“What’s going on?” she shouted.
The man did not notice her. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the scene, “I said, what’s going on?”
He pulled out his orange earplugs and said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Miss.”
“I think it does,” Traci said placing her palms against her ears. “Tell me, or I’m calling the police.”
“Well, if you want to get the police involved you probably should talk to my boss.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“That’s him over there,” the man said and pointed over her shoulder.
Traci walked toward the Glacier White Audi sedan gleaming in the sun.
“What’s this all about?” she said to Ray Winston.
“I’m just being a responsible neighbor and taking care of my property. You can understand that, right?” he said with a smirk. “Besides, I’ve got a buyer in mind and it needs to look worth what I’m asking for it.”
“Well, you don’t own Bent Willow!” she shouted and balled her hands into fists. “You know where the property line is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t worry, I won’t bother your little garden.”
Traci’s chest tightened with anger as she constrained herself from slapping his face. How did she ever consider him handsome for even one second? She felt her fingernails cutting into her palms.
“What’s in it for you?” she shouted. “This little farm out here on the edge of a God-awful neighborhood like this. Why do you want it so bad?” She could feel the tears welling in her eyes. She hated that. “Why harass these people when all they’re trying to do is feed their families and live in peace? How much land do you need to control to make yourself feel important?”
“We have a mandate from the governor to move forward with development here in Keeferton.” He turned and pointed his finger in her face. “Do you know how long I’ve been fighting to get these funds approved? To see these changes happen? To create jobs and change the face of this community.”
He turned away. “The plan is already approved. There’s no point in you crying about it. And if you and your band of misfits try to block it, you know what you can expect.” He pointed to the man operating the backhoe, pushing debris into large piles. Another took a chainsaw to a trio of thin birch trees. “So, please stay out of my way.”
Traci stepped back but not before he opened the car door and bumped her side. He put on his sunglasses and adjusted his tie.
“By the way,” he said settling down into the driver’s seat, “if you really want to do some good, I mean, if you are determined to be a part of something and make a difference for those people, stop by my office and see what this is all about. Maybe then you’ll get on board instead of chasing ghosts of how it used to be.” He handed her his business card, then slammed the door and drove away. She tore up the card and tossed it into the wind.
By the time Traci got home she was seething with anger so much her hands trembled as she wrote in her journal. She needed to figure things out, fast.
The meeting with Earl Garrett had gotten her nowhere. Ray Winston was inching closer toward destroying everything that Miss Rowena had built. What was the idea of Randall snooping around her all the time? And what did Earl Garrett mean about his wife not caring about anyone? No one would work that hard for nothing. And she was afraid that Milo was in danger now. If someone at Bent Willow killed Rowena Garrett, could he be next?
She stretched out on the wrought iron chaise on her back porch and glanced up at the loose gutter and peeling paint. There was so much work to do and, now that she was feeding Milo and herself, there was less money to do it. She thought about the property forfeiture letter tucked away in her backpack. Ray Winston was right. She had involved herself in a fight that had nothing to do with her life, and she was not prepared to do what it took to win. But what was she trying to win? Miss Rowena was dead. Her husband didn’t want anything to do with her memory or to continue the work she left behind. And, Milo. What was it about him? Why did she think she could be responsible for a boy when she could barely keep her own life together? Did she even have a life? Those dreams of Randall were becoming more frequent. But she was not ready to face him, not at all. She closed her eyes. Sleep, she just needed sleep and time.
Chapter Fourteen
TRACI TAPPED THE FLASHLIGHT app on her phone and approached the north side of Hazelton House. She weaved through the roses and tall grasses until she reached the servants’ entrance, slipped a nail file along the knob and flipped up the latch. She worked her way up the narrow stairs to the attic. She lifted the flashlight and scanned all the boxes and stacks of old newspapers. Where to start?
She had seen the names of Miss Rowena’s ancestors with Kay McGee’s help. What she had said was true. All of them had lived in this house before her. Traci did not believe in ghosts and had no fear that she was being watched by any evil spirits. However, she was concerned about Randall following her. He had a way of turning up in places she least expected. Sometimes it bothered her. Sometimes it didn’t. His interest in her was unsettling sometimes, she craved it.
“This is not about him,” she said and shook her head, “Focus.”
She decided to look in the least obvious places first. Nothing under the bed except a pair of old slippers and a rodent carcass, probably left behind by one of the cats. She lifted the mattress and heard paper rustling. She ran her hand underneath and felt a large envelope stuffed inside a slit in the bottom of the mattress. She pulled it out, opened it carefully and poured out the contents on top of the bed. She hovered the light over each item.
There was another copy of Earl Garrett’s photo, plus a few more newspaper clippings, and another very old photograph of Hazelton House. Traci lowered the light over every corner of it. There were people lined up along the path through the field of what was clearly a road leading directly to the house. There were men on horses and a carriage with people walking along the road. She recognized the pole that the growers used to post the schedule. Traci could make out the landmarks surrounding the property and Mount PierPoint in the background. She had no doubt this entire photo collection was of Hazelton House. She looked on the back of each to find a date or any inscription. Nothing. She picked up one of the newspapers from a corner of the room and found more photographs. There was another framed photo of a log house with a group of military officers standing on a wrap-around porch, a style similar to Hazelton House.
Traci walked over to the wall and tapped on it. She ran her fingers up the dusty wallpaper feeling for any clues left behind. She took out her nail file and pushed up one of the ceiling panels. She shined the flashlight into it but couldn’t see anything. She pushed her finger through it and slid a panel back to make it big enough to shove the light inside and get a better look. She had enough experience with these old houses that she knew there must be a reason they added a drop ceiling. She found it.
“Wow,” she said and caught her breath. She heard someone coming up the stairs behind her. She gathered all the photos back into the envelope and stuffed it under her shirt.
Randall Wells leaped into the room and grabbed Traci by the shoulders. He leaned against her body, covered her mouth and placed his lips against her ear.
“Quiet,” he whispered. Then, he pulled her down on the floor behind an armoire in the corner. His hand still clamped over her mouth. Traci was shaking so much his hand slipped across the sweat on her face.
“Be still,” he said tightening his grip.
They waited, pressed against each other in the dark. Finally, Traci heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She huddled closer to Randall, her heart beating against his forearm. They listened as someone entered the attic and walked toward the bed. They heard the mattress being pulled away from the ancient creaking bedsprings, and then tossed violently to the floor. The sound of sheets and pillows being wrestled around and thrown across the room. Another pe
rson entered and joined the intruder near the bed. The footsteps were lighter. A woman, Traci thought, from the slap-slap sound of sandals hitting their heels.
“It’s not here,” the man said, “She must have stashed it someplace else.”
“Where would she put it?” the woman said.
“I don’t know,” he said, his footsteps coming closer to them. “That woman was so superstitious. She might’ve buried it out there under the chicken coop for all I know.”
“We have to find it,” the woman said, “or it’s all been for nothing.”
“You went too far,” the man said, “I never agreed to ...”
“It happened,” she said, “no point in crying over it. She’s dead. And it’s a blessing in disguise. Something you never had the nerve to do. So there, I took care of it for you.”
“That’s not what I wanted for Rowena,” the man said, “You know that.”
“Shut up,” she said. “Let’s find what we came for and get out of here.”
“There’s a safe in the parlor downstairs. Let’s check that,” he said.
Traci felt Randall’s hand slowly loosen against her face and she took a stifled breath. His chest felt like granite against her body long after the couple exited the room. Finally, he looked deeply into her eyes, so close she could almost feel their lashes touch.
“I told you to stay away from here,” his breath warm against her cheek. She blinked her eyes to push back the panic. Nausea and the familiar surge of nervous energy rolled through her body.
”Four things ... four things ...” she whispered and drew in a breath. “The floor ...” Another breath. “The floor ... the ...”
Randall drew his thumb across her eyelids, tracing the tears, and his fingertips gently caressed her face and neck in the dim light. They were both shallow breathing in the stifling heat of the attic. He placed his hands around her waist and helped her stand up. His hands gripped tightly upon her shoulders as he stood still waiting patiently until she focused and came back to him.
“I’m going downstairs,” he whispered. “Don’t come out of this spot until I call for you. You understand?”
Traci took a long deep breath and nodded. He pointed to the wardrobe, and she lowered herself behind it. Randall looked out each attic window, then tip-toed down the stairs. She waited for what seemed like hours to hear his voice again. Suddenly, there was a faint sound of footsteps. She held her breath and tightened her grip on the nail file. It was Randall. He held out his hand, “Come on.” he said pulling her to her feet.
“I was ...” Traci said still quivering.
“Feeding cats?” Randall said shaking his head. “And let me guess, you found your way up here by mistake.”
She placed her hand on her stomach and inhaled. “Did you catch them?”
“No,” he said touching her arm, “But I got a glimpse of their car. I called it in. We’ll see what comes of it.” He noticed she was still trembling. He took her hand again and squeezed it. “In the meantime,” he said and motioned toward the stairs. “I’ll help you find your way home.”
Randall waited in the dim moonlight at the bottom of the front steps as Traci unlocked her door and stepped inside.
“Goodnight,” he said, looking over her head and through the open door.
“Goodnight, Randall.”
She closed the door and locked it. She watched the penlight beam around the shrubs and bathe the sides of her house. He held the light poised down her driveway for a few extra minutes, then swirled it a few times through the trees near her upstairs bedroom windows. Finally, he returned to his squad car and drove away.
Traci walked into her kitchen and took down a glass and the bottle of Blue Jule. She opened the fridge to get some ice. There was a half dozen small brown hens’ eggs in the door. Milo had been there. He had found the key that she left for him under the crawlspace out back. She dropped a couple ice cubes into the glass, added lemon slices and topped it with the sparkling water. Her thoughts were swirling around, trying to understand what she heard. She pulled out the envelope and dropped it on the counter. She wasn’t sure what would happen with her relationship with Randall. Or what she was going to do with the contents of that envelope. It must be something important enough for Miss Rowena to be killed, that was clear.
The other thing that was clear, it was Earl Garrett’s voice in the attic. Of that, she had no doubt.
Chapter Fifteen
THE SEAT IN MOE’S OLD pickup truck was worn through so badly that the foam padding pushed out of the ripped seams. He laid an empty feed sack over it to protect Traci’s legs from being pinched by the tattered brown vinyl. The roof liner hung down and brushed the top of her head, and the rear-view mirror was missing. There was a rancid odor that she dared not ask about. Despite all of that, she was grateful for the ride. Moe had not hesitated when she approached him that morning at the farm. He dropped everything, lifted her into the cab and got them down the highway.
There was no one stationed at the Rest Haven receptionist desk when she arrived. Traci glanced down each corridor for assistance until finally one of the attendants stepped away from his task cleaning the window cocoon and approached her.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“Hello,” Traci said reaching for her wallet. “I’m here to see Mr. Earl Garrett. I apologize for not calling ahead. It was a last-minute idea to drop in for a visit.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Earl is no longer with us,” the attendant said frowning. “We’re all very sad about that. But we know nothing in this old world is permanent. Still, you get attached to the residents. Some more than others.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“They usually contact family members first,” the attendant said looking her over. “Are you a relative? Wait, I think I remember seeing you here before. What is your name again? Wait, it’ll come to me.” He studied her face for a few minutes. “Boy, Mr. Earl really enjoyed your last visit. After you left all he did was play his music. It was so loud that the other residents complained about it.” He laughed and shook his head. “But next thing you know, they were dancing in the hall. It was something. I sure am going to miss that old man. But when it’s your time to go ...”
He shrugged and wheeled the service cart to a spot along the wall. “We should have some paperwork for you to complete, though. Give me a moment to take care of Miss Clarice down the hall here and I’ll be right with you.” He walked away toward the office. “In the meantime, go ahead and sign the book for me, please.”
Traci rushed back to the parking lot and climbed into the truck.
“What happened?” Moe said helping her pull the door closed.
“He’s dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” she said patting her forehead. “They wanted to give me some paperwork or something. I don’t know. I just make a mess of everything. What was I thinking about coming here in the first place? Instead of helping, I just make things worse.” She grabbed a fistful of her hair.
“Listen, Miss Traci,” Moe said and loosened her grip and pulled her arm down to her lap. “Ain’t nobody mad at you but you. Everything you did was to help us and to keep alive what Miss Rowena started. And we appreciate that. Everybody does. Don’t get down on yourself about nothing.”
“Wait here,” Traci said and took a deep breath. She climbed out of the truck and slammed the rusted door behind her.
She walked back to the reception desk and waited for the attendant to return. There had to be something that she was missing about Earl Garrett. If she had gotten this far, what did she have to lose to ask a few more questions? She glanced down at the Visitor Registry. And there it was.
Visitor: Charlotte Carter
Resident: Earl Garrett
Sign-in Time: 3:16 pm
Sign-out Time: 3:48 pm
She bent over the counter and read the sticky note.
Notes: Resident self-discharged accompanied by C. Carter. Forwa
rd mail to Franklin Manor, 1442 Smoketree Ct, West Keeferton
“Let’s go,” Traci shouted as she raced back outside, waving to Moe. He started up the truck and met her at the entrance, then took off out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.
“Where we going, Miss Traci?”
“To find Sarah.”
Moe followed the highway to the unmarked road behind the old abandoned rail yard, then turned onto the snaking single lane dirt road through Wyman’s Campground. He parked at the entrance to the permanent resident area. They climbed out of the pickup and walked up the trail of pine shavings toward the cabins.
“T-Babe!” Josh St. John approached them with a Remington 12 gauge propped under his arm, a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. Gray-white smoke curled through his dusty red hair, held back from his forehead by a loosely tied camo bandana. His cheeks were covered with sweat and sunburn, adorned by a chest-length beard braided at the tip. He smeared the front of his barn coat with the mud from his fingers. Then wrapped his hand around the back of Traci’s head, leaned down and gave her a loud kiss on the forehead. She glanced over at Moe’s startled face and gestured for him to go ahead without her.
“How you doing, baby girl?”
“I’m good, Josh.” She didn’t oppose this invasion of her personal boundaries. “Thanks for taking care of my friends.”
It had been over a year since she felt that embrace. He had put on weight. Not that bloated kind of weight that she had seen on guys like him. But the kind that meant he was eating regular meals and packed on some extra pounds. And that made her happy.
“You know it’s no problem at all. Anybody that wants to stay out of trouble, I got a place for ‘em,” He swallowed down the rest of the beer and tossed the bottle in a barrel. “I ain’t turning nobody away. If I hadn’t found that lottery ticket, none of this would be mine, anyway. I’m a lucky guy.” He poised the cigar between his teeth. “Just a lucky guy out here in the woods.”
Final Harvest Page 8
