Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  We three sat staring at the sputtering candle, rain pounding the house and thunder rattling the dishes in the cabinet.

  “You’d better wait here until this weather lets up,” Mom said.

  That brought Jasper to life. He shoved his chair away from the table, grabbed the sack of food, and stood up. “No, I can’t. I’ve gotta go. Don’t worry, Miss Flora, I’ve got some place to get out of the rain. Tell Mom not to worry. Thanks for the food.”

  And he was gone, out of the door and off the porch. The rain, like a gray curtain, closed around him, shutting him from our sight.

  Chapter 17

  The rain let up around midnight. I knew the time because I could not sleep and kept looking at the clock beside my bed. Not having that problem, Jethro snoozed soundly, curled on the pillow next to my head.

  People and events circled through my mind like horses on a carousel, round and round, over and over: Walter Harris lying dead outside of Old String’s house, Trace Hughes and his motorcycle and the image of him in church playing his guitar and singing.

  I punched my pillow savagely and Jethro raised his head. If only our new preacher did not remind me of Jake! I certainly did not want to be attracted to this handsome, talented stranger.

  Scenes from the open house Sunday spun through my thoughts. Shivering, I felt again the strange sense of unease I felt at the old cemetery. The trip to the Shuggart Funeral Home was unnerving, and was there really a mysterious prowler at the Jenkins home? Were the two ladies imagining things?

  Burke’s visit and his revelation about Jefferson Thorne was in my mix of jumbled thoughts. To top it off, Jasper showed up here on our front porch, much as his father had, which put Mom and me in the uncomfortable position of keeping a secret from Grant.

  Try as I might, my mind would not shut off. I repeated Bible verses; I prayed and tried to remember happy scenes from my childhood. Nothing worked. Sleep would not come.

  At last, I threw back the sheet and padded softly downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea made from the herb in Mom’s garden would help me sleep.

  Putting the kettle on a burner, I shook some dried tea into an infuser and waited for the water to heat. Going to the old sewing machine, I brought the photograph of my grandparents back to the table and sat staring at it. My grandfather had been a handsome man and, in his World War II uniform, looked dashing and exciting. How sad that he had been so near and we never knew him.

  The teakettle whistled, and I got up to pour water over the infuser. Somewhere in a nearby tree, an owl hooted. Farther away, another answered him with the exact pattern of “Whoos.” The owls may have been saying that the rain was over, for a while at least. This was the rainiest July on record. Did the weather pattern have anything to do with the unnerving events of the past few days? Mankind was, after all, much affected by weather.

  “Stop it!” I said aloud. Such thoughts led to believing in superstitions, and I didn’t—believe in superstitions, that is. Long ago my Cherokee and Irish ancestors had tried to explain unusual happenings by making up legends or stories. While these were interesting and fun to read, I would count on the Lord to be with us and protect us. How many times in the Book of Joshua did He tell us to fear not?

  Removing the infuser from the cup, I added a dollop of honey and carried my tea to the dining table.

  Sometimes I missed my job at The Dallas Morning News. Being an investigative reporter had led me into danger, but it certainly kept me busy. Maybe I should talk to Mort about a job on his newspaper. Goodness knew, Mort needed someone to report news, not gossip. If he had not mentioned Jasper’s knife being found at Old String’s place, Jasper might not be in hiding from the law. Discretion was not Mort’s strong suit.

  Finishing my tea, I replaced the old picture on the sewing machine and glanced out of the window. Scudding clouds played hide-and-seek with the moon. The rain was definitely over. I made a decision as I looked out at the dark shapes of trees. Today I would go to Levi’s newspaper office and see if I could talk Mort into hiring me. Maybe Grant wouldn’t see me as snooping as I searched for Walter’s killer, but only as doing the job of any good reporter: trying to objectively report the truth.

  And the truth was, Jasper did not kill his father—I was sure of it. But, I would have to prove it and the best way to do that was to find the person who did.

  Yawning, I climbed the stairs back to my bed and Jethro. The chamomile tea and deciding on a course of action at last set my troublesome thoughts to rest. If I had to twist Mort’s arm, I would do that. I could hardly wait to go to the newspaper office.

  Chapter 19

  Fortified by Mom’s breakfast of oatmeal, toast, and orange juice, as well as a couple of cups of coffee, I drove to The Ventris Viewpoint, the only newspaper in Levi.

  Fog from the Ventris River wound in gray, wispy tendrils like gossamer ribbons around the trees as my car splashed through puddles left from the previous night’s rain. I prayed I would not run into a deer. The fog was so thick in places that rounding those blind curves was an occasion for prayer. With relief, I finally drove off the narrow country roads and into Levi where the fog was not as thick.

  I had pulled my unruly hair into a twist on the back of my head, and exchanged my blue jeans and T-shirt for tan slacks and a tan-and-red striped, short-sleeved top. Hoping that I looked the part of a serious investigative reporter, I parked in front of the newspaper office and walked inside.

  Becky, Mort’s young niece and receptionist, looked up with a smile. I told her I’d like to see Mort.

  “He’s with someone right now, Darcy,” she said. “Tell you what—I’m going to the kitchen and we’ll pretend I didn’t see you. Mort would have my hide if he knew I told you this but if you’ll go down the hall and wait outside his door, you’ll be able to nab him when his visitor leaves, before he can duck out the back door for his morning coffee at Dilly’s.”Dilly’s was the gathering place for those who wanted the best food in the county. It was an integral part of Levi, and had been since 1946. I loved the old-fashioned décor which had not changed much in seventy years. The home cooking and delicious coffee drew in crowds. It was also the gossip hub of the county and a good place for Mort to pick up news of what was happening.

  A few years ago, the dim hallway of the newspaper office would have reeked of cigarette smoke. Today, the tobacco odor was a stale memory, but the hallway still was not well-lighted. I sensed it would have benefited from a serious scrubbing of walls and ceiling.

  The stereotype of a hard-bitten newspaper editor who chain smoked and drank coffee all day might have fit Mort except for one thing. Mort did not drink coffee; he drank hot tea.

  Hearing loud voices, I paused. Evidently Mort and his visitor had a difference of opinion. Maybe I should go back to the reception area.

  “You’re a lousy, unscrupulous guttersnipe and I’m warning you, you’d better stop your snooping around before it gets you into serious trouble! Lay off! Do you hear me? Mind your own business or you’ll be sorry!”

  That loud, agitated voice sounded familiar. I stepped away from the door just in time to keep from being run over by Trace Hughes as he stormed out of Mort’s office. His face was as dark as a thundercloud and he strode with long, hurried steps toward the exit. He was so upset, he did not see me in the shadowy hall.

  Shocked, I watched the pastor of Levi’s Baptist Church stomp toward the outer office. The door slammed before I remembered what I had come for. Hesitantly, I poked my head into the editor’s office.

  “Mort?” I asked. “Is it safe to come in?”

  His gravelly voice tense, he barked, “C’mon on in, Darcy, but only if you don’t have a gripe of some kind.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, um, no gripe. I was just going to hit you up for a job.”

  He pushed his swivel chair away from the desk and scowled up at me.

  “Sit down. Sit down. I don’t feel like getting up and I don’t like to talk to a woman who’s sta
nding. Puts me at a disadvantage.”

  Rummaging in his desk, he pulled out a bag of mints and popped one into his mouth.

  “Want one?” he asked, offering me the bag. “I’ve quit smoking, but sometimes I want a cigarette so bad and these things are supposed to help.”

  I shook my head. His eyes, I noticed, were bloodshot, and his shirt looked as if he had slept in it. Typical Mort. He did not care much about his physical appearance.

  Sitting, I decided I might as well be direct.

  “What in the world was all that about?” I asked. “You must have done something awful to upset our mild-mannered preacher.”

  He snorted and his mouth quirked in a sardonic grin. “Mild-mannered? Did that sound mild-mannered to you? I’m telling you, Darcy, your preacher is not what he seems to be. I’ve been doing some checking. I was curious about why a guy like that, playing and singing like a professional, why he’d come to a little old country town like Levi, and I started digging into his past. I guess he got wind of what I was doin’ and didn’t appreciate it much. He’s not the only one who’s pretending. You’d be surprised at how much I know about a lot of people here in Levi.”

  My heart thudded. “Trace is not what he seems? That’s ridiculous! What on earth are you talking about, Mort Bascomb? Have you been listening to gossip?”

  “Not gossip, Darcy. I’ve been investigating a few things I was wonderin’ about, and what I heard made me even more curious. I’m going to take a little trip to Georgia, to his hometown. He comes from a small place north of Atlanta called Tyler. I’m that curious. Now what can I do for you? Did you mention a job? If you want to take over my job as editor, you’re welcome to it. I’m sick of dealing with irate folk who have something to hide.”

  “I don’t want to be an editor, Mort. I just came to ask if you could use another reporter—me?”

  Mort tossed the pencil he had been rolling between his fingers onto his desk where it bounced off a stack of papers and fell onto the floor.

  “You’re hired,” he said.

  Chapter 19

  “But, Grant, I thought you would be pleased that I have a job to keep me out of trouble.”

  Grant and I sat in a booth in Dilly’s, eating hamburgers and fries, all of it homemade and tasty.

  He shook his head. “You and I both know that an investigative reporter hunts up trouble, Darcy. Working for Mort is just an excuse, and don’t think you’re fooling me, ’cause you’re not. Your new job gives you a smoke screen to poke and prod around. I wish you’d let me handle the poking and prodding. Jim and I will find out who murdered poor old Walter Harris, I guarantee it. We are dealing with a killer and whoever he is, he has already killed once. I don’t think he’d feel queasy about getting rid of a nosy little reporter who happened to be in his way.”

  “Thanks for the sermon, Grant. You’ve never thought I could look after myself.”

  This conversation had the potential of becoming a spat, something Grant and I had not shared since we were a lot younger. With relief, I saw two familiar figures come through the door. “Look who’s here!” I said.

  Mom and Jackson Conner edged their way through the lunchtime crowd, back to our booth.

  “Do you mind if we join you?” Jackson asked.

  Grant nodded. “We’d be honored. Sit down and order. I can vouch for the burgers and fries.”

  “Darcy, did you get to talk to Mort?” Mom asked as she slid in beside Grant, and Jackson sat next to me.

  I swallowed a drink of Coke. “Yes, it looks like I have a job.”

  Mom shook her head. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. I worried all the time you worked for that Dallas newspaper. Some people don’t like a reporter poking into their business.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Grant said.

  We paused while Jackson gave Tony their order. Chicken fried steak and coffee for these two. They were not fans of burgers and fries.

  “I’m sure Darcy will be discreet,” Jackson said.

  Grant laughed. “Discreet? Are we talking about the same Darcy?”

  My face felt hot. It was not pleasant to be talked about, especially when I was present.

  “Did you have to twist Mort’s arm?” Mom asked.

  I dipped a French fry into a puddle of catsup. “Hardly. He was having a bad day and I think he welcomed the idea of a little help.”

  I told them about overhearing Trace Hughes, and what Mort had said about Trace not being what people thought.

  Mom’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean it. Why, there was never a more polite young man, a better preacher or…”

  “Or a better guitarist and singer?” Jackson finished.

  “Well, yes,” Mom said.

  “Just what was Mort talking about?” Grant asked. “He hasn’t said a word to me about Hughes. I’m glad to say he has kept his mouth shut as far as publishing anything derogatory about the guy.”

  Recalling our conversation, I said, “He told me he made some phone calls to a little town in North Georgia, north of Atlanta; Tyler, I believe he said. I don’t know who his sources are, Grant. Mort always seems to know things that nobody else knows.”

  “It’s a wonder he hasn’t had a lawsuit before now,” Jackson said, as Tony brought his and Mom’s meals.

  We said very little for the next few minutes as we dug into our lunches. Mom and Jackson finished and left, Jackson back to his law office and Mom to check on the progress being made on the new school, Ben’s Boys.

  Grant and I lingered over our Cokes. Being near him and listening to his deep voice brought back memories of those younger, more carefree days when the whole world was before us, and his place in my heart seemed assured.

  “I’ve bought ten acres from Gil Monroe that joined my ranch on the west,” he said. His shy grin reminded me of a little boy, and my heart flip-flopped.

  “I’d like you to come and take a look, see if you remember it. It’s the prettiest place in Ventris County, on top of a little hill and the Ventris River runs below it.”

  I couldn’t help smiling too at his enthusiasm. “I know the area you’re talking about. We explored a cave there when we were just kids. We had heard rumors about some kind of treasure buried inside.”

  Grant laughed. “It seems to me I recall bats flying out at us which cut our visit short.”

  Shuddering, I said, “If I have a phobia, it’s about bats. Ugh! Something about a flying mammal makes my skin crawl. I’ve never liked bats! Was that the time we took a picnic lunch down to the river? I’d love to see it again, Grant.”

  Grant nodded. “Yes, I remember a picnic on the banks of the Ventris River. The river was quiet that day and now, with all the rains, it’s muddy and spread out over some of my pasture. But, Darcy, those were happy times. That’s one of the reasons I bought it, those old memories. Would after church Sunday be a good time for you to come with me and take a look at it?”

  What a romantic gesture! A lot of years had gone between then and now, but he still remembered.

  I squeezed his hand. “Perfect.”

  With that, Grant said he had to get back to the office. Duty called. After he left Dilly’s, the bustling café seemed suddenly empty and lonely. I finished my Coke and left too.

  Chapter 20

  The day after my visit with Mort dawned warm, blue-skied, and still. It was the sort of day when not a breath of a breeze stirred the trees, and the humidity reminded me of a sauna. It was the day of Walter Harris’s funeral.

  Each time I entered the gates of Goshen Cemetery, memories flooded my mind of the day a year ago last spring when Mom and I came to this sacred place to make sure everything was ready for Decoration Day. What we found here began one of the most terrifying times of my life. This was the final resting place of my dad and many other ancestors, but that awful day last May when we discovered a dead man on top of a pile of brush was the first thing indelibly printed in my memory.

  Miss Sugar greeted everyone who
came through the cemetery gates. She was the only person I knew whose smile conveyed both sympathy and good cheer at the same time. Miss Sugar’s cheerfulness, her roundness, and her white hair reminded me of Mrs. Santa Claus. I could imagine her baking pies and handing Santa cups of hot tea, warning him to keep his coat buttoned and his muffler on. Idly, I wondered if she had met Tim Johnson, the lawn person. They would make a jolly pair.

  We walked to the green Shuggart Funeral Home tent spread across a new gravesite. Pitifully few people attended Walter’s service. Pat was seated in a chair on the green outdoor carpet spread near the casket poised above a yawning hole in the ground. A single basket of flowers sat nearby. The smell of freshly—turned damp earth permeated the warm air.

  “I just don’t know what’s fitting and proper.” Pat had confided to Mom earlier. “It’s not as if he was living here as my husband. I never did go to the trouble of getting a divorce so I guess I should attend his service, out of respect for the man I thought he was when I married him years ago.”

  Mom agreed that if Pat felt this way, she should attend, but should feel no obligation to do so. Walter’s long absence had absolved Pat of any burden of responsibility. How could a father just walk away from his child and abdicate his role as mentor and protector? Was Jasper’s habit of roaming the woods a result of searching for something to fill the void Walter left?

  Pat never did get a divorce? Did she secretly harbor a hope that someday the wandering husband would return? Or did she carry a strong resentment toward the man all these years? This would certainly be understandable. Could Pat have hated him so much she killed him?

  My overactive imagination conjured up a worried and wet Pat, searching for her son during a thunderstorm, stumbling upon Walter in Old String’s shack, and killing the man who had deserted her and Jasper.

  I didn’t realize I was staring until Mom nudged me with her elbow.