Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum, #27)(74)

“His grandfather,” Connie said. “Anthony Rosolli.”

“Do you know where he’s buried?”

“Hold on,” Connie said. “I’ll ask my mom.”

Connie came back on the line a minute later. “She thinks it’s Saint John’s. It’s outside of Egg Harbor. Anthony was a big deal. He immigrated from Sicily, and he was made. I guess he was like Godfather or something. Mom said she was a little girl when she visited the cemetery, but she remembers that Anthony Rosolli had a house there.”

“A house in the cemetery?”

“She said it was probably a little chapel or maybe a monument, but she remembers it as a house. I already heard there was no treasure. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Life goes on.”

I hung up and looked at Ranger and Gabriela. “Saint John’s Cemetery.”

“Let’s check it out,” Ranger said. “Ramone has already gone back to Trenton, but I have the keys and the wedding bands.”

Gabriela had the cemetery pulled up on her smartphone. “It’s about twenty minutes from here. Follow me.”



* * *




Saint John’s Cemetery was on the northwest side of Egg Harbor. It was a small, ancient-looking graveyard attached to a small, ancient-looking Catholic church. We parked on a dirt road that ran parallel to the church lot, crossed over some scrub vegetation, and passed through the elaborate wrought-iron gate that led to the graves. We read the names on the weathered tombstones as we walked. Gianchinni, Mancuso, Salerno, Capaletti. Obelisks, crosses, statues of the Virgin marked the graves of the wealthy. Others had simple granite markers. A badly maintained small stone and granite chapel had been erected on a patch of flat ground in the middle of the cemetery. There was a peaked roof on the one story, windowless building and two Corinthian-style columns on either side of the door. The entire building was decorated with reliefs of angels, cherubs, Madonnas, and horse-drawn chariots. The name carved into granite above the door was Rosolli.

“I think we found the house of Rosolli,” I said.

Ranger tried the door. Locked. He looked at the three keys on the key ring he found in the La-Z-Boy chair and selected one. He turned the key in the lock and the door opened. He switched the light on and nothing happened. No electricity. We stepped inside and Ranger and Gabriela powered up their Maglites.

The walls were covered with religious paintings. Some were in the form of murals, others were on velvet. An occasional cobweb clung to the velvet. Two rows of ornately carved pews that could have seated no more than four people were on either side of a center aisle. A small altar holding a cross and a bunch of burned-out votives was at the front of the room. There was a tiny cast-iron staircase behind the altar.

I saw Ranger scan the room, looking for security cameras.

“See anything?” I asked him.

“No,” he said. “I think this chapel no longer plays an important role in the spiritual life of the Rosolli family.”

We followed Gabriela to the staircase and descended single file to the underground room.

“A crypt,” Gabriela said.

There were twelve niches in the room. Six on each side. The walls, ceiling, and floor were concrete. Hammered copper doors sealed each of the niches. Names of the interred were on the doors. Sarah Rosolli, Salvatore Rosolli, Manfred Rosolli, Joseph Rosolli, Anthony Rosolli.

Gabriela stood in front of Anthony Rosolli. “Hello, Anthony,” she said.

Ranger looked at Gabriela’s camo backpack. “Do you have anything useful in there?” he asked her.

Gabriela removed a screwdriver and handed it to Ranger.

Ranger pried the copper door off the wall and exposed the casket. “Usually there’s a second shutter here,” he said. “The copper shutter I just removed is decorative. There should be a heavier metal shutter that actually seals the tomb.”

“Pull him out,” Gabriela said. “There’s a reason he wasn’t sealed in.”

Ranger slid a mahogany casket out of the niche and Gabriela and I helped lower it to the floor. Ranger slipped the brass latch on the lid and raised the lid.

“It’s not locked, and it’s not sealed,” he said. “And it’s empty.”

Gabriela and I looked inside. The satin lining wasn’t in great shape, but the casket had obviously never been used. Or maybe only used for a short time.

“Where’s Anthony?” I asked.

“Probably bunking with someone,” Ranger said. “Probably with Mrs. Rosolli.”

Ranger flicked the beam of his flashlight into the niche. “Looks like the niche opens to a tunnel.”

I did a mental head slap. “What’s with these guys and their tunnels? It’s like they had a tunnel obsession.”

“Escape routes,” Ranger said.

“Places to hide stolen treasures and bootleg whiskey,” Gabriela said, flashing the Maglite beam around the space, crawling into the niche. “I came across something similar in Nepal when I was hired to find a stolen carving of Birupakshya from the Pashupatinath Temple in Kathmandu. I thought for sure it was in that tunnel. Turned out it was filled with vipers. Let’s hope this goes better. Truly, what are the chances of that happening twice?”

Considering my recent tunnel experiences, I thought the odds weren’t in my favor. I followed Gabriela into the niche and Ranger followed me. The tunnel was dirt and supported by chunky, crude timbers. It was a couple of feet wide and not quite six feet high. Ranger had to duck slightly when standing. After about fifty feet we came to a Y intersection.