Fleur De Lies(60)
“Us folks in the profession never say charnel house,” Woody spoke up, an air of authority in his voice. “We call it an ossuary, a place that holds the bones of the dead.”
“How come I’ve never heard that word before?” asked Bobbi Benedict.
Virginia Martin regarded her without mirth. “Perhaps you should expand your friendships to include people who can use words longer than one syllable.”
Unh-oh. Truce over.
“So if an ossuary holds bones,” said the woman who’d been going to eat her earbuds as a morning snack, “what’s the purpose of a mausoleum?”
“A mausoleum is a grander structure,” offered one of Woody’s buddies. “It’s a free-standing monument that encloses the body of the deceased. Like the Taj Mahal.”
“I thought a crypt enclosed the body of the deceased,” argued another woman.
“It does,” said Woody. “There’s a lot of terminology connected with—”
“But if a crypt encloses the dead body, what does a vault do?” asked a man wearing a wide-brimmed bucket hat.
“I think a vault is the same thing as a tomb,” said the woman standing next to him.
“So if the Taj Mahal is a mausoleum,” questioned a man who was standing near Bernice, “what does that make the pyramids? Mausoleums, vaults, crypts, or tombs?”
“It makes them overrated tourist attractions,” crabbed Bernice. “Like this place.”
Dawna folded her arms across her chest and stomped her booted feet on the ground to ward off the chilly moistness in the air. “I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but I’m gonna be cremated when I die. And I don’t want to end up in any musty old mausoleum for all eternity, so I’m gonna have my ashes scattered in a place that’s near and dear to my heart.”
Bernice smiled dourly. “Where? The cosmetic aisle at Wal-Mart?”
Dawna sucked in her breath, looking almost too horrified to form words. “The National Firearms Museum in Fairfax, Virginia, which just happens to be the world headquarters for the National Rifle Association. I’m gonna spend eternity with the folks who’re gonna defend my freedoms against the excesses of a tyrannical government.”
“Dream on,” mocked Bernice. “If your ashes get scattered on the floor of some fancy museum, you’ll be spending eternity at the bottom of an industrial strength vacuum cleaner bag in a landfill on the outskirts of DC.”
“You’ll need documentation to have your cremains transported legally,” asserted Woody. Unzipping the side pocket of his jacket, he removed a small leather case. “My card,” he said as he handed her his business card. “Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions, although I can say with absolute certainty that cremation should be your choice of last resort.” He waved the case in the air. “Anyone else want one?”
Oh, God.
The rain had stopped about ten minutes ago, allowing us to collapse our umbrellas, but dark clouds still loomed overhead, threatening to drench us at any moment.
“Do these buildings serve any purpose now?” asked Victor.
“Mais oui,” chimed Madeleine. “The galleries have become the home of Rouen’s Fine Art Academy.”
“What became of the bones?” asked Cal.
“In the eighteenth century, the buildings were earmarked to become a school for poor boys, so the bones were removed to—”