The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  “Addison?” His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know anybody by that name, and I’ve been here a good long time. When would this have been?”

  “I’m not sure. In the twenties maybe.”

  He guffawed. “Well, I don’t go back quite that far. I can let you look at the records, but they’re not cross-referenced and computerized yet. The money to do it got knocked out of the budget last year. If you want to dig through, you’re welcome.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”

  “I’ll get a batch and get you started.”

  Time passed. Workers in the Records office returned from lunch, chatted, went back to their tasks. After two hours, Isabel was starving, cross-eyed from studying small print, and generally discouraged. She was also relatively, but only relatively, sure that Pete Addison had not been a property owner in Gilead County.

  She returned the last pile of documents to the man and thanked him. Damn it, she had been so pleased at her good luck with Donna Pursey, she had made the mistake of believing it would continue. “If I wanted to trace somebody who used to live in Gilead Springs, where else would I look?” she asked the man.

  He hung his head back and studied the ceiling. “I guess you could try the graveyard,” he said.

  She left the courthouse and tottered, weak with hunger, to the Taco Bell. Try the graveyard? Why not? The overgrown cemetery was only half a block away. Carrying her taco, Isabel picked her way through blackberry vines and dead leaves to a stone bench under a tree.

  After she finished eating, she got up to wander along the ill-kept paths and decipher the tombstones. She tried to be methodical, working her way from the front to the back fence bedecked with yellow rambling roses. She was on the next to last row of stones, and the sun was lowering, when a voice said, “You looking for anybody in particular?”

  The voice had come from behind the rose-hung fence. She looked up, to see a shrunken man wearing a straw hat with a gaudy band. Only his head was visible over the mass of roses. Isabel shaded her eyes. “Addison. Pete Addison.”

  The man shook his head. “He ain’t there. I know every one of them stones. Lived next door to them for forty years.”

  “Did you ever hear of Pete Addison?”

  The man shoved his hat up on his forehead. “You doing genealogy? We get a fair number doing genealogy.”

  “Well…” There was no way to explain. “Sort of.”

  He wagged his head. “No Pete Addison there, and I never heard of him, neither. ’Course, this ain’t the only cemetery around. You got St. James, that’s the Catholics, up on the highway, and Rose of Sharon, out next to the Primitive Baptist Church.”

  Isabel’s hands went to her aching back. St. James. Rose of Sharon.

  “And there’s the new memorial park, too, on the coast road,” the man finished triumphantly. He shook his head. “No Pete Addison in this one, I can tell you.”

  Isabel murmured, “All right, all right” under her breath, but the man, having delivered his message, had disappeared. She wasn’t about to tackle St. James, Rose of Sharon, and the new memorial park tonight. She started for the Gilead Springs Lodge, hoping it wasn’t fully booked.

  29

  Buddy Burke was past Westpoint. He was damn near home.

  For the first time, he got the idea that everything might work out. Maybe Joy wasn’t cheating on him with Mr. S. Maybe she had bought Kimmie Dee the boots by now. If that was the case, he’d go back and serve his time and be satisfied.

  Buddy sure hoped it would end up that way.

  Buddy was sitting on an upturned bateau back in the weeds near the Deep Creek landing, eating salami. His shotgun was propped beside him. Buddy could have shot something to eat, a squirrel or a rabbit, but he had discovered it was easier to steal. You didn’t have to skin, gut, and cook a salami. It was hanging right there in the store for you to take. Hell, he had stolen the knife he was cutting off the bites with, too. Buddy had learned a lot on this trip, but what he’d learned most about was stealing.

  Down in front of him, across the weeds and rutted clay, was the boat-launching basin. Deep Creek, then the river, then the canal, was the route Buddy would take to Cape St. Elmo. He was too close now to risk hitching a ride. Too many people around here knew him. And he’d had enough walking through woods and swamps. Buddy had done the trip by boat many a time on hunting and fishing excursions.

  There were several boats at the basin, either pulled up on the bank or moored to the dock. That was the good news. The bad news was, a white-haired man wearing a railroad engineer’s cap was sitting under the pavilion, drinking coffee and looking out at the water as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He was sitting there when Buddy arrived, he had sat there during the twenty minutes Buddy had been eating his salami, and he looked likely to keep on sitting there until sundown or later. All well and fine, except Buddy didn’t want to wait until sundown to take care of his business.

  He watched the engineer. Retired. Not a thing to do but sit and watch the creek go by. Must be nice to have nothing more than that on your mind, and to hell with other people, who had goals to accomplish.

  Buddy chewed, meditating. He could go on down there now. One of the boats had a motor on it; he had already spotted that. Chances were he could get it started and be on his way.

  Except, he had to be sure. Once he started checking it out, the engineer would get suspicious if he had any brains at all.

  Buddy finished his last bite and wiped his hands on the knees of his jeans. When he got home, he’d have a real bath, not a cold rinse from somebody’s outdoor faucet. When he was clean, he’d play with Kimmie Dee and Toby. Truthfully, Buddy had never quite cottoned to Toby the way he had to Kimmie Dee, but anyway, they’d all have a good time. It could work out all right.

  As Buddy watched, the engineer emptied out the rest of his coffee on the ground. Buddy hoped this meant he was about to leave, but all he did was put the cup on the table and settle back to watch the creek some more.

  Buddy couldn’t wait any longer. He had to move. He picked up his shotgun and sauntered toward the basin. Ripples broke on the wet clay and a rusted bait can rolled back and forth in the shallows.

  Not looking at the engineer, Buddy stood at the edge of the basin and studied the boat he wanted. There were oars in it and a gas can. It might be exactly right, but he had to get closer to make sure. As nonchalantly as he could, Buddy got into the boat and stood still until it finished rocking. He stepped over the front seat to get to the motor. Yes, he thought he could—

  “You looking for something, son?”

  Buddy raised up from where he had bent over the motor. The old engineer had left his place and was standing on the bank, watching Buddy. The engineer’s face was bright pink and wisps of white hair stuck out from under the cap. Buddy cleared his throat. “This is my brother’s boat,” he said.

  The engineer didn’t say anything for a minute. He pulled out a blue bandanna and wiped his neck. He said, “That boat belongs to Mr. Robert Dawkins. Mr. Dawkins is a friend of mine. His only brother died of bone cancer last year.”

  Now, Buddy should say, “Screw you, I was just looking.” He should jump out of the boat and haul ass away from here. He’d find another boat or walk through the woods like he’d been doing. It wasn’t a big deal.

  Instead, he went into kind of a commando crouch, cocked his gun, and pointed it at the engineer, all in less than two seconds. He watched the engineer’s face go meaty purple.

  The engineer put his hands up. “I didn’t say nothing.”

  “I heard you all right,” Buddy said. He thought, I’ve taken enough.

  Buddy jumped over the side of the boat into calf-deep water. His boots sank into the sludge and he felt water rushing into them. He didn’t care. He strode through the shallow water to the engineer and said, “People like you ought to mind their own business.”

  “Yes, all right,” the engineer said. His pudgy hands were shaking so fast Buddy couldn�
��t make out one finger from another.

  Buddy jerked the engineer’s bandanna out of his pocket and gagged him. The engineer made a choking sound. Buddy marched the engineer into a stand of trees and shoved him down in the brush. He took off the engineer’s belt and bound his hands together and tied them around a sapling. He’d probably get loose, but not until Buddy was long gone.

  All of this had been done in what seemed no time at all, but now Buddy felt an urgent need to move. He ran back to the boat, shoved off, and paddled out into the creek. He’d get down a ways and find a place where he could work on the motor and get it started.

  He was going home. In spite of everything, it might work out all right.

  30

  Isabel had slept well in her clean, spartan room at the Gilead Springs Lodge. Today, she had decided, was the last day of her search for River Pete. She would go to St. James, Rose of Sharon, and the memorial park. That was it. Then she would have to face returning to Cape St. Elmo.

  After breakfast, armed with the desk clerk’s directions to the cemeteries, she drove out of Gilead Springs in the morning heat.

  It didn’t take long to cross the small burial ground at St. James Church off the list. When that was done, Isabel proceeded to Rose of Sharon Primitive Baptist, which proved to be a different story. Rose of Sharon church was a large, new-looking brick building with a bright tin roof and a towering spire. Behind it was the cemetery, which appeared to be several acres of treeless hillside divided by neat copings.

  She pulled up in a gravel parking lot and cut the motor. To look at every grave would take days. She’d have to find somebody who could tell her who was buried here. Either that or forget it.

  She got out, crossed the parking lot, and walked into the front door of the church. The air inside was deliciously cool. There was no one in sight.

  There had to be an office. Following the sound of typing, Isabel walked along an aisle to a side door. In a small room she found a woman sitting behind a desk, typing on a large manual typewriter. A burned-wood plaque beside the door read CHURCH OFFICE. Beneath it was a smaller matching plaque: HESTER DAVIS, CHURCH SECRETARY.

  The woman— Hester Davis, presumably— continued typing. She looked to be in her seventies, with ruffled gray hair and one ear plugged with a hearing aid. She wore a red wool sweater buttoned up to her neck. When Isabel was standing directly in front of her, she gave a start and said, “Goodness!” After she recovered, she continued: “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to trace someone who may be buried in your cemetery,” Isabel said. “Is there a list of names?”

  Hester Davis touched her hearing aid. “Trace what?”

  Isabel raised her voice. “The cemetery! Do you have a list of people buried there?”

  “Yes indeed,” Hester said. “The Reverend Willis has it in his office. He’s on vacation, but he’ll be back a week from Saturday, if you want to check with us then.”

  Summoning a smile, Isabel said, “I’m from out of town. Do you think you could let me look at it now?”

  The secretary shook her head adamantly. “I don’t go in his office when he’s not here. I can’t get called a snoop that way.” She looked as if it was a sore subject.

  “I really would so much appreciate it—”

  Hester shook her head again. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

  Rows and rows of neat grave markers swam before Isabel’s eyes. Forget it. She turned away.

  She had taken a couple of steps toward the door when Hester said, “What name were you looking for?”

  Isabel turned back. “Addison.”

  Hester’s eyes widened. “Addison! Why didn’t you say so?”

  Had she finally hit pay dirt? “You mean you have an Addison buried out there?”

  Mention of the name Addison had transformed Hester. “Goodness yes. Father of one of our church elders. I remember the old man so well, coming in for services with his wife. A fine old gentleman, so mannerly and polite.” Her beaming face clouded. “The son’s not well at all, I’m afraid. Did you say you’re kinfolk of his?”

  This was no time to get mired in tortured explanations. Isabel opted for a plain and simple lie. “I think I might be.”

  “Oh, he would be pleased. If you want, while you go have a look at the old man’s grave, I’ll phone the son and tell him you’re in the neighborhood. It would do him a world of good to talk to you.” She waved Isabel out. “Go on and look. The family plot is in the third row from the church building, next to the far end. You’ll find it.”

  Isabel could hardly believe this abrupt reversal of fortune. Stammering her appreciation, she left the office while Hester was picking up the telephone.

  Out in the manicured cemetery, she counted the rows of headstones, walked to the far end, and began searching. There were no Addisons. She began to suspect that Hester was simply loony. She continued to look.

  After another few minutes, she saw the explanation. There were two headstones directly in front of her, surrounded by clean white pebbles and stone coping. Mother and Father. The Father stone was inscribed:

  Addison Bainbridge

  1880-1960

  Beloved Husband and Father

  Gone to Eternal Rest

  Hester had sent her to someone whose first, not last, name was Addison. Isabel had tracked down the wrong man.

  31

  Isabel sprinted back to the church office, but it was too late. Hester greeted her with the news that the son of Addison Bainbridge had been delighted to hear of a visiting relation. He insisted that Isabel come right over. Hester obviously felt she had done something admirable. “I told you he hasn’t been well,” the secretary said, dropping her voice. “They say it’s… serious. This will make him so happy.”

  Isabel didn’t have the heart to tell her about the misunderstanding. She noted the directions to the Bainbridge farm, which according to Hester was only a few minutes’ drive away. “He’s expecting you!” Hester caroled as Isabel said good-bye.

  Isabel would have to stop by and see Mr. Bainbridge, explain the mistake. What an embarrassment to have raised a sick man’s hopes for a visit with a relative. As soon as she had straightened things out with him, she would be on her way.

  Following Hester’s directions, she took a left at the bottom of the hill. After a couple of miles, she saw the house— white frame, tree-shaded, substantial, with several outbuildings behind it. Coming up the long driveway, Isabel passed banks of camellias and azaleas, stands of fruit trees and dogwoods. Everything about the place bespoke graciousness and prosperity. A far cry from the world of River Pete, living in a driftwood shack and doing chores for the Purseys in exchange for tobacco.

  She parked at the steps. As if he had been watching for her, a man in his sixties came out on the porch. He had sparse salt-and-pepper curls and dark eyes sunk in a face with an unhealthy gray pallor. He wore a crisp white shirt, a tie knotted at the neck. An aroma of after-shave made Isabel wonder whether he had dressed after he got Hester’s phone call.

  “I’m Addison Bainbridge,” the man said. He had a deep voice, an appealing smile. “Are you my long-lost cousin?”

  Isabel flushed. “Actually, I doubt it,” she said. “In fact, I think there’s been a mix-up.”

  Addison Bainbridge was not daunted. “Oh, we’ll find a connection somewhere. I got out the albums. Come on in.”

  It wouldn’t hurt her to spend half an hour with this courtly gentleman. She followed him into a parlor with chintz-covered furniture. Several ancient-looking photo albums were piled on a coffee table. “Where are you from?” Bainbridge asked.

  “I grew up on Cape St. Elmo.”

  “St. Elmo.” He waved an invitation to sit down. “None of our kinfolks are from that area. Not that I know of. What’s your family name again?”

  “Anders. My grandfather was John James Anders, and my grandmother was Polly Sheffield.”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
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  Isabel tried again. “I’m sure the secretary at the church misunderstood somehow, and—”

  He settled himself beside her and picked up an album. “Don’t be hasty. The albums may tell us something, don’t you think?”

  She could see that he was set on looking at the albums and not particularly curious about who she was. She could spare the time to look at one of them before she left.

  “Here’s my father.” Bainbridge pointed to a studio portrait of a formidable-looking man with a mane of gray hair and a luxuriant beard. Addison Bainbridge, Sr., was dressed in a well-fitting suit, his hands folded, staring unsmiling into the camera.

  “He’s very striking,” Isabel said.

  “Oh, he was something. What a life he had,” said Bainbridge. “Came to Gilead Springs with nothing but some poker winnings, bought land—” Bainbridge made a sweeping gesture to indicate the house and its surroundings, fruits of his father’s labor and ingenuity.

  Keeping the conversation going, Isabel asked, “When did he come to Gilead Springs?”

  “He came here… oh, sometime in the late twenties. Look. Here’s one with me.”

  The photo was of his father, looking no less stiff, standing next to a slight, pretty woman with a prim smile. The woman was holding a chubby baby in a lace bonnet. “That’s my mother,” Bainbridge said. “She was twenty-five years younger, but he outlived her. He was nearly fifty when I was born. And, oh, gracious, look at this—”

  Nodding, murmuring politely, Isabel studied the Bainbridge sisters and brothers, ponies, dogs, birthdays, vacations, graduations. She was comfortable, and it seemed fine with Bainbridge if her participation was minimal. Possible connections between the families had been dropped as a topic for speculation. When the first album closed, the next one opened.

  Sometime later, the last page was turned in the last album. Isabel had done her duty. She said how interesting it had been and that she’d better go.