Truth and Circumstances

by Myrna Parks

  ****

  It was nearly 2:00 p.m. before Beth managed to reach David Bracken on the telephone. “David, this is Bethany Ashton.” She pictured him, long and lanky, as he answered on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, Beth. I haven’t talked to you in awhile. How was your trip to California?”

  “Hot and dry. It’s good to be back in Georgia. I wanted to go over your listing with you. Since the tourist trade is typically gone by November, and you usually advertise monthly rates for your properties, when I noticed that you did not have Mountain View Lodge on your list, I thought I should check with you before running the advertisement.”

  “I received a year-long lease agreement on that chalet,” David responded.

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” David admitted. “I was contacted by a real estate agent who said his client was a well-known writer looking for a secluded retreat.”

  Beth felt all the breath leave her body. Swallowing hard, she asked, “Where was this agent calling from? Do you remember?”

  “Colorado.”

  Beth slapped a hand over her heart. She tried to breathe.

  Her voice low and steady, Beth inquired, “Do you know the writer’s name? Or when this lodger will arrive?”

  “No. Wait a minute.” The owner of Bracken’s raised his voice, called to his secretary in the outer office. “Jean, do you know when our lodger for Mountain View will take possession?”

  The blood began to pound in her head, and when Beth realized she was holding her breath, she slowly exhaled.

  There was a bump on the other end of the line, and then the voice of David Bracken. “Tomorrow. Don’t know the name of the person, but the agent assured Jean his client will pick up the key before noon on Thursday.”

  “Beth?”

  Beth could hear David’s voice trailing her as she raced toward the lavatory, where she felt certain her lunch was about to make a sudden comeback.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the midnight hour, the shops along Main Street were closed and the streets silent. Unable to sleep, the only sounds Beth could hear from her bed were the silvery notes of the courthouse clock, striking from a distant hillside. Her ground floor apartment, located within one of Laurel’s grand old houses built early in the nineteenth century, sat on the corner of First and Main Street.

  Inside the darkened bedroom, Beth’s eyes were wide, and her mind spinning, as she rolled onto her left side. It couldn’t possibly be Carter. She rolled onto her right side. What are the odds that a writer from Colorado would come to a remote spot like Laurel, unless he had connections here? Beth sat up, pounded her pillow until it looked like a wad of tissue, and then lying back, her eyes stared into nothingness. If Carter is the tenant, why would he sign a long-term lease for rental property when he already owns a villa in Colorado? The night was nearly over when Beth finally fell into the deep and dreamless slumber of exhaustion.

  Slowly she came awake to the relentless sound of brreeng-brreeng-brreeng, coming from the bedside telephone. Beth fumbled for the receiver then muttered sleepily, “Hello?”

  “Beth? Is that you, are you all right?” Amy’s voice, excited and concerned, spoke from the other end.

  “What time is it?”

  “Are you ill? You are never late. It’s almost 8:30.”

  “I’m sorry. I overslept. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Take your time. Everything’s quiet for the moment. Bill’s gone back to Piney Ridge for pictures. Remember that skeleton I told you about yesterday? It wasn’t an animal but a real live, well, obviously not alive, but the bone fragments they found are human remains. The sheriff thinks it might be from an old homestead burial site. Nevertheless, he’s called in the state police. They’re bringing a forensic scientist all the way in from Atlanta. This is real excitement for our little Gazette.”

  While her friend rattled, Beth’s eyes drifted shut. The minute Beth hung up the phone, she remembered why she’d overslept. She flung back the covers and scurried into the kitchen with thoughts of Carter flying through her mind as fast as poultry feathers on an alligator farm.

  After a quick breakfast of dry toast and herbal tea, Beth showered and then studied her wardrobe with a critical eye. Would Carter really show up in Georgia? He knows where I work, she mused.

  Not taking any chances, Beth selected a fine jersey wool dress the color of rich pumpkin. The dress, the most becoming garment in her wardrobe, had long sleeves, clean lines, and a flared skirt that looked perfect with her tall-heeled, brown leather boots. Not practical for work, Beth admitted, but definitely flattering. Carefully, she applied makeup, jewelry, and matching lipstick, and then spent ten minutes brushing her hair until it gleamed as thick and bright as a new penny.

  With a brisk pace, Beth walked to work. The morning air was crisp and clear, and the scents of autumn perfumed the air. Along the cobbled streets, pine needles and fallen leaves sprinkled the walkway beneath her feet. Seven minutes later, Beth opened the door of the Laurel Gazette.

  Amy quickly left her desk the instant she saw Beth step through the door. With a broad smile and flushed cheeks, Amy exclaimed, “Look in your office!”

  Beth opened the gate in the divider with a curious glance at her friend. Amy followed Beth like a shadow across the floor. Before Beth reached her office door, Amy said, “You have flowers.”

  When she entered her office, Beth discovered a massive bouquet of roses, spilling from a fat crystal vase. Beth glanced at her friend with a slow smile tilting her lips.

  Amy snickered. “Jasmine Lee delivered the bouquet after I talked to you this morning. The woman lounged around for the longest time, hoping you might show up. You know how nosy Jasmine is. She looked like she wanted to spring a leak, dying to find out who sent the bouquet. Jasmine said the customer paid cash. He filled out the card himself and sealed it inside the envelope.”

  Beth’s nervous fingers fumbled among the blossoms, searching for the small tag. With unsteady fingers, she unsealed the rectangle and pulled out the card. She read a few words on it inscribed in a bold cursive script:

  Are you as miserable as I am? I love you,

  Carter

  Beth’s legs felt like water. She had to sit down.

  “Well?” Amy could hardly contain her curiosity.

  Beth handed Amy the card. Her friend gasped as she read the inscription.

  In a trembling voice, Beth admitted, “From David Bracken, I found out yesterday that a writer from Colorado has signed a lease on Mountain View Lodge. I stayed awake all night, wondering if the tenant could possibly be Carter.”

  “And now you know. How romantic.” Amy sighed and then asked, “Are you as miserable as he is?”

  The telephone rang. Amy groaned. “This phone has been ringing off the hook for the past half-hour.”

  Beth lifted the receiver. She listened with a sinking heart to Bill’s voice, giving her detailed instructions. She cradled the instrument and moaned. “Your husband is sending me up to Piney Ridge.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “He wants me to interview Isaac Sawyers. The sheriff thinks that skeleton might belong to an old homesteader who lived not too far from Isaac’s place. Bill thinks this would make a good human-interest story. The early settlers, their hardships—”

  “Beth, I’m so sorry. What an awful time for you to leave the office. I’d go in your place, but I’m no writer, and besides...” She looked down at her swollen abdomen.

  “I’m not sure if I know where Mr. Sawyers lives. Can you draw a map while I walk home and get my car?”

  “Take Bill’s Bronco. He left with the sheriff this morning.”

  Beth gathered her purse, leaned over, and thrust her face among the roses for a final whiff before she climbed into Bill’s tall SUV and headed for the hills.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later, Beth glanced at the map laying face-up on the seat beside her. She turned the vehicle off the
asphalt onto a narrow, graveled road. The truck climbed and jostled its way for another ten minutes before the road dissolved into a dirt trek. Grateful she’d left her small car behind, Beth drove as far as she dared. When the road became a path, she parked the truck.

  Through the trees, Beth was able to discern the faint outline of a small shack standing upon a heavily wooded knoll. She slung her bag over her shoulder and started walking over the rough, uneven pathway. Very soon, she regretted the boots, which were definitely made for fashion, rather than hiking.

  Beth approached the cabin with nervous anticipation. The dilapidated house with its rusted tin roof and deep gloomy shade was dark and uninviting.

  She’d never met Mr. Sawyers and had seen him only once or twice in town. Bill had assured her on the phone the elderly man was still mentally alert. The homestead was a ramshackle old place with not one board looking as if it had ever met a paintbrush. Beth saw nothing to validate Bill’s assurance. The remnants of the front porch, with no railing, had only three posts, which allowed the roof to tilt dangerously toward the ground.

  Beth longed to turn and trot back to the truck. But this is my job, my chosen profession.

  Beth lifted one foot onto the darkened boards that served as steps.

  Inside the dense shade, the wind whistled through the pine trees. Beth shivered in spite of her warm dress.

  She picked her way across the rotting porch and lifted her hand. Before she could knock, the door creaked open, moving inward upon rusted hinges.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was nearly 11:00 when Bill Chambers lifted his large frame from the sheriff’s car, telling himself he should go on a diet. Married life with Amy’s home-cooking was catching up with him. Inside the Gazette, he found his wife’s vacant desk and yelled, “Amy!”

  “I’m right here,” Amy yelled from storage room in the rear.

  “Where’s my Bronco?”

  Amy waddled out of the backroom. “I suggested Beth drive your truck instead of her car up to the old Sawyers’ place. Why?”

  Bill snorted impatiently. “I told Nate Thomas I’d meet him at the Laurel Valley Retirement Center in ten minutes. The skull found up on the Ridge shows signs of trauma. Nate wants to interview his uncle, Jeb Jenkins. Jeb lived up there until four years ago, when he broke his hip.”

  She opened her desk drawer and retrieved keys from her purse. “Here. Take my car. It’s parked on the side street.” Amy handed him the key ring.

  Bill gave his wife a hurried peck on the cheek, instructed her to get off her feet, and left without a backward glance.

  ****

  Carter looked both ways before crossing the street. Dressed in casual slacks and natural cable-knit sweater, he paused outside the Laurel Gazette. Taking a calming breath, he opened the door.

  Inside, seated behind the wooden banister that ran the width of the room, a pleasant-faced woman glanced up from her computer screen with a welcoming smile. “Hello. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Carter leaned over the railing and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Carter Phillips. I believe Bethany Ashton works here.”

  The woman’s face beamed with a cheek-splitting grin. She clasped his hand in an enthusiastic handshake. With big, brown eyes that assured him she was happy to see him, the young woman said, “I’m Amy, a good friend of Beth’s. Beth isn’t here. She drove over to Piney Ridge to interview a man for the paper.”

  His disappointment must have shone on his face, Amy quickly suggested, “You could drive up there yourself. It’s less than ten miles, and the view is spectacular, especially this time of year.”

  “Do you think Beth would mind?”

  “She would be thrilled.” The light in Amy’s eyes and the excitement in the young woman’s voice gave Carter a resurrection of hope. Before he could say anything, Amy offered, “I’ll draw you a map.”

  ****

  Bill tapped on the door of unit number twelve of the local retirement home.

  Nate Thomas, the sheriff of Laurel County, a big man with broad shoulders and a gut that hung slightly lower than his belt, opened the door.

  Bill stepped inside. The living room, an open area with plenty of windows overlooking the mountains, extended into the kitchen and allowed ample room for Jeb to maneuver his wheelchair.

  From the sitting area, Jeb Jenkins, a wiry man with short, white hair and most of his teeth missing, greeted Bill as he joined Nate on the worn-looking sofa.

  Nate said, “I was telling Uncle Jeb about the remains we found. He thinks he may know who it is.”

  Bill quickly flipped open his notebook in eager anticipation.

  “When Nate tol’ me the skull had a missin’ front tooth, I asked him if it was the bottom one on the right.” Jeb pointed to his bottom incisor. The old man cackled and slapped his thigh with one boney hand. “I thought Nate’s chin was gonna’ bounce off the floor.”

  “Who is it?” Bill hastily injected.

  “Name’s Matthew Williamson, local man that went missin’ back in 1941, just before I got drafted into th’ army.”

  “We found most of the skeleton,” Nate acknowledged, “but not all of it. The burial site was underneath a big rock overhang, near the creek bed. Looks like the grave eroded during the recent flooding and perhaps some animal may have unearthed the remains. There was trauma to the back of the skull. The doctor says it appears the neck may have also been broken.”

  Bill wrote feverishly while Nate questioned his uncle. “Any ideas what could have happened to the man?”

  “I got an idea that young Matthew might of met up with a brother called ‘Justice.’”

  “We can do without the philosophy lesson, Uncle. Just tell us in plain English.”

  Jeb leaned back and stared at the ceiling as he recalled the past. “Well…It was early one mornin’, jus’ about this time a year when Matthew Williamson come a-knockin’ on my door. He wanted t’ know if I was interested in buyin’ a good milk cow. Since I been lookin’ for one ever since spring, I told him, ‘yessiree.’ When I stepped outside and looked th’ animal over, I recognized th’ jersey cow. When I questioned Matthew, he tol’ me he had traded the deed to his farm for a little cash and th’ milk cow. Said he was leavin’ town to join his wife and youngin’s who was stayin’ with his brother in Atlanta.”

  Impatient for Jeb to get to the point, Bill asked, “So, what was wrong with the man’s story?”

  “I know’d his farm wasn’t worth much, and I had already heard that he’d tried to borry against it.” Bill grunted in disbelief. Jeb insisted, “Times was different back then. We might have been on the south side of the Depression, but folks around here was poor. Especially hill farmers. Down in the valley, you could grow a little corn, beans, tobacco. But up on the mountaintops, homesteaders had to live off what they could shoot or trap. Matthew lived as high up on the Ridge as you could get. He had lots of mouths to feed and only a small bit of land to do it with.”

  Bill pondered the old man’s words. “Therefore, like many of the inhabitants of these hills, Matthew made the decision to migrate to the city in search of a better way of life.”

  Jeb shrugged. “I was suspicious, but took a chance and bought the milk cow.”

  Nate asked the question that was ready to roll off of Bill’s tongue. “Whose cow was Williamson trying to sell?”

  “That bag of bovine bones belonged to Isaac Sawyers.”

  ****

  Carter drove his rented SUV through the valley, following Amy’s detailed directions. He soon turned north and then began a steady upwards climb. With his window down and his arm resting along the window frame, Carter gazed appreciatively at the mountainside and the hills covered in layers of orange, yellow, burgundy, and red.

  Twenty minutes later, Carter parked his vehicle beside a navy Bronco. He was nervous and wondered if he’d be as welcomed by Beth as Amy Chambers would have him believe. There’s only one way to find out. Carter opened the door.

&nb
sp; He climbed from the truck and followed the winding pathway through the pine trees. In the gloomy stillness surrounding the house, Carter noted the silence. Not a leaf stirred, nor the welcoming sight of a dog or cat gave any relief to the oppressive homestead. He approached the porch with a skeptical eye, opting to use the remains of a stump on one side of the structure rather than risk the unsteady planks out front.

  Carter’s soft-soled shoes quickly gained him access to the precarious platform. Without making a sound, he picked his way toward the front door. As he came close to the first grimy-paned window, Carter froze in his tracks. He peered inside, noting the faded wallpaper peeling from the cabin’s walls.

  He saw a thin, stoop-shouldered man in faded overalls, pacing back and forth in a nervous state, holding a shotgun with both hands. Carter crouched low on his heels. He pressed close to the edge of the cloudy glass, placing his face against one side of the frame. He could just make out a woman’s legs encased in tall leather boots. The man was talking to someone — he was sure the woman was Beth — in an agitated manner.

  What should I do? He tried to think rationally. The image of Beth endangered or threatened brought his teeth together, his face set in a grim mask. As he watched the man with the restless gait repeatedly walk toward Beth and then turn and move away again, every nerve in Carter remained poised for action. At times, the old man would pause and wave one hand in a frantic manner. Other times he would gaze at his weapon and stroke the barrel of his gun as though it were a favored pet. Although Carter could not hear his words, the man’s features appeared angry and threatening.

  Unvoiced thoughts tore at him. Could he rush through the door without jeopardizing Beth? Was there any other way to enter the house?