She bounced back to look at the clock. Today.
Rob had offered a few ideas about what JoAnne might have discovered in the valley. Native American burial grounds or campsites were the most likely. He thought if quarry development had to be postponed while mandated anthropological or archeological studies were made, then the delay might halt the quarry completely.
“Mom, there are national laws now about protecting relics and burial grounds, such as the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. That only protects skeletal remains on Federal land, but many states have laws covering protection for significant Native American historical and religious sites on private land too. I’m not exactly sure what those are in Arkansas, though I plan to do some research on state protection laws next year. You might call the University of Arkansas and speak to someone in the anthropology or archeology department. They can help.”
She hadn’t asked Rob about a .38 Police Special. He knew nothing about guns. No matter what, she’d just call Henry in the morning and ask him about it. If only a policeman would have one... well, why hadn’t Henry explained? Why hadn’t he said, “Of course it didn’t kill JoAnne!”
* * *
Suddenly a heavy weight punched into her, and Carrie jumped, crying out. She sat up in bed and looked down at an indignant cat who, it seemed, had once more been knocked to the floor by a flailing arm.
“Yowl,” said FatCat, whose haughty posture showed just what she thought of this insufferable human behavior.
Carrie shook her head, her fright diminishing rapidly in the face of FatCat’s ludicrous glare. She looked at the clock.
Almost eight o’clock! Goodness, she had fallen asleep after all. Her appointment with the lawyer was at nine. Would she have time to call Henry and ask him about his gun? It didn’t matter. She was going to call him anyway!
After she’d put on water to heat for coffee, she picked up the phone, then put it back down. Exactly what would she say? “Tell me more about your gun” sounded ridiculous. “Why do the police think your gun might have killed JoAnne?” sounded more sensible, but he probably wouldn’t even answer that.
Drop it, she told herself. Who cares, anyway! The man obviously didn’t care enough about... didn’t want to share his information with... me.
With a twinge, she remembered that he’d asked if she thought his gun killed JoAnne, and she hadn’t answered him either. Well, so what, let him think whatever he wanted about that.
She drank her coffee, took a banana for breakfast, and after checking the woodstove went to get dressed for town.
As she was driving the seven miles to Guilford, big flakes of snow began to fall, plopping against the windshield and frosting pasture grasses and treetops. Fortunately they were melting as soon as they hit the road. The radio said temperatures were rising and no accumulation was expected. That was fine with her since she hadn’t time to put up with the problems a heavy snowfall would cause.
The business meeting with JoAnne’s lawyer took less than an hour. Evan had been right when he said she could leave the whole thing in the lawyer’s hands if she wanted to. The fact that he was the same man who’d helped JoAnne prepare the will might have had something to do with it, but he was very matter-of-fact about seeing to all the necessary legal provisions and having her confirmed as executor of the estate. He said under the circumstances he thought she could be allowed access to the house right away.
Before ten o’clock Carrie was on her way to the small Guilford grocery store. She’d promised FatCat a treat for her part in rescuing the box.
After looking at the large selection of pet toys, she decided she agreed with folks who wondered if humanity had lost its wits over cats and dogs. In the four-aisle store, half of one aisle was devoted to pet food and toys. That left three and a half aisles for, presumably, everything the store owner thought people were supposed to need. Absurd. Too often the store didn’t have what she came looking for, and she knew why. No room.
She selected a stuffed rubber mouse called “Calico Bounce Toy” (catnip-scented) and a “Kitty Bangle,” with white and pink beads and bells strung on an elastic band to be worn like a necklace. The card holding the bangle assured Carrie that now she would always know where her cat was. That wasn’t a bad idea, but were bells going to ring if the cat was asleep in the middle of Carrie’s down pouf?
Her next stop was at church. The potted plants inside the building were her responsibility, and it was time to water them. When she went into the nursery to tend the philodendron on the window sill, the row of baby beds stopped her. She looked at them thoughtfully, then went to the phone and called the nursery chairman. Ten minutes later she was on her way home with a borrowed baby bed in the back of her station wagon. So far the day was going rather well. She’d have time to clean the guest bedroom and set up the baby bed before she met Shirley at JoAnne’s.
* * *
Before the afternoon was over, Carrie had decided that if at her age she needed a role model, it would be Shirley Booth. Shirley must have known how difficult facing this cleaning task alone in her dead friend’s house would have been for Carrie, but she didn’t mention it. The woman took everything in her stride, which Carrie could not have done. Shirley’s calm presence and constant woman-talk made the necessary sorting and organizing of JoAnne’s possessions possible. Without Shirley, Carrie didn’t think she could have made it through the afternoon.
Shirley was even undaunted by the black powder left all over the house as a reminder that the detectives had tested for fingerprints. “We’ll just treat it like it was soot from the fireplace,” she said, and it was obvious she knew how to deal with that.
The two women chattered like teenagers, and when Carrie told Shirley about Evan’s recent interest in her, Shirley had an explanation immediately. “The man’s in love with you, pure and simple. He sees himself as the gallant cowboy ready to sweep the lady out of her troubles and ride off with her into the sunset. He thinks you need him now.
“Men want you to need them,” Shirley said, looking sideways at Carrie as they wiped tabletops.
Evan in love with her? That certainly hadn’t occurred to Carrie. She’d always thought Evan could only love himself, and thinking he might be in love with her made her wince.
The house was in order by four o’clock, in plenty of time for Shirley to get home and meet the milk truck. Engine trouble had kept it from coming that morning, and the driver had called and promised to be at the farm before evening milking began. Shirley needed to be there when he came, since their helper was taking the day off, and Roger would be busy tending the herd.
After Shirley left, Carrie wandered through the house, thinking about JoAnne and the complete lack of any clue to what she had learned that might stop the quarry. She sat down at the desk and decided to look at every single paper it held. She’d looked at things when she piled them back in the drawers earlier in the afternoon, but maybe some scrap of something had slipped by her.
Carrie thought about the reminder notes she often jotted on miscellaneous scraps of paper and decided JoAnne might have done the same thing. She doubted if the sheriff’s men would have noticed anything like that, especially if the note seemed insignificant.
She began a methodical search, looking at the front and back of every piece of paper and envelope in the desk. When she came to the collection of mail that had been on the desk Saturday morning, she remembered the lawyer said she was supposed to take care of JoAnne’s bills. She decided to check inside the envelopes, which had been slit open.
And there it was. A penciled note on the back of the electric bill in JoAnne’s handwriting: “Head rights for minerals!!! Old farm, 6:30, morning.”
JoAnne had probably pulled out the bill, then laid it aside and put the note on it later, perhaps when someone called.
Head rights was a term Carrie knew. In Oklahoma it meant each member of a Native American tribe benefitted from the sale or lease of something of value the tribe owned
in common—kind of like shares. In fact, she knew an Osage woman who had inherited head rights for minerals on property in Osage County, Oklahoma. As a result, the woman had a very comfortable income from oil lease money that had been invested. But here? Carrie had never heard of head rights being allotted for minerals in Arkansas. She’d call the university first thing tomorrow and ask someone about it.
“Old farm, 6:30.” 6:30 Saturday morning? That was early, but JoAnne had been an early riser, and she’d have needed to finish whatever this was before coming to the meeting at Carrie’s.
Should someone be told about the note?
Henry and Jason had gone to town and would probably stay there for dinner. Roger was out with the herd, and Shirley was busy with the milk truck. No one to tell now. Later tonight, maybe. And, she’d take the note with her since it was on an electric bill she must pay.
For now, she might just drive down to the old farm and look around. It had been some time since she’d actually walked around down there, and she was curious as the dickens. The sheriff’s men could have missed some important clue. Perhaps she could find out what it was JoAnne had discovered, and that would make everything clear. Whatever else it meant, wouldn’t it prove to Henry King she was a very capable woman, one who could be trusted with information about his gun... or his life?
It would be getting dark soon. She’d have to hurry.
Chapter XIV
It wasn’t until she was bumping along the lane to the old barn that Carrie remembered Roger’s warning that no one should go to the proposed quarry site alone. For just a moment she slowed her station wagon, but then decided since she hadn’t seen trucks or cars anywhere, and certainly no outsider would walk here from any distance, there could not possibly be danger. Just twenty-four hours ago men from the sheriff’s department had been all over the place. No one would come here now. Except she would, of course, because she had a reason.
She parked her wagon by the remains of a corral fence near the barn. She could check the barn later. Probably Taylor and the others pretty much tore it apart after finding JoAnne’s truck there anyway. But perhaps they hadn’t looked as carefully in other places on the old farm.
She headed toward the foundation of the house, glad she had on heavy jeans and boots. The dry brush was tall in spots, though it had obviously been trampled, and the scattering of rocks and pieces of rusted metal would have made walking difficult in anything but boots.
The day had remained cloudy, but now the setting sun slanted through a gap in the purpling clouds and illuminated the naked chimney. The old bricks were a warm rosy color. JoAnne had told her they were made from clay dug near Walden Creek. Maybe a loose brick had fallen somewhere, and she could take it home and put it in the rock garden in front of her house. The quarry people certainly wouldn’t care about a brick since they were planning to blast the place to bits anyway.
Attracted by the idea of saving one of the historic bricks, she started around the chimney, looking at the ground and wondering how many years ago the house had burned.
As she came to the old hearth, she nearly fell over a pile of rocks. Someone had been digging and, from the looks of things, very recently, since dirt on the rocks was damp. She looked around but saw no person and no tools anywhere. It was all right then. Whoever it was had gone.
She kicked at the pile, trying to figure out why someone would be digging, but all she uncovered were more rocks. Maybe she’d have time to come back with a pick and shovel tomorrow while Susan was tending to the baby and getting settled. Maybe Henry would come with her, or even, maybe, Shirley would keep the baby and Susan could come too. Carrie smiled, thinking of this prospect. At the very least, now Henry and Susan would get to know each other, even though Susan could have no idea of their real relationship.
She looked around again. The angle of a weak sunbeam highlighted a track of broken weeds and pasture grass that led toward the bluff and the trees along the creek.
Glancing at the sky, Carrie decided she had several minutes before dark. She headed off, following the rough path.
When she got to the creek bank, there were more signs that rocks had been disturbed. Could the quarry people have done it, making tests or something?
It was already quite dark in the shelter of the bluffs, and barred owls in the woods above her were beginning to call. Ordinarily Carrie would have called back, but she didn’t have time now for a conversation with owls. When she was outside at dusk, she sometimes mimicked the owls, and they came to the trees over her head. Of course, she hadn’t the slightest idea what the conversation was about and often wondered if the owls did.
She looked up toward the overhang that marked a cave entrance on the face of the bluff. Shadows accented a path slanting upward until it reached the overhang and the dark hole behind it. For how many centuries had people walked up and down that path? Anyone sitting on the overhang could see the whole valley, a good vantage point.
Sadly, if the quarry came, all this would be destroyed, blasted into oblivion to make nothing but gravel.
She began pushing piles of stone around with the toe of her boot, but, here in the shadows, it was almost too dark to see. Too bad she hadn’t thought to bring a trowel and flashlight. She’d have to leave soon. In the country, dark meant no light at all unless there was a moon, and tonight clouds covered stars and a waning moon. She couldn’t even see the Booths’ farm lights from here.
A sudden rustle in the dry underbrush caused her to start, and her boot dug sharply into the pile of rocks she had been kicking at. Some nocturnal animal had come out to hunt for food.
She looked down and saw a curving shape near the toe of her boot. Surely not a shell, not here. She picked the curved thing up, brushed it off with her gloved hand, then took off a glove to feel. Smooth, with slight circling swirls. In the faint light it looked like a shallow bowl.
Her heart thumped. Pottery! That must mean some kind of Indian camp. She had found something important. She wrapped the bowl in a facial tissue and tucked it away in her pocket, counting on the heavy jacket to help protect it from harm.
She could no longer see her station wagon in the distance, but, more by instinct than sight, she headed back toward the old barn, first feeling carefully to be sure her key was still in the pocket of her jeans. As she walked back toward the barn, she thought she heard a metallic clink. She stopped to listen and decided it had been the sound of her wagon’s engine cooling.
Everything was very quiet as she approached the old corral. The wagon was barely visible. Only a dark blob against the weathered boards of the barn revealed its location. She leaned against the driver’s door, reaching in her pocket for the key.
She was just touching the key when a rush of movement came around behind her, and before she could turn, a dark fuzzy something had been pulled over her head, knocking her cap off and covering her eyes and mouth.
She was able to cry out, and the person behind her made no effort to stop her, realizing as Carrie did at once, that there would be no one to hear. Now her mouth was full of woolly fibers. She gagged, then choked, and took an involuntary, gasping breath. Whatever it was covering her head smelled awful.
The attacker grabbed her shoulders and pushed her, front forward, against the curving side of the wagon. He leaned against her, using the force of his body weight to keep her immobile while he yanked her hands back and up. She cried out in pain as her shoulders twisted.
Now her hands were being tied with what felt like nylon fishing line. It was wound around each wrist, then between her hands and looped over and over before it was knotted. Carrie counted five knots and winced. The line was thin and had already cut into her bare flesh.
Repeatedly, she tried to kick backward at her enemy, but found that her weight was so off balance she could barely move her feet. When she finally managed one feeble blow, the man, because by now the pressure of his body against hers had made her certain it was a man, kicked her sharply in the ankle.
Her mind was racing, a survival instinct taking over even as she was being tied. Terror was her biggest enemy now. Oh, dear God! Why was the man doing this? She had been leaving, why had he stopped her? She shouldn’t have come here alone! Why hadn’t she listened... been more sensible... not so eager to rush into things? Oh, why!
She began to pray silently and tried to decide if she was afraid of dying. Then the man suddenly backed away from her, and she fell sideways. Her shoulder struck the hood of the wagon, but she could barely feel it. Her heavy jacket and whatever had been tied over her head did at least end up being a lot of padding, she realized, not without gratitude, as she slid to the rocky ground.
She lay still, trying to control her trembling body as a flashlight raked over her, and she listened to the man’s heavy breathing. Maybe he would think she was unconscious.
One thing was sure—her attacker was strong, though he was much shorter and less bulky than Henry.
The man stood over her for a long time, and Carrie could hear his breathing slowing down. What was he thinking? Trying to decide whether or not to kill her? But why would he kill her? She couldn’t think of a single reason. Certainly not because of a piece of pottery!
The man couldn’t know she had it.
Just as she was thinking that, she heard him kneel beside her. He pushed her over on her back, sat on her legs, and began to search her pockets. He found the tissue-wrapped bowl first, and she could sense that he was inspecting it in the beam of his flashlight.
She heard him put it in his own pocket, then he began going through the rest of her jacket pockets, where he found only her glove and facial tissues, and finally her jeans pockets. It was hard not to shudder as she felt his fingers through the thin cloth of the jeans pocket lining.
The contact must have affected him too because he hesitated, not long, but long enough for her to be sure he was aware his moving fingers were touching her intimately through the light-weight fabric. What was he thinking? Rape? Did that happen to women her age? Oh, yes, yes, it did. She had read recently that rape was more often about power than it was sex, and then it didn’t matter much what age the victim was... or what she looked like.
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