In the car proper was a jug of water for Fargo, a small cooler holding ice and fruit and soft drinks for us, a bag of cookies for us and a smaller bag of cookies for Fargo. He wasn’t certain he was going, so he sat in the driver’s seat to make sure.
Mom would be over later to clean out the fridge.
Cindy concentrated on her morning health cereal while I washed down two of yesterday’s croissants with a cup of coffee. We cleaned up the kitchen and left. The Orrick crew would presumably lock up every night.
I took the first driving shift, expecting some excited commentary from Cindy along the way and perhaps some nuzzles and tail wags from Fargo in the backseat. It didn’t work quite that way.
Just before we left I had booted Fargo over to the front passenger’s seat, assuming Cindy would see to getting him out and into the back. Instead, she climbed into the backseat herself with a cheery, “Okay, darling, up, up and away! Let me know when you want to swap driving. Anytime, love.” She thereby stretched across the seat, turned on the little overhead light and opened the morning paper. Well, she was on vacation.
It was, of course, still dark, but I knew every inch of Route 6. Traffic was light at that hour and as Cassie had recommended, I didn’t linger. After a few miles of staring at darkened trees and buildings, Fargo had curled up beside me and began to snore lightly. Cindy had switched off the little backseat light and let the paper fall across her chest. Maybe she was snoring lightly too. I was beginning to get that I-am-the-last-person-in-the-world feeling.
It began to get light, turning from black to an ever-lightening gray, finally tinged with pink. It wasn’t a bad time to be alone. You felt not only relieved, but also triumphant that you had again achieved victory over the forces of the evil blackness and lived to fight another day.
I yawned and stretched, although I wasn’t sleepy; I was just greeting the day. But I awoke my passengers. Fargo mimicked my stretch and yawn and resumed looking for something of interest.
The other felt guilty and began apologizing, but I was generous.
“Vacation means never having to say, ‘I’m sorry I fell asleep,’” I forgave my penitent partner.
“You’re a love. Do you want me to drive? Where are we?”
“I’m fine. We’re coming up on the Sagamore Bridge. It’s still early and a little foggy down low along the canal. This is when I dream I may look down and see FDR in the stern of the old presidential yacht, wearing a big straw hat and holding a fishing rod.”
“What a wonderful image! Have you ever seen it?”
“Once or twice, when it was thick fog I think I got a glimpse. Apparently he really used to come through the canal often. The canal was one of the feats of his administration. I think perhaps somewhere he is still proud of it.”
“I should think he would be. I shall look closely as we cross.”
“Alex. Sweetheart. Are you awake?”
“More or less.” I had been slouched in the front seat, not exactly asleep, but far away somewhere. I straightened and rolled my head around to get the neck muscles back in line. “What’s up?”
“We’ve been making really good time. If we detoured about twenty miles east, we’d be in Pennsylvania Dutch territory. Maybe we could find a restaurant that serves some of their wonderful food. The turnoff is coming up.”
“Take it.”
Fifteen minutes later we were in a clean little town, dotted with the famous black buggies, pulled by a single muscular horse, reins handled by a black-clad man with a flat black hat, or perhaps by a woman in a long gray gown, with a hat looking to me like an old-fashioned nightcap.
We stopped in front of a small park. While I took Fargo for a brief run, Cindy asked someone about a restaurant and was referred to the Family Kitchen.
We were seated at a table for six, with four places already taken. We introduced ourselves and began the rather forced conversation of strangers thrown together by chance. We exchanged information regarding hometowns. We spoke of destinations. Just as we were getting to the weather, large platters were placed on the table by rather pretty young women in gray uniforms that came just below their knees and had spotless high white collars, with white cuffs just below the elbow. 1930’s design, I was sure, and still worn by these “plain” young people.
The largest platter held tender roast beef with gravy. Fried chicken was piled high on another. Ham with a honey sauce actually came with a little fat around the edges, and the slices were not even. Good grief! It had not been spiral cut! And it actually tasted like…real ham!
There were sweet potatoes and white potatoes, spinach and red cabbage. Covered baskets held biscuits and cornbread. After I thought I couldn’t eat another bite for a week, here came the applesauce cake and shoo-fly pie—which even Cindy had to try. Conversation collapsed under the largesse. Strong coffee got us all moving again, but with difficulty.
I drove, with a tape of The 1812 Overture blasting from the speakers and strong hot coffee in a cup in the dashboard rack, poured from a newly filled thermos. We had asked about a doggy bag and they had given us a meal for a tiger. In the backseat Fargo burped. And half his meal was still in the cooler. I burped, which did not surprise me. Cindy burped, which did.
The motel that night was a motel…period. I didn’t even remember the name of the town it was in.
But it could have been on any major highway in the contiguous United States. Pseudobrick and clapboard on the outside, pseudohominess on the inside. It was clean, comfortable and utterly forgettable. There was a restaurant attached, with waitresses in the more familiar brightly colored uniforms with short skirts and sleeves. They served a completely forgettable meal. I momentarily considered dipping into Fargo’s doggie bag, but figured it wouldn’t be fair. We walked the dog, fell into bed and all three fell asleep over some forgettable TV.
We found ourselves in the Shenandoah Valley and were enthralled. Surrounded by protective mountains, the valley was somewhat warmer than the nearby areas. Already it was lush with growing crops. Comfortable farmhouses and the occasional mansion flashed by. Well-kept lawns with early flowers and blooming shrubs were the norm.
Suddenly Cindy tapped my arm and said, “Look.”
I did, at a tall, blackened chimney standing alone in the midst of an overgrown, weed-filled yard, surrounded by unmortared low stone walls. No one was behind me and I slowed the car and pulled over.
“I think solitary old chimneys and their fireplaces are so lonely and sad.” Her lovely eyes clouded slightly with a prelude to tears. “They seem to be reaching up, begging God please to bring back their house or barn…they provided warmth, perhaps meals were cooked on their grill. Babies were born beside them and the old died in warm, loving comfort in front of them. And now they stand alone, bereft and guarding nothing, no warmth left in them. Useless.”
I had no answer to that, but anyway, Cindy had another thought.
“Do you think that one is left from the Civil War? Perhaps someone deliberately has left it there as a sort of reminder of what Sheridan did to this beautiful land?”
“I suppose it could be.” I shrugged dubiously. “What happened to this valley is a shame. But whether you agree or not, Sheridan said the fastest way to end the war was to destroy southern crops. If they couldn’t feed their army, it couldn’t fight. He said he was actually saving lives.”
“There may be a valid point in there somewhere, but burning families out of their homes isn’t just burning crops. And did you know that members of Sheridan’s own staff wanted him relieved as being insane? They said he acted like a maniac anytime he was involved in killing and destruction. He loved it. But Lincoln and Grant said he was indispensable. How do you like them apples?”
“I don’t,” I shook my head. “But Lincoln and Grant wouldn’t listen to me either. I said crops: yes, houses: no.”
“Idiot!” Her mouth tightened.
But then, honest little scholar that she was, she muttered to herself, “Of course, they sai
d the same thing about Patton.”
I turned my head away until I got control of the smile.
And then we were in the mountains. They were everywhere. If we were at a high altitude we could see them lined up as far as the eye could see, like giant ocean waves suddenly frozen in time. If the road took us lower they towered above us, seeming to lean a little away from us, to allow us safe passage. The mountain laurel flirted, pink and lively in the breeze and the larger, deeper toned rhododendron bobbed and nodded in matronly greeting. The big trees were not yet fully leaved, but were recognizable. Oak, maple, pine, hickory, dogwood, others I did not know.
A small brown critter running right in front of the car brought me to reality with a jerk. Automatically I hit the brakes and cut to the right. The rabbit—I had ID’d it by now—finished its frantic run across the highway safely and disappeared into underbrush. But a much larger creature careered out of the forest, and only its desperate scratching, clawing, twisting one-eighty allowed it to miss running full tilt into the right side of the now unmoving car. It gathered itself and trotted shakily back into the woods.
Feeling pretty shaky myself, I leaned my arms and head on the steering wheel. I was almost crying in relief. Cindy was half-out the passenger door, looking for casualties. Fargo was barking loudly and irritably for having been dumped off the backseat and on to various coolers and grocery bags.
“Hush, Fargo!” Cindy ordered. “Alex, are you all right? Are the rabbit and that big dog all right? Should we follow them and make sure?”
“I’m okay, or I will be in a minute. The rabbit is out of breath but grateful to be off the luncheon menu. The big dog is a coyote who is, like me, simply recovering from his considerable scare. We’d never catch up with him, anyway.”
“A coyote? I’ll be darned.”
“Yeah.” I put the car in gear and pulled back onto the highway. The Appalachians were not all pink blossoms and stately green trees.
Finally, finally! We saw the sign. “Welcome to Tennessee.” I had begun to think we were a four-wheeled flying Dutchman, doomed forever to traverse an endless Virginia. Already I felt less tired. Cindy took the wheel, however, in the hopes she might have retained some teenage recollection of the local roads.
We left Interstate 81 for a state road, left that for a county road, left that for an unmarked asphalt road that could have used a little TLC. We passed through a small two-street town, marked by a slanting sign informing us we had entered Beulaland, Population 1237. I could not believe it was real.
Cindy slowed the car to a crawling twenty miles an hour. After the speeds we had previously been going, I felt I could get out and push the vehicle faster. My feelings must have showed.
Cindy laughed and said, “Can’t help it. Speed trap. Always has been for any pesky furriners—and a furriner is anybody from farther away than Elizabethton. Look subtly to your right, a sheriff’s car should be waiting behind the gas station. Or it used to be.”
It still was.
Even at our snail’s pace we had passed through the town. About a half mile farther I saw a bunch of big mailboxes lined up along the road next to a turnoff onto a gravel road.
“Hey, look!” Cindy pointed. “There’s Ken’s mailbox, and I reckon that there is his road. Yup! Now all we have to do is go on down this road to the Bromfield Inn and get the keys. Darling girl, we have made it!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We turned and went through a large ornate gate with the words “Bromfield Inn, 1884” forming the top of the wrought iron span. Just inside was a neatly painted sign reading “Welcome to the Bromfield Inn and Country Club. Please drive slowly.” So we did…past what looked like a three-hole chip and putt golf course, then a double terrace with tables and umbrellas, ending beside a sizeable lake.
A couple of tables were occupied. From behind the hotel itself I heard the thonk of tennis balls. Two small kids played in some sand that bordered the water to form a small man-made beach. A girl of maybe fourteen lay propped on her elbow in the sand, watching the kids. Three sailboats cruised the lake, along with several small boats that had to be motor-powered, although I could not hear them. It made a nice postcard scene.
We pulled up in front of the prestigious three-story shingled building, complete with veranda and comfortable chairs. Immediately a young man stood beside Cindy’s window.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Bromfield. My name is Jerry. May I park your car for you?”
Cindy hesitated. “I don’t know that you need to bother, Jerry. I just have to run in and pick up something.”
Jerry cocked his head, surveying the rather messy interior, the car-weary dog and the two of us who were a bit messy also.
“Are you two ladies by any chance headed for Mr. Willingham’s cabin?” At our nods, he continued. “I know our owner, Mr. Bromfield, wants to welcome you. Maybe I could just pull the car over there where it’s handy, and maybe this nice doggy would like a little stroll by the water.”
They sure loved the word welcome here at Bromfield’s, but his offer to walk Fargo sold me. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll do it your way.”
We walked into the elegant lobby with its marble floor and impressive chandelier, and I assume Cindy felt as scruffy as I did. A young lady at the registration desk greeted us with a professional smile. “Welcome to Bromfield. May I help you?”
“I’m Cindy Hart, Ken Willingham’s cousin. I believe he left an envelope for me.”
“Indeed he did.” The receptionist turned to a bank of cubby holes behind her and extricated a manila envelope with Cindy’s name on it.
As she took it, she thanked the clerk and turned to me. “We’re in. One more mile to the cabin and we are out of that car for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, please,” the clerk sounded distressed. “Don’t leave quite yet. Mr. Bromfield wants to meet you both. He’s coming right down and asked that you wait in the bar.”
“Oh, of course. We’d be delighted.” Cindy had on her social voice. I don’t know where she found it. I could feel fatigue suddenly settling on my neck and shoulders like a giant pouting toad.
We followed the clerk’s pointing finger into the large room with a beautiful curving mahogany bar and comfortably sized red leather barstools with black backs and arms, and a dozen matching tables. We looked at each other and headed for the bar. A table looked more like you were going to set and stay a spell and I hoped we’uns would be movin’ shawtly. I was getting into my mountaineer mode. I also might just have been overtired.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Hart, Ms. Peres.” The bartender smiled as he placed napkins in front of us. “Welcome to Bromfield, my name is Joe. And what is your pleasure?”
Well, at least I could remember his name. I just had to think of Joe at the shabby old Wharf Rat, for which I felt a sudden wistful pang. And I wondered how this Joe knew our names…probably a fast phone call from the receptionist. One more “welcome,” though, and I might say something I’d regret.
“Do you serve anything but beer?” Cindy was asking. I wondered what she thought all those bottles along the mirrored wall held, cleaning fluid?
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Joe reassured her. “The county is dry except for beer, but we are a private club and can serve drinks and wine. Mr. Bromfield says you are his guests this afternoon. And if either of you wish to use any of our services or facilities later on, all you have to do then is sign the tab. It will go to Mr. Willingham’s account. Do order whatever you please.”
Cindy ordered a Cosmo; I opted for a bourbon old-fashioned. Nothing had ever tasted better. Joe moved away, having the good sense to let us recuperate in silence.
After a sip or two, I looked around me to note our fellow customers. There weren’t many in this still off-season weekday afternoon. A woman and two men at one table, an elderly woman at another, a tough-looking man at the end of the bar, and standing at the other end of the bar, a young man in jeans and T-shirt, whose gaze drifted from Cindy to me and ba
ck again.
He looked to be about eighteen, with unruly blond hair and a sweet face. His clothes were clean, but damp in spots, and at his feet was a canvas bag that seemed to be leaking something that looked like water. I looked at him more closely, and his expression made me think he might be slightly mentally challenged.
When I caught his eye, I spoke. “Hi, young man, I’m Alex. Can I help you with something?”
He blushed and grinned. “Oh, no ma’am. I am sorry if I was staring but you must be Mr. and Miz Willingham’s cousins, and I wanted to tell my mom you’re here, and how pretty you both are. And Jerry says that big black dog is yours. He’s pretty, too.”
I laughed. “He may be the prettiest of all. His name is Fargo. Mine is Alex, and the other lady’s is Cindy. She’s the Willingham cousin. I’m a friend…no relative, though. What’s your name?”
Before he could answer, a short, pudgy man from the table behind us jumped up and came toward us, calling out, “Jesus X. Christ, Marbles, you’ve done it again! You’re bothering the ladies and that bag full of fish is leaking all over the floor.”
As he approached, I could hardly keep from laughing at his attire: a violently vivid green blazer, lighter green pants, a bright yellow collarless shirt and sneakers that looked like the same brand as mine, but a lot cleaner. He was still muttering to himself, when Cindy announced which side she had chosen in ringing tones.
“The young man was not bothering us at all. Unless you are an employee, the small leak is not your worry, and if you are an employee, why don’t you wipe it up?”
A flash of anger crossed his face, quickly replaced by a wide and contagious grin.
“Now, forgive me ma’am, I just didn’t want anyone to slip and fall. Allow me to welcome you ladies to beautiful Beulaland. I know you’re going to love our countryside, and you’ll certainly enjoy your accommodations. In fact, after a day or two, you’ll be begging me to put a binder on one of the condos I’m going to build up on Crooked Creek Mountain, so you can enjoy it year-round. I understand you are Ken Willingham’s cousin. Ken and I are the best of friends, so you just call on me if you need the tiniest thing.” He waved a business card in our direction. Neither of us moved to take it, so he placed it on the bar.
Murder Takes to the Hill Page 8