by Vicki Lane
The auditorium of the Marshall County High School was packed to capacity, with a throng of latecomers standing at the back and along the walls at either side. Elizabeth scanned the audience, looking for familiar faces. Sallie Kate, an uncharacteristic worried frown on her usually cheerful face, was there, as well as many other friends and acquaintances from the newcomer community.
The old newcomers, that is. Most of my friends have been here at least ten or fifteen years—and most of them were like Sam and me, just trying to make a living and keep a low profile.
Over there was Dacy, a vet tech who lived “off the grid,” as did Sallie Kate and Harley. And beyond her the Nugents, whose organic farm and orchard, together with their herd of Angora goats, had, after years of hard work, become a source of pride for the whole county and a regular destination for school field trips. So many of the old newcomers were like that—all dedicated, in their words, to “living lightly on Mama Earth.”
This all happened so quickly—I guess I thought that the county would go on being the same as always—the local farm folks and our little group of back-to-the-land types, mostly getting along and working hard—and then bam! now there’re condos and galleries downtown and gated communities springing up everywhere. It happened in Asheville and now it’s happening here.
Suddenly, it seemed, Marshall County and the very sleepy little town of Ransom were ripe for major development. Wealthy newcomers were pouring in, eager to capitalize on the empty buildings downtown, the acres of empty farmland lying fallow since the end of the tobacco support program, and the hitherto unusable steep slopes of the wooded mountainsides. Property prices were soaring, as were taxes, and many native Marshall County folk were beginning to say they couldn’t afford to live on the land their families had held for hundreds of years.
After the spate of letters to the editor published in the county’s weekly newspaper had reached a height of incivility unknown in recent years, the powers that be had at last called a public meeting so that interested county residents could voice their concerns.
“We really need to go to this meeting, Aunt E.” Confronting her over coffee that morning, her nephew had been particularly insistent.
Elizabeth, reluctant as always to be drawn into the murky depths of county politics, had begun a halfhearted rationalization. “I don’t know, Ben. I feel like it’s not my battle. I don’t want to see all these new developments either, but I’m not a native and it feels hypocritical to want to close the door on any more new people now that I’m here…”
“That’s bullshit, Aunt E!” Ben had begun to pace to and fro in her kitchen, growing more and more angry as he spoke. “Those greedy county commissioners are letting the developers do whatever the hell they please—build on slopes that aren’t suitable, pollute trout streams, pack too many houses together…all kinds of bad shit.
“And”—he pointed an accusing finger at her—“have you seen the plans that company—Ransom Properties and Investment—has for Gudger’s Stand? It was written up in the paper. They seem to think the old lady’s good as dead and it’s just a formality before they start bulldozing. Shit, I heard that the county is considering doing one of those ‘taking’ things—condemning the property for ‘the greater good’ so RPI can develop it.”
That final piece of information had raised a red flag, and it was in a spirit of righteous indignation that Elizabeth had claimed a seat near the front of the auditorium for the first meeting of Marshall County Voices—a meeting billed as a forum for all concerned citizens, both native born and newcomer. Beside her, Ben and Amanda held hands and carried on a whispered conversation while waiting for the meeting to begin.
The assembled crowd grew somewhat quieter as a cluster of men in dark business suits began to make their way to the raised area at the front of the auditorium. A muffled booing broke out from the back of the room but ceased abruptly as a tall man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt stepped to the podium and tapped on the microphone. The suited men took seats in a row of chairs to one side of the dais.
“Okay, folks, let’s get this meeting underway. We want to give everyone a chance to be heard—”
He broke off as an efficient-looking woman with a clipboard tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a sheet of paper. Glancing quickly at the paper, he began again. “This agenda Miz Worley’s just handed me says we’re goin’ to start with a presentation by Ransom Properties and Investments…”
An angry murmur ran through the crowd but the moderator held up his hand. “Now we all know that the proposed development at Gudger’s Stand is the number one issue on everyone’s list. And no matter whether you’re for or against it, it just makes sense to see what’s being proposed before we get down to sayin’ how we feel about it.”
Behind him a screen was being lowered and the muttering in the audience increased. “They got this all set up aforehand, I make no doubt,” Elizabeth heard Mason’s wife tell the woman on her right. “They’ll use up all the time there is showin’ pretty pictures and not let the other side be heard.”
At the same time, she could hear the woman behind her. “Hollis is the blond. Is he not to die for? Like a Ralph Lauren model. Thirty-two years old and a multimillionaire. Of course, he started with money…his family has developments all over the country…my god, they made a killing a few years ago on some junky little fishing village in North Florida…bought up property for next to nothing, tore down all the ugly little houses and bait shops and tacky little motels…and today it’s all gorgeous condos and utterly fabulous beach houses in those pale, pale, Martha Stewart pastels….”
On Elizabeth’s left, Ben nudged her with his elbow. “And what do you reckon happened to the people who lived in that little junky village?” His voice was pitched low, but as the woman behind them continued with her glowing description, she was in no danger of hearing Ben’s answer to his own question.
“I’ll tell you what happened: they’ve got shit jobs, cleaning those fancy houses and condos and taking care of the exotic, water-guzzling landscaping, and they’ve moved to crappy trailer parks out of sight of this tasteful development ’cause that’s the only housing they can afford. If we let these developers rape—”
The moderator’s voice rose above the buzz of talk in the auditorium as one of the suited men rose and approached the podium. “Folks, this is Mr. Hollis Noonan of RPI and he’s going to show you his vision for the county.”
Noonan took the podium to the accompaniment of scant scattered applause and muffled boos. Most of the crowd, Elizabeth noted, simply sat, arms folded, lips pursed, waiting to hear the proposal. Not the easiest group to make a pitch to. I’m glad I’m not the one up there.
The one up there, however, seemed completely at ease. Hollis Noonan looked deliberately around the room, as if to take stock of those in attendance, bestowing a smile here and a nod there. He had, Elizabeth noted, an annoyingly boyish mannerism of constantly tossing his head to return his long blond forelock to its proper place. The undercurrent of conversation died away and Noonan leaned into the microphone.
“I’d like to tell you a little story—about a city boy who fell in love with the mountains.” His voice was strong, assured, and, it seemed to Elizabeth, without any noticeable accent. “When I was in college, I met a fellow you may have heard of—Vance Holcombe.”
An engaging grin spread itself across Noonan’s tanned face, and he turned, pointing to one of the men behind him. The sandy-haired Holcombe half-rose with a practiced sweep of the hand at the audience, then resumed his seat. Noonan continued, with another winning toss of that blond hank of hair.
“Don’t worry, Vance. I won’t tell any stories about our wild college days.” Blue eyes twinkled as he confided in his audience. “Now that he’s a respectable lawyer, Vance would prefer to draw a curtain over his youth.” See what a good old boy I can be, Noonan’s ingenuous face proclaimed.
“But I will tell you that one year Vance invited me home with him for fall br
eak so I could see the county he bragged on and meet his folks: his brother, Little Platt; his mom and dad, Big Platt and Miss Lavinia; and his legendary uncle, High Sheriff Vance Holcombe.”
The atmosphere in the auditorium began to warm slightly as Noonan launched into a rambling account of his first trip to Marshall County—how he had hiked the mountain trails, kayaked down the river, tapped his toe to bluegrass and old-time fiddle tunes at a local music festival, and listened to the many tales his friend’s family had to relate of years gone by.
“It was one of the best times in my life. And I always promised myself that someday I’d come back—that I’d have a place of my own, high above that beautiful river, and not have to wait for an invitation from Vance.”
Once more the boyish grin swept around the auditorium. Then Noonan’s face grew somber. “A year ago I came back to Marshall County and to Ransom, with plans for that dream home and high hopes to be welcomed as a new neighbor. But I was shocked by what I found—a dying town, half the businesses closed and boarded up, a stagnant tourist industry, farming on the wane—in short, Wasted Potential!”
The speaker accompanied the accusing words with two sharp blows of his fist on the wooden lectern and another toss of his head. The carefully barbered sheaf of hair fanned out, catching the light before it settled into place, only to begin again the inevitable downward slide. At the same moment, the lights in the auditorium dimmed and the screen at the back of the dais lit up with an aerial photograph of Gudger’s Stand. Superimposed on the picture were the words “A New Day Dawns in Marshall County!”
In the half-light of the darkened room, Elizabeth watched the upturned faces of much of the suspicious crowd gradually change, forbidding scowls softening to neutral interest or open excitement. As the presentation rolled on, complete with glowing promises of benefits to the county from an increased tax base as well as a phenomenal projected growth in tourism and jobs, there was a perceptible shift in the mood of the majority.
“Well, Mason, I don’t know; looks to me like some good might come of this.” The tight gray curls quivered as the woman punched her husband’s arm and leaned over to speak into his ear. “What he’s sayin’ makes a world of sense—and if we was to hold on to that piece you heired from your daddy till some of this building got goin’, I reckon we could triple what we was thinkin’ of askin’. These Florida people are fools for steep land. And that piece ain’t doin’ us no good.”
Beside her, Elizabeth could hear Ben whispering to Amanda in an angry counterpoint to the lulling patter that accompanied the computer graphics showing the projected development.
“…garden villas, time-shares, common green space, riverfront condos, historic re-creation, clubhouse, Olympic swimming pools, wellness center—”
An agitated chatter broke out at the back of the room as the door flew open and a husky young man wearing a green and yellow Marshall High School letter jacket, cell phone in hand, burst through the knot of standing latecomers to shout out his news.
“They’s someone’s big ol’ Hummer’s on fire out there in the parking lot—burnin’ like a summabitch! I called 911 but I reckon—”
“…wildflowers, peaceful nature trails, pristine sparkling brooks winding through gentle meadows…” The recorded voice-over continued, accompanying the idyllic scenes that bloomed and then faded on the unwatched screen, as the audience poured out of the auditorium into the cold night air.
Chapter 8
Burn Job
Monday, December 11, and Tuesday, December 12
The wail of an approaching siren cut through the clamor of shuffling feet and excited voices as the erstwhile audience re-formed for the unexpected second act of the evening. In a loading zone at the end of the parking lot, mercifully well away from most of the cars, leaping red flames drew the crowd like so many helpless moths. Doors open and interior blazing, a boxy orange vehicle squatted there—a monstrous jack-o’-lantern from hell. The insistent tang of kerosene hung in the air, underscoring a stench of burning plastics.
The watching throng stood at a cautious distance, fascinated by the spectacle of a very new, very expensive car rapidly depreciating as they watched.
“Here comes the fire engine now. That ve-hicle is gonna be a total loss though. Somebody done a burn job on it for sure.”
“I believe that’s the car the developer folks come in—see there on the front door it says RPI.”
“Reckon who could have done such a thing? Someone said they was two big fellers runnin’ off.”
“What’s that writing there on the ce-ment? Appears whoever it was got busy with the spray paint afore they set that car on fire.”
Elizabeth craned her neck to try to read the words: yard-high letters scrawled in green paint on the pavement near the wheels of the burning car. At her elbow, Ben spoke, in a voice flat with grim satisfaction. “Looks like not everyone’s ready to welcome Mr. Noonan as a new neighbor.”
Between the hazy yellow illumination of the mercury vapor lights and the glow of the fire, it was just possible to make out the double set of initials: R.I.P.—R.P.I.
“Elizabeth, does that kind of thing happen a lot around here? I’ve heard some stories about bad feeling between natives and newcomers, but I didn’t believe them. I’ve felt really safe. All the local people I’ve met have been really nice to me.”
Amanda, usually so self-possessed and unflappable, was pale and wide-eyed as Ben pulled the farm truck into the line of vehicles creeping out of the high school parking lot. Behind them the fire truck was still pumping water onto the blackened shell of the Hummer, and a second police car had just arrived to join the sheriff’s vehicle and the police car that had accompanied the fire engine.
“Oh, Amanda…the people here are nice. This was…an anomaly…or maybe an accident…” Elizabeth’s words trailed off doubtfully. The smell of kerosene still in her nostrils insisted that the destruction of the RPI car had been no accident.
“Get real, Aunt E—you saw that writing. That was a political statement. ‘RIP—RPI’ may not be as obvious as ‘Death to RPI,’ but it makes the same point.” Ben laid a hand on Amanda’s blue-jeaned leg pressed close to his. “More likely it was some of the so-called radical environmentalists—the rabid tree huggers. But, I don’t know…they’re opposed to pollution, and burning a Hummer, even though it stands for everything they’re against in a vehicle, is kind of counter—”
As the truck inched its way to the top of the drive leading down the hill to the highway, Elizabeth broke into Ben’s musings.
“Look over there, Amanda. That’s Pinnacle Mountain—the one in the middle of the horizon. See that one little light in the middle of all the dark…about a third of the way down? That’s my porch light. I always get a thrill out of seeing it from here.”
As Amanda leaned forward to peer through the window, Elizabeth was struck anew with the young woman’s quite exceptional beauty. That perfect profile… Thick, naturally blonde hair pulled up in a careless knot caught the light of a following car and glinted silver-gold. Sometimes it seemed incredible that Amanda, not yet twenty-five, had abandoned what, according to Gloria, had been a promising modeling career, choosing instead to create gardens and live in a primitive cabin with Ben.
“That’s awesome that you can see it from here. I really like the way it looks—kind of a beacon. Like on the raft trip last week, remember, Ben? How they had a battery lantern on the shore so we’d know to take out before those bad rapids.”
Amanda snuggled back against Ben, a look of pure happiness spreading across those perfect features as an oncoming car’s headlights briefly illuminated the truck cab, lighting up her face.
Like the flash on a camera. She probably got used to that. Elizabeth closed her eyes but the image stayed with her. High cheekbones, elegant nose, perfect teeth—such regular features that at first you don’t notice her looks, particularly since she doesn’t wear makeup. But in that magazine spread Glory sent just so I could see who
Amanda “really was”—my god, the girl’s a raving, tearing beauty!
It had been a feature article, clipped from a glossy fashion magazine and still redolent of some expensive perfume sample. There had been page after page and shot after shot of Amanda, posed in one improbable designer outfit after another, against the background of the old city of St. Augustine. The text had referred to Amanda’s “privileged upbringing” and had dwelt on her stubborn determination to fund her own college education by modeling. Wonder what that was about? According to Glory, Amanda’s family is “extremely well-to-do.”
As they passed a sign giving directions to the River Runners’ outpost, Elizabeth was jogged from her reverie. “Ben, Amanda—tell me about that raft trip. I keep meaning to ask—it must have been gorgeous, with the full moon. But weren’t you freezing all the time?”
“You would have loved it, Aunt E. It was fantastic!” Ben slowed to a crawl to accommodate a scuttling possum out for an evening ramble. “And with the wet suits and the paddling jackets, we stayed warm enough. But the river’s dangerously cold this time of year and we had to be extra careful not to get dumped—that’s why we took out before Sill’s Slough—even though Josh’s made the run hundreds of times, he says it’s too tricky at night. There’s a hydraulic thing going on there that can be really dangerous. It wasn’t too many years ago a guy fell out of a raft and got sucked under. Of course, if he’d had his life vest buckled tight—”
“It was just amazing, Elizabeth!” Amanda interrupted Ben’s explanation, eager to describe the experience in her own terms. “The moon was so bright that after our eyes adjusted we could see really well. And Josh told us just when to paddle—he says he could do the river blindfolded. It was magic, like…like sliding down a ribbon of molten silver with dark woods rising on either side. It was the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”
