by Vicki Lane
“Ben and I spent a lot of time together in the last few weeks he was staying in Tampa and it just kind of worked itself out. And here I am.” Amanda’s guileless eyes said that this was the simplest thing in the world.
“Did you ask your mother why she hid the letters from you?”
“I did. When I’d read all the letters, it was clear that something Spinner had done had turned Mama and Papa against him. I didn’t know what it was, but they had made the choice to never see him again and to pretend to everyone—even me—that he was dead.
“The day after the party, Papa was away and I went to Mama’s room. I knocked on the door and she opened it but just stood there, blocking my way. I told her how I’d found the letters. And she just looked at me and said, ‘Have you? I should have destroyed them long ago, but I couldn’t.’ It was awful. That brittle mask she’d worn all these years just crumbled away and she looked so terribly old and defeated. And then she told me.
“Do you know what it was, Elizabeth, what terrible thing Spinner had done that made them pretend he was dead? He told them he was gay—and so they killed him.”
Amanda was weeping now, but the story continued to spill out. “Mama said Papa had promised Spinner a lot of money if he would stay away from me—Papa didn’t want me ‘contaminated.’ And Mama went along with the whole phony story.
“I yelled at her that she was heartless, to do that to her own son and to let me grieve for him when she knew he was alive. She just said, ‘Yes, I think I have no heart.’ And then she closed and locked her door, leaving me standing in the hall.”
“Amanda”—Elizabeth felt near tears herself—“I think I can show you that your mother tried to get in touch with Spinner—she wasn’t entirely heartless. And I can take you to someone who knew him.”
“And so we went right away to Thomas Blake’s place and pounded on the door but no answer. I guess even a troll must have to go get groceries sometime.”
“Yeah, when I got done with Mac, I went down to Blake’s place but couldn’t rouse him. One of those junkers out front was missing, so I figured, same as you, that he’d gone somewhere.”
Phillip watched as Elizabeth pulled open first one drawer and then another in the old secretary. He had returned around six to find her deep in a storage closet, from which she emerged, a spiderweb caught in her hair, eager to tell him all about her encounter with Amanda.
“Anyway, I told Amanda we’d go see Thomas Blake tomorrow when she got back. She and Ben and the girls were going in to a movie tonight, and they were all going to stay at Laurel’s place. And I told her I could find one of those earlier ads seeking Spencer Greer. I’m pretty sure it’s in a newspaper I saved.”
As Elizabeth resumed her search through the bottom drawer of her secretary, Phillip looked toward the kitchen. No pots on the stove, no tantalizing smells. He took a seat on the sofa and immediately James hopped up to try to lick his face.
“Sounds like you’ve had a full day, Lizabeth. No, James, no tongue!”
He nudged the small dog gently to one side. “Have they been fed? I can take care of that if—”
She was on her knees now, searching through the neat piles of manila envelopes, old tax returns, bundled correspondence, and other odds and ends. Her long braid dangled over her shoulder and she flipped it impatiently out of the way.
“Thanks—but I fed them the minute I got home. If James is telling you otherwise, he’s lying.”
She pulled out a neatly folded newspaper with a startling five-inch headline: “Y2K: THE END?” and got to her feet. Passing by him, she ran one hand gently over his head. “And I’m going to feed us too. There’s a salad already made in the refrigerator and in about fifteen minutes we’re going to have some very elegant sandwiches with the leftover duck, okay?”
“Better than okay. Sounds great. You want a glass of wine now? I stopped to get some champagne for New Year’s and they had good deals on some other stuff. There’s a nice red from the Biltmore Winery—what was that Ben said the other night—‘a naïve little domestic…’?”
“‘…but I think you’ll be amused by its presumption?’ Yeah, I think that’s from an old New Yorker cartoon—it’s part of the family language now.”
Elizabeth turned on the light in the dining room and pulled out her chair. “What did Mackenzie want you for? You’re not officially working for him yet, are you?”
“No, the job doesn’t start till January twenty-second—I forget why that particular date. Anyway, Mac wanted to go through the fire scene again.”
He was uncorking the naïve little domestic and describing the desolation of the ruined house when she interrupted his somewhat leisurely narrative.
“You say the mattress was ripped open and all the drawers and things dumped out?” She looked up from the yellowing newspaper on the table before her as Phillip handed her a glass filled with the deep red wine.
“Yeah, it was one helluva mess. The arsonist must have thought that stuff’d burn better than it actually did—all those old clothes and things were likely damp and moldy. You remember how that whole place was—hadn’t been heated in years.”
He took his own glass to the other end of the table. “Mac says he’s stymied. Nothing’s adding up. And by the way, Sherlock, it looks like the Bambi thing is a dead end. The bones in the silo were a male.”
He could see the struggle of conflicting emotions crossing her face. She’s glad it wasn’t her friend’s friend; she’s disappointed her lead wasn’t the right one. But she’s going to stay cool.
“Really? Well, so much for Sherlock. I’ll just hope Bambi got where she was going. But they’re looking at the bones already? I thought it was going to be weeks or months before they got to them.” With delicate care, Elizabeth turned a brittle page of the 2000 Millennium Edition of the Marshall County Guardian.
“No, they haven’t really started; evidently that was just an off-the-cuff comment the ME made—nothing official.”
He watched as she turned another page and ran her finger down what looked to be the classified ads.
“I’m glad this got saved—all the fuss there was about the Millennium. If I ever have any grandchildren, maybe their kids would get a kick out of reading about how panicked a lot of people were and what dire prophecies were floating about what would happen when the second hand hit twelve on that crucial moment when the twentieth century became the twenty-first.”
Her finger continued its search, up and down the columns of newsprint. “To tell the truth, when the New Year and the new century rolled around, Sam had only been dead for a couple of weeks and I wasn’t opening the mail except to pay bills. The magazines and newspapers piled up for a few months till Rosemary came home one weekend and sorted them—and me—out. It was her idea to save this so-called historic edition.”
Her finger stopped and stabbed at an ad. “Here it is—I thought I remembered right. ‘Spencer Greer, or anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts, please contact Box holder, P.O. Box 4973, Tampa, FL 33629. Generous reward offered.’”
She refolded the newspaper carefully. “I’ll check at the library to see how soon after ’95 the ads started; I’m almost positive this wasn’t the first one. I remember they came around like clockwork, three or four times a year.”
“And Amanda didn’t know her brother was alive till a year ago; is that what you said? So…?”
“So it almost has to have been her mother. Which means she may not have been quite as heartless as Amanda thinks.”
Chapter 36
Who Is Little Ricky?
Wednesday, December 27
The schoolhouse clock out in the living room had just struck midnight. His eyes had drifted shut and the book in his hands was slipping toward the floor when Elizabeth’s voice at his side brought him back to consciousness.
“I’ve been thinking, Phillip.”
He closed the book, laid it on the bedside table, and watched her through drowsy eyes. She had just emerged from
the bathroom, pink with the warmth of the hot bath she invariably soaked in before bed. She unpinned her braid, shook it out, and began to brush her hair—long, dark, silver-highlighted waves that smelled of something sweet and fresh—herbal shampoo, she had told him.
“Maybe the fire at the stand was a cover-up. You said the mattress and pillows were cut open and drawers pulled out. Maybe someone was looking for something. What do you law enforcement types call it—‘tossing the place’? And when they found what they were after—or didn’t find it—they tried to set a fire to cover their tracks.”
“Lizabeth, what would anyone be looking for?” He shoved one pillow aside, laid the other flat, and settled into it with an appreciative grunt. At the foot of the bed, James moved over to Elizabeth’s side and curled himself into a tight little ball. “That building’s been empty for years now, and according to Mac, half the county probably had access to the key. If there was anything valuable, it’s long gone.”
She cracked the windows, letting a thin cold finger of air into the room, then climbed into bed beside him, pulling the covers up high and turning off the reading light.
“Before the whole thing with Amanda today, I went to visit Nola. And, just like you said, she’s improving. But now she’s putting on an act.”
He lay in the dark, lulled by the rhythmical breathing of Ursa and Molly on their beds and trying not to drift off as Elizabeth described Nola’s strange behavior and the neighbor’s observation of a bobbing light in the little stone house. Elizabeth’s words came in slow phrases, as if she too were teetering on the edge of sleep.
“Lee Palatt…didn’t think it was the niece…they’d cleaned out the house and gone back to wherever it was…said it was like someone looking for something.”
Elizabeth’s words sounded farther and farther away. He forced himself back to wakefulness to ask, “When was that? Tracy and what’s-his-name—they were around a few days ago. I saw them at the bridge.”
A long silence met his question and he became aware that Elizabeth was asleep, her breath slow and regular. With a sigh of deep content, he spooned his body around hers and felt himself slipping into blissful unconsciousness.
Blissful unconsciousness gave way to strange dreams—once again he was climbing up the silo, his headlamp flashing dizzyingly in all directions. Once again as he achieved the topmost rung and looked down into the echoing interior, his stomach lurched in protest.
Turning away, he saw again the light dancing over the surface of the river and illuminating the winter-bare branches of the ancient trees that lined its bank. Then, overcoming his reluctance, he brought the light to bear on the shining white object below—seemingly hundreds of feet below. I’ll never make it down there without falling. What the hell was Mac up to, making me climb all this way? Then, without warning, as he focused his attention on the objects he had been sent to find, it was as if a camera zoomed in, carrying him in a giddy swoop to the bottom of the silo. He found himself standing beside a small tombstone of gleaming marble, topped by a cherub of the same material. The cherub’s face was somber and with one chubby hand it pointed to the words carved on the smooth surface of the stone: Little Ricky~2004–2006~Our Angel.
“You were dreaming pretty hard last night.”
Returning from letting the dogs out—or, in James’s case, putting the dog out—into the drifting snow of another cold morning, Elizabeth was surprised to see Phillip still in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The frown of concentration on his face suggested deep thought. At last he spoke, posing a question to the air.
“Who’s Little Ricky?”
Elizabeth dropped a kiss on his forehead. “What is this—Trivial Pursuit? Okay, I’ll play. Little Ricky was the kid on I Love Lucy. Gramma used to love to watch the reruns. Do I win something?”
His expression was unchanged as he continued to stare at the ceiling. “Last night, right before you fell asleep, you mentioned Nola’s niece and her boyfriend or whatever he is, Rocky—”
“Actually, his first name is Stone.”
“Whatever. The thing is—”
She was relieved to see his face lighten as he interrupted himself to ask incredulously, “Sweet Jesus, did I just say ‘whatever’? Hanging around all these twenty-something types is ruining my vocabulary. Listen, Lizabeth, I had this dream…”
As Phillip recounted the dream and its origin, Elizabeth listened eagerly, with a steadily growing conviction that this might be leading somewhere.
“What were the dates on that decal you saw on Stone and Tracy’s truck?” she asked.
“2004 to 2006. Same as on the tombstone in the dream.”
The snow had diminished to a few drifting flakes when Elizabeth, a bucket filled with food scraps in the crook of her arm and a jug of hot water in her hand, picked her way carefully down the steep road to the chicken house. With her other hand she wielded a metal-tipped walking stick. The Christmas snow, packed by the passage of her car, was ice-slick in places, and she was forced to proceed crabwise along the shoulders, where a fresh coating afforded a modicum of traction. Cleated boots helped some; her walking stick helped some more. But past experience had taught her that inching along like an old lady was the best way to avoid a fall.
The chickens were still huddled on their perches in the dimness of their house, and they muttered sulkily as she flung open the door to reach the feed can. She scattered the mixed grain on the hay-covered floor, then checked the nest boxes. A single forlorn egg rested in one—frozen solid, a crack running from top to bottom.
Elizabeth tossed the scraps from the chicken bucket onto the frozen ground within the wire enclosure, eliciting a fluttering rush as the birds hurried to investigate. The stainless steel bowl of water was also frozen solid, so she kicked it upside down, poured a little hot water over it to loosen the ice, then righted the bowl and filled it from her jug. The hens instantly abandoned the duck carcass—the last vestiges of the Christmas Day meal—that they had been squabbling over and ran to dip their beaks in the steaming water. Only the rooster, Gregory Peck, stayed by the remains of the duck, picking up and dropping choice bits of meat and making inviting sounds to his harem.
“You’re such a gentleman, Gregory.” And handsome too. The proud scarlet comb and great crescent spurs, shiny green-black tail feathers, a white body, densely speckled with black and bronze, curving copper-colored saddle feathers—it wasn’t the stereotypical red-rooster coloring but quite distinctive.
As she stood admiring the strutting bird, an image flashed into her mind. Red rooster…a stuffed toy rooster in Nola’s cupboard…and toys and children’s books. I wondered who they were for. If Stone and Tracy had a child, it would be Nola’s nephew or niece. If that was Little Ricky, then now that child is dead….
“It seems like more than a coincidence—Tracy shows up and Nola tries to kill herself. What if the news of Little Ricky’s death was the reason…the catalyst?”
Phillip swept the snow from another step before answering. Elizabeth stood on the stone path below him, snowflakes frosting her hat and jacket. Her eyes were dancing with excitement and the tip of her nose was red with the cold.
“Before you go working out some big theory, Sherlock, don’t you think you ought to find out for sure who Little Ricky is? The truck I saw could have been borrowed and it could have been someone else’s Little Ricky. Those toys you saw could have been for…say, some charity thing.”
“I know.” The excitement dimmed. “I need to find out for sure. But I have a real feeling the nursing home won’t give me Tracy’s phone number. And I can’t ask Nola—if my theory, as you call it, is correct, mentioning Little Ricky right now could set her back, just when she’s begun to come out of her madness or whatever it was.”
She hurried up the stairs to the porch, the empty chicken bucket clanking on her arm, then turned. “No, I think I need to talk to Nola’s old friend Lavinia and see if she can’t fill in some of the blanks.
And I’m pretty sure I know where to find her today.”
The Drovers’ Road XII
The Silver Needle
Alone in the tiny cell and lost in a waking dream, the Professor relived the halcyon days of his journey from Charleston to Warm Springs. The bright-eyed widow he had met at Sherrill’s Tavern, the liberality of her charms, the turtledove dulcitude of her every utterance—all suddenly vanished in a cacophony of hoots and jeers. The Professor started awake to hear once again the rattle of the chain and the squeak of the door.
It could have been no more than an hour since Lydy had been removed to the courtroom, but the man who stumbled back into the cell and dropped onto his bunk might have been decades older than the callow youth who had been escorted away.
His face was void of expression, bloodless lips pressed tight together. For a long moment he stared straight ahead. And then he spoke, as one continuing a narrative after some trivial interruption.
Now, one of the last places we stopped on the Drovers’ Road was Lester’s. Hit was Micahjah Lester owned that place, though it was his wife what run it, far as I could see. She was a great hugeous woman, had six black hairs growin out her chin. She could pick up a drunken drover and fling him out the door thinkin no more of hit than iffen he was a cat. They was a quarrelsome lot there at Lester’s, and all the talk was of states’ rights and abolition and se-cession.
Lester had him some slaves what worked around the place and he kept talkin big about how the government hadn’t ought to take a man’s property from him and how folks in the South had ought to han—
Lydy swallowed the word and began again.—Had ought to run out all them thievin abolitionists. Ol’ Lester, he had him a news sheet and he begun to read aloud from it about how one of them abolitionists, a feller named John Brown, had gathered together a band of white and Negro alike and had broke into an armory. Him and his men killed several white men and captured a number more. But then the army was called out and all the abolitionists that wasn’t killed was captured. And then they was tried and they was…they was done away with.
