A Mausoleum and the Windy Willow

Present day, in a no-name small-town in the Pacific northwest, fifteen-year-old fraternal twins, Agatha and Christie, packed a large picnic basket with some homemade food and a couple of blankets. They each kissed their maternal grandparents on the cheek before setting out to Windy Willow Cemetery to spend the night. The teens had been planning this night since they heard the tragic news about their mother and younger brother from a despondent female police detective exactly one year ago. Their mother, Bernadette, was a talented writer who was obsessed with British authors and poets, hence her children’s names. Their younger brother, Percy, died on his twelfth birthday. He would have been thirteen that day.

“Christie, remember when Percy used to put his toenail clippings in your pillow case to see how long it took you to notice? You never were very observant,” Agatha teased her younger by three minutes sister as they briskly walked the relatively quiet town streets.

“Me?! He used to cut off a chunk your hair while you slept and hide it in your sock drawer! I used to tell you that you’d been pranked!” Christie retorted defensively.

“Do you miss his pranks?” Agatha asked, raising her pitch slightly, already expecting what her sister’s response would be.

“Every minute of every day. I still haven’t been able to delete the texts he sent me, just talking about stupid stuff that didn’t mean a damn thing at the time. I can’t delete the ones from mom, either,” Christie stated with her head lowered, choking back tears. “I wish I knew why he did it. I don’t want to ask him and find out, but he owes us an explanation.”

“He” refers to their father. His name lost all meaning to the girls after he took it upon himself to murder his wife and son in cold blood. The twins legally changed their surname to their mother’s maiden name, Cushing, to distance themselves from their reprehensible sperm donor. His trial was currently ongoing as he pleaded not guilty to the charges of two counts of murder in the first degree and two counts of attempted murder. The girls were alive due to unknown outside intervention. No one knows who was there to help the girls that night, but they were both silently thankful.         

Agatha, also holding back her emotional response, threw her arm over her sister’s shoulders and comforted her: “Christie, I am never-ever not-ever going to let anything bad happen to us. Ever. Do you trust me?”

Christie lifted her head and looked into her sister’s eyes a few moments before responding: “Always. And the same goes for me too.”

The girls stopped conversing until they reached the cemetery entrance so they didn’t lose their nerves and turn back. The groundskeeper, known to the girls since birth as Mr. Price, was expecting them as they had already made arrangements to spend the night here well in advance. Mr. Price was a pale, slim, wrinkly, fossil of a man with a calm demeanor and shy personality. He seemingly wore the same blackish-grey newsboy hat, faded coffee-colored leather jacket, and acid-washed jeans that probably weren’t even in style in the 1980s every day of the year. He took a grandfatherly role in the twins’ lives and even attended family functions like graduations, weddings, and funerals.

“Good evening, young ladies. Might I assist you to the resting places of Bernadette and Percy? I would also like to pay my respects for a short time with you both. Mr. and Mrs. Lugosi have also asked that I watch over you tonight and offer assistance as you may need.” Mr. Price, as the groundskeeper, knew exactly where every person who had ever been buried in that cemetery had been laid to rest at precisely which plot, on demand. Mr. and Mrs. Lugosi were the morticians and owners of the cemetery who were exceptional friends with Bernadette ever since they all attended high school together, Agatha and Christie referred to them as Uncle Christopher and Aunt Isabella, respectively.

“Of course, Mr. Price! You know you don’t have to ask! Your company is always welcome, sir,” Agatha responded enthusiastically. “Thank you!”

Christie breathed a sigh of relief as she did not want to admit aloud that she had actually forgotten how to find where her mother and brother were laid to rest. “Mr. Price, this isn’t too much trouble for you, though, is it?” She asked with concern.

Mr. Price placed his Ichabod Crane-looking hand upon the teenager’s head and rested it there. He dropped his voice to barely louder than a whisper and responded: “For your mother, child, I would do anything. I promised her as much. Now, onwards.”

With that, the trio slowly crept along a well-maintained cobblestone path to the area of the oldest and tallest standing willow tree in town. The Cushing mausoleum sat peacefully underneath the fifty-five-foot-tall tree in solitude from all other graves and markers. “CUSHING” was engraved into the blank space above the doorway. The Cushings were one of the original settlers in the town and have a rich, storied family heritage. The Cushing family, however, were of poor to modest wealth and could not afford such a monument. As the town legend has it, the dedicated gift came from an anonymous wealthy business man who made his fortune as a ruthless robber baron at the turn of the twentieth century. That man is not thought to have been a Cushing himself but he sought repentance for his cutthroat tactics throughout his life in dedication to the monument’s first interred: “Mary Cushing.”

Organized mounds of fresh-cut bouquets rested on either side of the entrance. The twins’ mother loved Lily of the Valley, Agatha Christie’s favorite flower, and each bouquet seemed to have some. Mr. Price took out a large key-ring with what looked like at least 100 keys on it to unlock the door of the tomb. The doors had not been opened since Bernadette and Percy were entombed, per Bernadette’s final wishes. The door eerily creaked as the stone door slowly swung open. The smell of stale, trapped air flooded the girls’ nostrils, but it didn’t last for more than a second as the outside air wafted into the hollow of the structure.

Mr. Price stepped over to the free-standing crypts engraved with “Bernadette Irene” and “Percy Shelley” and placed his hands atop the freezing-cold stone. “Hello, you beautiful souls and happy birthday, Percy. I hope you’ve both been at peace since we last saw you. Mr. and Mrs. Lugosi send their love as well. Please know how much we all truly miss your presences in our lives. I hope that bastard rots in hell for taking you both away from us all. I’m sorry. I wish it was me.” Mr. Price let a single tear escape before wiping it away and turning on his heel to exit.

“Mr. Price,” started Christie. “No one blames you. Mama wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up and Percy really respected you. As a birthday present to Percy, please leave the blame where it belongs. With him.”

Agatha, without a word, gave Mr. Price a long hug. After pulling back, she looked him in the eye and declared: “Mr. Price, thank you. We can take it from here.”

Upon departing, Mr. Price assured the twins that if they needed anything at all, he would be in the groundskeeper’s office at the entrance. The girls thanked him again as he disappeared into the dense fog that had developed as the night progressed.

Christie opened the picnic basket and pulled out some of their grandmother’s homemade cooking, in this case, it happened to be a beautiful spread of bangers ‘n’ mash with a crusty homemade French baguette and some sparkling water to drink. They call their grandmother “Yuyu” and their grandfather “Pop-Pop.”           

“Yuyu outdid herself, huh Agatha?” Asked Christie as she tore into some of the bread.

Agatha, shoveling the mash into her mouth, replied: “Do you expect anything less? No wonder she still owns the Cushing Eatery. I wish she could retire though.”

“Me too,” Christie sadly agreed. “If Pop-Pop wasn’t so sick, she would be able to retire and leave the business to Uncle Lee.”

The girls ate the rest of their food in silence as they thought about their family. Uncle Lee was the adopted son of Yuyu and Pop-Pop, making him Bernadette’s older brother. His family abandoned him on the Cushings’ doorstep while Yuyu was pregnant with Bernadette. Uncle Lee co-owns the restaurant in town but really wants Yuyu to retire as well as her age and Pop-Pop’s declining health is not allowing her to work as she could in her prime. The murders only exacerbated the need for her to retire.

Once the girls finished their dinner, they replaced all of the containers and utensils into the picnic basket and pulled out their blankets. They took off their sweaters to use as pillows and began to talk to their deceased relatives.

“Mama, Percy, we miss you,” Christie whispered through tears. “He didn’t take us. Someone helped us live, mama.”

Agatha also began to cry. “I wish they could have saved you both too. He is still on trial for what he did. I hope they give him an agonizing death,” Agatha gritted her teeth and hissed.

Neither of the girls could remember much about that night. Their therapists said it might have something to do with PTSD and their brains trying to protect them from reliving the trauma. This also might explain why neither of them know who helped them escape their father.

“Mama?” started Agatha. “Do you know who helped us that night? I hope to thank them someday.”

A slight breeze blew the wispy branches of the willow tree, giving the leaves a rustle. Aside from the girls talking, there wasn’t another sound to be heard. The hushed sounds of the vehicles driving through town were far too distant to hear from the tomb.

“Don’t think you get to get off that easily, Percy!” Christie turned to her brother’s crypt to joke. “Your pranks drove us crazy but we would endure them forever if you came back to us.” Agatha agreed with a nod.

The girls sat in the middle of the two raised crypts and wept. They knew that the events of a year ago would never allow their family to be whole or content again. Their father dragged the reputation of himself and his family through the mud to feign innocence, but there was no possibility that he acted upon anything but his own volition. He was, supposedly at one point, an intelligent, impassioned, and handsome man, causing their mother to fall head-over-heels in love with him. The newspapers and television news following the trial reported that he accused her of infidelity, causing him to believe that his children actually came from other men. He blamed her for his short-comings as he could not sustain a career to support four dependents. His intelligence was one thing but his explosive temper entirely disallowed him to earn a living. Bernadette tried to offer to switch with him so he could be home with their children and she could be the breadwinner, but he forbade it stating that he alone would devise a way to secure the future of his family. In the end, he decided that violently killing his family, blaming it on a robbery gone wrong, and collecting the insurance money was the easiest way for him to be happy. And since he baselessly concocted the idea from disproven rumors that his children were not actually his, he would be better off without them as reminders for his failure as a man. For the twins though, this still didn’t answer why he had to kill them instead of just leaving entirely. Bernadette would have let him have all of the material things as long as she kept the children, for which he no longer seemed to care about.

“Mama, do you remember when you used to put me to sleep by laying me on your chest so I could listen to your heart beat?” Christie asked through sobs. “I am gonna lay down so I can listen to it, okay?” She waited a beat and then laid atop the crypt, placing the right side of her face where she guessed her mother’s chest would be. “Mama, it’s only appropriate that the world is your heartbeat now.”

Agatha pulled a single red velvet cupcake out of the picnic basket and placed a candle in the frosting. She lit the candle with a Bic lighter Yuyu packed with the cupcake. “Happy birthday, little brother. It’s your favorite, you’d never let me forget it.” Agatha let the candle burn for a moment and blew it out. With Christie already asleep, she ate the cupcake and slid against Percy’s crypt.

The wind began to pick up a bit and the leaves lively danced and rubbed against one another. The silence had been interrupted though with the sounds of approaching footsteps. The pace was too fast to be Mr. Price but it sounded as though there was only one set. Agatha contemplated for a moment about awakening Christie but figured she would investigate alone first and call for help if she needed it.

“Hello!” Agatha called out. “Who’s there?”

There was no verbal response. She called out again to a resounding muteness but she could audibly determine that footsteps were still approaching. Eventually, a figure emerged from the now much denser fog. Agatha rubbed her eyes and noticed the person was on the shorter side, wearing a cloche hat and trench coat that reached below the person’s knees. Agatha stiffened her spine and deepened her voice and asked a third time who was coming.

The footsteps ceased and a woman’s voice with an East Coast accent answered: “Hello Agatha. You may or may not remember me, but I am Detective Cassie Peterson. I was the one who informed you that your mother and brother were both dead. I am so sorry for your losses. I am here to tell you that I have leads on who may have intervened to save you and your sister from your father. Would you like to know what information I have?”

Agatha thought she had seen a ghost. Detective Peterson did look familiar, and she wanted nothing more than to thank whoever it was who saved her and her sister from their father that night. With trepidation, Agatha responded in the affirmative.       

“We can let your sister sleep. We talk on the steps.” Detective Peterson proposed.

The pair sat on the top steps and the detective continued: “The anonymous person tried really hard to make sure that their identity was hidden. But, they sent a postal letter asking me to let you know that they are the decedent the robber baron who built this mausoleum for Mary Cushing. He gave me instructions to let you know that he does not wish to be found at this time, but if he changes his mind, he will contact me again and let you and your sister know. I am further instructed to let you know that he does not need nor want thanks or repayment. He just wants you both to live a happy life and that he will be watching over you. If you ever need him, he will be there.”

Agatha couldn’t believe that all of this was happening in this cemetery on the one year anniversary. She asked the detective if she felt he was legitimate and she responded that he included details about the crime that only someone who was there could know, as there were certain details hidden from the media, including the fact that he knew what clothes you and your sister were wearing and in which order your father murdered your mother and brother. He witnessed it but was too late to help them, which is why he does not wish to reveal his identity to you both, he feels too guilty.

“Thank you, detective. It means a lot. I will tell my family. Please let Mr. Price know that everything is alright.” Agatha said and turned around to return inside the tomb. 

Before they knew it, Agatha and Christie were waking up at dawn to the fog clearing out of the well-manicured lawn area of the cemetery. The willow beside them susurrated and then went silent. Mr. Price greeted the twins and escorted them and their belongings to the entrance and bid them a good day with well-wishes for their grandparents. The girls may never know who actually saved their lives that day, but they were both finding that they were okay with that. As long as their father went to prison and couldn’t see the light of day, they were happy.