by Cindy Kelley
Jackson smiled and tapped a finger on the bottom of the ledger. “I need your name right there to make it legal.”
Parker scratched out something on the paper and shoved the book back at Jackson, who seemed to pretend not to notice the black man’s irritation. “I’ll get the seed as soon as I help Miss Chapman.”
“No, Mr. Jackson, please help him first. I’m fine to wait,” Charlotte said.
Jackson frowned. “No, he can wait …”
“Please. He was here first,” Charlotte said.
Parker nodded at Charlotte. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Sam finished his task and made his way back across the store and Charlotte followed him.
“Sam, isn’t it?” she asked.
He didn’t make eye contact with her, but bobbed his head. “Sam. That’s right. Sam.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear your figures, Sam,” she said. “It sounds as if you disagree with Mr. Jackson’s numbers.”
Sam went to the ledger on the counter and flipped it open. Charlotte glanced toward the direction Jackson and Parker had gone but then turned her attention to the columns of figures on the page. Sam started his litany of numbers.
“Two thousand per pound, fifteen pounds is thirty thousand seeds … fifty-six pounds in a bushel, fifty-six divided by fifteen is three point seven three. One-quarter bushel for an acre. One and a third bushels, not three. Not three … not three …”
Charlotte ran her finger down the numbers and could see not only was the total wrong, but the interest charges at the bottom of the page were more than fifty percent.
She could hear Jackson coming back into the store. Sam heard him too and turned away from the counter just as Jackson entered. He smiled at Charlotte.
“I apologize for the delay, but it’s always the same thing with those people. They want something for nothing. Now what can I do for you?”
“My mother sent me to see if we might get a quicker delivery on the chickens, Mr. Jackson. She was rather put out with a month’s wait.”
Jackson slowly nodded his head. “I will certainly see what I can do to hurry it along, Miss Chapman. My supplier is in Savannah, but maybe there is transport coming sooner. I’ll wire and check.”
“Thank you,” she said. “She also inquired as to the charges. I’m afraid neither my sister nor I asked you about that.”
He frowned. “It will be the standard cost of doing business, Miss Chapman. If I need to carry the terms, the plantation will be charged two percent on the balance.”
“Two percent?”
He nodded, then smiled. “Anything else I can help you with today?”
Charlotte stared at him for a moment. “No. Thank you.”
Charlotte made her way to the door, but not before she heard Sam reciting in his monotone voice, “Two percent, two percent, two … two … two.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Charlotte stepped outside the feed store at the same time a young couple came down the street in a small buggy. The man pulled the buggy over to the side of the road, jumped down, and offered his hand to his lady. As they strolled down the boardwalk, they seemed like two people who didn’t have a care in the world. Charlotte’s thoughts turned to Elijah. She wondered how far he’d made it on his journey back to St. Louis—if he was on the train out of Savannah by now. The thought that he might get some much-needed rest appeased her worry for the moment. Pensive, she didn’t notice Dooley approaching.
“Miss Charlotte?”
“Hello, Mr. Dooley,” she said.
He frowned. “You made it here awful quick.”
“I’m sorry?”
“They only just brought the body into town less than an hour ago,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlotte said, though her heart had stuttered at the mention of a body.
“Old Man Grice found a buggy in his field this morning with a dead man inside,” he said. “Scuttlebutt is he’s the missing man from the big dustup at your place yesterday.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped, but when she didn’t say anything, Dooley went on. “The sheriff made mention he’d have someone ride out to the plantation and bring back one of you to identify him.”
“I just happened to be here to check on an order,” she said. “Where did you say they brought the man?”
Dooley pointed down the road. “Undertaker’s place is the last one on the right. Do you want me to come with you?”
She shook her head. “No, but thank you for offering. I’ll be fine.”
Sheriff Dan Klein stood silently by and watched as the undertaker, Horace Larson, led Charlotte to a table where the man she knew as Mr. Newton lay dead.
She stared down at his slack, pasty white face and shuddered. “That’s him. Mr. Newton. He’s the one who got away yesterday.”
“We figured that was the case,” Sheriff Klein said. He approached the body and peeled back his shirt to expose a tattoo inked right over his heart. The black star had the letters GAR inscribed in the middle. “Found the same thing on the other two.”
Klein looked toward two other bodies, covered by gray tarps, lying on similar tables in the room. Charlotte followed his gaze, then turned back to Newton.
“What does that mean?”
“Grand Army of the Republic.” Sheriff Klein sneered. “Union boys and their symbols to prove they fought. You won’t catch us Southern men doing that. God knows we were on the right side of the war. Don’t need to desecrate our bodies to say so.”
Klein flipped Newton’s shirt back into place. “He ran but he didn’t get too far,” he said with some satisfaction. “You and your family can rest easier knowing he’s dead.”
“How do you let their families know what’s happened?” Charlotte asked.
Klein shrugged. “I don’t have enough information on any of them to find out who their next of kin are.”
“But people will start to worry about them—wonder where they are,” she said.
“They should have thought of that when they set out to catch you!”
“I suppose that’s true, but it’s not their families’ fault. Sometimes people make choices that cause others to suffer …” She stopped. No one was more surprised than she was when her eyes welled. The sheriff and undertaker both looked away as she wiped at a single tear rolling down her cheek.
“What happens to them now?” Charlotte asked.
“There’s a potter’s field outside town. We’ll bury ’em there,” Sheriff Klein said. He nodded to Charlotte. “I appreciate you coming here, Miss Chapman. Saved us the trouble of bringing someone from the plantation to look at the body.”
He left, but Charlotte remained behind, staring at Newton. Horace cleared his throat. “If it’s worrying you, Miss Chapman, you should know I’m neither judge nor jury here. They’ll be treated with dignity and respect until they’re placed in their final resting place.”
She looked at him. “It doesn’t bother you they fought for the Union, Mr. Larson?”
“I had an uncle, two cousins, and a best friend who fought for the Union. They felt God was on their side just as we felt He was on ours. I’m not here to make judgments—just to ensure respect for the dead. Even for those who go into the potter’s field.”
She nodded but still didn’t move. He smiled. “Surely you have someplace more cheerful to be, Miss Chapman. I’ll let you get on home now.”
He was prompting her to leave. Someplace cheerful … Cheerful? Charlotte had the sudden realization she didn’t want to go home. And the irony of that revelation wasn’t lost on her. She should ride straight back to the plantation and let them know Newton was no longer a threat. She should—but she wasn’t going to. At least not yet.
“Mr. Larson, you wouldn’t happen to know Bobby and Betty Ann … Betty Ann … umm …”
“Wilkes,” he said.
“Do you know where they live?”
“Head about a mile east of town, then left at the biggest magnolia tree in the county. Gotta be ninety feet tall. Head about a quarter mile down the road. Theirs is the white house with green trim,” he said. “You can’t miss it.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
There was a wine cellar under the kitchen of the house. The access door was nearly invisible in a kitchen wall; the entrance, cut along the lines of intricate wallpaper, would surely be missed by a casual observer. The room was long and narrow with a dirt floor. The ceiling was shored up by rough-hewn beams, and dozens of oak barrels, lying on their sides, lined the walls. Two small oil lamps brought warmth to the otherwise damp space and gave it an intimate air. Near the stairs from the kitchen were two rows of wooden shelves that held the other liquors of the house. Bottles of whiskey and rum, with glass decanters and empty pitchers standing ready to transport the wine from cellar to table whenever the need arose.
Suzanne stood with Beau between the golden-colored barrels.
“I wonder if Charlotte and her Yankee freebooter had a good laugh at our expense,” Beau said. He leaned down to the closest spigot on a barrel and slipped a glass beneath it. With the twist of a lever on top, wine began to flow into his glass.
“Deceitful. Both of them. Keeping his identity a secret from us,” Suzanne said.
“I should have known he was a Federal.” Beau took a long drink of his wine. Then he said, “Word’s going to get out she came home with a Yankee. Danced with a Yankee right in our own home. We look like fools.”
“He’s a Yankee, but he killed two Yankees on our porch,” Suzanne said. “Somehow, she will end up being elevated in the town’s eyes. She’ll be the returning war hero who managed to turn a former Union soldier against men of his own political persuasions.”
“I see what you’re saying. To everyone she’s still John Chapman’s darling daughter, who can do no wrong,” Beau said. “I think if we let it slip that she was convicted of trying to kill a Yankee congressman, the town would throw her a parade.”
“I still can’t believe she didn’t tell us any of that,” Suzanne said with a shake of her head. “She always was guarded about things—had secrets I suspect only Chessie knew, but I’ll admit I’m surprised she could lie straight to our faces.”
“Makes you wonder what else she’s lying about,” Beau said.
“If you’re referring to her memory, I still don’t think she lied about that,” Suzanne said. “She seems too genuine.”
Beau smiled. “And we don’t? I think Charlotte would beg to differ.”
Her response was a small smile. Then she frowned and shook her head. “But what if the music box was just the beginning of more memories? What if tomorrow, the day after, or next week, all her memories come crashing back? Then where are we?”
“You own the plantation. You decide who lives here and—who doesn’t.”
“I can’t throw her out, Beau. Can you imagine the reaction we’d get in town if we turned John’s daughter out of her childhood home? We’d be ostracized and probably have to pay the same for goods and services as the freedmen. The interest alone would sink us. No one would bring their rice here for processing, just on principle, because we pushed her away.”
“Then we’re stuck,” Beau said. “Living on pins and needles that she’ll remember it all.”
“Never stuck, my boy. There are solutions to every problem.”
“Does that mean you’ve come up with a solution?” Beau asked.
Suzanne sighed. “Not yet. But I need to. The incident with the music box has been her only real memory so far, but we can’t live on the assumption she’ll never remember anything else. We need to have a plan in place.”
“Speaking of plans,” Beau said, “I’ve managed to round up three more farmers to use the mill to cultivate their rice.”
“Good. How many acres are you talking about?”
“Three darkies got a hundred acres each from the Standish place.”
Suzanne shook her head in disgust. “Micah Standish loses his plantation because of the war fought over darkies, and the government gives away his land. Makes you wonder where the justice is, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not fair, but for us, it’s profitable. We never got business from Standish before—he did all his own cultivating. At least this lines our coffers with more money, and we can hire more workers to put rice in those last fifty acres we haven’t harrowed before now.”
Suzanne’s mind wandered as Beau continued. “Within a year—two at most, we should be back to where we were before the war,” Beau was saying.
“Mother? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“I’ve been thinking about Charlotte,” Suzanne said. “And I think we’ve been looking at our little problem the wrong way.”
“How so?”
“As I said, we plan. We prepare for the day Charlotte’s memory returns by protecting ourselves in the meantime,” she said.
“How do we do that?”
“By changing the tide of public opinion. People don’t generally want to stay where they aren’t wanted.”
The undertaker had been right. The Wilkes house was easy for Charlotte to find. Betty Ann opened the door with her son clinging to her leg. She squealed with delight when she saw Charlotte on her doorstep.
“You came to call?”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Charlotte said.
But Betty Ann was already pulling her into the modest house and closing the door. “Mind? Don’t be ridiculous, Char. I’m so happy to see you. Come in and tell me all about being home. How has it been? Has anything jogged your memory? I’ve been completely cooped up here at home. Anything interesting happen?”
Anything interesting? Elijah was shot the morning after the dance. Three men who came to lunch are dead.
Charlotte, relieved Betty Ann didn’t seem to know of the latest developments at the plantation, picked the easiest question to answer.
“I had a small memory,” Charlotte said. “I remembered the tune my jewelry box played.”
“Oh! The one your pa gave you for your birthday,” Betty Ann said.
“Yes.”
“That’s so wonderful! It’s a start, isn’t it?”
“I hope so,” Charlotte said, following Betty Ann farther into the house. She took in the main room. A chintz sofa and two worn chairs were grouped together on a huge braided rug. Some children’s toys were scattered around the room, but the main thing that caught Charlotte’s eye were the plants. They were near the windows, lined up against walls, even plants tall enough to be staked.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Betty Ann said. “We’ve just got one maid now and it’s hard for her to keep up with everything.”
“Your plants are—extraordinary, Betty Ann,” Charlotte said.
Betty Ann smiled. “I love to grow things. Always have.” Betty Ann led Charlotte farther into the room. “These are all seedling plants I sell for gardens. Practically everyone is growing food again now—and by keeping it all indoors like this, I get a jump start on the planting season.”
“What a smart idea,” Charlotte said as she sat down on the sofa.
“Bobby’s the one who thought of it,” Betty Ann said. She grinned. “I guess you could say he planted the seed. He’s always telling me I don’t just have green thumbs, I have eight green fingers too. I don’t think he intended for me to start my own little business, but we can use the extra money these days.”
“How is Bobby? I hope I’m not disturbing him …”
“Sometimes I think disturbing him might be good, you know? Get him out of that back room.”
A woman entered the room. At first glance, Charlotte thought her to be older, but realized she was probably only in her midforties. It
was her countenance that aged her—sad eyes, rounded shoulders, an air of defeat. “Good day to you, Charlotte.”
Charlotte nodded. “Hello.”
“This is my mother-in-law, Frances Wilkes,” Betty Ann said. “You used to know that.”
“My husband and I were friends of your family,” Frances said.
“It’s nice to see you,” Charlotte said.
Frances frowned at her. “Robert is dead.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You wouldn’t know it since you were gone. Even if you had your memories, you wouldn’t know my husband, Robert, died at Chancellorsville in May of ’63.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said.
Frances nodded. “I am too.” She looked at the little boy, still clinging to Betty Ann’s leg. “You come with Granny now, Bubba, and let your mama have some time to talk with Miss Charlotte.”
The little boy shook his head.
“It’s all right, Frances,” Betty Ann said. “He can stay.”
“Indulge a child, spoil a child,” Frances said. She crossed the room and plucked little Bubba from the floor. The boy started to cry, but Frances settled him on her hip and left the room. Betty Ann forced a smile.
“I wish you could remember how nice she used to be,” Betty Ann said. “Before the war took everything away from her.”
“I’m sorry about your father-in-law,” Charlotte said.
“And I’m sorry ’bout your daddy. I told you at his burial, but I felt like I should say it again anyway. You were so broken up about him—but then why wouldn’t you be? There was nothing that man wouldn’t do for you. My goodness, his face lit from the inside out whenever you walked into a room.”
Betty Ann’s forehead creased to a deep frown. “I still can’t believe it was Lewis who shot him.” She shook her head. “I don’t think any of us could have imagined he had all that hate inside.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about my real mother?”
Betty Ann sighed and shook her head. “Other than she died giving birth to you, no.”