Why hadn’t my father and my aunt talked about their family? Was there something they didn’t want me to know? Something truly terrible that could explain those bones in my grandfather’s attic?
ELEVEN
The next day I left the library a quarter hour before my appointment with Esther Carraway. Earlier in the day, Kanesha had let me know that she wasn’t ready to let me back into my grandfather’s house. They hadn’t finished going over it yet. I therefore had plenty of time to visit with the local historian.
Mrs. Carraway lived near the campus, and Diesel and I arrived at her home with a few minutes to spare. I had debated dropping my cat off at home before I met with her, but he had often proved invaluable in breaking the ice with strangers. I hoped she wasn’t an ailurophobe or allergic to cats.
I needn’t have worried. The moment Mrs. Carraway opened the door and spotted the Maine Coon, she smiled broadly.
“I’ve heard about this fellow,” she said, extending her hand for Diesel to sniff. He seemed to take to her right away, and he ambled beside her as she led us into her living room.
Mrs. Carraway indicated a straight-backed chair across from her position on the sofa. She invited Diesel to sit with her, and he accepted. As my hostess continued to pet the cat and murmur to him, I took stock of her and my surroundings.
I figured Mrs. Carraway to be in her seventies. Her short stature, perhaps a shade over five feet, was offset by her outsized jewelry, bracelets, rings, and several strands of large beads around her neck. Her hair owed everything to henna, and it framed her face like a helmet. I hadn’t seen hair like it since the seventies. Her red dress clashed with the hair, as did her crimson lips, and the blue eye shadow reminded me of the seventies as well.
The room had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along two walls, and books overflowed from them. The furnishings were eclectic, a mixture of antiques and more modern pieces, with a fine Aubusson carpet in the center of the room. An elderly office desk had pride of place near the front window, and atop it sat both an old manual typewriter and a newish-model computer.
Evidently not one to waste time on the social graces, Mrs. Carraway recalled my wandering thoughts with a sharp question.
“What do you want to know?”
When I didn’t immediately respond, she said, “Don’t be shy. You probably want to know about any scandals in the family. That’s what most people come to see me about. You wouldn’t believe the skeletons in some of the closets in this town, and in the county, too. Over the years I’ve had to leave out some pretty ripe stuff, let me tell you. I don’t want to get sued, you know, so I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to write anything nasty about your family. You’re not taking me to court.” Her soft Mississippi drawl removed some of the tartness from her words, but enough remained to assure me of her sincerity.
Diesel warbled loudly, probably slightly alarmed by her tone. He shifted away from her, and she seemed to realize what she had done.
“You relax, you handsome boy, Aunt Esther isn’t going to be ugly to anybody, I just have to get that out of the way first thing.” She cooed to Diesel, and though he looked at her a bit oddly, he remained beside her.
I had dealt with eccentrics before, and I wasn’t disturbed by Mrs. Carraway. Her defensiveness probably had roots in a court case somewhere in her past, I reckoned.
“I’m not interested in suing anyone,” I said in a placatory tone. “No matter what shocking things you might have to tell me about my ancestors. My father and my aunt Dottie never talked about the family, so anything you can tell me besides what I’ve already read in your book would be gratefully accepted.”
Mrs. Carraway eyed me, her head cocked to one side. “Have you done your genealogy?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t, though with these recent revelations, I’ve decided I ought to.” I explained about the sudden inheritance of my grandfather’s farm. “I know little about the Harrises, or about my mother’s family, either.”
She shook her head. “That’s downright sad, you know. They’re the people who made you who you are, and you don’t even know their names. They are your roots. I can’t imagine what it’s like, not wanting to know my own roots. That’s how I got started writing local history. Began with my own family. Found out a lot that wasn’t passed down, let me tell you. Some of it was scandalous, but that made it more interesting. You’ll probably discover the same.”
“I already have,” I said. “I had no idea my ancestors were wealthy merchants. I knew only that my grandfather was a farmer, though he died when I was really young, but he wasn’t rich.”
“A lot of wealthy folk came down in the world after the Civil War,” Mrs. Carraway said. “The Harrises among them, of course. They were never really poor after that, because Robert Harris had taken up farming before he lost the mercantile business. He also didn’t get as rich as he had been before.” She arched an eyebrow at me. “The Union army did him a big favor by bypassing his farm. The fact that he didn’t have any enslaved people working on it was in his favor, of course.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. I looked at your bibliographical notes in the book, and apparently your sources for my family history came from the historical society archives,” I said.
“They did,” she said. “They have some old ledgers belonging to the family, dating back to around the time the war ended. Plus a few letters, and I think there are a couple of portraits, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’ll talk to the historical society and make an appointment to look at them,” I said.
“You might have to dig around a bit to find anything.” She shook her head. “I’ve been after them for years to get things organized, but I might as well have been talking to the air for all the good it did me.”
“I’m the archivist at Athena College,” I said. “I can volunteer to help get the historical society papers organized.”
“You’d be doing a fine thing,” Mrs. Carraway said. “They’re real territorial, though, so you’ll have to go about it the right way. Don’t go rushing in there like a bull in a new pasture.”
I had to suppress a laugh. “I won’t, I promise. Is there a family genealogy that you know of?” I asked. “I haven’t signed up for one of those genealogy databases yet, but I obviously need to.”
“There might be one,” Mrs. Carraway said, her tone bland. “You can find information in the census records, and there are records at the courthouse, of course. I do know that over the generations, the Harrises weren’t known for producing many children. Your grandfather had a sister, born when he was an adult. His father had only one sibling, a brother, and his mother had two sisters who died in infancy. If you’re looking for a lot of long-lost cousins, I don’t think they’re out there.”
“That’s too bad.” I felt regret at this news. “I was an only child, as was my late wife.”
“I hear you’re going with Helen Louise Brady,” Mrs. Carraway said.
Taken aback, I stared at her for a moment. “Well, yes, we’re actually engaged to be married.”
“Good for you,” she replied. “I hear you have two children, a son and a daughter.”
“I do, and each of them has a child,” I said. “I’m glad my grandchildren, at least, will have cousins to grow up with.”
She nodded in evident approval. “I believe your son married the Pendergrast girl. That’s quite a family. Her daddy’s escapades alone are enough to fill several books, but that’s a conversation for another time. Shame he never wrote his memoirs, but I guess he thought he’d best not stir up any hornet nests.”
I had no reply to this, not that she really needed one. She swept on.
“You haven’t told me why you suddenly decided to get interested in your family,” Mrs. Carraway said.
I hadn’t exactly had much of a chance, I thought, but I didn’t say that to her. “Because I found out I in
herited my grandfather’s house and farm. I thought it was out of the family for good.”
Mrs. Carraway frowned at me. “I thought he left all that to Martin Hale.”
“No, ma’am.” I explained the terms of the lease and my grandfather’s will. When I’d finished, she regarded me thoughtfully for a full minute before she replied.
“If your son says it’s legal, then I reckon it must be. Not the way Martin Hale told the story after your granddaddy died, though.” She shook her head. “He always wanted to be bigger than he was, couldn’t be satisfied with being a farmer. All that drinking didn’t help, either. Not a good citizen, that man, though I reckon he paid his taxes on time.”
I thought about asking Mrs. Carraway whether she was related to Melba Gilley. Her fund of knowledge about local people seemed pretty deep and wide. But she might not get the joke, so I kept my mouth shut. I would certainly ask Melba, however.
“I really don’t know much about Mr. Hale,” I said, “other than that his death brought about this inheritance.”
“Surely you’ve heard about his wife disappearing and nobody has any idea what happened to her?”
I nodded, debating whether I should tell her about the bones that Diesel and I found in the attic. I was about to when she started talking again.
“Some people said she ran off with another man because she couldn’t take his drinking and treating her like dirt. I’ve never had any use for men like that. I took a baseball bat to my husband the first time he lifted a hand to me. We got along fine after that.”
I opened my mouth to speak, and to my surprise she remained quiet. “What happened to Mrs. Hale is still a mystery, as far as I know. Though Diesel and I found something in my grandfather’s house that might be relevant.”
“What, pray tell, did you find?” Mrs. Carraway leaned forward in anticipation.
“We found a skeleton in the attic. Actually, it was in an old wardrobe in the attic, and it looked like it had been there for years.”
“Good heavens.” Mrs. Carraway looked thunderstruck. “I never thought he would have killed her. He was too much of a coward for that, I’d have said. My goodness me, that poor woman. Why didn’t her family put up a fuss and find her?”
“There’s no proof whatsoever that the bones belong to Mrs. Hale,” I said. “There was nothing with the remains to identify the person.”
“Yes, well, still seems suspicious to me,” Mrs. Carraway replied. Her brow furrowed, she stared at some point on the wall behind me. “Who else could it be?”
“The remains could be centuries old,” I said. “Mr. Hale, or even my grandfather, might have discovered them somewhere on the farm. I’d hate to think that my grandfather desecrated a grave, though, and kept those bones as some kind of trophy.”
Mrs. Carraway shook her head. “I knew your grandfather. He was an old man when I was a young bride, but I don’t think he was the kind of person to do something like that.” Her expression grew grim. “Martin Hale, on the other hand, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
I was relieved to hear that, and I hoped that Mrs. Carraway was right about my grandfather. This was a mystery that might never be solved, however.
I decided I would go ahead and tell her about the death of Mr. Hale’s grandson. It would probably be on the evening news anyway. “Mr. Hale’s grandson, also named Martin, came to Athena.”
“Yes, I know,” Mrs. Carraway said. “He called me and asked if he could come talk to me. Supposed to be here yesterday afternoon.” She shook her head. “He never showed up. I guess the storm put him off.”
“Sadly, he won’t be calling you again.” I explained briefly about the young man’s death.
Diesel chirped and looked up at Mrs. Carraway. Her face drained of all but artificial color, she looked suddenly much older. “That poor young man,” she said, her voice soft. “Truly a cursed family, you might say.” She sighed. “So much tragedy.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to try to comfort her. This sorrow seemed personal to her in some way that I didn’t understand.
Perhaps she sensed my confusion. Mrs. Carraway offered me a weak smile. “Martin Hale’s father and I shared a great-grandmother, so we were cousins. Our families weren’t close, but the family connection was there. The Hales weren’t particularly upstanding citizens, you see. The men in the family had a history of weakness—for alcohol, for gambling, for women. Martin’s son was an exception, but then he was killed in that horrible accident. And now his son has been murdered. I wonder if the young man had any offspring?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sure the sheriff’s office will be in touch with his family in California.”
“Then I’ll have to talk to Kanesha Berry,” Mrs. Carraway said. “Now, you must excuse me. I have an appointment to get to.” She rose, and Diesel meowed at her sudden movement. He climbed off the sofa and came to stand beside me.
I offered Mrs. Carraway my hand, and she took it briefly while I thanked her for her time. I had not asked many of the questions I had wanted to, but they would have to wait for another time.
Diesel and I headed for the front door. Mrs. Carraway trailed behind. I turned as I opened the door and caught her with a troubled expression as she regarded me.
“One thing I should tell you,” she said. “Martin Hale had two of the family weaknesses. Alcohol and women. That combination is sometimes deadly.”
I waited for her to expand on that statement, but she did not. After a moment, I nodded, and Diesel and I exited the house. The door closed quietly behind us.
TWELVE
I wondered why Mrs. Carraway had made a point of that final statement of hers. Was she giving me an obscure hint? Could what she said have something to do with the bones?
I couldn’t come up with any other explanation during the short drive home. Hale had a history of violence against his wife. More than likely he had treated other women the same. Could he have killed one of them and hidden her remains all these years?
Surely someone would have noticed the woman had disappeared, I reasoned. Unless she had no family, no friends, no connections in Athena, that is. I was sure that Kanesha would consider this possibility. She no doubt knew more about Martin Hale and his history than I ever would. I wondered whether she would share any of that knowledge with me, or perhaps with Sean?
I decided I would put the question to my son. As a legal professional, and as my representative in the case regarding the property, he had a better chance to get information from Kanesha. Whether he would act on my request was another thing entirely. He didn’t like my getting involved in murders and was more than likely to tell me to keep my nose out of this.
My phone rang as I was turning into my driveway. I stopped the car and pulled out the phone. Kanesha Berry.
“Good afternoon, Charlie.”
I returned her greeting. “What’s up?”
“If you have time right now, I’d like you to meet me at your grandfather’s house,” she said. “I’ve asked Sean to come as well.”
“I’m on my way.” Before I could ask her anything, she ended the call. I gritted my teeth, but I was used to her by now. I reversed into the street, and Diesel warbled loudly from the backseat. He knew we had been almost home.
“Sorry, boy,” I said. “We’re going out to the country to see the house again. We’ll come back home after that, okay?”
Diesel chirped, and I heard him shifting position on the seat. He chirped twice more and settled down while I drove.
Sean was just getting out of his car when Diesel and I pulled up in front of the house. He waited to greet the two of us, and we climbed the porch steps together. “Did Kanesha say anything to you when she called?” I asked.
Sean shook his head. “No. I assume they’re done going through the house, though. But they could have found something. Who knows with her?”
My son opened the door and motioned Diesel and me into the house. This time I wasn’t entering it wrapped in a haze of memories. I felt more able to look objectively at the house, and as I gazed around I could see the shabbiness of some of the furnishings and the need for paint for the walls and trim. If I kept the house, I’d certainly have to invest in brightening it up again.
Kanesha appeared in the hallway from one of the bedroom doors about thirty feet away. She beckoned to us. “Good afternoon. Thanks for coming. We found something I want to show you.”
She waited by the doorway. As I recalled it, this particular room might have been my aunt’s room before she got married. I said as much to Sean, and he nodded.
We stepped into the sparsely furnished room behind Kanesha. She pointed to a door in the opposite wall. “We found evidence of occupation in there.”
“Isn’t that a closet?” Sean asked, casting his eye around the space.
“No, it’s another small chamber like this one,” Kanesha said. “Fitted out as a bedroom.”
As I surveyed the room, I realized that its proportions were smaller than I would have expected. There had been no closets in the house, I recalled, because the house had been built at a time when they were not common.
“A room within a room.” Sean turned to me. “Do you remember this, Dad?”
“Not offhand,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t ramble through the house as a child. I usually stayed wherever my grandmother was, and I really don’t remember coming into this room.”
Kanesha had opened the door to the inner chamber, and she motioned for us to approach and look inside. Diesel preceded Sean and me inside, and he began nosing around.
This space was about a third the size of the outer room, but it had decent proportions. Suitable for a small child, I mused.
What the Cat Dragged In Page 8
