by Joan Hess
“Consorting?”
“Consorting. In the same way you and I consorted after the second game of Scrabble.”
“Oh, that kind of consorting.” He sat down on a corner of the desk. “No, the only person I saw was Hammet, who was watching me from behind the corner of one of the buildings on the off chance I’d pull on a ski mask in preparation for an armed robbery at the barber shop or the supermarket. To his disgust, I had breakfast and left for Springfield without gunning down any innocent citizens. Andrew’s car was parked in front of his unit, but I didn’t see him. Sorry.”
“And Simon never showed up at your studio. There’s no way of knowing for sure that he even left town. Maybe he decided to stay and see what Sweetpea had planned for the day.”
Jack pulled me to my feet. “I don’t suppose you have time for tamales this afternoon?”
I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his chest. “I wish I did, but I need to get this cleared up before more of these aged children arrive tomorrow to indulge in their fantasies of being fierce soldiers and gallant heroes. Why couldn’t the historical society have found another town? A ridge and a bridge—how hard could it be?”
“On Saturday night, we’ll go into Farberville and have a nice dinner. Afterward, we can find a motel with mirrors on the ceiling and a bed that jiggles for a quarter. Maggody will simply vanish from the map.”
“Maggody’s never been on the map,” I said, managing a smile. “Let’s go have lunch at Ruby Bee’s. I suppose I’ll spend the rest of the day nosing around, but I should be available once all the homicidal killers have been tucked into bed. Maybe you can do a guy thing with Andrew over a couple of pitchers of beer and see if he’ll let anything slip about Sweetpea.”
“If you’re deputizing me,” he said as we went outside, “you’ll have to let me wear your badge tonight.”
“You’re liable to hurt yourself when you try to pin it on.”
“Nobody said being a war correspondent was easy.”
It was very nice to laugh for a change.
Lottie had been lectured since she was in pigtails about the horrible things that befell children who snooped into others’ personal possessions. Being expelled from Sunday school was the least of the punishments that would rain down with the fury of a spring thunderstorm. But she had little choice, since the Headquarters House was decidedly out of the question. She had only a hazy memory of stumbling out the back door and diving under a forsythia, where she’d lost consciousness as a result of either the nasty bump on her head or pure panic. It had been dark when she roused herself, and unpleasantly chilly. It had not occurred to her to put on a cardigan sweater before committing a felony, for surely that’s what it had been.
Somehow she’d survived the night, but by the next morning she was feeling dizzy and disoriented. The yards did not look familiar, nor did the occasional cats that wandered by, pausing to eye her with typical feline aplomb before ambling on about their business. She’d sensed that it would be foolish to go inside the nearby house. For reasons she hadn’t been able to define, it had seemed menacing.
Hunger and a need to deal with matters of physical comfort and hygiene had driven her into an adjoining yard, but again she’d found herself afraid to knock on the door and throw herself on the mercy of whoever appeared. She’d moved on.
When she’d found a gap in a hedge and continued into the next yard, she’d found herself confronting a very elderly woman, who’d been breaking up pieces of bread and tossing them on the patio. Perhaps the woman had seen the envious glint in Lottie’s eyes as the crumbs were attacked by sparrows and finches.
Lottie was unclear what had happened after that, but she’d ended up in a lovely, soft bed in a tiny room, with a cup of tea and a warning to stay there until the woman’s son had packed a bag and left on a trip. And so she had, dozing most of the day and awakening only to wonder where she was.
That evening the woman had reappeared, introduced herself as Mrs. Walter Streek, and invited Lottie downstairs for supper. They’d had soup and watched TV, neither saying much, and retired early.
By Tuesday morning, it had all come back to Lottie, but she had no idea what to do. Was there a warrant for her arrest? Would she be apprehended if she dared set foot out of the house? She’d seen shows on TV in which the police had tapped telephones in order to overhear calls. Could Eula’s and Elsie’s phones been tapped in a similar fashion?
Mrs. Streek had asked no questions, despite the fact Lottie had staggered into the yard in a filthy dress, her hair in disarray and dotted with leaves, her stockings riddled with runs. And Lottie had offered no explanations, which suited them both. She’d taken over kitchen duties, fixing a nourishing breakfast and artful little sandwiches for lunch, and made sure Mrs. Streek was covered with a cozy afghan while she dozed in her favorite chair.
It had been going rather smoothly until a woman had come to the door early that evening. Lottie had hovered in the kitchen until she’d seen that the woman was not a police officer, but a somewhat frowsy creature who most likely was selling something that was overpriced and of poor quality. However, when the woman had broken the news of Mrs. Streek’s son’s death, Lottie had rushed in and hovered anxiously until the woman left.
Lottie realized that she had to stay until arrangements were made for Mrs. Streek, who’d been kind and trusting to a fault. At Mrs. Streek’s request, Lottie had made a long distance call to a Mondale Streek, who’d grudgingly promised to come as soon as he could get away from his office. She’d repeatedly called Harriet Hathaway, but there’d been no answer thus far.
And now, while Mrs. Streek napped in her bedroom, the blinds drawn, Lottie decided to risk eternal damnation (or at least humiliation) and snoop through Wendell’s notebooks and file cabinets in search of a copy of the journal.
His office was cluttered with stacks of periodicals related to the Civil War and various genealogical organizations. Maps of battle sites were pinned on the wall, as well as newspaper clippings and black-and-white depictions of whiskered officers glowering at the camera. Four filing cabinets dominated one wall, each drawer with a neatly printed label. She found one marked “Cotter’s Ridge” and removed a stack of folders to examine while she sat at the desk.
A folder with Henry Largesse’s name contained several pages of notes, some handwritten and others printed from the Internet, and a copy of the journal. Lottie decided she could read it later, even while she and Mrs. Streek watched TV. It was more important to use this time efficiently. She’d always taught her students that this was the key to a household that ran smoothly and with a minimum of fuss.
Wendell had done an admirable job tracing the Largesse family in both the pre– and post–Civil War eras. He’d followed leads on Henry’s sisters and their marriages and offspring, and the offspring of the offspring. He’d determined when and where most of them were buried. It wasn’t, Lottie concluded, very interesting.
She flipped through the other folders with equally detailed information about the Confederate privates who’d done their best to defend the gold that tragic morning in April. Records of births, marriages, and deaths reduced the young boys to nothing more than a compilation of factual trivia.
Only when she at last came to Lieutenant Hadley Parham’s folder did she find a bit of human drama. The Parhams had presided over a vast plantation of several thousand acres, and before the war owned more than seven hundred slaves. Hadley’s sister had died at the age of four, and there were no birth certificates other than Hadley’s. Lottie paused to do a bit of calculation. Hadley had been barely twenty years old when he enlisted and galloped away to defend the South from Northern aggression. He’d been twenty-one when he was declared a casualty at Cotter’s Ridge.
Perplexed, she stopped for a moment. A “casualty”? Acquaintances might be casual, as were impromptu gatherings in the morning for coffee or encounters in the supermarket. Picnics and potluck suppers, where most of the attendees (but not she, of
course) wore shorts and sandals. But a gallant boy, hardly a man, bleeding to death on a country road? Hardly casual.
However, she realized she was not using her time wisely and continued reading. Wendell had not been content with a final notation of Hadley’s death at the Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge. He’d turned his attention back to the family left to cope with the challenges of keeping the plantation productive despite the increasing rebelliousness of the slaves and the blockade that prevented the export of the cotton crop to England. The Historical Society of Crawly County, South Carolina, had provided Wendell with photocopies of the plantation’s accounts, presumably in Hadley’s father’s own handwriting. Horace’s script had been as precise as Wendell’s.
More intriguing was a copy of the certificate of baptism of Felicity Louise, born of Hadley Walpool Parham and Trella, a female slave and the property of Horace Parham, Esq. An illegitimate baby, born to the master’s son and a woman of color. Another document, declaring Felicity Louise to be a legal ward. The baby’s skin must have been light, Lottie thought, for the family to take her into the house to be educated and brought up like a proper young lady. She’d subsequently married and procreated with success.
Lottie, who’d never bothered with frivolous fiction, found herself gazing out the window at the dogwoods and redbuds blooming in the backyards of the adjoining houses, lost in a wistful reverie of a little girl, born in tragic circumstances, her true heritage by necessity hidden, haunted by the fear of exposure, who’d gone on to make a place for herself in Charleston society.
Luckily, Wendell had left a box of tissues next to his computer.
14
Hammet was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, as limp as a pile of sodden laundry. Waving Jack away, I sat down and said, “Bored?”
“Bored as a body can git,” he said, sighing. “Last week I would’ve sworn that having nuthin’ to do but eat ice cream and watch TV all day was all I could ever want. Even stomping all over the ridge was better’n this. You won’t let me tag along, and Ruby Bee sez I can’t come in the kitchen anymore after…well, she sez I can’t.”
“You didn’t start a fire, did you?”
He gave me an aggrieved look. “I ain’t that dumb. She said she’d give me a dollar if I cleaned the pantry. I took all the cans down and wiped the shelves, but then I decided it’d look a sight prettier if I pulled off the labels and lined up all the shiny cans. Ruby Bee dint appreciate it.”
“I suppose not.” I thought for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you come sit with Jack and me while we all have lunch?”
“I already et.”
“Sit with us and have a piece of pie. As soon as we’re done, I’m going to need your help. You know that two people were killed yesterday, don’t you?”
Hammet perked up. “It must be that feller out back, the one that keeps peerin’ out the window like he’s waiting for the FBI to surround the motel and take him into custody. I warned you about him yesterday, Arly. He’s got a real surly look to him, like a rabid polecat. His nose is all red and his eyes are real puffy.”
“We’ll have to wait for the FBI to show up before we tackle him. I need to find Hospiss Buchanon’s old place somewhere on Cotter’s Ridge. I realize you’ve been dragged up there for the last two days, but I promise we won’t look for caves.” I poked his shoulder. “I really need your help, Hammet.”
I suppose I expected him to tear up with gratitude, but I was wrong. “What’s in it for me?” he asked.
“I’ll let you stick around until Saturday.”
“My foster ma sez I ain’t supposed to come back till Monday. Besides, I’m the drummer boy in this movie. I got a uniform and a drum. I ain’t learned to play it yet, but I reckon I can do jest fine when the time comes.”
Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen, saw me, and disappeared as though the biscuits were smoldering and the meringue on the cream pies was turning to ash. It was just as well, since I was feeling far from friendly.
Hammet was pretending to be fascinated by the neon signs above the bar, but he was surreptitiously watching me, like a crow on a dead branch.
“Two weeks this summer,” I said.
“A month.”
“Two weeks here, and then a weekend of camping and fishing and that sort of primitive thing.”
“Three weeks and a weekend in Branson.”
I was beginning to get annoyed. “Three weeks, period.”
“What about the camping shit?”
“You can pitch a tent in the pasture behind the Flamingo Motel. Deal?”
Hammet slid off the stool. “I s’pose so,” he said cheerfully. “We kin talk about Branson later. Why do you want to find Hospiss’s shack? There weren’t much standing last I saw it. All you’re gonna find is snakes, spiders, wood rats, and mebbe a nest of rabbits.”
I herded him over to the booth where Jack was sitting. “Hammet has decided to become a union negotiator when he grows up,” I said as I sat down. “That, or an enforcer for the mob. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Ruby Bee had trailed us to take our orders. She put down menus, then glared at me. “You done anything more about finding Lottie? Joyce told me what Eula said about Lottie sneaking into the Headquarters House and getting herself arrested. But then Millicent said she’d heard that Lottie was staying at a homeless shelter on account of having amnesia and not recollecting who she was. Edwina Spitz swears Lottie’s staying with the nuns that live in the old house behind the Catholic church, although I find that hard to swallow. Lottie’s never been shy about talking about what she calls a papist conspiracy. You need to go into Farberville and fetch her, Arly.”
“On my list,” I said. I glanced at Jack, who was studying the menu, which, for the record, had not changed in the last few days or even in the last few decades. If Ruby Bee had been able to read my mind, I could expect lectures for a month on promiscuity and the necessity to keep him panting until the honeymoon. It was possible that Estelle was already looking for patterns for the bridesmaids’ dresses, while Ruby Bee fretted over recipes for the cake. Raspberry or lemon filling? Pink or yellow rosebuds?
“Just a cheeseburger,” said Jack, disrupting my fantasy.
I handed back the menu. “The same, and a glass of milk.”
Hammet ordered an ice cream sundae with extra chocolate sauce and two cherries, but Ruby Bee merely nodded and left without asking how I’d feel about Joyce’s niece as the flower girl.
In Manhattan, I could have pranced down the street in a string bikini and no one would have noticed. In Maggody, having lunch with an eligible man was tantamount to making a down payment on a cottage and subscribing to Better Homes & Gardens.
And making an appointment with an obstetrician.
After we’d finished, I reminded Jack to keep an eye out for Andrew, then took Hammet with me to my car. He instructed me to drive up the road in front of the Pot O’ Gold, and finally turn down an overgrown trail that quickly disappeared into brush and scrub pines.
“It ain’t all that far,” he said as he got out of the car.
“Have you ever found it from this direction?”
Hammet shrugged as if he were a Sherpa guide who scaled Everest dozens of times and had never failed to arrive at the peak, even if it meant slinging his wealthy clients over his back for the final ascent. “It ain’t all that far,” he repeated. “I know ever’thing there is to know up here.”
An hour later we stumbled into a clearing of sorts. Corn stalks competed with weeds and saplings, and the rotted rails of a fence lay scattered in an oddly symmetrical arrangement. What remained of the house was, as Hammet had predicted, nothing more than a heap of gray, splintery timber, tarpaper, and broken glass.
“Told ya,” he said smugly.
“One more word out of you and you’ll be lucky if I send you a greeting card this summer,” I said. “I can feel ticks crawling all over my body, although I’m so sweaty that they may slide off. I thought you knew wher
e this place was.”
“You’re looking at it, ain’t you?”
I was too tired to strangle him and dispose of the body, although there was most likely a well in near proximity. “Let’s find the family plot, and then get out of here.”
Hammet gulped. “Where they buried folks?”
“Only the dead ones.” We went around the rubble and found a patch of ground that had resisted an invasion of brush and brambles. A few daffodils competed with coarse grass and blackberry bushes. “This is it,” I said. “Look for headstones.”
It turned out that quite a few of Hospiss’s ancestors had met their demise over the course of the last two centuries. Almost all of them had merited at least a chunk of rock, although a few had not, leaving me to wonder how dastardly their sins had been.
“Look at this one,” called Hammet, scraping moss off a comparatively large marker. “It’s got some letters, though I can’t make ’em out.”
I knelt beside him. “It could be an H and a P.” I took a stick and scraped off some more moss. “And this could be 1893.”
“Iff’n you say so,” he said, unimpressed. “Could be a lotta things.”
He was right, and I wasn’t inclined to lug the rock back to the car and take it home to scrub it with a toothbrush. I stood up, then froze. “Did you hear something?”
Hammet looked at me. “You reckon this place is haunted?”
“No, it’s just that…” My throat tightened as I saw what appeared to be a Confederate soldier watching us from behind a thicket of pines. He was as thin as a fencepost, with a pale, cadaverous face and eyes lost in the shadow cast by the brim of his slouch hat. Sunlight glinted momentarily off buttons and gold braid. Before I could find the wherewithal to so much as blink, he vanished.
Hammet tugged my sleeve. “What?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think it’s time to go back to town.”
