A MistY MourninG

by Rett MacPherson

  “Gert?” I yelled. My pulse quickened and seemed to stop in my throat. “Gert?”

  The rising hysteria in my voice alarmed me. I hadn’t realized that I was so afraid until I heard it come out of my own mouth. The screaming was weak, but seemed to come from upstairs. I backtracked and took the stairs as fast as my short legs would allow, considering they had a huge belly to contend with, as well.

  “I’m coming, Gert!”

  Why was nobody else helping her?

  That would be because, so far, I hadn’t seen another living human being.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I immediately turned to the right and was ready to check our room first. A noise that came from my left, however, stopped me cold.

  It was the elevator.

  I turned to find my grandmother tied up on the floor of the elevator. Through the metal bars I could see the bungee cord around her wrists. Sweat broke out along my spine, and I shook from head to toe. But it was not fear that made me shake. It was fury.

  “Gert, my God,” I said. I reached the elevator and yanked on the door, and it was locked.

  Keys. Keys. I dumped the contents of my purse on the floor in front of the elevator and rummaged through all of the junk until I found the rabbit’s foot key chain. I picked it up and began trying the different keys.

  “What the hell,” I said. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay. Please, God, tell me you’re okay.”

  “Just get. . . me . . . up,” she said.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked. Key number four, number five, number six. Bingo! The right key. The lever released, and I yanked the door open, only to find another door. Mercifully, that one did not need a key.

  I leaned on the elevator floor next to her and untied the bungee cord. And then I yanked on her arm to try and get her up off the floor. She didn’t budge. She was too weak.

  “Gert, you’re going to have to help me. I can’t lift you. I’m pregnant, you know. I—”

  “I know. You don’t. . . want your. . . water to break,” she said, breathless.

  “Or rupture something. You have to help me,” I said. “One, two, three, heave.”

  She was almost up. One more try and she’d make it. “One, two, three, heave,” I said and she came up off the floor.

  She staggered and swayed a little, and a shaky hand went out to the railing to hold herself steady. I, however, thought I was going to need a wheelchair, I shook so badly. Unexpectedly, tears streamed down my face.

  “Who . . . who did this?” I asked as I swiped away tears.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to lie down.”

  I walked her back to our room and helped her into the bed. This was no time to have an antique bed that was nearly four feet off the darned floor! “Wait,” I said and went to get a suitcase. “Here, step on this.”

  She used it to step up on, and got into the bed, where I fluffed her pillows and went about examining her for bumps or bruises. Other than the marks from the bungee cord, and a seminasty knot on the back of her head, she seemed fine. No blood.

  “What happened?” I asked; somewhat calmer.

  “I was in here working on the quilt. You know, trying to figure out what all the blocks were,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “And. . . oh, my gosh, my derriere hurts. And all of a sudden this, ouch! You know, right on my head. And I think you’re right. I think it is a map. Oh, my gosh, I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” she said.

  “Make it where?” I asked. “Have you been shot or something?”

  “No, no. I just feel funny.”

  “People don’t the from feeling funny, Gert. Are you seriously hurt?”

  “I’m not sure. They took the quilt.”

  “What?” I asked, a chill settling into my bones. “They took the quilt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that means . . .”

  “You were right. Oh, Lordy. . . everything’s all fuzzy.”

  “So, somebody coldcocked you and locked you in the elevator to get the quilt,” I said. “Did you figure it out? Did you decipher it?”

  “You know, I could be dying, here! All you care about is that stupid quilt!” she shouted.

  “Are you dying, Granny? Are you?”

  “I could be.”

  “Are you?”

  “No,” she said begrudgingly.

  “Exactly. Did you decipher it?”

  She hesitated a long time, obviously irritated with me. “I’m pretty sure. I think it’s only because I lived here, though. I don’t think an outsider coulda figured it out.”

  “What is it? What is it a map to?”

  “Torie?”

  I looked up to see cousin Elliott standing in the doorway looking excited and frazzled. He took a big gulp of air and then a wonderful sparkly smile spread across his face. “You are not gonna believe what I found,” he said. He took a moment to study his surroundings and then he asked, “Where is everybody?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea,” I said. I filled him in briefly on what had just happened. He was duly attentive to my grandmother, checking her head for the bumps I’d already checked for. My grandmother glowed in his attention. Why hadn’t she glowed when I checked her head for bumps? I’m convinced grandmothers like boys better than girls.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Okay. . .” he said. He took a deep breath, straightened out his shirt, and cleared his throat. “Aldrich Gainsborough never did anything awful to Clarissa like I suggested.”

  “Huh?”

  “The reason his picture is hanging on the mantel is because Clarissa was in love with him!” he said, all proud of himself.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, you wanna know what Clarissa Hart was doing for the year that she left Panther Run? She was in Charleston having a baby. She had a baby boy,” he said.

  “How do you know?” I asked, amazed at what this could mean.

  “In vital statistics there is a child born to Clarissa in the year that she was gone. She named him Owen Gainsborough.”

  “She gave him his father’s last name,” I said aloud. “What happened to the boy?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m assuming he died.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if she’d given him up for adoption, wouldn’t the birth records be sealed or something like that?” he asked.

  “I’m assuming,” I said, just as unsure as he was about it. “I know that they are sealed today. Back then, though, most kids weren’t actually adopted. They were raised in orphanages and such. Nowadays they go to foster parents, if they’re not adopted.”

  We both looked at each other, wide-eyed. “We need to check out the orphanages,” I said.

  “The orphanages!” he echoed.

  “What does any of this have to do with who killed Clarissa?” Gert asked, slightly annoyed. That quickly, my grandmother looked at Elliott pleadingly. “I need an icepack, Elliott. Do you think you can get me one? My head is throbbing.”

  “Gert, what did you find out about the quilt?” I asked.

  “There were several blocks that were called things like, Picket Fences, Pumpkin Vine,.Snail’s Trail,” she said.

  “Which mean what?”

  “Meaning that, back in the twenties, if you followed the picket fence that used to run along the property, you’d eventually run into the pumpkin vines by the pumpkin patch and then finally to what we called the snail’s trail,” she said, rubbing her head. “Oh, my toe is hurting. I think I might have jammed it.”

  “Why did you call it the snail’s trail?” I asked, ignoring her toe remark.

  “Because it was this very narrow path and you could only go single file and very slowly,” she said.

  ‘To where?” I asked. “Where did the trail lead?”

  “The old abandoned mine shaft,” she said.

  “What mine shaft?” I asked. “Are you tellin
g me there is a coal mine on this property?”

  “Yes,” she said. “When I was a kid, the mine shaft was boarded up. As far as I know, it’s never been any other way. Clarissa owned it and she refused to let it be mined.”

  “You’re joking?” I asked. “My gosh, she could have made a fortune. Either starting her own company or getting a commission from another coal company to mine it.”

  “Wait,” Elliott interrupted. “Are you saying that the coal mine that is on the property then belonged to the Panther Run Coal Company?”

  “Yes, and when they sold the ten acres and the boardinghouse to Bridie and our great-grandfather, the mine must have come with it,” I said.

  “Then why didn’t our great-grandparents ever mine it?” he asked.

  We all three were silent and stared at each other. “That’s a good question,” I said. “You’re sure that this is what the quilt said.”

  “Yes,” she said. “For one thing, I held the quilt up to the light and the actual quilt motif that my mother quilted over each block was in the shape of a coal car.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “Who do you think did this to Aunt Gertrude?” Elliott said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it our killer?”

  “I don’t know that, either. It kind of smells that way, though. But then, why didn’t he kill her?” I asked. I worked my lower lip between my finger and thumb, thinking about what to do. “Can you get us to the mine, Gert? Do you remember how to get there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But my head hurts too much.”

  “Okay,” I said to Elliott. “Here’s the plan. Let’s take Gert to the hospital and have her checked out. We need to call the sheriff, as well, and file a report. Then you and I need to check out the orphanage records. If they exist and if we can go through them.”

  “One other thing,” Elliott said. “I found an old woman whose mother worked at the VanBibber House. You know, the halfway house.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She would have been about ten when Clarissa was there,” he said.

  “Wait, how do you know Clarissa stayed there?”

  “The birth record asked for an address. I looked the address up and it was the VanBibber House,” he said.

  “Wow, Elliott. I feel so close to you at this moment. Kindred souls, you know? I thought I was the only one,” I said in a melodramatic voice. He blushed and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Maybe it just runs in our blood,” he said. “Anyway, I called and she said that we could come by. She lives in Lockwood now.”

  “Great, right after we call the sheriff and we get Gert looked at by a doctor,” I said.

  Thirty-two

  Seriously, Mom, Gert is fine. Just a bump on the head,” I said. My mother’s voice was taut and suspicious. So much so that it came through loud and clear even over the long-distance lines. “This sounds serious.”

  “It’s not, really. I’m taking her to stay with Aunt Millie,” I said. “Her days of staying at the boardinghouse are over. I should have done it yesterday.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” she asked.

  Yes, why didn’t I? Disbelief that anything would really happen? Disbelief that anybody would actually try and hurt her? I’d been expecting something threatening to me. Not her. “Well, the sheriff told me not to leave town. He actually said not to leave the boardinghouse. I took him at his word.”

  The phone rustled a minute and then the next voice I heard was not my mother’s. Unless she was having serious testosterone problems.

  “What exactly happened?” Sheriff Colin Brooke asked. Great. My mother’s fiancß was acting like. . . egads! A member of the family!

  “What do you carer I asked.

  “What happened? What exactly is going on?”

  “Well, as I said earlier, Clarissa was poisoned with penicillin— she was allergic. I’m the number one suspect because I was found in her room, even though no one knows where I would get—or know how to administer—penicillin. Norville Gross was killed by a panther, not murdered. Although my grandmother refuses to believe it,” I said, taking a deep breath. “There’s a woman reporter who I think is the granddaughter of one of the miners who has been missing since 1917 or so. And the cleaning lady said that there was something hidden on this property that would make the family rich. So, they’ve been looking for it and I think Gert found it and that’s why she’s been hit on the head.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Do you need to know anything else?”

  “J-just take Gertrude to your aunt’s house. And you should stay there, too,” he said in a way too bossy tone.

  “I can’t,” I said. “The sheriff here, who is very professional by the way, said that I couldn’t leave the boardinghouse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he said so.”

  “When have you ever listened to what a person of authority has said?” he asked.

  Oh, so he wanted to get nasty, did he?

  “I guess when I find one that’s worthy of his uniform, I’ll listen!” I said. I was instantly sorry. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Colin.” I really didn’t mean it. I was just really stressed and ticked off and, well, he sort of got too close to the truth. When did I ever listen to anybody who wasn’t my mother? When? Never.

  “I. . . I just took him at his word because I am an outsider here and I’ve never been suspected of murder before. I wanted to make sure that I did everything he wanted.”

  “Well,” Colin said, “that makes sense.”

  It did? “It does?”

  “Of course,” he said. “The sheriff cannot order you to stay in a specific hotel or anything. He can order you not to leave town.”

  “Then why would he tell me that I couldn’t leave the boardinghouse?”

  “I would guess because it’s just easier if you stay there. He knows where you’re at. And he doesn’t think you’re in any real danger, because he thinks you’re the murderer. You’re of no threat to yourself. Of course, that just goes to show how little he knows about you.”

  I let that remark go.

  “Not to mention, if it’s a small town—”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Then he’s probably got people inside the boardinghouse that he trusts to watch you. If you left the boardinghouse, he would be flying blind,” he said. “Of course, this means that you are a serious, serious, serious suspect.”

  “Yes, but there is absolutely no evidence, Colin. They’ve found no vial of penicillin anywhere in my possessions and nothing with my fingerprints on it. If it ever went to trial there would be no way they could convict me. I don’t know how I can even be arrested.”

  “You were found in her room and she was dead.”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t suffocated, for crying out loud.”

  “People seeing her alive and then seeing her dead with you in the room is a strong persuasion,” Colin said. “Watch your back, Torie. It sounds to me like somebody is out to get you.”

  Thirty-three

  Before Elliott came to take me to visit with the old lady who had worked at the VanBibber House, I rapped lightly on the door of Oliver Jett’s room. After a moment he answered the door. “Mrs. O’Shea,” he said.

  “Mr. Jett, may I speak with you?”

  “Surely. I was just packing up to leave. I should have left yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I have a brother who lives in Panther Run. I wanted to spend a day or two with him. May as well, since I was here and all,” he said and went to the closet to pull out the only two suits that were hanging in there. “What brings you to my room?”

  “Did you hear about all the commotion earlier?” I asked.

  “Yes. I can’t believe nobody was here,” he said.

  “Well, somebody was obviously here, they’re just not going to admit it,” I corrected.

  “Well, whoever
it was knew that it was shopping day for Susan Henry, and Dexter Calloway always visits his father in the nursing home.”

  “Where was Vanessa Killian?”

  “From what I understand, she had a doctor’s appointment. Unusual for nobody to be here, but with Mrs. Hart dead, Vanessa didn’t see the harm in leaving the boardinghouse unattended,” he explained.

  “And where were you?” I asked.

  “Visiting my brother.”

  “So, basically my grandmother was left alone in the boarding-house with nothing but the Hart children and grandchildren,” I said.

  “Yes, well. You left her,” he said.

  “Right”

  “Is that what you wanted? You could have found that out from Dexter,” he said. “I think there is another reason for your being here.”

  The round, pudgy, nervous man that I had met the day Clarissa was murdered was a tad more sure of himself today. I’d only seen him briefly this past week and hadn’t really had a chance to speak with him.

  “There is,” I said. “I was wondering if you would let me see Clarissa’s will. The first one. The original one.”

  “That would be unethical,” he declared.

  “Would it be more unethical than letting a killer go?” I asked.

  He stopped in front of the dresser and let out a long, exasperated sigh. I seemed to have that effect on people. “Mrs. O’Shea, last I heard, that killer would be you.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “Am I supposed to believe you just because you’re pregnant and you say it’s so?”

  Well, yes, I thought.

  “I have no motive for killing Mrs. Hart. Somebody obviously burned her will in the fireplace either after they murdered her or after they found out she was dead. I think you know that I was left nothing in the first will. What would I have to gain from killing her? She’d already changed her will so that I received the boardinghouse. And burning the new will certainly wouldn’t have helped me any,” I said. “I would just like to see how much she changed it.”