5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes

by Valerie S. Malmont

  When I was only a few feet from the cabin, I paused behind a crepe myrtle bush, peered through the brilliant pinkish-red blossoms, and listened carefully for any signs of occupancy, but I neither heard nor saw anything. The place had a deserted air about it, and I was positive I was alone.

  That made me feel more courageous, and I darted toward the cabin, pressed down on the latch, found the door was unlocked, and walked in.

  Feathery cobwebs stuck to my face, and I brushed them away as my eyes adjusted to the dark interior, lit only by sunlight filtered through the narrow slits of the shutters that covered the windows.

  It took a moment or two before my eyes adapted. Then I saw that the cabin was actually only one large room, divided in half by a fireplace built from massive stones. This side of the fireplace was apparently the living room, I decided, taking in the disreputable couch flanked by two velour recliners before the fireplace, the round oak table directly in front of me with a kerosene lantern on it, and an empty gun case next to the fireplace. I realized the room was also the bedroom when I saw two sets of bunk beds on either side of the front door.

  Behind the fireplace was the kitchen. The knotty-pine salesman had been here, too, for the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with cabinets, stained nearly black from the fires that had burned in the great stone fireplace for many years. A woodstove dominated one wall. A fairly modern stainless steel sink had an old-fashioned manual water pump over it. There was no refrigerator, only a Styrofoam cooler in one corner. I checked it out, and found it reassuring that it was home to several families of spiders. I took that to mean nobody had been here in a long time.

  Seeing the pump made me remember I was about to expire from dehydration. I pumped until my shoulder was aching, and just as I was ready to give up I was rewarded by a trickle. I quickly stuck a chipped coffee mug under it and caught the water. It smelled like rusty rotten eggs and was the color of weak green tea, but since I knew I'd very likely be dead in ten minutes or less if I didn't get some liquid in me, I held my nose and gulped it down.

  There was absolutely no sign that Vonzell Varner had visited his cabin any time in the recent past. Not even the great escape artist he was reputed to be could spend time in a cabin in the woods without disturbing a single cobweb. Wherever he had been hiding, it hadn't been here.

  Beneath the sink were some empty plastic soda bottles, and I filled one with smelly water from the pump. I'd decided I would hike north on the trail for no more than fifteen minutes to search for the anthills. If I didn't find them, I'd go back to the truck and look for them another day on a different part of the trail. There was a limit to what my body could endure. P.J. had said they were within a mile or two of the highway, so I knew I couldn't be far away. If I were going in the right direction, that is! I snapped a few pictures of the cabin, inside and out, and cut across the meadow to rejoin the trail.

  Once again, the trail was deserted and quiet, except for the chirping of crickets and the occasional cry of a bird. The trees provided shade, and thanks to the water I'd drunk I felt much cooler. A few times, I was startled by squirrels and rabbits, but otherwise there was no sign of life. Apparently, the hikers who used the trail had taken to heart the warnings about not littering and respecting the wilderness, for there was nothing to suggest anybody had ever walked this path before me. Despite my blisters, I was beginning to enjoy my wilderness trek.

  After walking for only about five minutes, I saw the first anthill off to my left. Just as P.J. had said, it was a big mound of bare dirt, rising out of the grass, resembling a miniature volcano. And when I got close to it I saw hundreds of ants climbing in and out of holes in its side. Even a city girl like me could recognize it as an anthill. I pointed the Chronicle's camera at it and snapped several pictures from different angles. Behind it were more hills, some even larger than this one. There were probably hundreds more hidden in the depths of the forest.

  I sat down to rest for a few minutes before starting back to the truck. I drank about half the water in the bottle, saving the rest for my hike back to the parking lot, and was just struggling to my feet when something stung my leg. Over and over. Burning worse than anything I'd ever felt. I screamed and jerked my pants up to my knees revealing a small army of ants climbing up my legs, taking large bites out of me as they progressed.

  I leaped about, knocking ants right and left, and squealing with fear, disgust, and pain.

  "Hold still," someone said. "I'll get them off you.,, It was the blond girl who'd passed me by earlier.

  "Owww," I howled in reply. Within a few seconds, she had brushed them all away and led me back to the trail.

  "We should be okay here. There's so much food close to the hill that they don't need to come here. I hope we didn't hurt any of them," said my savior. She told me her name, which I hope wasn't Brunhilda, although that's what I recall.

  I didn't really care if we'd slaughtered the entire colony, but I was wise enough not to say so.

  Brunhilda was, she told me, working on her degree in environmental studies at the nearest Penn State campus. She knew everything there was to know about the scientific study of ants, or myrmecology, and told it all to me while we stood on the trail, safely away from the nasty little creatures. The ants, she said, were Allegheny mound ants, or Formica exsectoides. Among other things, I learned that the formic acid they produced was what had caused the burning sensation on my legs, which thankfully was beginning to fade.

  "They don't mean to hurt anyone," she said cheerfully. "It's their method of stunning their prey so they can take it back to the hill and feed the rest of the colony."

  When she said I could quote her in my article about the anthills, I pulled my notebook out of my fanny pack and asked her to write down her name, address, and telephone number.

  As she handed it back to me, she caught sight of the plastic bottle I'd dropped by the log during my battle with the ants from hell. "Did you leave that trash there?" she snapped.

  "It's only my water bottle. I'll get it."

  "No. You stay here. I have boots on to protect me. You should never come out on the trail without boots. They protect you from insects and snakes, too."

  "Snakes! There are snakes on the trail?" This really was a wilderness.

  "Of course there are snakes," she said cheerfully. "Rattlesnakes mostly, but there are also..."

  I covered my ears. "Please don't tell me. I'm terrified of snakes."

  "They're nature's children, just as we are."

  "That may be true, but I don't have to like all of nature's children."

  She was paying no attention to me, and instead was sniffing the water in my bottle.

  "You weren't drinking this, were you?"

  "Of course I was. Why do you ask?"

  "Where did you get it?"

  "From a deserted cabin about half a mile from here. There was a pump in the kitchen. Why do you ask?"

  "Because it's obviously polluted. Just look at the color. Didn't you smell it?"

  "I noticed a rusty, sulphuric smell."

  "It's not rust or sulphur I'm worried about. It's fecal coliform bacteria. If that cottage was deserted, the well probably hasn't been treated in ages. I hope you don't get sick."

  Of course, I did. Even before I got back to the borough, I had to pull over and head for the shrubbery on the side of the road. I was so miserable I didn't even worry about snakes lurking in the bushes. In fact, after my third or fourth stop I would have welcomed relief of any kind, even death by snakebite.

  Somehow, I managed to get back to Lickin Creek, where I went immediately to the clinic. The nurse practitioner, who was running the clinic until the town found a replacement for Doc Jones, gave me a small vial of pills to calm my burning stomach and a tube of ointment to soothe my burning legs.

  Totally bedraggled and miserable from head to toe, I drove through Lickin Creek's frustrating maze of one-way streets until I reached the shelter of Ethelind's Moon Lake mansion.

 
"Don't ask," I said as she looked at me in amazement. "I'll tell you about it after a bath."

  I headed up the back stairs, shed my clothes and a few dead ants in my bedroom, wrapped myself in the luxurious terry cloth robe Ethelind had brought to me from England, and went down the hall to the bathroom.

  I pulled open the shower curtain, reached down to turn on the tap, and saw a folded piece of paper lying in the bottom of the bathtub.

  "What the..." I opened it and read, without comprehension at first, the words printed there in childlike block letters. I'M WATCHING YOU RIGHT NOW, TORI MIRACLE.

  My fingers turned numb, and the paper floated back into the tub. I dropped to the cold tile floor, pulled my robe tight around my body, and hugged my knees to my chest. Who had been in the house? Was someone really watching me right now? Who? How? Why?

  Thirteen

  Afterwards, everyone agreed that this year's house tour would have been the best ever if it hadn't been for what happened to poor Ramona Houdeyshell.

  Alice-Ann had wanted to be at Morgan Manor to keep an eye out for anyone behaving in a suspicious manner. Despite my doubts that we'd spy one of the five hundred ticket-holders sneaking down to the springhouse to put Rodney's body back in the cave, I agreed to volunteer to work at the manor house with her. Mrs. Houdeyshell hadn't looked too happy about having us in the house, but she was shorthanded and had no choice, so she assigned us to work the first two-hour shift as room monitors. I think she put me in the dining room because it adjoined the hall where she stood to greet guests, enabling her to keep an eye on me. Alice-Ann unhappily spent her time in the dark paneled, knotty-pine kitchen.

  I can't recall how many times I did my spiel, but the facts I recited about the paintings, fireplace mantel, china closet full of Chinese export ware, and the restored murals will probably come back to haunt my dreams for many years to come.

  Overheard comments varied. "Lovely, just lovely" "Wonder what it costs to heat a drafty old place like this in the winter?" "My mother had a table just like that but she threw it out in the fifties. It would probably be worth a fortune today" "Where's the bathroom?"

  Many had already visited the other houses. I saw quite a few women with large oil paintings under their arms, which they had purchased from Annette Wyndham at the Wyndham-Cratchitt Gristmill. As Alice-Ann had said earlier, the paintings were really dreadful.

  I nearly floated to the ceiling with delight every time I heard a remark about how charming the Zaleski House was. My house, I wanted to say. It's soon going to be the Miracle House.

  Every now and then, I glanced through the window toward the springhouse, but as I expected no one attempted to visit it.

  When Alice-Ann and I were relieved by our replacements, we strolled outside and sat down on the grass under the shade of a giant maple tree to relax and enjoy the music presented by the Downtown Businessmen's Association Band.

  "What they lack in talent, they make up for in enthusiasm," Alice-Ann commented. The spectators, most of whom had brought their own folding lawn chairs, seemed to agree with her, because they clapped and cheered loudly after each number.

  "Isn't that J.B. Morgan?" I asked, pointing to the bass player.

  "Just a minute." Alice-Ann dug around in her purse until she found her glasses, which she always refused to wear in public because they made her look like a caricature of a librarian. Those were her words, not mine.

  "Yup. That's him all right. Probably hoping some rich farmer will drop a half million dollars for the house in his lap before the tour is over."

  I looked over the DBAB, as it was known. "For goodness sake, that's my dentist. And that one over there, the skinny guy with the toupee and trombone, isn't that Judge Fetteredhorse?"

  "Fetterhoff," Alice-Ann gently corrected me. "Yes, it is."

  The drummer, in the back row, waved at me. I waved back. "That's what's-his-name, from the drugstore."

  "Wilbur Eshelman. Why do you have so much trouble with names, Tori? It's almost as if you don't even try to get them right."

  I'd heard it all before, so I ignored her. "There's Marvin Bumbaugh. I didn't know he was a musician." As if to prove he wasn't, a long, deep, sour note erupted from the end of his tuba. We both laughed, earning some disapproving stares from the people sitting around us.

  "I don't know all of them," I said.

  "Stick around another year and you will," was Alice-Ann's comment.

  From all around us came, "Shhh."

  Alice-Ann bought ox-burgers and French fries from the concession cart. About an hour later, I went up and ordered two funnel cakes and two diet sodas. After we'd eaten them, we stretched out on the grass and enjoyed what was left of the afternoon. Too soon, the orchestra members laid down their instruments, and Marvin Bumbaugh stepped up to the microphone, which whistled as he said, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. It's always a pleasure to entertain you. I hope you will all attend the concert in the square performed by the DBAB on the third Saturday of this month. We look forward to seeing you there."

  Women, and a few men, streamed out of Morgan Manor. It was five o'clock, and the house tour was now officially over.

  "Let's go," Alice-Ann said.

  "Sure. Where?"

  "To the party to celebrate another successful house tour. If we leave first we might be able to get a parking place within a mile or two of the building."

  After she had managed with some difficulty to get the old VW running and pulled out onto the road, I heard the sound of a car approaching from behind. Too close for comfort, I thought, and turned to see if I knew who it was. I whimpered out loud when I saw the dark green van with tinted windows looming in the rear window

  "What's wrong?" Alice-Ann asked.

  "That van. I think someone's been following me in it."

  The driver must have seen me turn around, because he turned right at the next crossroad and was gone in a flash.

  "Really?" Alice-Ann sounded doubtful, but then she hadn't seen the van. "Who do you think it is?"

  "I have a gut feeling it's Vonzell Varner."

  When she looked blank, I explained, "He's the guy who bombed some women's clinics and escaped from jail. The feds think he headed back here to Lickin Creek because his ex-wife and kids live here. I wrote an article about him for last week's paper. Didn't you read it?"

  "I don't always have time to read the paper, Tori. Why would he be following you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he saw me at his ex-wife's house and thinks we're hatching something up to trap him. That's where I first saw his van. Outside her house."

  "How can you be sure it was he in the van?"

  "Who else would it be? Do you think I'm crazy?"

  "Not at all.. .just a tad paranoid." She laughed, but this time I wasn't laughing with her.

  "Someone's been in my house," I told her. "And left a note saying he was watching me. I think it must be the same person."

  "Now, that's scary."

  "To put it mildly."

  "Does Ethelind know anything about it?"

  "She said she doesn't. She's as nervous as I am. So much so, she's actually thinking of getting some keys made so we can lock up when we're out."

  I kept my gaze fastened on the road behind us for the rest of our trip, but the van never made a reappearance. I was so preoccupied that when Alice-Ann turned off the engine and set the parking brake, I was surprised we'd reached our destination so quickly.

  When I peered out the front window, I realized I hadn't the slightest idea of what our destination was. "Where are we?" I asked. I knew only that we were in a parking lot behind one of downtown Lickin Creek's Victorian-era buildings. One of the oldest, I judged, from the looks of the sagging wood porches attached to the second and third floors of the brick building.

  "Handshew's Hardware," she said, as if that should mean something to me, and took off at a trot down one of the dark, narrow alleys that separated one ancient building from another.

  "Where you'uns goin'?" a dee
p voice asked from a dark doorway

  I jumped back in alarm.

  "Just me. Big Bad Bob. Stores downtown all's closed on Saturday night."

  "We know that," Alice-Ann countered. "But we're going to the hardware store."

  "Oh," Bob said with a smile that lit up his reptilian face. "I see."

  "And there will be more ladies coming along in a few minutes, Bob, so don't you go jumping out and scaring them."

  "I won't, Mizz MacKinstrie. Cross my heart and hope to die." He continued to grin at us, radiating cheap booze and sour body odor as well as good cheer.

  I'd never been in Handshew's Hardware before, not having seen anything to attract me in the painted message on the dusty window advertising hardware, electric appliances, genuine antiques, chain by the foot, and gifts.

  Now, an additional hand-lettered sign said simply BLUEGRASS TONITE. And below that, PRIVATE PARTY-CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC.

  I took a quick look up and down Main Street and was relieved not to see a green van anywhere. However, some cars were coming around the fountain in the center of the square. They had to be members of the committee, for there was no reason for anyone else to be driving into downtown Lickin Creek on a Saturday night. Big Bad Bob had been right; the stores "all's closed."

  Alice-Ann grabbed me by the arm and dragged me through the shop's front door. "Let's get good seats before the others get here," she suggested.

  Alice-Ann laid claim to two wooden barrels of nails by laying her sweater on one and her purse on the other.

  I was still enough of a New Yorker to wince at the sight of her purse lying unattended, but it didn't concern her in the least.

  "Don't worry about it, Tori. This is Lickin Creek."

  The Lickin Creek I knew was full of maniacs stalking innocent women, missing bodies, and escaped murderers. But I envied AliceAnn her vision of the world. It was really much nicer than mine.

  Handshew's Hardware Store was a relic of Lickin Creek's past, with all the features a preservationist could hope for: wood floor, pressed tin ceiling, a wall of small drawers with brass pulls containing screws, hinges, cup hooks, and other things I couldn't identify. An oak-and-glass case to the right of the door displayed piles of pots, pans, dishes, and glassware. On shelves above the case were dusty ceramic teddy bears and angels, dolls dressed as Amish with no features on their stuffed pink faces, and black cast-iron buggies-the gift selection as mentioned on the sign in the window Covering the top of the display case were untidy stacks of yellowed towels, washcloths, and pot holders.