by Vicki Lane
“There was a note—and it worried the niece enough that she called us right away—well, you saw what happened—Miss Barrett was trying to kill herself.”
Blaine opened the back door and stepped out into the cold air. “Looks like she may get her wish too—the EMTs weren’t sure if she’d make it, with that head injury.”
He leaned back into the car and cast a sympathetic brown gaze at Elizabeth. It’s the sympathy that does it, every time, she thought, firmly quelling the rising tide of tears.
“You knew her, you said?” The sheriff’s voice was warm and gentle, full of concern. There was no hint of official inquiry.
Elizabeth gulped and nodded. “I met her for the first time a few months ago. But, Mackenzie, Nola Barrett isn’t squirrelly… or suicidal…at least not when I saw her a week ago. My god, the woman has a memory like…like…”
She faltered, unable to find an apt comparison. “Her memory’s amazing. Just a few weeks ago I was telling her about how Sam and I left suburbia to learn to farm…how we wanted a garden and cows and bees…and all of a sudden she launched into ‘Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee—’”
Seeing bewilderment spread over the sheriff’s face, Elizabeth broke off. “It’s from a poem by William Butler Yeats. Nola knew it all by heart. She once told me that she’d memorized page after page of poetry when she was young and still could go on for hours without repeating herself. She was…she was the most…”
The memory of that nightmare figure on the upper porch, the pathetic crumpled form caught in the green-black clutch of the ancient boxwood, and the stricken, bloodless face that had disappeared into the ambulance was too much. Betrayed by her emotions, Elizabeth choked, unable to go on.
Blaine’s eyes met Phillip’s and he said gently, “You all go on home now, Hawk. I’ll be in touch.”
When the sheriff’s car had gone, leaving the way clear, Phillip began to back slowly and carefully down the rutted drive. Elizabeth stared up at the old house. The blank windows returned her stare, watching and waiting under the lowering sky, and the entire scene swam and wavered in her watery gaze.
As they pulled farther away from the house, once again she could see the dolls on the old porch, stirred by the chill wind sweeping down the river gorge into a writhing, endless dance.
Chapter 3
Nola Barrett
Friday, December 1
Tell me about that house. You said there’d been a murder…is that why no one lives there?”
Phillip handed Elizabeth a thick mug of rum-fortified tea. Her call to the hospital had been fruit-less—beyond the fact that Nola Barrett had been admitted and was still alive, no information was forthcoming.
He took his seat on the denim-covered sofa beside Elizabeth. She had finally stopped shivering but was withdrawn to some wordless sorrow, staring into the fire.
Get her talking—otherwise she’ll clam up and hold that misery in. He began to rub the back of her neck and could feel the tension in her body slacken. “The building’s overgrown and run-down for sure but it looks pretty sound. At least the ridge line isn’t sagging—that’s one of the earliest signs that a place is falling apart. With the great view from those porches—the river and the mountains—it’s hard to believe some Florida person hasn’t snapped it up and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast—it’s sure big enough.”
His fingers moved down to work the muscles of her shoulder. She was still silent; then, with a last sip of the tea, she set her mug on the old chest before the sofa and turned to offer both shoulders for his attentions.
“As a matter of fact, that’s what the house was years ago—not a B and B, but an inn. Back before the railroad came through, it was one of the stopping places on the Drovers’ Road.”
Her voice was low and sad, but at least she was talking. Phillip continued to knead the taut muscles. “Yeah…I kinda remember Aunt Omie talking about that—the road through Marshall County where they used to drive hogs and such to market. I’d forgotten…it followed the river, didn’t it? So of course it would have come right by there.”
Elizabeth’s head dropped and she leaned forward. “That feels good. You have a nice firm touch.”
She breathed a contented sigh and went on. “You’re right, the Drovers’ Road ran by the river, pretty much where the railroad is now. And every eight or ten miles there’d be an inn with big lots or corrals to put the livestock in for the night. They called them ‘stands,’ those stopping places. And that creepy old house was the inn at this stand. The park where the paddlers put in and the fields by the river—all that’s where the corrals were—”
“—and that’s why the area at the bridge is called Gudger’s Stand.” Phillip beamed with pleasure. She was relaxing and she was talking. Keep it up. “That makes sense,” he continued. “It never occurred to me to wonder—there’re so many odd names here in the mountains.”
“I guess it was a Mr. Gudger who built the place and ran the stand. Evidently the house is one of the very few drovers’ inns still…still standing, no pun intended.”
There was a lack of humor in her voice, but at least this was a flash of the usual Elizabeth. He nodded to himself as she went on. “The only other remains of a stock stand that I know of in Marshall County are down the river a little way. Remember on that raft trip we did back in the summer? About halfway between the bridge and Hot Springs, just before those big rapids, the guide pointed out a little stone building. He said that it was all that was left of another stand.”
“So the old house is a historic place, huh?” Phillip worked his fingers down either side of Elizabeth’s spine. “It really seems like there’d be someone hot to turn it into one of those tourist ‘destinations.’ The way the county’s growing, I can’t believe no one’s thought about doing something with the only remaining drovers’ inn, even if there was a murder there.”
Under his fingers, he could feel her body tense again as she replied. “It wasn’t just the old man’s murder—the place has always had a bad reputation. Supposedly there were other murders way back—drovers returning home, killed for the money they were carrying. And then, after the railroad came through and there weren’t any more stock drives, the inn turned into more of a tavern and a hangout—lots of drinking and fighting and there were shootings now and then. Miss Birdie still talks about what a dangerous place Gudger’s Stand was, back when she was a girl.”
The cell phone at Phillip’s waist vibrated. He kept one hand on Elizabeth’s back, moving it in lazy circles as he flipped open the little instrument.
“It’s Mac, Lizabeth. Maybe he’ll have some news about your friend.”
Mackenzie Blaine’s report was terse: Nola Barrett was stable but unconscious. A dislocated shoulder and a concussion seemed to be her major injuries.
“Amazing it wasn’t worse.” Phillip returned the phone to his belt. “Mac said Miss Barrett’s niece is with her and is making arrangements for her care whenever she can be moved. The doctor won’t commit herself, but did tell Mac that the old lady had a good chance of a full recovery—physically, anyway.”
“Nola’s sixty-four.” Elizabeth’s voice was thoughtful. “Only ten years older than I am.”
“Are you serious?” Again he saw the sticklike figure, swaying and gibbering in the wind…and the huddled, broken shape with a death mask for a face, being loaded into the EMS ambulance. “I just assumed—I don’t know…senility…Alzheimer’s…something like that.”
“It couldn’t have been.” Elizabeth swung around to face him, her eyes flashing blue fire. “Not Nola Barrett. Absolutely not.”
Absolutely not. But what had taken Nola Barrett to the old house she had vowed never to enter again; what had sent her over that high railing in search of death?
As she lay in the steaming water of her pre–bedtime bath, Elizabeth thought back to her first meeting with Miss Barrett. It had been only a few months ago, when Sallie Kate had called. Sallie Kate, whose real estat
e business took her over so much of Marshall County and acquainted her with so many of its inhabitants, needed a favor.
“It’s about that old building at Gudger’s Stand, honey.” Sallie Kate’s voice was excited as she described the various groups interested in the property—the historic old inn with its adjacent acreage and river frontage. There were rival developers with plans for an upscale gated community on the property. And there were preservationists and environmentalists who wanted a nature sanctuary and drovers’ museum.
“I’d think you’d be thrilled to have so much interest in the place,” Elizabeth had gently teased her friend.
“Oh, there’s plenty of interest, all right. Along with the developers and the tree huggers, there’re the local people who think gold’s hidden there, back from the days of the Drovers’ Road. And county gossip says there’re a few folks with something to hide about the murder of old man Revis—folks who’d be just as happy to see that place burn to the ground. County gossip also says that Vance Holcombe—you know, the sheriff back then—didn’t try very hard to solve the crime. And that Mackenzie Blaine, our illustrious current sheriff, may know more about the case than he’s sayin’.”
Elizabeth had nodded into the phone, wondering vaguely what sort of favor Sallie Kate wanted.
“The thing is, honey, I’m tryin’ to get Miss Nola to hire a lawyer—at this point she doesn’t have clear title to the place, no matter what the family tree in her Bible says. If old man Revis made a will, no one knows where it is. And here I’ve got deep-pocket buyers absolutely slaverin’ over the place and she keeps draggin’ her feet.
“So, Elizabeth honey, I figure this might be right up your alley. Did I mention that Miss Nola has several trunks full of family quilts? Some even go back to before the war—the Wa-wahr, that is—the Civil Wa-wahr. You’re always so interested in old quilts—let me take you over to meet Miss Nola. I know you two’ll get along. And then, maybe you can help her understand that if she doesn’t hire a lawyer to sort out this mess and get a clear title to the property, she’s not likely to see a dime from that place.”
And so Elizabeth had made the short trip, across the river and up the winding road to Dewell Hill. The little settlement, early and briefly the center of Marshall County government, had long ago lost the battle for preeminence to Ransom, where a red-brick courthouse in the neoclassical style shed glory on the modest county seat. In recent years Dewell Hill had lapsed even further, from a thriving village to a somnolent cluster of houses, several churches, and a small convenience store. What had once been a proud two-story school for grades one through twelve had been partially demolished, leaving only a paltry one-story wing to serve as a community center.
They don’t even have a post office anymore. The low frame building that had, fifteen or twenty years before, housed a general store and a tiny post office had been converted into two rental units. With a lovely view of the garbage bins, Elizabeth thought, pulling her car in behind the silver SUV that bore on its front doors the Country Manors logo and phone number.
Nola Barrett’s tiny stone house sat on a corner, perilously near the pavement. Across one road was the garbage collection center with its looming green bins; across the other, the erstwhile post office. Behind the house an ancient gnarled apple tree stooped and spread its bare branches over the little lean-to back porch. A wisp of white smoke lifted from the stone chimney and vanished against the sky’s deep blue.
“Come in the house!” Sallie Kate’s cheerful voice had called out as the front door opened. “Nola’s expecting you.”
Elizabeth had stepped through the door of the little cottage and stopped in sheer confusion. But I wasn’t expecting this, she thought as her eyes took in the contents of the room.
Books. Books and books upon books. They lined the walls of the little sitting room, packed tight on simple white-painted shelves. Old books, new books, paperbacks and hardcovers in a kaleidoscope of colors. More volumes were in neat stacks on the end tables that flanked the shabby chintz-covered love seat, and still more were on the sturdy oak table under the window, ranging beside a laptop computer. Next to the boxy oil heater, a sagging upholstered armchair with a matching ottoman was attended by knee-high towers of still more books. The no-nonsense reading light just behind the chair and the worn fabric of the armrests, as well as the permanent sag of the cushion, suggested that this was the owner’s habitual seat.
Sallie Kate had been in full realtor regalia that day—gray wool slacks, black turtleneck, and a fire engine–red blazer. Her usually helter-skelter blonde curls had been slightly subdued by a pair of side-combs that she was in the act of resettling.
“I doubt I’ll ever get the hang of these things.” Sallie Kate peered dubiously over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses into a little mirror on the wall. “The last time Lola cut my hair, she fixed it so cute with these—I mean très elegant, honey—”
“I think it looks great.” Elizabeth glanced around the little room. “Where’s—?”
“She’s back there in the kitchen, fixin’ some coffee.” Sallie Kate glanced at a half-open door and added in a whisper, “Get her to show you the quilts and then ask her about the old inn. Eventually you can get around to the lawyer thing. She won’t listen to me and I can’t stay anyway; I’ve got a closin’ in Ransom at ten-thirty. Just remember—”
“You’ll have time for a cup of coffee before you go, Sallie Kate. It won’t take you fifteen minutes to get to Ransom, so just sit down and quit fidgeting.”
The woman who came through the door to the kitchen spoke in the firm tones of one who expects—and receives—prompt obedience. She carried a hammered-copper tray with three sea-green pottery mugs, a matching sugar bowl and cream pitcher, and a shining glass-and-chrome French press coffeemaker. Moving without hurry, she advanced on the oak table and deposited her burden in the cleared space to the right of the computer. Then she turned and put out her hand. “Elizabeth Goodweather, I presume.” A smile flitted across her thin lips. “Sallie Kate tells me you’re interested in quilts.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth took the proffered hand, cool and dry, a collection of fragile bones. “I’ve made a few quilts and I have some beautiful ones done by my great-grandmother and her sister.”
Nola Barrett regarded Elizabeth with an appraising eye, then released her hand and turned to pour the coffee. There had been unexpected strength in that brief clasp. I was expecting an old lady—but this woman’s…what, in her sixties? Maybe ten years older than me. What made me call her “ma’am”? I bet she hates hearing that from someone with more gray hair than she has.
Indeed, Miss Nola Barrett’s hair, sleeked back into a classic French twist, was black as the proverbial crow’s wing. As were her carefully penciled eyebrows. The older woman’s elegantly spare and upright frame was clothed in a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into a flared charcoal wool skirt, while her long, narrow feet were encased in well-polished black low-heeled pumps. A gray wool cardigan, adorned with a silver brooch in the shape of a dogwood blossom, and opaque black stockings completed the somber outfit.
Elizabeth, supremely conscious of her own faded jeans, boots, and flannel shirt, found herself smiling. I was expecting someone like Miss Birdie or Dorothy—in a little print housedress or polyester pants and sweatshirt—not this. I’m used to the farm folks of Marshall County; obviously Nola Barrett is something else. Sallie Kate must be mistaken; this woman doesn’t look like anyone who needs help understanding the legal system.
But Sallie Kate was standing, looking at her watch, gulping down the last of her coffee, and saying a hurried good-bye. She was out of the door in a scarlet flurry, and Elizabeth was left alone with her hostess.
“You haven’t mentioned the books yet.” Nola Barrett settled into the armchair. A cool gray gaze studied Elizabeth through thick lenses set into heavy black frames. “Most people ask if I’ve read them all.”
“I’ll bet they do.” Elizabeth nodded in smiling agreemen
t. “I have a full wall of books in my living room, and I almost always get that question. I’ve taken to saying that they’re there for insulation.”
“So you’re a reader too.” The steely-gray eyes softened. “What do you read?”
“A bit of everything—the classics, Southern fiction, English mysteries, biographies, history—”
“Did Sallie Kate mention to you that I’m working on a historical novel about Marshall County?” With a nod toward the laptop, Nola Barrett went on. “I taught English literature for many years at Mars Hill College, and when I retired I decided to try my hand at writing.”
Gradually Nola Barrett’s story had been told. “I was born right here in Dewell Hill—and grew up in this very house, as a matter of fact. My mother had no education to speak of, but she was determined that I should have a chance for more. She kept me at my books—books she could barely read herself—and took any job she could find to keep me in school. Fortunately, I took to learning like a starving man to food—we couldn’t afford many extras and, heresy of heresies, didn’t own a television. I was an odd bird: I amused myself by memorizing poetry, which, as you might imagine, didn’t do much for my popularity with my classmates. But by the time I was through high school, a local church arranged a scholarship for me at a women’s college in Atlanta. One of the members was a recent graduate and she acted as a mentor, making sure that I had the right clothes and an allowance that would allow me to fit in with my classmates.
“And at college”—Miss Barrett stood and returned her empty mug to the tray—“I managed to lose my mountain accent. At first my roommates could hardly understand me; later they mimicked and teased me till I learned to speak in the educated dialect I now employ. You, on the other hand”—her head tilted to one side as she regarded Elizabeth with a pensive gaze—“your original speech was undoubtedly educated—oh, Southern, definitely, but educated. Now, I think, some of the mountain patois has become part of your habitual language. Am I correct?”