Hope chuckled. “Ida, that’s a weird painting any way you look at it. Those horses have the biggest butts I’ve ever seen. They need to join Jenny Craig.”
Ingrid nodded. “And the beagles are pop-eyed. Do they have thyroid conditions? Not that I dislike a pop-eyed dog.” She peered inside a voluminous leather purse hanging from one shoulder. “Isn’t that right, my little cupcake?” A low, nervous yip came from the bowels of the purse.
I looked around quickly. “Sssh. Keep Bob quiet.” A uniformed state trooper glanced our way from the end of the long hall.
Ingrid huffed. “Bob doesn’t like being stuffed in a pocketbook. Chihuahuas have a natural sense of dignity, you know.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Hope elbowed us. “Here comes Gloria.”
Ham’s administrative assistant rounded a corner and tipped-tapped toward us, her lacquered faux-leopard high heels—bought at some Atlanta boutique with taxpayer money, no doubt—clicking like a cat’s toenails on the hallway’s glossy wood floor. In the finest tradition of Bigelow nepotism, Gloria was the wife of Ham’s second cousin. Thanks to Ham, so many Bigelows lived off the state payroll they could almost form their own credit union. Gloria, a typical Bigelow, was a humorless little tyrant. She pursed her lips in a permanent strawberry.
“If all her holes are that tight,” Ingrid side-mouthed, “I don’t know how she passes gas.”
Hope choked on a laugh.
I focused on Gloria’s arms. To be precise, what she was carrying in her arms. Bingo. My instincts had been perfect. I knew Gloria couldn’t resist showing off for Ingrid, a fellow Chihuahua fan. In Gloria’s arms lounged the fattest blonde Chihuahua in the world, a foot tall and a foot wide. As she walked, he lapped the air with bored disdain. His pedigreed name? Regal Von Doggin. As in AKC Champion Regal Von Doggin. And no, he didn’t have a folksy nickname for home use. In fact, Gloria got miffed whenever anyone addressed him by less than his full moniker.
“Hi, Gloria,” I said pleasantly. “I see you brought Porky The Obese Wonder Mutt with you, today.”
She leopard-tapped to a hard stop in front of us. Her strawberry lips shrank to a raspberry. “What are you doing here, Ida? You’re an hour early for your appointment.”
“A little bird told me the reverend’s meeting with Ham right now. I have something to show both of them.”
“You’re well aware that Reverend James refuses to meet with you in person.”
“The so-called reverend can refuse all he wants, but I intend to see him.”
“After all you’ve done to discredit him? No way. This is what you get for calling a man of God—and a cousin-in-law of the Governor’s—a con artist! How dare you insinuate Reverend James received his ministerial degree in a home study course! He could have sued you for slander, but he has too much dignity for that.”
“I didn’t insinuate anything. I came right out and said it: He’s a crook and a fraud. He’s trying to pass Whoopee Arcades off as a tax-exempt business project owned by his so-called church. If he weren’t a Bigelow cousin he’d probably be doing a Martha Stewart in some white-collar prison by now.”
Gloria’s left eye twitched. She glared at me pop-eyed, like her dog, who growled. Gloria hugged him and took a step back from my evil influence. “Why do I waste my breath attempting a civil servant’s conversation with you? You’re lucky Ham agreed to see you at all. Sit down and wait. You can’t get your own way around here, Mayor Walker.”
She pivoted toward Ingrid. One hand rose in a preening posture over Regal Von Doggin’s head. “Hello, Ingrid. Have you given any more thought to trading Bob for a Chihuahua with good bloodlines? How is Bob these days? Have any more hawks mistaken him for a rat and tried to carry him off? Has he been beaten up by any more kitty cats? Is he still neurotic and incontinent?”
Ingrid cut her eyes at me. I nodded. Now.
Ingrid held out her huge purse and grinned at Gloria. “See for yourself.”
Bob popped his scrawny, wild-eyed head out.
Bob saw Regal.
Regal saw Bob.
Bob hates Regal.
Regal is terrified of Bob.
See Bob launch himself at Regal.
See Regal freak out.
Gloria shrieked and chased the dogs. Regal scrambled like a hamster on ice skates, trying to get a toenail-hold on the slick hallway floor. Bob bit him in the butt and Regal made a sliding left turn through an open office door. Bob followed with all the fervor of a pop-eyed tornado, dribbling pee and nipping at Regal’s Von Nuggets. Hope and Ingrid headed off to rescue Bob from the stampeding Gloria, who shrilled as she galloped after the dogs, “Don’t you dare hurt Regal Von Doggin’s testicles! He’s a stud!”
Ingrid pulled a wad of tissues from her purse and flung them here and there as she ran, making a half-hearted effort to hit Bob’s puddles. Regal shot back into the main hallway, yelping, with Bob still nipping his tail.
“Save my champion!” Gloria called.
Hope dodged right and left, proving that she could body-block the smaller, faster Gloria even while confined to a snug skirt and high heels. The state patrol officer loped past me with his mouth open in astonishment and both hands splayed as if he were desperately attempting to herd Chihuahuas and women at the same time. Gloria sprinted past Hope and Ingrid, grabbing a miniature U.S. flag from a flower arrangement on a hall table. She flailed at Bob.
Ingrid yelled, “It’s unpatriotic to whack Bob with the Stars and Stripes!”
“I’ll show your little runt some real stars and stripes,” Gloria yelled back.
Bob bit Regal in the behind, again. Regal yelped and farted. Loudly. Or maybe it was Gloria. Hard to tell.
The state patrol officer slipped on one of Bob’s puddles and did a pratfall worthy of The Three Stooges. As he went down he grabbed for thin air and caught one corner of the frame on my sister’s redneck fox-hunting painting. Beagles, Tennessee Walkers, and antebellum southern gents swung wildly, then popped off their hanger.
Gloria squealed and did a belly flop with both arms over her head as the large, tacky painting landed on top of her and the state trooper. Bob bit Regal in his Von Doggin again and they vanished up another side hallway at a dead run, leaving sprinkles of Bob’s pee in their wake.
Ingrid and Hope were now laughing so hard they nearly rolled on the floor. I gave them a thumbs up. They managed to salute.
My diversionary tactic had worked. This punking stuff was highly effective, not to mention, fun.
I headed for the governor’s office.
SOME SACRED PLACES are made by God, and some are made by man, but some take root without any help from either, defiantly waving a hand toward heaven until God and man notice them like annoyed teachers acknowledging a precocious first grader. That’s how the Sitting Tree achieved its fame—by its sheer determination to survive and be noticed. And that’s also how its fate came to be tied to the yellowed, fragile letter I carried into Ham’s office.
My great-great grandfather, Samuel Alton Hamilton, cleared the meadow where the tree took root one hundred years ago. Rose Top Mountain was Hamilton land, then. Samuel and his men chopped down an entire grove of old-growth maples—a sacrilege, but that’s how things were done at the time, to make way for pastureland. A single young maple sprang up from the carnage, growing on the windswept foothill despite the cold and heat, alone in the home where all its kin had once kept company. A lone sentinel. Even the wild cattle and deer couldn’t nibble it to death.
Samuel gave the land to his oldest daughter, Becky, and her husband Lucias Royden (yes, ironically, an ancestor of Amos’s) as a wedding gift. Becky and Lucias built a small farmhouse and barns near the young maple tree, that only living memory of the beautiful maple forest. Their only child, Amelie, loved the tree, watered it, talked to it, and persuaded he
r father to build a picket fence around it when the family’s growing herd of cows decided the tree’s supple trunk made a great rubbing post.
When Amelie died of influenza at only twelve years old, Becky and Lucias, heartbroken, sold the farm to the neighboring Baileys. The sale contained one odd clause, specified in a letter that accompanied the deed: if the Baileys should ever decide to sell the land, they had to notify the Hamilton family and give them a chance to bid.
That was in 1872. The farm’s abandoned house and barns were eventually struck by lightning and burned. The stone foundations gradually sank into the earth. Wild grasses and blackberry briars overtook the pasture fences and well house, pulling them down. The land went back to itself. The maple, by then a grand, mature tree, was all that survived. It guarded the empty meadow, all alone. The legend of Amelie and the Sitting Tree became a symbol of love and loyalty to Creekites, and soon the secluded spot turned into a favorite of the local romantics. Not just teenagers looking for a safe make-out spot, but sentimental lovers.
The Bailey-Hamilton deed, along with a handwritten letter outlining the special right of us Hamiltons to buy the land back, was filed at the Bigelow County Courthouse. A second official copy of the deed and letter was kept by Belinda Bailey, who inherited the land and the Sitting Tree in the early 1900s. Belinda got married and moved to North Carolina. She never attempted to sell the property.
Creekites had come to consider it public property, and Belinda didn’t mind. Until last year, there was even a grave under the Sitting Tree. Etta Howell was buried there by her husband, Ben, in 1947. Ben and his second wife, Sadie, visited Etta’s grave faithfully for decades. A year ago, after Ben died, Sadie moved Etta’s body to rest beside Ben’s in the cemetery at Mossy Creek Presbyterian Church.
When Belinda died, the property went to her children—Farley and his younger sister, Amarosa. Now Farley is long-dead, too, and Amarosa, who turned 85 last fall, spends her time playing golf and poker at an upscale assisted-care community in Asheville. Amarosa is still pretty sharp, but not sharp enough to recall that there’s a dusty old legal reason why she can’t sell her mother’s Mossy Creek property without first giving the Hamilton heir—that would be yours truly—a purchase option.
So when Reverend James showed up on Amarosa’s doorstep with money in hand and a slick story about developing the land as an amusement park for God’s purposes (where does the Bible say that churches should own water slides and roller coasters?), Amarosa took the bait.
I didn’t find out about her deal with the reverend until I rushed to the Sitting Tree last fall to block Whoopee Arcades’ bulldozers. I got spitting mad but felt confident I could squash him like a gnat just by producing the letter. I hustled down to the Bigelow County courthouse. There, to my astonishment, I discovered that the deed was on file but the amendment letter could not be found. Not even a copy. Not even on microfilm.
Someone had made that century-old handwritten letter disappear.
I fumed, searched, got my lawyers involved, and even instructed the intrepid Katie Bell, Mossy Creek’s super sleuth, to dig around for hints about the culprit who’d stolen the letter from the courthouse, but found no evidence. Nada. Zippo. Amarosa was horrified when I explained the reverend’s deception but could not offer even one clue as to where her late brother, Farley, might have tucked their copy of the deed and letter.
“That letter exists,” I argued loudly in court. “I intend to find out who stole it, and I intend to find the copy my Bailey relatives received, and as soon as I do, I’ll buy the land from my cousin Amarosa. In the meantime I insist that the Reverend James’ contract be declared null, void, and a violation of the Ten Commandments. Personally, I’d like to see the reverend beset by a plague of locusts.”
Judge Blakely, aka “Judge Doom,” my nemesis, who’s never forgiven me for turning his court-ordered anger management class into a hotbed of civil disobedience (you may recall that the class spawned the Foo Club, introduced me to Del, and led to us kidnapping Ham’s ‘Welcome to Mossy Creek’ sign,) anyway, Judge Blakely has never forgiven me, and so he used the “Case of the Lost Sitting Tree Letter” to extract a little revenge.
“Sorry, Mayor Rebel-Without-a-Pause,” he ruled last fall, “but unless you can find the letter—a letter that’s only a convenient memory, a half-baked rumor, in your high strung family—unless you can actually produce that supposed letter or the legitimate copy of the letter you claim the Bailey family received, then you’re up Mossy Creek without a paddle. All I’ll grant you is a ninety-day restraining order against Whoopee Arcades, Incorporated. If you don’t find the alleged letter by, hmmm, let’s take a look-see at my calendar, here, ninety days, hmmm, yes, indeedy, produce the purported letter of agreement between your family and the Bailey ancestors by ninety days from today, that deadline being January 10, why, then, the reverend’s bulldozers roll on January 11.” He rapped his gavel. “Bye-bye, Sitting Tree.”
I wanted to call him a tree-hating old bastard, but I knew he’d love the excuse to charge me with contempt. Since I didn’t want to suffer through another anger management course, I kept quiet. I guess his anger management class did teach me something: Don’t get mad, get revenge.
Just in time. Today was January 10. As my grandmother, Big Ida, liked to say for emphasis, I hope to shout . . .
“Well, heeeeello, my dear nephew,” I said now, strolling unannounced into Ham’s ornate office at the Governor’s Mansion. “And heeeello, Reverend James. My, my, this brisk winter weather makes me feel righteous and energized, you know? Or maybe it’s simply that I enjoy a good, victorious gloat.”
Ham popped from his massive gubernatorial desk quicker than a chipmunk sighting a snake. Tall, middle-aged and handsome in a smirky way, he was dressed in corduroys and a brown leather pilot’s jacket over a custom-made flannel shirt that had never seen any rugged outdoor use. His schedule for later that day called for an overnight duck-hunting trip to the state’s southern end courtesy of a wealthy campaign donor. To quote my hip-hop granddaughter, Ham enjoyed blasting a cap up the tail feathers of unsuspecting mallards.
“Aunt Ida, who let you in? Your appointment isn’t for an hour. And what are you talking about? I thought you just wanted to negotiate a truce—”
“I never negotiate. Not with you, dear nephew.” I held up the yellowed letter. “I have here, in my hand, an official handwritten letter. A duly notarized, authentic, read-it-and-weep, verifiable letter stating that no Bailey can sell the Sitting Tree property without first giving the Hamilton family—represented by yours truly—an opportunity to buy it.”
Ham’s jaw went slack. “That can’t be. It was only rumor that there was a letter at all, much less an official copy. Just . . . gossip.”
“Really? Why don’t you admit that you and the reverend conspired to steal the original letter from the courthouse?”
“Ridiculous!”
“I’m not going to stand for this accusation!” the reverend said. He lurched to his feet from a deeply cushioned leather armchair, scowling at me like a tubby blond hamster with a bad comb-over. Since he was scheduled to accompany Ham on the sitting-duck trip, the reverend was dressed in a fuzzy mohair sweater and glossy leather pants. I kid you not. Leather pants.
“You’re standing for this,” I pointed out. “Looking like a designer sausage.”
“I own that land! I bought it!”
“Not anymore.” I grinned at him. “My cousin Amarosa sold it to me this morning, right after I told her I’d found the letter. I have a legal claim. So bye-bye, Reverend James. Sorry you didn’t get to con my elderly cousin out of her land and defraud me and my family.” I switched my glare to Ham. “It’s a nice day for a gubernatorial butt-kicking, Ham, wouldn’t you say? Bend over.”
Ham waved his arms wildly. “I’ve done nothing wrong, as usual!”
“Oh, please, spare me your
fake indignation. Admit it. You had some governmental flunky steal the original letter from the county courthouse, didn’t you? You assumed I’d never be able to unearth the copy owned by the Bailey heirs.”
“The Bigelow County courthouse loses one old, obscure document and you blame me?”
“I know your track record. Every time I forget that you’re a scheming worm I look at the empty field where you promised to rebuild Mossy Creek High School.”
“I told you, I’m working on it. Even though I’m governor I can’t just demand that the state allocate three million dollars for a high school in my aunt’s home town.”
“You promised. Two years ago.”
“What does that have to do with the subject at hand?”
“You have no intention of keeping your word about anything. No intention of empowering the people of Mossy Creek. Instead you’re trying to infiltrate my town. Stage a power grab so you’ll never have to do my bidding again. You hope to smooth the way for your sycophants and Bigelow kin—” I cut my eyes at the reverend “—because once you circle my town with a loyal tribe of your toadies, you’ll take over.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve always been high-strung, but now you’re getting paranoid. Aunt Ida, please. Get some help. Everyone’s worried about you. My mother suggests you have your hormone levels checked. As she keeps saying, you’re over fifty, now. You need to calm down.”
I snorted. Ardaleen pointed out my fiftieth birthday at every opportunity. Mainly to distract people from the fact that she was sixteen years older than I. “Where my sister’s concerned I have a simple philosophy. Never mud wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and the pig likes it.”
“You’re calling Mother a pig?”
“She oinks at the scent of a truffle.” I pivoted toward the reverend. “Speaking of pork—”
A Day in Mossy Creek Page 12