A Corpse for Yew

by Joyce; Jim Lavene

  “Sounds like you’re having a good time with your mother.” Steve’s voice was edged with humor that Peggy didn’t share.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” she told her lover. (She refused to think of him as her boyfriend. It was undignified.) “I’m standing knee-deep in mud full of human bones while the Shamrock Historical Society tries to sort skulls from femurs. How’s your day going?”

  “As well as can be expected with a malignant mole on a Yorkie and bad canines on a collie. It’d be going a lot better if we’d slept in the same bed last night. My house is empty without you.”

  Her heart softened toward his bad attempt at humor. “I’m sorry. I wish I could just come out and tell them. But I can’t.”

  “But you’re working up to it.”

  She acknowledged his hopeful tone, imagining his face as he spoke, thinking how much she loved looking into his eyes. Peggy pulled herself back before she began acting even more like a love-struck teenager and reminded herself that her hyperjudgmental mother was standing less than ten feet away.

  “I am,” she promised. It was a lie, but she didn’t think he could tell the difference from her voice.

  “Because this can go on only so long,” he continued.

  “Are you threatening to break up with me because I can’t tell my parents we’re sleeping together?” She laughed, the humor of the situation hitting her funny bone. “If so, maybe we could sneak out tonight. You could pick me up at the end of the block and we could go to Lovers’ Lane.”

  “I’m glad this is making you laugh. I hope you’re laughing when I announce our engagement to your family next Tuesday night at dinner.”

  She sobered at once. “You wouldn’t! You know how my family feels about proper mourning. They’d be very upset.” She was putting it mildly. As her mother had just reminded her that morning, no Cranshaw woman had ever mourned her husband for less than five years. It just wasn’t done.

  “Give me an option or I pop the question.”

  “Give me a little more time.”

  “Peggy, it’s been a month already. I’m too old to sneak around somebody’s parents. Let’s think of some way to take care of the problem.”

  “I will. I promise.” She hoped she sounded more sincere than she felt. She might be fifty-three years old, a botanist, and a mother herself, but when it came to confronting her parents with unpleasant news, it was like she was still seventeen.

  “What do you mean you’re in mud filled with human bones?” Steve asked, as though suddenly realizing what she’d said.

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.” She saw Jonathon and her mother headed her way. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” Peggy closed her cell phone like a naughty schoolgirl and looked up at them with a smile.

  “I hope everything’s all right.” Jonathon looked worried. “I appreciate your help today, Peggy. I know you have a lot to do without helping us find what’s left of Whitley Village.”

  “I was explaining about the Potting Shed and everything else you do.” Lilla smiled in a way that let her daughter know she was working on her behalf. “Jonathon has five cats.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.” Peggy knew her mother was probably telling Jonathon her whole life story, from winning 4-H ribbons to opening her store. She couldn’t convince her that she and Steve had a serious relationship. Lilla was always looking for new suitors for her daughter. It might not be right to get married again just yet, but her mother was looking toward the future.

  “Yes.” Jonathon took his wallet out of the back pocket of his khaki cargo shorts. “They’re my pride and joy.”

  “Margaret named her dog Shakespeare. I’m not really sure why.” Lilla turned to Peggy. “Weren’t you thinking about changing his name to something more doglike?”

  “No. I wasn’t.” Peggy smiled at Jonathon to keep from strangling her mother. It had always been this way between them. She’d vaguely thought this historical thing might bring them closer together, now that Lilla was living a few miles away. But she was beginning to think it might drive another wedge between them. Sometimes she wondered how this woman could be her mother.

  “I think Shakespeare is a fine name.” Jonathon put away his cat pictures. “I enjoy plays and poetry, too.”

  Peggy didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to encourage him along the romantic path her mother had no doubt sent him. He was probably half her age. She could just imagine her words: She’s alone like you, Jonathon. I’m sure the two of you would have so much in common.

  It ended up that she didn’t have to say anything. Geneva Curtis screamed and fell backward into the mud. “Everybody come here! You won’t believe this!”

  Mrs. Waynewright got to her feet quickly, quite spry for her age, to see what was happening while the rest of the group slogged toward Geneva, who was trying to get out of the gooey mess she’d fallen into. They gathered around her, grasping her arms, the thick mud creating suction that popped as it released her. She would’ve fallen forward if it wasn’t for Annabelle Ainsley and Lilla holding her up.

  “What is it, Geneva?” The president, Dorothy Myrick, looked around where they were standing, her fists on her ample hips. “Please don’t tell me you saw a snake again.”

  “I didn’t see a snake this time,” Geneva assured her in a loud voice. “Although a water moccasin is nothing to fool around with.”

  “There are no water moccasins in this area,” Mrs. Waynewright yelled from the shore. “That was probably just a plain old water snake. I’m sure it was more frightened of you than you were of it.”

  “I doubt it.” Geneva’s thick black curls shook as she disagreed. “But that’s not why I screamed. Take a look over there.”

  “That’s the old post office.” Jonathon looked at his map of the village. “One of the few relics we have from Whitley is the post office sign.”

  “That may be. But there’s something in there.” Geneva’s dark eyes were large and frightened on her chocolate brown face.

  Jonathon picked up a sturdy piece of wood from the mud while the women began to fall in line behind him. Peggy couldn’t imagine that anything out there could be that ferocious. She fell into step beside him.

  “We’ve had a lot of problems out here with theft,” he confided as they advanced on the deteriorating post office. “None of us realized there is a market for human bones. We could afford to hire someone to protect the site only at night. He leaves at first light and goes to his ‘real’ job. The first week we lost ten skulls and various other bones.”

  “I’ve read about that,” Peggy said. “Some of the market is for trinkets and the rest is medicinal. People believe powdered human bones are good for them.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her, then looked away. “Good for male stamina, I understand. You know?”

  She smiled as she saw his face turn bright red. He obviously hadn’t thought about his explanation before he got started. “It seems odd the black market could reach a little area like Charlotte, but I suppose someone could consider this to be a wealth of material.”

  “It was right over there.” Geneva pointed to the eastern side of the stone walls that marked the abandoned post office. “I was poking around in the mud with a stick, and I saw it.”

  “Don’t leave us in suspense.” Dorothy adjusted the colorful scarf that covered her gray-streaked brown hair. “What did you see?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  There was a collective sigh from the rest of the women. Geneva was the youngest of the group, probably in her late forties, and frequently indulged in flights of fancy that included seeing ghosts in cemeteries and imagining the shuffling of leaves as woodland creatures about to pounce on them.

  “This is a wild-goose chase,” Annabelle mumbled, her round face florid from the sun beneath curly white hair. “We’re not going to get anything done if we keep jumping every time Geneva sees or hears a booger.”

  “There really was something,” Geneva defended. �
�Wait till you see.”

  Geneva’s friend and mentor, Grace Kallahan, pushed through the mud to reach her side. The large black woman, who had been a psychiatric nurse, looked around the group as though daring anyone to say another word. “Don’t pay no never mind to them, honey. You saw something that wasn’t normal. It won’t hurt us to take a look.”

  Lilla nudged Peggy. “It’s always like this. We go out to put shaving cream on tombstones so we can read them, and someone forgets the shaving cream. This is the most unorganized group I’ve ever been in. It’s a good thing I moved here. I think they really need me.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Peggy agreed. “They seem a little scattered.”

  “And that’s why I wanted you to be a part of the group, too. You’re organized and you could get us into all kinds of places. You’re a descendant of a Revolutionary War hero, too. Captain Jeremiah Cranshaw would be proud of you joining us.”

  “Thanks.” Peggy had heard about her famous great-great-great-granduncle who’d died in the battle of King’s Mountain since she was a baby. It was a great source of pride to her mother’s side of the family.

  “Is this where you saw it?” Jonathon had reached the side of the post office.

  “This is it.” Geneva pointed to the mud. “See? There’s my stick.”

  “What I’m curious about is why you screamed and fell over there,” Annabelle said. “This is a long way from where you were.”

  “The sheer horror of it hit me as I was making my way back,” Geneva explained. “That’s why I screamed and fell. It was like a delayed reaction, I guess.”

  “Very delayed,” Annabelle agreed.

  Each of the women picked up a stick to poke around in the mud. Grace dropped hers right away when she realized it was an arm bone. Jonathon walked slowly through the area, kicking his feet, hoping to find something.

  Peggy stood to one side, watching the group search the thick, brown mud. There were too many of them to find anything. Whatever Geneva saw would no doubt be lost in the traffic. That’s why police kept people out of crime scenes.

  The dying October sunlight was drifting across the ghost of Lake Whitley. Another day in the search for what remained of the village was over. In all fairness, the group had collected a sizable number of bones and household artifacts that day. They were all piled on the shore near Mrs. Waynewright, who’d covered the find with tarps.

  The group knew they were working against time and nature as the active Atlantic hurricane season advanced. One or two good storms could leave this area underwater again, with possibly another hundred-year wait until it was dry enough to salvage.

  She glanced down at a spot where the sunlight was gilding across something white in the mud. Absently, she leaned down and touched it with her gloved hand. It was probably another shard of pottery.

  What her fingers encountered was soft, pliable. She pushed at it, thinking it might be some form of plant life or even a dead fish. Instead, as she prodded it, the round white surface moved, revealing the face of a dead woman with bright red lips.

  2

  Weeping Willow

  Botanical: Salix babylonica

  China is the original home of the lovely weeping willow tree. It can grow to twenty-five feet tall and has rough bark. It will grow quickly in a season but does not like drought, though an otherwise dead tree can be brought back to life with a single cutting once the weather turns wet. The tree symbolizes renewal, growth, and vitality.

  “CAN ANYONE ID THE DECEDENT?” Mosquitoes and flies buzzed Charlotte Police Detective Al McDonald. He ignored those he could, and swatted at the rest. He held his tattered notebook in one hand while he looked over what had become a crime scene.

  He’d addressed the question to the entire group, but with no reply forthcoming, Peggy responded. “She was Lois Mullis. She was supposed to meet everyone out here, but when she didn’t show up, they assumed her lumbago had kept her home.”

  Al glanced up from writing down the information. All eight of the Shamrock Historical Society members stared back at him. They were covered in mud and had various twigs, plants, and other debris on their clothes and in their hair. “Peggy, can I have a word with you?” He nodded at the rest of the group and walked a few yards away to wait for her.

  “What do you think is wrong, Margaret?” her mother whispered, a worried line etched into her forehead. “You don’t think he thinks any of us did this, do you?”

  “At this point, he doesn’t know what to think. John used to say you never knew what was happening for at least a day or two. Right now, Al doesn’t even know what killed Mrs. Mullis. It may be natural causes. He has to ask these questions. It’s part of his investigation.”

  Peggy knew the routine all too well after thirty years of marriage to a police officer, then homicide detective, for the Charlotte Police Department. John Lee seldom spoke in great detail about his investigations, but she had learned through the years to read between the lines and fill in what he didn’t say. Most of the time, she was dead-on.

  She was sure it had something to do with her own recent pursuit of criminal investigations. Her part in looking into those happenings was mostly guesswork until her newfound occupation working as a contract forensic botanist for the police. Now the cases she was involved with were more than secondhand information. And she loved it.

  Cautioning her mother and the other society members to remain calm, Peggy left them standing by the large brown van with the shamrock logo on it and walked to where Al waited near a beautiful weeping willow tree. “What is it?”

  “I feel like I’m questioning my mother’s bridge club,” he complained. “Where did you find these people?”

  She explained about her mother’s involvement with the group. “You must’ve forgotten to take your vitamins today if they’re bothering you. Not that I think any of them was involved with what happened to Mrs. Mullis.”

  “Of course not. What a surprise! Peggy Lee, champion of the innocent, thinking these people could do no wrong.”

  She raised one cinnamon-colored brow above a bright green eye. “You are out of sorts, aren’t you?”

  Al nodded toward the body, which was being removed from the dry lake. “Do you know who Lois Mullis is?”

  “Besides being treasurer of the Shamrock Historical Society? No, not really. I met her briefly at our swearing-in party a few weeks ago. She didn’t seem like anyone out of the ordinary to me.”

  “You spend too much time in that garden shop, Peggy. Lois Mullis is the chief’s aunt. She gives to every charity in Mecklenburg County, attends every ball, tournament, and society function we have. And she’s dead on my beat in suspicious circumstances. That means triple paperwork, really bad headaches, and a lot of yelling and cursing. I don’t need it. I’m tempted to retire right now.”

  “Like you could. Mary doesn’t want you underfoot at home. And you live for this job. So get over it and figure out what happened.”

  He laughed, his large frame and broad, black face shaking. “Girl, you’re a pistol! I suppose you talked to John like that, too, huh?”

  “If he started feeling sorry for himself.”

  “All right.” He pulled out his notebook again. “Who found the body?”

  “I guess you could say it was a joint effort. Geneva saw something that made her scream, and we all walked back with her. I saw something white in the mud, and it was poor Lois, bless her heart.”

  “So you say Mrs. Mullis was supposed to be here today.”

  “She was. This is the core of the group. I think there’s about ten of them altogether, but these seem to be the movers and shakers. Or in this case, bone finders.”

  “What the heck are they doing out here?” Al looked back at the ghoulish scene of the dry lake and swatted a mosquito on his face. “I mean, is it safe to be out here with all that stuff? Aren’t there diseases?”

  “Not after a hundred years, or so our local historian tells me. Maybe you know him, Jonathon Und
erwood? He’s a contract forensic historian for the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police. I guess we’re kindred spirits.”

  “And all these little old ladies are out here digging up these old bones to add to their collection?”

  “You could say that. But their collection is as prestigious as you just described Lois Mullis. All of them have relatives who are wrapped into the fabric of the history of this area. Every one of them can trace their roots back to the Revolutionary War and beyond.”

  “That’s fine and good.” Al accidentally marked his face with the pen in his hand. “That still doesn’t account for us having a dead geriatric socialite out here in the mud.”

  “I realize that.” She reached up and cleaned the pen smudge off his face. Al had been John’s partner and an adopted member of their family for many years. “I wish I could say something else to help, but that’s all I know. I think you’ll find all of these women are as well connected as Lois. It’s not going to be easy.”

  He took a deep breath. “Thanks for your help, Peggy. I’ll just dig in like always. You remember how John used to call me the old hunting dog? That’s what I am, I suppose.”

  They walked back to the group, who wore their anxiety on their sweaty faces. Jonathon stepped forward. “I think I should be the one responsible for Lois’s death. I organized this trip and knew who was supposed to be here and who wasn’t. I never dreamed she was here all the time and we didn’t know it. Has someone called her family?”

  As he asked the question, another police vehicle joined the twenty or so others already on the scene. But this one was more impressive: a shiny black SUV with a siren and the police chief insignia on the side. The driver swung wide to align the vehicle with the gray hearse, and the occupant of the backseat jumped out. Chief Arnold Mullis ran to the side of the stretcher bearing his aunt’s body.