A Misty Mourning (22 page)

“I got the picture,” I said. Her energy was building with each sentence she spewed.

“I'm just getting started. If you didn't the in the mine, well, then you had to look forward to that pesky little thing known as black lung. Or pneumoconiosis. For a long time it didn't have a name. The government didn't want to acknowledge that there was such a thing.”

“Reminicent of HIV. How many people had it infected or killed before they actually gave it a name?”

“Exactly.
The X-Files
isn't too far off when they quote ‘Deny everything.'”

There was a sound outside and I jumped. It was the panther. She was back. I wondered if it was just one panther that I'd heard several times or if there were several. And why did I always refer to it as a she?

“Panther,” she said.

“Yes. Startled me,” I said. “Anyway, back to the black lung.”

“Well, the miner in general was a completely deteriorated individual after forty or fifty years of mining. I mean, he would have had multiple fractures or broken bones in his lifetime. Often miners were stoop-shouldered or burned. Their blood was weak—”

“Why?”

“Because the air that they breathed in the mines was full of gases. As a result, they did not have oxygen-healthy blood,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, feeling totally stupid.

“And it was full of coal dust. Thus the black lung. The pores in their lungs would become clogged with it. They would cough and spit up black stuff,” she said.

I think she was feeling her beer because every word she said now was overenunciated and filled with venom. Gee, I was really sorry that I had brought up some obvious sore spot. But I was very happy to have the information that she'd supplied.

“Do you know how many little girls never even got to see their fathers?” she asked with a haunted look.

It takes me a while, but eventually I catch on.

I think I understood where her rather unexplained venom was coming from. She obviously had lost somebody in a cave-in or explosion or something. That last remark was just a tad peculiar.

I cleared my throat, and she came out of her reverie, swiping at a lone tear as she arrived in the present. “Have you got a good picture of it now?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you. You mentioned some of the girls just
leaving. Heading to Charleston. What if they didn't have the money for trainfare once they arrived? Was there a particular place they could go?”

“Actually, there was. There was a women's hospital there. Mostly for prostitutes or unwed mothers. Good deal of syphilis cases there, as well. I know, I've checked this out. Otherwise, there was a halfway house, where women could go and maybe get a job, or whatever. I mean, they didn't have counseling like you have today.”

“Really,” I said, thinking back to what Pastor Breedlove had told me earlier about Clarissa just taking off one day, only to return a year later.

“But they did help people,” she said.

“Would you happen to remember the name of this place?” I asked. I think if her judgment had not been impaired, she would not have answered this question. But because of the state she was in, all of her own doing, mind you, she was willing to talk. Did I feel guilty about this? Surprisingly, no.

“VanBibber something or other.”

“You're joking,” I said.

“No, why?”

“It's just that. . . well, some of my ancestors were VanBibbers.”

“Hmph,” she said and rolled her eyes. “Well, this particular branch of that family were Methodist and really into helping people.”

“Wow,” I said. “How cool.”

“I would have just left,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“If I had gotten out of this godforsaken hellhole, I wouldn't have stopped in Charleston. No, siree. I would have kept going. Sometimes women had people waiting for them on the other side,” she said.

“Other side of what?”

“You know. . . just wherever. The other side. Meaning other than here. Like the Underground Railroad, only not as much cloak-and-dagger,” she said.

Lord. The beer was really getting to her. “What do you mean?”

“It's a fantasy of mine. I like to imagine some young girl leaving in the middle of the night, with nothing but the clothes on her back—”

“Bridie did that Only she absconded. Got married to somebody the family didn't exactly like. He was a divorced man,” I said in a whisper.

“Anyway,” she said, irritated with my interruption. “I fantasize that this girl has an aunt or a cousin in a faraway state who helps her to freedom.”

I know my expression was indescribable, because I, for one, wasn't sure how to take her confession of such a romantic fantasy. I knew that the “slavery” known as coal mining was nowhere equal to that of actual slavery. Sherise, however, had gotten it into her head that it was a form of slavery, and there was no convincing her otherwise. I wondered if she was this melodramatic about everything in her life or just this particular subject.

“Haven't you ever read about the Underground Railroad? You know, how they used quilts to communicate. Like a map or something. Certain patterns meant certain things. Well, kinda like that. That's my fantasy. She makes it to Charleston and in the train station is a big map printed on the station floor, only nobody sees it because of how big it is. You have to be up high. The girl eventually finds it and knows what train to take. And she lives happily ever after,” she said with a rather sad smile. “That's what I like to imagine.”

“A map,” I said. “Did you say a map?”

“
N
orville Gross was killed by a panther.”

The news sort of shocked me, really. I'd convinced myself that he had been murdered. I'm not sure which was worse, actually. Being attacked by a panther and afraid the whole time that you were going to die, or being attacked by a person and afraid the whole time that you were going to die.

Sheriff Justice's uniform was crisp and his hat kept the sunlight from his face. I stood out in the front yard, beneath the lynching tree, wondering why he was telling me this at all. It kind of looked bad for me, though. If Norville had been murdered, then the sheriff would have had to seriously consider somebody else for the murder of Clarissa Hart. My alibi, if Norville had been murdered, was my third-trimester stomach. Everybody and their uncle knew that I could not have committed a brutal crime like the attack on Norville Gross in my present state. His being killed by a panther sort of made Clarissa's death look more like my fault.

I didn't do it. I swear. Where would I get penicillin, anyway?

“Have you dusted for prints?” I asked.

He smiled at me, although I could not read his eyes. “Why would I do that? Any and everybody has touched any and everything.”

“I mean in the attic.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The entrance to the attic is in Clarissa's bedroom. Somebody could have snuck up there and out through the window while I was discovering the body,” I said. “If you dusted for prints around that window, you might be surprised to find that they're not mine.”

He was quiet a moment. I was happy. After I had gone to bed last night, I could not sleep. How could I with everything Sherise Tyler had just told me? After I'd finished mulling over all of her information I had begun to work on a way to prove I
hadn't
killed Clarissa, rather than who had. I remembered Dexter telling me that he saw the window in the attic open. Around three in the morning, I thought of the fact that they'd probably left fingerprints. Now if I could just convince the sheriff.

“Well?” I said. “Are you going to check?”

“I'll get right on that,” he said.

“Thank you. You know, Susan Henry is the one who had access to all of the food, Sheriff. Not me. And . . . and Clarissa's son Edwin came in and gave her a chocolate bar,” I said, snapping my fingers. I'd forgotten all about that. He could have easily poisoned the chocolate bar. “Did you find a candy wrapper or anything like that in the room?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you,” he said. “I said I'll dust for prints and I will. And please don't tell me who is a suspect and who isn't.”

Well, he didn't have to go and get his panties in a wad over it. He seemed a tad more professional and irritated with me than he had the day I visited his office. “Did Mr. Gross's father ever make it into town?”

“Yes,” he said. “He came in and identified the body and then took it home. Took a matter of hours.”

“How sad,” I said.

“Mrs. O'Shea,” he said. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“Yes,” I blurted out before I even thought about it. My heart
pounded in my chest, and my face was instantly flushed. “Why do you ask?”

Like I really needed to ask that.

“I think you know why,” he said. “Do you have any priors?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Well. . . actually, I was arrested once. But it was a total misunderstanding and that sheriff is deeply regretful.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously. Fingerprints, Sheriff Justice. Don't forget to check for those fingerprints.”

“What have have you found out about the place?” he asked and pointed to the building in front of us that seemed to have been the center of so much activity in the first couple of decades of the twentieth century.

I could play snotty and tell him I didn't have to share my information with him. And I really wanted to, but no use in making him more angry. “Actually, I have learned so much. But I don't think any of it is getting me any closer to solving who killed Clarissa,” I said.

He cut his eyes around quickly, and I could feel the coldness coming from them. “That is, if I were trying to solve her murder. Which I'm not. Of course not. Because if I were, that would probably be interfering or something like that, and I would never do that,” I said.

And yes, my fingers were crossed.

“What have you found?” he asked again.

“Bunch of stuff on the Aldrich Gainsborough lynching. Some stuff on Clarissa leaving shortly after that and not coming back for a year. That sort of thing.”

“Why do you want to know about that?” he asked brusquely.

“I didn't say I wanted to know about it. That's just what's come up. You know, when you're researching something, you don't know until after it's all over which path would have been the most direct. When you're in the process of it, you get a lot of stuff thrown at
you that you can just dismiss. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, you know,” I said. “I really must get going. The day is getting away from me.”

With that I walked into the boardinghouse, passing Dexter, Maribelle, and Prescott on the way. I headed up the steps just as Danette came around the corner. “Good morning, Mrs. O'Shea,” she said.

“Good morning, Danette.” I took a few more steps and was stopped by Danette's voice yet again.

“Why do you always take the stairs?” She asked. “You're pregnant, you know.”

“Can't forget it,” I said.

“Well, Granny's elevator works just fine. Nobody will care if you use it,” she said.

“Oh, no thank you,” I said. “I have severe claustrophobia and an old rickety thing like that is. . . well, it is a disaster waiting to happen. With me in it, no less. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“You're welcome,” she said and went outside onto the porch.

I ignored everybody else in the great room and finished my trek upstairs to find Gert. She was seated on the edge of her bed rubbing her feet. I was amazed by this because I didn't know she could get her feet in her lap.

“Gert, what are you doing? You'll fall over,” I said.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “My feet hurt from dancing.”

“Did you dance?” I asked.

“Me and Lafayette danced one dance. Around in a circle, because neither one of us could remember how to make a square,” she said.

“Oh, Gert,” I said, laughing. “You are so mean.”

“I've had plenty of practice,” she said.

“You still mad at me?” I asked.

“I'm not mad at you. I thought you were upset with me,” she said.

“Well, I'm always upset with you in some form or another,” I said. “I thought—”

“Forget it,” she said.

Her feet had bunions the size of quarters. Her big toes grew crooked and I often wondered how her feet held up at all after she had waited tables for thirty-something years. She still had an exceptional arch, though.

“How come you never told me that Lafayette's nickname was Laffy?” I asked.

“How silly is that? That's horrible. Poor guy. Why would I want to deliberately spread something that silly around?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said. “I see your point.”

“Have you talked to your mother lately?” she asked.

“I talked to Rudy yesterday,” I said. “I'll talk to her today probably.”

“They still think you're a murderer?” she asked and put her shoe on.

“Yes,” I said. “Oh, and Sheriff Justice came by and he said that Norville Gross was definitely killed by a panther. So that's comforting on one hand. There isn't some crazed psycho killing off the boarders of the boardinghouse. On the other hand, that means Clarissa's murder looks more like I did it. But on the other hand, we have a crazed panther on the loose. Wait a minute, that was three hands.”

Gert shook her head and clicked her tongue. “How do you do this to yourself? How do you get yourself in such messes?”

“I. . . uh, well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't try it,” I said, duly scolded. “How was I supposed to know that picking up a pillow could lead to all of this? Would you have known that? I think not.”

A long, frustrated sigh exhaled from her body. “That wasn't a panther attack, I don't care what anybody says. What are your plans for today?”