by E. Joan Sims
Mother appeared somewhat mollified. She even rose to the occasion and produced a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio when Horatio called for a toast to my discovery. I went along with the game because I realized it was his way of taming the shrew. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.
Cassie wanted to see ‘effie diaz’ for herself, so we scared up the old county map once again and spread it out on the coffee table. This time I had no trouble pointing out the spot.
“You’re right, Paisley. I don’t think anyone has set foot out there since the Indians called this ‘a dark and bloody ground.’”
“Why did they call it that, Horatio? Is it because of some war, maybe?” asked my daughter.
Horatio took a small sip of wine and began the ritual of lighting his pipe. “No. This was their hunting ground, a killing field of sorts. There was such abundant game— deer, turkey, wild duck—they had no difficulty tracking down meat for their larders. Sometimes they would kill, and then gut the animals on the spot. Hence the dark and bloody ground.”
“Oh.” Cassie was disappointed. I knew she would have preferred a more exotic and colorful story. She stood up and stretched. I thought she was going to excuse herself and go to bed, but she surprised me. “So, Mom. When are we going to drive out there and see what we can find?”
“Wh…why…” I sputtered guiltily, wondering if she could read my mind. “I don’t think we should go out there at all, and certainly not by ourselves! I’m never opposed to a little snooping when it’s safe, but don’t forget that somebody has murdered four people. I’d hate to give whoever it is the chance to make it five or six.”
“Your mother is right, Cassandra—and she’s being surprisingly cautious for a change. I applaud you once again, Paisley,” saluted Horatio raising his glass. “Your newfound discretion is admirable. May I suggest that we sleep on this information and see if we can find out something more tomorrow—perhaps from the rangers in the park, or in some roundabout way from Andy Joiner? The map we have here is quite out of date, and I would assume the one in the courthouse was not very new, either. Perhaps we could locate a more recent version at the newspaper office or in the library.”
“I seem to recall,” said Mother, “that the state Department of Transportation made some aerial photographs of the county last year when they were considering making another exit from the highway. Perhaps we could find out who has copies.”
“Or even better,” said Cassie with an impish grin. “Why not fly over the area and see for ourselves?”
Chapter Thirty
Cassie said goodnight to all and took Aggie out for a walk before she went to bed. Mother and Horatio decided to finish off the bottle of wine, but I was still full of barbeque so I announced my intention to retire and left, taking the map with me. I hoped no one noticed. I had my own agenda.
I put on my pajamas and hopped up on the bed where I spread out the map. I had to memorize as much as I could. Mother would be suspicious if I took it with me when I left in the morning. My plan was to get up with Cassie, drop her off at work, and drive out to area F-10 by myself. If all went well, and I had no reason to think it wouldn’t, I could be back in town by early afternoon—maybe even in time for a late lunch with Cassie. If not, then I would certainly be there in time to take her home. No one would be the wiser, and I could have my own little adventure without involving Cassie or anybody else.
Last night, when I said a visit to the area might be dangerous, I had been trying to keep my daughter from knowing about my plans. I didn’t think for a minute it was—unless there was poison ivy in the woods, but Cassie would have insisted on going with me and I couldn’t let her. I was determined to never again put her at risk, even from poison ivy.
I didn’t know quite what I expected to find out there, but I felt Rudolfo’s dying words could not be ignored. Maybe he had discovered a gold mine. That would be unlikely in these parts, but we were close to some government installations. Maybe he had located Cassie’s spy plane. My curiosity was growing by the minute and I found it hard to fall asleep, although, if the truth were told, my insomnia was more than likely due to Mr. Cloudt’s bold and spicy barbeque sauce.
Much to my dismay, Cassie wanted a big breakfast the next morning. I tried to talk her out of it until she began to wonder why I was in such a hurry.
“Gee, Mom. You always said that breakfast was the most important meal of the day—‘eat like a king in the morning, a prince at noon, and a pauper in the evening.’ If you said it once, you said it a million times. What’s up with you this morning? You act like you have ants in your pants.”
“Cassandra, dear,” admonished Mother. “Don’t be disrespectful to your mother.”
“Why?” asked my daughter with a wicked leer. “Is that your job, Gran?”
Mother pursed her lips with disapproval. I could tell she had a complete sermon on the tip of her tongue; but she wisely refrained from answering. Perhaps she was being cautious because of our unpleasant argument the day before. Sometimes I had to admire her, even against my will.
“Okay, Cassie,” I sighed, resigning myself to at least a thirty minute delay. “I’ll cook. What do you want?”
“Oh, no!” she insisted. “I’m hungry, not crazy. The last time you cooked breakfast, it took a week to clean up the kitchen, and we had to live with the smell of burnt toast almost that long. So, what do you want?”
The western omelet, country ham, red-eyed gravy, and biscuits were so delicious that I almost forgot about my secret plans. Mother even forgave her granddaughter for her sharp tongue.
“My, Cassie, dear, you are quite a fantastic cook! You even knew to put coffee in the gravy!” Mother’s sigh was exaggerated and full of regret as she looked in my direction. “I guess culinary talent skips a generation. I tried to interest your mother in the gentle household arts, but she was much too impatient and, well, to put it in a word—messy. You’re quite right, cleaning up after she’s has been at the stove is a monumental task.”
“Hello!” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “Don’t mind me. And certainly don’t take my feelings into account! I do try, you know. It’s just that, well…things seem to go wrong when I’m in the kitchen.”
“I know,” laughed Cassie. “The cake burns, the flour spills, and the eggs break themselves.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed with her. This was an old joke. When we learned to speak Spanish, we particularly liked the reflective verbs. One didn’t drop the ball—the ball “fell itself.” The glass “broke itself,” and so on. We always said it was a great way to avoid responsibility.
I dropped Cassie off at the coffee shop only fifteen minutes later than my scheduled plan. I kissed her goodbye with a promise to be back either for lunch or dinner and headed out on my adventure with a full stomach and a light heart.
The day was bright with summer sunshine and boasted the sweetest of breezes to kiss away the heat. I put on a tape of classical country and hummed along, happily off key, with the likes of Gid Tanner and his Skillet Lickers and Uncle Dave Macon and his Fruit Jar Drinkers.
My Grandfather Howard had grown quite deaf as he aged, but he always had a song on his lips. I liked to imagine that somewhere in his head he still heard the tinny strains of the fiddles and banjos as they had come across the radio waves from Nashville and the early Grand Ole Opry so many years before. When I was just a little girl, he instilled in me a lifelong love of that music. Some people, including my mother and daughter, thought it hokey and overly sentimental. I firmly believed it was an oral paean to the hardy men and women who settled our country. Each song was a complete story — an opera in miniature: a tale of life and love and death. I admired the composers—most of whom could not read a note of music—as much as I admired Puccini or Verdi. And I liked the tunes a whole lot better. These songs were something you could whistle and tap your foot to, and they were as honest and true as the day is long.
I was in hog heaven as I drove down the h
ighway feeling good. Pippa was right, I thought, “God’s in his heaven—all’s right with the world.”
The flat tire came as a complete and totally unwelcome surprise.
“Damn!” I swore, as I felt the car pull sharply to the left. I slowed down and eased Watson over to what little shoulder there was on the narrow two-lane highway that led to the trailer park and—according to my memory of the county map—to the dirt road and “F-10.”
I opened the door and got out to survey the damage. The breeze that had been so pleasant was gone, and the heat from the morning sun caused the air to dance and shimmer over the asphalt road.
“Damn, damn, damn!” There was not enough space on the side of the road for me to change the tire unless I wanted to run the risk of turning up on one of Horatio’s tables with a tag on my toe labeled “road kill.”
I carefully looked both ways, then walked down the middle of the road about fifty feet. I was in luck. Off to the left was a dirt track that led to nowhere but would serve my purpose handsomely. I ran back to the car, huffing and puffing in the heat, and backed cautiously down the slight embankment until I came to the spot.
When I turned off the engine, I could hear the birds singing and the steady hum of summer insects. I climbed out of the car and listened for a moment, entranced. If I hadn’t had to change a tire, I would have enjoyed my little side trip.
Ancient oaks spread their sheltering limbs overhead, protecting me from the hot summer sun, and just beyond the little glade where Watson was parked, a stream rippled merrily through the forest. It looked like the scene for a fairy tale. I halfway expected to see an elf pop up at any moment.
“I wish an elf would change my damn tire,” I said with a sigh as I opened the rear gate and tugged on the tire well. I broke two nails and skinned my knuckle before I managed to retrieve the spare and all the rest of the paraphernalia I needed. A thumbnail went as I jacked up the car. By the time I had finished my task, I had only one unbroken nail left, and I was sweating like a stevedore in spite of the shade provided by the trees.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the rear window as I replaced the jack and closed the hatch. My face was smeared with dirt and grease, and my brand new aquamarine polo shirt was filthy. Cassie would have to eat lunch without me. I looked like a bum.
I grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the car seat and walked back to the little stream. After a few minutes I realized that it would take more than water to clean me up, but I was cooler and more refreshed by my efforts.
Thanking God that I had the presence of mind to bring a bottle of Evian and some fruit, I climbed on the hood and lay back against the windshield to enjoy my snack and the scenery.
Two male bluejays argued noisily back and forth in the branches above me about some stupid bird thing, and it occurred to me for the first time that I seldom saw a lady bluejay. Maybe the feminine fowl were so embarrassed by the irritating antics of their male counterparts they hid from sight. Or maybe…
I fell asleep before I could finish my thought, and dozed away the morning dreaming of the birds and bees. I woke up abruptly when I tried to turn over, and upended the bottle of Evian in my lap.
“Arrggh!” I grabbed ineffectively at the bottle, then watched helplessly as it fell to the ground. I licked my dry lips as the water gurgled out into the grass.
“Drat!”
The noonday sun was directly overhead. Above me the green leaves danced lightly in a breeze no longer sweet and cool. The polo shirt stuck wetly to my body, and the damp seams rubbed painfully against the skin of my armpits. I was miserable.
I thought quite seriously about returning without completing my quest, but I finally decided, like the man said, that failure was not an option. Besides, it would be difficult to arrange another time when I was free to roam around without anybody questioning my whereabouts. And since I was still certain I could be back in town around two, I decided to trek on.
The asphalt highway took me past the trailer park and about thirteen miles beyond before it suddenly petered out into a bumpy dirt track.
Surprisingly, the road wasn’t the least bit overgrown. As a matter of fact, the track looked like it had seen some recent heavy travel. I drove slowly, trying to avoid the deep ruts and tire tracks left in the dried mud. The road was a lot rougher than I had counted on, and once again I considered turning around. Stubborn to a fault, I kept driving but rolled up the windows to keep from breathing the fine powdery dust.
I wasn’t making very good time. The sun had already passed its zenith and was on
the downside of its journey towards the horizon.
“Goodbye, lunch,” I muttered. I had eaten both apples before my nap, and breakfast was a distant memory. Just as I made the decision to call it quits, the spare tire went flat. Watson wiggled and wobbled at the edge of the road, then slowly slid sideways, and stalled abruptly in a deep rut.
“I can’t believe it!” I shouted as I beat my fist against the steering wheel. “Just one little adventure on my own—is that too terribly much to ask?” After a minute or two, I grew tired of my own theatrics and slumped despondently in the seat, well aware that Mother and Cass would never let me live this down.
The car was leaning at an angle, and I took care not to turn an ankle as I got out. I tried to slam the door, but gravity had the last word. The heavy door fell back open just as I turned around and knocked me face down in the dirt.
“That’s great! That’s just great!” I shouted as I picked myself up. Now I really looked like a filthy bum. Not a single solitary soul would give me a lift, and the walk back to town was a footsore journey of at least fifteen miles. Dinner seemed as far away as breakfast felt, and I was terribly thirsty.
After locking the car, I headed towards town, stumbling over the deep ruts in the road. Dry powdery dirt and small bits of gravel managed to get in my shoes as I walked, forcing me to stop and sit down every fifteen minutes to shake them out of my socks.
The afternoon sun shone down from a sky devoid of any clouds that might have provided a respite from the punishing heat. Sweat rolled down my scalp and into my eyes and ears, and the dust made a gritty, grinding noise between my teeth. All I could think of was a long, sudsy bubble bath and a tall frosty glass of sweet iced tea. Being miserable was becoming a habit I didn’t want to get used to.
I walked with my head down to keep the sun from shining in my eyes, and consequently, the van was almost upon me before I noticed the approaching cloud of dust. I climbed awkwardly over the ruts to the edge of the road and waved my arms around like a windmill in a hurricane.
“Hey! Hey!” I yelled, just in case the driver didn’t see the filthy scarecrow in the nasty clothes. “Help! Please! Help!”
Unbelievably, the van showed no signs of slowing down. In a final act of desperation, I jumped back down in the roadbed, held up my hands, and closed my eyes. I heard the van skid dangerously close in the dirt. I felt the heat of the engine as it came to a halt just inches from my body. When I opened my eyes, the dust swirled around me in a dense cloud making it impossible to see. I felt my way around the car and pulled on the door handle.
The cool air from inside the van felt like heaven. I didn’t wait politely for an invitation, instead, I climbed inside quickly and shut the door.
“My, my,” observed Ruby Dawn Coleman, shaking her head. “But you’re sure a mess, Miss Paisley. I didn’t recognize you at first sight. Almost didn’t stop. Pardon me for saying so, but you look like you could use a bath.”
She was dressed in a sleeveless pink tee shirt and very short spotless white denim shorts. Her hair was teased and lacquered into a small dry haystack on the top of her head and her thin lips shone wetly with neon-bright pink lipstick. She looked like a gaudy dime-store angel to me.
“Thanks a million for stopping,” I panted. “I was almost out of steam.” I looked around the cab of the small van. “You don’t, by any chance, have something cool to drink, do you?” I asked hop
efully.
“Why, no, honey,” she answered, her pink lips a glossy contrast to the dingy teeth. “But I’m taking groceries to some friends of mine. It’s not so far from here. If you don’t mind going along with me, they’ll be more than glad to give you a cold drink when we get there.”
I sat back in the seat and tried to relax—tried to keep thoughts of cool, frosty libations from the forefront of my mind. I never once considered what sort of friends a woman like Ruby Dawn Coleman could possibly have out in this isolated part of the county.
“Damn!” she swore loudly. “What idiot left their car in the middle…”
I opened my eyes to see that we had arrived back at the spot where Watson sat blocking the narrow road.
“Sorry. That idiot would be me,” I admitted sheepishly. “I had a flat.”
With some difficulty and a lot of swearing, Ruby Dawn managed to drive the van up over the edge of the road and around my Jeep.
“I’ll have to send somebody back here to get your car off the road,” she said a bit peevishly as we drove past Watson. “You got a spare, honey?”
“No. I mean, that was the spare,” I answered in a voice that sounded exhausted even to me. I was so dispirited that I didn’t even hesitate when she asked for my car keys.
“Never you mind,” she said with another big tobacco-stained smile. “Maybe the tire can be patched. You just relax, honey, and let little ole Ruby Dawn take care of everything. You’re plumb near tuckered out.”
I felt a sudden uncomfortable rush of guilt for ever having disliked this woman. Jumping to instant conclusions about people was one of my biggest shortcomings. I vowed right then and there to be more tolerant from now on. After all, crooked brown teeth and big hair notwithstanding, Ruby Dawn had just saved my bacon.
Chapter Thirty-one
The van lurched to a stop in front of a rusty, doublewide trailer. I sat up straight and wiped the drool from the corner of my mouth. Somehow I had fallen asleep and missed the last part of our journey.
