Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  “Are you all right?” Miss Georgia asked as Mom backed away from the door and leaned against the wall.

  “I need to sit down for just a minute,” she mumbled, her face as white as the boards of the house.

  Concern for my mother dried the twins’ tears and brought me immediately to her side. Miss Georgia and I led her to the settee. Miss Carolina disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a pot of tea.

  Mom rested her head against the back of the settee and closed her eyes. I picked up a magazine and fanned her face.

  “I’ve never fainted in my life and I’m not about to faint now,” she said. “I’m feeling better already. Not sure what happened anyway. As I looked out at that porch, I just started feeling sick.”

  “It was such a shock,” I said, accepting the cup Miss Carolina handed me for Mom. “Poor Mort.”

  For the next few seconds, we four women cried for the newspaper editor who, if not a close friend, was a friendly acquaintance and a fellow human being who did not deserve to have his life cut short.

  “Why did you think Grant blamed you?” I asked, blowing my nose and glancing at Miss Georgia.

  “Well, he just quite plainly said so,” Miss Georgia retorted. “He said if we didn’t have that little flask of sherry, Mort wouldn’t have gotten so drunk he fell off the porch.”

  Patting Miss Georgia’s hand, I felt a flicker of resentment toward Grant. He should not have further upset these two gentle ladies. On the other hand, what he said was true and I understood his feeling of frustration and grief that Mort’s death might not have happened if the twins didn’t own that small silver flask.

  “I’m all right now, Darcy,” Mom said, placing her cup on the coffee table. “The question is, Miss Georgia, are you and Miss Carolina going to be okay? Wouldn’t you like to come home with us for a while?”

  Smiling, Miss Georgia shook her head. “No, we’re fine. We feel better here in our own house, but thank you kindly, dear.”

  “We’ll leave through the back door,” I said as Mom and I got up. “However, I’d like to go around front and take a look at that railing. It will need to be repaired right away or maybe you need a new one. Do you think Tim Johnson could repair it? Don’t either of you venture out the front until the railing is back up.”

  “Certainly,” Miss Carolina answered.

  I walked slowly around those tall steps in the front yard, my eyes on the ground. The sun hung low in the western sky, casting long shadows on the far side of the steps. The broken banister lay as a mute marker of where Mort had lost his life. Kneeling beside it, I lifted it partially off the ground. Surprisingly, it felt heavy. Several screws were gone from the railing which had been used to attach it to the porch. Those screws, rusted and bent, lay on the ground. Why hadn’t I insisted that the railing be fixed before this happened? The old railing must have been ready to fall when even the slightest weight rested on it, and Mort had been a big man.

  Getting to my feet, I ran my hand over those holes in the side of the house where screws had anchored the railing. Mort’s weight against the banister had pulled it completely free of the house’s boards.

  Sighing, I reached down to help Mom up from the bottom step where she sat. As I glanced at the ground, something glinted in the grass at her feet. Stooping down, I picked up a small, triangular plastic object.

  “What is it, Darcy?” Mom asked.

  “It’s a guitar pick,” I said.

  “A guitar pick? Why would that be here? Neither Miss Georgia nor Miss Carolina plays a guitar.”

  A cold, hard knot formed in the pit of my stomach. “Neither did Mort. Do you remember Trace Hughes brought his guitar to our housewarming?”

  “Of course,” Mom said. “It was a nice gesture and everyone liked hearing him.”

  “Mort enjoyed the music too. He commented that he had never learned to play anything.”

  Mom and I were both silent, thinking about what the small plastic object might mean. Trace Hughes played the guitar, the only person of my acquaintance who did. Trace Hughes had threatened Mort the previous day. Trace Hughes did not show up at Walter Harris’s funeral.

  Mom spoke in a low monotone, her eyes searching my face. “What are you going to do with that pick?”

  Bewilderment threatened to overwhelm me as I gazed at the pick in my palm. “I should give it to Grant. It could be evidence. But if it is, Mom, this might mean that Mort’s death was not an accident. It could be that someone wanted to make sure Mort didn’t tell anybody what he had found out, what he was trying to tell Miss Georgia and Miss Carolina.”

  My scalp tightened and the hairs on my arms stood up. A strange feeling came over me. Someone, somewhere, was watching us. I gazed around the yard but saw no one. All was quiet. The serenity of the afternoon belied the loss of life which had happened here. Were my nerves so overwrought they were playing tricks on me? Obviously, no one was around, but the cold feeling of dread was real.

  Mom shook her head. “I just don’t know…” she murmured.

  Shaking my head and rubbing my arms, I asked, “Do you have the key to our house here in town?”

  She nodded.

  “I think it’s time we found Mr. Hughes and had a nice, long conversation.”

  Chapter 24

  As I parked in front of our house, my first thought was that the zinnias had recovered nicely since Trace had driven his motorcycle through. That day seemed like such a long time ago.

  My mother and I walked up to the familiar porch, climbed the steps, and rapped on the front door. I knocked a second time, more loudly, and a third.

  “He isn’t home,” Mom said.

  “Try the key,” I said.

  But as Mom grasped the doorknob, the door opened. The house had not been locked.

  “Reverend Hughes!” I called, stepping inside. “Darcy Campbell and Flora Tucker here.”

  My voice echoed through the rooms. The kitchen looked bare and unused. I suspected Trace ate most of his meals at Dilly’s.

  We searched through all the downstairs then climbed to the second floor.

  “Trace, are you here?” I yelled, not wanting to embarrass him, or us, by walking in on him if he was in the bathroom or taking a nap.

  The upstairs rooms were warm, as if the air conditioner had not been running on this summer day. And although Mom and I knocked on every door, opened them, and looked through the rooms, we found no trace of the pastor of the First Baptist Church of Levi.

  In his bedroom, Trace’s guitar hung on a stand he had screwed into the wall. Several sheets of manuscript paper lay on his desk. I looked them over. Songs! If Trace was writing a book, as Pat said, it was a book which included some of his original music.

  “I don’t think he has taken a suitcase or packed any clothes.” Mom’s voice was muffled inside the master bedroom closet.

  “No, it looks as if he just walked out and left his guitar behind,” I said. “He’s so fond of that guitar, seems to me he wouldn’t have left it behind. I didn’t see his motorcycle outside, but let’s check the garage as we leave.”

  “And lock the house,” Mom said. “We sure don’t want some vagrant or whoever murdered poor Walter to walk in and make himself at home.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, propped my elbows on my knees, and rested my chin on my hands.

  “Mom, what do we do?” I moaned. “Should I give this guitar pick to Grant? Should I tell him that Trace Hughes is not at home and it doesn’t look as if he has been here all day? I just can’t believe he would disappear like this without leaving word for anybody.”

  Mom sat down beside me. “I’m sure there is a good, sound reason he isn’t here. Maybe he was called away because of an emergency back home in Georgia. We mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

  Sighing, I stood up. The room was growing dark, and for the first time in my life, the late afternoon shadows in my childhood home seemed menacing.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Maybe after supper,
we’ll think of what we should do.”

  “When we’re hungry or worried or don’t feel well, we don’t make good decisions. Let’s eat supper and pray about it. Maybe the Lord will give us some answers.”

  “Oh, Mom,” I said, as we walked into the hallway, “let’s hope He does.”

  As we left, we looked into the garage. Trace’s motorcycle was gone. A chill ran down my spine. From the warmth of the house, I’d say he had not been home all day. He forgot about Mort’s funeral, his guitar pick showed up in the Jenkinses’ yard. I needed to talk to Trace Hughes. I needed some answers.

  Chapter 25

  As I drove across our bridge, around the house, and into the garage to park beside Mom’s Toyota, a sense of homecoming met me. I loved the trees that seemingly stood guard near our home, the welcoming porch, and the small cat that waited inside the door.

  Whippoorwills called from the hollow. Lightning bugs blinked above the grass.

  Jethro peered through the glass patio door, impatient to greet us. He meowed a welcome as we stepped inside the kitchen, winding around first Mom’s ankles, then mine. Checking his food dish, I saw that it was nearly full. Jethro had his little habits, just as we humans do. Many times he would eat very little or nothing until he was sure that his people were safely home.

  Stooping, I ran my hand over his sleek fur. “Have you been a good watch cat?”

  “He’s probably holding out for a little bit of cream,” Mom said. “It won’t take long to mix up some cornbread for us, although I don’t think Jethro would care for it. Does cornbread and milk sound all right to you for supper?”

  “It sounds perfect,” I answered.

  I set the table, poured milk and placed the butter on the table. Soon the aroma of baking bread filled the kitchen. My stomach growled.

  Later, sitting at the dining table and gazing out the patio doors to the woods beyond the garage, which were partially lit by the dusk-to-dawn light, I idly wondered if some of the inhabitants of those woods were looking in at us. What did the ’possums, skunks, raccoons, and rabbits think about us? Did they see us as interlopers in their domain or just fellow creatures whose home looked quite different from theirs?

  “What a day,” Mom murmured, buttering a piece of warm cornbread.

  “Heart-wrenching and exhausting,” I answered. “Far too much drama.”

  “If you want to call it that; anyhow, it was tiring, I agree, and sad.”

  “Yes, it was sad. I guess it takes a while to actually believe someone is gone when death is so sudden, as Mort’s was.”

  With her finger, Mom traced the beaded moisture on her glass of milk. “Death is such a foreign thing. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to really believe that your dad is no longer here. Sometimes he seems nearby. I expect to turn around and see those twinkly blue eyes.”

  My throat felt tight. “Yes. The same is true of Jake. I’ve heard people talk about ‘closure.’ To me, that’s a meaningless term. So is ‘acceptance.’ I guess we accept what can’t be helped, to a certain extent, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

  Mom’s small smile tugged at my heart. “No,” she agreed. “We don’t have to like it.”

  Somewhere among the denseness of trees and bushes, an owl hooted. Closer to the house came an answering call. Many times, owls messaging each other was the last thing I heard before drifting off to sleep. Folklore had it that sometimes those calls heralded a rain, but surely another storm wasn’t on its way. The grass and herbs were awash in rain.

  Wind sighed through the tops of the cottonwood trees in the back yard. Maybe it was because Mort’s death lay heavily on my mind that the sound seemed especially mournful tonight.

  “Mort said he had been investigating our preacher,” I said. “He was curious about why a man with as much talent as Trace would come to a small town like Levi.”

  “Maybe he felt the Lord led him,” Mom said. “He seems to be such a sincere young man. It could be that he is satisfied using his music for the Lord.”

  “I hope that’s right. Mort said that Trace comes from a small town in north Georgia, Tyler. How would you feel about paying a visit to Tyler, Georgia?”

  Mom dropped her cornbread and stared at me.

  “Darcy Tucker Campbell! Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “Mort mentioned Trace’s hometown, and I think he was planning on making a trip to visit there. Mort did hire me, so I guess I am officially working for his newspaper. However, I want to do this for myself. I think Trace Hughes did not tell us everything. I want to find out exactly why he is here…somewhere. Or maybe I’m too late. Maybe he has left town. Tomorrow I’ll call for airplane reservations to Atlanta. Want to come?”

  Mom fidgeted. “You know how I feel about flying. I think if the Lord had meant us to fly like birds—”

  “I know, he would have given us wings. Well, he did, sort of. Only the wings are on an airplane. It’s all right if you don’t go, Mom. In fact, you probably should stay here to see if anything develops about Mort’s death and if Trace shows up again.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” Mom said. “Only thing is, I wish you didn’t think it was important enough to make that long trip.”

  “I’ll call you if it’s necessary to be there more than a day. Please stay safe, and be sure to call Grant if you feel threatened in any way.”

  “How soon are you leaving?” Mom asked.

  “Hopefully, tomorrow. I’ll call and see if I can get a flight out of Fayetteville.”

  Chapter 26

  The flight from Fayetteville, Arkansas, took less than two hours. It was just after noon when the plane landed in Atlanta. As soon as I could do so after arriving, I rented a car, and followed a map northward toward Tyler.

  The narrow, two-lane road curved up and around mountains thickly clothed with tall trees, many of them pines. This was the home of my ancestors, my mother’s people. It was also in the vicinity of Dahlonegah, Georgia, the “place of the yellow” where gold was discovered. That discovery resulted in the infamous Trail of Tears when the Cherokee people were forcibly removed from their homes and driven west to Indian Territory. I could not think of that sad episode without a heavy feeling on my heart.

  Catching a glimpse of brown out my side window, I braked just in time to keep from hitting a deer which, heedless of the danger, leapt on springy hooves across the highway in front of me. As I was taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, another deer followed and yet another. Evidently, these deer traveled in families, or maybe the rest of the clan watched to see whether the lead deer crossed safely.

  A half mile past the deer crossing, I saw a small wood sign. TYLER in bold, black letters stood out from the painted wood. A narrow, paved lane branched off to the right. If I hadn’t slowed for the deer, I might have zipped right past that sign and not known it was there.

  Five miles along this road brought me to a small, pretty settlement. The road I traveled became the main street of Tyler. On one side of the street sat a grocery store, not a chain store, but one with a large window in front on which the words TYLER GROCERY blazed forth.

  On the other side of the grocery store was a post office, a gas station, and a library. The library sat back from the street and was prettily landscaped with rose bushes and dogwood trees and a fountain, under which some robins and cardinals were enjoying a bath.

  Past the library on the opposite side of the street, a small, neat sign proclaimed BAPTIST CHURCH OF TYLER. Several other streets nestled near the church which seemed to be in the center of Tyler. The white wood building reminded me of the church at home with its spire and bell. A neat-looking house, which I supposed was the parsonage, stood beside the church. Thick pine woods began directly behind the church, as if the forest only grudgingly gave way to civilization.

  This seemed a logical place to begin my search, since I was inquiring about a preacher. Stopping the car in the gravel parking lot, I climbed out and walked to the double front door.

&nbs
p; Knocking got no response, so I tried opening the door. Locked! Why would a house of worship in such a small town need to lock its doors? Shouldn’t it be a sanctuary for people wanting to go inside and pray any time of the day or night?

  Now what? Undecided, I meandered toward my car.

  “Mebbe you’re lost?”

  Whipping around, I tripped over my own feet.

  A wrinkled, bent man with thinning white hair, a beak nose and piercing brown eyes under bushy brows stood within three feet of me.

  For a few seconds, I stared at him, waiting for my heart to get out of my throat and flip back to its usual place beneath my ribs. Where had he come from? Was this a gnome who materialized from behind a tree?

  “No, I’m not lost,” I croaked. “I’m looking for somebody.”

  “Well, speak up, young ’un. Who you lookin’ for?”

  Swallowing, I struggled to gather my thoughts. “I’m…uh…I’m looking for Trace Hughes, actually. I heard this is his hometown.”

  “Preacher Hughes?”

  I nodded.

  Shaking his head, the old man mumbled, “You’re just a mite too late. Pastor Hughes died. That he did. We ain’t got no preacher no more. Had to lock up the church building. Sad, sad.”

  “No.” I shook my head. Trace could not be dead. He was young and vibrant and alive. The day grew cold and I shuddered with a sudden chill.

  “This can’t be true.”

  The wrinkled gnome of a man nodded. “’Fraid it is, hard as it is to hear it.”

  Licking my dry lips, I took a deep breath. “He’s dead? Are you sure? How did it happen? It must have been recent.”

  “Rutherford Galway, what are you telling this young woman?”

  A tall, thin, gray-haired woman strode toward me from the direction of the small house next to the church.

  “She was askin’ about Pastor Hughes,” Mr. Galway said, jerking a thumb toward me.