5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes

by Valerie S. Malmont

  After hearing from Reverend Flack what had happened, Luscious asked the obvious question. "Wasn't the door locked?"

  The minister sighed heavily. "Of course it was. And Mrs Liverberger can vouch for that. I locked it with my key, and as usual, she tugged on it to make sure it was locked."

  The church secretary nodded. "I only wanted to make sure."

  "Does anybody besides you have a key to the church?" Afton asked.

  Reverend Flack's eyes opened wide with surprise that someone would ask such an obvious question. "Of course. Mrs. Liverberger, could you get the key list from the file, please?"

  Mrs. Liverberger wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and opened the file cabinet behind her desk. "Here you are," she said, laying several sheets of paper on the minister's desk.

  "Thank you so much, Mrs. Liverberger." He slowly ran his finger down the list. "Funny, I thought he died. Didn't the Heind- mans move ten years ago? And I see you have a key, Luscious. Why?"

  Luscious flushed. "You gave it to me when I was elected to the building committee."

  "Of course. How silly of me to forget." He turned to Afton with a smile. "There are fifty-six keys out, officially. In reality, there are probably a lot more than that."

  Luscious nodded in agreement. "I made ten copies of mine alone."

  "You did what?" I asked.

  "I had permission. I gave them to the members of my Alcoholics Anonymous group, so whoever gets here first can open up and make the coffee."

  "And there are many other groups who meet here at the church, who have been given permission to copy their keys, too," Reverend Flack said. "The Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, Overeaters Anonymous, the divorce support group, the woman's auxiliary, the-"

  "So there could be hundreds of keys out there," I interrupted, flabbergasted. "Why not just leave the doors open?"

  Nobody seemed to think that was a question worth answering.

  "Do you want me to show Luscious and Afton the kitchen?" I asked the minister, who was totally surrounded by the house tour women.

  He threw a grateful smile at me. "Please."

  I took the two policemen downstairs, showed them the kitchen, and told them of my escaped convict theory.

  "You could be right," Luscious said, smoothing his strands of blond hair over his balding forehead. "Afton, look around and see if there's any sign of him."

  The assistant policeman scurried out of the kitchen, and Luscious turned to look at the stove. "Damn shame," he said. "It was practically brand new."

  "Is that important?"

  He turned wounded eyes toward me. "Of course it is, Tori. I'm on the building committee here, so I know how much that stove cost, and it's only a few months old."

  "Boss," Afton called excitedly. "Come here. I think I've found something."

  He stood on the stage, a piece of cloth dangling from his hand.

  "What did you find?" Luscious asked.

  "In the Boy Scout locker, behind the stage. Someone's been living in there, by the looks of things. There's a bed roll spread out, some dirty clothes in the corner, and a big mound of McDonald's hamburger wrappers."

  By the time he finished telling us what he'd discovered, we were in the small room the Boy Scouts used for equipment storage.

  "Oh no," Luscious moaned. "The flag's on the floor. It'll have to be burned."

  Afton and I sighed in unison. "There's more important things going on here than the desecration of the flag," I pointed out.

  "I know that," Luscious sniffed. "Wonder what I should do?" This he mumbled, nearly under his breath, as though he were questioning himself.

  But still I answered. "Call the FBI," I snapped. "Maybe they can identify the clothing. See if it belongs to Vonzell Varner and not a junkie looking for a place to hole up."

  If I didn't know better, I would have said Luscious frowned at me. "There's no junkies around here, Tori. This is Lickin Creek."

  The look of incredulity on Afton's face was priceless, and I had to turn my back on him to keep from laughing.

  "But I'll call them right away," Luscious said, oblivious to our reactions to his naivete. It was one thing to be in love with your home town, another to be totally oblivious as to what was going on in it.

  "Since you seem to have everything under control, I'd better be off," I said. "The house tour bus will be leaving soon."

  "Thanks for your help, Tori," Luscious said. He then added, rather coolly I thought, "I'll be in touch if there's anything you should know."

  My eyes smarted, and I left the room quickly before he could see how hurt I was. What did he mean he'd be in touch if there was anything I should know? I, who had been at his side countless times since Garnet left him in charge. I, who had selflessly given my assistance, even when I wasn't asked. I was nearly at the stairs, when I heard Afton calling my name.

  "Yes?" I paused, but didn't turn around.

  Afton's hand touched my shoulder gently. "He didn't mean anything."

  My cheeks were so hot I knew they were flaming. "He was rude to me. What did he mean by that crack about getting in touch if there's anything I should know? I've helped him out over and over since Garnet left. Why did he suddenly turn on me? What did I do wrong?"

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except I think Luscious has finally come to realize you're playing on the other team now"

  "What other team? What are you talking about?"

  "You're a newspaper reporter. Everything he says or does around you goes immediately into the Chronicle. He's beginning to resent that. That's why he told you there are no junkies in Lickin Creek. If he admitted he knew the borough has a problem with the homeless and with addicts, you'd print it, and he'd be on the hot spot at the next council meeting."

  "I'd never disclose anything told to me in confidence," I said with self-righteous indignation.

  Afton's only reply was a small smile.

  "Well, hardly anything," I said, lamely.

  "Don't let him upset you, Tori. He still needs you. But he's growing in the job and has to find his own way"

  "You're quite the philosopher," I said. I sounded grumpy but I knew he was right.

  "I hear the trolley bell," Afton said. "Don't miss your ride."

  Nine

  Several years before I'd ever heard of Lickin Creek, the borough council had purchased a used trolley from a town in Texas. It was really a bus on wheels, designed to look like the old-fashioned trolleys that used to run through the borough on tracks that are still set into the streets. Supposedly, it was so charming and reminiscent of old Lickin Creek that the council thought it would be a draw for the tourists who always seemed to skip Lickin Creek in favor of Gettysburg. And it was also going to provide public transportation where there had been none. Unfortunately, nobody in the borough seemed to have any idea of where it was supposed to stop or where it was going, and the riders never appeared. Therefore, a few months ago the council voted to end the borough's attempt at providing transportation and rent the trolley out for civic groups and wedding parties. Today was the first time I'd actually seen it being used.

  Alice-Ann stood before the green-and-yellow trolley, waiting for me. Through the open windows, I could see the house tour committee already on board.

  "I was afraid you weren't coming," she said. "I've done everything I could to keep the bus, I mean trolley, from leaving."

  I smiled. "Even throwing your body in front of it?"

  "Of course. Anything for you. Let's get on."

  The trolley lurched forward before we'd taken our seats.

  "Must be in a hurry," I remarked.

  Alice-Ann slid in and patted the bench next to her. "We're twenty minutes late getting started."

  "Sorry," I said, trying to ignore the aggravated stares of the women around me. "It wasn't my fault."

  "Never mind, Tori. Have you got the information on the church and the last house written up yet?"

  "They'll be finished before the afternoon is up." A small groan escaped f
rom Alice-Ann's mouth, but her lips never ceased to smile. I whipped out my notebook and began to copy from the church brochure I'd picked up, adding what I'd learned from Reverend Flack.

  Trinity Evangelical is one of the oldest churches in Lickin Creek, having originally been founded in 1785. The present building on the square was erected in 1869. The beautiful stained glass windows in the sanctuary came from the famed Tiffany Studios of New York. Behind the church is a cemetery where the ancestors of many of Lickin Creek's most noted citizens are buried. Also to be found in the cemetery are the graves of several members of the Delaware Indian Tribe. Trinity Evangelical is well known throughout the area for its annual Christmas pageant, which was written yearly by Oretta Clopper until her untimely death last year. The spire is closed to the public, but if you could climb it you would see a panoramic view of Lickin Creek, very similar to that which was sketched in 1877 by W.W. Denslow, best known as the illustrator of that classic book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. A print of that panorama is on display in Reverend Flack's office.

  House tour participants are invited to tour the church and use the restrooms in the basement. Sugar cakes will be available for purchase, the proceeds to benefit the church building fund.

  By the time I'd finished scribbling my description of Trinity Church, the trolley had stopped before the one house I hadn't yet visited.

  "Are you coming?" Alice-Ann asked me.

  "Yes. Just one second more, please. I'll bet you didn't know Lickin Creek has a Wizard of Oz tie-in."

  "You'd probably find a Wizard of Oz tie-in if you were in the middle of the Sahara Desert, Tori."

  "Funny you should pick the Sahara Desert, Alice-Ann. L. Frank Baum and his wife Maud visited Egypt in 1906. Maud wrote a book about the journey called In Other Lands Than Ours. And the underwater city in Glinda of Oz resembled the ruins of Philae, which were underwater when they were there...."

  Alice-Ann's giggle stopped me. "I should have expected something like that from you."

  I turned my attention back to what I'd written and compared it to what was in the church brochure, then handed the paper to Alice-Ann.

  She glanced at it. "Couldn't you type it?"

  "Not on the trolley. If you want to wait a few more days, I can type it neatly for you. However, if you want to meet your deadline..."

  "That's all right." Alice-Ann folded the paper and put it in her purse. "Is that all of them, then?"

  "Actually, I haven't quite finished the description of this house." I waved one arm in the direction of the mansion where the committee members had gathered on the porch. "Pretty elegant place. What is it, anyway?"

  "Don't fib, Tori. You haven't even started to write it, have you?"

  "I confess. But I'll have it written by the time we reach the next house. Come on. Let's go in. I don't want to waste any time."

  Half an hour later, back on the bus, I wrote:

  The Benjamin Koon Funeral Home is located in one of Lickin Creek's oldest and grandest houses. Originally the residence of Benjamin Koon's great-grandfather, Dr. William Koon, and built in 1807, it is a fine example of Flemish Bond brick style.

  (I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded important when Benjamin Koon said it, so I decided I'd better stick it in.)

  John Brown, the abolitionist, is reputed to have visited the home in 1859 shortly before his ill-fated attack on Harper's Ferry. General Robert E. Lee's forces commandeered the house to use as a billet on their way to Gettysburg. It is ironic that at that same time, the house was also serving as a stop on the Underground Railroad.

  During the terrible influenza epidemic of 1918, the house was used as a hospital. In 1937, it was sold to three nurses who turned it into a maternity home. That closed after 15 years, when the Lickin Creek Medical Clinic was built, at which time the house came back into the Koon family and was turned into Lickin Creek's most elegant funeral home.

  While the front parlors have been turned into visitation rooms where services are held, the Koon family resides in the rest of the spacious home, which you will tour today. Please note the antique furniture, all original to the house, as well as Mrs. Koon's delightful collection of ceramic owls. The stained glass windows are from the Tiffany Studios of New York.

  The mortuary is located in the basement and will not be shown today, but Mr. Koon states that special tours for small groups can be arranged at any time. It is extremely popular with middle school students, who visit every year.

  If a viewing should be going on during the house tour, please speak softly as you pass by out of respect for the deceased and relatives.

  "I'm done," I announced cheerfully, ripping the pages from my notebook as the trolley neared Morgan Manor.

  Alice-Ann looked at what I'd written and frowned. "Are you sure they're real Tiffany windows?"

  "I'm no stained glass expert, my friend. All I know is what Benjamin Koon told me. And he said they were Tiffany."

  "All right," she said through pursed lips. "We'll have to go with it, then. But doesn't it seem there are an awful lot of windows reputed to be made by Tiffany Studios in one small town?"

  "Maybe Tiffany had a really good salesman in the area."

  I'd had to skip touring the Bride's House with the group to get the article finished, but that didn't bother me since I'd seen the house only last Tuesday. When the committee had come back to the trolley, I heard a lot of conflicting comments. There were those who thought turning the house into a bed-and-breakfast was a wonderful idea. Then there was the very vocal majority, which expressed horror at defacing historic property for commercial use. These were the women who did not appreciate the rooms being chopped up into oddly shaped spaces in order to put a toilet and sink into each guest room.

  The arguing had gone on until the trolley stopped in front of Morgan Manor. The women poured from the trolley, chatting excitedly in anticipation of finally getting to see the famous Morgan Manor for the first time. Alice-Ann put a hand on my arm, holding me back until the trolley was empty.

  "I'm going to check the springhouse," she said, "and make sure nothing's been disturbed. Do you want to come?"

  I recalled that J.B. had mentioned snakes in conjunction with the springhouse. If there's one thing I'm afraid of it's snakes. Bats, too. And heights. But snakes are number one. "Good idea. But I'll wait for you in the house."

  I caught up with the group in the front hall. ApparentlyJ.B. had heeded Alice-Ann's suggestions about the need for repairs and cleaning, because many changes had been made. The house looked good enough to move into. And no doubt that was what he had in mind, because a silver tray sat on a table next to the staircase, and on it was a stack of small white cards, all of which said, "If you are interested in purchasing this part of Lickin Creek's history, contact J.B. Morgan at the Lickin Creek National Bank." Below that were six numbers in small, discreet print. Not enough digits for a phone number. Then I realized that was the price. I looked around the hall in awe. I had no idea that there was a house in Lickin Creek worth half a million dollars. I knew that in New York City it would barely pay for a small apartment. But who in this small farming community would have that kind of money to spend on a house?

  Mrs. Houdeyshell, the woman who had been designated as the hostess here on the day of the tour, suggested we begin upstairs. She forgot to warn us of the slope, and several women teetered a little near the top of the stairs and had to grab onto the railing.

  Amidst a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs," I peeked into each bedroom. The windows had been washed until they glistened, the curtains and bedspreads were no longer dusty, and the air smelled of lemon-scented furniture polish.

  On the closed door at the end of the hall, a brass plaque had been attached since my visit there last Monday. "Rodney Mellott's room," read Mrs. Houdeyshell. "As you know, the runaway bridegroom lived here with Maribell Morgan for several years."

  The women pressed forward into the room and expressed admiration for the way the sixties had been so carefully pr
eserved. The shag rug was clean, the orange-and-turquoise pillows had been plumped up, and even the beanbags almost looked inviting. The unpainted bookcase held several neat stacks of LP records and piles of yellowed sheet music, but the pornographic books had vanished.

  No one was paying any attention to me, so I pulled open the closet door to see if someone had taken care of the sticking door. It would be terrible to lose a tourist in there on the big day, but thankfully the door swung open with no trouble at all. The interior had been freshly painted with bright white paint, and the dated clothes were gone, as was the box of unmatched sneakers.

  "Tori. Psst. Tori." I swung around to see Alice-Ann in the doorway, her face as white as the closet wall.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Shhh." She waited until the room was empty. Then she whispered, "It's gone."

  "What's gone?"

  "The ...you know...it's gone. There's a big hole in the wall where we put all the stones back, and there's nothing inside."

  "That's impossible."

  "Oh no, it isn't. I know what I saw."

  "We've got to report this," I said.

  "No!"

  Mrs. Houdeyshell poked her head in the door. "Is anything wrong?"

  Alice-Ann bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile. "Certainly not. Do you want us to turn out the lights when we leave?"

  Mrs. Houdeyshell looked doubtfully at us, while we tried to look like a couple of innocents. "I'll wait here and outen them after you'uns leave."

  "The very idea," Alice-Ann sniffed on her way down the back stairs. "You'd think she didn't trust us."

  "Imagine what she'd be like if she knew about the...you know" We were alone in the kitchen. Laughter drifted in from the dining room, an indication that the other women would soon be here.