title: An Unremembered Grave
author:  Abigail Padgett 
description: Abigail Padgett grew up in Vincennes, IN, and holds degrees from Indiana University, the University of Missouri and Washington University, St. Louis. She has taught high school English and college courses in Sociology and Creative Writing in San Diego and Boston, directed an ACLU chapter in Houston and worked as an advocate for the mentally ill, plus enduring some truly weird temp jobs. Abbie is the author of nine highly acclaimed mystery novels that have been translated into five languages, one novel among which, CHILD OF SILENCE, was made into a movie in France. (Which must have been challenging, since the novel's action takes place in the California desert and features Native American Paiute people.) Her eighth mystery, BONE BLIND, is set in the Boston suburb of Newton, where two horror novelists and a detective just months short of retirement investigate a decades-old unsolved murder the spin from which proves even more deadly than the original crime. Writing about writers writing horror was so much fun that her next novel, The Paper Doll Museum, crossed the genre divide with a bit of the supernatural while still involving a mystery. Her latest, An Unremembered Grave, goes a step further into analysis of the supernatural. A recently disinterred vampire and a disaffected history professor who doesnt know why she sees things nobody else does, combine skills in an attempt to solve a murder. The life of an innocent prisoner in Louisianas infamous penitentiary, Angola, hangs in the balance. San Diego is home, although Abbie spends much time on the East Coast and in France. She is a dog person happiest in the company of dachshunds, a sort-of vegetarian with heartland food preferences, and a lifelong fan of Poe, Algernon Blackwood and the Graveyard Poets.
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  # An Ignoble Martyr
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Rebecca Harding Davis
  
  
  This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com
  
  
  OLD Aaron Pettit, who had tried to live for ten years with half of his body
  dead from paralysis, had given up at last. He was altogether dead now, and
  laid away out of sight in the three-cornered lot where the Pettits had been
  buried since colonial days. The graveyard was a triangle cut out of the wheat
  field by a certain Osee Pettit in 1695. Many a time had Aaron, while
  ploughing, stopped to lean over the fence and calculate how many bushels of
  grain the land thus given up to the dead men would have yielded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They can keep it. I'll not plough it up," he would mumble to himself with
  conscious virtue. "But land was to be hed for the fencin' then, evidently, or
  no Pettit would have put corpses in it that might as well have lain in the
  churchyard."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Aaron himself was in the wasted triang