“Oh heavens, yes, absolutely. The building is hideous—all forties-fifties art deco. No place for it.”
“You believe that you can make Picketsville into a Civil War Williamsburg?”
“Yes, that’s the concept.”
“But Picketsville never was a major center in the war. Cavalry from both sides galloped through and there are a dozen or so chips in some of the brick buildings that we like to think are bullet holes from one or more skirmishes. But that’s questionable and even if true, hardly warrants the sort of treatment you all are suggesting.”
“Nevertheless, it could be an economic boon to the town.”
Ike only shook his head. He had learned not to engage in arguments with Ruth’s faculty. He never won, and it always made her angry with him when he tried.
***
Later, sitting in front of a fire, drinks in hand in Ruth’s high-ceilinged front parlor, Ike turned to Dr. Leon Weitz, the local historian.
“You heard the talk about reinventing the town, Doctor. You have an opinion?”
“In my view, it’s nonsensical. As you pointed out, the town played a relatively minor role in the War Between the States. Moreover, most of the buildings that now line Main Street were built in the 1890s. The original structures were, for the most part, clapboard, some even log. When the town had a surge of prosperity, they were all torn down and replaced with what passed for modern then. I have photographs—not Matthew Brady’s, but maybe Gardner’s, of Main Street in 1860. The road was mud and served as a wallow for a dozen or so pigs. The only building still standing from that time now houses the bookstore. The rest are long gone. Civilization, such as it existed, centered in Bolton, two miles to the west.”
“It annoys me when people with limited knowledge and no emotional investment in a community move in and begin to lecture the locals on what’s best for them.” Ike was winding up for a small polemic.
“Don’t start, Ike,” Ruth said, “or I’ll cancel our deal. Leon, don’t listen to him.”
“I will resist,” Weitz said. “Perhaps when the sheriff is free for lunch we will continue this conversation. I will say the Crossroads Diner is probably the most authentic piece of architecture in the town. If I were going to make over Picketsville, I would restore it to what it was in the late thirties and forties. Now, that would be different and attractive to tourists. Picketsville does have a history in the migration of rural men and women out of the mountains and valleys north to the cities along old Route Eleven and before that, the Brownsburg Pike. Something along the lines of the Route Sixty-six restoration out West would be more appropriate, I should think. The South is loaded to capacity with ersatz Civil War ambience.”
“You have a friend for life,” Ike said. “I take it all back, Ruth, at least one of your faculty members has his head screwed on right.”
“Thank you for that, I think,” Weitz said. “Dr. Harris said you wanted to ask me some questions.”
“Right. I almost forgot. What can you tell me about the history of Buffalo Mountain?”
Weitz sat back and stared at the fire for a moment. He smiled. Ike swirled his drink and listened as his ice cubes played counterpoint to the crackle and hiss of the fire.
“Ah, speaking of the history of migrations out of the mountains…there’s a place worth studying. How much time do you have? Or perhaps I should ask you, how much do you want to know? Is there a context in which you have framed your question?”
“Context? Yes, as a matter of fact, I have a body in the morgue that has been identified as a Randall Harris. That’s just between us, by the way. He’s from Floyd. At least that’s what we’re working with at the moment. My deputy grew up there and started to fill me in on the culture, at least what he’d heard as a child—shootings, moonshiners, feuds…all that sort of stuff.”
“It sounds like another lunch to me. But in the meantime, I suggest you read Richard Davids’ book The Man Who Moved a Mountain. It’s out of print but you can order it in any decent independent bookstore or I can lend you a copy. When you’ve had a chance to go through it and if you need more information, call me.”
“Rough place? The mountain folk like the Hatfields and McCoys?”
“No, not like them. Most of the folks up on the mountain and back in the coves were related somehow. The people who lived there were almost in a time warp. It seems odd to us at the remove of seventy and more years to think about people actually looking and living that way—”
“What way?” Ruth had leaned forward. This was an area her Ph.D. in history never covered.
“Fifteen or more packed into a one-room cabin and moonshine and Johnny ashcake for breakfast. Boys became men about twelve when they bought or stole their first pistol. Most folks settled their differences without the benefit of the law. Anyway, it was that way, not anymore.”
“Now?”
“It’s all cleaned up, as you will read, and is becoming a place for retreats, tourists, rental cabins tricked out to look primitive but complete with cable TV and Jacuzzis. Do you suppose the would-be renovators of Picketsville have something like that in mind?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Well, on that happy note, I will leave the two of you alone. Good night.” Weitz disappeared into an icy night.
Ike stretched out his legs and drained his glass. Outside, the wind gusted and he heard the rattle of leaves swirling about on the lawn, the creak of protesting tree limbs. A night to stay indoors by a fire, to read or… Ruth closed the door after Weitz and returned. She stood over him and smiled.
“You get a star for tonight,” she said. “Another drink?”
“A small one. Why a star?”
“Because you behaved like a normal human being. I’m amazed. Usually my faculty acts like a red cape and you’re the bull. Are you feeling all right? You’re not coming down with something, are you?”
“Very funny. I’m fine. It’s just that I have more important things on my mind right now than listening to elitist nonsense.”
“You liked Weitz?”
“Good guy. I think I will have lunch…or is it do lunch … I can never remember the correct figure of speech to use.”
“Just be yourself. Down here don’t y’all say ‘grab a bite’?”
“Don’t start.”
“Do you know what constitutes a seven-course meal for a redneck?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me.”
“A possum and a six pack.”
“Have you been saving that up for me?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Do you know how many Ph.D.s it takes to change a light bulb?”
“Four, five? I don’t know.”
“Two, one to mix the martinis and one to call the electric company.”
“Do you want to quit while we’re even?”
“Absolutely. It’s been a worrisome day and—”
“Say no more. Drink up and come upstairs. I’ll go slip into something—”
“Comfortable? Slinky?”
“Flannel. It’s cold and you and I are way past slinky.”
***
Donnie Oldham needed money. The last few dollars from his sawmill pay were gone. He had a truck payment due. He had food to buy and he owed Wick Goad almost a thousand dollars. He was sure Goad cheated at poker, but he never could catch him. And cheater or not, he held Donnie’s paper and would come looking for him soon. The wallet only had thirty bucks and the credit cards.
It had felt weird picking through some dead guy’s wallet, but shoot, he wouldn’t need the money anymore and Donnie sure did. He would use the credit cards for a while—maybe over the county line down in North Carolina, though it could become risky after a couple of days.
He wished he had a way of figuring out their PIN numbers. Then he could use them and the bank card at ATMs. He thought of Hollis. Hollis’ dad used to be a spook or something and Hollis said he knew all about how to do stuff like that. He’d ask Hollis. Then he’d,
quick as a rabbit, milk the bank account for as much cash as he could and sell the cards. He could pay off Goad, the finance company, and nobody would be the wiser. Of course, Hollis might want a cut. Son-of-a-bitch-greedy-bastard. He’d take care of him later if he did, but first he had to get the PIN number.
He cracked open another Miller Lite and watched Saturday Night Live. Those guys were, like, super funny. He’d someday go up there to New York and see them make that show. He could do it. All he needed was one lousy break. It wasn’t his fault his old man couldn’t make a go of the gas station. Stupid old man. The fire had been an accident, everybody knew that. He should have collected on the insurance. But did he? No, he’d listened to those pussy investigators and then they all looked at Donnie and the next thing you know, the money, the gas station, and finally, even the old man went away. A pussy, that’s what the old man was.
“Well, I’m not,” he shouted at the TV. “I’m getting mine, you wait and see.”
Chapter 5
Sunday seemed to have mislaid its dawn. The night’s black simply paled into progressively lighter shades of gray until daybreak could be confirmed. The threat of snow menaced the mountains to the west. Sooty clouds scudded across a gritty sky. Cars pulling out of the church’s parking lot made crunching sounds, as if their frozen tires were battling the macadam to see which would crack first. The Reverend Blake Fisher stood shivering just inside the double doors, seeing his eight o’clock congregation on their way home.
Robert Twelvetrees, Colonel, United States Army (ret.), first attended Stonewall Jackson Memorial Episcopal Church the day after he officially became a civilian thirty-five or forty years previously. Except for a rare bout of flu, he never missed a Sunday. He sat at attention in the third pew from the rear on the left side.
“The gospel side,” he corrected those who did not know that churches did not have rights and lefts. Not in his world, they did not. They had an east and a west, a north and a south. The altar was always east, even if a compass indicated otherwise. The entrance and narthex, if one existed, were west and then the left and right side of the nave as you faced the altar were north and south respectively. It was a simple system and he could not understand how anyone could miss it.
“If the left side is north,” they asked in obvious confusion, “why do you say you sit on the gospel side?”
Colonel Bob would shake his head sadly and wonder at the ignorance of the generation that would soon be in charge of the world.
“Because that is the side they read the gospel from,” he’d snap. “Any fool can see that.”
“But the vicar always reads the gospel in the aisle about halfway down in the…ah—”
“Nave. Yes, but that is new. The gospel used to be read from over there.” He gestured left. “So they call it the gospel side.”
“I thought you said it was north.”
“It is. The gospel side is north.”
For Colonel Bob, that was all he would say. He mentioned to Blake the problems he saw with these young people who were turning up in droves and who did not know anything about church. He hoped he would straighten them out—pronto. He envisioned an ecclesiastical boot camp for these young folks.
“Do them good,” he barked and turned on his heel and left.
Boot camp? Blake liked Colonel Bob. He was a relic of two wars and another age. Actually, it might have been three wars. Blake had the impression that the Colonel had served as a raw Second Lieutenant in the Second World War, at its very end, and then Korea, Viet Nam, and skirmishes in Granada and Lebanon.
He didn’t talk very much about his time in the army. Blake found that those who survived combat rarely did. The support troops, the stateside wonders, and those who commanded LMDs—large mahogany desks—talked endlessly about their army days. But old soldiers knew better than to pretend that war was anything more than pain, fear, blood, and death.
Colonel Bob met with his old Armored unit every two years and kept in contact with a dozen or so throughout the year as well. But he confessed to Blake he did not know how much longer he could go on. The number of his old comrades in arms dwindled yearly as age and illness took them one by one. Except for failing eyesight, Colonel Bob soldiered on, back ramrod straight, head erect, as if he were on the parade ground and his hero, General George S. Patton, was reviewing the troops. He even knew what the S stood for. “Smith,” he would bark. “Any fool knows that.” There were other military types in the congregation, of course, but Colonel Bob stood out as one of a kind.
Blake crossed his arms and shivered. Cold air rolled in the door and caused the furnace to kick on. The grass on the lawn seemed to crackle from the hard frost still on the blades. He could smell snow and wondered if it would be a big one.
He watched Colonel Bob maneuver his battered Buick around the parking lot. He narrowly missed a minivan, clipped a yew bush, and rolled uncertainly out onto Main Street. Blake flinched as he weaved across the yellow line, corrected course, and disappeared, moving at a brisk fifteen miles an hour.
***
By ten twenty-seven, Blake was back at the narthex door greeting the few last minute arrivals. Rose Garroway, her sister Minnie, and a young man with eyes set wide and a thatch of unruly blond hair puffed up the gentle wheelchair ramp to the church.
“This is my nephew T.J.,” Rose announced. The young man smiled uncertainly and stuck out his hand.
“T.J., nice to meet you. What does T.J. stand for?”
“Thomas Harkins,” the young man replied, brow furrowed in concentration.
Rose, seeing Blake’s confusion, added, “Tommy is named after his father. He’s a junior—Thomas Junior—T.J.”
The young man nodded his head vigorously. “T.J.” he repeated, as he stared hard at Blake and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
“Good to have you here, T.J.”
“Yes,” T.J. said, and bent forward to peer around the doorframe and into the church. Blake caught Rose’s eye. She smiled sadly and glanced at the back of her nephew’s head. T.J. was one of God’s gentle gifts—a young man of limited intelligence, and a reminder that shortcomings can be overcome, that what we wish for is not always God’s plan for us, and in his eyes, a cheerful spirit is valued more highly than worldly accomplishments.
“He will be staying with us for a while,” Rose said. “He’s going to run errands and drive the car—he’s a very good driver—and just help out two old women.”
“I can drive real good,” T.J. added, eyes bright, still nodding.
Blake watched the trio move down the aisle and slip into a pew. He turned in time to see Samantha Ryder sprint up the steps.
“Good Morning, Sam. Karl not with you this weekend?”
“No, not today, Vicar—”
“Blake…”
“Blake, yes, actually, Karl’s been called out and then I’ve been assigned to a homicide investigation so neither of us…well, no.” She worked her way around the choir that stood in a close huddle just inside the church’s glass doors.
At ten thirty-five Mary Miller, at a nod from Blake, switched from playing a prelude and launched into “Onward Christian Soldiers”—a little political incorrectness on a cold Sunday morning. The choir started its stately, if somewhat disorganized, procession to the front of the church. Blake followed, his hymnal at the ready but his eyes surveying his congregation. He let his mind slip into the clergy person’s Sunday litany—how many here this morning? Who is here, who is missing? Are there any faces I do not recognize? Are the candles lighted? What did I do with my sermon notes? What was the point I wanted to make in the sermon? He could not remember. He fought the twinge of doubt he always felt when the service started—would he get it right?
Blake knew the first and last verses of most of the hymns in the book. He knew many in their entirety as well, Christmas and Easter hymns in particular. But the exigencies of his calling made it particularly useful to know at least the first and last. They were sung when he and most
clergy were out of position or without a book at hand.
He paused and waited at the head of the aisle for the hymn-ending Amen to fade. It would be called a transept in a large church, Blake mused, thinking of Colonel Bob and his annoyance at “those young people”—a transept running north and south.
Blake did not think his sermon met his standard, but he figured it would do, might even be a hit. He’d discovered years before that he could never judge how sermons would be received. The ones he worked on the hardest often evoked the fewest comments, the least praise, and ones he threw together at the last minute seemed to have the greatest impact on the most people. He learned to accept it, convinced it was how God amused himself, but he knew the phenomenon still rankled many of his colleagues. Some even denied it completely and remained convinced that their painstakingly researched and carefully crafted sermons were moving mountains.
The service ended with a closing hymn. Blake positioned himself again at the narthex door ready to shake hands, respond to comments, and listen for signals that he needed to call on someone or to commiserate. He never knew if he got it right. He sometimes wished his congregation would stop thinking of him as a mind reader and just come out and tell him what they, or their children, husband, or neighbor needed. Rose, Minnie, T.J., and Sam arrived at the exit at the same time.
“Rose, do you know Samantha Ryder?” he asked.
“I’ve seen you, dear, but never really met you.” She held out her hand. “This is my sister, Minnie, and our nephew, T.J.”
“Sam is a deputy sheriff,” Blake added.
“You’re a policeman?” T.J. asked, eyes wide.
“A deputy sheriff, yes. Are you interested in police work?”
Rose looked nonplussed. T.J. was hardly police academy material.
“Yes, I am. I would like to ride in a police car.”
“Well, T.J., I’ll tell you what,” Sam said. “Some afternoon when I’m off duty, maybe we can fix it so you can do just that.”
***
Whaite told Sam to take the rest of Sunday morning off but said he wanted to be back in Floyd by early afternoon.
3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 Page 3
