A Murder in Mount Moriah

by Mindy Quigley

  “Hmm…” Anna said, through pursed lips.

  “What?”

  “If it was your mom, why would she walk away? You always complain that your dad is too soft with Sarabelle, but you fall for the same stuff! You’re getting your hopes up and serving up your tender little heart on a china dish. She’ll come along and throw it in her blender of maternal neglect.”

  “I’m not getting my hopes up. I haven’t decided whether to call her back or not yet. And I know that even if we do get together, it probably won’t be that great.”

  “Probably won’t be that great?! Like last time? When she stole $500 from you?”

  “She didn’t steal it. I gave it to her.” Lindsay averted her eyes. “She needed a deposit for a new apartment. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend and she was having a hard time.”

  Anna gave Lindsay a hard stare. “I need to tell you a story. I’ll start with the moral: There are some people who you’ve got to stay away from. They can’t help themselves; they are just genetically programmed to screw you over.” Anna leaned over. “You know how I’ve always told you that Jeremy and I split because I cheated on him? That wasn’t really true. It was Jeremy who had someone else in the relationship, but it wasn’t another person.” She paused and exhaled sharply. “It was coke.”

  “Cocaine?!”

  “No, Coca-Cola,” Anna said. “Jeremy found it irresistibly fizzy and refreshing.”

  “Don’t get snippy now. I’m just surprised.”

  “Sorry. It’s a sore subject.” Anna took a generous swig from her wine glass. “He’d always done it, like at parties and stuff. But I was pretty wild, too, back in those days, so I just laughed it off. It didn’t really seem to be a problem. One night, though, we were on shift together. There was this freak ice storm and cars were skidding around almost like gravity was going side to side instead of up and down. The ER was packed with injuries. After hours of that, I was dragging—totally exhausted. But there was Jeremy, plugging along like the Little Engine

  That Could. But he was making dumb mistakes, just getting ahead of himself. Yelling at the nurses if they couldn’t keep up. I looked into his eyes, and they were shining like a pair of silver dollars.

  “We talked about it the next day, and he promised that it was a one-time thing. He’d had the coke on him from the weekend, and he was just taking it to stay alert. I bought that crock of crap and we went on with our lives.

  “Then other things happened. We’d be out to dinner with my parents, he’d go to the bathroom, and he’d come back lit up like a Christmas tree. We argued and I left him. He went to a couple NA meetings and I took him back. A few months later, we were at my nephew’s christening and Jeremy was so coked that he could barely sit still in the pew. I took him aside after the service and confronted him. He called me a lying bitch and ripped the front of my dress. I left him again. He went to rehab for two weeks. He begged me, sent me flowers every day. I took him back.

  “Every time I took him back, it was like getting a puppy for Christmas. Only the puppy came split up into ten different boxes. Ten pieces of a puppy are not each one-tenth as cute as a whole puppy, you know? And you can’t build a whole puppy out of them at the end.” Anna leaned back and drained her wine glass.

  Lindsay sat for a moment in stunned silence. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I couldn’t. I moved down here because I hated how all my friends and family up in New Jersey saw me as a victim. My great aunt Lydia and uncle Herb heard my husband call me a bitch in a church at a baby’s christening, for God’s sake. You and Rob and John are great, but you’re all too…empathetic. If you’d known, you’d have felt sorry for me and been all sweet and considerate about my feelings.”

  “I wish you had trusted me. I know how what you’re going through. How do you think I felt when I had to send out letters to all the people who had RSVPed to my wedding? Timothy didn’t want me to tell anyone about him being gay because he was afraid of their reaction. I had to tell everyone that I had called it off because I got cold feet. So on top of getting my heart broken, all of our family and friends thought I was a total jerk for dumping such a sweet guy. Timothy’s parents haven’t spoken to me since. My dad was furious.”

  “You’re right, Linds. I should have told you,” Anna said.

  Lindsay hugged her and said, “Not to mention that I’ve kind of thought you were a slut all this time for cheating on your poor husband.”

  “Guess I didn’t have to worry about you being too nice to me, huh?”

  Lindsay emptied the remaining wine from the bottle into Anna’s glass. “So,” Anna said, lying back on the sofa, “any action on the Drew Checkoway front? He obviously likes you.”

  “Do you think?” Lindsay said, blushing crimson.

  “Absolutely! You’ve got to go for him. He’s a total catch. Have you noticed that he looks just like a dark-haired version of Charlton Heston?”

  “Charlton Heston? Senile, gun-crazy Charlton Heston?”

  “No! Young, chiseled, Planet of the Apes Charlton Heston. Definitely 60s-era, pre-NRA Charlton Heston,” Anna said.

  Lindsay pondered. “Yeah, I suppose there is a little, ‘I am Spartacus!’ thing going on with him.”

  “You’ll have to see him shirtless to really test my theory, though,” Anna said, playfully poking Lindsay in the ribs with her foot. Just then, Lindsay’s cell phone began to chime. She got up and hobbled to the kitchen to retrieve the phone from her purse. Walking back in the room, she mouthed to Anna, “It’s Kimberlee.” As she stood in the doorway and listened to the voice on the other end, Lindsay’s face darkened and became increasingly grave. “Okay. Hang in there. I’ll see you in the morning.” She hung up the phone and walked solemnly back over to the couch. “They just got the results of the tests they ran on Buford Bullard. He definitely had a heart attack.”

  Anna shrugged her shoulders. “Well, a burly guy like that, history of high blood pressure, terrible diet, these things happen.”

  “It’s not just that. The doctors think the heart attack was caused by poison.”

  Chapter 28

  Anna and Lindsay stayed up late, opening another bottle of wine, discussing their love lives (or lack thereof), and speculating about the latest happenings in the Bullard family saga. When Lindsay crept out for work just before 6:30 the next morning, she was careful not to disturb Anna, who had fallen asleep on the couch.

  Lindsay spent the first hours of her shift trying to draft the sermon that she was set to deliver for the hospital’s interfaith worship service the following week. Sermonizing was her least favorite chaplaincy duty by a mile. She would rather mourn with a dozen grieving families than stand up in front of worshippers who were expecting pearls of spiritual wisdom to be bestowed upon them. She always felt like such a fraud behind the little pulpit in the hospital chapel, with the seeking eyes of sick people looking up at her. Usually, she would have procrastinated with her sermon writing until the day before she was set to speak. Today, however, with her knee still tender from the dynamite fiasco, she wanted to do something that would allow her a bit of rest. For the topic of the sermon, she chose the theme of suffering. It seemed apt for so many reasons, not least because of the suffering she herself endured as she extracted each tortured word from her brain and committed it to the computer screen.

  During morning visiting hours, Lindsay made her way to the ICU to check on Buford Bullard and check in with his family. Buford was still comatose. Versa sat in an armchair next to his bed, dozing. Her bright pink reading glasses stood perched on the end of her nose, and a celebrity gossip magazine lay open in her lap. Lindsay was about to depart when Versa’s eyes fluttered open. “Hey. I hope I didn’t wake you,” Lindsay said softly.

  Versa sat up. From the way she looked at Lindsay, it was immediately clear that she had woken up on the wrong side of the green vinyl armchair. Or maybe there was no right side to wake up on when you’ve been sleeping in a green
vinyl armchair. Without preamble, Versa started in on a tirade. “Did you know that they only let us in here one at a time? The kids have to stay out in the waiting room. I know that the living dead here,” she gestured to the patient next to Buford, whose wizened face was a covered in a tangle of tubes and wires, “like their sleep, but having a few of the kids and grandkids in here would liven things up a bit.” She paged irritably through her magazine. “I sent Keith and the twins to reopen the restaurant this morning. We planned to do it anyway, after Vernon’s memorial service. The kids think I should have waited, but there’s no way I’m letting this ruin the business that Buford and I have been sweating for all these years. Buford would hate the thought.” Lindsay pulled up a chair and sat down next to Versa.

  “Do you know what one of my so-called friends said last night?” Versa continued. “She said that I should trust in God’s plan because He has a reason for doing this. I wanted to punch her. I restrained myself in consideration of the fact that she just had her ‘deviated septum’ fixed.” She closed her magazine with a snap and removed her glasses. “This is the plan!?” Her gesture encompassed the whole room. “Tidal waves washing away whole countries? Children starving to death all over the world? My son-in-law taken away in his prime? My husband getting himself poisoned and clinging to life in a hospital bed? If that’s the game plan, I want a new coach.”

  Lindsay waited to see if Versa would continue speaking. The rhythmic sounds of the life-support machines filled the silence between them. When Lindsay finally spoke, her voice was soft and neutral. “When people don’t know how to comfort you, sometimes they say what gives them comfort.”

  “And what gives you comfort, Miss Reverend Lindsay Harding?” Versa sunk her teeth into Lindsay’s words with the ferocity of a pit-bull. “You always seem to be hovering around my family, with your feathery, little voice and your little elf face, just hugging everybody and smiling like you know a secret. Is it because you think that all the good girls and boys go up to heaven and dance around with their golden harps?”

  Lindsay was caught off guard by Versa’s vitriol. Even during the darkest hours of the previous week, Versa usually managed to cheer up her children or muster a smile for the grandkids. Now, though, with her children and grandchildren momentarily absent, her façade of strength was revealed to be as thin as an eggshell. Lindsay took a deep breath and recovered her equanimity. In her years of hospital chaplaincy, she’d learned that grief ran the gamut of human emotions. Tears, regrets, rejoicing, dead-eyed shock: she had seen it all. And she understood that sometimes people just needed somebody to yell at, someone to blame for their misfortune. They couldn’t yell at God, at least not to his face, so Lindsay was the next best thing.

  “As a matter of fact,” Lindsay said, “I do know a secret. Here it is: It doesn’t matter what comforts me. I really don’t know if there is a plan, but I do know that there is a game. And unfortunately, this is it.” She gestured to Buford and the other patients on the ward. “There is no other game in town, so we all play this one.”

  “Are you trying to say that you just pretend that life has a meaning and God is in control to make people feel better? Because I don’t need that kind of comfort.”

  Lindsay sighed. “This job that I have is the kind that makes some people even more certain of their beliefs. I know that it has certainly deepened my faith. But it has also broadened it.” She paused and shook her head slightly. “All I’m saying, I guess, is that if you are looking for the answers, I don’t have them. My answer is to find meaning in just being present with someone I care about. That comfort is real. That compassion is bigger than me.”

  They passed the next few minutes in silence. Versa stared straight ahead, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. At last it became clear that there was nothing else for either of them to say. Lindsay rose to leave. “Take care of yourself now. And try to get some rest.”

  Lindsay stopped in at the ICU waiting room, where Kimberlee and Kathilee were chatting together as they crocheted some kind of hideous poncho out of fuzzy, multicolored yarn. Lindsay silently pitied the garment’s intended recipient. The two women stilled their needles when Lindsay walked in. “Did you see Momma?” Kimberlee asked.

  “Yes, I saw her. This must be very rough for all of you.”

  “It is.” Kimberlee nodded. “Speaking of rough, what happened to you? You’re limping like a pirate with a peg leg full of termites.”

  “Oh, just a little jogging injury.” A vivid arrangement of sunflowers and balloons on the table next to Kimberlee caught Lindsay’s eye. “Who sent those?”

  “Silas Richards,” Kimberlee answered. “I can’t believe how thoughtful that man is. As much as he has going on with all his charities and business dealings and political responsibilities, and he still found time to bring those over here personally. That man is a bona fide saint.”

  ##

  After lunch, Lindsay headed toward the chaplain’s office to do some paperwork. As she walked toward the door, Drew emerged from inside. “Just the person I was looking for. Geneva tells me you like the Burlington Royals,” he said.

  “Royals?”

  “Yeah. I ran into her this morning and mentioned that I had bought season tickets. Geneva said that you’re their number one fan. So I thought I’d see if I could ‘take you out to the ballgame’ tomorrow night. Get it?”

  “Ballgame?” Lindsay asked.

  “You know, Take Me out to the Ballgame? Harry Caray?”

  “Is he a player?”

  “Very funny. So, can I pick you up here at six?”

  “Yes. Sure. Definitely. Great. Fantastic.” His was a question that needed to be answered with five kinds of Yes.

  “Okay, then. See you at six. Nice haircut, by the way. It’s very…bouncy.”

  Lindsay watched him walk down the hall and then covered her burning cheeks with her hands. She had her first date in more than a year. She had to find something to wear. She had to do something about her hair. But most importantly, she had less than 24 hours to build up an exhaustive knowledge of the Burlington Royals. She decided that her first order of business would be to find out what sport they played.

  Chapter 29

  A quick Internet search informed Lindsay that the Burlington Royals were the local minor league baseball team. Unfortunately, her knowledge of baseball was confined to the snippets of baseball practices that she’d glimpsed during high school, while she and Julee Rae Janson (now better known on the I-85 gentlemen’s club circuit as Valeria the Goth Maiden) smoked Virginia Slims under the bleachers. Right now, the only detail she could recall was how they had always snickered when someone said “base on balls.” She didn’t have time to pursue her quest for knowledge further during her shift. She realized with a sigh that she would have to spend the evening at home in front of the computer—she had been reduced to studying for her dates.

  As Lindsay turned her car into her neighborhood late that afternoon after work, a black Ford Crown Victoria approached her, heading the opposite direction. The driver honked the horn in a staccato rhythm. She could see Warren Satterwhite through the windshield, grinning and waving at her. She pulled her car up alongside of his and rolled down her window.

  “Hey, Linds. What are you doing?”

  “Being stalked by you, apparently. Then I was going to go home to learn everything there is to know about baseball. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve been over at the county archives most of the day, and I am seeing double. I was just going to see if you wanted to come over and join me. They’re open until seven tonight.”

  “I thought we’d given up on the Samuel Wilcox angle.”

  “I found something today that made me change my mind. Come on and I'll explain.”

  “Okay, I'll come. But I need a favor from you. After I help you do whatever you’re doing, I need you to tell me everything you know about baseball, with specific emphasis on the history and lore of Alamance County’s own Burlington Royals.”
<
br />   Lindsay and Warren dropped her car off at her house, and less than an hour later, they were again sitting at the big oak table in the special collections room at the county archives. The heavy, leather-bound volumes of Samuel Wilcox’s journal surrounded them. On the drive over, Warren had explained to Lindsay what had made him renew his focus on the diary. While reviewing the physical evidence in the case, Warren had come across an entry in Vernon Young’s day planner. Two days before the murder, Vernon had written “Vegetarian option and Wilcox”.

  “If I didn’t know what I was looking for, I would have assumed Wilcox was a client of the catering business,” Warren explained. “But the mention of that name, right before the murder, is an unusual coincidence.”

  “Especially considering what Vernon told Kimberlee,” Lindsay agreed, nodding. "Have you found anything yet?”

  “’Fraid not. I’m only up to 1870. I’ve been reading some more stuff about his second marriage. Samuel really hit the jackpot, it looks like, with his second wife, Celia. She worked as a housekeeper for an old bachelor in Mount Moriah. He didn’t have any kids or any family. She nursed the geezer when he was bedridden with rheumatism. The old guy kicked the bucket just before the end of the war and his will split his house and land between two of his slaves—Celia and his manservant. Then the manservant died a few months later, meaning that Celia got the whole shebang.

  “Samuel and Celia have just moved into the house and she’s pregnant with their first child.” Warren paused, flipping back to the previous page. “Hey, do you have any idea what a ‘naval stores’ farmer is? It says here that the old guy was a naval stores farmer, but Samuel thinks that that kind of farming is no longer viable,” he trailed his finger along the phrase as he read. “‘The war has changed the calculus. The future is Tobacco’.” Warren slid the book across the table to Lindsay, and pointed to the phrase.

  “Don’t you remember from our North Carolina history class?” Lindsay had a near-photographic memory when it came to subjects of interest to her. She sometimes took it for granted that other people would find tidbits of knowledge about, say, the Boer War or the quadratic equation as enthralling as she did. “They used to farm the pine trees around here for their sap. It was processed it into materials to waterproof and caulk ships—naval stores. Turpentine and pitch were the plastic of their days—very versatile materials. They also burned it in lamps. After the war, though, the bottom dropped out of the market. People started using kerosene instead of turpentine to light their lamps, and the trees had all been pretty well tapped out anyway in the run up to the war.”