“She loved this guy?” Mel asked. “She still loves him? Are we really going to value her opinions of anyone?”
“They’re worth hearing, though,” John said. “Taken individually they sound problematic. But she’s there in the jail with plenty of time on her hands and a lot on her mind. Taken all together, they sound unvarnished, but well thought out. They’re a piece of her story, at any rate.”
“And that is a generous opinion, John,” Ardis said. “What else do we know?”
“I’ve been trying to follow Phillip’s line of research,”
John said. “To see if he might have been digging for information that ruffled feathers. Or, now that we’ve heard from Grace, maybe he was about to break something.”
“Speaking plain would be good, John,” said Mel.
“Specifics. You’re right. Unfortunately I haven’t come across enough of them yet. But Grace’s opinions of Nadine, Wes, and Phillip all play into this. Phillip appeared to be tracing deeds and landowners for the area surrounding and encompassing what’s now known as the Homeplace. I’ve seen some of the documents he was working with. I have some names and dates, and I’ve seen the casual way boundaries were described using impermanent markers such as trees and fencerows. I think Phillip was questioning Holston ownership of the Homeplace. What if, as an ‘investigative historian’, he was determined to dig, even if that meant undermining the legitimacy of the site? As I said before, ruinous.”
“
Did
he find something?” Mel asked. “Have
you
found proof?”
“So far only irregularities that might mean nothing. But I haven’t seen all of his research.”
“But the deeds and other documentation still exist,” I said. “Phillip’s death doesn’t change that.”
“Unless you have someone in charge who lacks a sense of stewardship, as we’ve also just heard.”
“But all those records are official. They’re kept at the courthouse, aren’t they?” Ardis asked.
“Many are,” John said. “Others have gone missing over the years.”
“Oh, hey, you know what else is missing?” I said. “I just realized it. John, when you were putting the storage room key back in Phillip’s office this morning, his banjo wasn’t there.”
That was a conversation stopper, missing banjos being high on everyone’s list of Dangerous Situations. And Geneva, hearing that sudden lull in conversation, chose that moment to pop in and start her own.
“The banjo might be lost, but your hackle now is found. That sounds like a hymn of joy, doesn’t it?”
“What?” I asked.
“Where?
”
“In my silver-lined sinkhole.”
“H
ere in the den,” Joe said from the doorway. “He hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“Sorry—what?” I’d obviously missed something while listening to Geneva.
“Ardis’ daddy is asking for her, and you asked where.”
“Right, sorry. A little brain fritz going on.” I wiggled my fingers next to my ear to show how that problem worked against clear thinking.”
The hackle?
Geneva saw it?
I dredged up a smile and attempted to make it look natural.
The others, except Ardis, smiled back. Ardis was busy darting glances into corners of the room. There was nothing for her to see, though. Geneva had said, “Oops,” when I answered her and gone back into the den.
“Ardis?” Joe called. “Your daddy’s trying to tell me about some cousins. He wonders if you remember the names.”
“Ardy?” her daddy called from the den, beating out Joe Friday for volume. “Who are they? You know the ones. Live up there thataway. Beyond the pig farm, but not so far as the river. Had a mule fell in a ditch.”
“Sarah and Charlie.”
“Sarah and Charlie. I knew that.”
“Well,” Ardis said, with a clap of her hands and one last darting glance around the room, “We’ve done some good here tonight.”
“And next time I’ll bring double refreshments,” Mel said. “Couldn’t hurt. Might help.”
“Before we go,” I said, stopping them as they moved chairs back and stood up, “how much do any of you know about the woods around the Homeplace? Or the geology of that area?”
“You could ask Joe that,” Mel said. “Why? What are you thinking now?”
“Still working it out. I’ll let you know. I think we should all be careful from here on out, though. Be careful who you talk to about this, and be careful who hears you talking about it.”
“I second that,” Ardis said. “Meeting adjourned.”
We said our good nights, and Ardis saw the others to the door. I hung back in the kitchen waiting to hear a commercial come on in the den before going in to get Geneva.
The hackle was in the sinkhole. Dropped in through the space at the edge of the rocks Lemuel Umstead had levered into place, imperfectly covering the hole. A hole used as a natural garbage chute for cans and who knew what else. A hackle, for starters.
Joe came out of the den. “Walk you home?”
“Sure, I’ll just go in and say good night to Ardis’ daddy.” And collect the ghost.
“Hey, now, where’d you go?” Ardis’ daddy called from the den. He came shakily to the door. “There you are,” he said when Joe went to steady him. “Thought you’d disappeared on me.”
“Daddy, you watch your step in those slippers,” Ardis said.
“He slipped away on me. Like those others we used to hear about. What were their names?”
“He’s been on this reminiscence kick ever since we went out to the Homeplace,” Ardis said. “Daddy, you’ll have to give me a hint. What do I know about them?”
“You didn’t know them, Ardy. You aren’t old enough.
I
didn’t know them and I’m older than dirt. But we used to hear about them. A cautionary tale for whippersnappers is what they were. Took off during the cholera epidemic and never came home. Gone and not forgiven because they never said good-bye. Brother and sister rascals is what we heard when
we
were young rascals. They were my mother’s kin. Her mother’s brother and sister. Jenny and Sam. No. Not Jenny and Sam. Sam and Geneva and Sam ran off with another feller’s fiancée and Geneva went too.
Rascals.
And I ought to know, because I could out-rascal the best of them. Isn’t that right, Viv?”
“He’s talking to Mama again,” Ardis said. “Daddy, let’s get you to bed. Oh my land, I did not see this coming. Kath, I’ll call you in the morning.”
* * *
Geneva had missed the news that she suddenly had a great-nephew and a great-great-niece. She’d been engrossed in an episode of
Gilligan’s Island
. She floated ahead of us singing about three-hour tours. Joe naturally said something about it on the way to the Weaver’s Cat. I agreed it was an interesting development and admitted I hadn’t considered the possibility of finding Sam’s and Mattie’s living relatives. Then I changed the subject before Geneva quit singing and heard us. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her to know she had a family. I just wanted to be prepared for when she did find out.
I also wanted time to think about this oddity. For reasons I still didn’t understand—and maybe never would—I could see a ghost. See, hear, and talk to her. I suspected that Granny had seen a ghost or ghosts, too. Ardis didn’t. Until recently. When Geneva had started feeling “stronger,” Ardis started seeing and hearing things. And Geneva was her great-great-aunt. And I’d found a dye in Granny’s journal that should help Ardis see Geneva more fully. One oddity after another to think about.
A nice thing about Joe Dunbar was his acceptance of another person’s need for quiet and space. Also his acceptance of other people’s oddities, such as unexplained detours. He walked with me to the Weaver’s Cat, watched as I climbed the steps to the porch, stood for a minute looking at the door, and made a quick, quiet phone call.
“Hi, um, Ginger. Just calling to see how you’re doing and to thank you for the silver-lining information you gave me. You actually saw it?”
“Along with bloodstained clothing,” Geneva said.
“Wow.”
“I did not mention it earlier, because I had other things on my mind.”
“I know. Do you want me to come by your place so you can tell me more?”
“What? Tonight? Heavens no. I will be much too busy planning our trap to catch the Heinous Hackler. That is a good name for the villain, and a trap is a great idea. I will go get started immediately.” She swirled through the door and was gone.
Oh dear.
I turned around, came down the steps, and resumed
the walk home. Joe, bless him, didn’t make a single remark. I gave him an extra kiss good night in thanks.
* * *
I heard someone on my porch shortly after eleven. Joe had gone home. I’d been making the usual sort of racket brushing my teeth. When I’d rinsed and spit and bared their shining glory in the mirror, I heard the scrape of a shoe. Unless it was my imagination. Then something bumped against the front door. The porch swing creaked back, forth, and went quiet again.
Twitching a living room curtain to peek might alert the intruder. On the other hand, the porch light was on, so the intruder wasn’t really in stealth mode. In fact . . . I risked twitching. Zach.
I didn’t invite him in. I took a large glass of ice water out with me and joined him on the porch. I didn’t offer the water to him or drink it myself. He spoke in a low mumble, saying he’d been trying to get up the nerve to tell me something for the past day, day and a half.
“I found this.” He handed me the file I’d last seen in the cottage on Phillip’s desk. “Actually, these.” He turned and pointed toward the porch swing—at something lying on it. A banjo.
“You
found
them? Where did you find them?” From his reaction, I knew mine had been wrong. “Sorry, Zach. It’s just that I know where I last saw this”—I tapped the file—“so where
did
you find it? But wait—if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. If you do tell me, and you got it from somewhere you shouldn’t have, I won’t tell if I don’t have to. Deal?”
“Okay. There’s something else, though.” He went over to the swing and bent to take something from under it. He straightened and turned with a hackle in his hands.
“Freeze!
Right where you are, Aikens!”
A light flashed on, bathing Zach’s terrified face in brilliant cop halogen.
“Coleridge Dunbar! What do you think you’re doing?” I said, trying to imitate Ardis. It didn’t work.
“Ms. Rutledge. Step away from the suspect.”
“You
called
them?” Zach asked.
“No, I didn’t call them, Zach. Deputy Dunbar, turn your light off and leave us alone.”
“He threatened you with a huckle.”
“Turn your light
off
. Do it
now
. This is
private
property. There is no such thing as a
huckle
.
Got
it?” I was breathing hard and feeling hoarse from channeling my inner drill sergeant. Lights came on at the neighbors’ house, one of the beautiful features of living in a small town.
I heard Clod suck a tooth and say, “Yuh.”
The light went off, and then I heard another Dunbar join the first one.
“Anything I can help with?” Joe asked.
Zach was slowly backing toward the railing at the end of the porch.
“Hey, Joe. I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Zach. Zach, this is Joe. He has a canoe and knows how to knap flint. He does not know how to play the banjo. Maybe you two should hook up and take lessons.”
Zach sucked a tooth and said, “Yuh.”
“Nah, the tooth-sucker is my brother,” Joe said. “That stiff guy with the badge and the flashlight. I’m the cool brother.”
Zach took some convincing, but Joe and I got him to come inside and tell us the rest of his story. I let Clod come in, too, on the condition he didn’t interfere.
“I had things perfectly under control,” I said after they’d trooped into the kitchen and were sitting at the table. “I had a large, heavy glass of ice water. I would have chucked it, glass and all, right in his face, if he’d come at me.”
Clod rolled his eyes. Joe raised his eyebrows. Zach looked as though he wanted to say, “Cool,” but was feeling too cool or too cowed to say it.
The hackle sat in the middle of the table. I felt sorry for it. I would never look at a hackle again and see it as anything but a weapon. Phillip’s banjo and file were not on the table. Clod hadn’t asked about the banjo on my porch swing, so I’d taken the chance that he’d arrived when Zach picked up the hackle, and missed seeing him hand me the file. I’d brought the file in and tucked it on a bookshelf in passing, slipping it between
Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book
and
A Garden to Dye For
.
“Zach was about to tell me where he found the hackle,” I said, “before we were interrupted. Where did you find it, Zach?” I gave him a gentle kick under the table, hoping he’d catch on that we weren’t mentioning files or banjos. Besides being cool, Zach was quick.
“Backseat of my car.”
“You’re
kidding
. Sorry.” My interview skills were lacking, but no wonder he’d been wondering what to do.
“Do you keep the car locked?” Joe asked.
“I will now.”
“Why come here with it?” I asked.
“It freaked me out. I put it in the trunk, and I’ve been riding around with it since I found it. Since yesterday. I thought it was the one you said was missing. But why was it in my car, you know? But you’re pretty cool, so I thought why not bring it over here? And then this
dude”—he pointed at Clod—“he leaps out of the dark with a blinding light, acting like I’m going to hackle your flax stash or something. I mean, get a grip. It’s a historic textile tool, not a—” The piece fell into place in front of our eyes. He moved his chair away from the table, looking pale and five years younger. “Crap.”
“This hackle hasn’t been used for decades at least,” I said. “You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Deputy?”
“We’ll have to run tests—”
“No, you won’t. I recognize this hackle. Zach and I saw it in the storage room at the Homeplace after Phillip’s death. You can trace it by the accession number you’ll find on it. And look at it. There’s rust and dust and pieces of flax tow in it. No one needs any tests to see that this hackle hasn’t been used for anything for years. It hasn’t been taken care of properly, either. Zach, I’m glad you brought it here.”
“Why would someone put it in my car?”
Clod must have had enough by then. He scraped his chair back. “Prank,” he said, standing up. “Kids trying to scare other kids.”
Zach didn’t look like he was buying that.
“Or I could say it’s an Aikens not falling far from the tree.”
“I’ll walk you to the door, Zach,” I said. “And if I find out, I’ll let you know.”
* * *
After Zach left, I had one question for Clod. “Did the sheriff’s department issue a statement identifying the murder weapon as a hackle?”
“No. But please don’t think this incident exonerates Ms. Estes. It doesn’t mean a murderer is still running
loose in Blue Plum. Leaving a hackle in the kid’s car would be a stupid move, if ever there was one.”
Clod left and I asked Joe how he’d happened to appear at exactly the right time.
“I saw Cole when I was on my way home and I followed him again.”
“How did
he
happen to be here at the right time? Has he been following Zach? Or did someone tip him off?”
“No idea.”
“I need to show you what else Zach found in his car.” I got the file and told him what it was. He almost made the tooth-sucking face, but stopped.
“I’m not comfortable keeping this from Cole,” he said. “Just so you know. But I wouldn’t have shown it to him, either.”
“It doesn’t feel right. But he would’ve thought Zach took it or that he was the one pulling the prank.”
“Would you like me to be your watchdog tonight? I’m serious. Cole might not think there’s a murderer running loose in Blue Plum, but you and I know there is.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll feel better if you’re keeping an eye on your brother. I’ll make sure my doors and windows are locked.”
I brought the banjo in and stayed up another hour, sifting through the copied documents in Phillip’s file. My eyes blurred sometime past one. Before going to bed, I e-mailed the posse members, asking one question: Had they told anyone else that the murder weapon was a hackle?
Tired as I was, other questions kept me awake after my head hit the pillow. First, what was going through Ardis’ head? How did she feel about being related to the
Sam and Geneva I’d been searching for? And then, why hadn’t Geneva told me Sam was her brother? But the question that really didn’t want to lie down and go to sleep was how would Geneva react when she found out Ardis was her great-great-niece?
* * *
Ardis called the next morning. When I answered, I was walking up the back steps of the Weaver’s Cat, about to let myself in. I wanted to see Geneva before heading out to the Homeplace. Argyle came running when he heard the back door “baa.” Geneva didn’t come floating.