Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  Mom looked down at her coffee cup and spoke in a low voice, “That’s a good idea. Everyone deserves to have their final resting place remembered. I don’t believe in ghosts, Darcy. I think the only haunts in that cemetery would be the bad memories associated with it. Cemeteries are lonely, sad places and for that reason, I don’t like to go to them.”

  She was silent for so long, I was afraid my talk of unmarked graves had upset her. If she was going to worry about it, I would drop the subject. Forcing myself to sound a lot cheerier than I felt, I grinned and said, “When that limb blew off the tree, it was the last straw! Notwithstanding the mountain lion and the spookiness and the rain that caught us, it was a great day and evening, with hearing Trace preach and having everyone out here last night.”

  My mother gave me what I’ve always called her straight look. I became familiar with it as a teen when I stayed out too late on a date and she waited up for me.

  “What do you think about our new preacher?” she asked.

  “Trace Hughes? Well, um, I think he’s very talented. He can sure play a mean guitar and he has a nice voice.”

  “And a charming Southern drawl and courtly manners. It’s too bad that Grant couldn’t be here last night.”

  My face began to feel uncomfortably warm.

  “Speaking of Grant, I wonder if he ever caught up with Jasper?” I asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  “Pat said he hasn’t. I’m really sorry that boy decided to go streeling off somewhere just at the time that poor man was found dead at Old String’s place,” Mom said. “Especially since his knife was found there. Makes him look guilty.”

  The word “streeling” brought back memories.

  Grinning, I said, “I haven’t heard ‘streeling’ since Dad used to tell me, when I was a kid, not to go streeling off and get lost.”

  Mom smiled. “I guess he could have said not to go roaming off or strolling off. I learned lots of Irish words after I married Andy Tucker.”

  “Dad was Irish, through and through. But getting back to Jasper, surely you don’t think he killed that poor man?”

  Mom snorted and got up to refill her cup. “No, I sure don’t. I’ve known Jasper all his life and although he may be a trifle strange, there’s not a mean bone in his body.”

  I toyed with my cup, turning it around in a circle as I thought through my next words.

  “Somebody, though, killed the man. Grant thinks it was a knife wound, and I’m afraid he is sure it was Jasper’s knife. He hasn’t told me Doc McCauley’s verdict or if they’ve found out the dead man’s name. What if…” I looked up at Mom standing by the stove. I didn’t want to scare her but she needed to be more suspicious. She was entirely too trusting.

  “Well,” Mom interrupted, “I think it was probably a drifter, somebody passing through, maybe somebody the dead man had met who didn’t like him. It may be that we’ll never know any more about it.”

  Scooting back my chair, I stood up to face her. “But, what if it was somebody here in Levi? In fact, Mom, what if the murderer was one of the people here at our housewarming last night?”

  She pressed her index finger against the side of her mouth, a habit she had when she was upset. “I just can’t believe that somebody with meanness on their mind would have dared come out in public to a get-together. I’d think he would be so nervous and afraid that he’d be many miles away by now.”

  “You know that some of our guests were strangers. Maybe they came to hear what was being said about the murder, or…or something.”

  “Next, you’ll be telling me the killer was somebody we know, one of our neighbors or friends,” Mom scoffed.

  “And, that is a possibility. It has certainly happened before,” I said.

  Mom shook her head. “Maybe you should let well enough alone, dear daughter. I’m sure Grant and Jim will find out who killed that poor man. You remember, Darcy, that each time we’ve dipped our oar into a problem here in town, we’ve found ourselves in a heap of trouble.”

  “I’ve been thinking about something falling out of the tree at the old cemetery last night, and my feeling that I wasn’t alone. What if somebody was there and heard us coming and climbed that tree? What if he knocked down a limb and that’s what fell?”

  Mom shook her head and sighed. “You won’t be satisfied until you go back to the cemetery and check it out. I don’t think anybody was up in that tree. I think the wind blew the limb down. But, if you want to go back and look around, I’ll go with you.”

  As it turned out, we didn’t have time to follow through on our good intentions. Mom can dish up a breakfast that cannot be ignored. I had finished bacon, blueberry pancakes, orange juice, and coffee, and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, and was about to head out the door to the cemetery when the phone rang. It was Grant’s secretary, Doris Elroy, and she had a strange request.

  Chapter 13

  “Darcy, Grant asked me to have you and Miss Flora meet him at Miss Sugar’s. He wouldn’t tell me why. He just said it was important. I know it’s awfully early. Sorry.”

  Doris Elroy’s normally calm voice held a note of impatience. Was she aggravated with her boss? Usually, Doris was Grant’s staunch supporter.

  Lulabelle Shuggart was the owner, operator and general compassion-giver at Shuggart’s Funeral Home. Plump, bespectacled, and white-haired, she exuded sympathy, concern, and competence. It was no wonder that everyone in town shortened her last name to Sugar. There had been a Shuggart’s Funeral Home in Levi since time immemorial. Miss Lulabelle Shuggart was the third generation of her family in the business of burying Ventris County’s dear departed. Now her nephew and his son were also involved. Shuggart’s would be in the grave business for years to come. It was odd, what I felt upon coming face to face with Miss Sugar. I associated her with my father’s funeral and sadness, but, at the same time, she radiated a feeling of comfort. Other than that, I didn’t know much about Lulabelle Shuggart. There was a rumor that she had been in love once, but the young man had a change of heart. Humans are strange people.

  Glancing at the clock, I said, “That’s all right, Doris. We are early risers. Why does Grant want us to go to the funeral home, of all places?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me why, but he said he’s going out to Miss Pat’s first. I gathered he is bringing her to the funeral home and wants you to be there in case Pat needs you. At 8:30, he said.”

  “Pat? Pat Harris?” I asked.

  Mom hurried to the phone. “Is it Pat? Is she sick?”

  “Yes, Pat Harris,” Doris said. “I don’t know what to make of it, Darcy. I don’t think Grant has ever located Jasper. Maybe…no, we won’t think the worst.”

  A cold dread settled around my heart. I had to swallow a couple of times before I could answer. “Sure, Doris, we’ll be there.”

  “What in the world is going on?” Mom asked as I replaced the receiver.

  “Grant wants us to meet him and Pat at Miss Sugar’s at 8:30. Doris didn’t know why.”

  “Oh, no! Maybe it’s Jasper. Oh, surely not. Grant wouldn’t be bringing Pat to the funeral home unless…unless it was to identify him.” Mom’s voice sank to a whisper.

  Pouring two more cups of coffee, I set them on the table and guided Mom to a chair. Her hands were shaking.

  “Grant wouldn’t break the news to us this way,” I said, as we faced each other at the table. “He would phone us himself and not ask Doris to phone, or he would come to the house. No, it can’t be Jasper.”

  I tried to sound reassuring, but my coffee sloshed out of my cup as I raised it to my lips. I guessed my own face was as pale as my mother’s.

  Grant’s white Ford truck was parked in front of Shuggart’s when Mom and I arrived. Inside the door of the funeral home, Miss Sugar met us.

  She hugged Mom, then took my icy hands in her warm ones and smiled.

  I couldn’t ask the question I was burning to know. Were we there because Jasper lay in one of the slumber rooms? Glancing a
t Mom, I saw that she was holding herself stiff and silent, evidently unwilling to ask Miss Sugar if Pat’s son was dead. We were both afraid of the answer.

  “Now, just don’t you all be upset,” Miss Sugar said. “It’s going to be all right. I don’t know what Grant told you, but you are going to be a real strength for Pat. I know you are. Come on into the back parlor. Would you like a cup of coffee? A glass of tea?”

  Shaking my head, Mom and I followed Miss Sugar through a short hall and into a small room. The lighting was dim; the sofa and chairs were upholstered in some sort of velvety purple brocade. The room seemed stuffy and closed in. I did not like it even though Miss Sugar was the epitome of strength and hospitality.

  Neither Mom nor I sat down. We were standing facing the door when Pat came in, closely followed by Grant. When she saw us, tears formed in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Mom wrapped her arms around her.

  My heart hammering in my throat, I looked questioningly at Grant. He shook his head and managed a half smile.

  “Who is it, Grant?” I whispered. “Is it…is it Jasper?”

  “No, no. It isn’t Jasper,” Grant answered.

  “It’s Walter!” Pat burst out. “It’s Walter. I haven’t seen him for about twenty years and now he’s back and he’s dead!”

  “Walter?” I asked.

  Mom led Pat to the sofa and sat down beside her.

  “Walter is Pat’s husband,” Mom said in a quiet voice. “Jasper’s father.”

  Miss Sugar supplied Pat with a box of tissues then tiptoed out of the room. We all waited until she calmed down, blew her nose, and looked at each of us.

  “Grant said Doc McCauley was pretty sure it was Walter but they didn’t have any dental records. I don’t think that man went to a dentist once in his life. He’s changed a lot in twenty years but I’d know him anywhere even…” The tears started again. “Even though he’s dead.”

  “Now, Pat,” Mom said, “I know you’re shocked. Death is not a welcome visitor at any time, but you’re going to make yourself sick. You’ve told me over and over that you were well rid of him. Remember? He left you and Jasper to fend for yourselves and didn’t even send word where he was or anything. Try to get hold of yourself.”

  Wiping her eyes, Pat blew her nose and nodded.

  “You’re right, Flora. It’s just that when I saw him, I realized how pitiful he looked and how I was sorry it all ended this way.” She snuffled. “Of course I don't love him anymore.”

  “But it hurts anyhow, doesn’t it?” Mom asked, her voice as soft as the sunlight on new leaves.

  This brought a fresh onslaught of tears from Pat.

  Grant turned his hat around in his hands and shuffled his feet. “Miss Pat, I’m really sorry to grieve you, but you’re the only one who could positively identify Walter Harris. When you are able, I’d like for Miss Flora to take you home. Darcy, would you step outside for a minute?”

  The warmth of the summer day after the cloying atmosphere inside felt good as we walked out of the funeral home. I took a deep breath of rain-washed air and turned to Grant.

  “What does all this mean?” I asked.

  “Here’s what I know, Darcy. Walter Harris had a reason for coming back home after all this time. I don’t know what that reason was. You said when he recognized Miss Flora, he bolted. Jasper’s knife was found close to Walter’s body. Jasper is missing. Now, that sounds like guilt to me.”

  “But Grant, Walter was Jasper’s father. He wouldn’t kill his own father!”

  Grant’s eyebrows drew down and his voice sounded grim.

  “Wouldn’t he? You know Jasper’s temper. It flares up and then is gone. What if he hated his father for leaving him all those years ago? What if Jasper was out wandering through the woods and went into Old String’s hut to get out of the rain? What if Walter came in, recognized Jasper, and told him he was his long-lost daddy? Jasper might have stabbed him before he thought things through, then got scared and ran off.”

  I hated to admit it, but Grant’s theory made sense. A heavy weight seemed to settle on my shoulders. What would Pat do if she lost her son as well as that no-good husband?

  I glanced at the funeral home door as Mom and Pat came through it.

  Grant replaced his hat and tipped my chin up with his forefinger. “Thanks for coming in, Darcy. You and Miss Flora take Miss Pat on home, okay?”

  “Sure, Grant,” I said and watched him stride to his truck. We would take Miss Pat home with us first. I had the feeling that by the end of the day, both Mom and Miss Pat were going to be drained of all energy. I hoped that, in Mom’s devotion time this morning, she asked for strength. In dealing with her friend, she would need it.

  Chapter 14

  Amazingly, as Pat sat at the dining table with us, she became calm.

  “You know, I’m sorry that Walter is dead,” she told Mom. “But I’m kind of relieved, too, that the worry has ended. I’ve wondered all these years where he was, what kind of life he had. I’ll probably never know the answers to those things, but at least I know where he is now and I won’t keep looking for him to come back.”

  Sighing, Pat took another sip of coffee then carried her cup to the sink.

  Turning to Mom, she said, “If you’ll drive me out to my house, Flora, I think I’d like to lie down for a bit. Now if my son would just come home!”

  After she returned from Pat’s house, Mom and I sat on the porch swing and drank in the quiet of a lazy summer day. Jethro lay on a cushioned porch chair, his nose between his paws. Actually, a summer day in Oklahoma is never quiet. The cicadas grated their gravelly song and down by Lee Creek a bullfrog voiced his approval of his lot in life. A mockingbird sang in an oak and some small, secretive animal scuttled through the underbrush.

  “We’ve got to find Jasper,” I told Mom.

  “Just how do you think we should go about that?” she asked.

  I pushed the swing with my toe.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about it. We have to set a trap of a sort, some way to lure him out. He must be around here, somewhere close. He would never leave his mother unguarded.”

  Mom nodded. “You’re right. Jasper is protective of Pat.”

  We were interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle. An old truck chugged up the hill and across the bridge.

  “That looks like Burke Hopkins’s truck,” Mom said, shading her eyes with her hand.

  We stood up to meet Burke as he parked in the driveway, trudged across the yard and climbed the porch steps, a sack in his hand, and his dog Ranger at his heels.

  “Burke! How nice to see you,” Mom said, smiling. “Come and join us.” She motioned toward one of the porch chairs.

  “I’ll bring out some iced tea,” I said.

  Jethro jumped to the floor and scooted into the house ahead of me.

  “Thanks.” Burke took off his cap, set the brown paper sack beside him, and wiped his forehead with a neatly folded white handkerchief. “Feels mighty good to sit for a spell. Warm day and the rain we’ve had makes it kind of muggy.”

  With a heavy sigh, Ranger lay down at his feet.

  I brought the tea. Burke’s hand, as he took the glass, shook. What was up with our old friend?

  “How are those hens I gave you?” Burke asked. “Any of them in the family way yet?”

  “One,” Mom answered. “She’s not the best-tempered gal in the flock, but maybe she’ll be a good mother.”

  For a few seconds, we sat listening to the slow squeaking of the porch swing and the sounds of summer. Burke’s usual smile was gone. Indeed, he was looking older as I had noticed Sunday night.

  Finally, Burke cleared his throat and set his glass on the porch beside his sack.

  “I’ve got something I need to tell both of you,” he began. “I don’t rightly know how to do it, though. I’m not even sure that I should, but…”

  His voice trailed off as he squinted down the hill at Lee Creek sparkling in the sun.


  I fidgeted. What on earth was bearing on his mind? Did he have some information about Pat’s husband?

  Finally, the silence got to me. “Mr. Hopkins, do you know who killed Walter Harris?”

  “Walter?” His look of surprise was genuine. “Are you saying the dead man you found is Walter Harris, Jasper’s pa?”

  I nodded. “Sorry. I forgot that you probably hadn’t heard yet.”

  “No, I hadn’t,” Burke said thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen Walter since he left. Hate to say it, but about the only thing I remember about him was that he never was very work brittle.”

  Mom nodded. “You mean he was kind of lazy and no-account for working.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Burke said. “I wonder why he came back? No, what I’ve got to say doesn’t have anything to do with poor old Walter and I don’t know how to edge up on it so I’ll just spit it out.”

  In my opinion, Burke was a master edger. He was very good at beating around the bush. I would have to try to curb my impatience.

  “I’ve got in a habit of going over to Tahlequah every so often to visit old friends in a nursing home there,” he began slowly.

  I knew that Burke, who was Cherokee, went to the Capital of the Cherokee Nation frequently, to visit or to take a neighbor to the courthouse to check out a land deed. There wasn’t a kinder soul in Ventris County than Burke.

  He gazed at a hawk sitting on the top limb of a nearby sycamore. “Well, there was one particular fellow I always visited. He was a World War II vet. Mind was as sharp as my hunting knife. He was missing a leg, from the war. He was Cherokee too and we seemed to have a lot in common. He had been gone from Oklahoma for quite some time and only recently came back. He said he wanted to spend his final days in his hometown.”

  “Who was this fellow?” I interrupted. “You’re talking in past tense. Did he die?”

  Burke frowned. “Now, hold your horses, Darcy. I’m gettin’ to that. For a long time, I didn’t know his last name. Just knew him as Jeff. Finally, he told me his name and the name of the girl he had planned to marry, a long, long time ago. And then, next time I went to visit, he was gone. Dead. Died in his sleep, Darcy, so I don’t think there’s a mystery there.”