by Harper Lin
Becky laughed.
“Sure. It’s funny to you. Mr. So-and-So needs powder because his feet itch and he can’t hear out of his left ear. That’s who she wants to marry me off to.” Cecelia shook her head and flopped down in the seat across from Becky. “But I am so glad to see you. It seems like forever since we visited.”
She took Becky’s hands in hers and squeezed them. Becky looked up at Cecelia, and her smile quickly faded. Tears filled her eyes. She shook her head and pulled her hands back to cover her face.
“What?” Cecelia asked. “What is it? Oh, wait. Adam White.”
Becky wailed and nodded her head. “I’m such a fool. I was horrible to him tonight. I don’t know why. He was trying to be sweet, and what he was saying wasn’t so awful, but…but…”
“Oh, dear. And you came here for comfort and had to eat one of Mama’s burnt date cookies. Oh, that’s from the frying pan into the fire.”
“What’s wrong with me, Cecelia?”
“The same thing wrong with all women in your condition. You are in love.”
“Thanks. Brilliant insight. I can see the spirits are working double time for you.” Becky chuckled.
“I will tell you this: Nothing pleases a man more than a woman apologizing to him. For some odd reason, that swells their chest and squares their shoulders more than a kiss. When you are wrong, say so with a sincere heart. He’ll not be able to resist. And when you are right, apologize with a smirk.”
“You’re right. And I knew that. I guess I was just hoping you’d offer to cast a spell on him. Maybe give him itchy feet for a few days.”
The ladies chuckled together and continued talking as Cecelia put on a pot for tea.
“Please don’t tell me you have tea that goes with these cookies.” Becky frowned and stuck out her tongue.
“What’s wrong with my cookies?” Ophelia asked. She’d come into the apartment without making a sound and made Becky jump like a cat.
“Well, Ophelia, they are an acquired taste, for sure. I haven’t acquired that taste just yet,” Becky stuttered. She liked Ophelia and didn’t want to intentionally insult her or her cookies.
“You expected chocolate or something sweet?” Ophelia blinked. Even her white eye, which had been blinded long ago by cataracts, twinkled mischievously.
Becky nodded.
“That’s what happens when you judge without knowing.” And that was the end of that conversation. Ophelia disappeared back downstairs.
“You and your mother are on a real roll doling out the advice tonight. Yes, I’m so glad I came here in my time of need to get verbally slapped and have my taste buds assaulted. With friends like y’all…” Becky shook her head.
Cecelia laughed. “So tell me, what else is going on?” She poured the hot water into dainty teacups.
“Well, you heard about the fire? That seems to be on everyone’s mind,” Becky said, watching Cecelia’s movements freeze as she stood in the tiny kitchenette.
“I heard something about a fire. I forget, Becky, do you take one lump or two with your tea?” Cecelia asked.
“No lumps. I take it straight,” she joked. “You know that farm, the Ruthmeyer farm butts right up against my daddy’s property? We were the first ones there, since I’d noticed the smoke from our parlor window.”
Cecelia said nothing.
“I hate to admit that rushing off to help saved my ears from the horrible piano music being pounded out by my mother’s guest. Like Ophelia, she wants me married off, too, and any man with prominent roots in the South will do.”
Cecelia laughed a little too loudly but said nothing more.
“I swear, Cecelia, when we got there, I saw some very strange things. Poor Mr. Ruthmeyer was still alive and inside. The fire was in every window except the small attic room. That’s where Mr. Ruthmeyer was. We all heard him screaming. It was…”
“Becky, I need you to stop talking about that.” Cecelia whirled around and stared at her friend.
“What?”
Cecelia swallowed. “Please, for your own safety and mine, just forget about the fire, Mr. Ruthmeyer, the women. All of it.”
“I didn’t say anything about women,” Becky replied slowly.
Cecelia let out a long sigh, and her back became rigid. She looked down at the tea she was preparing. A long silence passed between the women until Cecelia finally spoke.
“So you believe Mr. Ruthmeyer’s death was a murder?”
“I’ll say it’s suspicious is all,” Becky replied carefully. “There were a number of things that went on all at the same time while that fire was burning. I’m just saying that something doesn’t seem on the level.”
“My dear friend. Do you know what the Mafia is?” Cecelia asked.
“Darlin’, I’m on a first-name basis with almost every bouncer at a good number of speakeasies all over Savannah. I think I’ve heard that term once or twice.” She winked.
“This isn’t funny. I’m not cracking wise,” Cecelia said. “The Mafia is a church gathering compared to what Mr. Ruthmeyer was involved in. I am begging you, as your friend and someone who cares about you, to turn your back on this topic and never visit it again.”
“How do you know so much?” Becky whispered.
“It comes with the territory.” Cecelia waved her finger around the apartment and tapped the stack of tarot cards that were always on the kitchen table. “There are things going on with that piece of property and all the people involved that you don’t want any part of. We aren’t talking about an obsessed lover or even a person with a chip on their shoulder. This is much deeper. Becky, it’s darker than you are prepared to deal with. Please, just forget about the fire.”
“All right, Cecelia. I’ll forget about it for now.” Becky was more accustomed to ignoring advice than she ever was to heeding it.
Cecelia saw right through her. “I can’t stop you from doing whatever cotton-headed thing you might be contemplating, but you’ve been warned.” Cecelia shook her head.
The ladies chatted a little longer before Becky decided to head back home. She said good-bye to Cecelia after promising to be careful and waved good-bye to Ophelia, who was counselling an overweight woman about a mixture of spices and some strange rope that she was putting in a bag for her. Ophelia winked at Becky before she stepped out into the night air.
It was still early by Becky Mackenzie standards, and the hustle and bustle of the street seemed fresh and new again. So as any good soldier would do, she carried on and slipped into the first gin joint she could find. There were a few familiar faces that happily whirled her around the dance floor. The bartender was a friend of a friend and slipped her two shots on the house.
By the time she was ready to leave, she was feeling much better than she had been at Willie’s. But the instruction Cecelia had given her regarding Adam sounded about right. Yet who wanted to eat so much crow? And why didn’t he feel the least bit bad for putting her in such a predicament? Why did everyone think that Fanny Doshoffer was some kind of class act when she was no better than an alley cat? Was it just because she had gone to France?
“The Marquis de Sade was from France. I don’t see anyone making excuses for him,” Becky muttered as she walked down the sidewalk. Her voice drew the attention of more than one couple as they passed her. “What are you looking at? Never saw a woman talk to herself before?”
This walking was never going to cut it. Becky hailed a cab and, with the few cents she had left, had them drop her at the entrance of the Old Brick Cemetery. She’d be home in no time if she didn’t mind cutting through the tombstones. Normally, she didn’t. Tonight was no exception—or so she thought until she realized she wasn’t the only one in the cemetery.
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure you want me to drop you off here?” the cabdriver asked nervously, looking at the rickety gate and dilapidated wrought iron fence. “Looks a little desolate. A young lady shouldn’t be roaming through those graves by herself. Or at all.
”
Becky chuckled. “My daddy’s house is just on the other side. By the time you drive all around and pull up our long dirt road, I’ll be in bed fast asleep. But I do appreciate your kindness.”
“All right, ma’am. Be careful.” He tipped his hat after Becky handed him his money and tip before waving him on.
She’d crossed the cemetery more often than she cared to admit. Had Kitty known how often she crossed this sacred ground, she would have gasped and demanded that Judge pay to have a new gate and fence put up around the entire bone yard just so she wouldn’t be able to take the ghoulish shortcut. Becky understood why most people would shudder at the thought of creeping along the overgrown paths at night with nothing more than the moonlight to guide them. It was the only place where the living could be literally alone yet completely surrounded by other people. But Becky knew she wasn’t alone and had several ghostly chaperones to escort her safely to her father’s property.
But tonight, she would have been hard-pressed not to notice that none of her usual traveling companions had come to greet her. Mr. Wilcox was her favorite. He was a pleasant old man who bragged about his eleven grandchildren and cracked wise about his wife of thirty-three years. Hardly a week went by when she didn’t see him at least twice. But he was nowhere to be found. As Becky proceeded along her usual route, she noticed that not only were her deceased friends not around, but neither were the usual nighttime creatures. There was no hoot of the great horned owls that took up residence in oak trees, nor were field mice or raccoons kicking up the brush. In fact, now that Becky was paying attention, she didn’t so much as feel the tickle of a moth against her skin or hear the buzz of a mosquito in her ear. Something was wrong.
As she kept walking, she felt a shift in the air. The quiet became heavy, and although she could see nothing out of place, it was as if she was seeing the landscape for the first time. And for the first time, she felt as if the landscape was seeing her.
Before she came to the turn in the path that started her in the direction of her home, Becky finally heard something. At first she thought maybe a screech owl was calling for its mate. They didn’t always cry out in wild shrieks. Those stoic birds uttered the most adorable chirps when they were feeling romantic. But this wasn’t that adorable sound. It was sobbing. A child was crying close by.
In the bright moonlight, Becky followed the sound and saw the faint image of a little girl kneeling on the ground. Her hair was long and waved in a breeze Becky couldn’t feel. She was wearing a simple gunnysack dress. Becky couldn’t see her feet—not because they were covered but because they weren’t there.
“Honey? Why are you crying?” Becky whispered as she slowly approached the girl.
“They’re disturbing the old folks.” The girl’s voice was soft. “Why would they do such a thing to them? They just want to lie in peace.”
Becky assumed the girl was talking about something in her short life that had left a deep impression. But as she got nearer to her, she realized she had seen her before. Her name was Eugenia, and she’d died of fever during the War of Northern Aggression.
“Eugenia, honey, who are you talking about? You know your family is waiting for you. They aren’t disturbed,” Becky soothed.
“They are too disturbed. They’re stealing their soil and disturbing them. Why would they do that? Those old folks never did anything to them. It’s cruel, I tell you.” She sobbed uncontrollably.
Becky knew what to do when a child cried. How many times had she comforted Teeter when he’d hit a rough patch or taken a spill? So many times she’d lost count. She’d take him in her arms and rock him and tell him something sweet while smoothing his soft hair. The urge to do the same for Eugenia took hold of Becky, but as soon as she stepped closer, the girl faded into almost nothing. Her little face looked horrified and woeful all at once.
“Don’t worry, honey. It’ll be okay.”
“Will you stop them from stealing their dirt? Will you make them stop digging? Please promise you’ll make them stop,” Eugenia pleaded.
“I promise.” Becky didn’t know what else to say. “I’ll make them stop.”
Eugenia seemed to accept this as she wiped her nose on the back of her arm and then looked over her shoulder. She stood up and pointed, and just like a wisp of smoke out the top of a chimney, she was gone.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of Becky’s neck stood up. She looked in the direction Eugenia had pointed. Off in the distance was a small light. It was swinging back and forth, but it didn’t appear to be advancing. Feeling rather territorial and offended that someone else would be walking in what she considered her cemetery, Becky carefully began to inch her way toward the swinging light.
Without any other sounds of nature, she was sure she heard a low female voice whispering something along with the sound of shovels hitting dirt—two of them if she was hearing clearly.
Careful not to give herself away, Becky stepped off the weed-covered path and slipped into the shadows of the tombstones. The blankets of moss hanging from the trees hid her from the moonlight. When she’d crept as far as she could without being seen, Becky peeked from behind a tall tombstone so worn and weathered that the names and dates were nothing more than cracks and dents in the stone. As she got down on her knees and squinted in the direction of the lamp, her breath caught in her throat. It was the woman from the fire. Not Mrs. Tobin but the other woman. Her skin looked oily in the yellow light. Her hair was concealed beneath the purple wrap on her head. She was muttering something as two men continued to dig the dirt. They looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks and were nothing more than muscle, skin, and bones. Their skin shined like slick oil in the tiny light, too.
Were they slaves? Was this woman working them to death? And why was she in the cemetery?
Carefully, Becky started to creep closer. The next tombstone was a few feet away beneath a heavily mossed bough. She crawled on her hands and knees, barely feeling the earth and pebbles that dug into her flesh.
Soon she was safely concealed behind another tombstone that was nothing more than a worn-down arch that looked like a jagged tooth in a hobo’s mouth. Becky was almost on her belly as she peered around the side.
It looked as if the woman in the head wrap was in some kind of trance. She stood dangerously close to the edge of the hole the two men were digging, swaying as she muttered words Becky couldn’t understand. How was she hanging like that? How did she manage not to fall into the grave face-first?
How Hugh Loomis was able to remain standing after drinking moonshine is a complete mystery, too. The world is full of them, she thought.
Suddenly the woman’s head snapped up and twisted unnaturally in Becky’s direction while her feet remained firmly planted at the very edge of the hole. Becky looked into her eyes and was sure they were all white. Within a split second, they snapped back to what eyes were supposed to look like, and she muttered something unintelligible. Whatever it was, the two men stopped digging. With the agility of cats, both men hopped out of the hole and began walking in Becky’s direction. If she stayed where she was, there was a good chance they’d see her. She could play drunk, pretend she was in dreamland and stumbling home when she crossed their path. But drunks disappeared all the time. It was a rare occasion, but it did happen that some poor rummy would fall asleep with his head on the train tracks, only to wake up at the Pearly Gates after the train ran over him. She could hold her breath and stay as still as a statue and hope they wouldn’t see her.
Just as Becky was deciding to stay put, a shaft of moonlight hit both their faces.
They looked like something out of a nightmare. From a distance, they looked like ordinary men. Thin, yes. But still, they looked like men who Becky might see walking down the street or even asking to work in her father’s tobacco fields. But there was something missing. They were in a trance. Their eyes had rolled over white. Not like Ophelia’s white, cataract-filled eye but white as if the irises were missing. How did they se
e to dig, to walk, to search for her? They were being led, and Becky felt it was by a force that wasn’t their own will.
She pressed her body so close and flat to the ground that her own breath, as quiet and shallow as it was, bounced back from the dirt up against her chin. She didn’t dare move. The whispers from the woman echoed in the empty graveyard and were answered with grunts and gurgles from her two assistants. As Becky focused on their expressionless faces, a new revelation jumped out at her so viciously she almost screamed.
Their mouths were sewn shut.
Becky’s breath hitched in her throat. Both men looked in her direction. Without waiting, Becky jumped up and took off running through the dark cemetery. She was sure each footfall was like a gong going off, giving away her position. She made it to the halfway point before stopping behind a wide oak tree whose branches stretched out like long arms. Her chest was heaving, and she was drenched in sweat. Her dress was ruined, she was sure, and her shoes would be tossed into the garbage as soon as Kitty saw them. But Kitty’s wrath was the least of her worries.
Carefully, she peeked around the tree. The men were getting closer. But their steps were clumsy and unsteady. They didn’t know the cemetery like Becky did. Slowly, Becky bent down. Gingerly, she felt around until her fingers felt the cool, smooth texture of a stone. She dug her nails around it, picked it up, and with all her might threw it back in the direction she’d come. The men, if she could call them that, whirled around and stumbled in the direction of the noise.
Becky took off running in the opposite direction. Never before had she wished for the end of the cemetery to come quickly. Of all the places she visited, it was this poor old bone yard that had brought her the most joy, the most peace. And now someone and a couple of somethings had inserted themselves into this peaceful place and made it unfamiliar and scary.
Becky didn’t look back. Not until she was safely inside the tobacco field did she turn around. The tobacco was almost taller than Becky’s head, but she could still, on tiptoes, see over the top. No one was following her. But she got the worst feeling that that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching her. The sweet smell of the rows of tobacco brought her a feeling of comfort that she was almost home. She slowed her pace a little and tried to catch her breath.