“That’s not the end, is it?” asked Jarman. “After all that?”
“Most of that was in the first diary. In the second diary, as we know, she writes about the Gallowses and their neighbors. In the third diary she writes about her sister’s death, and about her life with her husband. I tell you, you get a span of a whole lifetime reading the diaries. I really cried when I read some of the passages. She writes better than I tell it.”
“Did she write any more about what happened to her sister Charity?” asked Lindsay.
“Not exactly. If anyone knew, no one ever told her. But there was a curious entry. Let me read it.” She pulled a pair of white gloves from her purse and opened the diary.
“‘Faith is fading from me, going to God. I think she’ll be happy in his bosom. She found no serenity here on earth, except, bless their souls, in my children, their children, and their children.’” Elaine turned the page. “‘In the end, she lay in the pillows like she was lying in clouds, like an angel with skin as thin and pale as the skin of a pearl onion. She told Robert and Melanie’ . . . Those were her great grandchildren,” said Elaine, “‘. . . to never give in to envy and covetousness.’
“‘When she and I were alone in the room, I thought peace would come like a dove, but it did not. She looked at me with her clouded blind eyes—seeing with clarity something, I was sure. “Forgive me, Hope and Charity. I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know . . . poor Eda Mae . . .”’
“‘I’d not heard Eda Mae’s name for many a year. Eda Mae . . . When we lived with her family, an evil came upon her, provoking her to awaken in the night screaming. Her poor parents would rush up the loft steps to Eda Mae’s bed and shake her awake. In the morning her face would be swollen and red. Once I saw the mark of a hand, like the devil’s thumb on her smooth plump jaw. At first, Eda Mae’s good people thought we were to blame . . . but the same evil happened when she stayed with a neighbor. They brought her back and told her parents to keep her away from them, she was done possessed of the devil. Cruel people.’
“‘Now after all these years, I’m reminded of her. “Please,” my sister said to me, “Will God forgive me and Eda Mae? We didn’t understand . . . but we should have . . .” She passed before I could tell her God always forgives. I didn’t ponder what it meant. I reckoned to find out soon enough.’”
“That’s full of possibilities,” said Marina. “What do you think, Lindsay?”
Lindsay hesitated a long moment, aware that all eyes were on her.
“Guilt, it sounds like,” said Phil McBride. “Deep guilt.”
“Was it Faith really slapping Eda Mae, you think?” Marina mashed her fork on the graham-cracker pie crust, bringing the crumbs to her mouth.
“No,” said Lindsay, “Eda Mae was doing it to herself. Like Phil said, it’s all about guilt.” Her gaze rested on Drew and her husband.
“How do you know she was doing it to herself?” asked Jarman.
“It happened when she was at home with only her parents. It happened when she slept with Faith and Hope, and it happened when she stayed with neighbors. The only person present at all those times was Eda Mae herself. And there is the evidence of the thumb print on the jaw. If it were done by someone else, the thumb print would most likely be on the cheek.”
“Could guilt really make a person act like that?” asked Marina.
Phil McBride nodded. “Guilt can manifest itself in a host of physical and psychological ways.”
“What do you think she did to feel that guilty about?” asked Marina.
“Eda Mae and Faith caused Charity’s death,” said Lindsay. “I don’t think they meant to. They were only fourteen. Even though girls married at that age then, fourteen is still fourteen.”
“You’ll have to spell it out for me,” said Jarman. “I’m purely an empiricist. If I can’t measure it, I don’t know it.”
“Faith and Eda Mae had a crush on William Kinkead the surveyor. He may have had a thing for Charity, or he may have just been helping a friend’s widow through the winter. The two teenage girls became jealous, especially Eda Mae, who had apparently sneaked off with him a time or two. They may have put some spiteful bug in Sheldon Warfield’s ear that made him believe that Charity and William Kinkead had killed his son, Nathan, perhaps poisoned him, so they could be together. Or they could have confided their spite in someone else who told Warfield. Anyway, there are poisonous plants all around the place here. And Nathan’s symptoms of appendicitis could have been construed as a poisoning. Being the self-centered egomaniac he was, Sheldon Warfield didn’t see two silly, jealous fourteen-year-olds. He could only see his own lost dynasty. He got even. He was the rich guy. He was from Pennsylvania, a more urban and longer-settled place at the time. The lead coffins probably represent his family’s burial practices.”
“Those poor little girls,” said Elaine. “I’m sure they didn’t have any idea he would react that way. They probably somehow saw or found out what he had done, but for some reason couldn’t stop it or tell anyone.”
“Other people knew, too,” said Lindsay. “Perhaps men who worked for Sheldon Warfield. That lead coffin weighs thirteen hundred pounds. It took several men, horses or oxen, and a wagon to move it. They could have been sworn to secrecy, but word would get out. That’s why the place had such a mysterious reputation for being evil, but no one could put a finger on what it was—they’d talk about evil, but not the specific act of it.”
“That’s a big leap—saying the father killed Charity and the surveyor,” said Eric. “It’s a leap to say the girls said those things.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Lindsay. “But something like that happened. If Sheldon Warfield did it, it would’ve taken something that important to him to make him murderous.”
“He went back to Pennsylvania soon after,” said Elaine. “I think you’re right. I think he killed Charity and William Kinkead.”
“We’ve accounted for all of the loft poems,” said Lewis, “except one.” He paused a moment and put a hand to his head. “‘Not my sin, the hell he’s in.’ What about that?”
“Probably refers to Sheldon Warfield,” said McBride. “Faith felt guilty, but tried to deny it by saying if Warfield goes to hell, it’s not her fault.”
“We may never know,” said Lindsay. “But it all sounds reasonable.” She looked out over the dark Smokies. Oh, God, she thought, and shifted her gaze to McBride, who looked her in the eyes.
“You all right, hon?” Elaine asked her husband. “You look kind of pale.”
“Been sitting here a while. I think I’ll go use one of those porta-johns.” Lindsay watched him go not to the portable toilets, but into the crowd.
The music was going strong, and people were dancing and having fun. Lindsay wished she could, too. She stood up and stretched.
“I think I’ll turn in.”
“You look as exhausted as I feel,” Elaine said. “I’m going to find Phil, and we’re heading out.”
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” Lindsay promised.
“I think we need to be heading back to the motel, dear,” Eric told Drew.
“I agree. See you tomorrow, guys.” Drew waved as she and her husband left.
Jarman walked with Marina over to the dancing.
“Let’s go to bed,” said John. “I know you’re tired.” He brushed a strand of hair out of Lindsay’s eyes.
“I’ll go to the house with you,” said Lewis. “I’m tired, and tomorrow’s a long day.”
They walked back to the house silently. When they got to the bridge, out of earshot of everyone, Lewis turned to Lindsay.
“What passed between you and McBride. Where did he go?”
“Probably to the sheriff to tell him to get an exhumation order for Mary Susan Tidwell’s body.”
Chapter 39
Pieces Of Eight
LEWIS STOPPED AND stared at Lindsay, a question on his face.
“Phil McBride is asking the sheriff to exhume t
he Tidwell woman? Did I fall asleep and miss an entire conversation?”
“No, you didn’t. Phil McBride and I possess information that you don’t. Mary Susan Tidwell suffered from hypotension—low blood pressure. Anything given to her of a toxic nature that would further lower her blood pressure would bring on death—her heart would just stop.”
“This is the woman whose death you believe started all this?” John asked.
Lindsay nodded, looking over the side at the moonlit creek overgrown with green flora, wild, beautiful, inhabited by snakes.
“Yes, I believe everything started as a result of her death and the theft of her documents. When we were discussing what Nathan Warfield’s father might have thought about his son’s death, I remarked that there are poisons all around, and it hit Phil and me at the same time. Look around at the woods. Rhododendron, mountain laurel—the woods are thick with them.”
“And they’re poisonous?” asked Lewis.
“Several species contain a toxin called grayanotoxin, which, among other things, lowers blood pressure. Tea can be made from laurel leaves. Miss Tidwell drank green tea daily, maybe several times a day, for her health. Someone could have made tea from laurel leaves for her instead.”
“So, you think Drew did murder her?” Lewis asked.
“There’s enough reason for suspicion to test her body for the presence of grayanotoxin or other poisons.”
“And what’s her motive?” John asked.
“Drew and her husband both have reputations to keep. If they stole her papers and she knew it, she would have to be killed in order to protect their reputations. When your professional reputation depends on your integrity, you can’t afford to be accused of something as serious as theft.”
“But she is accused, by the relatives,” said Lewis.
“Relatives squabbling over an estate that they don’t know for sure even exists is different from having the owner herself accuse you. Miss Tidwell had a good reputation of her own for collecting valuable things. People around here would believe her if she said something was stolen.”
“You said a record of her documents has been found,” said Lewis.
“I lied. I wanted to scare them.”
“Lindsay . . . you lied?”
Lindsay looked up from the flowing creek to Lewis’s face.”Yes, I lied.”
“They could be innocent,” said Lewis.
“Then that won’t scare them.” The three of them continued on across the bridge and up to the house.
* * *
“This is where you stay?” John stood in the middle of Lindsay’s spartan room.
“These are really pretty good accommodations compared to some of the digs I’ve been on. The only problem was not having a door. Even that wouldn’t have been a problem had I not felt so vulnerable.”
“I imagine that was the point. Unlike Lewis, I’m not inclined to believe the Van Hornes are innocent.”
“Me neither, but I suppose I need to keep an open mind. I don’t like her husband, and I think that might be coloring my viewpoint a little.” She put her arms around John. “I meant to thank you for Luke. I hate it he’s had to watch over me all the time.”
“I doubt he’s done it all the time, but he needed a break. I try to rotate breaks for my crew when we’re doing some of the intense work we do. I have a good record for crew safety, and I like to keep it that way.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’re going home.”
“John, I don’t like keeping you away from your job.”
“You’re not,” he interrupted. “A component of the aquarium is a cylindrical tunnel.” He put the tips of his fingers together, making a circle with his hands, and smiled as though the thought of the tunnel gave him such pleasure. “The tunnel will wind through part of the aquarium so that visitors can walk among the fish.”
“You mean they can look up and see fish swimming over them?”
“Yes, over them, around them. The materials for the tunnel aren’t ready yet, so I’ve got some free time.”
“In that case I’m glad you’re here. But . . .”
“Lindsay, let the authorities finish this. You don’t have to solve everything.”
The party at the site was still going strong. She could hear the music drifting through her window. “You’re right. The authorities will have to make the airtight case Lewis wants.”
“What’s this?” John picked up a large envelope and handed it to her.
“I don’t know.” She opened the flap and pulled out what at first looked like a charcoal drawing. It was Mrs. Laurens’ rubbing of the piece of eight. “She had it after all.”
“She had what?”
Lindsay explained about finding the Spanish coin in Gentry’s pocket, and about Mrs. Laurens’ rubbing of the treasure coin when she was in Miss Tidwell’s third-grade class.
“You searched his pockets?”
That’s not all I searched, thought Lindsay—still feeling ashamed of herself every time she thought about invading her co-workers’ privacy, but still wishing she could search their cars.
“Yes, I searched his pockets.”
“Is it the same coin?”
“It’s the same type of coin. They’re both pieces of eight.” Lindsay took the rubbing from under her mattress, stretched out on her bed, and compared the two. “When the Spanish minted this kind of coins, they weren’t particularly careful about doing a perfect job. The insignias were often off center, the coins weren’t necessarily round, often misshapen, and flaws were not uncommon. So, theoretically, each coin could be different.”
John stretched out beside her and examined the two rubbings—actually four. Mrs. Laurens had done both sides of the coin also.
“What do you think?” Lindsay asked John.
“Not a lot of detail.” John put his arm around her waist and pulled her close in beside him.
“But they are offset the same amount, and the design is in the same direction.”
“A magnifying glass might uncover some significant detail.”
“I think they are the same. If they are the same coin, that means Mike Gentry somehow got it directly or indirectly from Miss Tidwell, possibly after her death—possibly as a result of her death.”
Lindsay put the two rubbings in the envelope and tucked them under her mattress. “I have some Dr Peppers in the ice chest. Want one?”
John nodded, and she took out two cans and lay back down beside him. He opened the can with a pop and drank several swallows.
“I love you.” He brushed several strands of wayward hair out of her face. “I know I’ve never said it.”
“You’ve shown it in many ways.” Lindsay took his face in her hands and kissed him. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry that I get into so much trouble.”
“You do that.” He sighed. “I like your independence, but at the same time I’d like it if you did what I told you to do.”
“Not much of a chance there.”
“I know. Dad likes you a lot. So does my sister.”
“How about your kids, do they like me?”
“My kids don’t even like me much these days. I can hardly get Jason to talk to me, he just grunts and mumbles. I tell you, whoever started the notion that Indians only speak in grunts must have come across teenagers when they landed.”
“I think that characteristic of teenage boys is a constant across all ethnic groups.”
“Actually, both Jason and Shelly do like you. You aren’t around very much, and you treat them like adults when you are. Besides, they like it that you get into more trouble than they do.”
Lindsay laughed and kissed him again.
* * *
Lindsay lay with her back against John’s chest, his arm around her waist, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, remembering what it’s like to feel safe. The thing that she wanted, though, was to feel safe when she was alone. Fear had overtaken her life, and she wanted to rule it again. Unless she h
erself solved this, she might never get back her feeling of security and independence.
Then, think, her inner self told her. Think.
First, what is this about?
Miss Tidwell’s stolen documents.
More than that.
Yes, more than that. Her death.
That’s the result. What is the wellspring of all the violent behavior? What is going on? What do you know?
It has something to do with forgery—I think. At least that’s a good possibility. Why else steal old paper and ledgers, worthless to anyone other than a forger? Was it worthless to anyone other than a forger? Was it stolen? But also, it’s about collectible historical documents. The two could go hand in hand.
Lindsay changed her position, causing John to move in his sleep. Ideas darted in and out of her brain like sparks of electricity. What stuck was the notion of forgery and the information Parker had sent.
The personality characteristics could fit anyone, she told herself.
Then think about what is needed to do the job.
Knowledge and ability. Drew had the knowledge—she could also supply the provenance. Easy for a historical archaeologist. So could her husband, a lawyer and a collector.
What was it she read in the book Parker sent? One way of falsifying a document’s pedigree is to find a library copy of a little-known auction catalog and give it a new page showing the forged document up for auction, listing the document’s bona fides. In other words, apply forging talents to the catalog itself, then refer to the library’s copy in the authentication papers.
That would take ability with graphics, or an artist, or a computer expert.
What catches a forger?
Not knowing internal evidence about—paper, ink, anything testable connected with the document. That can be learned. Lindsay knew a little herself after reading one book. Drew, her husband, or anyone else could learn just as easily.
Airtight Case Page 37
