Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  “Darcy, are you well? You are looking a hole through Pat,” she whispered.

  With a jolt, I came back to reality and shook my head. How could I suspect Mom’s open and honest friend of such a gruesome deed? Mom had known her since they were girls and with Pat, what you saw was what you got. No hidden secrets, no devious thoughts. I was almost sure of that. Almost.

  “I just wish Jasper could have been here,” Pat said, wringing her hands.

  “So do I,” Mom murmured. “I wish he could be here to support you.”

  Mom had told her friend about Jasper’s night visit to our house. Knowing her son was safe calmed some of Pat’s fears, but she still fretted because he would not come home and let Grant know he had nothing to do with Walter’s death.

  Burke Hopkins stood alone close to some of the most ancient graves in the cemetery, his arms folded across his chest and his face expressionless. Were some of Burke’s ancestors buried here?

  Goshen was the final resting place for a woman who had been born before the Revolutionary War. Her grave marker was a strange, four-sided stone. The names of four different people were engraved on it. Goshen Cemetery was a history lesson written in the names of those who had once been a part of Ventris County.

  Grant’s restless gaze skimmed the cemetery, the woods beyond, and the road which paralleled Goshen. Was he expecting Walter’s killer to make an appearance at the funeral? Was he on the lookout for someone lurking among the shadowy trees or driving along the road? Did Grant ever really relax and lay his lawman persona aside?

  Besides Miss Sugar and her nephew, we five were the only ones to pay our final respects to Walter.

  Pat whispered to Mom, “I don’t know where Brother Trace is. He was supposed to say a few words.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Mom answered, a frown deepening the lines between her eyes.

  Miss Sugar glanced at her watch then spoke to Pat, “I’m sorry your minister isn’t here. Would you like us to repeat the Lord’s Prayer? Is there anything else you want to add?” With her neatly-ironed handkerchief, Pat dabbed at perspiration beading her face.

  “No, no, I can’t think of anything. The Lord’s Prayer will be fine, Miss Sugar,” she said.

  So it was that under a hot Oklahoma sun, with ancient pines whispering to each other about strange human rituals and a cardinal singing a cheerful song which belied the solemn occasion, Walter Harris, who came home only to die, was laid to rest.

  “Amen,” Miss Sugar said, at the conclusion of our recitation. We moved out from under the tent and stood for a few moments while Pat talked with the Shuggarts.

  Grant put his hand in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Phone call,” he explained.

  Watching his face as he spoke to the caller, I knew the news was not good. As he returned the phone to his pocket, he glanced down at me, shook his head and sighed.

  My heart turned over. “What?” I asked. “What’s wrong, Grant?”

  Gazing out across the headstones of the ancient cemetery to the far-off pines, the ones that stood in a grove of three trees, Grant spoke softly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

  “That was Jim,” he said. “He told me some very bad news about Mort Bascomb. Mort is dead.”

  My ears heard, but my mind was slow to understand.

  “Mort? He can’t be. I saw him just yesterday, talked to him. He was fine.”

  Grant replaced his hat and turned on his heel.

  “Wait!” I called, hurrying to catch up with him. “Where did he die? When? How did he die? An accident?”

  “Stay put, Darcy,” Grant snapped, opening the door to his truck. “Let Jim and me handle this.”

  Chapter 21

  Grant had a tendency to be abrupt when he was worried. Mentally, I added that to his list of shortcomings. He was bossy and he was sometimes irritable.

  I turned back to Mom and Pat who were walking slowly toward the cemetery gate.

  Should I tell them about Mort’s death? I hated adding this to Pat’s already stressful day and Mom, I knew, would be upset.

  “Why did Grant leave in such a hurry?” Mom asked as she and Pat caught up with me.

  “He was called to another case,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Pat shuddered. “The life of a county sheriff is hard, always having to deal with bad things. Isn’t this day awful enough already?”

  Mom raised her eyebrows and drew a deep breath.

  “Now, Pat” she said, “don’t get all worked up again. You’ve been doing really well. You’ve closed a sad chapter of your life and you shouldn’t look back. Would you like for Darcy and me to go home with you?”

  Pat’s frown immediately vanished. “Oh, would you? Yes, I’d like that. I really don’t want to be alone right now. I baked some cookies yesterday and it won’t take a minute to brew a pot of coffee.”

  “Sure, Miss Pat,” I agreed. “To your house it is.”

  Pat had ridden to the cemetery with the Shuggarts, so we all piled into my Escape and started the short journey to Pat’s house in the country. The two friends chatted as I drove. Most of their conversation centered around Trace Hughes and wondering if he had forgotten about the funeral or was ill or what the reason was for his absence. All I could think of was Grant’s phone call and the shocking news that the newspaper editor was no longer with us.

  When I stopped the car at Pat’s, Murphy, the redbone hound who had once belonged to Ben Ventris, got up from his bed on the porch. He plodded down the path to meet us, shaking his head from side to side and voicing a welcome as only a hound can.

  After patting Murphy’s shiny head and assuring him he was a wonderful animal with an unforgettable voice, I followed Mom and Pat inside her house. Mort Bascomb dead? How? And why? I could not wrap my mind around it. Mort had been as prickly and as well as ever the day before.

  “Come on in the kitchen,” Pat said, setting her purse beside the door. “It won’t take a minute to get us a pot of coffee.”

  Did the day ever get too warm for coffee? I would have welcomed a glass of iced tea, but maybe Pat needed the comfort of a hot drink after the trauma of the funeral.

  We sat at Pat’s table drinking coffee, munching sugar cookies and wondering why Trace Hughes was absent from the funeral. Could he have forgotten? Pat did not have his telephone number nor did Mom or I.

  Uneasily, I recalled Trace shouting that Mort had better stop snooping or he would get into trouble, that he would be sorry if he didn’t stop…stop what? Looking into Trace’s background? Did this threat have something to do with his absence today or with Mort’s death?

  With no warning, Pat started to cry.

  Mom got up and came around the table to stand beside her friend.

  “There, there,” Mom said. “You’ve had a tough day, but it’s over. You can begin a new phase of your life now. Put the past behind you, Pat.”

  Pat looked up at Mom, her eyes bloodshot and brimming with tears.

  “Oh, I know, Flora. I’m not particularly feeling sorry for myself although I could, with all the things that have happened, but I was thinking about Walter and wondering if his eternal soul is with the Lord. You know, he never would go to church with me and when I tried to talk to him about God, he’d always just walk out of the room. I wonder where he is now, Flora. Where is Walter’s spirit? Is he with the Lord?”

  Mom sighed. “You can’t do a thing about that, Pat. Walter is God’s concern.”

  Pat blew her nose and glanced at me.

  “Last night, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about Walter’s funeral today, and all of a sudden, I got the strangest feeling, as if I wasn’t alone. Did either of you ever feel that way?”

  Thinking back to the old cemetery the night of the housewarming, I nodded.

  “Well, anyway, it was a comforting feeling and I think, maybe, Walter might have had time to get right with the Lord just before he breathed his last. Do you all think that’s possible?”


  “Sure, Pat,” Mom said, as I smiled and nodded. “With God, all things are possible.”

  This seemed to calm Pat. She tucked her handkerchief into her pocket and got up to refill Mom’s cup.

  I was trying to think of a good way to tell Mom and Pat about Mort when my cell phone jangled. I jumped and sloshed my coffee.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, soaking up the mess with a paper napkin. Putting the phone to my ear, I heard Miss Georgia’s quavering voice. She didn’t ask about ghosts this time.

  “Darcy, honey, I’d really like for you and Flora to come right away. Can you, please? I hate to bother you but, well, I just cannot believe what happened out here, on our very own front porch, mind you. It’s Mort Bascomb. Have you heard? He’s dead. He died right here, Darcy. And Grant thinks we are to blame. I just know he does. Oh, dear.”

  Soft sobs interrupted Miss Georgia’s words. Mort died at the Jenkinses’ house? How did that happen? Could this day get any weirder? The nerves tightened in the back of my neck.

  “Certainly,” I answered. “Take a deep breath, Miss Georgia, please. Drink some calming tea. Mom and I will be there as soon as we can get there.”

  “No, no,” Miss Georgia whispered. “Not tea. That’s what got us into trouble.”

  The sobs had subsided into sniffs before I hung up. Two pairs of anxious eyes stared at me.

  “What did Miss Georgia want?” Mom asked. “Is she sick or hurt? What’s wrong?”

  “We need to go to the Jenkinses’ house,” I said, placing my soggy napkin inside my cup. “Miss Georgia didn’t make a whole lot of sense. She said Grant thinks she and Miss Carolina are to blame for Mort Bascomb’s death.”

  “Mort?” Pat gasped.

  “Was that what Grant’s phone call was about?” Mom asked. “There must be some mistake. I don’t see how he could be dead, Darcy. You just talked to him yesterday. Was it his heart?”

  “First Walter, then Mort.” Pat shook her head, her tight curls vibrating. “I knew when I heard that owl on my front porch a couple of weeks ago that something was going to happen. I’ll bet it was Mort’s heart. He used to smoke like a chimney. So, did he keel over at the Jenkinses’ house? I don’t see how that could be their fault, do you, Flora? Why, I never heard…”

  Scooting away from the table as noisily as I could, I carried my cup to the sink. Pat was about to go off on another tirade.

  “Actually, I don’t know what happened. Grant just said Mort is dead and probably Miss Georgia is imagining Grant blames them for Mort’s death. She sounded near hysteria, Mom, so I think we’d better go right now.”

  “I’ll come too,” Pat said, starting to get up.

  “No, no, Miss Pat.” I gently pushed her shoulders down, urging her to stay in the chair. “You’ve had enough trauma for one day.” And, so had I. Dealing with the Jenkins twins would be hard enough, but adding Pat’s overwrought nerves to the mix would be too much to handle.

  “Come on, Mom, we’d better hurry,” I said, taking my mother’s hand and hastening toward the door before Pat had time to reconsider.

  Mom and I were silent during the drive into Levi. What did Miss Georgia mean when she said Grant blamed them for Mort’s death? Why would the Jenkins sisters have anything to do with it? They had never mentioned being friends with Mort. Was he at the Jenkins house trying to nose out information on some story? What happened to the gossipy editor of The Ventris Viewpoint?

  Chapter 22

  We pulled all the way into the Jenkinses’ driveway so that we could enter the house through the back door. This route was faster than running up those steep steps, especially on such a hot day.

  Miss Georgia and Miss Carolina, eyes red-rimmed from crying, hugged us and brought us into the parlor.

  Mom and I sat beside Miss Georgia on the old-fashioned settee trying to make sense of the twins’ disjointed story, which was punctuated by eye-wiping and nose-blowing. Miss Carolina sat across from us in her straight-back wood rocker.

  Miss Kitty, knowing that her people were upset, rubbed her head against my arm, jumped up in Miss Georgia’s lap, then padded over to Miss Carolina who picked her up and sat absent-mindedly stroking her soft fur.

  “I still don’t understand why Mort came to see you, Miss Georgia,” I said. “You weren’t really close friends, were you?”

  Miss Carolina answered for Miss Georgia, who was wiping her nose.

  “No, that’s one of the strange things about this whole ordeal. We’d speak to Mort when we saw him, of course, but goodness me! What would we have in common with a young newspaper editor?”

  Young? Maybe to these ladies, who must have been nearing ninety, Mort was young.

  “What, exactly, did Mort say?” Mom asked. “Let’s start at the very beginning. Tell us Mort’s words, as far as you can remember.”

  “Well…he phoned first and asked if we had a few minutes to spare; he needed to warn us about things he had learned. Isn’t that what he said, sister?” Miss Georgia tapped her cheek and stared at the ceiling as if she expected to find something written there.

  “Yes, indeed, that’s just what he said,” Miss Carolina agreed, nodding her snowy white head so vigorously that an old-fashioned plastic hair pin broke loose from its mooring and dangled from the carefully-constructed knot on top of her head. “He wanted to warn us as if we were in danger from something, and that didn’t make sense to us.”

  “And, of course, we said yes he could certainly come and we’d be glad to have him, and it wasn’t fifteen minutes later that his car pulled up outside,” Miss Georgia added, looking at the grandfather clock as she spoke.

  Fidgeting, I wanted to tell them to get on with the story—cut to the chase and tell us what Mort had found that was so important and how did Mort die and where—but I had been raised right. I merely bit my lip and continued stroking Miss Kitty, who had deserted Miss Carolina’s lap for mine. Politeness is one of the virtues taught to every Southern child, and I usually tried to be true to Mom’s many admonitions about not interrupting my elders, but these ladies were straining the bounds of propriety.

  My mother evidently fought the same battle as I and lost. With a short intake of air, she interrupted. “But what did he say? What was so important that he felt he must come in person to tell you?”

  “Not tell, dear,” Miss Georgia said faintly. “A better word would be warn. He said he was going to warn us…about something.”

  “But he didn’t say what it was?” I prodded.

  “It happened this way. You see, we asked if he would like some tea and do you know, he said he would. Most men prefer coffee to hot tea, but that’s what he said. So, we were sitting in here, drinking tea.”

  “And sherry?” I asked.

  “That’s what caused the problem!” Miss Carolina wailed, as fresh tears slid down her wrinkled cheeks. “That sherry! Now, you know Georgia and I both like just an eensy little tipple in our hot tea but Mort…well, we didn’t know he had a drinking problem, but he kept adding more and more sherry until…”

  In a rush of words, Miss Georgia finished, “Until Mort’s cup held mostly sherry and very little tea.” Her eyes widened. “He got drunk, Darcy, not to speak ill of the dead.”

  This story got stranger by the minute. Gossip had floated around the county for years that Mort sometimes over-imbibed, but I had shrugged it off because no one had ever seen Mort drunk. “Okay, but what did he say that was so important? Why did he feel you needed to be warned?”

  “We never found out,” Miss Carolina said, mournfully. “Mort was drinking more than he was talking and he kept glancing out of the window and looking around the room as if he expected to see a ghost or something and then…”

  “Skittish,” Miss Georgia said. “As skittish as Miss Kitty.”

  Miss Carolina sighed and continued, “And then, all of a sudden, he said that he had been wrong to come and he was going to have to go home. He wasn’t feeling so well.”

  My tense muscles relaxed and I
felt as deflated as a limp balloon. All this buildup for nothing? Why on earth had Mort made the trip to the Jenkins house and given them a nebulous warning and then changed his mind? None of this fit together in any logical way.

  “But, how did he die?” Mom asked. “Did the alcohol affect his heart? Did he have a stroke?”

  Getting up from the settee, Miss Georgia motioned us to follow. She and Miss Carolina led us to the front door.

  “He wobbled over here and held on to the door facing,” she said. “He really looked pale, and I wanted to phone Dr. McCauley, but Mort was stubborn and said he’d be fine as soon as he was home.”

  Miss Carolina took up the story. “Then he staggered across the porch and started to go down these very steps. Of course, they are steep. Always have been, and that hand rail has been loose for a while. There’s a basement under the house, you know, and you can see a basement window under there and that’s why there’s so many steps, but Papa put up that hand rail after the house was built. It was Mama, of course. He was so considerate of her. I rather thought a ramp would have been nice, but Papa was opposed to that because it would ruin the symmetry of the house. Mama used the rail to steady herself when she came in the front. Usually, she just walked around the house and came in the back way.”

  “So Mort made it to the steps, held onto the hand railing and—did he walk to his car?” I asked.

  “No, no, dear,” Miss Georgia said. “He didn’t hold on to the railing. We told him it was easier to go out the back door, but he laughed and said he wasn’t an invalid, but as I said, he was pretty wobbly. He lurched against that railing and it came loose. He fell all the way down, Darcy, and he hit his head on that flat rock and he—oh, my goodness! He broke his poor neck!”

  Chapter 23

  Walking across the porch, I looked down at the ground where the hand railing lay flat, five feet below me. An icy finger of horror traced its way along my spine as I gazed at the spot where a man had died. A picture of Mort flashed through my mind: Mort with his bristly hair, snapping eyes and prickly attitude, fighting against the need for nicotine by popping those mints. At that time neither he nor I could have guessed that only a few hours later he would lie dead beside the stone foundation of the Jenkinses’ house.