Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  Miss Georgia came and Miss Carolina, bringing a pie. They didn’t ask any questions, but their concern for me was evident in their faces.

  Jackson Conner stopped in. I suspected he wanted to see that Mom was all right. She gave him a minute-by-minute account of what really happened at the farm. Jackson had heard many Ventris County secrets through the years. We knew that he would keep this one locked away with the others.

  Even Burke Hopkins came, bringing us a dozen eggs, just in case we needed more. If he was curious, he did not say anything. He solemnly advised me to be careful; trouble lay all around us. I agreed with that. Trouble and murder and a missing preacher.

  My friend Amy phoned, saying her twins had a cold or she would have been to see me, and she was very sorry that I had stumbled off our bridge and hit my head on a rock in Lee Creek.

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t drown, Darcy,” she said.

  I looked at Mom. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said. “These stories are getting more and more interesting.”

  After he left the office that night, Grant stopped in.

  We three—Mom, Grant and I—sat at the dining table enjoying a cup of hot coffee and the pie that the Jenkins twins brought.

  Tree shadows lengthened in our yard, and a whippoorwill called from the forest. A family of sparrows which had claimed our honeysuckle vine for a fragrant home, twittered and chirped as they gathered in for the night.

  Peace settled like shadows over the forest as the day gave way to evening. Attackers, missing people and murderers seemed alien subjects in the warmth of the kitchen, but they were uppermost on our minds.

  “Well, it’s just got me stumped,” Mom said. “Who would want to hurt Darcy? And why?”

  Grant ran his hand over his jaw and shook his head.

  “Miss Flora, I’d say the ‘why’ is because somebody was warning Darcy to stop nosing around. Word has gotten out that she’s trying to find Walter’s killer. A lot of people know about your trip to Georgia, Darcy. Whoever is digging out there evidently didn’t appreciate your company. Or, maybe the guy meant to kill you but you tripped in that ditch as he struck. If she had died, that would have been warning enough for you to back off, Miss Flora.”

  Mom shuddered and shook her head. “Thank the Lord he didn’t succeed,” she whispered.

  “But who, Grant?” I asked. “Do you think the same person who killed Walter Harris is the one digging at the cellar and the same person who attacked me?”

  “If I knew that for sure, I might be able to put another piece in the puzzle,” Grant said.

  He reached into his jeans pocket.

  “I think we can safely say somebody has heard the rumor of what might be buried on Ben’s farm,” he said. “I was afraid this would happen. A lot of the gossip about Ben Ventris and the legend of Cherokee gold, I lay onto poor old Mort. Mort just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He printed too much in that paper of his and he wasn’t too picky about what was fact and what was just talk. I’m afraid that somebody heard enough to think that there might be something on Ben’s farm that’s worth finding.”

  “And now Mort’s dead,” I said.

  Grant nodded. “I went back and looked around that cellar. The ground was all scuffed up by the ditch, but I found this.”

  He opened his hand. On his palm lay a plastic guitar pick.

  I shrugged. “What do you mean you found it? I gave it to you after I found it at the Jenkins house. Do you carry it around with you?”

  Mom got up to pour more coffee. “Did you get fingerprints off it?”

  Grant frowned and shook his head. “This isn’t the pick you found at the Jenkins house, Darcy. This one was on the ground beside the ditch on Ben’s cellar where you were attacked. You gave me the first pick. This is the second guitar pick.”

  I stared at that little triangular piece of plastic, thoughts swirling through my head like moths circling a lamppost.

  “This makes no sense, Grant,” I said at last. “Of course we associate that pick with Trace Hughes, but Trace wouldn’t go around dropping guitar picks so he would be a suspect. That’s crazy.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe he is crazy. Maybe his sister’s disappearance and his father’s death did something to his mind.”

  I gingerly poked the pick with my index finger and Grant dropped it back into his pocket.

  “Wait a minute. I don’t think Trace is crazy. I don’t know why we can’t find him, but I believe he has a good reason for not being here. Maybe he’s hurt somewhere. And, by the way, Trace can’t be the only person in Levi who plays a guitar.”

  Grant raised his eyebrows and drew a deep breath.

  “Maybe. I’m afraid I don’t have your confidence in the guy. To start off with, he came to town claiming to be somebody he’s not. He was supposed to preach at Walter’s funeral and he didn’t—didn’t even send word. He threatened Mort and Mort wound up dead. I’d say he didn’t want Mort to go to Georgia, wouldn’t you? Now, we have not one, but two guitar picks. I’m sure there’re lots of people in Levi who play a guitar, but they probably hang onto their picks. The thing of it is, Darcy, all these things started happening after Trace Hughes came to town.”

  I set my empty coffee cup down on the table. I could not believe that Trace Hughes was my attacker at the farm. “So, because you found the pick at Ben’s farm and I found the first one at the Jenkiness home, you are thinking Mort’s death maybe wasn’t an accident?”

  Grant nodded as he pushed back his chair.

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” he said.

  “Well,” I called after him, “at least there wasn’t a guitar pick at Old String’s shack.”

  “Not one that we found anyway,” Grant flung over his shoulder.

  Chapter 37

  Trudging into the kitchen, hoping that a cup of coffee was all I needed to feel normal again, I noticed the unusual darkness of the morning. Even the overhead light seemed dim. I felt more like myself today except for still having a lump on my head the size of a goose egg, and feeling so cold my arms prickled. There was something else; an odd feeling kept niggling at me. It was the same way I had felt before last year’s earthquake.

  Pacing the floor, I glanced at the dripping eaves. Going for a walk sometimes relaxed me, but it was not a day to be outside. Why did my nerves feel like a tightly-strung wire? Had I consumed too much caffeine, or was the continual rain getting to me? Maybe it was a delayed reaction to the attack. A low roar came and went in my ears, probably an aftermath of the blow to my head.

  I had not put my car into the garage the previous night. It sat in the driveway, a dark oblong shape through the gray rain. Today, I planned to go to Levi and visit with Melanie Hughes. Maybe she could tell me something—anything—that would suggest the whereabouts of her brother. She might actually know something, some clue, without realizing she knew it. This is what I hoped to glean from Melanie.

  Glancing out the back door, I saw my mother, raincoat thrown over her head, coming out of the chicken house. She splashed through puddles in the yard, jumped up on the porch and, leaving her coat on the back of a lawn chair, hurried into the house, shaking water from her hair. Stepping out of her soaked shoes, she padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom.

  “Those eggs are finally hatching under the setting hen,” she called. “I heard some faint peeping from the baby chicks, but was afraid to reach under her, afraid I might hurt one of the babies. Besides, her yellow eyes didn’t look friendly.”

  “How do you think Jethro is going to react to those little chickens?” I asked. “He may not know that they are not to play with, or worse yet, they might look to him like small, feathered snacks on two legs.”

  Hearing his name, Jethro opened one eye, flexed his paws and returned to napping on the cushioned seat of the rocking chair.

  Coming back to the kitchen wearing her house shoes, Mom went to the coffee pot and poured a fresh cup of brew.

  “I im
agine those babies’ mother will discourage Jethro if he gets too close,” she said. “Like most mamas, that old hen will be pretty protective of her chicks.”

  I refreshed my own coffee and sat down opposite her at the table.

  She held her cup with both hands and shivered.

  “I’m going to take a good look at that old sewing machine today,” she said. “It needs to be dusted and I want to pull out all the drawers and give it a going over. Who knows? Maybe Jeff Thorne left a letter in there. Or, there might be a card of antique pins. Anyway, I’ve been wanting to really examine it, and this seems like a good day.”

  Leaving my coffee, I walked to the sewing machine and pushed it close to the table.

  “Jeff kept the wheels oiled,” I said. “It rolls easily.”

  Mom sipped her coffee. “Lee Creek has a strange sound to it this morning. It must have risen a foot during the night. I’m glad we have a bunch of groceries, because the water is almost up to our bridge. We may be marooned here for a while if the rain keeps up.”

  I put down my cup. “You’re kidding.”

  Trotting to the front porch, I could hardly believe the scene in front of me. Lee Creek, our pleasant, clear little stream, was quiet no longer. Its muddy waters foamed and tossed. Over-running its banks, it surged against the lower part of the yard, lapping hungrily at the grass. Only a few more inches would put it over the bridge. No longer a pleasant accompaniment to the sounds of nature, it thundered like a hundred runaway horses.

  “Darcy, look!” Mom said, grasping my arm. “There’s a car coming this way.”

  “Not in this weather!” I said. “Who in the world would be out today?”

  As the vehicle neared, I recognized the truck that our lawn person, Tim Johnson, drove. He pulled into our drive, got out and galloped toward the house, a long, dark object in his hands.

  “Mr. Johnson!” I said. “Our grass is more a river than a lawn! Surely you aren’t going to mow.”

  Jumping up onto the porch, he grinned at us.

  “I know. I’m just plain crazy, I guess, but all this rain gives me the heebie jeebies. I left my mower in your garage last time I was here. Had to take off the blade to sharpen it. I haven’t been able to mow any grass for a long time, so I’ve been working on my equipment. I sharpened this blade and if it’s all right with you, I’ll just go out to the garage and put it on today. It’ll give me something to do.”

  He held the blade gingerly by one end, his hands protected by heavy work gloves.

  “Sure, it’s all right,” Mom said, “but I wouldn’t advise you to stay long because Lee Creek is on the rise.”

  “This little job won’t take long,” Mr. Johnson assured us.

  “Come on in for a cup of coffee,” Mom said. “I think there’s enough in the pot for you to take a big mugful to the garage with you.”

  He held the door for us and we trooped inside.

  “Mighty nice house you got here,” he said, following Mom and me to the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” I answered.

  Jethro took one look at the newcomer, jumped from his chair and disappeared somewhere in the house.

  Rummaging through the cabinet, I found a tall travel mug.

  “This should work,” I said, going to the coffee pot.

  “I don’t want your coffee,” Mr. Johnson said.

  My ears must have been affected by the noise of the flooding creek.

  I turned from the cabinet to face him.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that I don’t want your coffee nor nothin’ in this kitchen except information. You all and your high-falutin’ ways. What I want is to know a few things and I’m going to get answers, one way or the other.”

  I did not recognize our cheerful, Santa Claus-look-alike lawn person in the glowering man who stood before us. His white eyebrows drew down and his eyes glinted with malice. My breath caught in my throat. Instinctively, I grabbed my mother’s hand.

  Holding the lawn mower blade in both hands like a battering ram, Johnson took a step toward us.

  Chapter 38

  Backing away from this menace, I tried to think sanely. Surely this was a nightmare and was not actually happening. However, the red, glowering face with hate-filled eyes seemed real enough that I wanted as far away from him as possible.

  We bumped into the sewing machine. Johnson stopped and eyed us. Was he trying to figure out his next move? I couldn’t seem to gulp enough air, and my arms and legs felt frozen. What did safety manuals say about attackers with lawn mower blades? I wished for Dad’s pistol, but it was far away in a drawer in the next room. Should I try to keep him talking? It was worth a try.

  Licking my lips, I said, “Umm, Mr. Johnson, why are you angry? What have we done to you?”

  He laughed, a low, caustic rumble.

  “What did you do? Why, maybe you, yourself, didn’t do anything. That’s the way it is with you people, isn’t it? You’re not to blame for anything. You’ve got everything…nice house, in fact, two houses! Now ain’t that grand? The way I hear it, you’ve got gold and jewels and who knows what hidden away somewhere, maybe out there at that school of yours, and you’re going to tell me where it is. Me? I ain’t never had anything except an old man who beat me, a ma who took off and left me, and a whole lot of hard knocks.”

  To my horror, Mom shook her finger at him.

  “You’re just a mean old man, Tim Johnson! None of those things made you turn out bad. Think about what you’re doing. Gold and jewels? Do you see any gold and jewels around here? Do you want to spend a whole lot of time in jail for killing two defenseless women?”

  “Mom,” I gasped. Killing two women? She was talking about us, and I didn’t think mentioning this man’s intentions was a really good idea at the moment.

  Johnson grinned, but his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I’ve already spent time in the slammer. That’s where I met your old pal Walter Harris. Walter got to talking about the buried gold stories. Said he knew all about it, bein’ from here. I decided to throw in with him and we’d come and see if we could find it. Only thing is, Walter got cold feet. He decided maybe he’d like to stick around close to his wife and that goofy son of his. When a man starts to back out on a deal, next thing he’ll be squealin’ to the sheriff about us poking around for gold. I’d been having my doubts about Walter anyhow. He didn’t seem to know much about the gold’s location, no more than I did. And, if I found it, why should I have to share it with Walter?”

  The question escaped my stiff lips before I could stop it.

  “Did you kill Walter?”

  “Oh, yep. Yep, sure did. Funny thing. I found a knife right there in that old shack. Picked it up and stabbed him before Walt knew what was happenin’.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Maybe I was a bit hasty, but the opportunity presented itself—so to speak—and, truth is, I’d killed old Walter before I thought.”

  It’s odd how I reacted to this shock. Since nothing taking place in that kitchen could possibly be real, I asked another question.

  “And Mort? You surely didn’t kill him! That porch railing came loose and he fell.”

  A sly, knowing grin slid across Johnson’s face.

  “Well, now, it’s a funny thing about those old porch railings. They do come loose sometimes, ’specially with a little help. Mort was a worse gossip than an old woman, but some people are always ready to listen—the sheriff, for instance. If Mort had told the Jenkins women what he dug up about me, about my jail record, and a few other things I’ve been accused of, do you think those women woulda kept their mouths shut? Maybe he did tell ’em. They were going to be next on my list, just to make sure. Then, I figured you probably know more about that gold than anbody else, since it’s supposed to be on your land.”

  He paused and pointed to his head.

  “Me? I’m always on my toes. I had a perfect right to be at those old maids’ house, didn’t I? I took care of their lawn. Well, maybe I
just took care of Mort too. Worked out pretty good. What did you think about me droppin’ that guitar pick? Pretty smart, huh?”

  “You?” The word came out on a hiss of air. “You dropped that pick? Why? Where did you get it?”

  Johnson laughed and a chill ran down my spine.

  “That’s for me to know. You’ll never find your preacher-man. I knew he’d come in handy some way. Too trusting. Left the door of his house wide open and I walked right in and helped myself to a handful of guitar picks. Bein’ a preacher, he’s supposed to bring light into darkness, ain’t he? Well, he’ll have a mighty hard time bringing light into the darkness where he’s at, that is, if he could move around at all, which he can’t.”

  “But enough talk,” he growled, baring his teeth like a hungry wolf. “I want to know the location of that gold. Are you going to tell me or do you need a little persuasion?”

  “You can’t kill us,” I said. “Who would tell you about the gold then?”

  He leered at us. “Maybe if I killed just one of you, the other would talk. I kind of like that idea.”

  Mom’s hand in mine shook and felt icy cold. “Actually, we can’t tell you where the gold is,” she said. “We’ll have to show you. Both of us. Together. If you kill one of us, believe me, you’ll regret it to your dying day, which might be sooner than you think if you harm my daughter.”

  Glancing at my mother’s face, I saw determination in the hard line of her mouth. She meant every word.

  “Oh, I’m so scared!” he jeered. “No, you’re gonna tell me now! I’m not foolin’. I don’t have time for games. You might save your lives if you tell me where it is. I’m gonna find it, one way or the other!”

  As Tim Johnson spoke, Mom and I inched around Jeff Thorne’s sewing machine. Now we had the old machine between us and what looked like certain death. With a low snarl, Johnson raised the mower blade with both hands and lunged toward us.

  Instinct took over. Releasing my mother’s hand, I shoved the sewing machine at him the instant he swung the blade.