by Jeff High
I locked up and Ann followed me in her SUV out to Summerfield Road.
She was a short distance behind me as I was about to make the right-hand turn onto Christine’s driveway. That’s when I noticed a familiar truck barreling straight at me.
It was John.
After I made my turn, he whipped the truck abruptly in behind me, cutting off Ann and causing her to slam on the brakes. The three of us convoyed down the long drive and parked in the front yard. John tumbled out of the truck and walked toward me, offering only a disgruntled glance toward Ann’s SUV. He was dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt.
“Well, sawbones. Looks like you made the lunch invite list also.”
“Hi, John. How did you score a ticket for a free meal?”
“Hey, I’m still the brother-in-law. Madeline caught me on the church steps.”
“See, being Mr. Nice Guy is starting to pay dividends.”
“It’s a meal, not a lottery win. Who’s that in the Chevy?”
By now Ann was approaching us and regarding John sternly.
“Ann, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Dr. John Harris. He’s a retired chemical engineer. John, this is Ann Patterson, nurse-practitioner. She is the new nurse at the clinic.”
While I spoke, John was studying Ann, collecting the details with a mild indifference. “Oh, yeah. The traveler. Well, welcome to Watervalley.”
Ann looked small, diminutive even, standing next to John’s imposing six-foot-plus frame and commanding presence. That was, until she spoke.
“Hello, Dr. Harris. Do you always drive like an idiot?”
John’s neck stiffened. He stared at her, flat faced, obviously taken aback by her directness. Then his eyes grew soft and calculating. He looked at me with a wry grin and then back at Ann.
“Charmed.” With that, he gave a slight nod and turned to walk away. “See you inside, sport.”
Ann and I stood there for an awkward moment, watching John depart toward the steps.
“He’s an acquired taste,” I said.
She grinned lightly and looked to the side. “Yeah, I know the type. I can already envision the duct tape over his mouth.”
We proceeded to the porch, where Christine’s mother met us at the door. Madeline was a small, attractive, and gracious woman who embodied the genteel nature found in Southerners who came from generational money. Yet, with Madeline there was none of the haughty exclusivity so often packaged in the mix. She clasped my hand between both of hers.
“Luke, it’s wonderful to see you again. I am so glad you are joining us.”
I introduced Ann, and in much the same way, Madeline greeted her warmly.
We moved into the large living room, where further introductions were made: Angus and Amelia Pilkington, and Mattie Chambers. John had poured himself a cup of coffee and stood on the periphery, reserved and distant, still stinging apparently from his sharp encounter with Ann.
Despite John’s remoteness, there seemed to be no limit to the good spirits of this small gathering. Everyone welcomed Ann enthusiastically, even Christine’s grandmother, who was outfitted in blue jeans, gumshoes, and an orange UT sweatshirt. Conversely, she still regarded me with a withering glare, as if I were lowbred, dirty, and had bad teeth.
Eventually I maneuvered over to John. “Beautiful place, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, my brother-in-law, Al, built it.”
“What was he like, anyway?” I had wanted to know more about Christine’s deceased father, but had thought it an awkward topic to pursue on our first day together.
“Albert was a class act. We were always friends, but not tight. He was a little older than me. Got his master’s in agriculture from Tennessee and then came right back to Watervalley and took over the family dairy farm. He was smart, progressive, real down-to-earth. You’d have liked him.”
I nodded, absorbing John’s words. After a brief moment, he spoke again.
“So, that’s the new nurse, huh?” He was staring across the room at Ann, who was engaged in conversation with Christine and Madeline.
“Yes. That would be her.” Given their first encounter, I was unsure of what else to say.
“Well. She’s certainly a piece of work. Did she bring her flying monkeys with her?”
“Not sure. Should I ask?”
John sipped his coffee. “Eh, probably best to play wait and see on that one.”
“Yeah. Smart call.”
“Humph. Well, it could be worse, I guess.”
“How’s that?”
“She could be ugly, too.”
I nodded, making no further comment, but John’s words told a story. My entire focus toward Ann was professional, and while I would easily describe her as attractive, it appeared that her small frame and schoolgirl figure had clearly sparked something in John. Apparently, his blood still had some warmth in it.
I spoke briefly with Angus and Amelia, struck by their polite friendliness. Angus’s twinkling eyes said he was glad to see me back at the farm.
Eventually, we all took seats at the long dining room table. While I greatly preferred to sit next to Christine, I had no sooner taken a chair than Ann arrived to my right and John corralled the chair to my left. Christine was down and across the way, with her grandmother sitting directly across from me, firing sharp looks of disapproval in my direction.
Madeline asked Angus to say the blessing, and afterward, the group erupted into a hubbub of conversation and plate passing. The ritual of Sunday lunch was in full swing.
Christine spoke across the table. “So, Ann. Where were you before taking this assignment?”
“I was in Asheville for several years, where I worked and went back to school. I was able to get my master’s and my certification in midwifery.”
“That’s good to know, Miss Ann,” Angus interjected. “I can give you a call if one of the cows is having a rough delivery.”
Ann responded with a good-natured grin. “Actually, that wouldn’t be a problem. I grew up on a dairy farm in Pennsylvania.”
John immediately responded in a detached voice, “So, you’re an advanced-practice nurse . . . meaning, you can run a Code Blue?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” responded Ann.
It was the setup John was looking for. “Well, Angus. Looks like she can also give mouth-to-snout resuscitation to a dying cow if need be.”
The group chuckled lightly and John resumed his slightly smug demeanor.
Ann chewed quietly for a moment. Then she responded lightly, “I’m better suited to doing CPR on humans. Of course, in your case, John, I’d probably just opt for declaring time of death.”
This evoked a wave of laughter, including a restrained chuckle from John. But I could see him sullenly contemplating a return volley. Fortunately, Angus jumped in first.
“You see there, Dr. Bradford. Even your new assistant has milked cows. Matter of fact, John here milked some during his high school days.”
I turned an inquiring eye toward John, who didn’t look up from his food. “Guilty as charged. As I remember, though, it had more to do with a certain brunette who lived here rather than the pay.”
This enlisted a series of comments, during which Ann leaned over to me and said, “Divorced?”
“Widowed,” I whispered.
Angus implored me again. “So, Doctor. The invitation still stands to come help with the milking this afternoon.”
I swallowed hard and looked around the table at the curious faces awaiting my response. “Thanks, Angus, but I think I’ll continue to enjoy my status as the token nonfarmhand in the group.”
A round of cajoling and laughter followed.
Madeline came to my rescue. “Luke, it was delightful to see you in church today. How did you like the service?”
“Very much. I really like Joe Dawso
n. Choir didn’t sound too bad either.”
I shot a wry grin toward Christine, who smiled discreetly at me.
“I did notice something curious, however. There was a small brass plaque dated 1943 on the pew with Oscar Fox’s name on it. That seemed odd given his nefarious reputation.”
Christine’s grandmother responded, “It was during the war, Jasper.” She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Meanwhile, Ann spoke to me from behind her napkin.
“Jasper?” she whispered.
“Don’t ask.”
Mattie Chambers continued. “The church was doing anything it could to raise money for the Red Cross, so it auctioned off church pews. They didn’t replace them, mind you. It was just a way to encourage people to fork over some cash, which there wasn’t much of in those days. It was a throwback to an earlier year when the church raised money to buy new pews by putting up brass nameplates honoring the donors.”
It amazed me how Mattie’s mild dementia gave free passage to seventy-year-old memories, but brought recent ones to a grinding halt. She continued in her raspy, unvarnished voice, “Oscar Fox has always gotten a bad rap. He was a generous man. He had money, although you’d never know it by the way he lived. Things were tight during the war. He loaned my dad money so he could plant wheat and tobacco. Didn’t demand a cent till after the harvest was in. They were good friends. Everyone thought Oscar was buried in the family cemetery because Daddy was an elder in the Presbyterian church. They thought it was a kind gesture, and, well, I guess it was. But Daddy told me in later years that Oscar saved the farm.”
“Grandmamma, I never knew this,” Christine said. “You’ve never told this story about Oscar Fox.”
“Oscar was considered a pretty evil character after that bloody murder. It just wasn’t the sort of thing Daddy wanted to talk about. Nobody really knows what happened or why, and probably nobody ever will.”
Madeline followed her mother-in-law’s comments, speaking in her kind, elegant way. “It is a real shame. There’s always been a stigma in the community around the Fox family. It seems such an unfair burden for something that happened decades and generations ago.”
With this, everyone became stewed into the conversation about Oscar Fox and all the old stories, and as well about the plight of Louise and Will Fox.
I leaned toward John. “I’ve got an idea regarding the Foxes I want to run by you sometime.”
John responded drily, “Sure.”
The discussion regarding the old bandstand murders lasted quite a while. So much so that I became concerned that Ann was being left out of the conversation. Conversely, however, she sat quietly and listened to every word with great interest. I was glad. I was still trying to figure her out. But her patience demonstrated a quiet intelligence and a low-maintenance personality.
In time we had all finished dessert and were lolling back in our chairs, swollen from our indulgence. Angus and Amelia invited Ann to walk over the farm with them, an offer she readily accepted.
She turned to me. “If it’s all right, I will see you at the clinic in the morning, Luke. I don’t want to monopolize your whole afternoon.”
She departed and I focused my attention on John, who had grabbed his coat and was making overtures of thanks and departure. I walked him to his truck.
“John, I want to get you and Connie together to discuss this idea I have about the Fox family. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Hmm, holding a summit, huh? Well, let me know.”
As he opened the door to his truck, I couldn’t help but prod him a little.
“You’ve been sort of quiet this afternoon. I expected you to have a little more comeback with our new nurse. She got your tongue tied?”
By now John had climbed inside, leaving the door open, and had started the engine. He stared forward with a vacant expression, mulling over my chiding remarks. A slow, wry grin surfaced.
“Nah, sport. I just make it a policy not to negotiate with terrorists.”
I laughed and stepped away, shaking my head. Christine stood on the front porch waiting for me.
“I want to go do something,” she said.
“Sure,” I responded. “Whatcha got in mind?”
“Let’s drive over to the old cemetery.”
“As in the old Taylor family cemetery, where Oscar Fox is buried?”
“Sure, why not?”
I shrugged. “Nothing spells romance like tombstones.”
“Let me go grab my coat.”
We headed inside and Christine went upstairs for a moment. I was still holding my now empty iced-tea glass and needed to return it to the kitchen. As I passed through the dining room, I was thinking about what a creepy, eerie thing it was that we were about to do—go to the graveyard of a gruesome killer. Stepping into the kitchen proved to be much more frightening.
CHAPTER 20
The Cemetery
I was three steps past the door when I realized that Mattie Chambers was leaning against the counter, holding a cup of coffee and staring at me with a quiet, brooding intensity. Madeline had apparently disappeared to some far corner of the house. Once again, I was Daniel caught in the lion’s den.
I endeavored to place the glass on the nearest counter and beat a hasty retreat. But I wasn’t hasty enough.
“Where are you two heading now, Jasper?”
I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Chambers, I feel the need to clarify something. My name is Luke, Luke Bradford. I’m not this Jasper person you seem to have me confused with.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Jasper. When’s the last time you had a good butt kicking? Keep it up and I’ll give you a real slobber knocker. So what if you changed your name? You watch yourself.”
Dumbfounded, I folded my arms and stood my ground. What was I to do about this woman? Telling Christine that her 110-pound grandmother was a scowling tyrant would be relationship suicide, and I didn’t know Madeline well enough to talk to her about the matter. I was stuck. My only consolation was that if push came to shove, I had eighty pounds on the old gal.
I tried to blow all this off and think of her in a clinical manner. That is, attempt to recognize the dementia for what it was and not take it personally. But this was difficult, especially in a room with so many knives. I began to nod and back toward the door when, fortunately, Christine arrived.
“You ready to go?”
“Yeah. Very ready.”
Christine turned to leave and I glanced back at Mattie Chambers, only to catch her pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at me in rapid succession. She would be watching. It occurred to me that John had it wrong. Mattie Chambers was the one with the flying monkeys.
We got into the Corolla and before I could buckle up, Christine leaned over and grabbed my coat, pulled me toward her, and proceeded to plant a delightful, lingering kiss on me. After a delicious moment she released me, pushed me back, and began to buckle herself in.
“Okay, drive. Do you know where it is?”
“Gee. Give me a moment to reenter orbit. Not that I’m complaining, but what brought that on?”
“That’s for encouraging my uncle to go to church and for being sweet to my grandmother. What were you two talking about in the kitchen?”
“Oh, just, you know. Stuff, things.”
“Well, I think she really likes you.”
I pondered this for an anxious moment. “Okay, good to know. And, well, as far as John goes, I probably dared him more than encouraged him.”
“Either way, I was glad to see him there.”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high on that one. I don’t think he’ll be putting a fish bumper sticker on the Mercedes anytime soon.”
I started the car and headed down her driveway. “Boy, and here I was thinking you planted one on me because I’m a great kisser.”
Christine looked out her window, wearing a coy smile. She let a few moments pass before she responded. “Oh, you’re not too bad.”
By now we had arrived at Summerfield Road.
“I assume I take a right toward Hoot Wilson’s place?”
“Yeah, the cemetery backs up to his farm.”
I turned in that direction. The countryside had the cold and barren look of winter, a sleepy world of tired fencerows and frozen grass. A solitary hush lay over the open fields, and even though the clock was only approaching four, the first shadows of dusk were beginning to spread across the chilly landscape. Within a mile we turned down a rough chert lane that availed only a small opening into a dense woods. It was a dark, sunken road shouldered tightly by an impenetrable stand of trees. Their thickly intertwined limbs overhung the narrow passage in an ominous canopy.
Moments ago, my only thought had been to escape for time alone with Christine. Now an awareness of where we were heading gained my full attention and a strange unease crept over me. “You know, not to spoil the magic or anything, but this feels a little creepy.”
“We’re going to see the grave of a knife murderer. It’s supposed to feel a little creepy.”
“Well, okay. But shouldn’t we be wearing garlic around our necks or something?”
“This is Watervalley, not Transylvania.”
“So, then, no ghouls, no Ring wraiths, no hounds of hell that you know of make a habit of hanging out here?”
“Not unless somebody tore down the ‘No Demons Allowed’ sign.”
“Mmm, funny. And when you were a little girl and all those times you came over here with your friends, nothing ever happened, huh?”
“Oh, crud yes. Something always happened. We ran back down this road squealing more times than I can remember.”
“You’re not helping here.”
I had pulled up to a small clearing where a crippled wrought iron fence overgrown with vegetation surrounded an area just large enough for some fifty-odd tombstones. Time and nature had slowly worked to reclaim this despondent plot with its dozens of stilled souls. Large maples and oaks had shouldered against the fence, bending and pushing it to their will. Over to one side were the remnants of an old brick foundation, now with several good-sized trees springing up within its broken walls.
