by fox, angie
I'd heard most of what people said about me after The Incident. That I was out of control, a manipulative gold digging fool. That I didn't appreciate what the good Lord had given me. That I'd used my womanly wiles to sway the prince of Sugarland.
As if boobs in a push-up bra wielded some kind of magic powers.
Maybe I could have handled things better. In fact, I know I could have. But I was no PR expert, and I'd been heartbroken at the time. Nobody's perfect and if you wanted to get right down to it, I was probably a lot less perfect than most people. But I did my best.
I couldn't spend all day trying to change Mrs. Tarkington's opinion of me. I still had a job to do, so I pressed on. "Do you know when Mayor Steward will be back? I'd like to talk to him about a property he used to own."
Mrs. Tarkington tensed, as if she feared I'd park myself in the outer office and wait. "He'll most likely be gone all day," she said, searching through her immaculate pen drawer for something that evidently was not a pen—or she would have found it lined up with the half-dozen already there.
The door behind her clicked open and out stepped the snowy haired man that, in my youth, I had sworn was the real Santa Claus. He'd grown even more round over the years, as if he were auditioning for the part. He kept his white beard clipped short and wore a gray suit with a white shirt, a tie with pumpkins on it, and gold cufflinks.
"Hello there." He moved slowly, leaning heavily on the 'walking stick' he'd been using for a few years now, ever since his old Vietnam War injury started acting up again.
Mrs. Tarkington flushed with embarrassment.
I was just grateful I wouldn't have to come back.
Our encounter this morning had embarrassed me. Before that, the last time I'd seen the mayor, I'd thanked him for his service and my coffee had gone cold while he told me stories about the men he fought with. He'd been kind to me in the middle of a diner where many might not have even passed me the salt shaker, and I was grateful.
I met him halfway around Mrs. Tarkington's desk. "I'm so glad to catch you here, Sir," I said, shaking his hand.
He smiled and adjusted his glasses. "Has anyone ever told you how much you resemble your sister?"
Even if I'd had black hair and twelve tattoos, I would have agreed. "All the time."
He pressed against his cane, and reached with his other hand to steady himself on the wall. "I was expecting your sister. Melody drops by with the minutes from the Sugarland Heritage Society meetings. I keep them all. They're planning an antique quilt display at the senior center. You could join, you know."
"I've been a little busy lately," I told him.
"So I've seen," he commented.
I let it go. I didn't owe him an explanation for this morning. Although if it meant he'd answer a few questions, I'd offer to stitch him a king-size Irish Swag Bohemian Bell quilt. With my toes.
"Can I talk to you?" I asked. "I only need five minutes of your time. This does have to do with town heritage," I added, sweetening the pot.
"Of course," he said, leading me back into his office. "I need to sit down anyway. How's your mother?"
"She's great," I told him, checking out his office. It was smaller than I would have expected for an eleven-term mayor. He'd certainly had the time to build himself some fancy digs if he'd wanted them.
Framed photographs jammed the walls, many of them black and white prints that showed Sugarland's early development. Other, more recent pictures showed Mayor Steward posing with prominent citizens, church groups, and school kids. I probably knew everyone in those pictures—if they'd been born in the last fifty years, at least.
He had two more canes leaning up against the wall. One had been done up in red, white, and blue stripes with a brass eagle head handle. The other was metallic toned, stylized to look like a sword, with a woven metal handle on top. He placed the walking stick he'd been using, a carved wooden cane with a brass handle in the shape of a trout, against the wall with the others.
"Is your mother coming back soon?" he asked, struggling a bit as he situated himself in a red leather tufted chair. "It's a real shame she felt she had to leave in the first place."
I took a less fancy, but quite comfortable chair across from him. "She's enjoying the new RV," I said, as if she were the child. I felt a twinge of guilt at that. She had every right to live her life the way she wanted. She'd certainly been supportive of me. "I think mom's down along the Gulf Coast this week. Pensacola." In fact, I was one hundred percent certain. She'd been there since June.
Chances were the mayor knew as well, if he'd talked to Melody. He didn't need the conversation. He was trying to make me feel at home. I used to take that kind of gesture for granted until some of the people I thought I knew began doing the opposite.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather crackling. "Your mamma was never one for politics," he said fondly, folding his hands over his ample stomach, "but your father went door to door for me on my first campaign. He was a good friend."
"I remember him telling me about that," I said, almost wishing we hadn't begun a whole new line of small talk. Normally I enjoyed sharing stories, even ones I knew quite well. It was what living and working in a town like this was all about—being seen as a person, someone to be remembered and cared about. I liked that he wanted to honor my father, who had died when I was in fifth grade. Only right now, I needed to talk about passageways and ghosts. About who might be sneaking around the old distillery.
So I launched right into it. "I'm so glad my dad helped you. And I'd love to chat more, but I actually came to you because I need your help."
The request lingered between us.
Perhaps it was the abrupt switch in topic or the fact that I'd barreled right over Sugarland etiquette, either way, I'd gotten his attention.
His focus sharpened. "What is it, my dear?"
I leaned forward. "I know you used to own the Wilson's Creek property." If my knowledge surprised him, he didn't show it. Then again, look where I was living. I pressed on, trying to figure out how to start the conversation without being so crass as to discuss Ellis Wydell, or what had happened with the mayor's divorce. That would shut him down for sure.
I really should have thought about this before I brought it up.
It felt awkward, but I gave the gentlest summation I could. "I was hired as a…consultant on the new renovation there—"
It didn't work.
His breath came in even puffs, like an idling freight train. "You went to work for Ellis Wydell," he said, as if I'd set fire to the square.
"Yes," I admitted. "I ran into trouble last night. Bad."
His expression changed as a realization dawned over him. "Did he hurt you?" the mayor asked, horrified.
"Wait. No. That's not what I meant—"
His face flushed and he appeared flustered. "My dear child, if this is something you're afraid to go to the police about, we can go directly to the chief." He reached across the desk, as if to take my hand. "I'm so very honored you felt you could come to me. Your daddy would be proud, too."
Why did he keep bringing my dad into this? "It's not like that," I said quickly. "Ellis has treated me fine. Better than fine." My ears heated and I pushed past the skepticism I saw. "I know it's crazy to work for him after what happened with Beau, but he's paying me well and heaven knows I need the money if I want to keep my grandmother's house."
"Oh dear," the mayor ran his hands along the arms of his chair.
"What I wanted to talk to you about," I said, hoping I still had his attention, "are some strange goings on at the old carriage house. We had an intruder last night. I think he wanted to tear up the place. It was really scary."
He rubbed his fingers along the chair arms, his chin tucked back. "That Wydell boy is with the police. He should be able to handle it."
When he put it that way, I almost felt silly for stopping by. Damn. This conversation wasn't going the way I wanted and I had no clue how to turn it around. In a minute, the mayor woul
d remember he was terribly busy and I'd get left out in the cold.
"The place is also haunted," I said, before I could change my mind.
"What?" he sputtered. "Are you daft?"
In for a penny, in for a pound. "You never saw any ghosts in the carriage house?" I pressed.
He looked at me like I was crazy. "Absolutely not."
"So the people who owned the property before you never said anything about a tragic event occurring there? Something that might cause a haunting?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. "My dear, I don't have time for such nonsense. I think you'd better leave. I have a lot of work to do."
"I'm sorry. Forget about ghosts for a minute. I came to you because I want to learn more about who might be vandalizing the site. My sister is helping me research," I said, throwing him a bone. "She said something about treasure hunters looking for an old stash of jewelry on the property, and I thought that might be related to the damage we've found."
"Melody is involved?" he asked. "Don't you get her in trouble." He ran a hand over his chin.
"What kind of trouble?" I asked him. "Did treasure hunters disturb the property when you owned it, too? Were they dangerous?"
"Sakes alive. I don't know what I should tell you."
"The truth," I urged. "Please don't hold back. I'm going to be at the property tonight, and I'd feel better if I knew everything you do."
"I don't like being put in that position," he said, crossing his hands over his ample stomach. He leaned back. I felt about six inches tall as he studied me. "All the same, I won't let you go in blind." He rocked slightly, the springs on his chair squeaking, as if he were buying time to decide how much he should tell me. He cleared his throat. "You realize the Wydells have a lot of power in this town. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone we discussed this."
"Believe me, I understand." He probably did as well. I'd heard his divorce was messy, although he'd never made his dissatisfaction known in public.
He'd left the sideshow to yours truly.
The mayor pressed his lips together. "Here's the rub: there have been problems on that property from the get go. Mind you, I'm not talking about anything as outlandish as ghosts." He shifted uncomfortably. "Have you found the tunnel in the cellar?"
"Yes," I said, surprised. "I suppose it's been dug out for years."
He let out a huff. "The thing nearly came down on me in '72. Yes," he said, when he saw my shock. "I thought it might be a fun diversion for the tourists and the locals, a little bit of Sugarland underground history. According to some old plans, it goes all the way to the main house. But the entire structure is unstable." He frowned. "It's certainly not worth getting killed over."
"There must be more to it than that," I told him. "Someone's been excavating down there."
He seemed surprised. "If your vandals are in there, Mr. Wydell might be liable for a lot more than damage. No. Lock that place up and throw away the key. Anyhow, your real concern with the treasure hunters is the spot overlooking the river."
"No kidding. I haven't been back there."
"It's probably as hazardous as that tunnel. There are cliffs back there and unstable rock. That's shale. It breaks off in layers. You don't know how solid the rock under your feet is going to be. Do you understand me? That's very important. It's dangerous."
"I got it." And it made me distinctly uncomfortable. "What makes you think anything's back there?"
He was slow to answer. "I found a brooch once," he said, noncommittally. "This delicate thing with a bright red ruby in the middle. It was in a leather bag, stuffed into an alcove in the cave on Wilson's Point."
I hadn't even been aware of a cave. "Is that where you saw most of the digging?"
He nodded, rueful. "Figured I'd try my luck, too," he admitted. "But it was treacherous and dumb and I'm wiser now."
"Believe me," I said, "I'm not one to take unnecessary chances, either."
He drummed his fingers on the table. His sunken eyes sparkled. "I have to admit, that brooch was fun to find. I gave it to Genevieve for a birthday present. She didn't appreciate the fact that I basically 'found it in the woods,' as she said. Then again, we were always very different." He stilled, growing serious. "But now you're going to go back there and I might have just made things worse."
"You've allowed me to make an educated decision. I appreciate that." I was a big girl. I could handle it.
He obviously didn't share my confidence, but he didn't press it further. He settled back in his chair. "Yes, the Wilson's Point Cave. That's where I saw most of the digging and where I found that brooch." He reached up, as if he could see it and pluck it out of the air. "The bag was brown, caked with dirt. I almost didn't even see it."
"And that was it? You left the trespassers to the rest?"
He chuckled. "No, I dug. I spent quite a few Saturdays out there. I goofed around when I should have been fixing the property up. But I didn't find anything else. Other than a busted ankle when I nearly fell off the cliff." He smiled, remembering. "Then my career set sail, my bum leg got worse, and I didn't go back there at all. Just didn't have the time."
"Where is the cave? Melody could look it up," I reminded him, "but it would be easier to hear it from you."
He gave me a long look. Yes, I was strong-arming him again, and he knew it.
"Perhaps you're the one who belongs in politics," he said. The accusation sounded friendly, but I could feel the ice underneath.
He drew his fingers in circles over the desktop. It was clear the man could not be rushed. "Thing is," he said, glancing up at me, "if there's a stash of jewelry—and there might not even be, but if there is—it's not in a good spot or someone would have found it by now." He waited until I acknowledged the warning. Then he surprised me. "If you go down, it's safer to walk along the left side of the overhang. Also avoid the shale ledge near the leaning juniper bush, if that's still there. It's unstable. It might have fallen down the cliff already."
"I'm going to write this down," I said, reaching for my bag.
"I'll draw it out for you," he said, pulling a sheet of paper from his top drawer. "I'll block out the dangerous parts as I've experienced them." He grabbed the gold desk pen from its holder and pointed it at me. "That doesn't mean they're the only spots to avoid, and it doesn't mean I approve of what you're doing." He put pen to paper. "I'll also show you where most of the digging's been and where I found the brooch." He made bold lines across the page, filling them in with a fairly detailed sketch. "The only thing I ask is that you don't share this with Ellis. If anybody's going to find another bit of treasure, I want it to be for you and your grandma's house, not some damned Wydell."
"Thanks," I said, meaning it.
"I hope I'm doing the right thing." He drew a cliff face and the trail down to it. He made the cave and drew a circle near the upper left and wrote something next to it. "See that? That's my chicken scratch. It says brooch." Then he made a series of x's all around. "These are where I found evidence of digging and where I poked around, too." I noticed he marked the shale cliff overlooking the site.
"You didn't find anything else on the land? Not a belt buckle or a button?" Anything like that might offer a decent clue as to where the gangsters had gone.
"Nothing." He slid the paper across the desk at me. "If you see any strangers on the property, you avoid them. It's an isolated piece of land and you don't know what some of these people are willing to do."
"I understand," I said. Then I reached out onto a limb. "I'm sorry you had to sell the place. It seems like a really neat property."
He gave a wry smile. "The truth is, I didn't spend as much time out there as I'd hoped. It was one of those good ideas that fell by the wayside."
"Ellis really does have some impressive plans for the place," I told him, hoping he could at least see value in the new ownership.
"I saw the permits," he said, wistfully. "Don't feel bad. I had my chance." He straightened in his chair. "It was fun when
I was young, when I first got married." He leaned his elbows on the desk. "I fought one too many zoning restrictions and ended up in politics. I'm glad Genevieve took the Wilson's Creek property instead of the house in Palm Springs. I led her to believe it would hurt me more." He sighed, gazed down at the desk, and suddenly found interest in his fingers. "I thought I didn't care, but talking to you now, I do find I regret the loss. Life takes funny turns."
"You've certainly done plenty of other things," I said in the understatement of the year.
We all had our choices to make.
He pounded a palm on the wood. "Ah. Well. It's good for the town if someone is doing something with the property. Even if it's one of those blood suckers." He cringed and I followed his gaze to the slightly open door.
"I don't think anybody's out there," I told him.
The corners of his mouth tugged up. "You can never be too careful."
He folded the map in half and slid it over the table to me.
"I appreciate your time, and this," I said, slipping it into my bag.
"I'm glad to help you, sweetheart." He stood when I did, a little unsteady as he went for his cane with the trout handle. He situated it in his hand, fingers shaking. "If I was twenty years younger, I might go barreling down the hillside with you. These days, I'm glad just to wake up in the morning."
"You don't look a day over sixty," I told him.
He laughed at that. Yet all too soon, he grew serious again.
He pressed his lips together as he regarded me. "I don't want to preach, but I will. Watch out for that Wydell boy. In fact, keep guarded against that entire family. You already know they have it out for you. They are mean, and they stick together. Trust me. I know."
"I do, too," I said.
He pushed the door open all the way and lowered his voice. "Also, don't mind the Nancy Tarkingtons of the world."
Embarrassment trickled through me, for myself or for her I wasn't sure. "You heard?"
He didn't give an inch. "My leg might be shot. My eyes could be better. But my brain and my ears work fine. I've seen a lot over the years and I can tell you with certainty—this too shall pass."