The Cemetery Club

by Blanche Day Manos & Barbara Burgess

  Chapter 19

  Walking out of Jackson Conner’s office, I silently mulled over what he had told us. The information was solid and direct, but it didn’t leave me feeling any safer. Sliding into the driver’s seat of my Passport, I snapped the seatbelt in place. Mom climbed in beside me.

  “Are you cold?” I asked as she shivered.

  Shaking her head, she said, “How under the sun did we get to be in such a predicament? I didn’t ever want to be Ben’s heir. Wills and things—they are for families, not friends.”

  “With all my heart, I wish that Ben hadn’t been killed and we were not in this pickle. But, I guess if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” I said.

  “It’s all about greed, Darcy. The Bible warns against it, all the way through. Greed, resentment, a heart that gets taken over by hatred. And selfishness—not thinking of anybody else. Remember that the Lord Himself was betrayed by a person who loved thirty pieces of silver more than he loved his Friend.”

  Turning on the ignition, I put the car in gear. “What do you think about going to see Pat Harris? If she could just convince Jasper to tell Grant what he did with Ben’s body, it might be a step toward solving this thing.”

  “Let’s go,” Mom said. “Pat lives out on Old String Road. You go past the courthouse then turn right and it’s about five miles out of town.”

  “Old String Road?” I said. “I don’t even want to ask how it got its name.”

  Mom smiled. “It was a long time ago. An old man lived out there on that road in a little shack, all alone, for years and years. He’d pick up every piece of string or scrap of paper he found, smooth it out, and take it home with him. He was a hoarder. People started calling him Old String and forgot all about his real name. When he died, the story was that his house was crammed full of junk with only a little pathway to get through.”

  It takes all kinds of people to make a world and Levi seemed to have more than its share of the colorful kind. Slowing down as we passed the courthouse, I pointed to a figure in a long-sleeved shirt going up the steps.

  “Look at that man. Isn’t that Jim Clendon?” I asked.

  Mom gazed out the window. “I believe it is. I wonder what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe he’s just going to Grant’s office,” I suggested, “or maybe he’s keeping an eye on who files affidavits.”

  “Yes, there’s that tobacco wrapper that certainly looks suspicious but, Darcy, we can’t suspect everybody.”

  “Why not? A treasure worth millions would be a pretty good reason for some people to commit murder. As you said, Mom, greed is at the root of lots of the world’s troubles.”

  “Jim Clendon is not likeable, Darcy, I’ll agree,” Mom said. “Maybe something happened to sour him on the world and maybe he suspects us just as much as you suspect him.”

  Maybe. But first impressions are sometimes correct impressions and my first impression of Clendon was not one to inspire confidence.

  Mom pointed to a road sign. “Turn here.”

  Sure enough, “Old String Road” was emblazoned on the sign. Funny that I didn’t remember this road.

  Squinting up at the sky, I said, “Clouds are building in the west. Could be we’re in for another storm.”

  “My bones are agreeing with you. My right big toe has hurt all day. See that little falling-down shack way back among those trees? That was Old String’s place.”

  I glimpsed a sagging roof held up by weathered boards.

  “Slow down, Darcy. That’s Pat’s driveway up ahead,” Mom warned.

  That was good advice. The bumpy dirt road was wide enough for only one vehicle and it was blessed with many curves that I couldn’t see around. Trees pressed in from both sides. Around one final curve, a small, white frame house appeared. Red hedge roses bordered a gravel pathway leading to the front door. Stopping the Passport and turning off the ignition, I asked, “Do you think she’s home? Things look awfully closed up to me.”

  “Let find out,” Mom said. She slid out of the car and started toward the house. I was right behind her.

  A large, red hound rose from a braided rug on the front porch. He came toward us, voicing his welcome with each step.

  “Murphy! It’s good to see you, boy.” Mom bent to pat the old dog’s silky head.

  “Ben’s?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Pat said Jasper brought him home. He seems to have settled right in.”

  I raised my hand to knock and saw the curtain over the front window move. Pat’s face peered out at us. I heard footsteps inside the house, a lock rattled, and Pat swung wide the door. “Flora and Darcy! What brings you here? Come in!”

  Pat’s living room was small and neat. Crisp, white curtains crisscrossed the only window in the room. A worn, gray sofa was against one wall. Two big over-stuffed chairs in a pink and rose print faced the sofa. A rocker, a short bookcase filled with books, and a small table with a television atop it completed the room’s furnishings. I gazed at Pat’s wood floor and admired the way it gleamed. Only constant care could keep the boards looking so good.

  “Would you like a glass of iced tea? I just made some this morning. Sit down, if you can find a spot. I’ve been tatting and I got things in a mess,” said our hostess.

  Pat’s definition of “mess” was not the same as mine. A blue wickerwork basket sat on the floor beside her rocker. A tatting shuttle and some intricate lace spilled out of it.

  As Mom and I sat on the sofa, Pat vanished into the kitchen to get the tea. I leaned toward my mother. “How are we going to bring up the subject of Jasper?” I whispered.

  Mom smiled and said, “Let me do that.”

  Pat returned from the kitchen with a tray bearing three glasses, moisture beading the sides.

  “Iced tea, the summertime drink of the South,” Mom said.

  In one sentence, Pat bridged the gap of diplomacy. Sitting down, she said, “I imagine you’ve come to talk about Jasper.”

  Nodding, Mom said, “Well, yes, Pat, as a matter of fact, we have. Do you know where he is?”

  A shadow crossed Pat’s face and she seemed to find something interesting in her tea. “No, Flora, at the moment, I don’t know where that boy is. He’s somewhere out in the woods. He likes to ramble around, keeping an eye on things, he calls it.”

  Ice clinked gently as Mom swirled her drink. “He paid us a visit the other night.”

  Pat looked up. “He did?

  “Yes. He told us that he was the one who moved Ben’s body, but he refused to tell us where he put Ben.”

  Pat scrunched shut her eyes for a second. Worry lines etched her forehead. “He told me the same thing. I don’t know where he hid Ben. No more than you do.”

  Cradling my cool glass in my hot hands, I asked, “Are you sure, Pat? Can’t you guess where he might have taken Ben? Did he bury Ben on your place?”

  Sighing, Pat said, “No. No, I’m positive he didn’t do that.”

  I sipped my cold, sweet, and refreshing tea. “Pat, if he would just talk to Grant, tell him that he found Ben and moved him, that would be at least one mystery solved in this awful riddle.”

  “He would never do that, Darcy. I know my boy and he’s real suspicious of the law. In fact, he mistrusts most everyone but me and, I guess, you, Flora. You were his Sunday school teacher and you never let the other kids pick on him.”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Mom said. “Even children can be cruel. Sometimes it’s on purpose and then again, they might not know any better. Grown-ups can be cruel too, but they don’t have ignorance as an excuse.”

  “My Jasper.” Pat shook her head. “After his dad left us, it was just Jasper and me against the world, seemed like. He was never good in his books; he’d rather be out in the woods. I swear he could talk to the animals. He found a baby owl once that had been injured and he took care of that bird until it was grown. It’s funny—he’s really good with electronics. If anything goes wrong with the television, he’s as handy as the pockets on a sh
irt. Now, how can he know so much about that and not care about reading or writing?”

  “The Lord gives everybody a gift,” Mom said. “Sometimes it makes up for something else. We are all lacking in some things and good in others. Computers, for instance. If something goes wrong with Darcy’s computer, she usually knows how to fix it, but I don’t know how and don’t care to learn. That’s just people for you.”

  “But you’re a good cook,” Pat said, “and you’ve got to admit, Flora Tucker, that you have a green thumb.”

  This conversation was veering off our purpose. “Does Jasper ever come home?” I asked. “Surely he comes for food?”

  “Yes, he comes and goes. He wouldn’t leave me unprotected. He feels like his job is taking care of me, so even when I don’t know where he is exactly, I figure he’s around somewhere close.”

  What a strange young man. And busy! He was the self-appointed protector for us as well as Pat, but she seemed to accept the fact that her son was different. Did she also accept the fact that he might have killed Ben?

  In spite of the tea, I felt overcome with weariness. Pat, struggling to raise her child alone, Jasper, being ridiculed by his peers; Ben, Skye, Jason Allred, all dead. And why? What made people blind to what was really important in the world? Why couldn’t we all just accept each other and get along? That was the eternal question: why?

  Setting my glass on the tray, I stood up. “Pat, when you see Jasper again, will you at least try to get him to talk to Grant?”

  Pat arose too. “I’ll try, Darcy, but I know he won’t do it. You see, since he’s the only one who knows where Ben’s body is, he’s afraid Grant will think he’s the killer. He has a mortal fear of being locked up. I just don’t think he would live if he couldn’t get out in the woods.”

  Mom handed Pat her empty glass. “Thank you for the tea, Pat. Come see us soon. We don’t get to visit often enough.”

  Walking to the door with us, Pat said, “I’ll do that. You all come back too, and Darcy, I’ll talk to Jasper, but I’m not promising anything.”

  Murphy rose from his rug and ambled to my car with us. I wondered if Pat would talk to Jasper about Ben’s hiding place or if she would broach the subject of murder. As I climbed into my Passport, I had the feeling that all Pat’s talk wouldn’t do any good. Jasper wasn’t about to let go of his secrets, any of them.

  Driving back down the bumpy driveway much more slowly than I had driven in, frustration brought tears to my eyes. Our mission had failed. We hadn’t accomplished anything.

  “Pat’s house is clean and cheery,” I said. “Those roses are beautiful, so why do I have the feeling that it’s a gloomy place? There seems to be a spirit of sadness hovering over it.”

  Mom gazed out at the trees, dappled by the sun. Another of those lovely blue-green birds streaked across in front of us. “I think it’s Pat’s fearfulness,” she said. “Jasper is all she has and she is worried sick about him. If that boy were taken away from her and put in jail, she’d suffer as much as he would.”

  Maneuvering around a pothole, I said, “I just don’t know what to do next, Mom.”

  “Wait and see what happens, I guess. Practice patience and be watchful and, most of all, pray a lot. Trust the Lord, Darcy. He will see us through.”

  I sincerely hoped Mom was right, but waiting was not easy. My inclination was to charge full speed ahead and get things done. Only thing was, now I didn’t know in what direction to charge. Patience was a virtue I did not possess. I had a mental image of being in a room with a door locked from the outside. I couldn’t get out and I didn’t know what threat was going to come through that door next.