Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  Grave Heritage

  Copyright © 2016 by Blanche Day Manos

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, including electronic storage and retrieval systems, except by explicit written permission from the publisher. Brief passages excerpted for review purposes are excepted.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Though this is a work of fiction, many of the stories and anecdotes included were inspired by actual events. Some names used in this book are those of real people; however, any dialogue or activity presented is purely fictional.

  ISBN: 978-1-68313-032-1

  First Edition

  Cover and interior design by Kelsey Rice

  Books by Blanche Day Manos

  ~ The Darcy & Flora Mysteries ~

  with Barbara Burgess:

  The Cemetery Club

  Grave Shift

  Best Left Buried

  Grave Heritage

  ~ The Ned McNeil Mysteries ~

  Moonlight Can Be Murder

  Dedicated to Matt, Dawn, Sara and Nathan Manos and to the memory of Bob and Susie Day.

  Chapter 1

  I awoke sitting straight up in bed, my heart doing double time. Was it rain pounding against my bedroom windows or the wind roaring around the house that had awakened me? Jethro, his feline apprehension alerted by my sudden movement, jumped from my bed and darted from the room.

  Straining to hear, I hardly dared to breathe. There! It wasn’t the wind; someone was banging on the front door.

  Sliding my feet into house shoes, I trotted into the hall. Mom hurried from her room, a robe around her shoulders.

  “Darcy,” she whispered, gripping my arm. “What was that noise?”

  “Someone is at the door.” I don’t know why we whispered; no one could have heard us above the clamor of the storm.

  We crept downstairs, our way lit by continuously flashing lightning. Rain, flung against the house as if by a giant hand, sluiced down the windows. The frantic pounding came again.

  “What poor soul would be out on a night like this?” Mom said, going to the door.

  I grabbed her arm. “No, wait! Let me look first.” Pulling aside the curtain, I craned my neck to see the porch. She was right. The drenched person who huddled there did indeed look like a poor soul. He was dripping and shivering, but with lightning flashes illuminating his hunched shape, he seemed more menacing than pitiful. What was he doing out here, far from town in such a downpour?

  “I am going to get Dad’s gun,” I said. “Don’t open the door until I tell you.”

  She frowned. “What? Why, Darcy?”

  “Because there’s a man on our porch in the middle of the night and we don’t know who he is. Whether he needs help or not, we’ve got to be cautious. Who knows? He may be armed or dangerous.”

  Mom sniffed. “I guess.”

  At our former home in Levi, I had kept Dad’s pistol in a drawer of the bookshelf. This new house also had a large, built-in bookshelf with drawers, most handy hiding places. Mom, ever trusting, would never have thought about the gun, but I, a seasoned investigative reporter for the Dallas Morning News and ever suspicious, felt safer knowing it was there.

  My fingers touched the cold metal of that reassuring firearm. Holding it behind my back, I nodded toward Mom.

  “Okay, switch on the porch light and open the door.”

  She swung the door inward and stepped back. A wet and bedraggled man stumbled into the living room. The first thing I thought of was a drowned rat, not that I had ever seen one. The man’s thin, gray hair was plastered against his scalp. He was smallish, and being bent over seemed to be his normal stance. Rain dripped from his beak-like nose and ran down his stubbly chin.

  Wiping his eyes, he blinked at us.

  “Thanks,” he croaked. “I was about to drown out there.”

  Fearful that Mom was going to offer him a towel to dry off and maybe invite him to the kitchen for a piece of pie, I tried to forestall the Southern hospitality for which she was famous.

  Although a born Oklahoman, my first impulse was to be careful instead of hospitable. “Who are you?” I asked. “What are you doing out in the storm? Did your car break down somewhere?”

  The man squinted at me, then his gaze shifted back to Mom. Again, he rubbed his hand across his eyes as he leaned forward and peered closely at her. He swallowed a couple of times, licked his lips, and asked in a hoarse whisper,

  “Never mind who I am. Who are you?”

  Sidling away from such close scrutiny, Mom said, “I’m Flora Tucker and this is my daughter, Darcy Campbell.”

  The man’s face underwent a change. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. He backed out of the door, whirled around, and bolted across the porch, disappearing into the darkness.

  Mom slammed the door, locked it, and drew a deep breath.

  “Whew! What in the world was that about?” she asked. “Who was that strange little man and what scared him off? Did he see your gun, Darcy?”

  “No. I kept it behind me. I don’t think you look particularly scary, Mom, but he sure gave you the once over. He didn't panic until you told him your name.”

  She nodded. “He seemed sort of familiar but I can’t place him at all. Well! I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Me either.” I shook my head and replaced Dad’s revolver. “Is there any leftover coffee we could heat up? I don’t think I can go back to sleep and my nerves need some steadying.”

  My mother raised her eyebrows. “Leftover coffee? I sure don’t want my coffee to be secondhand. It won’t take long to fix a new potful. I feel chilled through and through, and like you said, we won’t be able to get back to sleep anyhow.”

  Mom was of the firm opinion that a cup of steaming Folgers coffee and prayer could fix just about anything. I agreed. Maybe if we thought about this night visitor long enough, we could come up with some reason for his appearance and abrupt departure. Or perhaps she would remember why he seemed familiar to her. Soon the cheerful sound of coffee perking in her old yellow coffee pot vied with the noise of the storm. She poured a couple of cups and we sat down at the table.

  “This was such a peaceful day,” I said, staring into my cup as if I could find answers there. “I love it out here on Granny Grace’s old home site. I like the quiet of the country and I sure like this new house. But, you know, I had a funny feeling all day that something wasn’t quite right. Do you know what I mean?”

  Mom nodded. “I do. I felt the same way but laid it onto the fact that a storm was coming. I was hoping that we were leaving all the mysterious stuff behind us in Levi and now, here’s another mystery—a stranger on our front porch. I wonder why in the world, after knocking on the door, he turned around and ran.”

  “I’d say he wasn’t expecting to see you, Mom. I think he really needed shelter from the storm but when he saw you, he recognized you and panicked. I don’t know why mysteries follow us around. Maybe it’s just me. After all, you led a pretty quiet life until I came back to Levi after Jake died.”

  Mom patted my hand. “I guess you’re a mystery magnet, Darcy. My goodness, it kind of hurts my feelings that I look scarier than a thunderstorm. I keep thinking I should know him but for the life of me, I can’t recall where I’ve seen him.”

  Laying the problem of our night visitor aside, Mom and I discussed her current project, building a school for homeless boys who needed a firm hand to keep them on the straight and narrow. Ben’s Boys was to be the name of the school, named for its benefactor, Ben Ventris. After Mom’s longtime friend passed away, she found that Ben had bequeathed all his worldly goods to
her, including his farm. It was this farm that she, with the help of a good building contractor and Hiram Schuster, was turning into an attractive home and school for boys. Hiram, a lifelong friend, was music director at our church and a carpenter before he retired.

  Two hours later as the ever-optimistic robins greeted the dawn of a new day, we still had no idea of the identity of our caller. Who was the night visitor, why had he banged on our door, and—most importantly—what made him run like a frightened rabbit back into the wind and rain?

  Chapter 2

  “That old setting hen is just going to have to take care of her eggs with no help from me,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen through the back porch. Jethro padded along behind her.

  Turning from the sink, I noticed she was rubbing her hand.

  “Did she peck you?” I asked.

  She nodded. “That’s the last time I’m going to give her the chance, though. I was just trying to see if any eggs were broken. She didn’t understand, I guess.”

  Laughing, I hung the dish cloth across the sink, and wiped my wet hands on my jeans. Reaching under a hen whose mind was fixed on becoming a mother was not something I would want to do. The angry look in a chicken’s yellow eyes and the sharpness of a hen’s beak were enough to wilt any good intentions I might have.

  “You have a beautiful new house with all the very latest in a lovely kitchen, but you had to have that flock of laying hens and a rooster in that pen out back,” I teased.

  And indeed this home was lovely. We had mulled over the builder’s plans for so long that our new two-storied beauty with the wraparound porch was exactly what we both wanted. Thanks to Dad’s insurance policy, as well as my husband Jake’s life insurance, money was not a problem at the moment, but it seemed odd not to have a job. I still freelanced for The Dallas Morning News but that did not require a lot of time. My mother would be a country woman, whether she was rich or poor. She loved the country life. And, to be honest, I felt the same.

  I gazed out of the kitchen window at the sun-warmed herb garden, which meandered into the surrounding woods. The gray-green leaves of a mullein plant moved as a spotted leopard frog jumped under them. We tried to disturb nature as little as possible with our presence and just enjoyed the wild creatures that lived here with us.

  The house sat on a knoll overlooking Lee Creek. A long driveway twisted between centuries-old trees and crossed a picturesque wooden bridge as it wound its way to a detached garage in back. The house had plenty of storage and two fireplaces, one in the downstairs guest room and one in the living room. It boasted a bright and well-equipped kitchen. Nestled among cottonwoods, oaks, and maples that grew in happy profusion throughout Ventris County, it was my idea of a dream come true.

  After my husband Jake died, more than a year ago, I left Dallas and came back to my hometown of Levi, Oklahoma. I wanted peace and quiet and healing. Although I had seen very little of the peace and quiet, I kept hoping. The healing was slowly taking place, thanks in large part to Ventris County’s tall, slim, red-haired sheriff, Grant Hendley. Grant had been my first sweetheart and, quite unexpectedly, those long-ago feelings were kindling back to life.

  The sunny morning directly contrasted the stormy and strange night with the spooked stranger. My mother and I had stayed up after his visit because we were so wired we knew we couldn’t relax enough to go back to sleep. Consequently, this morning my eyes felt heavy.

  “I’m going into town and check on the house,” I told her, heading for my purse and the keys to my Ford Escape. Our house in Levi where I grew up sat empty now that we had moved. I kept close tabs on it, though. It was a dear place to me because it had been my childhood home.

  “I’ll pick up some fruit juice to make the punch for our housewarming while I’m in town. Is there anything else we’ll need?”

  “Pat is bringing dozens of cookies,” Mom answered. “It does seem like a lot of hoopla but several people have asked about our house. It seems almost like bragging to me, or showing off, but I’m happy for our friends to see where we live now so they can come and visit. I hope they feel as welcome here as they did at our old house.”

  “I’m sure they will,” I said. “A housewarming is kind of like a welcome party for everyone. I hope it won’t be raining. Although, you’ll have to admit, a storm like the one we had last night might lend atmosphere.”

  Mom sniffed. “I can do without that kind of atmosphere. I almost forgot to tell you that Pat called and said our new preacher is looking for a place to stay. She was wondering whether he’d want to rent our house in town.”

  “A new preacher, huh? Unless he has a big family, he really won’t need a house as large as ours. But, I guess a preacher would be a good renter, quiet, no wild parties, hopefully pay his rent on time.”

  Leaning against the counter, Mom grinned at me. “Well, for goodness sake, let’s hope.”The small church we attended looked like it was straight from a Norman Rockwell print. It was made of wood, painted white, had a belfry and, believe it or not, a bell that rang each Sunday morning calling the faithful to worship. The pastor, a dear elderly man, had recently retired and left on an extended vacation to Florida. Our congregation was limping along with lay preachers until we could find a new shepherd for the flock.

  “Wait!” Mom stopped me as I was going out of the door. “Will you check in with the Jenkins sisters? They have some herbs they want to give me to add to the ones I’ve already planted.” She chuckled. “Miss Georgia is determined that I should make my own herbal tea.”

  “Sure,” I said. Our new relationship with the Jenkins twins was one of the most surprising things about the last few months. Even though our closeness with these two ladies had deepened, we still referred to them as we always had—Miss Georgia and Miss Carolina.

  Lee Creek gurgled under our wood bridge with a lot more enthusiasm than before last night’s storm. Driving into Levi, I noticed several branches off the trees but no real damage that I could see. The fragrance of green, growing vegetation wafted into my car. Summer’s heat had not yet laid an oppressive hand over Ventris County and the world looked newly-washed and bursting with the energy of July.

  After I checked our empty house and got the herbs from Miss Georgia, I planned to have lunch with Grant. My heart quickened, thinking about Levi’s handsome sheriff. I could hardly wait to see him, although it was only a couple of days ago that he had been to our house for supper.

  A movement caught my eye as I neared Old String Road. Glancing in the direction of the tumbledown house that had belonged to Old String, our local recluse and hoarder, I saw smoke curling up over the treetops. I braked and peered through a tangle of vines and tree branches. My breath caught in my throat. Flames flickered along the sagging roof. The shack was on fire.

  Swinging off the main road, I sped to the ramshackle building and stopped a few yards away. I jumped from my car and trotted nearer. What had started this inferno? Had lightning struck it during the storm and had it smoldered all night? It had been vacant since Old String died and would be no great loss. Surely the trees and grass were wet enough to keep the fire from spreading. Still, perhaps I should call the fire department.

  As I walked closer, I made out a smoking roof. Yes, I had better call 911 and ask for the fire truck. Those low-hanging tree branches could possibly begin to blaze.

  Coughing, I swatted at the thick smoke stinging my eyes and throat. I did not see the body lying on the ground in the tall grass until I stumbled over it. My heart hammered into my throat as I dropped to my knees beside the crumpled figure of a man. Lifting his bony hand, I felt for a pulse. Nothing. Life no longer beat within this human form. A ragged, reddish-brown splotch stained his shirt front. I got slowly to my feet, staring down at the pale face, stubbly beard and beak-like nose. I had seen this man once before, only a few hours ago.

  Chapter 3

  Twenty minutes later, I sat in Grant’s truck, clutching a cup of coffee from his thermos, Old String’s house a charr
ed tumble of boards and shingles in front of us. Only two partial walls stood with a section of roof slanting down over them, accidentally forming a small remnant of a room. These remains looked as if they could collapse with the next gust of wind. The firemen replaced their equipment and prepared to go back to Levi. An ambulance had already taken away that pitiful figure I had found in the yard.

  Grant put his arm around my shoulders. “You’re shaking so much you’re going to spill your coffee.”

  Taking a deep breath, I gulped the steaming brew and nodded. My teeth chattered as if I had a chill. Nothing at the moment could ease the image of that lifeless body lying on the ground.

  “That poor devil on the ground—I’ve never seen him around town. He may have been a vagrant—a homeless person who took shelter in the shack last night,” Grant muttered, watching the fire truck turn around. “But who killed him? And why? I’m guessing whoever did it tried to burn down the house with the guy inside, but if that’s the case, he stumbled out before he went up in flames. Or, maybe it was lightning.”

  “Um, Grant, he may have been a vagrant, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him. I’m not certain; he looks so different, um, dead, but I think he’s the person who came to our door last night during the storm.”

  Grant frowned. “He came to your house?”

  I downed more coffee. “Someone knocked on our door while the storm was at its worst. When Mom let him in, he took a good look at her then bolted back into the rain. It was like he recognized my mother. She thought he looked familiar too but couldn’t figure out why.”

  Swallowing the last drop and replacing the plastic cup over the thermos, I turned toward Grant. “Are you sure he was murdered? Maybe he fell on something. Could it have been an accidental death?”

  Even as I asked, I feared the answer.