The Caine Plantation: The Next Quilt is Red

by Karine Green

  Percy Gerrell Caine, son of William Alistair Caine, arrested for trafficking.

  That was all that was printed. She thought it was an odd little tidbit of news. Especially given the level of difficulty the presses of that era had putting out newspapers when compared to modern times. It hardly seemed worth the effort to print it, since the so-called fonts had to be hand set in a tremendously time consuming procedure. Percy must have made some bad politics with the media for them to spend the time it took to hand-typeset such a teeny headline.

  However, if there was one thing Kathy knew about the media was that if the rest of the story was missing, that was a bigger clue than the headline itself. Unfortunately, there was no way to know what that clue specifically was, without asking the reporter or editor in person. Obviously that wasn't going to happen. Was this an attempt to cover up or bury a story, while still claiming they reported it? Or, was it a lack of evidence, and that was all they had to print?

  What had he been trafficking? What sort of things were illegal to traffic in 1855? Surely it wasn't cocaine or marijuana, it wasn't illegal then. Cocaine didn't become illegal until 1907, and marijuana was much later.

  She knew that the Caine's were known to have dabbled in the Underground Railroad. Perhaps it had been a cryptic message, like the red quilt seemed to be to the boys in the video. It had been running through her mind...What did 'The next quilt was red' mean? Likewise, was Percy really arrested, or was it a code buried on the back pages? If so, who was it meant for?

  What difference did it make whose son he was? It was an arrest record, not an obituary. Law enforcement didn't care who your family was when you were arrested. Even if the police were afraid of the Caine politics, they certainly wouldn't have cared enough about it to note his genealogy on his arrest report. They are only for documenting evidence relevant to the case, not a family history. She made a note to get a copy of Percy's arrest record.

  She made a note on the article, and put it in her pocket, adding it to the list of things she was curious about. This town, as a whole, wasn't short on secrets. She wondered if the police would allow her access to their archives. Mike had mentioned when they met that his brother was chief. Perhaps she should request an introduction. She could certainly use something to keep her busy while she was waiting for her kitchen to get up and running, and a cold case, no, correct that, a frozen case, would be an interesting distraction indeed.

  She pulled out another article, this one from just after the Civil War in 1866. This was no buried blurb though, it was a full front page spread. The local paper was exposing the fact that the Caine family had been helping slaves on the Underground Railroad, prior to the war. Percy had died nearly four years before, trampled by his own gray mare. His son, Andrew, had been killed in what seemed to be ten minutes into his service for the Civil War. It was Percy's youngest son, only fifteen at the time, who eventually took over the plantation.

  This exposé was written a couple of years after the slaves were freed, so why would it matter? Perhaps that was what Percy was trafficking? With nearly fifty years of experience at taking African Americans to freedom they would have had plenty of experience at getting away with it by the time the second or third generations had taken over. She sipped her tea, and then read on, reserving judgment on the validity of anything the media wrote.

  The piece in her hand virtually condemned the Caine's for what was only referred to as onerous business practices. One former shop owner's statement said that prior to the war, her dress shop had been put out of business, and it all stemmed by the loss of all of her black seamstresses. The shop owner was concerned to point of being frightened for their welfare, because everyone worked as a family. It didn't seem probable that they would all simply leave. She also added that none of her black seamstresses were slaves. They had been free women. And, if they were leaving of their own accord, they simply would have left a message saying so. Instead, she blamed the Caine's for the disappearance of her seamstresses. The article's author questioned whether or not the shop owner was being truthful, because the local economy had been terrible going into the war and it made perfect sense that the women, whom the paper believed were indeed slaves, would go North and find better paying jobs, or jobs that paid at all.

  The article also commented on the Caine's involvement with the Underground Railroad, and that they had taken care to drop any runaway slaves into states that refused to comply with the Missouri Compromise of 1820.

  One of the political pork items in the Missouri Compromise was a law that ordered Free states to return runaway slaves back to their masters. It was so controversial that the U.S. Supreme Court ended up having to issue a decision when the South filed a suit complaining that the law was not being enforced. The justices had it delivered to the U.S. Marshal's office ordering them to enforce it.

  Kathy thought about the article for a moment. It seemed to have two very different elements it was reporting on. Why would free women run away from a job that paid a living wage for the time period? It seems like they would have simply quit, and then moved north since the Industrial Revolution offered better jobs...Kathy paused. But they weren't better jobs, were they? They were just higher paying ones, with the same lack of advancement. She was also very sure that most of the jobs were targeted at men; in particular white men; not black women from the South.

  It wasn't until WWII that women began working at these jobs en-masse. These women from the article would not have left their jobs, not without a good reason. That meant they weren't runaways, they were really missing persons. They were misreported, because they were black, despite the fact that their white boss had tried to bring attention to their disappearance. But why was no one listening? The women were free, they would have sent word to ‘piss-off’ and no one could have done a thing about it, but they didn't. Something happened to them, something bad, and it was connected to the Caine's.

  The last written quote from the dressmaker was that a Caine cousin had later bought the dress shop at a bargain basement price, and she still suspected some sort of terrible conspiracy. In the following paragraph, the reporter then questioned the dressmaker's sanity.

  Kathy frowned. If the reporter thought the woman was nuts, why did he include her statement at all? The media has control over what it puts out. Why would they even bother with a source they can't justify? The public would stop buying...She paused as a memory popped up. She stifled a bit of emotion. No, she thought...It couldn't be...Was the reporter reporting the truth, but in a manner that the white readers would buy? She reread the article, this time from a fresh perspective. Was this article designed to get more sources to contact him? Sources who would know the shop owner wasn't nuts, and hopefully report on the whereabouts of the missing African-American women. Was it a way to give unassuming black women, one's who were missing in 1866, the front page?

  Kathy smiled and once again pulled out the paper with the blurb regarding Percy being arrested for trafficking. One thing was for sure, the beginning of the Civil War, marked the end of the media puff-pieces for the Caine family. The media sharks could smell Caine blood in the water, but lacked the evidence to go after the whole story and maintain credibility. After all, it was the shop owner, and not the reporter, who had accused the Caine's of something sinister.

  She sighed, and set the articles down. The media, whether current or the 1800's, was difficult for her to understand. Her own experience with the modern media was spotty at best. During her time on the force she had given statements to the media regarding homicide scenes. When she would watch the news later she often wondered if something didn't happen after she left, because what was reported and what had happened, in reality, were two very different incidents! Were they hoping someone would call and correct them? Now that she thought back on it, more than one reporter had forwarded her tips, which had resulted in the arrest of more than a few murder suspects. She definitely had a love-hate relationship with them. Her experience was so sketchy with them it m
ade her leery of taking these articles at face value.

  It could also be true that someone in the media was lying about the Caine's. They could be slanting the facts to complement their career versus reporting what really happened. However, whether it was someone in 1811, 1848, 1866, or six months ago was anyone's guess. And, how to figure that out now, was also anyone's guess. The articles were all written by different reporters and in different decades, so that alone would rule out an angry, or suspicious editor or paper owner who had turned against the Caine's. Instead, it would suggest they were a politically powerful family and people were afraid to report the truth about them.

  Kathy packed up her stuff, paid the tab, and headed back out to the plantation, to be there in time for the cabinet delivery and to meet with the contractor. She smiled, and had a definite bounce to her step as she walked to the car. Dilapidated or not, she finally had her own house, and as a bonus, she had a historical mystery to keep her occupied.

  She wondered if any of the descendants from the earlier newspaper reporters still lived around here. Perhaps they would have a few old family stories or journals. She was sure reporters were the sort who kept journals; with the rest of the story in them. Perhaps they would be willing to share them.

  *****

  The Chief of Police, Jason Rose, stared at the display cases at the town's small museum. He tucked his pen behind his ear. Its white tube stood out in stark contrast to his close-cut, dark brown hair.

  The curator, Sandy Brown had a heartbroken look on her face. He felt bad for her, but couldn't help but feel glad to get away from Mike's constant rattling on about meeting this new 'chick', as he so flippantly phrased it, the woman who had bought the Caine Plantation. He knew what Mike was pushing for and he simply didn't want to meet anyone right now. Relationships and him just didn't mix. He only seemed to attract one loony after another, and he was tired of dealing with them.

  He turned his attention back to the case at hand. He watched Mike take pictures of the scene. It was the worst case of vandalism he had seen since becoming an officer. All of the display cases had been smashed, and glass was scattered everywhere. Priceless items were broken, and who-knows-what was missing. Other things were spray painted, lime green or hot pink. Muddy footprints were everywhere. It was clear, this wasn't a simple theft. Someone was trying their best to snuff out this history, or cover up something else by causing all this other damage. Regardless, it was a horrifying loss of historical knowledge.

  "We didn't get any alarm calls last night," Jason said, still trying to take in the level of destruction. A Chitimacha bow from 1886, was broken in half, and the pieces stuck into the face of the expensive wax dummy of the Chitimacha Chief which had been holding the bow. They were one of the local Native American Tribes. He shook his head in disgust, who would do such a thing to these artifacts?

  The curator, Sandy Brown took in a quivering breath, "I didn't set it. We have had so many problems with it going off falsely over the last week that I didn't want to risk a citation for having too many false alarms in a six month period."

  Mike shrugged, "Coulda been the burglar-vandal setting off the alarm trying to test the police response to the alarm by repeatedly setting it off."

  Sandy covered her mouth, "That never occurred to me."

  Jason nodded. Too bad she hadn't set the alarm, he thought. It would have at least given them a time frame. He would have to go back over the call sheets from the last few weeks, and see if there was a pattern in the false alarms that might give him some insight into the timing. Then he could pull the tapes from the gas station across the street and see how much of the museum parking lot could be seen in their security cameras.

  Poor Sandy had worked so hard on these displays. She had been particularly proud of this new section dedicated to exposing the history of African Americans in the Deep South, both the good and the bad parts. She had it set up to show the obvious oppression and they worked up to the some of the more current and prominent African-American families who had become community leaders. One of the descendants of the Rainier slaves was now the Parrish Sheriff, and a Caine slave descendant had been the local high school principal, leading the district to the number two spot in the state for academic achievement.

  He looked down at the twisted metal of the Dark Lady's display case. It had been smashed, probably with a sledge hammer. This case had held one of the most notorious items in the town's history. It was the whipping post that the Dark Lady had been chained to and whipped to death on. It was quite a noteworthy piece, in fact her blood stains had still been on it. He shook his head, God, who would want such a thing!

  Lauren Grayson had been upset with Sandy, because the display seemed to contradict some of the so-called facts in Lauren's local history book. Up until then the two of them had been bosom buddies. But sales of her book had plummeted after the reopening of the museum. They had a falling out when Lauren found the copies of her book that were supposed to be in the gift shop, in the store room. He moved that nutter, Lauren, up on his list of suspects. Why was it that everything brewed around that witch, but it seemed it was never her fault? Somehow she always managed to snake her way out of trouble.

  He almost hated Lauren, but could she have done this? He would have to find a way to diplomatically question her. She still seemed to be hopelessly in love with him, which meant he was probably the only person who could get away with simply asking her. Now all he had to do was find the courage to be nice to her for five minutes. He sighed, perhaps not. She would only lie anyway. He would send Sergeant Saline to talk to her. She used to be fond of him, but in a grandfatherly way, not a crazed stalker way.

  He looked at poor Sandy’s watery eyes. "Mike is going to dust for prints, and send everything to the crime lab for processing. With all this glass, I am hoping that perhaps we can get a decent fingerprint, or something," Jason said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  He doubted they would get one usable print, tourists touched everything here. There would be overlapping prints everywhere, from everyone who had visited the museum. Even if Lauren's prints were found here, it wouldn't mean anything, since she was the town historian. Finding her prints at the historical display would hardly be enough evidence to convince a judge to sign a warrant.

  Mike nodded, and started taking a round of close up photos.

  The curator walked over to the quilt display. "At least the Dark Lady's purple quilt wasn't taken, or vandalized."

  "Now, where exactly was the whipping post displayed," Jason asked.

  "Right here,” she pointed. “The lawyers had donated it back when they renovated the stable into a garage, but, we only put it out six months ago. We didn't put it out then before because it seemed like such a controversial piece. Recently the board decided that history should be true, so out it went. People came from all over to learn about this new display. As dark as its past is, it was lighting up the future. So many people in town had come together for this display. Their work had helped build strong, positive racial bridges in the community, and now the display is destroyed." Her eyes glassed over.

  Jason looked at the old, yellowing purple quilt. His mother was an avid quilter and had joined the 'Block of the Month' quilt guild when they replicated a quilt that matched Dark Lady's. She had one half finished in her stash of historical quilting projects. "Do you have a list of the items?"

  "I need to get my inventory list, in order to perform a full inventory. Can I give you a full list in a few days?" Sandy said, a tear escaping from her eye. She hastily wiped it away, looking at the floor.

  "We'll see what we can do to get the items back. Meanwhile, I'll broadcast the partial list we have. The post itself will certainly stand out, no matter what the burglar intends to do with it."

  "Thank you Chief. It's easier to remember history when it's in front of your face, and cannot be glossed over, or spun to have another meaning. We have to get this display back together. It's on the tours from Gulf Port, MS, Baton Rouge, a
nd New Orleans. It provides a lot of income for us, and the town."

  "I understand," Jason said nodding. It was true. The museum might be small, but it was a very big draw for much needed tourist dollars. They had to get that display back

  The Next Quilt is Red

  Phil and his crew had been grateful to run across this last minute kitchen job. Business had been dry for so long, he was starting to worry, but not anymore. Not only that, but every day they had worked here, a wonderful spread of food for lunch had been laid out for them. They were now two weeks into the job, while Ms. Marconi had gone back up north to take care of some personal business. Thankfully the drywall went up easily, and all the cabinets besides one. The plumbing was only thing in the room that was pre-installed. Appliances and trim was all that was needed now. Then he could enjoy his bonus, and she could paint and decorate as she desired on any squeezed, city-girl, time frame she wanted.

  Right now though, he was pissed off, because he was alone here. About twenty minutes after lunch his crew had run screaming from the house and left, nearly running the gate down with the truck, before one of the fools could get it open. Then they had somehow managed to get that heap to peel out of the driveway. Then they had the nerve to text him, from down the road, stating they weren't coming back...Ever.

  He had started to text them back, as he nibbled on a sandwich from the daily spread. It had been the first time he had eaten anything from the house. Usually he only ate what his wife packed for him, because there were just certain benefits to eating what she gave him, and not tossing it out for the gourmet stuff Ms. Marconi had sent to them every day. For example, this way he could go home and honestly describe how good his wife's lunch was. She would be happy with him, and if she was happy, then it was easier for him to be happy.

  "That's not for the overseer!" A harsh voice came from behind him.

  Phil's eyes widened, as he spun around to face a pretty, but very petite African American lady. She looked barely five feet tall, and couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. However the look on her face suggested she was over six feet tall, and muscle bound. This woman had a command presence like nothing he had ever seen, and that impressed him, especially since he had been in the Army for five years and seen his fair share of drill sergeants.