got out of there quickly but was forced to hide when I spotted flashlights over by the exit I planned to use.

My heart hammers in my chest. I stare at the ceiling cursing my bad luck. I can’t remember the last time I was this close to getting caught. It should’ve been an easy in and out. I scoped the building out all week. It’s always empty this time of night, so why is there a group of people pillaging the place?

“He has to be here somewhere. Find him.” The voice says from below.

I wait until the footsteps are further away before rolling onto my belly to get a better look. The group is over by the storage units at the end of the hall, with their backs to me. I slip down from my hiding spot and dart through the nearest door.

I hear a shout before the door closes. I run towards the exit, hop the vehicle gate, and race down the street and around the corner, slipping between the bodies waiting to board the bus. When the door opens, I push my way on, moving to the back, letting the crush of bodies standing in the aisle block me from view. I change buses twice to get to my car.

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