by Jeff High
“But then he suddenly left town and was scarcely ever heard of again.”
“True. And that’s where the unknowns come in to play.”
“Does Matthew have any ideas about why Hiram Hatcher left so suddenly?”
I paused, wanting to choose my words carefully. “I get the impression it’s a mystery to him as well.”
“And he still doesn’t want anyone to know his deceased wife was related to Hiram?”
"Apparently not. We haven't talked about it recently. But I guess that's still the case."
Christine's questions were all understandable. But I feared she was probing too close, even though part of me wanted to tell her everything about Matthew; about the bootlegging, about the picture of Al Capone, and about things that went bump in the night. But it seemed best to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Are you aware of the old rumor about Hiram and your uncle John’s grandmother?”
"Well, of course. Now it's ancient history, but evidently, it was quite the scandal at the time."
"I talked to John about it a while back, and he said it was all garbage, that people were just looking for an explanation for Hiram's mysterious departure."
Christine gazed out the window and spoke vacantly. “Well, I’m sure Uncle John would like to think that.”
“Oh? You believe there’s something to the story?”
She followed the passing countryside for a moment longer. Then she shifted and turned toward me. Now, it seemed, her words were the ones being carefully chosen.
“Look. As you know, Uncle John is related by marriage. I’ve only seen pictures of his grandmother, Jessica Ravenel. But believe you me, in her day, she was lethally gorgeous.”
“So, I’ve heard. Doesn’t exactly make her an adulteress.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So, why the doubt about Jessica Ravenel and Hiram Hatcher?”
Christine paused before answering. “It’s because of things my mother has said.”
“Your mother, really? I’d think she would be the last person to prattle on about some old scandal.”
“And you would be correct. Mom is uncommonly discreet. But she once told me an interesting story about my grandfather and Hiram Hatcher.”
“Really? And...what is this story?”
“Soon after Aunt Molly and John became engaged the rumor about John’s mother being illegitimate surfaced again.”
“Why?”
"Small town stuff. It was started by several of the society mothers who wanted Aunt Molly to marry one of their sons rather than the son of a postman."
“So, evidentially your Aunt Molly was quite the catch, as was certainly your mother.”
"I'm sure that's true in their own right. But you also have to remember that they were the daughters of Sam Cavanaugh, the owner, and president of the local bank. My mother and my aunt came from money."
I shrugged. “Fair enough. No doubt, an added plus.”
"I think I've mentioned before that my grandfather Cavanaugh married late in life. He was quite a bit older than my grandmother. He was born in 1900 and personally knew Hiram Hatcher and the Ravenels. Everything I've ever heard about my grandfather Cavanaugh was that he was a quiet, well-respected leader in the community and an exceptionally gracious and humble man. But, as a father of the bride to be, he was not about to let a bunch of gossips slander his daughter's new family. So, he stepped out of his normal reserve to let a few of the community leaders know that their wives needed to put a lid on it or there would be consequences."
“And did it work?”
“At an epic level from what I understand. What’s so funny about that story is that it is completely out of character for my grandfather.”
“Hmm, interesting. But I’m missing something here. I gathered from your earlier comment that you think there’s still an air suspicion around Jessica Ravenel?”
“Because a couple of years later, in private, my grandfather told my mother that there was a lot more to the Hiram Hatcher story and Jessica Ravenel than people knew, and that it would be best if it never came out.”
“Did he tell her what?”
“No. Never a word more. But whatever it was, he thought it was important enough to wield some heavy influence to keep it secret.”
“So, you think he was trying to protect John’s mother?”
“It would seem so. And yet, that doesn’t make sense. Because if he considered the adultery story to be true, then he would not have staked his reputation on squelching it. My mother doesn’t believe he would have done all that to cover a lie.”
"I don't know," I said pensively. "Sounds like he was protecting somebody or something."
“Yes. And that’s why I’ve always had a lingering doubt about the Jessica Ravenel and Hiram Hatcher affair.”
I mulled over her words, wondering. “You know, I’ve heard another old rumor about a murdered woman whose body is buried up at the old mansion. Do you think he was referring to that?” Stirring in the back of my head was the discovery of the trunk and the elegant flapper dress and what may lie behind the masonry wall in the basement.
“I’ve heard that too. I asked Mom about it once. She said my grandfather just laughed about that story, saying that it was the farthest thing from the truth.”
“Oh, really? I guess Matthew will be glad to hear that.” Privately, so was I. The thought of there being a skeleton behind the wall in the basement was a gruesome prospect.
“Why? Does Matthew know anything? Has he talked about it?”
“I don’t think he knows more than anyone else. But he’s heard the rumors.”
A reflective silence followed. Christine looked at the photograph one last time before returning it to its paper bag and placing it on the rear seat. It seemed odd that almost ninety years later this brief, captured moment was a small window into the curious life of a flamboyant yet enigmatic man; that with all the worlds he seemed to be conquering, the arrival of a phonograph appeared to be at the pinnacle of his expectations. Bathed in the glorious light of that day, Hiram was blissfully unaware of what lay ahead, of tangled events, of something ruined and irretrievable, of something yet undiscovered that would compel him to leave forever his life in Watervalley. The fence posts lining the vast and untamed fields began to fly by. I drove on, lost in thought.
The touch of Christine’s hand upon my knee stirred me from my mindless daze. I turned, and she was smiling adoringly.
“What are you thinking about, Bradford?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Everything. Nothing.”
She looked away and laughed. “Oh, Bradford. You’re just like my Grandfather Cavanaugh and Hiram Hatcher, aren’t you?”
“That’s pretty interesting company. Not sure I understand.”
“Just like them, you have your little secrets, don’t you Luke Bradford?”
“You’re talking about that macramé class I took once, aren’t you? I should have known word would get out. It had to do with a girl.”
“And there’s my guy, always ready to use humor as a deflection.”
“Humph,” I grunted. She watched me silently, waiting for my response. There was a baited cunningness in her smile; a clever, alluring feint of expectation.
“Secrets, huh?” I said sportively. “How about this? Come closer, brown eyes, and I’ll tell you a little secret.”
This conjured the lowering of a skeptical chin. “Hmm, so said the spider to the fly.”
“Oh,” I said, gushing a laugh. “You’re good.”
Christine inched closer to me, speaking in a near whisper. “Good? Whatever do you mean?”
I glanced at her slyly. “Spider and fly, huh? I’ve been caught in your little web since the first time I saw you, Christine Chambers. Not that you haven’t noticed.” Having said this, I continued my focus on the road ahead.
She leaned in ever closer. Her voice was low and soft. “So, what’s this little secret you want to tell me, Bradford?”
<
br /> “I, Miss Chambers, am ridiculously, foolishly, and pathetically in love with you.”
Her face warmed to a tender regard. But there remained an element of curiosity, a searching thoughtfulness in the hemmed movement of her eyes. In time, she leaned in and kissed my cheek, breathing her words. “I know you are, Luke Bradford.”
We traveled home in a silence that was warm, content, and happy; a mutual feeling of accomplishment with the simple act of buying a piece of furniture...our piece of furniture. But all the while, with all the talk of secrets, a distant and haunting voice from deep within me whispered the words, “Oh the tangled web we weave...”
Chapter 26
TREASURE MAPS
I DROPPED CHRISTINE off at her place with plans to come out later for dinner. I excused myself for the afternoon, noting that I would probably drop off the picture at Matthew's house. This was true, but I also had larger plans.
It was rare that I took privileges in my role as the town doctor, wielding influence or requesting special accommodations. But I needed access to the Courthouse where the county archives, deeds, tax maps, and plats were kept. All the government offices were closed on Saturday, which struck me as actually being ideal.
On the way back to my house, I called Walt Hickman, the mayor. I explained that I needed a favor and that, among other things, I needed to do a little research on the Moon Lake property. It was a pliable truth, but accurate enough. I further explained that with the demands of the clinic, it had been impossible to do this during normal office hours. That said, I inquired if I might borrow the keys. Walt was more than happy to oblige, so much so, that he met me at my house with them.
Ever the politician, he took the opportunity to once again enlist my engagement in his newly formed Economic Development Council, the idea he had pitched at the Christmas Eve party. Just as before, I consented to participate but had to endure another ten minutes of Walt’s ramblings before he departed. As he drove away, I looked at the keys and smiled, having skillfully accomplished the first step of my plan. Despite the subtle shades of deception, there was a rather consuming and delicious thrill in being clandestine. I shook my head at this reality. My life definitely needed expansion.
I drove downtown and parked inconspicuously a block away from the Court House. Merchants were open, and a few shoppers were milling about the streets, but the afternoon was generally cast with a drowsy lethargy. On the back of the Court House was an outside concrete stairwell that dropped below the level of the ground to a door accessing the basement. I used this for my entry. The Register of Deeds office and the Property Assessors office were both on this level. After several tries from the ring Walt gave me, I found the key to each, only to realize that once inside, there was an unlocked door in the wall between them. Not wanting to draw attention, I switched on only a couple of desk lamps.
Fortunately, one of the public computers and the microfiche machine had been left on, and as well, there were laminated instruction sheets in large lettering everywhere regarding how to access records. These had undoubtedly been provided by the clerks in this office who had long ago grown weary of repeating the same instructions to the daily public. With all this at my fingertips, I went to work.
Sadly, most of what I found over the next two hours was largely routine. Deeds and records showing the transfer of property bought and sold by Hiram Hatcher generally fell in line with what was already known. I had hoped that by some stroke of luck I might find an old set of blueprints to Society Hill. But even in the modern day, Watervalley didn't have a building and codes department. So, there would have been no requirement to file a copy of the blueprints with the county. However, after quite a bit of digging, I managed to find the cardboard tube that housed a copy of the original plat for the development of Bootlegger Hill which later became Society Hill. By happenchance, a sitemap labeled, "Hatcher Property," showing the footprint of the house and the location of the utilities was rolled in with it. I carefully spread the document out on a nearby desk.
The property was a deep rectangle of fifty acres with almost eight hundred feet of road frontage extending away from the street for almost half a mile. The house was located in the front third, after which there began a significant drop in elevation toward the rear. Although it was an interesting find, there was little about it that was remarkable. But one detail did catch my attention. Toward the back of the property was the outline of a small building. The notation beside it read, "Spring house and holding tank. To be added later." The curious part about this was that the sitemap already noted the location of two existing wells on the property. And the odd thing about the location of the holding tank is that based on the topographical markings, it would be at least a hundred feet below the level of the house, requiring that water be pumped to yet another holding tank nearer to the level of the residence. It didn't make a lot of sense, but then again, for my purposes, it didn’t seem to matter.
I was about to roll the document up when I noticed one other odd detail. Although the adjacent tracts were not shown in their entirety, the owners of the bordering properties were listed in small print just beyond the boundary lines of the sitemap. In small but clear print, the notation on the property behind Hiram's fifty acres read, "928 Acres, Frontenac Corp."
For a long moment, I stood there dumbfounded, desperately trying to remember where I had before seen the word Frontenac. I suddenly remembered that it was the name on the five-gallon metal cans we found in Matthew's basement, The Frontenac Syrup Company. I wasn't yet sure what to make of this, but it was clearly more than a coincidence.
I sat down at the computer and pulled up the Tennessee Property Map program to gather the details on the Frontenac tract to see who now owned it. To my astonishment, it was still held by the same company, The Frontenac Corporation. It had been purchased in April of 1925 and was still an intact 928 acres, having never been subdivided. I switched my view to the topological map which revealed the property to be a tangle of steep ravines and hollows shouldered by ridges that rose sharply. The rings reflecting the ten-foot elevation drops were almost on top of each other. A review of the satellite map revealed much the same. The property was a morass of high unruly hogbacks adjacent to plunging washouts. The steep terrain had no potential for development, leaving it worthless with the possible exception of logging value.
I clicked on the tax information. There were no names associated with the Frontenac Corporation, only an address. It was a Post Office box in...of all places, Charleston, South Carolina.
I had been hovering tightly over the keyboard but now collapsed to the back of the chair and stared at the screen in front of me. It wasn’t much, but it was something; a fascinating, intriguing something. Someone in South Carolina knew about the Frontenac Corporation. Someone had been paying the $1,728 levy of property tax every year. Someone was sending a check. I gathered that Sue Dell Calloway, the County Treasurer, would probably know. But I decided to let Matthew pursue this in whatever manner best suited him. It seemed that for the moment, I had discovered all that I could. Committing a small act of larceny, I took the sitemap and locked up. No doubt, Matthew would want to see it.
Shortly after four in the afternoon, I arrived at the mansion. Matthew met me at the door holding something rather unusual, a toilet plunger.
“Now that’s an odd weapon of choice for a guy who supposedly owns a lot of guns.”
He offered a tempered smile. “Come in. I’m doing a little plumbing work. One of the toilets. It’s not clogged at the moment, but it keeps acting up.”
“You’re fixing the toilet yourself? That can’t be good. Isn’t that outside the natural order of things, like a rift in the time/space continuum?” I followed him back to the bedroom wing of the downstairs.
"So," he responded dryly. "I take it you've never worked on a toilet? Sooner or later, all guys have to work on the toilets. Being a guy means fixing things. When I fix something, I feel one with the cosmos.”
“Unfortunate
ly, I happen to know plenty about toilets. Although I'll admit, my original goal in life was to be loosely familiar with the use of the handle. But yeah, I’ve worked on plenty of toilets. Not successfully, mind you. I finally gave up once and called a plumber. He fixed the problem in about fifteen minutes in exchange for the title to my car.”
We walked to a brilliantly tiled downstairs bathroom with vintage fixtures. Matthew set to work. I was fully content to lean against the door frame and observe. He scratched the side of his head and deliberated on his plan of attack, all the while speaking casually. “You have to remember, Luke, I was a missionary kid. Poverty made me a plumber, a mechanic, a carpenter, and probably a few other things that I’m not very good at.”
"Well, I can't exactly go toe to toe with you there. For some reason, my prep school in Atlanta didn't have a shop class."
“No shame in that. But bouncing around Africa as a kid developed a kind of do-it-yourself, pioneer mentality.”
“Point taken. I guess Daniel Boone never called a plumber.”
Matthew grinned passively. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, you’re in the company of a man who has made peace with his ineptitude.”
Armed with a small crescent wrench, Matthew began to contort himself to reach the rear of the toilet. But before doing so, he made a gesture with his head towards the items I was carrying. “What you got there?”
I explained to Matthew what I had found at the property assessor’s office and the discovery of the site plan. After a quick adjustment to the valve, he elbowed his way clear and stood. I handed him the drawing and, after examining the details, his eyes tightened. “A couple of weeks ago I hiked to the back of the property. It’s all wooded, thick with privet and undergrowth. But I came across the spring house noted here. I didn’t see a holding tank.”
“Really? So, the spring house was actually built?”
