Choosing the life of a private investigator in a small town means you accept that dry spells will plague you. I have been reminding myself of that for the past few months as my phone remains silent and the only envelopes in my mailbox contain bills. I dipped into my savings and won’t even be able to do that if work doesn’t fall into my lap soon.
As I contemplate this, the phone begins to ring. I stare at it in confusion. At first, I fear I want it to ring so much that I am imagining the sound. As it persists, I reach out to pick it up.
“Hello?” A hopeful little voice greets me as I put the earpiece to my ear.
“Eunice Lang, private investigator,” I finally cough out.
“I have a case for you.”
“How old are you?” Something about the trembling voice convinces me the caller is a child and thus probably a prank call.
“I’m ten. That’s why I need your help. No one listens to a kid.”
“I’m not sure I can help. You do know I charge for my services?”
“I know that.” His offense to my inquiry seeps into his voice, making him sound older, sixteen at least. “I can afford fifty dollars worth of your time. And my friends can afford another fifty dollars.”
That raises my interest. “Tell me about the case. We’ll see if I think I can solve it for under a hundred dollars.”
“My two best friends and I lost our grandfathers this past year. So we made special wreaths to place on their graves for Memorial Day. The big parade is in two days, so we laid them on the graves yesterday. Lewis lives near the cemetery, so he checked on them this morning and they were all missing.”
I nodded understanding then remembered we couldn’t see each other. “So you want me to find a couple wreaths? I am not sure that is worth your hundred dollars, kid. You could buy some real beauts for less than that.”
“Not just our wreaths. All the wreaths.”
Our small town prides itself on the service of our young men in protecting the freedoms of our country. The main cemetery always looks like a floral flag factory on Memorial Day. We wouldn’t have it any other way. I place my hand over my heart, reflexively saying a prayer for all those men and women whose sacrifices we honor.
“I’ll take the case kid. I will need fifty up front in case I have expenses. Want to meet at the cemetery and tell me everything you know?”
“Yes, ma’am. Lewis and George will be there, too.”
Since this is a busy weekend at that location, I ask one more question. “How will I recognize you?”
“We’ll be standing at attention, ma’am, right outside the gate like they do at Buckingham Palace.”
I bite back to urge to ask if they will be wearing the tall hats. “See you soon, kid.”
As I hang up, I realize I didn’t ask his name. This could still be a prank, though an ill-advised one. You can tell as many “your mama” jokes as you want, but you never defame the memory of our veterans.
~~
I breath a sigh of relief as I pull up to the cemetery. Three young boys await me with their right hands at their temple in a prolonged salute. Nothing moves except their eyes as I approach.
“Lewis, George, and…” I trail off as I realize I never asked the caller’s name.
“Keith,” the boy in the middle grins, revealing a gap between his two front teeth.
He and his companions drop their salutes as I say their names and look at me expectantly.
I return his smile. “Care to show me around?”
Keith throws back his shoulders proudly and leads me into the cemetery. We don’t get very far in before I realize the boys underestimated the scope of the crime. The week before Memorial Day every grave in the National Cemetery seems to magically sprout flags and flowers. The green grass hides beneath an uplifting layer of red, white, and blue pride. Today, only green grass stretches out among the headstones.
As I stand contemplating what on earth this can mean, I notice a voice calling out for the first time. My head whips up as I turn to face the sound.
“Who is that?”
“I dunno.” George and Lewis shrug together. “We were the first ones here."
As their leader, Keith tries to be more helpful. “I saw some men selling flowers and flags to place on graves.”
“Really? Where?”
As Keith rushes back out the front gates of the cemetery, I follow. Through the course of my whole life, I have never seen anyone hawking goods outside the cemetery gate. It would be foolish to steal items from the graves only to sell them back, but I have seen more ill-conceived plans in my time as a private detective than my optimism permits me to admit.
“Would you like to buy a flag and some flowers to honor one of our beloved veterans, boys?” An old man asks the boys as we step over to the back of his old pick-up truck.
“No, thank you, sir.” Lewis replies politely as their young eyes look to me.
The old man surveys me hopefully as I take in his set-up. He wears a worn and faded plaid coat. His tentative smile reveals more gaps than teeth. The remaining teeth barely hold on as discoloration creeps across most of them. Behind him, two young boys sit on the wheel wells, sorting through various large boxes. I stand on my tiptoes in the hopes of getting a peak inside one of the boxes.
“Is there something in particular you would like, miss.” The old man’s smile fades as he regards me suspiciously.
“Maybe.” I look down at Keith. “Tell me again about the wreath you made for your grandfather?”
“It wasn’t very big. But I made sure it had his name on it.”
The old man turns toward the boys, giving them a hard look. As he looks away, I pull my phone out and begin typing a text to the one person on the police department who never admitted to finding me a nuisance. I explain my suspicions as briefly as possible and slip my phone back into my pocket. I look up to find the man and his two young accomplices watching me.
I smile reassuringly and touch the nearest bouquet of flowers. “These are lovely. I just feel like I want something bigger for my father. Maybe a wreath?”
“We don’t have any wreaths,” the old man informs me, though he gives the taller of the boys a look that assures me the statement was meant for him, not me. “Might be time to pack up, boys. Thought we’d have more interest at this here cemetery than the last one.”
The boys begin closing the flaps on the boxes that surround them. The old man carefully packs bouquets and flags into a box that he pulled out from under the tailgate. I try to rope him into conversation to slow him down. He manages to keep going despite my interruptions. Luckily, one doesn’t need to travel far to get from one point to the next in a small town.
My acquaintance in the police department pulls up in his personal car, parking directly behind us, so the truck can’t to leave before he got a chance to talk to the proprietors of the pop-up flower and flag shop.
“What do we have here?” He asks in a deep rumble as he unfolds himself from the older model sedan.
He towers over me as he joins me in front of the peddler. The older man looks up at him with a hint of fear.
“Just moving on, sir.” The old man offers deferentially and places the last bouquet in his box.
“Ah. But I was hoping to get a look at your wares. I am always looking to show my respect for those who have defended my freedom.” He reaches for the box.
The old man turns to place it on the back of the truck. “Too late. We’re closed.”
“Then I will have to insist on taking a look at your wares in an official capacity.” As he speaks, he produces his badge from his pocket and holds it out.
The boys leap over the sides of the truck bed and run in opposite directions. The old man releases a set of expletives that will surely have the parents of my clients washing their mouths out with soap for the next month.
“That sort of response tends to make one look guilty.” The officer says, stepping forward to open a box. He pauses to look up at the old man. “I wouldn’t follow your young friends. They’ll be coming back soon with some officers on their arms.”
He opens the box to pull out flags and wreaths. He sets some to side. One of which causes Keith to gasp in recognition. After a few minutes of sorting, the officer turns back to the old man and shakes his head.
“Some of these wreaths you have for sale have names on them, which could be a coincidence, but I recognize this one.” He holds up a wreath of white roses with red and blue ribbon carefully wound around it. “My wife made this one for her grandfather’s grave.” He flips it over to display a name inside a heart painted on the back of the foam circle that gives the wreath stability. “You are under arrest.”
As the old man protests his innocence and then devolves to accusing his accomplices of deceiving him, the officer turns to me and the boys. “I have to take the ones that can be identified, but no one in this town will sleep well tonight if that cemetery isn’t swelling with red, white, and blue. Do you have time to place these unmarked ones on some of the graves.”
“Of course.” We answer as one, collecting the boxes and heading back inside the cemetery to honor our fallen servicemen and women.
~~I really did grow up in a town where Memorial Day was bigger than Christmas. The schoolchildren still dress up in variations of red, white, and blue and proudly march in the parade, which leads to the National Cemetery where they lay bouquets on the graves. Of course, I think if anyone there tried such a devious act, they might not fare so well.~~
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