Authors: Beverly Connor
“Why isn’t she named in Tidwell’s lawsuit?”
“She never saw Miss Susan that day, as far as I can find out. On the other hand, several people saw the Van Horne woman with Miss Susan.”
“What about the papers that are supposed to have been stolen?”
“I’ve done my best to find out what she had. That list is all I could find out.”
Lindsay looked at the page he pointed to. The description of the documents was almost the same as what the Tidwells had told her. The only difference was an added notation that a relative had seen a letter from a place called Turkeyville.
“Where’s Turkeyville?”
“I’ve no idea. One of Alfred’s relatives seemed to remember something about that from years ago. I located a Turkville, Kansas, on the map, but that’s as close as I could find. As you can see, even if I found an incriminating stack of documents in someone’s possession, I wouldn’t be able to identify them from the sketchy descriptions Alfred and Bonnie gave me. The only way Alfred’s going to get his property back is if someone comes forward with better information than this, or if whoever took them confesses.”
“Do you believe Alfred’s aunt had any valuable papers?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Miss Susan was shrewd about her business. I’ll say that for her. Sugar tell you about the Barbie doll?”
Lindsay nodded.
“Miss Susan had lots of deals like that. You ever watch the
Antiques Road Show
?”
Lindsay shook her head. “No, but my father watches it.”
“Ever since my wife started watching it, she never throws a thing away.” He laughed. “Miss Susan had all kinds of stuff that most folks wouldn’t think was valuable. But she knew better.”
“Her estate must have been large, even without the documents,” said Lindsay.
“I’ve heard it was around a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more, when all the junk is appraised.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“I’d be happy with it, but that’s fifty thousand apiece. I don’t know for sure, but Miss Susan is supposed to have told Bonnie and Alfred they were to split everything equally after she died.”
“Did she have a will?”
The sheriff laughed out loud. “She had what they call a holographic will. When I first heard it, I thought the woman had made one of those holograms of herself, like Princess Leia in
Star Wars
. I couldn’t puzzle why she’d do such a thing, but I sure wanted to take a look at it. Found out that just meant handwritten. I was disappointed.” He laughed again and shook his head.
Lindsay decided she liked a man who could laugh at himself. She laughed with him.
“Tidwell mentioned he and his sister were having differences. But it seems clear what their aunt wanted.”
“Bonnie has a way of reinterpreting things in her favor. Apparently, she thinks that ‘split equally’ means split equally between all the children and grandchildren. That’s $25,000 for Alfred and $75,000 for her and her two kids. Alfred and Sugar don’t have any children.”
“That sounds like it’s going to be a mess.”
“I expect it already is.”
“What was Miss Tidwell like?”
“Sharp. She marched to her own drummer. She never married and stayed healthy until the last five years of her life. My wife says that’s why she was so healthy—she didn’t have a husband worrying her to death.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for the Tidwells. I suppose he expects me to investigate Drew Van Horne.”
“I expect so.”
“Drew denies taking any papers. She says the only documents she looked at are held by the historical society.”
“I can’t prove any different,” said the sheriff. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t gone to look at the historical society papers. But, it occurred to me that if I could find a word in those documents that matched what the Tidwells remembered, I’d be able to convince them that Susan donated the papers to the historical society.”
“That seems reasonable. Wouldn’t the historical society have records of all the things donated to them?”
“I would have thought so, but they don’t seem to have very good records.”
“How about Miss Tidwell’s insurance company? Surely she would have valuable documents insured. They would have a list of what they were.”
“Miss Susan didn’t believe in insurance.”
“What?”
“I know. Sounds incredible, but she didn’t. She said the money was better spent making sure her house had good wiring and a good burglar alarm.”
“But still . . .”
“Years ago, she had a claim that wasn’t resolved to her satisfaction. She felt she’d paid them money for years and they were cheating her. She decided she’d do without them.”
“She must have made a record of what she had. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere.”
“You’re welcome to look. Frankly, I don’t have the time. If Alfred and Bonnie ever get the inheritance mess straightened out and go through the house piece by piece, maybe they’ll come across some kind of record keeping.”
Lindsay sighed. “I doubt there’s anything I can discover, but I’ll try.”
“Good luck to you. I’ll let you know what I find out about that stolen truck that tried to run you off the road. You know Elaine and Phil own the log house that came off the old farm you all are working on, don’t you?”
“What?”
“The Gallowses’ log cabin that was in the cove was moved and renovated by Elaine and Phil McBride.”
“The original cabin was still standing?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, but I’ve only been here a little more than a week. Surely, Drew and Claire know.”
“They do. As I said before, Miss Burke’s rather excitable. She accused Phil and Elaine of looting. Naturally, they won’t have anything to do with the archaeologists after that.”
Lindsay put a hand to her face. “Claire.”
“They’re real nice people, and told me they had looked forward to contributing to the history of the county. They’re members of the historical society and everything.”
“Could we go out and see them? Could you take the call instead of your deputy?”
“I reckon. Since you’re a new arrival, they might talk to you. Especially since their truck almost ran you off the road. People around here feel a sense of responsibility for the things they own. They’d feel real bad if their truck had been involved in hurting someone. You can ride with me. It’ll be all right to leave your vehicle here.”
Lindsay climbed into the four-wheel-drive Dodge beside Sheriff Ramsey and he set out for the McBride place.
“I appreciate this, Sheriff. I can’t believe the log house still exists.”
“They moved it about, let’s see, about seven years ago. They thought the archaeologists would be eager to find out about it.”
Lindsay didn’t know what to say to him. Aside from trashing Claire, there wasn’t much she could say. Instead, she asked about the other house—Gallows House, the one said to be haunted with the ghosts she didn’t believe in. Yet she was at a loss to explain what she had seen, short of pronouncing herself nuts.
“Do you know anything about the house we’re staying in? I know it was built by Elisha Gallows, but that’s about all.”
“That’s about more than I know. Cal Strickland has occasionally rented the place out—artists, tourists, relatives. Nobody liked to stay there for very long. As I understand it, it needs work.”
“What about the rumors about it being haunted?”
He lifted his shoulders an inch and relaxed. “It’s an old house. All old houses are rumored to be haunted, aren’t they? My wife says the round tower makes it look more mysterious than it ought. Offhand, I don’t know of anyone specific who ever saw anything supernatural. Just heard stories about folks seeing and hearing things.”
“What kind of things did they see?”
“Somebody saw something running through the woods once, and another time someone saw a ghost on the stairs.”
“I read about that in some newspaper clippings.” Lindsay had hoped he knew more.
“Yeah, that’s where I read it, too. People always said it was haunted, but I think that was just a story started to keep people away. How’s Mrs. Laurens and her husband working out? I recommended them for the job.”
“They’re great. Mrs. Laurens’ cooking is the best part about the place.”
Sheriff Ramsey looked over at Lindsay, eyebrows raised. “I been hearing stories that nobody gets along over there.”
“That’s a little exaggerated. Archaeology is hard work. When you’re tired, nerves can get a little frayed.”
“Uh-huh. You know, Mrs. Laurens’ people’ve lived here a long time. She might be able to tell you more about the history of the place. I assume someone’s asked her.”
“I talked to her a little about it.”
“That whole area back in the cove has a bad reputation. I’m not sure why. Just always heard the old folks say a lot of people died there. No idea who or why. Oh, I do remember my mother telling me about some kid drowning in the pond when she was a child. Never found his body.”
“That’s odd. It’s a small pond, and bodies usually float eventually.”
“You know it doesn’t have a bottom, don’t you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s what I heard. I guess that means there’s an underground river or cave down there.”
“Karst topography,” muttered Lindsay. “That makes sense.”
“What’s that?”
“Chemical weathering of the limestone underground causes cave and sinkhole terrain.”
“Yeah, we got that here.”
He turned onto a paved drive that wound up the mountainside. A cabin of dark brown square-cut logs was nestled in the mountain hollow against a steep backdrop of deep green foliage. Water cascaded down a stone-covered creek bed, its banks bordered by huge fanlike ferns. It looked primordial. Lindsay loved mountain creeks. They’re idyllic, the way they flow over the rocks and boulders, polishing them smooth and round. Lindsay looked back down the winding drive and wondered how anyone found this place to steal a truck.
She stared back at the cabin. The house the Gallowses had carried out their tragedies and triumphs in still stood. This cabin, unlike hers, was a saddle-bag design—two pens side by side with a chimney between. The McBrides had built a two-story addition to the back and a separate garage.
Log houses of the period were built as a one-room square or rectangle called a pen. Their strength was in the joints of the four corners. So, when settlers added on, they added another pen. Like Lindsay, the McBrides had tried to keep the integrity of the original design as they added their extensions.
Phil and Elaine came out on the porch as she and the sheriff drove up. Lindsay guessed they were in their late thirties. Their appearance struck her as well groomed—clothes, hair, nails, all styled and manicured. Phil McBride had lost the hair on top of his head, but had neatly trimmed thick dark blond hair around the sides and back. He bounced down the steps, holding out his hand for the sheriff.
“Thanks for coming, Sheriff. I didn’t expect you personally.”
“No problem. I can’t believe someone came up here and stole your truck.”
McBride shook his head. “They didn’t. It was at Jerry’s garage. I explained that on the phone.”
As he spoke, he looked at Lindsay expectantly.
“This is Lindsay Chamberlain,” said the sheriff. “She’s one of the archaeologists working at the Gallows farmstead.”
The smiles on McBride’s and his wife’s faces froze. The sheriff hurried on.
“The person who stole your truck tried to run her off the road.”
“She doesn’t think it was us?” Phil McBride’s expression was somewhere between surprise and hostility. His wife came down the steps to join him.
“No. She doesn’t think that, and neither do I.”
“Sheriff . . . ,” began Elaine McBride. She laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and tucked a lock of smooth blonde hair behind her ear. Lindsay could see she was having trouble figuring out how to hospitably throw a guest off her property.
“I understand you caught a lot of flack about the house,” said Lindsay. “I renovated an old log house to live in, too. And being an archaeologist, you can imagine some of the criticism I got. I’m really interested in your home, and the sheriff was good enough to bring me.”
They looked at each other, and the husband put his hand over his wife’s. Their faces unfroze and returned to the former friendly smiles. “Please come in.” They stepped aside to allow Lindsay and the sheriff to enter first.
Before she entered the house, Lindsay paused and brushed a palm over the corners of the left pen, running her fingers over the full-dovetail notching, a style of making corners that allowed the square hewn logs to fit so tightly a knife couldn’t have been forced between them. It was a style more typical of the eighteenth century. The opposite pen had half-dovetail notching and caulking in the spaces between the logs—a design often accompanied by siding, and common in the nineteenth century.
She entered a living room bedecked with charm and a look that matched the house. Antiques, period crockery, and blue willow plates decorated the walls. The furniture was made from cherry. A plush sofa and chairs upholstered with large blue and deep rose flowered designs sat in front of a rock fireplace. Several unburned logs were stacked on a set of brass andirons. Matching brass fire irons stood on one side of the hearth, and a bellows leaned against the rocks on the opposite side. A Kentucky rifle hung on the wall over the oak mantel. The room was about twenty by fifteen feet and part of the ceiling was open, revealing the roof beams. In one corner next to the fireplace, a set of stairs led to a loft.
“Nice,” said Lindsay as she sat on the couch. The sheriff sat on the opposite end, and Phil McBride settled in one of the chairs.
“Please, let me get some refreshments.” Elaine left the room before Lindsay could say anything.
While she was in the kitchen, McBride and the sheriff discussed the theft. There wasn’t much to tell. McBride himself didn’t know anything, other than that the pickup was gone. He eyed Lindsay as she rose to look at the various antiques. A framed plaque under glass caught her eye. Inside, a crumpled metal plate contained the number 1775. She looked over at Phil McBride and realized he had been waiting for her to find it. She smiled.