Wicked Deeds

The body of Franklin Verne remained, giving Vickie a moment’s pause.

She had known him in life. She had seen him when he had smiled, gestured, moved and laughed.

And now, of course, the man she had known—if only casually—was gone. What remained, she felt, was a shell.

She glanced at Griffin. They both felt it.

Yes, Franklin Verne was definitely gone. Nothing of his soul lingered.

At least, not here.

The dead man was seated in a chair near a desk; it was a period piece, Victorian era, she thought. Fitting for the place, but it had a modern computer with a nice monitor, along with a printer/scanner, and baskets most probably from Office Depot that held papers and mail and more.

The desk, however, was next to an old potbellied stove. In winter, it might have warmed up the place a bit, for those condemned to keep the wine company on a cold night.

Franklin Verne had died slumped back in the chair. His eyes were eerily open. A man in scrubs and a mask worked over him—the ME, Vickie assumed.

“Detective Morris?” Griffin asked, stepping forward to introduce himself. Vickie knew that Griffin would follow every courtesy, thanking the detective first and then speaking with the ME.

The Lurch-like man turned toward him, nodding, studying him and then offering him a hand.

“Special Agent Pryce?” Morris asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for the courtesy. Our supervising director is friends with Mrs. Verne, as I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Yes,” Morris said, looking at Vickie.

“Ms. Victoria Preston,” Griffin said, introducing her. “Vickie is heading down to start at the academy in a few weeks.”

“Excellent,” Morris said, nodding. He lifted his hands. “Sad thing. I’ve been standing here, looking around, hoping that something brilliant might come to me. I can’t say I knew Mr. Verne—he was local, but he and Mrs. Verne were only in residence part of the year these days. He’s a popular personage around here. There are wild tales of him back in the day, but he never stopped giving to the city police, and he was involved in a number of charitable enterprises.”

“I’ve heard he was a very good man,” Griffin said. “Vickie knew him.”

“I didn’t exactly know him,” she corrected. “We met several times at conferences. I write nonfiction books,” she explained.

It was certainly not something that was at all impressive to Detective Morris. “Perhaps this is uncomfortable for you,” he said, “being in here. Since you know the victim. And you are a civilian.”

“Accepted into the academy,” Griffin said.

“I’m fine,” she assured Morris, glad that Griffin had so quickly—and indignantly—come to her defense.

Morris turned to the man working with the corpse. “Dr. Myron Hatfield, Special Agent Pryce, Ms. Preston. Dr. Hatfield is, in my opinion, one of the finest medical examiners to ever grace the Eastern coast,” he said.

Hatfield straightened. He was tall, too, probably about fifty, with steel-gray hair and a good-sized frame; he was built like a linebacker or a fighter. But he had a quick—if slightly grim—smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances. I’d met Mr. Verne, too, at a fund-raiser for a local children’s hospital. He seemed a good man. And...well, the night I met him, he looked great.” He looked as if he was about to say more. He shrugged. “I really won’t know much of anything until I get him into the morgue.”

“Doctor,” Griffin said. “My field supervisor suggested that he died of a mix of alcohol and drugs.”

Hatfield hesitated. “His mouth... Well, a layman could smell the alcohol. The condition of the body suggests a catastrophic shutdown of organs. But we need tests. I need to complete an autopsy. I hope that my words haven’t gone any further.”

“No, sir,” Griffin assured him. He turned back to Morris. “No one saw him come down here—they’ve spoken to all the employees?” he asked.

“It was a late night. The manager didn’t close up until almost three in the morning,” Morris said. “The place was, according to him, completely empty. We’re still trying to contact all the night staff, but the last thing the manager does is check the basement—the wine cellar here—and see that the shelves are locked for the night.” He pointed. “Master switch there. You can see that most of the shelves have cages. Some of these wines are worth thousands of dollars.”

“And there’s no other way in than by the stairs? What about cameras?” Griffin asked.

“None down here, but there are cameras at the front door and the back door, which is really more of a side door, by the gift shop.”

“We were here last night,” Vickie said.

“Oh?” Morris asked, a brow politely raised a half notch.

“Yes, but we were early birds, comparatively. We were gone by eleven,” Griffin said. “Ironic—our waiter was wishing that Franklin Verne would pay a visit and endorse the restaurant.”

“He’s endorsed it now, all right,” Hatfield said.

“So tragically!” Vickie said.

Morris grunted. “Yes, but people are ghouls. The place will be booked for years to come now—it’s where Franklin Verne mysteriously died!”

None of them could argue that. “Detective, may I walk around?” Griffin asked.

Detective Morris nodded. “I’ve been here almost two hours. Can’t figure it myself, but I don’t believe he vaporized or said, ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’ There’s something here. I’m mulling. You knock yourself out.”

“We’re about to take the body,” Hatfield said quietly.

“Thank you,” Griffin said. Vickie kept her distance. She was startled when she heard Griffin ask Hatfield, “I heard he was holding a raven?”

“The kind they sell in the gift shop, right upstairs,” Hatfield said.

“Bagged it as evidence,” Morris said. He pointed to the desk, where the raven lay in a clear plastic evidence bag.

“Thanks,” Griffin said. He lifted the bag. He and Vickie both studied it.

Vickie had noted other ravens just like it at the gift shop the night before; they were cheap plastic, cost no more than a cup of coffee—perfect little souvenirs that brought back a memory and made you smile.

“There were three dead blackbirds by the body?” Griffin asked.

Morris lowered his head in acknowledgment. “They’re in the evidence bags at the end of the desk. Take a look—knock yourself out. I guess what’s going to matter is how they died, and that falls in Dr. Hatfield’s territory.”

“Actually, it’s a necropsy—but we have a fellow on staff who deals with all animals that aren’t of the human variety,” Hatfield said. “And we’ll keep you apprised every step of the way.”

“Thanks,” Griffin said. “They are blackbirds, right? Not young crows or ravens?”

“Blackbirds,” Hatfield agreed. “The size alone gives us that.”

Vickie held where she was, watching Griffin’s broad back as he headed down the rows of carefully shelved wine.

After all, he was an agent; she wasn’t sure what procedure would be. It was best in this situation to let Griffin move forward without her.

And...

For a moment, she felt dizzy, remembering her dream.

Poe—Edgar Allan! She had met him at a tavern that wouldn’t have been far from here...the tavern he’d been found near, delirious and wearing clothing that wasn’t his.

He’d been missing three days. Some said he’d been kidnapped for his vote—and thus the different clothing that he wore. Some said that it had been the drink, that he’d met up with friends and the alcohol had quickly cost him his life.

Some said it had been a murder plot, perpetuated by relatives of the widow he’d planned to marry when his business was accomplished...

But the author and poet had not died in a wine cellar. Rather, one of his immortal characters had done so!

“Miss?”

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

Men from the medical examiner’s office were there to take the body. She quickly moved out of the way.

Griffin came back from walking up and down the racks of wine.

“I’ll know soon enough what I suspect, even if it takes a bit longer to be official,” said Dr. Hatfield. “Special Agent Pryce, you’re welcome to come by this afternoon with Carl. I’m afraid that this gentleman will be bringing me in to work all day on a Saturday.”

Griffin shook hands all around and gave Detective Morris a card; Morris returned the courtesy. Then Griffin set an arm on Vickie’s shoulder and they started back up the steps to the restaurant.

They walked outside.

Vickie stopped dead.

There were birds everywhere.

“Ravens!” she gasped.

“Blackbirds,” he said. “I had an uncle who loved birds. Crows, ravens, rooks and blackbirds—all confused for each other, but all different birds. Ravens belong to the crow—or corvids—family, but not all crows are ravens. Blackbirds belong to the thrush family. A raven, however, is about the size of a hawk and a crow is about the size of a pigeon. Those guys...”

He was looking up; he suddenly stopped speaking.

“How bizarre!” he said.

“What?” she asked.

He pointed high where a bird glided over the street, far above the little blackbirds that gathered on buildings and wires.

“That one—that one is a raven,” he said.

Vickie wasn’t at all sure why—the sun was brilliantly shining—but she shivered. She stared at the bird.

It flew over the area, again and again, before lighting on the roof of a nearby building.

Griffin looked at her. “Come on. Let’s go see Mrs. Verne. I’ll report to Jackson. Maybe we can still get in a trip out to Fort McHenry.”

“Actually...”

“What?”

“I think we should visit Poe’s grave,” Vickie said.

“Haven’t you been before?”

“I have.”

“It’s just... It’s a grave,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but fitting today, don’t you think?” She shrugged. “It is one of those things you do in Baltimore, you know.”

* * *

The hardest part of the job wasn’t dealing with the dead.

The dead didn’t weep like the living.

Griffin hadn’t met Monica Verne before, but thanks to his conversation with Jackson, he knew that Adam Harrison was friends with her.

Adam was careful about the friends he chose.

Griffin and Vickie reached Monica Verne’s palatial home on the outskirts of the city right before noon.

An attractive young woman wearing a black dress, functional pumps and a bleak expression opened the door.

“Police?” she demanded. She had an accent. She was most probably from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

“No, ma’am,” Griffin began.

“You are despicable! You are horrible. Poor Mrs. Verne. She’s just learned about this unspeakable tragedy—from you people! And you are hounding her!”

“Ma’am!” Griffin said. “We’re not the police. We’re FBI—and Mrs. Verne requested that we be here. Please, we’re here on behalf of Adam Harrison.”

“Oh, oh, oh! Do come in! This way!”

She led them to the widow. Monica Verne was seated in the enclosed back porch of the home, which sat on a little hillock. Picture windows looked out on beautiful gardens, a pond and a small forest.

Monica was slender, almost ethereal. She was no trophy wife; while very lovely, she’d done nothing to correct the changes of time. She was obviously in her late sixties, and still beautiful. Great bone structure, huge powder blue eyes and a quick smile for them—even through her tears.

“I’m so grateful that you’re here and that you’ve come so quickly! I knew that Adam would help... I knew. The police are going to get this all wrong. It’s such bull! Franklin was, of course, a player when he was young—some drugs, a hell of a lot of drinking, partying. That’s how we met—back when I was modeling he was just becoming known as an author. Struggling! Wasn’t making much of anything at the time. I was actually the far more prestigious person! We met at a party where I was a guest—and he was working for the catering company!” She wasn’t boasting when she spoke; she was laughing. She choked slightly, more tears spilling from her eyes.

Vickie reached out and set her hand over Monica’s. “I’m so sorry.”

Monica looked at Vickie and nodded. Griffin thought that Vickie’s ability to empathize with others and offer them real comfort was going to be one of her greatest assets in joining the Krewe. It was also going to be one of the most difficult parts of the job for her to learn to manage. He lowered his head for a moment; it was an odd time to smile. And, an odd time to think just how lucky he was. Vickie was beautiful to look at—five foot nine, with long raven-black waves of hair and blue-green eyes that could change and shimmer like emeralds.

She was also so caring—honest and filled with integrity.

He truly loved her. Watching her empathy and gentle touch with Monica, he knew all the more reason why.

“My husband didn’t kill himself!” Monica whispered fervently.

“I don’t think it’s been suggested that he killed himself. I believe they’re considering it an accidental death,” Griffin began.

“Accidental death, my ass! If there’s any last thing I can do for Franklin, it’s going to be to make someone prove that this was no accidental death!” Monica lashed out, furious and indignant. She wasn’t angry with Vickie—who was still holding her hand. Her passion was against the very suggestion that her husband’s death had been through a simple slip—some misfortune.

She wagged a finger at Griffin. “You listen to me, and listen well. We were the best, Frankie and me. I swear it. When all else fell to hell and ruin, we still had one another. I had nothing against his friends, all the conferences, all the fun—some I went to, some I didn’t. I trusted him. I was glad of his buddies—his writing friends, men and women. I’m a reader, but I can barely string a decent sentence together. Frankie needed other people who could write and talk about it. But when it all threatened his body, I put my foot down. No drugs whatsoever—not even a toke off someone’s joint. No alcohol. None. And he listened to me. Because he wanted to live, and he loved and respected me. He loved us—he loved living. Adam sent you to me because he knows, damn it! Accidental death! No way. And you will find a way to prove it.”

“Mrs. Verne, what happened yesterday? Was he home—did you not notice that he wasn’t with you until the police came to tell you that...that he’d been found? What went on here yesterday?”

“What do you mean?” Monica asked indignantly. “There is no lie to this. You may ask anyone anywhere who knows the two of us, from friends to associates, to—”

“I’m not suggesting anything was wrong between you,” Griffin said, interrupting her softly. “What we’re trying to do is figure out where he was during the day, how he came to be where he was last night. Where was he when you went to bed?”

“Next to me, lying right next to me!” Monica said.

“What time was that?”

“Early. We’d been at my cousin’s house the day before. Her grandchildren were in town. We were literally exhausted—in bed by eight o’clock!”

“And when you woke up this morning—he wasn’t with you?” Griffin asked.

Monica shook her head. “But there was nothing unusual to that! Franklin loved to head out for walks first thing in the morning. He always told me that the longest and hardest part of writing was all in his head. When he went for his morning walks, he was really working. Of course, he’d say that with a wink, so what was and wasn’t really true...”

“Did he mention anything about going anywhere? Meeting up with someone? Any arrangements he might have made to meet up with a friend later—and he didn’t tell you?”

“He had no reason to lie to me!” Monica said. “No reason. Ever—and he knew it.”

“But he did keep up regular correspondences with friends, right?”

“Of course. The police took the computer from his home office. And—”

She broke off, sighing.

“What is it?” Vickie asked gently.

“They asked for his phone. But I don’t have it. They didn’t find his phone anywhere. And I can’t find his laptop, either.”

Griffin glanced at Vickie. Missing personal devices were suspicious.

Because there might be evidence on them.

“Franklin did not meet up with a friend! He did not break in to that cellar to drink wine! I’m telling you, I knew my husband, he...”

She broke off, gritting her teeth. She was trying not to cry. The woman was truly in anguish; she was also furious.

“I don’t know when he went out. I don’t why he went out—or how he wound up at the restaurant. I do know one thing.”

“What is that, Mrs. Verne?” Vickie asked.

Monica Verne startled them both, slamming a fist on the coffee table. “My husband was murdered!”

The motion seemed to be a cue.

In the yard, a dozen birds took flight, shrieking and cawing...

Griffin could see them as they let out their cries, sweeping into the sky.

A murder of crows...

And an unkindness of ravens...

As poetically cruel as the death of Franklin Verne.

2

“I feel just terrible for Mrs. Verne,” Vickie said. “I mean, it was obviously quite a love match. I don’t think that she’s going to be quiet about this—she’s going to let everyone out there know that she thinks that this was a murder.”

Griffin glanced at Vickie as he drove, taking them back into downtown Baltimore. She was incredibly—and very sweetly—a people person. She felt bad for Monica Verne, and seemed to understand both the woman’s pain and her determination.

“Yes, she will let everyone know exactly what she thinks, including everyone in the media. The problem is that she’s going to demand answers before people may have them. The ME is no one’s fool, and certainly in no way a yes-man. He will not give his report until he has every single test in. So...”

“I guess any ME has to be careful. I mean, a writer isn’t exactly a Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger or Prince, but...”

“Bite your tongue!”

“I’m serious—who recognizes writers? Stephen King, maybe. And okay, James Patterson—he does a lot of his own commercials, too. But—”

“People knew Franklin Verne. He was very popular—he gave to so many charities. He and his wife had no children, just one another—and all their good deeds,” Griffin said.

“But you’re saying it’s going to be a while before the ME will even say if it was a murder or an accidental death?”

“He will test for every poison out there, for every possibility,” Griffin said.

“So, what do you think?” Vickie asked.

“What do I think?” he repeated.

“That was, yes, indeed, the question,” she said.

He glanced over at her again as they drove. Vickie was serious and thoughtful. He gritted his teeth, reminding himself that she’d already been through two heinous cases. She’d never panicked; she behaved rationally.

She was about to go through the academy. It was a smart thing for her to do, the right choice; since they were staying together, she was going to get involved in his cases. He was glad she’d been accepted into the program.

And still...the worrying—the wishing he could keep her from all danger—did not go away.

“I think,” Griffin said, “that we’re way too early in this investigation to have any idea as to what is really going on. For one thing, I’m disturbed by the fact that no one can explain how Franklin Verne got into the restaurant—much less down to the wine cellar.”

“And the way he died... Well, I think they’ll find out that it was drugs or alcohol poisoning. So similar to Poe—though there are many theories on exactly what happened with Edgar Allan Poe, too,” Vickie said. “Some people believe he was just taken by pollsters—it was an election time, and in the 1800s, voter fraud certainly existed. One theory is that Poe was kidnapped by ruffians so that he could vote and then vote again—and that could be why he was dressed in clothing he hadn’t owned.”

“That sounds like a possibility,” Griffin said.

“Ah! But some people believe it was a murder plot by the brothers of the woman—Sarah Elmira Royster Shelton—whom he was about to marry. History is still undecided about whether they were or weren’t officially engaged when he died. She denied it sometimes, and sometimes said that it was true. I guess it was an understanding. She had been his first love, and his last, certainly. But she would lose the inheritance from her first husband if she married again.”

“Motive!” Griffin said.

“Yes. A thickened plot,” Vickie agreed. “Then again, some think he just got into a bar brawl, changed clothing for some more whiskey money—and died in his delirium because he was an alcoholic and, therefore, finally drank himself to death.”

“And that sounds possible, too.”

Vickie looked unhappy again. “Poor Monica. People will assume that Franklin Verne fell off the wagon, got started on a binge and managed to sneak down to the restaurant’s wine cellar.”

“Maybe we’ll get a lucky break. There are cameras at the front door.”

“They won’t see Franklin Verne on those cameras. I’m assuming the cops are checking them now, right?”

“Yep.”

“They won’t find him.”

“You’re so sure.”

“I am absolutely certain,” Vickie said. She hesitated, drawing in a breath and holding it. “I believe that he was murdered.”

There was something about her voice that made Griffin look over at her quickly. She was definitely deeply disturbed by something that went beyond their current speculation.

“What is it?” he asked her softly.

She glanced back over at him, thoughtful, yet appeared hesitant.

They’d originally met under horrible circumstances; Vickie had been just seventeen, he in his early twenties, and she’d been attacked by a serial killer.

They’d met again when a new serial killer was terrorizing Boston, and since then, they’d worked together to rescue a friend and save the lives of many people, including—in the end—Vickie’s own life.

They knew each other deeply; knew they saw and felt what most others did not.

And, still, sometimes Vickie seemed timid, as though afraid that when she spoke aloud what she had to say would sound ridiculous.

“Vickie!” he persisted. “It’s me!”

“Okay!” she said, and smiled. She took a breath. “Remember this morning? You asked me if I was having a nightmare.”

“Yes.” Griffin didn’t press.

“I was. Kind of. I was dreaming about Edgar Allan Poe. I was here—in Baltimore. But it was way back in time—on the day that he was found in delirium before he was taken to the hospital for the few days before he died. Poe was talking to me. He warned me not to assume that it was like what had happened to him.”

“This was before I heard from Jackson?” he asked her.

She nodded gravely. “Yes, Griffin. Before. I mean, I thought I was dreaming about Poe because we were in Baltimore, because we had enjoyed that great dinner and the Black Bird and our waiter had kind of inundated us with Poe. But...”

Griffin sat quietly.

The “gift” or “curse” that united Krewe members—that had sent Adam Harrison on his quest for his special teams—manifested in different ways. For most of them, it was simply seeing and speaking with the dead.

But because of what Griffin had seen and encountered over the years, there was little that he denied as possible.

Oh, he doubted most people! He was a horrible skeptic. He’d learned to be, since the world was far more filled with fake seers, psychics, mystics and mediums than most people would ever imagine.

But there were also those who truly had a sixth sense—and it did, sometimes, manifest itself in the world of dreams and nightmares. This wasn’t the first time Vickie had communicated with the dead in visions while sleeping.

“So, under these circumstances, your nightmare meant something. We’ll assume that you had the dream for a reason—and that it wasn’t an Edgar Allan Poe overdose at the restaurant. Did you see in this nightmare that the cameras at the front would get nothing?”

Vickie shook her head. “No, I just saw Poe himself in the nightmare. Maybe Poe was witnessing it, or... I don’t know. But I believe that Franklin Verne was murdered, and that his murderer is too smart to be caught on film. There’s also a delivery entrance. There’s a driveway that goes down to the basement at the back, remember? Receiving for the kitchen is next to the wine cellar, right through one of the little doors.”

“Yes,” Griffin told her. “I walked the whole thing. So, tell me—how did he get in through the receiving door?”

“With a friend. Or a so-called friend.”

“A friend? So you’re thinking accidental—or depraved indifference?”

“No,” Vickie said again, emphatic. “I think that Franklin trusted this person—and shouldn’t have. I don’t think that he set out to drink. I believe he loved his wife as passionately as she loved him. She had no problem with him being a wild Hemingwayesque writer—she didn’t care until his excesses started to kill him. Only then did she put her foot down. And I believe he knew that everything she did was because she loved him.”

“Wow. You did just meet her, right?” he asked, smiling—but with a sardonic tone.

“Oh, ye of little faith!” she said. “I am good at reading people.”

He laughed. “I have faith. I buy what you’re saying, too. I never heard anything other than that those two—Franklin and Monica—had a beautiful marriage.”

Griffin shifted his attention for a moment to navigating the one-way streets throughout downtown around the University of Maryland campus.

“And, we can’t forget the Poe mania around here—and Poe’s stories!” Vickie said. “There’s ‘The Cask of Amontillado’!”

“Ah-ha!” he said. “The cask of Amontillado. Wine? A cask of wine. Saw lots of bottles down in the cellar, but no casks. Something I didn’t notice?”

Vickie nodded gravely. “I’m not talking about wine—it was a short story by Poe, circa 1846. The narrator of the story is a man named Montresor. He’s very angry with and jealous of an acquaintance, Fortunato. Fortunato has insulted him gravely, you see. The story is haunting and gothic and creepy—Montresor is dressed for the carnival season in black, and Fortunato is in all the colors of the jester. Anyway, to make a long story short—”

“Too late,” Griffin assured her, which earned him a glower.

“Montresor tricks Fortunato with wine, promising him a most unique sherry—and saying that if he’s too busy, he can get one of Fortunato’s competitors to come try it. Fortunato is too vain to allow someone else to try the wine. Montresor never explains what the insult was that he’s so angry about—he’s just on a vendetta and he explains how he’s become judge and jury. In the end, he walls poor Fortunato up in a crypt—and we learn he remains there, undisturbed, for fifty years. Pretty harsh.”

“He gets away with it?” Griffin asked.

“You never read the story?”

“Um—no.”

“What? How did you manage to neglect Poe growing up? You’re from Boston. Okay, so Poe hated Boston, but he was actually born there.”

“Hey! I know some of Poe’s work,” Griffin protested. “Everyone knows ‘The Raven.’ I absolutely loved Vincent Price. And Peter Lorre and—”

“You’re talking movies, not the written word!”

Griffin laughed. “Yeah, well? Without Poe, we wouldn’t have had the movies. A few years back—I don’t know how many—there was a movie with John Cusack playing Poe. In that version he died to keep his love from being murdered.”

“That’s not how he died! That was a movie.”

“Ah-ha! But you see, no one knows how he did die—that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the movie had him engaged to a pretty young thing. In reality, he was about to be married—as I was telling you—to Sarah Elmira Royster Shelton, she with the brothers who might have been murderers, and with whom he’d been in love when he went to college. Her father hadn’t approved and he’d destroyed all of Poe’s letters to her, and so young love had been thwarted. Anyway, years later, her husband was dead and Poe’s wife, Virginia Clemm, was dead, and Poe and the woman he’d loved in his youth met up again. Poor man, he was just forty when he died. But Sarah Elmira was no sweet young innocent—she was about his age, a mother, all grown up.”

“Killjoy,” Griffin told her, and Vickie laughed softly.

“I don’t mean to be. I love a John Cusack movie, too. I think I would have found a different way to explore what had really happened. I mean, he was found delirious in clothing that wasn’t his! How did that happen? He’d joined the temperance society before he left Richmond, but of course, no matter how you look at it, the man was an alcoholic—though it seemed that he was a binge drinker rather than a habitual drunk. I can’t help but think sometimes that he might have had a much better life if he’d lived in our day and age. So much information disappeared right along with him regarding the days he was missing! His death was as much a mystery then as it is today.”

“‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...’”

Very determined, Griffin went ahead to repeat a good section of the famous poem. What he couldn’t remember, he thought he faked with a tremendous amount of panache. Vickie was grinning as he gave her his dramatic interpretation, so he was pretty sure that she knew when he was doing his ad-libbing.

“Well, you know the title, you know it’s a poem and you know it’s by Edgar Allan Poe,” she said, amused. “I’m totally impressed.”

“Wait and see how I wow people!” he told her.

He pulled into public parking near Westminster Hall and Burying Ground. “Poe’s grave, at your command, my love.”

She looked at him and smiled. “So you’re going to wow the dead people with your Poe-etic license?” she asked him.

“Sometimes,” he reminded her, “dead people are far more important than the living.”

“Sometimes,” she repeated.

The old Presbyterian church itself—long since deconsecrated and now known as Westminster Hall—offered tours on certain days of the week with reservations, and special tours when prearranged. The catacombs and the inside of the structure were only available through those special times and reservations. But the burial ground surrounding the old church was open to the public, and historical markers identified many of the notable dead.