“Did you find anything more about this K.C. Starling?”
“I am guessing she was born in 1973 or 1974. There is no birth certificate on file for anyone by that name during those two years. She is either older or younger, or non-existent.”
“Keep looking. I can assure you that if K.C. Starling is in fact K.C. Higgins, she does exist. Track her by using the name Josephine Starling. See if that helps the search.”
“Isn’t that Aunt Jo, the lady you’ve told me more than once about?”
“The same.”
“Why use her name? What’s the connection?”
“She’s the only Starling I know around the county. As far as I can tell, there is no connection, except for a rumor I heard recently.”
“So, this is one of your famous hunches?”
“Your value grows daily.”
“That would mean invaluable, right?” Rogers said.
“I’ve said it before.”
“Let me hear those sweet words again or this could be our final conversation, Sweet Lady.”
“Could invaluable mean without value?”
“That better be a rhetorical question,” Rogers said and disconnected from our conversation.
40
It was nearly 8:30 when Starnes’ house telephone rang. I had confessed to my cohorts my early morning sighting of Aunt Jo as well as the revelatory conversation with Rogers. We were trying to make sense of Aunt Jo’s appearance along with this new information from Rogers when Starnes answered the call.
“No real suspects.”
She waited and listened.
“Yeah, still tracking down some clues.”
More waiting, more listening.
“Nothing substantive.”
Waiting. She seemed to be listening, but she was making faces at us, so I doubted her sincerity in the listening department.
“We’ll get right on it.”
More faces and waiting.
“Okay, okay. I’ll come alone.”
She hung up and shook her head. She took a bite of toast and gulped down a swig of coffee.
“The High Sheriff and Police checking in for the day?” I said.
“Is chastisement a virtue?” she said.
“Depends upon who is chastising and who is being chastised?”
“He’s an idiot.”
“That may be true, but he is still the boss,” Rosey said.
“I can’t keep this up. I need to find some sanity in my work,” Starnes said.
“Are you referring to your present company, your partners?” I said.
“Hardly. Sheriff Murdock is driving me mad. I have to go to Asheville and talk with the lab.”
“Good, a road trip,” I said.
“Alone.”
“We’re not invited?” I said.
“You’re not welcome.”
“Oh,” I said.
“May I ride along?” Rosey said.
“No. He wants me to do this alone, then drive to Madison and report to him all by my lonesome. It seems that he questions my ability to select my friends.”
“It would seem,” I said. “So, Rosey and I are left to our own devices today.”
“Just be careful where you go and who you disturb. And since you got lost walking around my yard this morning, maybe you’d better stay close since this is a rather large county.”
“It was the fog,” I said in my defense.
“And the fog has lifted?” she said and smiled. It was more of a smirk than a genuine smile.
Rosey, Sam, Dog, and I watched her drive away from the house. She promised to call us if anything pertinent turned up from the Asheville lab.
“I think she misses Norfolk and Captain Wineski,” Rosey said as her little red truck sped away down the graveled road.
“But she loves these mountains, just not the law officials who run things,” I said.
“So, Sherlock, what do you have up your sleeve by way of investigations on this lovely day?” Rosey said.
The fog had finally lifted from the surroundings. It was past ten o’clock and the sunshine was bright. I spotted one tiny fluffy cloud overhead, but otherwise it was a deep blue sky. The birds were in full chorus around us and the prospects for a beautiful day seemed solid.
My fog, however, was still dense.
“Let’s go see if we can find Aunt Jo’s place over in Ivy Gap,” I said.
“You’re asking me to help in that endeavor?” Rosey said.
“Yeah, that would be of little use. Let’s go see if I can find it and keep us in the same state.”
“I could take along a loaf of bread and we could drop crumbs to find our way back home,” he said.
We put the dogs in the backseat and headed off to parts known and unknown. I had no pretensions that I could easily find Josephine Starling’s house in Ivy Gap. Still, I thought it would be fun to try.
It took us twice as long as it might have taken if Starnes was with us, but we finally arrived at Aunt Jo’s quaint little hovel at the end of Ivy Gap. I was pleased with myself. I had achieved something quite significant via my navigational skills.
The sun was even shining at Aunt Jo’s place. We found her sitting on the front porch cross-stitching. I watched her for several minutes while I figured out what she was doing. My grandmother used to cross-stitch, so at least I had some reference to her activity.
“Can I get you two some tea?” she said after a few minutes of exchanging pleasantries.
“Maybe later,” I said. Rosey nodded in agreement.
“That going to be a pillow case?” I said to Aunt Jo. My eyes were on her handiwork in her lap.
“Pillow cover. I like to give away things that I have created, things that mean something to me.”
I stretched a little to see if I could tell anything about the design of her work. Since it was upside down from my reference point, I had a hard time discerning her design. I thought it might be a tree of some sort.
“Blackbirds in an apple tree,” she said to me.
“Oh. Sounds unusual.”
“Not really. There are lots of blackbirds around here and plenty of apple trees for them to nest in.”
“I was thinking of the unusualness of that particular scene on a cross-stitched pillow cover. You have friends who like blackbirds?”
“I don’t give away my creations because people might like what I have done. I give away what I believe to be helpful to those to whom I give them. The gift is from me, a gift to the person. It is for their benefit.”
“A message, perhaps,” I said.
“Sounds pedantic,” she said. “Nothing so Socratic, I think. Sometimes it is an encouragement, sometimes an insight, and then sometimes it is a warning.”
“You came to see me earlier this morning,” I said.
“Did I?” she said.
“Well, it certainly looked and sounded like you.”
“People see things in the fog that are not always truly there.”
During this whole conversation she was focusing upon the work in her hands. Now and then she would look up from her craft, glance at me, then at Rosey, and then go back to her creation. During all of this, she never paused or missed a stitch. It was as if she could feel her way with the design. I suspected that Aunt Jo could have cross-stitched even if she were blind.
“I would have sworn it was you,” I said.
“Did I have anything of particular value to say?”
“Well, you said you came to warn me.”
“Really,” Aunt Jo looked up and continued her cross-stitching.
“You said I was in danger because I was getting close to the person responsible for the recent deaths.”
“Well, now. That’s quite a vision you had.”
She stopped working and looked at me.
“Are you saying that you did not come to see me earlier this morning?”
“It’s a long way across the county, dear. I have no vehicle by which to travel from here to you. D
oesn’t seem logical that I could make such a trip, does it?”
Her eyes were dancing, but without any malice. I think she was enjoying my uncertainty regarding my early morning visitor.
“You have other means of transportation,” I said.
She smiled at me.
“Whatever are you suggesting, Clancy Evans?”
Her hands quickly returned to the cross-stitching in her lap.
“Did you see me as well earlier this morning, Mr. Washington?” Aunt Jo said.
“I was either sleeping or fixing breakfast.”
“So you don’t have visions like Clancy.”
“Some of Clancy’s skill-set is out of my league,” he laughed and gently slapped my shoulder. I wanted to slap him back.
“I can tell that you two are good friends,” Aunt Jo said. “It’s nice to see such a strong bond between two people. One doesn’t always see that outside of some marriages.”
“We look out for each other,” Rosey said.
“And you genuinely care for one another,” she added. “It’s quite nice to see it and feel it.”
I started to comment on her last statement, but Aunt Jo interrupted my intentions.
“Goodness, me. Where are my manners? It’s after eleven in the morning and I have not offered you tea.”
“You asked us when we sat down,” Rosey said politely.
“Well, good. I wouldn’t want to be remiss in my duties as a hostess. So, would you like some tea now?”
“That would be nice,” I said.
Aunt Jo laid her cross-stitch work on the chair beside her and headed towards the front door.
“I’ll help you, Aunt Jo,” I said and followed her into the house.
I pointed to the cross-stitch for Rosey’s sake as I trailed Aunt Jo inside. I wanted him to take a closer look at it while we were away. He lifted his palms and shoulders at me suggesting that he did not understand what I wanted. I waited for her to move ahead of me and then I quickly retreated to Rosey’s side.
“Look at the cross-stitch,” I whispered and then hurried into the house.
Minutes later, Aunt Jo and I returned with tea for three. I carried the tray.
“You can sit, dear. I’ll serve,” Aunt Jo insisted.
She poured our three cups full from her decorative tea pot and then handed Rosey a cup and saucer.
“Oh goodness me,” she said. “I forgot the sugar. I’ll be right back.”
She left us on the porch.
“Did you see the pillow cover she’s making?” I said.
“I did.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did you not think that was unusual?”
“As in unusually good work?”
“No, silly. As in an unusual scene to be putting on a pillow case, or covering as she referred to it.”
“To each his own,” he said and sipped his yet unsweetened tea. “Say, this is good.”
I reached over to retrieve one of the cups and saucers that Aunt Jo had poured.
“I haven’t served you yet, young lady. It is rather improper for you to serve yourself since you are a guest in my home.”
She was smiling as she approached. Despite her pleasantness, I felt duly chastised.
“Yikes,” I said. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”
“No offense taken, child. I just like to serve, and besides, you didn’t know which cup was yours, now did you?”
I was puzzled.
“Didn’t know it mattered,” I said.
“Well, my dear, it matters. Each cup and saucer is specifically chosen for each of my guests. That cup there, the one Mr. Washington is holding, that one has a bright red coloring to it indicative of his personality.”
“Do tell,” I said as I raised my eyebrows for him.
“Okay, I will tell. He is a fiery individual with lots of passion. Red is his color.”
I looked at Rosey again and wanted to giggle. He shrugged at me.
“And my color, Aunt Jo?”
“Ah, yes. Your color is the mauve here. You were about to select the blue one, which his mine.”
“Why mauve for me?”
“It’s a lovely color, quite beautiful, but not definitive like red, say. It carries with it some passion, but the passion is dormant until something provokes it. Or, the passion is hiding, a little timid, restraining itself from full disclosure. It is a fetching color as well as the design.”
I looked down at my cup and saucer. There was a large wolf’s head on it with a scarf tied around it. The scarf was the color of mauve. I would have called it a light purple, but then I’m a rather simple person with a dormant passion it would seem.
41
“It’s from my animal tea cup collection. I collect all manner of serving dishes for tea. This one has a lot of appeal for me,” Aunt Jo said after we had discussed Rosey’s red cup and saucer.
There was a large wolf’s head on his cup and saucer as well, but his set sported another figure. A young person appeared beside the wolf’s head, next to the wolf, and the figure wore a red cap, red jacket, and carried a long knife with a carved red handle. Red all around. Quite distinctive.
I noticed that Aunt Jo seemed bent on talking about our two cups, the mauve and red ones, but ignored her own. While she was telling us how she came to collect these unusually designed sets, I tried to see what was on her blue cup. Since the design was small and she was sitting too far away from me, I couldn’t get a fix on the specifics. I could tell that her cup had the same large wolf’s head, but the rest of the drawing was indiscernible from where I was sitting.
“May I see your cup, Aunt Jo?” I said finally.
“Why certainly,” she said and handed me her empty blue cup and saucer. “Mr. Washington, do you like this blend of tea?”
“Has a nice tangy flavor to it,” he said.
“Indeed. It is a raspberry orange flavor which I have perfected especially for this time of year and for certain guests in my home.”
While they were talking about the tea, I studied the design on her cup and saucer set. I had been correct about the large wolf’s head. The same young person that had been drawn on Rosey’s cup and decked out in red was drawn on Aunt Jo’s cup and saucer but colored in blue. Beside the young person was an older person wearing a blue scarf which matched the blue that the younger person wore.
Aunt Jo reached for her cup without saying a word. I handed it back to her.
“Interesting designs on your cups and saucers,” I said.
“I thought you would be intrigued by them. What do you make of it?”
“I beg your pardon,” I said.
“What do you make of the drawings?” she said.
I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say under the circumstances. What was I to make of the drawings? They were well done. They were colorful. They were unusual.
“They’re nice,” I said, not knowing what to say in answer to her question.
“Well, I certainly expected you to have more of an insight than that,” Aunt Jo said.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like that design. Perhaps the unusualness of it has baffled me,” I said in my own defense.
“You came here to ask me some questions about K.C. Higgins. What do you want to know?”
If the cups and saucers had baffled me, her abruptness and insight nearly floored me. Despite my limited history with this strangely wonderful woman, I was taken aback and caught off guard completely this time around. I will admit that I should not have been so shocked at her knowledge of my coming yet again to see her. I should have known by this point that there is something rather extraordinary about this lady and her sight. Still, it is not part of the world in which I work and function. Her abilities are rather other-worldly as far as I was concerned. Perhaps one day I will factor her into my life and not be so surprised when she reveals to me something she has no way of knowing.
I hesitated. Aunt Jo noticed.
&nb
sp; “It’s time to ask your questions. I will tell you what I can.”
“Did you find K.C. or did she find you?”
“I saw her alone in the woods. She needed a friend.”
“How old was she?” I said.
“Ah, that was a few years ago now. I don’t know that I ever knew her exact age,” she said.
“School age or younger?”
“A little younger than a first grader, I would say. Why? What difference does that make?”
“Oh, no difference. Just trying to get a reference point for her life.”
“We had a couple of years together before I enrolled her in school as I recall.”
“Did you tell anybody that you found this child?”
“Wasn’t anybody’s business but mine … and later, hers.”
“How long did she live with you?” I said.
“Through high school. Then she found her niche in breeding dogs, got some training at a technical school in South Carolina, and then found her own place. You’ve been to her place,” she said.
“I have. Good set up for breeding.”
“She’s smart.”
I nodded without saying anything.
“So how did you get away with raising her since she obviously is not your child or grandchild?” Rosey said.
“You mean, how did I manage to dodge the authorities of that era?” she said and smiled.
“That would be the question,” he said.
“The authorities weren’t too swift in those days. She was known as K.C. Starling for most of her school career. I simply lied about her being my niece, a child of my brother who had come to live with me after her parents went through a frightful divorce. Easy story to make up, unfortunately.”
“So it was her idea to take the name of Higgins?” I said.
“Well, she asked me to do some checking regarding her heritage. I discovered that her mother was a Kew Higgins who came to our county from Burnsville. She met and married a man named Jeremiah Gosnell from Spill Corn. Less than a year after they were married, Kew gave birth to twins. The boy she named Dochau Cerniw. He was also called Docel, and sometimes Dewey; the girl child she named Kew Ciwa. The little boy died when he was a small child. I think it was around the age of two or three when he got pneumonia and died. Apparently, the little girl was much stronger than the little boy.”
Outcast In Gray: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 7) Page 20
