Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  I shrugged. “I’ve heard that but I don’t know if it’s true. I never heard her mention him. Or Mom. Not that I recall.”

  Margaret nodded. “At any rate, Florence was where she met Bruna Faulk, the other Hawthorn Sister. Bruna Faulk’s mother was from a very prominent local family that made their money in lumber. The Coes.”

  Coe. I sat up straight, every hair on my body standing on end. Althea glanced at me.

  “How would’ve Ruth and Bruna met?” she asked Margaret. “They were worlds apart, in terms of class.”

  Margaret chuckled. “Well, this is where my imagination has taken over.” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve developed my own theory about that. Ruth was seventeen and alone in Florence, presumably. She would’ve been desperate for work, like everybody else during that time. Because Steadfast was a widower and quite elderly, I think she may have been hired for him by the family, either as a housekeeper or cook.”

  My breath whooshed out of me. If this was true, if Dove had worked for Steadfast Coe, she would’ve absolutely had the opportunity to kill the old man, giving at least a shred of credibility to the asshole’s claim. Dammit. I met Althea’s grave eyes briefly.

  Margaret was still talking. “. . . got started performing together at meetings, I can’t imagine. All I know for sure is that Steadfast Coe died in the summer of 1934 and right around the same time was the last appearance of the Hawthorn Sisters at the North Alabama State Fair.” Margaret pointed at the faded ad. “From all accounts, that’s because Dove—Ruth—left with Charles Jarrod.”

  “He poached her. Or they fell in love.” Althea glanced at me, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: Or Dove murdered Steadfast and had to get out of town, fast.

  “I’d bet on the poaching,” Margaret said. “The Hawthorn Sisters were wildly popular with folks. A big draw, from what I hear.”

  Griff peered around the camera, also directing his words to me. “Then wouldn’t Charles have advertised a former Hawthorn Sister as a new part of his show? But I’ve seen plenty of old bills they put up around the towns during that time, and Dove wasn’t listed on any of them. It wasn’t until ’35 that her name shows up with his on the bills.”

  Margaret spoke up again. “But the falling-in-love theory doesn’t hold up either. If Charles was just passing through town, they couldn’t have fallen in love that quickly. It just doesn’t make sense. She and Bruna could’ve had some sort of falling-out. Maybe over money.” She cocked her head to one side. “Even during the Depression, a lot of people gave whatever they had to evangelists who promised them God’s favor, so it’s entirely possible that the girls were making very good money.”

  “Maybe more on a good day than most folks saw in a year,” Griff said.

  “Makes no sense,” I said.

  Margaret laced her fingers and leaned forward, her eyes alight. “You have to understand, Eve. In those days, people like the Hawthorn Sisters offered people something of immense value, something more precious than gold.”

  “Hope,” Althea said.

  Margaret nodded. “Eve, you should understand that. Because of your work with the foundation.”

  “I get it, I do. But I don’t think Dove left because of a disagreement over money.” I leaned forward too, mirroring her. “Margaret, there’s something we’re not telling you.”

  She blinked at me.

  “There is a reason that we’ve recently learned about that might’ve forced Dove to leave Florence and the Hawthorn Sisters to go with Charles.”

  She sat very still, her hands twisted together, eyes fastened on mine.

  “Did you ever hear that Dove . . . that Ruth Davidson may have had anything to do with Steadfast Coe’s death? And that she might’ve possibly stolen a valuable coin from him?”

  Her eyes widened. Both hands rose, fluttering up to her chest. “Absolutely not. That’s horrendous.” She glanced from me to Griff to Althea. “Who would ever dare accuse Dove Jarrod, such a wonderful woman, of such a thing?”

  Griff hefted the camera behind us, his tone casual. “Just some gossip we got wind of. Gossip we hope to disprove.”

  She shook her head. “I warned you, Eve, didn’t I? To be careful. Wicked people always seek to destroy the Lord’s anointed.” She sent pleading looks from Althea to Griff, then back to me. “Who is it? Who’s saying those horrible things about her?”

  I smiled thinly. “The source is not important.”

  “Well, it’s slander, is what it is. Although . . .” She sat back, a faraway look in her eye.

  I leaned forward. “What is it? Is there something you remember?”

  “I did hear something about a coin. Not too long ago. Now, what was that story . . .” Her eyes lit up. “That’s right. I remember now. The Coe family heir, a young man up in Florence, is running for governor. He’s not Bruna’s grandson, but one of her brother’s, I believe. Anyway, the local news did a piece on him a while back, and he was showing the reporter around his house. I’m not sure, but I think it was actually Steadfast Coe’s former home.”

  My skin rose in goose bumps. If she was right about Dove working for Steadfast, it could’ve been Dove’s home too.

  “He gave the news crew full access, showed them every room, top to bottom. Which I thought was . . . bad form. The place is . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “Overdone, in my opinion, more new money than old. Anyway, if I remember correctly, there was a coin collection he was particularly proud of.”

  Althea, Griff, and I locked eyes. A coin collection. We’d actually stumbled on a lead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  Saturday morning Ruth had a full breakfast on the dining room table by the time Steadfast lumbered down the stairs. He hooked a suspender over his bent shoulder and eyed the table. It gleamed with china, crystal, and silver all laden with fried veal, oatmeal, poached eggs, and coffee.

  Steadfast studied the table and then sat, tucking the monogrammed napkin into his collar. He held up a delicate teacup printed with roses and let out a grunt. She hurried to his chair, poured coffee from a silver pot, and watched him slurp deeply.

  She beamed. “There was a little braised chicken left from the other night, but I thought you might prefer the veal.” She jumped up. “Oh, I plumb forgot.” She ran to the sideboard and fetched a sterling pitcher bursting with white lacy blooms that she’d cut from the hawthorn tree beside the front walk. She placed it in the center of the table and sat.

  “There we go.” She smiled.

  His face hardened and he went still.

  “Sir?”

  His eyes clouded, and his brows lowered, gathered like thunderclouds.

  “Shall I—” she began.

  Steadfast pushed back his chair and it clattered to the floor. Quick as a rabbit, she leapt out of hers. He lumbered out of the room and across the front hall. She stood a moment, waiting for what, she didn’t know exactly, but all remained quiet. She chewed at her cuticle. He’d looked angry, really angry. Could it be that the sight of a meal all laid out like that made him think of his long-lost wife?

  Then she filled with indignation. Steadfast Coe might not get out much, but he knew how folks were suffering. How dare he thumb his nose at a good hot meal when there were so many who went without? He was a monster, that’s what. More of a monster than Bug or Asloo or even that lion that had come close to tearing into her flesh for his breakfast.

  Steadfast was a coward and a bully, and it might’ve only been a week, but she’d just about gotten her fill of his nonsense.

  She huffed back to her place, reached over, took his plate, and heaped double portions of everything onto it. She topped off his coffee cup, good and black, and gulped it down. Then not bothering with a napkin, ate ferociously. She stopped only when the pitcher on the table exploded.

  The blast was not from the old .22. This one came from a shotgun. A veritable cannon, shredding the silver pitcher into ribbons with a deafening clang and filli
ng the air with a shower of white petals and shining water droplets. The pitcher hit the red marble mantel on the far side of the room and Ruth dropped off her chair. She didn’t scream. She just cowered under the table, holding on to a leg.

  When there was no subsequent shot, she crawled across the Persian rug, through the pantry, and into the kitchen. She ran out the back door, letting the screen door slam behind her, and hid in the elderberry bushes. Coe didn’t follow her out. In fact, the house remained so still, she began to worry.

  What was he doing in there? Was he pointing the gun at his head now, readying himself to pull the trigger a second time? What would become of her then? Surely Bruna and her family would blame her. Maybe even have her thrown in jail for not watching the old man.

  After about twenty minutes, she thought she could detect a series of muffled thumps from inside the house. Then all was quiet again. Should she risk going back? Maybe. When he escaped, he usually did so out the back, and there were enough obstacles—a shed, a clothesline, an old well, and the elderberries—that he never got too far. But if he made it out the front, he could easily make his way down the road, straight into town and all the way to the river.

  She crept from the bushes and skirted around the side of the house. She came to a dead stop when she saw him. His suspenders now hanging to his knees, Steadfast held an ax, the head of which was buried in the trunk of a tree just to the side of the walk. It was the hawthorn tree. The tree she’d plucked the blooms from and arranged in the pitcher.

  Steadfast adjusted his stance, ripped the ax free, and swung again. But it was awkward work. The tree was low to the ground, and although shrunken with age, the old man still stood at least six feet tall. Because of that, the ax kept missing its mark, glancing off branches and the trunk.

  Eventually he must’ve sensed her presence, because he turned and narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you have no mama?” he called out.

  Ruth felt herself flush hot and her scalp go tight. Now that she was close, the scent of the blossoms and the fresh-cut wood made her head hurt too.

  He let out a laugh that sputtered into a cough. “Don’t you know nothing, girl?”

  She came a few steps closer, keeping one eye on the ax. “About what, sir?”

  “You cut off blooms from one side of the tree and it’s all uneven. You can cut more, but then it’s wrong again, and you have to try again to make it right. You can’t just pick a couple of blossoms off a tree like that. It’s irresponsible! I used to tell that girl the same thing. Told her over and over, but she didn’t pay no mind either. It’s got to go!”

  He took another whack at the trunk, and Ruth covered her mouth to keep from protesting. It wasn’t her place, she knew, to keep a man from cutting down a tree on his own property, if that was what he took a mind to do, but the tree was large for a hawthorn and a sight to behold, covered in snowy white blooms. She felt sure Bruna’s mother would not be pleased.

  She needn’t have worried, though. On Steadfast’s final swing, the iron blade hit a knot and bounced back, hitting him square in the forehead. He dropped like a rag doll.

  Ruth screamed and ran to him.

  When she fell to her knees in the dirt beside him, she saw to her great relief that he hadn’t been knocked out after all. There was a lump all right, a great big egg-shaped protrusion that was already turning dark purple and a gash over that spilling blood into the crags and craters of his old face. But he was still clear-eyed, mumbling and struggling to stand.

  Ruth tried to get a look at his head, but he shooed her away.

  “It’s got to come down. You ain’t gonna stop me.”

  She backed away. Watched him struggle to his feet and pick up the ax. He turned so he was facing her. She stood there, breathing hard, and he remained as well, stooped and staring at her with his baleful, unblinking blue eyes, the head of his ax glinting in the sun. He looked like he was considering his options.

  And one of them might be murder.

  Ruth moved back. One step, two. Then she turned and ran.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Birmingham, Alabama

  Present

  I might’ve only had two and a half days to find the coin, but strangely, all I could think about as we pulled away from Margaret Luster’s house was more barbecue. Pulled, sliced, or falling off ribs—I didn’t care. I was starving, and I’d barely had an appetite yesterday. All I wanted now was to focus on something other than Dove and the missing coin. Classic Southern smoked meats seemed like a great alternative.

  “The best in Birmingham,” I said.

  Althea wheeled her car onto the highway. “Oh boy, you’ve been fully indoctrinated, haven’t you? That was quick.”

  “Challenge accepted.” Griff leaned between our seats. “What are we talking—Full Moon? Jim ’N Nick’s? Golden Rule? Because there’s wildly varying opinions on the matter. And when you say ‘the best’ are we talking the best ribs? Or the best sauce? Because sauce is a whole category unto itself. And then there’s coleslaw, okay. We haven’t even mentioned coleslaw.”

  As Althea merged into traffic, I relaxed into my seat. I was happy to be talking about something innocuous for the first time in twenty-four hours. And still. I couldn’t help but think about our visit with Margaret Luster. On our way out, she’d pressed a memory stick of all the Jarrod tapes into my hands. I’d given it to Griff.

  In downtown Birmingham, we ate at a place called Full Moon, then headed north on 43. Our destination was Florence, the city where the Hawthorn Sisters had begun and ended their short-lived ministry. And where Jason Faulk lived, Steadfast Coe’s only apparent descendant, nascent gubernatorial candidate, and possessor of one TV-worthy coin collection.

  In the back with his earbuds in, Griff tapped away on his laptop, loading the footage he’d gotten into the editing software. He’d offered to let me listen to Margaret Luster’s tapes of Charles and Dove, but I demurred. The thought of their voices—their secrets and lies folded into every syllable they spoke or sang—filling my ears right now made my skin crawl. I’d leave that part of our amateur investigation to Griff for the time being.

  “Okay, so what’s our play in Florence?” Althea asked. “We need to be careful. Jason Faulk’s running for office. He really could stand to benefit from recovering the coin—and solving the mystery surrounding his great-great-grandfather’s death. Setting himself up as hometown hero in order to sweep the election. He might be behind all this.”

  I took a breath and let it out slowly. “But he’s our only connection. I think we definitely pay him a visit but proceed with caution. Somehow—without giving anything away—we’ve got to confirm the coin is really from his collection and try to get an idea of where it might be.”

  “On the other hand, if he’s not involved, he may be willing to help us find it.”

  “Possibly. He also may help us set up an elaborate sting to nail the guy for extortion. All the while keeping the whole operation completely under wraps.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Sure. No big deal.”

  “No big deal whatsoever.” I sighed and stared out the window.

  Griff leaned forward, one earbud dangling. “Hey, fun fact. Did you know that during the Great Depression when the banks were failing, a lot of folks hid their money and valuables in their houses? Mattresses, doors, false cabinets, and loose floorboards. And the old standby, some of them buried their stuff in a hole in the backyard.”

  “Makes sense,” Althea said.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and I shivered involuntarily. “Dove was young and didn’t have many resources. Odds are, if she did steal the coin, and she did really live in the Coe house, she could have easily hid it there, where she knew it’d be safe.”

  “If so, I’m sure the Coes have already turned that house upside down,” I said.

  “Couldn’t hurt to try one more time.” He popped his earbud in again and sat back.

  I glanced at Althea
. “You know, Griff and I can handle this. You can head home. I won’t mind. And I’m sure your family is missing you.”

  She tucked a dark curl behind her ear and snorted. “Listen. Jay’s practically giddy to have a couple of days where he can give the kids Hot Pockets, park them in front of his iPad, and watch all the ESPN he wants. He’s always on me for not being social enough, for never doing any girls’ trips. He says I think I’m human bubble wrap that’s going to keep the kids from shattering. And that it’s going to backfire on me one day.”

  “You’re a great mom,” I said. “That’s obvious.”

  She gave me a wry smile. “Honestly, I’m not. I’m a slightly better than mediocre, highly obsessive mom. I’m just messed up enough from not having a mother that I try to make up for it with my own kids.” She gripped the steering wheel resolutely.

  “Not much of a girls’ trip,” I said.

  Althea drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “This is way more fun than lying on the beach with a virgin mai tai and listening to women talk about The Bachelor. I mean . . .” She draped an arm across the seat and tilted her head in Griff’s direction. “If you think about it, we actually have our own real-life bachelor right there in the back seat. No disrespect to my own darling, sexy husband, but if you ask me, that dude’s on the entirely wrong end of the camera.”

  I snuck a look back at Griff. Earbuds still in and eyes locked on his laptop, he swayed in time with whatever he was listening to. Maybe Margaret Luster’s tapes. Whatever it was, he had the look of someone utterly enthralled and inspired by his work. I had to admit, it was ridiculously sexy.

  “He likes you,” Althea said, dropping her voice even more. “You know that, right?”

  “He’s a really talented director. We work well together.”

  She raised one dark eyebrow. “You’re all business, Eve, aren’t you?”

  “Somebody in this outfit’s got to keep their feet on the ground.”