“Okay,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure to what she was agreeing. Or what he thought they needed to sort out.
“Brilliant,” he said, his normally clipped tone soft and sweet as honey.
Before Allie could figure out exactly what had just happened, Mason turned on his heel and strolled out.
SEEING light coming from beneath the door of his father’s study, Will rapped his knuckles against the paneled wood.
“Allie?” he called out, but there was no answer. He was pretty certain that she was in there. Bran was at the theater, Harlan was at an AA meeting, and their father, when he’d checked on him, was fast asleep. Unlikely to stay that way, Will thought with a frown. The old man’s sleep patterns seemed to be growing increasingly erratic, which was playing hell with the rest of the household’s schedules. Shelving that concern behind the dozen or so which were more immediate, he knocked on the door again. When there was still no answer, he let himself in.
Allie was curled in the leather chair in the corner, a book spread open on her lap. Her mouth was slightly open, her inky hair lying in tangles across her closed eyes.
He hesitated, hating to disturb her. Between running a business, helping to care for their dad and recent… personal events, he knew she was worn out. But he needed to talk to her.
“Al,” he said, after approaching the chair, gently shaking her shoulder. “Allie, wake up.”
“No!” she said, and to his surprise, came up swinging.
“Hey.” He grabbed her wrist, stopped her from popping him in the nose. “Hey now. I know you need your beauty sleep, Medusa, but there’s no need to hit.”
“What?” she mumbled. “Who’s Medusa?”
“Right now, you are, though by averting my eyes, I’ve managed to avoid being turned into an ornament for your garden.”
Blue eyes blinked at him through a curtain of black hair, and annoyance began to replace confusion. “Ha,” she said, clearly too sleep-fuddled to come up with a more suitable comeback. She pushed the tangles out of her face, and eyed him skeptically. “Like you look any better.”
That was more than likely true. Grass, plough mud and several substances that he’d rather not consider stained his uniform shirt, and after a day of tromping through both graveyards and the underbrush along the river, he doubted his hair was exactly neat.
Will pulled up the ottoman, then grimaced at the dirt on his pants. To hell with it. He sat down anyway. His mom wasn’t around to yell at him for messing up the furniture, and hadn’t been for twenty years.
Will nodded toward the book lying temporarily forgotten on Allie’s lap. “A little light bedtime reading?”
“What? Oh.” Allie glanced at the sizeable tome. “Ha.”
When she declined to add further comment, Will gave her a droll look. “If you’re concerned that I’m going to bring up the inappropriateness of your choice of venues for romantic interludes, you should know that I’d rather have my eye teeth pulled than hear the details of that again.”
“How…” she began, and then her delicate black brows slammed together. “Do not tell me one of your minions was eavesdropping on my private conversation.”
“I do believe you’re underestimating my keen investigative abilities.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It was that new assistant librarian – what’s her name? Sheila? She finds a way to work your name into conversation every time she comes into the store.”
Will scratched his chin. “She might have mentioned that she’d seen you talking to Armitage earlier in the evening. But,” Will raised a hand when Allie started to express her outrage “she didn’t reveal the content of your private conversation.” He tapped a finger on the book. “You checked out a book about important local Civil War figures the day after tripping over one of their graves. Shouldn’t be too surprising that I put it together for myself.”
Her mouth turned sulky. “So she did tell you what book I checked out.”
“Only because I went to check it out after you, only to discover that it wasn’t there.”
“Oh.” She had the grace to look chagrined. “Why were you interested in checking this out? You hate history.”
“Now Al, that’s just not true. I may have resented having the exploits of every Hawbaker relative for the past two hundred years shoved down my throat as a kid, but I’ve got no problem with history. It’s a shame humans, as a species, don’t learn from it, but that’s another conversation. Now,” he tapped the book again. “Tell me what you’ve discovered about Cousin Eugene.”
“Not much,” she admitted, glancing down at the open book. “I fell asleep before I could get very far. I know that he was only twenty-one when he died at the Raid at Combahee Ferry in 1863. So young.” She ran her finger over the page. “That particular raid was orchestrated, to a large degree, by Harriet Tubman, and over seven hundred and fifty slaves were freed. I have to applaud the historical significance – not to mention the eventual outcome – though I find it terribly unfortunate that Eugene, and so many others, had to lose their lives because of it.”
She glanced up at Will. “Given your feelings about family lore, I’m assuming your interest isn’t merely personal.”
“Well, no.” He considered the best way to make cohesive the speculations muddling around in his head. “There are lots of graves in that cemetery, many of them more easily accessible from the front gate, a number of them with fancy monuments that are likelier attractants for vandals. Yet this was the grave disturbed.”
“So you think it wasn’t random? That they picked that grave specifically.”
“Maybe. At this point, I’m just gathering information. So let me ask you something else. About graveyard dirt.”
“What about it?”
“I know that some rootworkers use graveyard dirt in certain rituals.”
“Wait.” Allie closed the book, and sat up straighter, the leather squeaking with her movement. “You think that someone was digging up Eugene Hawbaker’s grave to use the dirt in some kind of spirit work?”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Allie frowned. “You should probably talk to Josie about this. She knows more than I do.”
“I plan to, but Josie isn’t available right now, and you are.”
“Huh,” she said, almost to herself. “Eugene was a soldier, so I guess that makes sense.”
“Care to clue me in?”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear the final remnants of sleep. “Rootworkers collect graveyard dirt so that the spirit of the deceased can aid them in whatever their particular client is looking to achieve – love spells, money spells, protection, vengeance. The type of spell dictates the type of spirit they would seek to employ.”
“Employ.”
Allie waved a hand. “Hoodoo practitioners look at it as contract work. If you’re asking a spirit to do something for you, you need to offer a token payment.”
“Right.” Will had lived with Lowcountry folklore too long to turn a hair at the idea of employing the dead. And hell, given some of the soulless stiffs he’d met in public service, maybe the idea wasn’t so far-fetched. “Just for kicks and giggles, why don’t you tell me what the going rate is these days, and to hell with the fact that grave tampering is a class B felony.”
“That depends on relationship to the spirit. Coins and alcohol are common, as I’m sure you know, but if it’s an ancestor you’re seeking aid from, the payment can be more personal – candy, flowers, food.”
“How about a hair ribbon?”
“Hair ribbon?” Allie frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe. If the spirit is that of a woman who was known to have a streak of vanity? Why – oh. You found a ribbon at the scene. You mentioned that the other night. But considering that Eugene was a man, and a soldier –”
“The ribbon doesn’t make sense. You said that Eugene being a soldier did make sense, though. How?”
“Well, most practitioners try
to work with a spirit that’s both strong and – more importantly – willing to take orders.”
Will mulled that over. “Would people who believe this stuff be willing to pay more for the dirt from a soldier’s grave? Particularly a soldier who was honored for valor?”
“As far as I know, rootworkers charge for the spell as a whole. Some spells might be more complex, I guess, but I don’t think… wait.” She leaned forward. “You mean you think someone was digging up the dirt to sell it? Like a curio?”
“Do a Google search for graveyard dirt, and you’d be amazed at how many hits you get.”
Allie shook her head. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But from everything I’ve read, and what Josie has told me, the removal of dirt from a grave is approached with both respect and a certain amount of ritual. No more than a handful of dirt is taken at a time. Eugene’s grave…” her gaze flashed to his “it was dark, and I couldn’t really see much, but I know the soil was much more turned over than if someone had simply removed a spade full. That’s why you suspect a larger commercial purpose, isn’t it?”
“It’s a consideration.”
“Selling it on the internet seems so… unscrupulous,” Allie said. “And as far as that goes, why not just dig up some dirt from the backyard and say it’s from the grave of a soldier? It’s not like anyone can tell the difference just by looking.”
Will drummed his fingers on his thigh. That thought had also crossed his mind.
Maybe the grave selection had been random. Some teenagers carrying out a dare, and given the location of Eugene Hawbaker’s final resting place, back near the edge of the trees, they figured they’d be less likely to be seen.
Or perhaps someone wanted to dig up that specific grave for a different reason entirely.
It probably shouldn’t bother him as much as it did. After all, Cousin Eugene had been dead for two hundred years, and Will had plenty of crimes against the living – or recently deceased – to occupy his attention. Grave tampering was rather minor in comparison. But to his mind it also indicated not only a lack of respect, but possibly a sort of nefarious intent that both angered and chilled him.
Not to mention that his sister had almost literally stumbled over the perpetrator – or perpetrators; they were still sorting out all the various shoeprints – in the act. Luckily, those perpetrators had been sufficiently disinclined toward discovery that they’d fled the scene rather than engaging, but what if Allie had been alone?
Allie yawned, pulling Will’s attention back from his musings.
“Why don’t you go on to bed?” he suggested. “Get some rest while Dad’s sleeping.”
Her gaze slid toward the door, a shadow of grief darkening her expression. “He’s getting worse,” she said simply.
“I know.” And he knew what Allie wasn’t saying, what none of them had had the courage to say quite yet. Their father, as they’d known him, was gone. Like a sea creature, he’d left behind a familiar, but empty, shell.
“Get some sleep,” he repeated, tweaking a lock of her hair as he stood up. Will stifled his own yawn, then headed toward the back stairs, and his childhood bedroom, where he changed into a clean shirt. There was work to do before he sought his bed for the night.
He had a dead man to identify.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MASON opened his eyes, barely stifling the scream that wanted to emerge. Slitted yellow eyes stared at him from a distance of mere inches, as if sizing up his nose for an afternoon snack. A low, rumbling sound – impossible to distinguish as to whether it might be a growl or a purr – emanated from the gray, blubber-like shape.
“Useless,” he murmured, finally recognizing his visitor. “How the bloody hell did you get in here, you fiend?”
A knocking sound had him leaning up on one elbow. He met Sarah’s amused gaze through the screen of the porch door.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Mi casa es su casa,” he said. “Literally, in this case.”
Sarah pushed open the door, and her beast began to groom itself, licking its paw in a causal fashion that suggested it hadn’t been contemplating savaging Mason’s face. Mason eyed it with patent skepticism.
“Sorry,” she said, nodding toward the cat, who sat comfy as you please beside Mason on the swinging daybed. “He’s a little put out by the dog. I guess he came out here, seeing as how it’s his former home, to comfort himself.”
“Hmm.” With a final, suspicious glance at the bed’s co-occupant, Mason sat up, causing the chains which held the swing to creak as it gently swayed. “I must have fallen asleep,” he stated the obvious, squinting at the bright sunlight filtering through the surrounding vegetation. It had an almost tangible presence, like fingers of some unseen divinity, pushing aside both limb and leaf to lay bands of gold upon the ground.
“Fresh air and sunshine,” Sarah said, all but reading his thoughts. She pulled up the small chair tucked into the corner of the equally small porch, her gauzy skirt billowing around her as she sat. “They’ll get you every time.”
Mason pushed a wayward lock of hair from his eyes and surveyed the woman who would be his best mate’s wife. “And how are you adjusting to the new addition?”
“He’s… large,” Sarah said, frowning slightly. “And hairy. But then, the same can be said of Tucker, and I like him well enough.”
Mason laughed, charmed as always. “Meaning that you have fallen completely under the canine’s spell.”
“I have,” she admitted with a sigh. “And even if I hadn’t, seeing how Tucker feels about him would be enough for me. As I’m sure you know, he never had a dog growing up, and I don’t think he realized how much he’d always wanted one. Thanks for helping him bring him home this morning. With that broken leg, it’ll be a while before he’ll be able to maneuver well on his own.”
Mason waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”
Sarah looked him over, her gaze frankly assessing. “Your eye looks better,” she finally said, “but you’ve still got some dark circles. Are you feeling okay?”
“Ah…” he really should be used to the direct, open manner of Americans by now, considering the amount of time he’d spent with them. Tucker was probably the most forthright individual he’d ever had the suspect fortune to encounter, and Sarah, while a bit more polite about it, wasn’t exactly one to dither. When a Yank asked you how you were, it seemed they actually expected an answer.
“Fine,” he said, and knowing that wouldn’t suffice, added: “I’ve simply been up late the past few nights, getting up to speed on my temporary role in the play.”
She tilted her head, her long copper curls falling over her shoulder. “Nice of you to fill in for Tommy. Much as he’s said otherwise, I think he was relieved to be able to rest up this week. Not to mention that the cast is positively delighted to be working, however temporarily, with an actor of your caliber. Branson was practically glowing when he came in for his coffee today.”
Mason moved his shoulders, vaguely uncomfortable. He considered these people friends, and didn’t care to have himself placed upon a pedestal.
“Yes, well,” he murmured. “Always happy to hear I’m responsible for an outbreak of bioluminescence among the populace.”
Sarah laughed, a deep, rich, throaty sound, and the cat jumped down to rub against his mistress’s ankles.
“I better get back to work.” She scooped her obese pet off the ground, cradling it against her chest as she stood. “I’ll try to make sure Useless doesn’t bother you again. Get some rest. I’m looking forward to seeing you in action tonight.”
Mason made some noncommittal noises as Sarah left, then plopped back down on the tumbled pillows. He stared at the beaded board ceiling, watching the blades of the ceiling fan churn the warm, golden air like a paddle in a crock of butter.
He frowned at that rather odd image. Apparently the thought patterns of the eighteenth century man he’d most recently portrayed hadn’t entirely left him.
And that was the question, wasn’t it? Where did the character end, and Mason Armitage begin?
Mason snorted. “What a load of rubbish,” he said aloud. He swung his legs over the side of the bed again, planted his feet firmly on the ground.
He had a performance to get ready for tonight.
ALLIE asked herself what exactly she thought she was doing, even as she walked through the cemetery gates. They’d closed The Dust Jacket early in anticipation of opening night at The Playhouse, and normally Allie would have been at the theater by now, running errands, helping to put out the last minute fires that inevitably cropped up on the first night of a new play, and yet here she was. Visiting the centuries old grave of a distant cousin.
She would like to think that she was driven strictly by courtesy – and curiosity – rather than the desire to avoid bumping into Mason backstage, or seeing him in his element. But if there was anything she’d learned over the course of the past year, it was that lying to herself did her no favors. Better to face the truth and deal with it. And the truth was that she was afraid that in watching Mason in action – rather than simply reading reviews and blog posts from rapturous fans – she might come to view him differently. As someone larger than life. And given how hard she’d worked to re-build her own self-esteem, to see herself as just as worthwhile as the next person, including Mason, well…
It was certainly cowardly of her, but if there’d been a suitable excuse to miss the play tonight without it being glaringly obvious as to why she was missing, she probably would have made it.
Pushing all that from her mind, Allie stepped carefully across the pine straw-and-cone covered ground, trying to avoid treading on graves or tripping over markers. The age of this cemetery being what it was, there wasn’t a distinct path for visitors to follow, let alone a paved road. The most recent burials had taken place in the nineteen-thirties, before the church had been struck by lightning for the second time – and subsequently abandoned. But there were graves dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. The oak trees which stretched their gnarled, moss-draped limbs over the headstones, like a mother hen protecting her chicks, had probably been mere saplings when Eugene Hawbaker was interred here.
Admit One (Sweetwater Book 2) Page 6
