“If Raiford Stripling hadn't insisted that we move that blamed tree, no one would have gotten any ideas about using the roots as a hiding place, and Charlie wouldn't have been killed.” He stopped to sip his coffee, then signaled the waitress for a warm-up.
“Yep,” he continued. “Moving that anacua tree to the front of Mission Espiritu Santo was a good thing for the park, but it sure caused problems for some of us.”
Like the rest of the men who gathered at the diner every morning, Paul was an older man. He had lived in Goliad since 1935, when he came to work with the Civilian Conservation Corps at what would become the Goliad State Park.
“Charlie, Joseph and I had already been here for a few weeks, helping to build the cottages for the company. With the rest of the early group, we built 40 six-man barracks-style cottages. Once the rest of CCC Company 3822 (V) arrived, we added nine more, larger buildings that housed various shops and such, including a wood shop and a metal shop. The three of us shared one of the first cottages, and then Thom, Willy, and Jimmy joined us.”
He thanked the waitress who refilled his coffee mug before continuing the familiar story. “From the beginning, we got along pretty well. In fact, as far as the rest of us knew, we were getting along pretty good at the end, too. Finding out that one of us killed Charlie and planned the same for the rest of us was beyond unexpected.”
Later that evening, as he and Gracie, his wife of thirty years enjoyed each other's company after supper, Paul's thoughts returned to those weeks in 1935. He always started the story off the same way, but he and Gracie both knew that the tree had nothing to do with the murder of their friend. After all, the two of them solved the case. It made for a good story, though.
1935
Paul and Charlie had been best friends forever. They lived next door to one another, and their parents were also best friends. The friendship turned even closer after Paul's parents died suddenly. The Grahams took him into their home and their family, and the boys became brothers in everything but blood. From that point, they did just about everything together – they played baseball together, they double-dated through high school, they graduated together, and they enlisted in the Army together, two days after graduation. They were even sent to Germany with the same company during the Great War, and now they had been sent together to the work with the CCC on Project #SP-43 in south Texas.
“Whew! I don't think I'll ever get used to this heat and humidity,” Charlie said, wiping his face with a bandanna. “Satan must have annexed South Texas; it's sure hotter here than anything I can ever remember back home in Indiana!”
“No kidding!” Paul replied. “I put my cold coffee on the wall over there this morning, and I swear it boiled over in about 10 minutes! It's a lot drier than the war trenches, though, so that's something.”
Joseph Brossard, one of their tent mates, agreed. “Yeah, we may be back sleeping in a tent again, at least until we finish the cottages, but we're not snuggling up with the mud this time. And I got a letter from home yesterday. Ma said that the temperature at Collegeville was over 115 last week, so I guess it wouldn't be all that much better back in Indiana, after all.”
Before long, the initial construction of camp housing was complete, and, in August, the company settled into their work, including building a custodian's complex as a test of the methods they would soon use to reconstruct Mission Espiritu Santo.
“I don't know about you guys,” Paul commented one evening, as the men gathered outside their cottage, “but I'm glad we finally finished moving that tree. That turned into a monster project!”
“Yeah,” Thom Wilson agreed, his blue eyes dancing with humor. “How many men did Stirling finally pull in? For a while, I thought he was going to assign every single man in the company to digging that anacua up!”
The others laughed. “It was a big undertaking,” said Wilhelm “Willy” Weber, their Bavarian cabin mate. “That ball of dirt around the roots ended up about 18 feet across. It was huge!”
“And it took every piece of moving equipment on site,” Joey chimed in. “And, as soon as we got it all dug up, Stirling had us putting it back in the ground just a few feet away. Talk about a waste of time and energy!”
“Woo-ee, look at you,” Charlie called out as the screen door on the cottage slammed shut. “You do clean up pretty, don't you?”
Jimmy Cook shot Charlie a dirty look. Paul spoke quickly, hoping to ward off an argument between the tired men. “Got big plans for the evening, Jimmy?”
The other man preened a bit. “I'm heading for the box supper social at the Baptist church. I'm gonna get me a nice, home-cooked supper and then an extra bit of dessert,” he said.
“Geeze, man,” Charlie spat out, clearly disgusted. “You're talking about innocent, good girls, at the church, for criminy sake! They are floozies meeting you at some trashy speakeasy. Have some respect.”
Thom spoke up to add, “Yeah, and you'd better be careful what you say and where you say it. Those girls' boyfriends, brothers, or fathers hear you making cracks like that, you might end up with some broken bones or worse.”
“Paulie,” Jimmy responded in confusion. “What are they talking about?”
“Gentlemen, I believe we have a bit of a misunderstanding here.” Paul knew Jimmy's plans, and he had to struggle to keep from laughing. “Jimmy, tell them all of your plans.”
“I'm going to the Baptist box supper,” Jimmy said, “and then I'm going to the Methodist ice cream social. I'm hoping for some fried chicken, potato salad, and homemade biscuits, maybe some buttermilk pie. And I heard that the Marsh sisters are making strawberry ice cream over to the Methodist church. That's my favorite. What did you guys think I was talking about?”
“See, boys?” Paul laughed. “Jimmy's talking about ice cream. You should be ashamed for what you were thinking; you must have confused Jimmy with Joey!”
About then, Jimmy realized what they had been talking about. “I can't believe you think I'd act anything like Joseph Brossard around women. You know I always treat ladies with the respect they deserve.” He shook his head. “Meh, I've got no time for you,” Jimmy said. “There's good food and good company to enjoy, instead of spending time with you goofs!” He strolled away from the others.
Paul shook his head. “Poor Jimmy; he's not quite naive, but he's almost too clean and innocent for his own good. I can't believe you thought he was talking about women when he mentioned extra dessert. Joey, though? That man is something else. Gracie...Miss Wells, the grammar teacher, told me that he keeps bothering a couple of the other teachers, even after they've told him that they aren't interested in stepping out with him. She called him 'an oily weasel,' and she was pretty angry when she said it.”
“Gracie, huh?” Charlie winked. “She's the teacher helping out with the camp newspaper, too, isn't she? I wondered about your sudden interest in journalism, but now it begins to make more sense.”
Paul threw a wood chunk at his friend. “That's enough of that. I've noticed you spending an awful lot of time with that pretty arithmetic teacher lately, so I don't think you've got room to talk.” He stood and stretched. “I need to write a letter to send home; I'll meet you in class in a bit.”
Laughing, Charlie said, “I'm going to head over there now. There's a lot of work left on the newspaper, and it should be pretty quiet around there now. I'll see you later.”
“If you don't mind,” Willy said, “I will walk with you, as well. I need to check the wood and metal shops to make sure things are ready for tomorrow's work.”
“Sure, come on,” Charlie replied, and the men left, talking quietly as they walked.
3
“Norah, what have you been up to?” After a hug, Ben held me at arm's length and eyed me with concern. “You look exhausted!”
“Well, thanks for that,” I laughed. “That's exactly what a girl wants to hear. For what it's worth, you look great!”
“Oh, stop!” he waved his hand at me. “You know you always
look good to me. But, seriously, you do look really tired. Are you having trouble sleeping because of your grandfather?”
“No,” I replied. “Well, not directly. I finished reading the journals last night, and I started writing. I was only planning to knock out a rough outline before bed and then start again this morning. After I had that, though, my brain wouldn't shut down. The words just started pouring out; I couldn't stop. It's never been that easy to get words on the page. I didn't stop until almost 5 o'clock. I finally slept a couple of hours then, but I am dreaming the next chapter the whole time. I have most of five chapters drafted already, and I have a pretty good idea of what comes next.”
“That's great!” Ben exclaimed. “I mean, it's not good that you didn't sleep, but it's terrific that the writing's good. I knew you could write it, if you decided you wanted to, but I'm glad to hear that it isn't turning into a major struggle.”
“¿Qué tal?” a voice interrupted our conversation. I looked up to see Lydia, the diner's long-time waitress, standing next to our table. “Y'all haven't been in for a while. I was beginning to think you didn't love us anymore!”
“Well,” Ben said, winking at the older woman, “it was close; Norah offers you some pretty stiff competition, but I just couldn't resist your charms, Lydia!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she snickered. “More like Sam's pot roast.” She ruffled Ben's hair, like she did her grandson's, and then she turned to me. “Norah, hon, I was so sorry to hear about Pete. What can Sam and I do to help you through this time?”
“Thank you, Lydia,” I said, my voice catching a little. “I'm doing okay. I mean, it's still hard to think about not being able to talk to Poppaw whenever I have something to share, but so many people have loved on Mommaw and me. All the great stories they've told have made it so easy to remember the good times that there hasn't been that much time to dwell on losing him. I do miss him terribly, though.”
“Of course you do, darling,” Lydia said, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Pete and Dot raised you like they did their own kids, so it's going to be hard. And I'll tell you the truth – those people who say that time heals the wound don't know what they are talking about. You will feel the hurt of losing Pete all your life – but, in time, it will be more like a tender place, a bruise, and less like a stab wound, and you'll go through your day without feeling like someone is stomping on your heart. You're a strong woman, Norah, and you know that you only have to ask for any help we can offer.”
She blinked back the tears that filled her eyes and said, “Now, enough mushy talk. What sounds good for supper tonight? Ben, Sam had that barbecue meatloaf you like for the lunch special today, and I know there's some left over.”
“Ooh, yeah!” Ben groaned. “I love Sam's meatloaf. I think I'll have a meatloaf sandwich, fries, and a side salad with ranch dressing. Any pecan pie left?”
“Yep,” Lydia nodded. “I put a piece back when I saw the two of you come in; you're nothing if not predictable about your pie.” She rolled her eyes and then looked at me.
“I want a super salad with your famous balsamic Caesar ranch dressing,” I told her. “And I want a piece of coconut cream pie to take home for later.”
“You must be hungry,” Lydia said. “That salad isn't for delicate, bunny-food nibblers. I'll be right back with iced tea for both of you, and Sam wants you to taste-test a new appetizer for him.” She wasn't kidding about the salad. It came in a small mixing bowl. Sam tossed in mixed greens, grape tomatoes, red onions, bell peppers, radishes, celery, and banana peppers. He chopped it all together and then topped it with diced roast beef, diced grilled chicken, chopped eggs, shredded Colby-Jack cheese, crumbled blue cheese, crumbled bacon, and homemade sourdough croutons. It could easily feed two as a main course, and a family would have plenty if it was served as a side. Lydia combined homemade Caesar dressing, homemade ranch dressing, and a splash of balsamic vinegar to make the perfect dressing to finish it off.
Ben told me about the conference he'd attended while we waited for our drinks. It wasn't long before Lydia came back with two quart-sized Mason jars of iced tea and a plate of something that smelled delicious.
“Is that pimiento cheese?” Ben asked, looking at the golden spirals she placed on the table.
“Yes, indeed,” she responded. “We're needing something new for the ladies book club – or, rather, the gossip gathering. They've been coming here every week for long enough that they're getting tired of everything we already offer. Sam spread his special pimiento cheese spread on crescent rolls and baked them up. Oh, by the way – don't you dare tell anyone he used canned rolls for these!” She laughed and pushed the plate toward Ben.
We both picked up a roll and tasted. “Oh, my gosh,” I said. “Wow! Those are fantastic!”
Ben nodded in agreement. “How can something so homey and simple taste so fancy?”
Lydia's face beamed. “That's just what I said! That flaky dough around plain country cheese spread makes it seem special, right?”
“That isn't 'plain country cheese spread,' though,” I said. “There's something more than grated cheese, pimientos, and mayonnaise in there. It's got a kick to it – not too much, but it surprises you.”
“Well, Sam usually makes his spread with chopped green olives, along with the pimientos. He substituted a bit of chopped jalapeño instead and added some cream cheese and sour cream to make it a little smoother. He's got another version in the kitchen that he also added cayenne to; I told him he couldn't serve that to those little old ladies, or they might die right here!”
“Well, you can tell him that he has a hit,” I told her. She smiled and headed back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she delivered our food, refilled our tea glasses, and left us to enjoy our meal.
For a few minutes, we didn't say anything; the food was too good, and we were both hungry. Eventually, the edge of hunger satisfied, Ben asked, “So, tell me about the book. What have you learned so far?”
“The journals are unbelievable,” I told him. “Paul and Grace, my great-grandparents, both had a gift for story-telling that shines through in them. They managed to make the day-to-day details of their lives interesting, which kind of surprised me. But, then there's the story of their friend's murder and an account of how they discovered who killed him and why. I think I could add a title and publish them as they are, without any changes, and anyone who likes history would want them.”
“Is that what you're doing, then? I mean, just retelling the story as is?” Ben asked.
“No,” I shook my head. “After I read them, I thought about it, but it didn't feel right, somehow. I decided that I'm going to base my novel on their story, but I'm adding another suspect, giving a couple of them a different motive, and changing the murderer – you know, the old 'names were changed to protect the innocent' thing. I'm keeping enough about the other suspects to be able to use a lot of my great-grands' investigation, so I'm still telling their story, too, like Mommaw Dot wanted me to do.”
Ben hesitated, seeming to debate whether to say what he was thinking. Finally, he asked, “And how about her plan? Is the writing helping you handle Pete's death and Mariette's part in it yet?”
I ducked my head for a minute. “Honestly? I have been distracted, so I didn't think about her much for most of the night or today, but I can't say I feel any closer to forgiving her. I keep telling myself that Poppaw might have had the heart attack anyway, even without the exertion and stress, but my heart won't accept that yet. I am trying, Ben, I really am!” My voice broke as tears filled my eyes.
“I know, Norah, I know. And I understand, really,” he said. “I wasn't judging you, I promise. I wondered if it was helping the way Dot thought it might. I shouldn't have asked; I'm sorry!”
“No,” I shook my head. “It was a fair question, and I knew that's what you meant. I feel like I'm letting my grandparents down. They always taught me how important it is to forgive people who hurt you, but I can't just pretend like Mariette did
nothing wrong; I'm not okay with her getting away with bad behavior that contributed to losing my grandfather.”
Ben took my hand. “But, Norah, forgiveness doesn't say, 'Everything's fine. We'll just forget anything happened.' It's not about denying the actions of the other person. Forgiveness is about saying, 'You hurt me, but I will not dwell in the hurt or the anger that caused. I will not let your actions control my emotions. I choose to let it go and move away from it.' It also doesn't mean that the other person doesn't face the consequences of their actions.”
He paused. “Think of it this way. Remember when we got caught skipping school when we were in seventh grade?” I nodded, and he went on, “Did your grandparents forgive you?”
“Of course,” I snapped. “They were disappointed, but they forgave me.”
“Did they let you off the hook for breaking the rules?” His mouth turned up just a little, knowing what I was going to have to say.
I sighed. “No, they grounded me for a month, and they made us both spend every afternoon doing extra assignments for that whole time.”
I raised my hand as he started to speak again. “Okay, I get what you are saying, and my head understands all of that. My heart just isn't ready to accept it yet. I guess I'm not as good a person, as strong, as Mommaw and Lydia think. I hate that I'm letting them down.”
“Sure you are,” Ben said softly. “You are remarkably strong, and you have a kind, loving heart. You are also completely human, and that means that forgiving Mariette is hard. It may also mean that forgiving her will be an on-going process that you have to do many times before it 'sticks.' Finally, it also means that you need to give yourself a break. You aren't letting anyone down, either. If you ask her, I'll bet your grandmother will tell you that she isn't finding it easy to forgive, either. The only disappointment would be if you weren't trying.”
Murder at the Mission Page 2
