The Witch's Grave: A Fever Devilin Mystery

by Phillip DePoy

  “Red clay has the additional benefit,” I declared, “of being acidic, increasing the decay rate of the bodies.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Andrews said.

  I assumed from the falter in his voice he was trying to get his mind around the facts as much as I was.

  “It seems like as much trouble to do … what he did,” Andrews continued, “as it would have been just to bury the bodies the right way.”

  “It’s hard to figure,” Skid admitted.

  “You said ‘until recently.’” My eyes narrowed. “What changed?”

  “It appears,” Skid told me, “that Harding was planning to do something new with the bodies. He uncovered a bunch of them, rented some earthmoving equipment, and had it brought here.”

  “To the mortuary?” Andrews shook his head.

  “No, to the state land,” Skid said, casting his eyes in that direction. “Turns out Jackson Pinhurst has been working on a deal with the state of Georgia for a good many years. It finally went through. That government property over yonder? It ain’t set to be a park like everybody thought. It’s going to be Georgia’s biggest landfill operation, all three hundred acres.”

  “No.” I looked up.

  “Disgusting, I call it.” Skid seemed very calm under the circumstances. “Trash from all over the state shipped up here to my town.”

  “You’re not so upset about it,” Andrews said accusingly. “You’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  “I do—”

  “One thing at a time,” I interrupted. “For God’s sake tell me what’s been going on here at the mortuary.”

  “Far as we can tell,” Skid responded, “Harding spent all his time drinking, messing around in Atlanta, that sort of thing. He’s definitely not a mortician. He had no education of any sort after his prep school days. Apparently the family wanted him to go to college, but he didn’t get in—on the recommendation of the headmaster of his prep school.”

  “The headmaster recommended that he not be admitted?” Andrews asked.

  “The mortuary, please, is our topic,” I said impatiently.

  “Shoot,” Skid laughed, looking around the place. “This ain’t a mortuary. It’s a big old house—where over three hundred counts of fraud were perpetrated on the public.”

  “But why?” I said. “That’s what I want to know. Why did Harding do it?”

  “He was insane,” Andrews offered. “All that family inbreeding and bad blood.”

  “Harding Pinhurst didn’t give a damn about anything in this world,” Skid said, cold as the grave. “Dev, you probably don’t even remember an incident when we were in grammar school about some little bird eggs …”

  “ … where Harding broke one open in front of a bunch of other boys,” Andrews finished, a little amazed that he was remembering the story.

  “I always thought, after that incident,” Skid went on, “Harding would come to no good. Which is apparently what happened.”

  “Do you remember the nickname our friend acquired after that?” Andrews asked Skidmore.

  “Nickname?” Skid’s brow furled. “Fever isn’t bad enough all by itself?”

  “There you have it.” Andrews turned to me. “You’re the only one who remembers the nickname. But everyone remembers Harding’s bad behavior.”

  “They’ll remember it a lot better after today,” Skidmore said, taking another look around the empty mortuary.

  “Amen,” Andrews said. “So who killed him?”

  “Dev?” Skid looked at me.

  “Andrews thinks it was one of the nameless homeless,” I began, “the one who calls the dog sometimes.”

  “Scarecrow,” Andrews chimed in, “we call him.”

  “I know who you mean,” Skid sighed. “He does look like that. What makes you think he did it?”

  “He’s creepy,” Andrews said without thinking.

  “He’s harmless enough,” Skidmore said, but his voice was very dry, his eyes boring a hole in my head.

  “I’m more interested in finding Ms. Deveroe,” I said, avoiding Skidmore’s burning glare. “Andrews also has the idea that she’s in danger. I agree.”

  “She saw the murder,” Skid agreed, “and whoever did it is still out there.”

  “Good,” I sighed. “So you don’t think Able’s guilty.”

  “Not really.”

  “And now we don’t think Truevine did it either?” Andrews asked, checking.

  “I keep asking myself how the body got naked,” Skid mused.

  “I have an idea about that,” I said, nearly to myself.

  “I don’t like to think about it,” Skid went on. “It’s clear that Able was about to have Harding brought up on charges for all this mess here. Although Able didn’t know the extent of the problem.”

  “Harding knew how close he was to getting arrested,” Andrews said, his hand raking the part in his hair. “Able and Truevine argued; Harding overheard, knew it was all coming down …” Andrews stopped.

  “What?” I asked him, wondering why he hadn’t finished his thought.

  “Now,” he answered slowly, “I’m back to thinking Able did it. Or Truevine, accidentally—what we were thinking earlier.”

  “Something happened that night,” Skid said, “that was sufficiently traumatic as to scare Able and Truevine fairly bad. Make them act stranger than they normally do.”

  “Which is going some for her,” Andrews said. “Although she does seem the sort to be frightened of a shadow if she attaches some supernatural import to it. But Able’s more levelheaded, isn’t he?”

  Skid pushed off the wall. “Okay.” He headed toward the back door, through the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” Andrews asked, surprised.

  “I think I’ve given the reporters and townsfolk enough time to clear out,” Skid said, pulling his coat around him. “State troopers have a sufficient number of things to do.” He held the door for us, beckoned. “Time to let Dr. Devilin have his way. He’s got ideas. I’d like to see what they are.”

  “If you can goad them out of him,” Andrews complained, “you’re a better man than I am. He’s got the town disease: genetically incapable of discussing anything important, don’t you think?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Skid deadpanned, pushed the door a little farther.

  “You’re a riot.” Andrews looked to me.

  “But I’m right about Dev,” Skid said softly. “Look at his face.”

  I buttoned my coat.

  “All right,” I said, mind spinning like a carnival pinwheel, “let’s go.”

  Sixteen

  Sun was beginning to warm the air; a cloudless sky allowed light to flood the tops of hills. Still, down in the hollows where the dead bodies were it was cold and dark as dusk. We alternated between these two worlds, walking up into the light, down toward darkness, over little rises. If walking was good for clarity of mind, it was also a quicker way to the cemetery than driving from the mortuary.

  “Where are we going?” Andrews asked suspiciously. He was game, but he enjoyed his whining.

  “I’d like another visit with our friends in the Adele community,” I said. “I want to check in on Billy.”

  “Who?” Andrews asked, stumbling behind us.

  “The sick boy by the fire, remember?”

  “Oh,” he remembered. “Right. Why?”

  “I want to see what he’s wearing.”

  I took the silence behind me to be a form of derision.

  “I have about a hundred ideas shooting around up here,” I told them without looking back, rubbing my temple, “and it would be better if I didn’t struggle to verbalize them until I have something concrete to show you both; would that be all right?”

  More silence trailed me.

  I marched perhaps ten feet in front of the other two along a path I thought would avoid stray state troopers and further grisly discovery. The shushing of leaves urged the quiet, emphasized it, imitated the sound of r
ushing water.

  The last ridge taken, our most populated graveyard came into view. Touched by sunlight, scrubbed by the first day of November, it seemed a village, a picturesque Disney impersonation of a cemetery.

  Down the barely discernible path, toward the center of the larger crypts, I stopped short, taking it all in, waiting for my companions to catch up.

  “See something?” Skid said softly, straining his eyes over the gray and brown.

  “I’m looking,” I said hesitantly, “but I can’t tell where the so-called Adele crypt is. It all looks different in sunlight.”

  “Like a park,” Andrews agreed, pulling up beside me. “I think it’s that way.” His hand waved indefinitely.

  I turned to Skid. “You know, don’t you?”

  “I usually just go to Rud’s cabin,” he answered uncertainly. “This place is always confusing to me.”

  “Let’s go on until we’re attacked by a big black dog,” Andrews said dryly. “Then we’ll know we’re on the right track.”

  “Excellent,” I agreed. “Lead the way.”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s got to be one of those.” I pointed to the group of eight or nine large stone crypts not a hundred yards away.

  “Seems right.” Andrews held his ground.

  “Come on.” I started in that direction.

  Down the slope the scene was no more familiar. It seemed I hadn’t been in the place for years. Bronze sun poured over everything, softening gray wreckage to blue statuary, black moss to green decoration. Even waterless brown hulls of weed waved sweetly in the clear cold water breeze.

  Luck, then, was our only ally. A voice to our right turned our heads.

  “Finally,” May said exasperatedly.

  She was beckoning us around a low wall, her neck wrapped in June’s cloth, a shawl we had not seen before over her shoulders. She turned; we followed.

  Between tumbled gravestones and small marble vaults, the familiar doorway appeared. In the clear noon I found it quite attractive, ornate deco ironwork in the upper corners, relief carvings of peaceful angels adorning the front wall.

  May was already through the door.

  “Hold it,” Skid said.

  He took the lead, hand on his holster.

  “What are you doing?” I said, laughter edging the words.

  “You think the Deveroe boys might be around?” he said, peering into the darkness.

  Biology chose that moment to release me from the protective cocoon of shock that had supported me for twelve hours. My knees gave way like hinges; my head narrowly avoided a jagged tombstone. I plunged into darkness.

  I woke up with fire in my face.

  Low coals glowing red and white three feet from my face startled me, I jerked backward, felt cradling arms.

  “Sh,” she said. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

  Truevine held my head with such tenderness I felt a pinch in the corners of my eyes.

  Andrews was sitting next to us; Skid stood close at hand. Other faces, sweet, soot-covered, sad, held me in their gaze.

  “He shouldn’t be out,” Truevine said softly, petting my forehead. “After what happened to him.”

  “I told him,” Andrews said tightly. “Try making that man do something he doesn’t want to do.”

  “Can’t be done,” Skid confirmed.

  “What are you doing here?” I gazed up at Truevine’s version of the Madonna.

  “Hiding from you’uns,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “She come to look after Billy.”

  I couldn’t see who had spoken, but it was the scarecrow’s voice.

  “Billy.” I sat up. “How is he?”

  The room was exactly as it had been before, orange and red, dark and warm, huddled, lonely, strange. Among the living faces I could clearly see the ghost of my great-grandmother, driven into the forest by wild heartbreak, losing the man she loved, knowing he didn’t love her. How had her mind turned, digging up her husband’s grave to snatch the memento of his true love from lifeless fingers? What had been her plan? Or is madness primarily defined by its lack of maps? Founding an invisible homeless shelter had certainly not been her design; that was clear from the vacant look on her face. She was staring toward the arrangement of items in the corner, the geode where the little silver lily lay. I could barely see her through the smoke, but I was certain she was there, gazing into the darker shadows.

  “Billy’s gone,” the scarecrow choked.

  Only then did I notice the bundle across the coals from me. A breathless heap, his face still exposed, Billy stared into the warmth without expression.

  “I was too late,” Truevine said, without a hint of sadness. “Billy’s done now. Gone home.”

  I reached toward him absently, then looked up, found the scarecrow’s face.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “He’s past caring,” the man said, hollow, eyes vacant. “Excuse me. I got to step outside a moment.”

  I watched him go, then scanned the room for the dog.

  “Where’s your pet?” I asked Truevine.

  “Dog?” She smoothed her dress where I’d been lying. “He’s not my pet; he belongs to himself.”

  “It’s not around,” I tried to confirm.

  “Can’t say,” she answered, sighing. She seemed sleepy or drugged.

  “I passed out?” I checked with Andrews.

  “Only a second ago.” He stared down. “We barely got you inside, she took your head; you woke up. It happened in nothing flat.”

  Gaining focus, I gave further search for other players. Rud was not in evidence.

  “Once again,” I addressed May, “you were waiting for me?”

  “She thought you’d probably find her,” May answered, indicating Truevine. “Knew you were headed this way, came anyway to help Billy. She’s a good girl.”

  “Where did you find Ms. Deveroe,” Skid asked, his voice seeming harsh compared to everyone else’s, “to get her here?”

  “In the woods,” May told him serenely. “I know a thing or two.”

  “Truevine,” I said, trying to get her to look at me, “you saved my life last night.”

  “That I did,” she answered. “I’ll expect something back.”

  “I know.”

  Hard laws of retribution and fairness were etched into us both by the mountain, the air, our parents, our different churches—hers was a green cathedral, mine came with a card catalog, but they were our religious homes nonetheless. It was clear to both of us that I owed her a debt, one I would pay without question. No matter that her service to me had been mostly in her mind, partly in a certain esoteric knowledge of plants.

  “I’ve been studying on Harding Pinhurst,” she went on, “and I believe I know what happened now. Last Thursday night.”

  “Ma’am,” Skid said, still hard, “I’d like to hear about that.”

  “All right.” She shifted in her seat. The color of the coals flushed her face rich with warmth; her eyes were far away, at peace.

  She was not wearing the black cloak we’d seen the night before. A plain dark dress, heavy gray sweater, a man’s black construction boots, and thick gray socks were her costume. She’d changed clothes.

  “You’ve been home,” I said simply.

  “Followed the boys,” she assented. “Give them a piece of my mind about shooting into the old mansion. They’re a cussed bunch sometimes, and that kitchen’s a mess.”

  “They were happy to see you.”

  “Not when I told them they’d shot you dead.”

  “Are they home now?” Skid interrupted.

  “No,” Andrews, Truevine, and I answered as one.

  “You went by there this morning before you came to my office,” Skid accused me.

  “They weren’t there,” I dismissed him, and turned back to the girl. “But I saw your charm on the porch.”

  “It was a good’un.” Her face tensed a little. “That was the problem. I thought
I would bring Able back from the dead, but he wasn’t dead after all. So it just messed things up.”

  I didn’t know if her brothers had confessed to hanging her boyfriend or not. Best leave that a family matter, but I thought perhaps her charm had worked better than she realized. I turned my full attention to the subject.

  “It brought Able to you in some other way,” I coaxed her.

  “In the Newcomb mansion.” She nodded. “Last night. That’s when I knew what happened. Able’s not dead, and thank God for it. But I don’t know if this is worse.”

  “What’s worse?” Skid stepped in closer.

  “Able was trying to protect me,” she said, her voice losing its gentle lilt. “He didn’t mean it. I believe he pushed Harding down that hill.” She looked Skidmore in the eye at last. “That’s not murder. You see that. He was saving my life.”

  “You think Harding was trying to kill you?” Skid’s voice finally softened.

  “He wanted to, yes.”

  “Why?” Skid knelt down next to her.

  “Well, because I’m the one told Able what Harding was doing with them bodies.”

  Truevine Deveroe, in her daily exploration of her mountain, learned new things every day. She had barely gone to school, but the university of geography had tutored her mightily. She knew every inch of the terrain within ten miles of her house, in any direction. She knew plants that had no names, lizards that were unique to our county, mosses that grew under granite. Her mother had fostered this education, passing on information from women whose knowledge could trace roots to the beginning of European culture. For millennia these women and thousands like them had guarded nature, protecting its secrets from men, keeping facts about their earth from being forgotten. It was a kind of knowledge I had thought vanished from the earth. Listening to Truevine talk about what her mother had taught her, I thought there might be a drop of true folklore left to be squeezed from Appalachia yet. A great vindication of my academic study washed over me. Such was not Truevine’s point, of course. She simply wanted to assure us all that finding dead bodies—animal, plant, human—was as natural to her as coming across a fallen tree. But she’d been greatly disturbed by sheer numbers in the section of her domain close to the mortuary. For several years she simply avoided the area. A casual word slipped here and there in conversation meant only for his ears had alerted Able’s suspicions. He’d finally investigated. They’d fought about the subject more than once, the last time on the night in question.