Golden Legacy

by Robert James Glider

  Dixon looked at Abigail. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Bottom line, Abi, our investigation just didn’t turn up a damn thing. No fingerprints other than yours, Miss Roni’s, your mother’s, and Mrs. Birch’s. There were no signs of forced entry. All the doors were locked from the inside, and the windows were closed and locked. Mrs. Birch said she had to open the front door with her key. She also said that, if your mother had given a key to anyone else, you and she would know about it. So, unless you tell me different, other than Ada Birch, yourself, and Miss Roni, no one had keys.”

  “My mother would have told me or Roni. You’re right—no one else would have a key.”

  “The way your mother was found, with that terrified look on her face, as I said, I immediately suspected foul play, so I called in the state homicide investigation unit. George Austin, the homicide investigator reviewed all the known facts and went over the whole house with me. It was his opinion that there was no indication of a homicide, but to be sure he ordered an autopsy.”

  Abigail shuffled through the file. “I don’t see his report here.”

  “He is withholding it until the medical examiner gives him a final. He did give me a verbal about an hour ago. Said all indications are that your mother’s death was from natural causes. He thought it might have been a nightmare. When I get the written copy of his findings, I’ll send it out to you.”

  Dixon handed Abigail a business card. “Austin said that, if you have any questions, you should call him on his personal number. He said he was sorry for your loss, but he found no indication of foul play, and unless something shows up in the autopsy, the case will close.” Dixon paused for a moment as if searching his mind for what to say next, “I’m especially sorry … because it was your mother. I don’t have to tell you she was a great friend. You know, Abi, everyone in the valley loved her and respected her.”

  Dixon stood up, “Abi, you’re a doctor. Talk to the ME. For the record, I want you to know that I’m still not convinced. Something just doesn’t add up. But you know that, with no evidence, I have no choice. I must accept the findings of the medical examiner and the state investigator.”

  Abigail thanked him for his help, gave him a hug, and said she would see him and his wife, Sharon, at the wake.

  Abigail opened the outer door and noticed that the blue car that had been parked next to hers was pulling out of the parking lot. She recognized the driver. It’s Reverend Kincaid, she thought. And he’s looking back at me with those coal-black eyes.

  She felt a sudden chill.

  CHAPTER 4

  University of Virginia School of Medicine, Charlottesville, Virginia

  Abigail stepped out of the elevator on the executive office floor of the medical school and went toward the office at the far end of the building. She stopped next to the shiny brass sign on the large oak door announcing it as the office of Dr. Jonas Hart, the dean of the medical school.

  Abigail’s father had met Jonas Hart when they were freshman at the university. They had become fast friends, and when they completed their residency, they set up a practice together. Both wound up teaching premed at the university, and then later both were promoted to teach core subjects at the medical school. Abigail called her father’s partner Uncle Jon. Even though he wasn’t related to her family, he and her father had done almost everything together with their families. Uncle Jon had been Abigail’s doctor until she turned twelve when he handed her care over to a female gynecologist at the university.

  Abi remembered that her mother had been adamant that she, herself, not be handed off to another doctor, so, for the past thirty years that Abigail could remember, Uncle Jon had been on the job, giving Victoria her physicals and tending to her medical needs. Fifteen days ago he had performed an exam, given her mother a stress test, and ordered blood tests. He’d concluded that all the metrics were within normal limits including her cholesterol.

  Abigail opened the door and saw that no one was at the reception desk. She knocked on the inner office door.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll be right out.”

  Uncle Jon came out of his office and sat down beside Abigail. He looked into her eyes, smiled, and took her hand in his. “I’m so sorry.” He paused to catch his breath. “You all right, Abi?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I just can’t understand why she died, especially after you gave her a clean bill of health.”

  “I don’t understand it either, and frankly, it’s got me baffled. I went back and reviewed the test results of her physical exam and couldn’t find any anomalies. I talked to the medical examiner, studied the pictures of your mother in her chair as she was found, and read the preliminary toxicology reports.”

  She noticed the sadness in his eyes.

  “Abi, I believe something or someone may have scared the ‘hell’ out of Victoria, and put her in seizure.”

  “That’s what I believe. But what could do that?”

  “It’s in the realm of possibility that it was a dream or nightmare, but I feel that it was more likely caused by a physical manifestation, like a threat of imminent death. The look on her face showed pure terror.”

  “I’ve had terrifying nightmares. Free fall … you know, like falling with no end in sight. I am startled, and I wake up in a sweat with my heart racing. But I don’t know—is it possible to actually die?”

  Jonas considered the question. “It’s quite possible if you have a weak heart.” He looked at Abigail, pursed his lips, and slowly turned his head from side to side. “But after Victoria’s exam, I just can’t believe that was the cause of her death. Her heart was sound. Absolutely nothing turned up in her tests.”

  “That’s what’s so confusing. Do you think the autopsy might shed some light? Maybe, some hidden defect in Momma’s heart?” She’d never seen Uncle Jon look so bewildered.

  “I’ve racked my brain, even thinking I may have made a mistake. I checked with the medical examiner, and he couldn’t find anything in the physical autopsy to support a weak valve or a defect.” He paused to look into Abigail’s eyes. “The sheriff said his investigation didn’t turn up any evidence of a forced entry into the house, so the only thing to do is to wait and see if something turns up in the final toxicology report.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Jon. I guess we wait.”

  They both stood up. Abigail turned into his arms, and he hugged her tight. When he released her, she stood reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’ll be over at the house later. I wish I could tell you more. You know I loved her too … always have. If your father hadn’t met her first … well, who knows what might have happened?”

  For the first time since Abigail arrived home she smiled.

  Standing in the lobby of the funeral parlor, Abigail welcomed and hugged close friends who were attending the wake. She shook hands with the man she’d been waiting to talk to—the county medical examiner.

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor Cobb. Can we step into the parlor? I want to talk to you about the cause of death in your autopsy report.” They stepped into the quiet room before Abi continued. “Doctor Hart told me he reviewed your findings and found everything in order.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m very sorry for your loss Abi. We all loved her. Victoria was our friend, and she was a very special lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t have the final results of the lab tests yet, but the preliminary tests substantiate my findings. I sent the lab specimens to the state forensic lab, and as you know, also to Doctor Hart,” the medical examiner said. “There’s no doubt that her death looks suspicious, but I’ll be damned if I can find any physical evidence to make this a homicide. I’m not an expert, but I think it’s possible to have a nightmare so real it could cause death. Did you ask Doctor Hart if a graphic nightmare could possibly cause death?”

  “Yes, and he said it was possible if there was a weak
heart or a latent defect. But your examination didn’t find any defects, and Doctor Hart’s exam two weeks ago showed none of my mother’s organs were compromised by disease, and by all indications in her exam, she had a strong heart.”

  “That’s absolutely true, and I’m as baffled as you are. I wish I could tell you definitively that the cause was absolute, but I can’t. I hope the final toxicology report will shed more light and help us resolve this issue.” He took her hand in his as he spoke.

  “Thank you, Doctor. I hope so too.”

  On the day after the funeral, after the final paragraph of the will had been read, Abigail hugged relatives and shook hands with friends of her mother’s. Then she hurriedly left the parlor of her Shenandoah Valley manor house to check on the buffet lunch that she and her sister-in-law had set up in the adjacent room. She quickly checked all the casseroles to make sure they were warm and checked to make sure there was an ample supply of silverware and plates.

  Dark circles showed through her makeup beneath her radiant, light-blue eyes, and her alabaster complexion was marred by stress lines from the ordeal of the past week.

  Abigail couldn’t resist a smile when she saw Sheriff Dixon wink at her as he moved through the food line at the buffet table, filling up two heaping plates of food. She hoped there would be enough food for everyone else.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Abigail saw the Reverend Kincaid following her with a look of grave concern on his face. She stepped into the living room as he moved closer, and he followed. He usually appeared from nowhere when people least expected him, like an apparition. She always thought of him as resembling Washington Irving’s bumbling character, Ichabod Crane. His sermons of fire and damnation had terrified her as a child. She remembered having nightmares in which the reverend was depicted in her dreams as a monster from hell, balding with stringy hair and coal-black eyes looking down from his scrawny six-foot-five frame, eager to snatch sinners to stoke the devil’s fire. She felt a sudden chill like the one she’d felt when she’d seen him driving away from the sheriff’s office.

  “Doctor Chance, I must have a word with you,” Kincaid whispered. “It’s of the utmost importance that I speak with you privately.”

  He was so close that Abigail felt his breath on her face. She looked up into his lifeless black eyes, took a step back away from him, and politely said, “I’m sorry, Reverend, whatever you want to discuss will have to wait. Right now, as you can see, I have guests I must attend to.”

  Without saying another word, Kincaid stared at her for a moment, then abruptly turned toward the door and left the room. She watched him head for the buffet and pick up two plates, his behavior triggering memories of his visits to the house after her father died.

  Shaking his head, her mother’s lawyer and close family friend, Jackson L. Purdy, said, “He’s a strange one.” Purdy had remained seated at the large oak table until the last of the beneficiaries finished their chitchat and went to the parlor to partake in the spread of main dishes and desserts that had been laid out on a long table, buffet style.

  “He gives me the chills.”

  “Me too,” Purdy said as he bent over to pick up his tattered brown briefcase.

  “Please. Won’t you stay and have something to eat?”

  “No … thank you, but … I’m not going.” He looked around the room. Appearing satisfied that no one was within hearing of what he had to say, he motioned for Abigail to come closer, and whispered, “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not leaving. Not just yet. I waited until everyone had left the room so I could speak to you alone.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “No, but we have some unfinished business that I must discuss with you privately. Can we go someplace where we won’t be interrupted?”

  “Yes, of course. But please excuse me for a moment. I must first see to my guests.” Abigail thought it curious that Purdy was being so covert. He had been her mother’s lawyer ever since her father passed away twenty years ago. Her mother had trusted him, so of course, she would also without further question.

  On her way to find Roni, Abigail stopped to say a few words to an old friend. She excused herself when she saw her sister-in-law across the room pouring a glass of wine for the sheriff’s wife. Abi headed in her direction and waited until Roni caught her eye.

  “Roni, I need you. Would you please take care of our guests until I return?”

  “Sure, Abi. What’s going on? Where are you going?”

  “I’ll explain it to you later. Mr. Purdy wants to talk to me privately.”

  Abigail noticed Reverend Kincaid lurking in the corner, watching her as she left the room.

  Abigail led Purdy upstairs to the sewing room where she and her mother had spent much of their time together when she was growing up. She imagined she heard the pockata-pockata of the old sewing machine as she approached the door. The old family Bible would still be in its place on the table with the claw-and-ball legs next to the chair where her mother always sat. Inside the Bible the family tree had been drawn by an early family artist who had provided many branches for the family to grow on over the years. The tree on the inside front cover was now full listing the progeny of the Hathaway clan dating back to the late seventeenth century. Recent additions, including her mother and father, and Abi herself, filled the last branch.

  Abigail smiled as she turned the handle on the door. Memories flooded back of the many days she spent after school lying on the plush green carpet in front of the fireplace doing homework while her mother sewed or told her the stories of her family’s history.

  Strewn with pieces of garments, baskets of patchwork quilting squares, a dress mannequin, boxes of thread and buttons, and an old black-and-gold treadle sewing machine, the room was still in disarray, and it was as Abigail remembered it to be.

  Upon entering the room, Purdy walked to the closet door and opened it as if he would find someone lying in wait. After carefully checking behind the hanging clothes, he seemed satisfied they were alone. He excused his caution with a smile, and said he would explain. He then placed his briefcase on the old table, reached inside, and pulled out a clear, flat plastic case. He held it out reverently for Abigail to take. “This case holds a very old letter. Your mother told me she found it many years ago. She was a bit skeptical whether it was really written by one of your ancestors in the late eighteenth century. She placed it in my trust as a secret bequest to give to you privately after the reading of her will. She instructed me to inform you that this letter is not to be shared with anyone you can’t trust. It’s for your eyes only, but she realized you would probably need help if you decide pursue its disclosure of a potential treasure. She said to use your instincts.”

  Once again, Purdy fumbled around in his briefcase until he pulled out a plain white envelope. Abigail noticed her name written on the front of the envelope in her mother’s beautiful cursive handwriting. “Abi, I’ve also been instructed to have you read this note from your mother. She was very specific in her instructions that you open this personal note from her before you open the plastic case to look at the old letter.” He handed the note to Abigail. “She directed me to have you read her note in my presence. I am privy to its contents. Your mother’s note will not only explain the content of the letter in the case, but it will reveal facts you should become aware of before you delve into your relative’s disclosures in the old letter … which, by the way, your mother said you certainly would.” Purdy smiled.

  With an inquisitive look on her face, Abigail carefully opened the envelope containing her mother’s personal note, and began to read.

  The first paragraph brought tears to her eyes. It said how much her mother loved her, and how proud she was of Abigail for following her dreams to become a doctor and a surgeon.

  The second paragraph revealed how her mother had been moving around some furniture while cleaning and found the old letter hidden u
nder a loose floorboard in her bedroom the year Abigail was born. She went on to say how she’d wanted to share its contents with Abigail over the years, but hesitated, knowing its contents might change her daughter’s life. For this reason, she had chosen not to reveal its existence until after her death. Abigail’s mother wrote, “I don’t know if the revelations are real, or if they are the silly rantings of a disturbed woman.” But whether or not the revelations were real, her mother was adamant that Abigail never divulge the contents of the letter to anyone, except those Abigail knew she could trust.

  The note ended with a strange postscript written with a pen in bright blue ink. Abigail thought it must have been added to the letter more recently since the body of the letter had been written in black ink: “Abigail, please never allow Pastor Kincaid to know that the letter from our ancestor exists. And never inadvertently disclose to him anything that is revealed in the letter. You must keep this a secret.”

  Abigail looked at Purdy and reread the last passage. In her mind, she began to reflect on images of events that happened when she was living at home and growing up. She remembered the Reverend Kincaid’s history with her family, and one specific time—a very sad time—when she was eleven years old. She and her mother were sitting in the parlor when Daddy’s best friend, Uncle Jonas, came with the news that her father, Lucas Hathaway, had drowned in a storm while sailing from Nantucket to Charleston in a yacht race. He had been a doctor, just as his father and father’s father had been before him. Besides being a renowned surgeon, Lucas had been an adventurer. He and Abigail’s mother were very much in love, and had the classic boy-and-girl-next-door relationship. Both went to the University of Virginia, and both could trace their roots back to colonial times.