by Karen Harper
“For a while at least. I’m actually a scientist, working on a breast cancer cure that uses parts of the root to slow the growth of tumors.”
Bending low for another shot and squinting down the cue stick as if it were a rifle, he craned his head to look up. “No kidding? I had a friend died of that at home.”
“So, where is home?”
“Born in New Jersey but been living in south Florida for years. Man, the Everglades are a far cry from Deep Down. Here, I’ve been watching out for bears instead of gators or the Ape.”
“The Ape? What’s that?”
“Just what it sounds like,” he said, hitting a ball that missed its mark. He straightened to rechalk the end of his cue stick. The sound of that gave her shivers, as if someone scraped fingernails across a blackboard. “Some locals claim to have seen a big ape with a terrible smell that lives in the swamps.”
“Florida’s answer to Bigfoot, the Yeti or the Abominable Snowman?”
“Exactly,” he said with a smile that flashed perfect teeth. “It can’t all be legend, not in so many places.”
“I suppose you believe in the Loch Ness Monster, too,” she said, but her heart was thudding so hard she was afraid he could hear it. Since he worked in the woods alone, should she tell him about Tyler’s photo? She’d better ask Drew first. He obviously didn’t trust this man, but was that only because he was protective of Emmy and didn’t want new roads for developments here? And Seth detested Buford, so she’d better just keep quiet for now. But what if something terrible happened to him, when she could have warned him?
“You’re away from home so much, you must not have a family,” she said.
“A rolling stone gathers no moss. Speaking of plants, I only deal with the tall ones that shade your ginseng, but I’ll let you know if I spot what looks like a patch you can count. Good luck with all that. With what happened to your mother, I’m sure you’ll have protection—a guard or weapon—when you go out there.”
He’d made a statement, but she had the strangest feeling he was asking a question: Would she be alone and unarmed? Maybe he was trying to get something out of her as she had him. No, that was her paranoia talking again. She was about to get the subject back to Cassie when Vern poked his head through the door.
“Hey, partner,” he called to her. The nickname surprised her; she felt as if he’d been eavesdropping when Drew called her that. “No one else’s out front but Peter, who just came in, so let’s go over some stuff out here, okay? It’s still raining outside, Ryan.”
“I can hear it on the roof,” he said and cracked another ball off two more and into a pocket. “I’m dying to get back out there, but it’s gonna have to wait.”
“Now you just mind your manners at Sarah’s house today, Pearl,” Cassie told her as they pulled up before the Castor family’s house two miles farther out of Deep Down than their own. Sarah was the nearest playmate with the closest age to Pearl. They’d be on the same school bus next year, and, hopefully, stay best of friends, just the way she and Jessie had, Cassie thought. “And don’t you go telling Sarah or her mommy what made you sick the other day.”
“I know,” Pearl said, but she was still pouting. “Only Aunt Jessie and Drew can know.”
“That’s right, ’less I tell you different. You sure you got to cart Teddy along today?” she asked with a frown at the tattered bear. “Won’t Sarah think you’re too old for that?”
“She has a doll she carries around. It’s all right,” the child said in such a mature, comforting tone that Cassie knew darn well she’d gotten that from Jessie.
With her old windshield wipers flipping water, Cassie maneuvered as close to the front steps as she could, then leaned over to open the door so Pearl could dash up on the porch without getting too wet. Thelma came out on the porch with Sarah—yep, she was holding a baby doll—and called, “Can’t you come in and set a spell, Cassie?”
“Sorry! Maybe when I pick her up. Been staying with Jessie lately and got me too much to do at home.”
“Don’t I understand!” Thelma called back, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “Those two are going to have to amuse themselves awhile today, but they’re two peas in a pod.” She waved as Cassie slammed her truck door and drove off. The delicious smell of fresh-baked, yeasty bread that had poured from the house, even through the curtain of rain, now seemed to fill the cab of the truck.
Thelma and Matt had a nice home and a strong marriage. Matt Castor worked way ’round Big Blue in the only coal mine remaining in the area, but he drove home every night rather than staying over in company cabins the way some others did. Thelma loved to do her own sewing and baking, just the way mountain women used to. She sold bread and cookies uptown to both the V & T General Store and the Soup to Pie.
Cassie wished something like that could work out for her and Tyler, though he’d probably try to take them away from here, and her emotional roots ran deep in Deep Down. Yes, Cassie thought, as she made her own daydreams, she wanted a man she could love, not one she just wanted. They’d have other children, too, she’d still do wildcrafting and sell the items to the gift shops and florists, while Tyler commuted to work until his book made so much money he could afford to stay here…
Cassie gasped and hit the brakes. The truck skidded on the wet road, but she managed to keep control. Through the mist of gray rain ahead, a dark form darted across the road. For one second she’d thought of that figure in Tyler’s photo, but it wasn’t that big.
It looked like Junior Semple, but he’d disappeared into the brush as fast as he’d appeared, and she sure wasn’t going in there after him. She’d have to rush home and call Drew. Drat, why was it that lately in what used to be boring, quiet Deep Down, she was always calling someone for help?
As Jessie followed Vern back toward the sales counter where Peter Sung sat on a tall stool, she vowed to do a better job of getting things out of Vern and maybe even Peter than she had Ryan Buford. At least he’d admitted that he’d been through here five or six years ago; that made the timeline possible for his being Pearl’s father.
But one other thing kept tugging at the thoughts: was it just coincidence Buford had mentioned those beasts of legend like the so-called Swamp Ape?
She’d bet anything that he’d gotten the information about Tyler’s strange picture out of Emmy, even though Drew had told her not to tell anyone else. So should she tell Drew that word of The Thing had leaked out, probably from Emmy, but maybe from Tyler, too?
“In only one day, so much tragedy again,” Peter said, taking Jessie’s hand as if to shake it but then just holding it. “Dreadful about Ms. Brazzo’s death and the fire at Mr. Bearclaws’s place.”
“And Junior’s still missing,” she said. “You haven’t heard anything from him, have you?”
“I have his sang ready to be packed for my drying barn in Lexington, but I’ve had no word of him or from him,” Peter said as she tugged her hand back and walked behind the counter with Vern.
“Is the drying barn that old tobacco barn on your property?” she asked as she sat on the stool next to Vern’s.
“Didn’t I mention that? We were so busy at the house and with the Plotts, and then you left so suddenly.”
Jessie would have liked to have searched that barn and, no doubt, so would Drew. Illegally harvested ginseng could be stored there. Maybe it could somehow be linked to the sang that had been where her mother last counted, or even that she was half-buried in. The sang from what Drew said Seth called “the grandfather tree” was still at Jessie’s house in sacks.
“Okay,” Vern said, knocking his knuckles on the counter, “here’s the quick rundown on handling sang buyers that come in here. We only buy mature roots, at least five years in the ground.” From a box on the counter, he picked up a great-looking root and extended it toward her. “You know how to count neck scars?”
She pictured her mother’s neck—Beth’s, too—bent at a terrible angle from a blow. She fought to concentrate
. “Yes, of course. Each annual bud leaves a scar,” she said, pointing at the marks on the root. “I use a magnifying glass for that in the lab. I have it in my bag. Actually, I’m carrying my mother’s old denim pack, just to have a bit of her with me.”
Vern looked teary-eyed; Peter glanced at the bag she’d laid on the counter.
“She would have liked that,” Vern said, clearing his throat. “Also, I expect roots to be cleaned of general dirt, maybe lightly brushed with a toothbrush when they bring them in, but not really washed or soaked. Darned if I’m paying for soil or water weight. As for curing, I want them dried, with a white center that will break before it bends,” he said, snapping the root. “Now I know you been ’round sang all your life and still work with it, so this is just a reminder.”
“I appreciate the review. I didn’t have time to ask Cassie about your procedures. Besides, I’d rather hear it from the main man’s mouth.”
His eyes looked wet again. “Wish I would have been Mariah’s main man, Jessie. On both sides, it just didn’t work out between us, but at least we parted friends. I thank God for that since she’s gone now.”
“I understand, really,” she assured him, but her pulse pounded. He was still trying to make excuses. All his emotion at the wake, the funeral and now here—could it be guilt over more than a rejection of his offer of marriage? It also interested her that Vern must have shared all that with Peter already, or surely, he would not have brought it up in front of him. How much did the two of them work together on things besides buying ginseng?
“No shrunken roots with the skin wrinkled,” Vern went on, “or they dried it wrong, and no way we’re paying full price. All roots one-eighth of an inch or smaller should be broken off. They want to sell that as fiber, I’ll buy it separate, five bucks a pound. Last, you know roots absorb moisture on a rainy day, so make a point of that with them if they come in today. We’re starting with offers of only six-hundred-fifty dollars a pound today, which gives us a bit of leeway to go up. You okay with all that? I s’pose most of it’s old hat to you.”
“I understand. I’ll be fine.”
“Now I’m gonna help Peter pack the almost-wild he bought from Junior Semple, but you need me for anything, I’m in the storage room back by my office. You can’t handle somebody’s tall tales or sass, just sing out and I’ll be right here. You can keep your pack in my office.”
“I’ll take it back for you,” Peter said, swooping it off the counter as he started away.
“Thanks,” she said, thinking that would give her an excuse to be in Vern’s office later so she could look around, maybe even glance in his desk drawers or whatever files he kept. “Peter, did you hear how Junior was trying to protect that crop you bought?” she asked, still full of questions for both of them. Drew had never figured out where Junior got those poison sticks. Peter turned back, resting one hand on the far end of the wooden counter. She went on, “I don’t think Drew and I mentioned he’d planted varmint sticks that spewed poison gas. We almost got zapped by one.”
“Varmint sticks? I don’t know what those are. Poison gas?”
“I’ll explain it to you,” Vern said as he rose, too.
Jessie was torn between keeping up the chatter or letting them go. She didn’t want to push her luck by grilling them right now, but she might not have a chance later and Drew was depending on her.
“It’s lucky,” she said to Peter, “you weren’t dealing with Junior anywhere but from his jail cell, or you could have been hurt. I’m sure he was glad you bailed him out.”
“I believe the man must be claustrophobic—he was desperate to escape his cell—but I didn’t know he was deadly dangerous. Poison gas!” he repeated. “Amazing and appalling what desperate measures men go to for jen-shen. I suppose what I paid Junior sounded good to him, but virtually wild like his runs only about sixty dollars a pound right now. The farm-grown grade from Wisconsin is barely thirty dollars. All that to say how valuable by comparison is the wild sang. Jessica, I’m glad to see you here helping my friend Vern, but I hope, weather willing, you’ll be back out counting soon. From what I’ve heard passing through here—and I think Vern will agree—the harvest is bountiful and your count, even if you estimate it, will no doubt reflect that.”
She knew better than to commit to that or the opposite. “By the way, Vern,” she added, “I forgot to say I was really impressed with how well the Deep Down volunteer fire department handled Seth’s fire last night.”
“Doubly sad,” Vern said, frowning, “that the old guy’s out a place to live and that it was arson. I’m keeping my ears open ’case I pick up anything about who might have done it.”
He stared straight into her eyes. He couldn’t be lying, couldn’t be the one behind that outrage, could he? How could Vern have started the fire, then made it back to town in time to get on the truck and head back to fight it? Unlike with Peter Sung, she couldn’t picture Vern hiring anyone else to do his dirty work.
“Thank heavens,” she said, forcing a relieved expression, “you were in town when Cassie called the fire in.”
“Yep, upstairs, working on getting the displays all set for Tyler Finch. He wants to take photos of them ’fore he leaves for Miss Brazzo’s funeral—pictures for his own book he’s doing, not for their ads. Wonder if the power drink company will still use Deep Down now at all, ’cause she was the one pushing for that, setting everything up. But I got me the idea Tyler will be back to see Cassie and Pearl, even if the ginseng ads are now off.”
Ryan Buford had emerged from the back room so silently that Jessie wondered if he’d been standing in the shadows for a while. If he had any reaction to hearing Cassie or Pearl’s names, he didn’t show it.
“Hey, Ryan,” Vern said, and Peter nodded solemnly to him as if they’d already met.
“Hot soup and sandwich at the Soup to Pie calls,” Buford told them, ambling toward the front door. “Anyone want anything brought back? Figured I’d see if Emmy next door wants to go along,” he said with a wink at Jessie as he opened the front door.
“Better watch out,” Vern called after him. “Audrey might put something in your soup, you drag pretty little Emmy in with you!”
Buford only grinned and went out into the rain.
Chapter 23
23
D rew’s windshield wipers cleared his view as he pulled onto Seth’s property. The rain had blurred the windows of the old man’s parked truck, so Drew couldn’t tell if he was inside it or not. Surely he wouldn’t go off into the forest again in this weather. Drew had stopped here to see how Seth was doing. But beyond that, he wanted another crack at questioning him about what he’d done or found up by Bear Creek yesterday—and why he’d worn what looked like war paint.
Keeping his two-way with him in case Emmy called—Jessie was to go through her to reach him at any time—he got out. Seth rolled his truck window down. The sickening smell of charred wood hung heavy in the air.
“Can I get in?” Drew asked.
“I’m not getting back in yours. This is where I live for now.”
Drew got in the passenger side. The windows were so steamed up he couldn’t see out. Seth must have heard him coming. Drew saw he’d been eating a sandwich and drinking a G-Women power drink, of all things, but then the food had come from Jess.
“Sandwich?” Seth asked. “She packed plenty.”
“Yeah. Don’t mind if I do.”
The old man reached into the cooler at his feet and came up with a plastic-wrapped sandwich and another G-Women drink. Drew thought about Beth Brazzo, power woman, lying dead in the morgue. He forced his attention back to Seth, who was saying, “Jessie has a note in here to come eat supper with her tonight. A good woman, like her mother.”
“Amen to that.”
They ate in silence for a moment. Whole grain bread, cheese, meat, mustard, lettuce, dill pickles. Drew didn’t realize he’d been so hungry. Maybe food and the power drink would pick up his strength. The rain seemed to
be letting up a bit.
“So, what?” Seth asked, then crunched into an apple.
“I need to know more about what you found—or didn’t—yesterday up by Bear Creek.”
Seth chewed and swallowed. He took so long Drew thought he would refuse to answer. “I found more badger fur at about a six-foot height on the grandfather tree where Mariah was laid. It wasn’t easy to see, so don’t beat yourself up for not catching it before.”
“The other day, you didn’t want to so much as look at that tree, let alone to approach it.”
“Old ways die hard.”
“Did you bring the fur back so we—I—can match it?”
He nodded, but said nothing else.
“You dressed the way you did and wore the face paint—”
“Blackberry juice with sawdust—”
“—to honor Mariah?”
“To honor the tree. I keep thinking this,” he said, shaking his head as his voice became awed. “Did my house burn because I invaded sacred ground, the very place where some of my people once hid to save their lives—and some died?”
“You told me some hid there but not that they died there.”
“The government soldiers said to assemble near Bear Creek for the march west. When they were found hiding, some were stabbed or hacked to death with bayonets. I only tell you this because you believe me.”
“I do, Seth,” he said, turning to face him more squarely. “I’m really sorry. A death tree, not just a grandfather tree. But you don’t believe that about the tree cursing you by burning your house? I’m telling you, someone human started it.”
“I know,” he said, pounding a fist on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t a curse any more than some strange creature killed Mariah.”
“But you don’t sound convinced.”
Seth shrugged. “As I said, old ways die hard.”
“I need your help again. What the hell are we going to do with badger claw marks on her and badger fur six feet up a tree, in the sang leaves, or anywhere else? I know you don’t like to talk about your heritage, but—”