High Lonesome Sound

by Jaye Wells

  A death crown.

  Lots of folks in the mountains believed finding a crown in the pillow of the deceased was a sure sign that person had ascended directly to heaven. If one were found in a living person’s pillow, it was considered a sure sign they’d be dead by sundown on the third day. That’s what people believed, anyway.

  Granny had other theories—ones that would make the God-fearing people of Moon Hollow shiver in their boots. She, herself, had only seen three death crowns in her whole life, and each of those times it was in the pillow of a person who’d met an untimely end. There was no doubt that Reverend Peale’s death was not natural, so in that way the crown fit the template. But the other thing was, in both of the other instances, before they’d died the people had claimed to be vexed by a demon in the weeks before their deaths.

  She sucked a long breath through her nose—needing the oxygen more than she wanted to avoid the stink of death—and exhaled slowly. She had to show this to Deacon Fry. The question was, would the old fool finally listen to her?

  She went into the attached bathroom and grabbed a clean towel in which to wrap the death crown. As she went back into the bedroom, she thought about how Deacon Fry wouldn’t believe her. She worried that the murder would convince him to cancel the Decoration altogether. Without Reverend Peale to do the rites, the ceremony couldn’t be done properly. But not doing a Decoration wasn’t an option, either. She would just have to make up for the lack of clergy by doing some of the rituals she knew to appease the mountain.

  She looked down at the bloody floor. If that didn’t succeed, goddess help them all.

  48

  Paradise Lost

  Deacon Fry

  The late-morning sun warmed up the metal shed. The heat wouldn’t have been pleasant on the best of days, but on that day, with the body of his dead friend cooking inside, Deacon Fry thought he’d had his first real glimpse of hell.

  He had to get out. He swatted at the swarming blowflies, shouldered his way past Deacon Smythe, and escaped into the fresh air of the garden.

  He wanted to lean against the wall and cry until his body was emptied of every drop of water. However, his congregation needed him to be strong and guide them through their grief and fear with faith. Carrying on like a woman would only weaken him in the eyes of his flock, and he feared that almost as much he did finding out the identity of Reverend Peale’s murderer.

  He walked with all the dignity he could muster toward a bench tucked under an arbor of yellowed vines. Most years around that time, the arch would be covered in green leaves and fragrant confederate jasmine blooms.

  Sarah Jane had been helping Reverend Peale lately, but she didn’t have any talent or interest in gardening and had obviously neglected the whole yard.

  On the heels of that unfair thought, he immediately felt guilty. His poor daughter had been trying to help and the Good Lord knew that girl had been through a lot lately. Sharon had been the one to suggest that Sarah Jane spend some time with Reverend Peale to get her mind off of losing Jack. But now he’d have to tell her that Reverend Peale was dead, too.

  The time has come for revelation, Daddy.

  He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over his sweaty brow and upper lip. He’d have to be very careful. Betraying even the slightest hint of panic would set off a chain reaction. Luckily, he was still in so much shock there wasn’t much of a risk of showing any emotion beyond exhaustion.

  Earl Sharps walked over with his hands pushed deep in his pockets. Deacon Fry didn’t rise, nor did he scoot over.

  “Called the sheriff’s office,” Sharps began. “Arlene said Deputy Evans was on a call way down in Keokee. Sheriff Abernathy hadn’t checked in recently, and when she tried to get ahold of him via his radio, it was turned off. Arlene said it was possible he was out checking on the widow O’Neill up Stonega way.”

  Deacon Fry primly ignored the implication that the sheriff was engaging in sexual congress with one of his mistresses. “Did she expect him back soon?”

  “She said she’d keep trying and send one of them on when they were available.”

  “Did she happen to mention what we’re supposed to do with the body until then?”

  “She just said not to touch nothin’.”

  He resisted the urge to make an unchristian comment. A time or two, he’d caught one of them crime scene shows on the television. If this had happened in Lynchburg or Charlottesville, maybe they’d have the resources to do blood spatter analysis or genetic testing to find the murderer. But this was Moon Hollow. Sheriff Abernathy could take some fingerprints, but he was hardly schooled in forensics.

  Plus, considering most of the town had been inside that house at one point or another, it was pretty clear that any evidence Abernathy would find wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans, much less a conviction.

  “We need to find a place to keep the body cool.”

  “Edna’s got that big freezer.”

  “Oh, she won’t like that one bit.”

  Sharps shrugged. “Can’t say anybody’s gonna like seeing Reverend Peale’s body bloat up in this heat, either.”

  Deacon Fry blew out a deep breath. “Go ask her.”

  “What should I do, boss?” Smythe looked so eager to be useful that Deacon Fry wanted to smack him.

  “Find me—”

  The backdoor to the house flew open and that shrew Granny Maypearl ran down the steps. With her wild hair flying and her harpy voice, she reminded him of a witch on the way to the unholy Sabbath. The only thing missing was a broomstick. He ground his teeth and forced himself to stay put instead of running the other direction. Besides, it was already too late because she’d already spotted him.

  “Deacon Fry, I need to talk to—” She cut off and wrinkled her nose. She looked at the shed, where two of the other deacons were attempting to hang a white sheet over the entrance.

  “Oh dear,” Maypearl whispered. Her gnarled fingers touched the spot between her clavicles and lifted a shiny pendant to her lips. “May the blessings of light be upon you.”

  Upon hearing her pagan blessing, the ice of Deacon Fry’s shock melted under the fire of his rage. He was up off the bench before he remembered making the decision. “Don’t you dare,” he said in a low tone. “Don’t you dare use that forked tongue to speak of a man of God.”

  The men stopped to gape and lost control of the sheet. A breeze snatched it and carried it toward the garden, where it landed over the corpses of sunflowers. He ignored it and continued his advance toward the old hag. Instead of backing up, she placed her hands on her hips and jutted her chin out like a damned mule.

  “Don’t you dare soil this place.”

  She pointed toward the shed. The interior was shadowed, except where the sun crept across the floor and spot lit a single bare foot.

  “This place already been soiled by murder, Virgil!” She held a bundle of cloth aloft as if to prove a point.

  He squinted at the thing, but couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. But he was in no mood to play her games. “You better not have touched anything in that house. When Sheriff Abernathy gets here he’s gonna arrest you for obstruction.”

  “Like hell he will,” she shot back. “If he puts me in jail he won’t get any more of my ginseng tea for his man problems.”

  For a man widely known for his inspiring oration, it was rare for Deacon Fry to be struck speechless. But having this vile woman talk about the sheriff’s virility problems with Reverend Peale dead not twenty feet away managed the trick. He sputtered for a good twenty seconds before he managed to spit out, “You watch your mouth.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line and stepped closer until she was so close he could smell the hippie oils on her. “You listen to me, Virgil Fry,” she poked his chest three times for emphasis, “you got bigger problems than you know.”

  Suddenly, he felt too tired to continue the conversation. Not just body weary but soul sapped, too. He sighed and rubbed the back of his n
eck with a hand. “No, you listen to me,” he said, but his tone lacked the heat it had before. “I’ve got to get the sheriff here and I need to track down your son-in-law before that happens.”

  She reared back. “What’s Cotton got to do with this?”

  “Hopefully nothing, but no one’s seen him this morning.”

  “You know Cotton’s not my favorite, Virgil, but surely you don’t think he’s capable of that.” She pointed toward the shed.

  “I’m not saying he’s guilty, but he needs to be found.”

  She thought it over for a moment before lowering her chin in a grudging nod.

  Relieved that she’d managed not to argue for once, he continued. “I also have to explain to the citizens of this town that the Decoration is canceled because their beloved reverend was murdered.”

  She pulled back. “Oh no, you can’t cancel it.”

  “I can and I will.”

  She fumbled with the towel in her hand and removed something from inside. “Do you have any idea what this is?” She pushed the clump of fuzz toward his face.

  He snatched it from her hand.

  “Careful,” she snapped.

  “A death crown,” he said. He knew all about them because his mama had found one in Isaac’s pillowcase after he died. She swore it meant he’d gone straight to heaven.

  No, he shouldn’t think about Isaac.

  He shoved it back at her. “That’s disgusting.” When she took it, he wiped his hands on his pants.

  “No, it ain’t. It’s a sign.” She continued in a wheedling tone, “You know where I found that?”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Too damned bad, you old fool. If I were you, I’d be worried less about who killed the reverend and be asking yourself why, on the day of the Decoration, someone would kill the only ordained man in town.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him that the timing of the murder might be an issue, but now that she’d mentioned it, he struggled to come up with a way to dismiss the concern. “Let’s hear your theory, then.” He delivered this in a challenging tone, which he hoped would disguise the fact he always felt like he was playing catch-up with this woman.

  She waved the death crown in the air. “Lots of people think this means the person went to heaven. But we both know that our rites require someone to be properly buried before their soul can ascend.”

  According to the doctrine of Moon Hollow’s church, that was the case. The Decoration Day rites were a way to reinforce the belief that a proper burial was required to achieve Heaven.

  “So there’s no way the crown would mean what most people believe—otherwise, you’d never find them in the pillows of people who hadn’t been buried yet.” She paused, as if to let that sink in. “Which leads me to my own belief about the meaning of the crown.”

  She continued to tell him her theory about how crowns showed up in the pillows of people who claimed to be vexed by the devil. When she finished, he looked around to see the intensely interested gazes of all the deacons resting on him, as if bracing for his reaction.

  He was too busy wondering if they’d find a death crown in his pillow after he died, too.

  “Deacon Fry?” Earl Sharps said, after a moment.

  Right, he needed to keep things calm. So he snorted and slapped his knee. “Hell, Maypearl, you had me until you started talking about possession nonsense.”

  Her eyelids snapped into a narrowed line. “It ain’t nonsense and you know it.”

  He felt as if there was an invisible wire connecting them that had just grown painfully taut. At that moment, he knew in his bones that they were both thinking about their conversation at her house where he’d all but admitted to being haunted by Jack’s ghost.

  He was on the verge of pushing her too far to rein her in again. If she wanted, she could tell the deacons why he’d been acting so strange the last few days. Time for some damage control. “Look,” he sighed, “I apologize. It’s been a stressful week.”

  Her expression tightened into a suspicious frown and she braced her weight on her legs, as if preparing for a real fight.

  “This morning has been especially trying, and we’re all upset about the loss of dear Reverend Peale. We can discuss our concerns later. But first, we need to track down Cotton.”

  All eyes turned toward Maypearl. She pursed her lips while she thought over her response. He wasn’t worried anymore because he knew he’d pushed her in a corner. If she continued ranting about devils, she’d lose any chance of gaining allies in town. Especially after Earl and Junior found that broken angel statue and Mr. West’s satanic book buried there.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Where’s Peter West?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Junior Jessup run out of the garden toward the front of the house, as if going to find Mr. West.

  “I want to know where he was last night.”

  She laughed in his face. “You’re not serious. That boy couldn’t kill a possum. Besides, he and I were visiting yesterday afternoon. When I left he seemed pretty antsy to get to writing.”

  “Which leaves his whereabouts unknown for at least twelve hours.”

  “You’re unhinged, Virgil.”

  “Am I? A couple nights ago someone did a satanic ritual in the cemetery. They broke the angel statue and buried one of Mr. West’s devil books in sacred ground. And now our reverend is dead.”

  “What sort of satanic ritual?”

  “Here he is, boss!” Junior yelled, dragging Mr. West into the garden behind him. “He was on the front porch with Ruby.”

  Maypearl muttered something under her breath and crossed her arms.

  “Mr. West—”

  “Why are you all just standing around?” Peter demanded. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “I have some questions for you.”

  “For me?” Mr. West’s frown transformed as he realized why he’d been summoned. “Oh, no. You’re not going to pin this on me. I helped find his body, remember?”

  “Maybe because you knew right where to look,” Junior said.

  “This is ridiculous. I have no motive. I only met with Reverend Peale for the first time yesterday.” He pointed toward the shed. “That’s a crime of passion committed by someone with a deep well of rage. Hardly the act of a passing acquaintance.”

  “Virgil, you know he’s not guilty,” Maypearl said. “We need to find Cotton.”

  “You think he’s the killer,” Mr. West said.

  “Or another victim,” she said in a grim tone.

  Deacon Fry wanted to walk away from them all. He didn’t want to play referee or detective. He didn’t want to do anything but be alone. But he had to admit that Maypearl was right. He couldn’t deny his instincts, which were telling him Cotton was tied up in all this somehow.

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll find him.” He turned to Mr. West. “But you stay in town, you hear?”

  Mr. West looked like he wanted to punch something. “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to the other deacons. “Y’all spread out to the—”

  A scream near the front of the house interrupted him.

  “It’s Ruby,” Mr. West said, exchanging a worried look with Maypearl.

  Everyone took off at once. Deacon Fry followed because, for the first time in years, he didn’t feel up to leading the charge.

  49

  Fugue

  Cotton

  The sun hurt his eyes. It seemed too high. Decoration started at ten. He couldn’t be late or he’d miss Rose.

  Wished he’d had time to shower before, but there wasn’t time. He was pretty sure he didn’t look too bad though.

  He limped down the center of the road. There wouldn’t be any traffic that day anyway. Everyone would be up on Cemetery Hill.

  He sure hoped Edna made her famous fried chicken for the picnic. He was so hungry, his stomach felt like it might turn inside out.

  The scream startled him.

/>   He turned to face Reverend Peale’s house.

  Something tickled his memory about that place, but before he could figure it out, Rose’s daughter screamed again.

  “Ruby?” His voice croaked like a frog’s. He was thirsty.

  She sat on one of the rockers, but she wasn’t relaxed. She looked like she was seeing a ghost.

  “What’s wrong, girl?”

  Her hands came to her mouth, as if to hold in yet another scream. But before he could tell her to hush up, a whole group of people ran from around the side of the house.

  He wondered if they’d moved the party to Reverend Peale’s back yard without telling him.

  “Cotton!”

  He raised his hand to wave at Deacon Fry. For the first time in he didn’t know how long he didn’t get angry the second he laid eyes on that man. “Howdy.”

  “Cotton, what have you done?”

  He slowly lowered his hand. On the porch, Granny Maypearl had her arms around Ruby, who was sobbing. “What’s wrong?”

  Maypearl, that old bat, scowled at him. That wasn’t anything new, so he brushed it off, but he couldn’t figure out why everyone else was looking at him funny.

  “Did Rose come back yet?”

  “Cotton, put down the gun.”

  He looked down. Sure enough, he had a pistol in his right hand. “Huh.”

  Junior Jessup ran over from the church parking lot with a shotgun in his hands. “Put down the weapon, Cotton!”

  He shrugged and set the pistol on the road. “Okay.”

  Junior stopped running, but he didn’t lower the gun. Deacon Fry approached from the yard and a couple of the other men followed him.

  “Why’s everyone acting so strange?” Panic rose in his chest. “Where’s Rose?”

  Junior and Deacon Fry froze and looked at each other like they both knew a dark secret. From the porch, Granny Maypearl left Ruby with a fella Cotton hadn’t met. Maybe it was that author everyone kept talking about? Either way, he didn’t like it, but that old harpy had to say her piece.