In a Dark Season

by Vicki Lane

  “You remember that skit they did at the festival the first year—pretending to be a rap group? I just about died laughing. What did they call themselves—‘5 Bad Boyz’—‘boyz’ with a z? Something like that. And those awful baggy pants and all that tacky jewelry! I think Big Vance and Big Platt like to had a fit when they saw Little Vance prancing around like that. And I know Jana Lee Morton skipped Book Club the next day, she was so embarrassed. She said it was those outside boys had the idea.”

  “Well, it’s a sad time for them now, losing one of their number in this terrible way. But you see how they just draw together when times are bad—that’s the test of friendship, I always say.”

  Elizabeth moved unnoticed among them, lingering on the outskirts of first one group, than another. Most of these people, the so-called important people of the county, were strangers to her. Here and there was a familiar-looking face—someone she’d seen at the library or the bank or the post office—but not anyone she could put a name to.

  One group was crowded around a long table that stood against the wall of windows. Everyone seemed to be studying the items laid out on display, so Elizabeth drifted over to see what they were looking at.

  All manner of memorabilia lay tastefully arranged on the dark blue tablecloth, accompanied by identifying labels. At center was a large framed photo of the deceased, Payne Morton, one hand raised in exhortation as he stood in the pulpit. Smaller pictures showed him in the varied aspects of his life: with his parents on the day of his ordination; with his wife and two small girls on a picnic; umpiring a girls’ softball team; posed with his brother, holding up the head of a trophy buck.

  The late pastor’s worn Bible lay open at Psalm 139, and one of the older men in the group bent to peer at several heavily underlined verses. He began to read, running his big finger along the lines,

  “‘O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me’…Amen to that…then it skips some…‘Whither shall I go from thy Spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence?’”

  He shook his head sadly. “Now that’s the truth—you can’t hide from the Almighty. Brother Payne was a good somebody and folks all thought the world of him but I believe he must have had some turrible secret eatin’ at him to cause him to take his own life.”

  Elizabeth moved to the end of the table, where a thick scrapbook lay open. A newspaper clipping titled “5 Bad Boyz Wow Crowd” was pasted beneath a glossy photo of young men in rap gear. She leaned down to study the faces. Even though they were much younger, with sneering expressions meant to evoke a streetwise toughness, she recognized the Morton brothers and the Vance Holcombe as well. Hollis Noonan too was little changed: the same long blond hair sweeping across his face, half-covering his assumed scowl.

  She leaned closer. The fifth member of the group had his head turned half away, but something about him, the fine features, the pale hair—

  “Happier times, Miz Goodweather, happier times.”

  Lavinia Holcombe appeared at her elbow, her black bulk effortlessly cleaving the throng. “Have you been to see poor Nola recently? I haven’t been able to with all”—she swept one be-ringed hand in an inclusive gesture—“all this.”

  “It’s a lovely reception, Miz Holcombe. But such a sad occasion for you—I understand you were Pastor Morton’s godmother?”

  “Yes, indeed I was.” Big Lavinia extracted a wisp of lace and fine linen from a hidden pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “More than that, the Morton boys were like my own. From grammar school on, Little Vance was well nigh inseparable from Payne and Pritchard. Back and forth between the two houses all the time. I would have sworn I knew the Morton boys as well as I know my own. Yes, it’s quite a loss.”

  She tucked the handkerchief away and looked toward the door where Hollis Noonan stood guard. “Have you seen Nola recently? I know you’ve been such a good friend to her.”

  “I saw her just yesterday, Miz Holcombe.” It was all that Elizabeth could do to keep the excitement out of her voice. “And that reminds me—”

  “How did you find her? Did you see any change? Any improvement?”

  Elizabeth hesitated, trying to avoid a direct lie. A silly quibble, as I’m sure Ben would point out. A lie is a lie is a lie.

  Big Lavinia was waiting for an answer.

  “No,” Elizabeth replied, assuming a thoughtful look, “no improvement that I could say. Maybe she seemed a little calmer but—”

  “Did she try to talk to you—recite poetry like she was doing?”

  On firmer ground here, Elizabeth shook her head. “No, no poetry at all. But Miz Holcombe, I had a question. Does the name ‘Little Ricky’ mean anything to you?”

  She was surprised to see tears welling again in Big Lavinia’s eyes. “Oh my, yes. Yes, indeed. Little Ricky was Nola’s nephew. Tracy’s child. He died only a few months ago and it absolutely devastated Nola. Oh, she held it in for a time but then when Tracy came for a visit and the baby wasn’t with her, I think it all finally sunk in and just sent Nola off the deep end. I’m afraid his death has affected Tracy’s mind too. It’s the only reason I can find for her behavior today.”

  The Drovers’ Road XIII

  The True Account

  BANG! BANG! BANG! Once again, the Professor was torn from his dreams. The ragtag mob that had derived its simple pleasure from shouting out lewd catchphrases and dire predictions to the newly sentenced man had at last grown weary of the sport and dispersed. Now the sounds were of hammering and the terse grumbled instructions of the carpenter to his apprentice.

  Groaning to find himself in the dank cell rather than in the soft embraces of the dream widow, the Professor blinked and sat up, bringing the thin blanket up around his shoulders as protection from the chill air of the bleak January morning.

  Across from him, the young man slumped on the edge of his bunk, just as he had been when the light faded to darkness the evening before.

  My young friend, the noise has awakened you—

  I ain’t slept, was the simple reply. I been thinkin.

  The wounded stupefaction of the previous day was gone, replaced by a nervous energy. Lydy’s right leg jigged uncontrollably and his usual slow speech had become a frantic outpouring. From hand to hand he tossed the small stone that had accompanied Nettie Mae’s bundle of provisions.

  I done said what had to be said at the trial and I’m content with how it come out but now I want you to set down my story the way it really happened. That way, iffen I burn in Hell, yet there’re be a true account of what happened at Gudger’s Stand.

  The Professor shook his head, trying to clear away the last cobwebs of sleep. It would be an honor, my young friend, to be accorded your confidence.

  He patted at his breast pocket and drew out the stub of a pencil and a little leather-bound copy of The Odyssey. I had already made some few notes taken from your tales of life on the Drovers’ Road. A fortuitous plethora of blank pages at the close of this immortal epic have made it possible for me to keep a rough journal of my sufferings while incarcerated. But willingly shall I devote what space remains to your revelations. It seems quite apposite: your wanderings, Belle, the Circe who charms man and beast. Indeed, there are a number of these chance parallels that strike the—

  I want you to write down these words. Lydy raised his voice to cut off the spate of literary conjecture. Then, seeing he had gained his cell mate’s attention, he continued on in a subdued tone, one the men hammering and sawing outside could not overhear.

  I ain’t afraid to die for the death of Lucius Gudger. Hit could be that I’m to blame. But I did not murder his daughter Luellen. And this I swear to, as a man facin eternity.

  …and…this…I swear …The Professor paused to rub the pencil point against the rough brick wall in an attempt to sharpen it… as a man …

  The way of hit was this: When the drive reached South Carolina, we was paid off and I set out to walk back to Gudger’s Stand. Without the hogs, a feller can make a good sight better time and tak
e to the ridges instead of follerin the river. I hadn’t yet made out just what would happen when I got back—all I knowed is I was being pulled, ever minute, by that thread with Belle at the other end.

  Quite a dilemma. The girl you do not wish to wed, with child—her stepmother, the woman you wish to bed, with spouse. Shall we omit the account of your return travels—these blank pages are not inexhaustible—and come to the crux of the matter? What of Luellen, whose bloodied nightclothes at the riverside told a grisly tale? What of her murdered father, whose gory remains cried out for revenge?

  Lydy wiped his face. Professor, when I come back to the stand, my only thought was to stay near Belle. The preacher weren’t due till the new year…but you know that…so I let hit be thought that I would marry Luellen. My only thought was to have more time with Belle. And hit seemed that was her thought too for she come to me every night, slippin into the little lean-to room where I lay apart and drawin the bolt behind her. Ol’ Luce was drinkin right much those days and, so she said, sleepin sound.

  What of Luellen? The busy pencil paused and the Professor lifted inquiring eyes. Was she cognizant of this liaison? Did she know about you and her stepmother?

  Lydy shrugged. Reckon she must of. But she never spoke of it, just spent her time sewing clothes for me.

  He looked down. These ones here what I got on. Hit may be she thought oncet the preacher had done his business, Belle would let loose of me. I kindly thought hit myself. But hit all changed on that last night, a few weeks atter I’d got back.

  The Professor licked the point of his pencil and turned over a page. Ah, yes, the fateful night. Pray, proceed.

  They was several travelers at the stand for the night and Belle and Luellen was kept busy cookin and servin. The new sheriff was there likewise and from the way he talked to Ol’ Luce, I could see he’d been there a time or two before. He said he planned to ride the road to the Tennessee line, makin himself known at all the stands and wherever there was a few houses.

  That was an unlucky chancet, for had the sheriff not been there that night, I’d not be here now. Howsomever, that night at table was the last I seen of Luellen and the last time I saw Ol’ Luce alive. Him and the sheriff was still drinkin and playin cards when the rest of the company took to their pallets. I never seen Luellen atter supper that night. She was always goin early to her bed, sayin she felt puny. And when they shown me her bed shift, all bloody and torn, I could only shake my head and swear I didn’t know nothing of it. They made out I had kilt her first and flung her in the river afore goin atter Ol’ Luce.

  I had been dead asleep when come a scratchin at my door. I waited, thinkin it was Belle, but when the door stayed shut, I got up and looked out. In the dark of the big room, there weren’t nothing but the empty tables and benches and the glow of the dyin fire. It seemed like hit was near mornin but hit was yet black dark outside.

  A little sound come to my ears like the creak of the big front door chinkin and closin. I got my boots from where I had left them to dry by the fire and went outside to see who it was.

  Ol’ Luce was layin there on the stones. He’d already been bad drunk when I went to bed and at first I thought he’d likely pitched down the stairs. I made to pick him up thinkin to carry him inside but his head rolled back and it was then I seen the great wound in his neck. I put my hand to it and the blood was sticky and cool and I stood, tryin to think what can have happened…

  And then comes Belle, weepin and wringin her hands. O Lydy, what have you done, cries she. And I hear feet a-clatterin down the stairs and men callin out and I light out for the steep woods, Ol’ Luce’s blood still on my hands.

  Chapter 39

  Ragged Edges

  Wednesday, December 27

  Amanda called. She and Ben’ll be back around three. Evidently Rosemary and Laurel have hot dates in town. They’re staying at Laurel’s another night.” Phillip came into the room, trailing the cord of a power drill behind him. “And I rehung those doors that were scraping the floor. So, how was it? You find out anything?”

  Elizabeth dropped the mail on the table. “Little Ricky was Nola’s nephew. And he was one of the children who died from that E. coli outbreak back in the fall. Big Lavinia thinks that’s what triggered Nola’s suicide attempt. But the most interesting thing was Tracy—she showed up at the reception after the funeral, carrying on like a banshee, shouting that Payne Morton took the easy way out.”

  “Because…?”

  “I don’t know—something about a promise he’d made. She was hustled out of there pretty quickly, as you might imagine.” She flopped onto the sofa, startling James, who had been napping at one end. With a reproachful look, he slipped to the floor and joined Ursa and Molly on the rug.

  “Phillip—that note the pastor left, do you remember what exactly it said?”

  “Nope.” He coiled the cord neatly around the drill and returned it to the bucket of tools by the front door. “But I have a copy, for what it’s worth.”

  He disappeared into the guest room, where most of his clothes and sundry items had been stowed, awaiting a final decision on where he would be living in the coming year. In a few minutes he was back. “Here you go, Sherlock. The pastor’s last words. Good luck to you making sense of them.”

  Picking up the bucket of tools, he whistled to the dogs. “I’m going down to the lower place; Ben asked me to put out some more hay for the cows. C’mon, pups, let’s go for a walk.”

  There was an instant joyful response from Molly and Ursa, who rose and shook and made for the door. James didn’t move.

  The copy was faint but legible. A wavering gray shadow like a backward L showed the raggedly torn edges of the original. The straggling phrases that the pastor had written in his last moments were disjointed and poignant—almost like a poem, Elizabeth thought.

  After eleven years of agony and guilt

  I am ready to pay the price

  she was willing. God help me,

  it was an accident. God help me,

  I can no longer live

  She stared at the copy, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. “Punctuation,” she muttered.

  “‘I can no longer live…’” There was an echo in her memory. I can’t go on… A mystery…Agatha Christie?…A suicide note on a scrap of paper…torn edges. She scowled at the page, trying to decipher the source of her uneasiness. Her lips moved, trying different combinations of words and phrases. Still scowling, she reached for the phone.

  “May I speak with Sheriff Blaine, please? This is Elizabeth Goodweather calling.”

  The husky croak at the other end told her the sheriff was on another line and it would be a few minutes and then relegated her to the limbo of Hold. Elizabeth drummed impatient fingers on the dining table.

  “Sheriff Blaine here.”

  “Mackenzie, this is Elizabeth Goodweather. I—”

  He broke in. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, not as such. But I wanted to ask you something. You know the note Payne Morton left? Well, Phillip showed me a copy he had and something about it doesn’t seem right—”

  “Ah, Elizabeth, could we—”

  “No, really, Mackenzie, I think this might be important. I would have run it by Phillip but he won’t be back for almost an hour, and I really want to hear what you think about this. The punctuation in the note’s all wrong.”

  “Elizabeth, that note was written by a man about to kill himself.” There was a distinct hint of irritation in the sheriff’s tone. “He’s not likely worrying about—god, what was it that old bat Miss Darien used to get me for?—comma splices, that’s it.”

  “Mackenzie, please! Get the note and look at it.”

  There was a heavy sigh. “Okay, Elizabeth. But it’s only because I hope you invite me to dinner again soon.”

  He was back at the phone in minutes. “Okay, Miz Goodweather, I’m looking at the note. What’s your point?”

  “Well, in the first place, look how ne
at the writing is. The handwriting isn’t any last-minute scribble—every letter is perfectly formed—”

  “Before you ask, yes, we’ve checked it out; it’s definitely Morton’s writing.”

  “But the thing about the punctuation is that it’s in kind of random places. It wouldn’t be so strange if he’d left it out altogether—or used dashes instead of commas. Particularly since these aren’t sentences at all—”

  “I don’t think I follow you.” The weary resignation in Blaine’s voice warned her that it was only his friendship with Phillip that kept him on the line.

  “Okay, look at the note, where the two edges are ragged, like they’d been torn.”

  “They were torn. Lots of people use scrap paper.”

  She ignored him. “Now what if the original, untorn note had read something like:

  “I am ready to pay the price of my silence. He told me

  she was willing. God help me, I believed him. He told me

  it was an accident. God help me, I believed him.

  I can no longer live with this lie. I must confess.”

  There was a silence.

  “Say that again,” said Mackenzie Blaine.

  She said it again.

  “Or something along those lines,” she added. “You see how it could work. And the way the paper was torn, there could have been lots more at the end. And he would have signed his name if—”

  “—if this was a letter, a confession. Instead of a suicide note.” The sheriff spoke slowly, as if struggling to process thoroughly this new point of view. “And what you’re suggesting is maybe someone didn’t want Morton to confess, so they killed him—”

  “—and tore out just enough of the letter to make it sound like a suicide note—”