John brought Lindsay a loaded plate of food and set it in front of her. “Try to eat something.”
Lindsay nodded. She was trying to hold Claire’s death to the back of her mind, but there was only so much that would fit there. Lewis, Phil McBride, and Alex Jarman sat down with her and John. They were laughing.
“You should have seen this, Lindsay. Alex took Phil’s picture and . . . ,” began Lewis.
There it was again, the tickle in her brain. This time it slowed down so she could grab it.
“That’s it. I know what at least one of the documents is. Erin . . .” Lindsay called over to the next table where Erin had just sat down with Adam.
“What?” asked Lewis.
“Something you said.”
Erin hopped up and came over. “What’s up?”
“Did your great-aunt Susan speak French?”
“Yes, it was one of the things she taught.”
“Sit down a second. I think I know what one of her missing documents is about.”
“You do?” She pulled a chair over and sat down on the edge of the seat.
“What did I say?” Lewis asked.
“It’s been running through my brain for a couple of days. People have been saying these phrases that sound like something vaguely familiar, and it just now came into focus.”
“What do you mean?” asked John.
“First the photographer said, ‘Alex took all my bills’; then Lewis said, ‘Alex’s going to pack up’; and just now Lewis said, ‘Alex took Phil’s picture.’”
“I’m afraid I don’t see,” said Lewis.
Alex Jarman laughed. “Have I done something?”
“Coincidence of name.” She explained briefly to Jarman about the missing documents. “The only thing Erin and her relatives remember are the names Turkeyville . . .”
“That was me,” said Erin. “I remember something about that name when I was a kid.”
“. . . and Beau. And Erin remembers her aunt reading from a document about a man sick in a log cabin during a blizzard with wind blowing through the cracks in the logs. Get it?”
“Not in the least,” said Lewis.
“In 1831 the Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville and his friend Gustave de Beaumont traveled through the eastern United States writing about their observations on American democracy. They arrived in Tennessee in December during one of the harshest winters in history. Alexis de Tocqueville took ill in Sandy Bridge, and they were forced to stay at an inn built of logs. He and Beaumont were miserable because the spaces in the logs were so wide that the wind blew through.”
Erin clapped her hands. “That’s it.” She hugged Lindsay. “I don’t believe you figured it out.”
“It’s just a matter of having studied about Alexis de Tocqueville. I believe the document was a letter in French written by de Tocqueville, or Beaumont.”
“I can’t wait to tell Mom and Uncle Alfred.” Before Erin could jump up and head for the house, Lindsay grabbed her arm. “Wait until you see them face to face.”
“Why? Oh. Okay.” She bounced back to her seat beside Adam.
“Okay, how about me? How do I fit in?” asked Jarman.
“Your first name is Alex, and people kept saying phrases that vaguely rhymed with Alexis de Tocqueville—at least, enough to set my brain to going.”
“Dr. Chamberlain,” said Jarman, “you have a strange brain.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” said Lewis.
Eric Van Horne collects postrevolutionary documents? How tempting would a de Tocqueville letter be to a collector?
Lindsay felt a bit of comfort that her brain was functioning at a reasonably normal level. Apparently, so did John, for he slipped his arm around her waist and hugged her to him and kissed her cheek, unusual behavior for either of them. Lindsay and John seldom expressed affection in public. One of the things for which they were well matched. John must be deeply worried, she thought.
“Hi, guys. Guess what I have?” Elaine McBride stood beaming, clutching a package to her breast.
“You were right, Lindsay. Hope Foute had an older sister, Charity—called Cherry. Her full name was Charity Belle Redmond. Her married name was Warfield.”
Elaine sat down in the chair Lewis offered, while McBride went to get his wife a plate of food.
“Whew, I’m tired. It’s been quite a trip.”
Lindsay introduced her to John and Alex Jarman. She unwrapped two diaries. They looked very much like the one in the library, leather bound, dark cream pages, neat handwriting in brown ink.
“My sister’s husband has a friend who has a client who knows about old documents. He came with us. The people turned out to be very nice. Not sharks at all.”
“Did you purchase the diaries?” asked Lewis.
“Yes.” She made a face.
“Don’t tell me the damage now,” said her husband, setting down a plate of food. “Let me enjoy my meal.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss.
“They had these two journals of hers, and I think there were only three altogether. That’s the sense I get from reading them. The one at the library is in between these two. They cover kind of like her young, middle and elderly years. The ones I got in Virginia are the young and elderly.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” said Lindsay. “What do they say?”
“Keep in mind that Hope Foute was born after her parents built the house in 1775. The journal entries about the early part of her life are partly constructed from her memory years later and partly from others’ recollections.
“The story starts in Pennsylvania with a man named Sheldon Warfield. I believe he was a man in search of a kingdom. He should have been in the history books here, but I’d never heard of him. Warfield was in politics in Pennsylvania, and I get the idea that things weren’t going well for him, or at least not the way he wanted, so he came down to North Carolina, South Carolina, then to Tennessee. He was among the first settlers in this part of the mountains, especially the first settlers with money. He set up a trading post and built a house close to what’s now Sevierville and went in with mining, smelting, and sawmill ventures. Hope remembered a lot of the pretty things he and his wife had in their house when her parents took her visiting.”
Elaine stopped to peel some shrimp and take a bite of her corn. As people finished eating, many drifted out to the dance floor and the music got louder. A few, Marina, Drew, and her husband, came and sat down with Lindsay’s group.
“Elaine has Hope Foute’s other diaries,” said Lewis. “She was just telling us about them.”
Elaine wiped her hands on one of the pile of napkins and shook their hands. “I remember you,” she said to Drew. “Good to see you again.”
Drew apologized for the way Claire had treated Elaine. Lindsay almost said something, but she felt John’s arm tighten around her waist as he pulled her and her chair closer to him. Lewis looked impassive, under hooded eyes. She’d seen that look before—at faculty meetings. Elaine took a drink of tea and continued her story.
“When Warfield came down, he brought several families with him, not only from Pennsylvania, but also from Ohio and North and South Carolina—handpicked families who could build the kind of community he had a vision for.” She stopped and grinned at Lindsay. “This is one of the best parts.”
Lindsay smiled back, willing herself not to look at Drew and her husband, thankful for the dim light.
“I can’t wait.”
“Yes, dear. You have our attention,” Phil said. Elaine opened her mouth to speak.
“Did you get a good buy on the diaries?” asked Eric Van Horne, picking one up and looking through it. “You really need to keep these wrapped.”
John had a hand on Lindsay’s shoulder, and she felt him squeeze. But the warning didn’t work. Lindsay, on bad days, and this was a very bad day, believed in using negative reinforcement to control rude behavior.
“Oh, I meant to tell you, Drew, the Tidwells have had some good luck. One
of the documents missing from their aunt’s collection has been identified as a letter from Alexis de Tocqueville’s visit to Tennessee, describing his illness.”
Lindsay wished she had a camera at that moment. The reaction was brief, only a second. But the Van Hornes were clearly stunned. So, thought Lindsay, try to sell something like that now—or even show it to anyone.
Lewis looked at her from under a pair of knitted eyebrows. But she could tell he was amused. Lindsay had thought Jarman was probably clueless about what was going on, but he appeared not to be in the dark, the way he looked at the Van Hornes’ faces. When Lewis had asked the reservists to keep an eye on her, he must have explained to Jarman parts of what was going on.
“So . . .” Drew cleared her throat. “So, there were documents, then?”
“Yes, It turns out that Miss Tidwell may have hidden a photo album of her documents among her things.” Lindsay was not above lying to people she believed to be murderers.
“That was smart of her,” said Drew.
“But I apologize, Elaine. Please, go on with the story. You have me on pins and needles.” Lindsay squeezed John’s leg, and he squeezed her shoulder again—private communication. She was glad he was here.
Elaine looked over at Lindsay and cocked an eyebrow and gave her a hint of a smile before she continued.
“Two families in the Warfield party are of particular interest. One is a farmer and lay preacher named Garrett Redmond and his wife, Prudence, from Ohio. The Redmonds were to have three daughters, Faith, Hope, and Charity, the oldest of whom was Charity.”
Phil McBride clapped his hands. “Beautiful. And who is the other family?”
This time Eric Van Horne, a man Lindsay guessed liked to be the center of attention, kept quiet.
“A man from North Carolina by the name of Brodie MacIntyre, his wife, Erlina . . .” She paused dramatically. “And their daughter Eda Mae.”
“Elaine,” said Lindsay, “you found them.”
“I found historical documents, but you found Cherry—literally.”
“Have you read both diaries?” asked Marina.
“On the way to the airport and on the airplane. Fortunately, Hope Foute had very neat handwriting, and it’s easy reading.”
“How do the Warfield, Redmond, and MacIntyre families connect to the site?” asked Lindsay. “And do you know who wrote the loft poems?”
“Yes, I know who wrote the loft poems.”
Chapter 38
Young Love
“ARE WE GOING to have to drag this out of you a line at a time?” Phil McBride asked his wife.
“Just enjoying my dramatic pauses. The MacIntyres and the Redmonds homesteaded land in the cove. Garrett Redmond and his wife built the first pen of our log house in 1775. The parents slept downstairs, and the three girls slept together up in the loft. Charity and Faith on each side, Hope in the middle. Both the Redmonds could read and write, and they taught their daughters. They wanted them to be able to read the Bible. On bright nights, when the moon was at an angle to shine in the window, Faith liked to take a nail and scratch poems on the floor on her side of the bed.”
“So, Faith Redmond wrote the poems,” whispered Lindsay. Elaine nodded.
“Please, honey, don’t wait for an invitation,” said McBride. “We’ve been waiting to hear about this.”
“The Redmond household was a happy one. Hope stayed mostly around her mother or Cherry. Cherry Belle, as her father called her, was petite and pretty like her mother . . . and outgoing. She apparently loved the mountains and streams and was fearless in the woods. She would sometimes take Hope with her berry hunting. Cherry preferred to go off walking in the woods and watch wildlife rather than help her mother.”
“Ah,” said Lindsay. “‘Cherry gone a looking, not at home a cooking.’”
“We got that wrong,” said Marina. “We thought the poem was talking about a love interest for her.”
“Don’t jump ahead.” Elaine grinned. “Faith was left to do the chores, and she resented it. Unfortunately, according to Hope’s diary, ‘Faith bore more a likeness in complexion and figure to our ruddy robust father than our fair delicate mother.’”
“Oh, no,” said Marina, “homely, and forced to do the chores.”
“Yes, and that plays a part in what eventually transpires. From the time Charity was a little girl, she had made trips with her father to the Warfield trading post for supplies. Sheldon Warfield had an only son named Nathan who clerked for him. Nathan was just three years older than Charity, and over the years of seeing each other, he and Charity fell in love.
“Then, in about 1782, a tragedy occurred. The girls’ parents had a fatal accident while visiting neighbors deep in the cove. When her parents died, Charity and Nathan married and he went to live on the farmstead with her and her sisters. Hope was only five at the time, Faith was twelve, Charity was sixteen, and Nathan Warfield was nineteen. Now, Charity and Nathan slept downstairs and Hope and Faith slept upstairs.”
“Where were the parents buried?” asked Lewis. “There’s only one grave in the farmstead cemetery.”
“There’s no mention of that,” said Elaine. “There could have been another church with a cemetery somewhere in the cove.”
“Then, is Nathan Warfield the one buried in our cemetery?” asked Marina.
“Chances are, he is,” said Elaine. “Nathan Warfield was a good hunter and provider for Charity and her sisters, by all accounts. On one of his hunting trips he came down with what I believe was appendicitis.” She turned to her husband, who sat leaning on the table with his palm propping up his head. “You can look at the symptoms, hon, and see what you think—fever, vomiting, pain in the right side.”
“That sounds like a reasonable diagnosis.”
“He was brought home by a relatively new friend, a surveyor named William Kinkead who had been hired by the brand-new State of Franklin.”
Marina jumped up and whooped. “Yes! We got him here on the premises with his bone-handled knife, hinged compass, and belt buckle with the initials W. K. Not to mention a bullet hole in the head.”
“You do!” said Elaine. “You found him, too?”
“Under the first lead coffin,” Lewis told her.
“I take it Nathan died?” said Eric Van Horne.
“Yes, and his father, Sheldon Warfield, was devastated. Hope says in the diary that it frightened her the way he carried on at the funeral. His son was not just his son, but his heir to the dynasty he wanted to build. The really sad thing is that Cherry was pregnant, and now she was alone with her two young sisters on a farmstead in the middle of the wilderness.”
“Her skeleton indicates she bore a child,” Lindsay commented.
One of Mrs. Laurens’ daughters came around offering more pie. All of them gladly helped themselves to another piece.
“I love key lime pie,” said Elaine. She took several bites before she continued. “I’m going to catch us up on Eda Mae MacIntyre. Her and Faith’s families were neighbors in the cove. She and Faith were friends—about the same age. When the surveyor came to the cove, both girls got a crush on him. Eda Mae even sneaked out to see him, telling her parents she was visiting Faith. She swore Faith to secrecy, but wouldn’t tell her where she was going.”
“‘Eda Mae, gone all day, wouldn’t say, which a way,”’ Phil McBride quoted.
“That’s what I figure,” agreed Elaine.
“Charity’s husband, Nathan, died in the summer. The baby was born in the dead of winter. Eda Mae’s mother, Erlina MacIntyre, delivered it—a little boy, and naturally Charity’s father-in-law was very happy that he had a new heir. Charity and her sisters were getting along fairly well—the neighbors helped, of course. William Kinkead did some hunting and chopped wood for Charity and the girls. The Indians . . .” Elaine stopped and looked at John.
“You don’t mind if I call them Indians, do you?”
“No. Like the man said, I’m just grateful Columbus wasn’t looking for
Turkey.”
Elaine broke up giggling. Jarman had to think for a moment before he broke out laughing. The others laughed out loud, except for Drew and her husband, who only smiled.
They look worried, thought Lindsay. Good. I hope I worry them.
“Anyway,” continued Elaine. “The Cherokee brought them dried pumpkin and fur to last through the winter. Hope wrote their names—Catahe and Ewaynah.”
Another incident of the kindness of the Indians helping the settlers through the winter, thought Lindsay.
“On one trip, they brought her a doll carved from wood and dressed in leather. It was a happy moment in a very frightening time for her as a five-year-old girl, and she remembered it always. Over fifty years later, during the forced removal of the Indians in the years around 1838, she wrote in her diary that she remembered the kindness of the Indians to her and her sisters when they were little girls, and she and her husband, much to the anger of some of the cove folk, spoke against forcing the Indians to leave. She, her husband, and a few of the other residents of the cove sneaked food to the Indians hiding in the mountains. A little Indian girl touched her heart, she said, and Hope gave her the doll she had kept and treasured all those years. Hope Foute seemed like a very nice lady.”
“What happened to Charity?” asked Marina.
“According to her diary, Hope didn’t know. Charity just disappeared. Hope remembered the day Charity’s baby died. That was in March. Charity’s father-in-law, Sheldon Warfield, came to see to things. The death of the baby, his last living heir, devastated him all over again. She remembers there was a lot of commotion, with lots of people around for a while, but after the baby died, and Mr. Warfield and the other people came, she never saw Charity or William Kinkead again. Some folks thought they left together.
“According to what she wrote years later, she asked the adults where Charity was, but she was just a child and no one would tell her anything. Faith was apparently just as upset as she was and couldn’t tell her anything, either. Hope didn’t remember much more about that time. She wrote that she had nightmares and thought she saw a ghost running in the woods outside her window in a flowing white dress. She was only seven at the time and was terrified. Faith carried her to the MacIntyres, who took both of them in and raised them.”
Airtight Case Page 36
