Finally, Carmine finds his voice. “We can’t explain this.”
“Explain what?” TB asks.
I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “Carmine thinks Dwayne’s evil.”
Carmine rises abruptly. “We need to figure out where Pepper’s going to stay tonight. She can’t sleep in that trailer.”
Winnie also rises. “She can stay with me. They gave me a huge trailer for some reason. I have plenty of room.”
They both head out the door and I hear them talking with Shelby and McGee, then the voices die out.
“What was that all about?” TB asks.
It’s then that I remember Stinky, who we left in the pickup for a few hours while we visited Tupelo. “Where’s Stinky?” I ask.
TB on the other hand, doesn’t appear in the least bit concerned. “He’s on the bed.”
I glance toward the bedroom, the one with the twin beds, and there’s my orange cat lounging on one like he owns the place.
“How? When?”
TB shrugs. “I let him in.”
“You let him in?” I exclaim, but TB’s halfway down the hall, pausing to pet Stinky’s orange and yellow head. I can hear the purring from where I sit.
“That cat’s not normal.”
TB leans down and rubs his chin on top of Stinky’s head and the cat eats it up. “Why be normal, hey Stink.”
We decide to stay put until we hear from the others, unpacking a few things and noshing on the cheese and crackers Shelby left behind. The wine’s done for but we find a couple of Mountain Dews and sip on those until Shelby arrives.
“Obviously, plans have changed,” she says, looking as ragged as we feel. “But y’all have to eat. We had planned to head over to Witch Dance and do another barbecue….”
I shake my head. “Where?”
“It’s a spot on the Trace not far from here where these unusual circles used to appear and people believed it was caused by witches dancing there.”
Oh. My. God.
TB looks at me funny, sensing I’m having one of my ghost experiences. If he only knew.
“But we have to scrap that for tonight,” Shelby says. “I’m taking orders for this lovely café in Tupelo. Charlie has offered to drive there and deliver our meals to us.”
“That’s sweet, but not necessary. We’ve been eating what you left us.”
“I insist,” Shelby says, and it’s then I witness what this horrific act has done to her, a woman whose life is planned to the exact minute. “It’s the least I can do.”
TB and I check out the menu and order some wraps and salads. I have no appetite considering what I saw this afternoon but I want to appease Shelby and allow her to feel that she’s taking good care of us. She moves to get more orders and we deflate at the kitchen table, TB with his laptop and me now petting Stinky since he’s jumped into my lap.
“Briarwood Plantation,” TB says, looking at something on his screen.
It makes me remember the dream and how Cora turned and called me to action. I can’t help but wonder if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but how do I explain Witch Dance?
I suddenly remember something, a piece of the puzzle that’s important. “Her name’s Cora Schumacher.”
“The woman in the photo?”
“Yeah.”
“Those two photos you found somewhere.”
“Yeah.”
He turns the laptop around and he’s settled on a website by a Civil War scholar discussing early Mississippi planters and their secretive fight against slavery. Briarwood Plantation is mentioned. I lean forward and read the introduction.
“Briarwood was once the antebellum home of Wendell Meyers of Kentucky, who helped move slaves through the Underground Railroad.”
There’s no picture of this Wendell Meyers, nor Cora. “Maybe this was the uncle, the one Cora inherited the plantation from.”
TB moves the laptop back so it’s facing him. “I don’t see anything about a Cora here.”
Needless to say, I’m disappointed. But TB’s fingers are busy typing up a storm and after a few minutes his eyes light up.
“There’s a Cora Schumacher from Paducah, Kentucky, in the 1840 census.”
“Where did you find that?”
He shows me the Ancestry.com website. “I’m working on my family genealogy.”
“Since when?”
TB pulls the laptop back around, frowning. “Since a while. I don’t tell you everything.”
“Apparently.”
“There’s a Schumacher in Natchez around the same time. Born in Germany like Cora’s parents so they could be related. His name’s Walter.”
I look at what he’s pulled up and agree. “But where’s Cora?”
He checks out the 1850 census and finds Cora’s parents deceased. She’s living with Mary Bradford and her parents in a country town outside Paducah.
“That works,” I tell him. “I saw this Mary in the first dream I had about Cora.”
“Walter’s still alive for the 1850 census,” TB finds. “But I have a death certificate for him in 1858 in Natchez.”
“That must be when Cora travels the Trace.”
The food arrives and we dive in, amazed that we were hungrier than we thought. All the while, TB keeps ploughing through the Internet, trying to find pieces of our illusive Cora who danced with witches on the Natchez Trace.
We awaken the next morning to rain pelting the tin roof and the darkness of the morning mirrors my mood, for I’ve spent the night in and out of sleep with disturbing dreams. The fox visited, naturally, but alive until a shadowy figure arrived with an ax. I won’t go into details with what happened next but I awoke with a start and had a devil of a time getting back to sleep. The next dream had Carmine hiding behind a tree in the woods watching the whole scenario, but when the shadowy figure arrived this time, Carmine burst forth in a stream of white light so intense, I failed to see what happened next. I heard the word aggelos and I woke up.
When I fell asleep once more, Cora sits by a pond’s edge, a water source more accustomed to languishing softly but it’s spring and the water reaches high up the banks. She’s facing away from me, singing a hymn. Then a shadow appears between us, the outline of a person approaching her from behind. The person lifts something above Cora’s head, ready to strike.
That revelation woke me as well. The rest of the night contained snippets of images: Dwayne in the woods pushing me toward the light, Pepper’s black gris gris bag, the laughter of the women at Witch Dance, and Cora turning to gaze into my eyes.
The last image stays with me all morning.
Shelby knocks on our door around seven and informs us that plans have changed, that breakfast scheduled for the group shelter overlooking the lake has been scrapped due to the rain. She stands on our threshold, yellow raincoat dripping wet, appearing lost as to what to do next, no doubt rattled from the evening’s horror.
“Charlie’s gone,” she also tells us. “He freaked out over what happened and left us.
“But don’t worry,” she quickly adds. “We have a new driver on his way.”
She appears ready to cry, and before I can say something astute, TB pops in. “I have my pickup. Let me drive into town and get breakfast for everyone. One less thing to worry about.”
The change in Shelby is startling and I want to kiss my husband for his kindness. Before either one of us can utter a word, TB grabs his keys and wallet and heads out the door.
“Should we ask everyone what they want?” she calls after him.
I touch her elbow. “Let him do it. Once we open that can, it’ll take three times as long.”
Shelby pulls the hoodie of her raincoat over her head. “I’ll inform the others.”
Before she heads off to the next trailer, she pauses at the door, looking at the floor of our aluminum home. “Who’s that?”
I don’t have to look to know she’s wondering where the cat came from. Pets are not allowed on press trips, nor in many acco
mmodations.
I decide to come clean. “Stinky’s with us. TB couldn’t leave him at home and he’s so easy to travel with.”
Shelby teeters on the threshold for a moment, but only a moment. “I didn’t see anything,” she says and heads off into the rain.
I look back at my cat. “You’re safe for now.”
Stinky winks at me and turns his attention to the bathing of a paw.
I take the opportunity to look through the Internet as TB had done the night before. I open his laptop to quickly find the Briarwood site and instead spot a folder titled “LSU.” I’m not one to infiltrate people’s private computers but curiosity gets the better of me and I open the folder. There, inside, are documents such as “Astronomy worksheet,” “English term paper,” and “Library Science application.” Opening the term paper document finds a work in progress, a piece comparing and contrasting Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier with The Red Badge of Courage. Everything is dated within the last few months. Also in the folder are tuition bills and student fees and an application for sporting events.
“I’ll be damned,” I say to Stinky. “Daddy’s gone back to school.”
I can’t help it. I feel betrayed. Why didn’t he tell me? Obviously, Carmine knows because he mentioned a test back at the New Orleans airport. So, why not let me know? I would be thrilled, so very proud that my husband, who dropped out of college when I became pregnant with Lillye and immediately went to work, would take night classes to finish his degree. In Baton Rouge, no less, a city seventy miles from New Orleans.
Stinky gives me a funny look and I feel like the cat’s admonishing my feelings. In truth, I’d always assumed TB never liked college, saw it as a chance to party and attend free LSU sporting events. He never seemed upset about leaving to join his father in the family’s construction business, happily took the job and moved into the rental house his parents gifted us after we married. Even after his parents retired and moved to Florida, leaving the company in the hands of TB’s uncle, he never mentioned doing anything else.
Maybe I’ve been wrong, I think.
By the time TB returns, I’ve showered and dressed, packed both of our suitcases ready to head out. TB’s soaked and is carrying two coffees, a bakery box, and a paper bag.
“The only thing left are two glazed donuts,” he informs me, placing it all on the table. “And I think the coffee’s cold.”
“No worries. We have a microwave.”
Underneath that LSU cap I expect to see a sly smile when he raises the white paper bag and tells me, “But I saved two chocolate croissants for us.” Instead, TB looks tired.
I’m reminded of his secret, that he’s been attending classes for months without telling me. He grabs the coffee to heat them up but steals a glance at his laptop, which I’ve left slightly ajar.
“Yes, I know,” I want to say, but I leave it unspoken.
“I passed Shelby on the way,” he says. “We leave in ten.”
We eat our chocolate croissants, commenting how coffee outside of South Louisiana is more akin to brown water than java, then grab raincoats to head out. This time, TB doesn’t call Stinky like a dog but pulls him underneath his raincoat.
“I’m going to ride in the van,” I tell him.
He looks disappointed. “Why?”
“I need to hear what they say about the sites we’re going to see.”
Not really true since I bought a book on the Trace at the Visitor’s Center. Something about seeing that LSU folder makes me desire distance. At least for a while.
“You want to be with Dwayne, is that it?”
My head pops up. “Why would you say that?”
“Never mind.” He pulls his hood up over his head, grabs his suitcase with his free hand, and heads out.
I do the same, but join the rest at the van, still reeling over that last comment. When I climb the van’s stairs I find Pepper seated next to Dwayne, the two deep in conversation and Pepper smiling as if nothing happened. In fact, she’s thrilled to be the center of Mr. Blue Eye’s attention.
I fall into the aisle behind Winnie and Carmine and sense they are as taken aback at the friendship as I am. I’m about to ask them what happened when Shelby bounds on board, her PR smile fading as soon as she spots the duo.
“It appears Dwayne spent the night with our tour guide,” Winnie whispers. “And now he’s on to someone else.”
I glance over at Kelly and almost see the steam pouring out of her ears.
“Wow,” is all I can manage.
Our first stop — you guessed it — is Witch Dance. Shelby relates the story of witches dancing here and how grass withered and died beneath their feet. I can’t help but smile thinking of the real women who created those circles and why.
“Since the rain has stopped a bit, does anyone want to get out and see if they can find a witch circle?”
Pepper agrees, but no one else takes the bait. I decide to go with her. Once we get off the van, however, the ground is so wet that we immediately get our shoes covered in mud.
“Oh well,” Pepper says, but I grab her elbow before we return.
“What did Dwayne say to you?”
She seems surprised at the question. “He’s been amazing. So supportive. He helped the park people clean up the patio and bury that poor creature.”
We jump back on and head toward the Bynum Mounds, a series of burial mounds dating back to between 100 B.C. and 100 A.D. that are located right off the Trace. This time, we all disembark for the sun now peaks through the clouds and there’s a nice gravel path to the two mounds left for public viewing. Everyone takes turns shooting photos, then moves to a different area of the former village site for more shots and to read the historical markers. While TB’s busy reading about the village, I head to Carmine’s side by the larger mound.
“I see TB’s gone back to college.”
Carmine looks up from his note taking. “He told you?”
“No, you just did.”
He closes his reporter notebook and sighs.
“Why did he tell you and not me?”
Carmine looks to make sure TB is out of ear shot. “Because his parents and his uncle think it’s a waste of money, that a general ed degree won’t matter since he already makes good money in construction.”
“A college degree is priceless.”
“I agree, but they don’t.”
I’m still confused. “But why not tell me?”
Carmine sighs. “Because he believes you’re smarter than him and he thinks that’s the reason you don’t want to stay married.”
I glance over at my husband who’s scratching his head gazing at a photo of archaeologists.
“Thank you for not arguing with me on that,” Carmine adds.
I feel terrible but what he says is true. It’s not that I feel superior but after Lillye died, TB retreated into zombieland, watching endless hours of sports and mindless TV shows. He’d never read much after college, but we had Lillye for conversation. After she died, before Katrina separated us, we had nothing to talk about.
Shelby calls us to the van and I decide to ride with TB to the next stop.
“I don’t get the dates,” he says on the way to the pickup. “It says Indians were here between one hundred something and one hundred something.”
It’s always been like this, TB not quite getting what most people understand. He’s routinely been the brunt of jokes, and I’ve watched my share of people giggling at his inane remarks over the years. My heart feels heavy knowing that he considers me part of that group.
“It means they lived here one hundred years before Christ and one hundred years after his death,” I explain. I see the wheels turning inside his head, so I add, “That’s about two thousand years ago.”
The lightbulb goes on and he smiles, but the guilt still presses hard on my heart. How could I have been so insensitive to one of the sweetest men on the planet?
“By the way,” TB says opening my door to the pickup
, “I called Briarwood.”
I jump in and settle next to Stinky. “What did they say?”
He enters the car and starts it up. “Not much. They said Wendell Meyers had been married to a woman named Cora. She was his first wife.”
“That’s great. Why did you say not much?”
TB backs up and begins following the van back to the Trace. “Because she died young. After going crazy and being put into an insane asylum.”
The buzzing returns, hard and furious, and my head begins to pound.
“That’s not right.”
TB looks at me, recognizing the now familiar haze that arrives when I’m channeling a ghost. “Vi, are you okay?”
I shake my head. “No. Because Cora Schumacher wasn’t crazy. She was murdered.”
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Eight
We’re paused at the entrance to the Trace, waiting for a line of cyclists to pass. TB continues to study me hard.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
I smirk. “What aren’t you telling me?”
The van pulls out so TB’s attention shifts. I wish I hadn’t said anything because even though I’m hurt that TB chose not to tell me he has gone back to LSU, I’m guilt-ridden that I may be the cause.
“Never mind,” I say beneath my breath.
We’re silent for a long time and our cat, who’s enjoying the hum and warmth of the floorboards, looks from one of us to the other. Finally, TB speaks.
“We should call around and find that plantation. Maybe the owner can shed some light on Cora.”
“I’m seeing her clear as day so she had to have drowned,” I say, and then a lightbulb goes off in my head. “Unless….”
“Unless what?”
Unless I’m evolving like Dwayne insists.
“Is it because he’s so good looking? Or is it because he’s gotten inside your head?”
This stops me cold. “Who?”
“Who indeed?”
I shake my head because I’m fairly confident Carmine’s at the base of this conversation.
“If you’re talking about Dwayne, neither is correct, but I don’t see the harm in listening to his theories about SCANC evolution.”
Trace of a Ghost Page 11
