The Clouds Roll Away

by Sibella Giorello

  DeMott’s pickup was parked beneath an oak tree on the plantation’s side lawn. Both doors were open but nobody was inside; as I came closer, I saw brown twine running from the steel cleats in the truck bed up into the old tree. The string bobbed and DeMott came around the side wearing a harness secured to the tree trunk, his spiked cleats biting into the bark. He was humming until he looked down.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He dropped the ball of twine, letting it bounce on the winter grass, and unbuckled the harness. With both hands he grabbed a tree limb and dangled, dropping himself into the truck bed, then hopped off the tailgate. He stared at me, the light in his blue eyes making me nervous. I thought he might open his arms. What scared me more was that I wanted to fall into them.

  “What happened?” he said.

  I glanced at the big house, waiting for words to speak. Thick clouds were blowing in from the bay, obscuring the sun. The mansion’s wavy antique glass windows looked dark as slate.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Let’s see. Jillian and Mac went to some spa with the brigade of bridesmaids, my mom drove into Richmond to nag the wedding planner in person, and my dad’s probably trying to find a loan to cover expenses.” He pointed up to the tree. “And I’m hanging lanterns by order of the princess. It’s her way of saving Dad money.”

  “Where are they going for their honeymoon?” I asked.

  “Where aren’t they going? Rome, Portugal, Paris. I think Tunisia’s on the agenda.”

  “How long will they be gone?”

  “A few months.”

  “Is Stuart around?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “Stuart.”

  “Yes. Is he here?”

  He pulled off his work gloves. The golden suede was worn, blackened around the fingers. “Why do you want to talk to Stuart?”

  “Please don’t make me say I can’t tell you.”

  “He’s not here. Mac ordered him gone until the wedding. She’s superstitious.”

  “Where is he then?”

  “Home, I suppose.”

  “In Richmond?”

  DeMott brushed the work gloves against his jeans. He looked down and a section of his golden brown hair fell over his forehead. When he lifted his head, flicking the hair from his eyes, I couldn’t read his expression.

  “It’s urgent, DeMott. Can you at least give me an address?”

  “It won’t do you any good,” he said.

  “I can find it.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he said. “But you’d never get past the guards.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  One of America’s best-kept secrets was an hour east of Washington, two hours north of Richmond, and a world away from struggle.

  Upperville, Virginia, looked like an English village on the cusp of the industrial revolution. The main road divided its painted clapboard stores with their quaint wooden signs. Beyond that, tender valleys rolled into horse country, disguising the ambitions of its residents. They were CEOs of multinational conglomerates and owners of NFL teams. Venture capitalists with computer systems raking in billions. In fact, Upperville had so many powerful residents that the late Paul Mellon managed to blend in on a horse farm that produced a Triple Crown winner.

  Adding to the rarefied atmosphere, an evening gloaming filled the sky, casting the clouds into lavender gray. A light snow fell like sparkling ice.

  “You’ve heard the poem?” DeMott said.

  I looked over. I’d offered to follow his truck up here, but he insisted we needed to talk. I changed clothes at the carriage house and left the K-Car because civilians were banned from Bureau vehicles—and because his Ford truck was a much better ride. But after insisting we needed to talk, he was silent for most of the drive. And I didn’t mind. I was busy mulling over facts and speculation.

  “What poem?” I said.

  “The one about Upperville,” he said.

  “You read poetry?” I said.

  “Someday you’re going to realize you don’t know everything about me.” He grinned. I looked out the window, unable to tell him I was already coming to that point.

  He drove through the glittery snow to Delaplane Grade Road. The bare trees filamented darkening hills, the tangled limbs an amethyst felt.

  “There it is,” DeMott said.

  Down in the valley, the white stone mansion with a copper roof looked airlifted from the British countryside and was encircled by a quarter-mile driveway. Another long spur linked the various outbuildings, each larger than my carriage house.

  “Morgan Manor,” he said. “When I say old money, think geologic time. This is Jurassic wealth.”

  He turned into a cleft of the hills and stopped at a gated house. The young man who stepped from the lower portion donned a black riding hat, the kind worn by English cabbies in the 1800s. It matched his black trousers and cape.

  DeMott leaned out his window. “Hey, Barry,” he said. “How you been?”

  “Fine, Mr. Fielding,” he said. “I don’t see your name on the list. Was they expecting you tonight?”

  “No, I’m just dropping in to say hi.”

  The sparkling snow dusted his top hat. With his simple face and clear eyes, he looked like a bit player in a Dickens drama. Some hardscrabble youth who worked long hours on the estate, then went to quaff an ale in the tavern before shuffling home to his grubby garret.

  He also looked concerned, casting his eyes over DeMott’s flannel shirt.

  “You know it’s dinnertime, right?” he said.

  “I bet I can steal a biscuit off the table before they notice.”

  “Ah, Mr. Fielding.” Barry restrained a grin.

  “I just wanted to surprise Stuart.” He leaned out a little farther. “You know, something before the wedding?”

  Barry shifted his head, taking a quick glance at me. He looked back at DeMott, still doubtful.

  “Promise not to get me in trouble?” Barry said.

  “Promise.”

  He turned and walked inside the guardhouse. Moments later the black iron gates opened, dividing a double M soldered to the bars. Along the driveway, white Christmas lights blinked on, delicate pinpricks punctuating the hedges.

  Waving to the guard, DeMott drove through the gate.

  The Morgans were not, in fact, eating dinner. The butler escorted us from the imposing front entrance flanked with Greek statuary to a wood-paneled library where a fire blazed in the fieldstone hearth. Announcing our arrival, the dry wood crackling, the butler said, “Mr. Fielding and a Miss Harmon.”

  Like the guard at the gate, the butler wore antiquated formal clothing. Gray striped trousers, black waistcoat, tails, all of it ready for Grosvenor Square. The four people sitting in the library were also dressed formally. A middle-aged woman faced the fire from a deep red couch embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis. An elderly gentleman sat beside her, wearing a moth-eaten uniform, and the teenager who stood next to the fire squinted his eyes at DeMott, as if trying hard to remember something. Or to forget.

  A middle-aged man, short, smiling, walked across the Persian rug and extended his hand. I suddenly remembered his face from Mac’s party last week. He had stood next to the stage during the toast. His teeth were too large for his face.

  “Marshall Morgan.” He shook my hand, then turned to DeMott. “You’re not dressed for dinner, but I can get you a jacket.

  And I’m sure something for your friend.” He glanced sidelong at my slacks. Nice slacks too.

  “Thank you,” DeMott said. “I just stopped by to see Stuart for a moment.”

  “He’s not here.” It was the woman, raising her voice. She was pretty and plump and large-breasted so that her lovely clothes gave her the trussed-up appearance of the Christmas bird. “He’s gone hunting with his cousin Jackson.”

  “Hunting!” exclaimed the old man. “Bringing us some bear!”

  She placed a dainty hand on his arm, w
here the gray uniform was worn thin. “Father, please.”

  “Indians, they like to eat the heart first,” the old man continued, as though she’d begged him to continue. “Say it gives a soldier courage. That’s why I don’t mind fighting with this Injun.” He nodded at the youth by the fire. “He’s a brave one. More like him, and we might stop McClellan.”

  Mr. Morgan turned toward me, weighing my reaction to the old man and swirling the drink in his hand. It released the steeped scent of hundred-year-old casks. “As I was saying, they’ve gone hunting.”

  “When do you expect him back?” DeMott asked.

  “I’m surprised he’s not home already. They left yesterday and planned to spend the night in the woods. Stuart’s usually home before dinner the next night. So he’s late. Perhaps they’re staying out longer because he’s about to become an honest man.” He showed his large teeth.

  “Renegades!” the old man shouted.

  “Father, stop,” said the woman.

  “Throw ’em in the brig!”

  “You’re upsetting Barky,” she insisted.

  Barky was apparently the young man, because they all turned to stare at him, including DeMott. His red hair was tangled in wiry nests of copper. His black tie showed Big Bird and Elmo from Sesame Street. And he was still squinting at DeMott as he said, “You are the brother of MacKenna.”

  “Oh, very good,” said the woman, smiling. “That’s very good.”

  He smiled, looking relieved. Only the left side of his freckled face moved. The right side was stiff, like molded plastic. “He was him before, I knew that.”

  “And he’s going to be your brother-in-law,” she said.

  He looked confused. “My what?”

  Mr. Morgan drew a deep breath. “DeMott, would you like me to tell Stuart you stopped by?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Please have him call me, as soon as possible.”

  In the grand driveway, where a boxwood garden enclosed a marble fountain of maidens pouring pitchers into the pond, DeMott’s truck looked like it belonged to the gardener.

  “Sort of an odd bunch,” I said, climbing into the truck. Snow dusted the windshield.

  “Odd but not bad,” he said, turning the key. “They’re a little out of touch with the rest of the world.”

  “Wealth is a great insulator.”

  “Sure. But some other things keep them locked away.”

  He drove toward the gate, which opened on our approach, and waved at Barry. In the truck’s side mirror, I watched the gate close behind us.

  “Most people hate the rich,” DeMott said. “What they don’t realize is that money brings as much sorrow as joy.”

  I glanced over. In the dark, his perfectly proportioned profile resembled one of the Greek statues decorating the Morgan estate. As he stared out at the road, suddenly remote, I felt an urge to hear his every thought. I’d boxed him in all these years, placing him in the tidy category with the James River plantations. And I remembered how he saved my life last summer. How he wanted no credit for that.

  “The older man’s the grandfather?” I said, trying to draw him out.

  He nodded, turning off Delaplane Grade Road.

  “That Confederate uniform belonged to an ancestor, I forget who, some Morgan who fought alongside Stonewall Jackson. That’s where the cousin gets his name—Jackson.”

  The Southern tradition. My first name was an ancestral last name. So was DeMott. And MacKenna. And perhaps Stuart . . .

  “With Willis Barksdale, you can’t exaggerate Southern senility. Bring him a drink, he tips you with Confederate bills. And poor Mrs. Morgan.” He looked over, blue eyes full of emotion. “That’s Stuart’s older brother wearing the Sesame Street tie.”

  “Older?”

  “Barksdale, named for the crazy grandfather in the uniform.” He shook his head. “Strange how these things go. Now those two are so alike it’s depressing.”

  “Did any Morgans fight in World War I?”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  The snowflakes twinkled like stars in his headlights.

  “May I ask what’s wrong with the brother?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you over dinner. You’re hungry, right?”

  “Always.”

  He grinned. “I love that about you.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, uh, I really like the way you eat—and I know a great place. You can’t leave Upperville without going to the Hunter’s Head.”

  But when he pulled into the Hunter’s Head, I didn’t immediately jump out of the truck. The painted sign had the same faux lettering that infected Colonial Williamsburg, a place where Ye Olde Corporate Moneymakers charged unwitting tourists twenty bucks for fish and chips served on a pewter plate.

  DeMott waited. “What’s wrong?”

  “It looks like a tourist trap. At least with McDonald’s, you know what to expect.”

  “C’mon, Raleigh. Live a little.”

  I started to protest.

  “The shepherd’s pie is out of this world.”

  That did it. I followed him through the stone wall that did nothing to decrease my expectation of historic theme park food. But when he opened the door, I was levitated by a luscious scent of braised meat and roasted potatoes, a winter-warm coziness that thumbed its nose at the cold. The walls were mortar and plank, an old cabin, and DeMott led me to a small room with farmhouse tables and mismatched chairs. I was taking off my coat when he let out a groan.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You got your wish.” He picked up my coat. “I didn’t, but you did.”

  Two men sat at a pine table across the room, hunkered over steins. They wore camouflage clothing, their faces reddened by the fire in the stone hearth and the beer in their mugs.

  I recognized one of them.

  “Don’t tell me,” Stuart Morgan said. “Mac wants to see if I’m behaving. She tell you to find me here?”

  “You’re supposed to be hunting,” DeMott said with a tight smile. “If I’d known you were here, we might be eating Big Macs right now.” He held out my chair. “I believe you’ve met Raleigh Harmon.”

  Stuart slid his eyes toward me. They were shiny as marbles. He stood, swaying a little, and shook my hand with just the right amount of pressure and dipped his head solicitously. “Well, well, Raleigh Harmon,” he said.

  But for all his manners, he didn’t introduce his companion.

  I offered my hand. His companion barely shook it.

  “Elliott,” he said, leaving me to wonder, first or last name?

  Stuart sat to my left, Elliott across the table. DeMott positioned himself at the table’s end.

  “We were just over at your place. Your dad said you were with Jackson.” He turned to Elliott. “Are you a different cousin?”

  “Cousin?” Elliott said.

  “The story is I went hunting with my cousin,” Stuart said.

  Elliott frowned.

  “They’re not exactly fans of yours.” Stuart turned to DeMott. “And don’t tell Mac. She’s on the same page as my parents.”

  “You want me to lie to her?” DeMott said.

  “No, I want you to keep your mouth shut.” Then, remembering my presence, his face softened. “Please, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “What if I keep my mouth shut until they ask if there are any objections to this marriage?”

  “Funny, Fielding.”

  “Funnier that you think I’m kidding.”

  I leaned forward. “Stuart.”

  “Raleigh Harmon,” he said.

  “May I ask where you went hunting?”

  “You like to shoot?”

  “She could pick both of you off at twenty paces,” DeMott said.

  Stuart laughed. Then suddenly stopped. “Oh. Yeah. You’re an FBI agent.”

  “And I’m investigating the crimes over at Rapland. You know, that car bomb tha
t killed a teenager? Maybe you heard about it.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Elliott’s head snap toward Stuart, who didn’t respond with so much as a glance at his companion.

  “Of course I heard about it,” he said. “You’d have to live in a cave not to, especially on the James.” He looked at DeMott. “You and Mac were talking about that car bomb the very next day.”

  “This morning,” I continued, “two guys were found dead in the Chickahominy.”

  “Sounds like a bad day on the river.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t the swamp?”

  He ran his tongue over his lips. “What?”

  “I said the Chickahominy, but I didn’t say whether it was the river or the swamp.”

  “I guessed.”

  “The guys had some interesting tattoos. You want to guess what they said?”

  “The dead guys?”

  “The tattoos.”

  “I can think of a few things.” He smirked. “You really want to hear them?”

  “Three letters.”

  “The word I was thinking of has four.” He grinned at Elliot.

  “They said KKK.” I saw something pass behind his eyes.

  “Why tell me?” He picked up his beer, sipping.

  “Because I think you know who they are.”

  “Now how would I know a thing like that?”

  “Because you’re part of the new Klan,” I said.

  Elliott shot up, the chair tipping back. “I gotta work tomorrow.”

  He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table and hurried past the crowd reading the chalkboard menu.

  “He’s jumpy for a hunter,” I said.

  Stuart turned to DeMott. “Your girlfriend’s not exactly making dinner conversation.”

  “Girlfriend?” I said, glancing at DeMott.

  “Tell her to get to her point.”

  DeMott turned to me. “Raleigh, what is your point?”

  “Stuart knows.”

  “You make a very weird couple. Did you tell my parents the FBI was looking for me?”

  “No, she didn’t,” DeMott said.

  “Why not?”

  DeMott looked at me, waiting for the answer.

  “It didn’t seem appropriate,” I said.