The usual guests are here: Jesus, the Blessed Virgin Mary, Moses, Joseph and his amazing Technicolor dreamcoat. But it's the other people who throw me: Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, Victor Herbert, Benjamin Franklin.

What's going on here?

I may be a recovering Catholic, but I still have a thing for churches and cathedrals. As a newcomer to town, I knew Pittsburgh is home to a number of them, so I begin with the Heinz Memorial Chapel in Oakland, built as a legacy by and for the family. I envision crypts and catacombs of at least 57 varieties of Heinz family members. I count on seeing relics; the toe of some archbishop, the bridge plate of a nameless canonized nun. I can (almost) smell the frankincense and myrrh. Anticipation was making me wait as I struggle to open one of the chapel's 800-pound wooden doors.

Then ... nothing.

Well, not nothing, but nothing I had in mind.

I am dwarfed by the fleche soaring 253 feet high. Everywhere I look is ornate oak trim, elaborate Indiana limestone carvings and more wrought iron than I thought ever existed. I am in Neo-Gothic heaven. There's a pipe organ so colossal it makes the second one on the balcony look like a toy. Then there are the 23 stunning stained glass windows, including four transept windows shooting 73-feet high and representing temperance, truth, tolerance and courage.

Docent Tom Meisner sees the wonder in my eyes and questions on my brain and asks me to take a seat in one of the pews. He tosses out sundry facts and figures ... how ground was broken in 1933, how the cornerstone was laid in '34, how the chapel was dedicated in '38. From day one, the chapel has been nondenominational -- "This is neutral ground," he explains. "Anybody who prays to any God can come here and feel safe." I make a note to remind a friend who worships at the shrine of Madonna (the singer, not the bathtub statue) to visit.

Tom tells me that designer Charles J. Connick went to Europe to learn as much as he could about stained glass before hiring 47 workers who spent 2 ¹/₂ years building them. The religious images coexist with secular images, he says, so "visitors do not feel the chapel belongs to one religion. This is as much a house of worship as a reminder of beauty and spiritual values in education and culture."

As he speaks, the musical director of an upcoming recital begins practicing on the Opus 2176. She pedals and plays, the 4,272 organ pipes (most of which are hidden behind stone work) breaking the silence undoubtedly more gently than the one time a worker accidentally broke a small section of one of the windows. The serene sounds remind me to ask a most pressing question.

So where are the dead bodies?

There's got to be someone laid to rest here.

Tom shakes his head. The chapel doesn't even do funerals, except the one time back in 1991 when Sen. John Heinz was killed in a plane-helicopter crash, and his memorial service was held here.

Catacombs? Tom shakes again.

He sees that I don't believe him, so he leads me down a set of stairs. We are in the bowels of the chapel. I spot room G-6. Aha! Grave Six! I know there's a Heinz heir inside.

Tom slowly opens the door revealing the bridal suite; here is where any of the hundreds of women who marry at the chapel each year relax and rethink their lives while waiting for that walk up the aisle.

He smiles. So I do.

I hit a dead end, but my visit was a reminder of a life worth living.