by Molly Macrae
“Ardis, I’d like you to meet Zach Aikens, the man who discovered the elbow that led to Mattie and Sam. Zach, this is Ms. Buchanan. She’s like me; she thinks she’s a detective, too.”
“Nice to meet you, Zach. Are you kin to Ezekiel Aikens?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“He’s a fine man. He did me a kindness when my husband passed.”
“Yeah? What?”
“That’s between him and me. But the next time you see him, tell him Vernon Buchanan’s wife says hey, and then go ahead and ask him. It was a pleasure to meet you, young man.”
Ardis shook Zach’s hand with both of hers, and then went to help a new knitter choose needles and yarn for her first scarf. Zach stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the mannequin and its quilted jacket.
“This is your first time here, isn’t it? What do you think of the Weaver’s Cat?”
He looked around, giving the bins of yarn and the racks of notions and patterns the same serious attention he’d given the mannequin. A display of hand-painted roving caught his eye.
“What’s that for?”
“Spinning. It’s carded wool. The different colors of dye were brushed on by hand.”
He went to check it out, and a group of chattering, laughing women swarmed the counter. I rang them up and answered their questions. The camel bells jingled at the front door, and when I looked over. Zach had left the building.
* * *
“I know the posse met on Friday,” Ardis said when we had a moment alone at the counter, “but I think we should call a special interim meeting. I’d say tonight, but it’s Daddy’s bath night and that’s more than enough excitement for him or me. If you think tomorrow’s time enough, I’ll go ahead and call the others.”
“Sure, that’ll give us that much more time to learn something.” Besides, I’d promised to take my ghost to visit a grave.
Chapter 28
“Are you sure about this, Geneva?”
“I am feeling calm and confident. Do you see my hand? It is hardly shaking. Would you like me to drive? You look as though you might be having a case of the nerves.”
“Thanks, anyway. I think I’ll be all right driving.”
I might be having a case of the nerves. More likely it was a case of early-onset lunacy. Driving didn’t worry me, though. It was what we planned to do after we parked and got out that had my stomach dancing a jig. And not because we were going to sneak onto the grounds of the Homeplace after hours—been there, done that. But we were going to visit Mattie and Sam’s grave after dark, because Geneva told me if Mattie and Sam were around, that would be the best time to find them.
“But you’re around in daylight,” I said as we left the friendly lights of downtown Blue Plum behind.
“I have been awake a long time. Mattie and Sam might be shy or frightened or unhappy. Like cats or dogs that have not had families caring for them.”
“They’re feral ghosts?”
“Please do not be like that around them.”
“Sorry. How come all of a sudden you know so much about other ghosts?”
“Perhaps I am maturing.”
“What if they aren’t there?”
She didn’t answer, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. This time I didn’t make the mistake of parking at the Quickie Mart. I’d seen an old forest road beyond the Homeplace Saturday when Joe and I had gone to look for otters. I found it, turned in, and stopped.
“What are you waiting for?” Geneva asked when I didn’t get out right away.
“For my eyes to get used to the dark.”
“Trust me, they never do.”
Walking down a country road in the dark with a ghost—not what I could have pictured myself doing six months earlier. What a sheltered life I’d led. Geneva started humming the dirge-like lullaby she loved, and together we made our way back to the Homeplace, around the security gate barring the drive, and toward the silhouette of the barn.
“Geneva? Are you really sure about this? Is there anything you want me to do?”
“Stay with me.”
We skirted the barn, and I heard Portia and her brood snorting comfortably in their sleep. On the far side of the barn my feet slowed. A high moon shone down, but the slight breeze seemed to carry its light away before it reached us. I led Geneva to the excavation square and we stood at its edge looking down at the cold, black bottom of the pit.
And waited.
“Are they here?” I finally whispered.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They are in the field, and he is coming with his gun.”
“You can see them? Where?”
She floated over the pit, leaving me behind. I picked my way around the black hole and stumbled, trying to catch up.
“Geneva? Where are we going?”
“To warn them.”
I couldn’t see what she saw, but we went toward the woods. The farther we went, the clearer she became, so that if it had been daylight, I knew I would see the details of her bodice and skirts, the heels of her shoes, and the coils of her hair. Her skirts tangled as she ran and kept her from going very fast. I was able to keep up, despite the dark. When we reached the trees, she didn’t stop. I did for a second, but then I was afraid I’d lose her, and I went into the woods after her.
She’d found an old logging road—had she known it was there?—and we followed it, walking now. It hadn’t been used as a road in years and hadn’t ever been more than an unpaved cut through the trees. I picked my way along the uneven ground, and then I realized she was doing the same, and stumbling from time to time, no longer floating. We went downhill and crossed the creek, and there the road forked. One fork became a path, following the creek. We took the other, which ran out into an open field. As we reached the edge of the woods, Geneva cried out. She ran forward, caught hold of a tree for support, and stared at something in the field I couldn’t see.
Then she screamed and ran back toward me.
“Geneva! Wait!”
She veered and ran down the path alongside the creek, whimpering and stumbling, looking over her shoulder, and turning and running again. She ran until the path turned away from the creek and became lost in a rocky outcrop. She climbed over rocks the size of chairs and tables, and then tried to scramble up and over one the size of an elephant. Her long skirts made it almost impossible. She did make it, though, and crawled across the top. Then she turned around to let herself down the other side—but with a look of surprise and another scream, she fell from view.
“Geneva!”
My jeans and sneakers made climbing the rock easier, but I inched my way across the top, afraid of what I would see on the other side. What I saw was Geneva below me, looking up, reaching for help. She’d fallen into a space between rocks, a deep hole, and only her terrified face and reaching arms were visible. I fell to my stomach and reached down for her.
“Grab my hands, Geneva!”
She didn’t see me. She wasn’t looking at me. She was reaching for someone else. I looked over my shoulder and saw nothing. No one was there. She cried out again, and I turned in time to see her head drop back. Blood welled up on her forehead, her eyes closed, and her hands—her arms—fell limp, no longer reaching for the help that was denied them. Without another sound, she slipped away into the opening between the rocks, and was gone.
“Geneva!”
I stared at the dark place she’d fallen into, where no one would ever find her. All around me, the woods and the creek and the night murmured and gurgled and rustled—and she was gone. I’d watched her disappear and I hadn’t been able to do anything about it. But what had I witnessed? She had been a witness. She saw who killed Mattie and Sam. She went to warn them he had a gun. She got there too late. He saw her and chased her. She escaped over a rock and fell into a
hole—a cave opening? A sinkhole? She reached for help. He hit her on the head, and she fell to her death.
“I followed him.” She was suddenly crouching next to me on the rock, and I thought my heart would stop from the shock of seeing her again. “He followed me. Then I followed him. Come on.” She’d become watery and nearly transparent again.
“Wait! Wait. He saw you fall. He hit your head and made you fall. Who was he?”
“He had hair the color of corn silk. He was so pale in the moonlight above me, I remembered him as a ghost. He thought he loved Mattie, but if he had he wouldn’t have killed her. He was Lemuel Umstead.”
“Why didn’t he bring Mattie’s and Sam’s bodies here and put them down—what is that, a sinkhole?” I looked back down at that awful opening. “Oh.”
“I sat up here and watched him sweat to lever those rocks into place,” she said. “There is still a space at the edge where people have been throwing beer cans. But he made sure no one could climb out.”
“But I just saw the hole.”
“You saw its ghost.”
“But you haven’t seen Mattie’s or Sam’s ghost. Are they ghosts?”
“I do not think so.”
“Why not?”
“As I have said before, I am only dead. I am not an expert. I followed him. Come on. We will, too.”
The outcrop of limestone boulders was difficult enough to negotiate alone. Why try to do it with two bodies—especially up and over the mammoth rock we were sitting on—when a convenient alternative lay not too far down the logging trail?
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I think we already know.”
She didn’t say anything else. I slid down off the rock. She floated beside me all the way back to the barn at the Homeplace and then to the cottage where I’d met her.
“I followed him home.”
“Did you watch him bury Mattie and Sam?”
“I couldn’t bear to.”
“Did you haunt him?”
“I meant to, but he died before he had time to feel much guilt. Cholera is a terrible plague. It robbed me of friends and it robbed me of retribution.”
“I’m sorry, Geneva. I’m so sorry all of this happened.”
“Are you sorry you met me?”
“No.”
“Then there is a silver lining to the sinkhole.”
* * *
Shirley and Mercy helped the students start piecing their quilt blocks together the next morning. They fussed when they realized Zach wasn’t there and that he’d taken his block home with him. I told them not to worry, that I was sure he’d be back. They didn’t seem to believe me. I wasn’t so sure about it myself.
“You look peaky,” Shirley said partway through the morning.
“Like you could use a nap,” said Mercy.
“I’ll step out for some fresh air.”
I hadn’t slept well. I’d been worried about Geneva and about how reliving her death might affect her. She’d grown quiet on the drive back to the Weaver’s Cat, and I’d stayed in the study until well after midnight, keeping an eye on her while I’d read Granny’s private dye journals. I’d finally left when Geneva complained about the desk light keeping her up. It was keeping me up, too, so I’d gone home. But as soon as I’d closed my eyes, I’d been back in the woods following her.
I took a walk down the hall to wake myself up, and noticed Nadine’s office door open a few inches. I hadn’t seen her yet that morning and decided to say hello and find out what the plans were for the program’s closing reception. I heard her moving around, and started to knock, but as I raised my hand, she pushed the door closed. Good morning to you, too, I thought, which was unkind, because she hadn’t known I was there.
John came out of the storage room and waved when he saw me.
“I’m on my way to the courthouse and then the library,” he said, “and I’ll be at Ardis’ tonight. I’ve made progress, though it’s hard to say toward what.”
He opened Phillip’s office and ducked behind the door to put the storage room key in the box. I looked at the copier and wondered if I could ever get Clod to tell me what document he’d found there. Would it make any difference?
“You look tired, Kath. Don’t let these investigations get you down.”
“Not a chance.”
“Good. The photographs you sent are quite interesting. They opened up the line of research I’m following this morning.”
I put a finger to my lips. “That’s great, John,” I said at normal volume. “I’ve made progress, too,” I said more quietly. “See you tonight.”
* * *
Geneva insisted on coming with me to Ardis’ for the meeting.
“Do you feel how we bonded last night?” she asked as we went up Ardis’ front steps. “Yesterday we were just best friends. Today we are a duo. No, we are better than a duo. Duos are too plain. We will be inseparable. An inseparable super-sleuthing duo like—”
Ardis opened the front door and the theme music for Dragnet blared out at us.
“—Joe Friday and Bill Gannon. See you later, Bill.” She zipped ahead of me and disappeared into the den with Ardis’ daddy and his TV.
“Was that a moth?” Ardis asked. “Come on in before we let them all in.”
Ernestine and John were already sitting at the kitchen table. Mel came in behind me. Joe was in the den keeping Ardis’ daddy company.
“Thea can’t make it,” Mel said. “And I didn’t bring treats. We need to concentrate, cogitate, and get out of here at a reasonable hour.”
“Good plan,” I said. “Mind if I start? I heard the preliminary report on the skeletons.” I told them what I’d told Ardis the day before. “I must say, I’m surprised we haven’t had a visit from Deputy Dunbar congratulating us on our fine work. Or at least a phone call.”
“Although he’d be the first to point out that we aren’t more than ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent positive of the identifications,” Mel said.
“Slackers that we are. But he’d be right, and I’d still like to follow up on the other names we have. I have another one to add, too—Lemuel Umstead.”
“Piecing together as much of their stories as we can,” said Ernestine. “I’d say that’s a kind thing to do for all of those who were lost in that dreadful time. Now, may I go next? I’ve heard some stories of perfectly dreadful behavior and unkind people.”
“We’d be delighted,” said Ardis.
Ernestine took a notebook from her handbag and adjusted her glasses. “I went to see Grace yesterday. I went again today. Although she seemed talked out yesterday, I thought she might like to talk more this morning, and I was right. We covered quite a wide range of topics, and returned to some this morning for additional details that percolated to the top overnight. I took notes. I also prepared a précis for each topic discussed.”
“Bravo,” Mel said.
“Thank you, dear. First topic, Grace Estes’ opinion of Nadine Solberg. Nadine is not a serious historian. She lacks a sense of stewardship toward the artifacts and the documents supporting the artifacts at the Holston Homeplace Living History Farm. She is more interested in the visual impact of artifacts and buildings than in their historical or social significance. She is a fund-raiser, and as such will be good for the site, as long as there is a real historian on staff.”
“Wow.” I looked at the others. We were probably all hoping their conversations hadn’t gotten around to us.
“Second topic, Grace Estes’ opinion of Wes Treadwell. Wes is dangerous. Wes is out for Wes.
“Was that the précis?” I asked.
“The entire opinion. Topic three, Grace Estes’ opinion of Fredda Oliver. If Fredda would give herself time to heal, she would see that the world isn’t such a hard place to live in. Topic four, Grace Estes’ opinion of Jerry
Hicks. Phillip was jealous of almost everything Jerry had. That’s really an opinion of Phillip, but you need to hear that to understand what she means when she says that Jerry couldn’t be bothered with Phillip’s competitions. She knew Jerry’s sister, Ellen, better than she knew Jerry, but had lost track of her when Ellen married and moved somewhere out West.”
“What about her opinion of Phillip?” John asked. “It goes beyond reporting his jealousy of Jerry, doesn’t it?”
“It consists almost entirely of jealousy. She says he was driven by jealousy and imagined slights. And entitlement and self-aggrandizement. She also said he saw himself as an investigative historian, looking for the truth the way investigative journalists do. She said ‘he lived for ferreting out facts that would turn accepted history on end.’ She also called him ‘a breaker.’ When I asked what she meant, she said he broke hearts, plates, marriages, friendships. He enjoyed proving people wrong, especially when they were repeating ‘true stories.’”
“She loved this guy?” Mel asked. “She still loves him? Are we really going to value her opinions of anyone?”
“They’re worth hearing, though,” John said. “Taken individually they sound problematic. But she’s there in the jail with plenty of time on her hands and a lot on her mind. Taken all together, they sound unvarnished, but well thought out. They’re a piece of her story, at any rate.”
“And that is a generous opinion, John,” Ardis said. “What else do we know?”
“I’ve been trying to follow Phillip’s line of research,” John said. “To see if he might have been digging for information that ruffled feathers. Or, now that we’ve heard from Grace, maybe he was about to break something.”
“Speaking plain would be good, John,” said Mel.
“Specifics. You’re right. Unfortunately I haven’t come across enough of them yet. But Grace’s opinions of Nadine, Wes, and Phillip all play into this. Phillip appeared to be tracing deeds and landowners for the area surrounding and encompassing what’s now known as the Homeplace. I’ve seen some of the documents he was working with. I have some names and dates, and I’ve seen the casual way boundaries were described using impermanent markers such as trees and fencerows. I think Phillip was questioning Holston ownership of the Homeplace. What if, as an ‘investigative historian’, he was determined to dig, even if that meant undermining the legitimacy of the site? As I said before, ruinous.”