Authors: Beverly Connor
“Is this the date of the cabin?”
He grinned a huge boyish grin, nodding his head. Sheriff Ramsey rose to take a look.
Elaine brought in a tray of coffee and chocolate chip cookies and set them down on an end table. “She found the plaque?” Elaine looked as pleased as her husband as she poured coffee in blue willow cups.
“Where was it?” Lindsay asked.
“We found it between the logs, taking the cabin to move it,” said Phil. “It’s lead.”
There was little question now about the earlier occupation of the farmstead and the date of the site. Lindsay wished she could tell them about the coffins.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black,” Lindsay answered.
“Elaine makes great coffee,” said the sheriff as Elaine handed her a cup. “I’ve been trying to get her to bring a pot to the department every morning.”
The sheriff was right. It had a rich nutty flavor, not bitter. She sipped on the coffee, still examining the lead date marker—neat numbers, probably drawn freehand.
“What’s your cabin like?” asked Elaine, sitting on the other chair.
Lindsay turned back to her hosts and sat down on the sofa. “It was built in the late 1800s. The design is two pens with a dog trot between them. I turned the dog trot into a hallway, added a kitchen onto the back, and built a bedroom and balcony over the kitchen.”
“You say you were criticized for renovating your cabin?”
“Some of the people in my department thought that what I did was inappropriate. I moved the cabin to my property, so even had it been on the national registry, it would have been taken off. It was in great condition and just seemed like it ought to be lived in.”
“What do you think of ours?” asked Phil.
“I like it. The idea of just going from this room to the next and crossing a century is kind of neat.”
“You know that phrase,
if these walls could talk
?” asked Phil. “These have.”
The way he and his wife exchanged smiles, Lindsay could see the house held other surprises.
Chapter 16
Eda Mae Gone All Day
ELAINE MCBRIDE REACHED inside the drawer of the cherry end table and pulled out two hardbound scrapbooks. She handed one of them to Lindsay. On the cover was a photograph of the cabin, not as it is now, refurbished and modernized, but as it was when it sat at the Gallows farmstead before being moved and renovated. The first page, a sort of title page, contained a photograph of a second view of the cabin
in situ
, the new version below it, and a paragraph describing the cabin’s provenance.
“These two scrapbooks are identical,” said Elaine. “There are three, altogether. I made one for us, another for the historical society, and one for the archaeologists when I learned they would be excavating the site.”
The pages cataloged in detail the dismantling and rebuilding of the cabin, obviously lovingly put together by Elaine. Lindsay imagined Elaine’s excited anticipation of the reception of this information by archaeologists, and how Claire’s reaction must have stung. Claire probably looked at the well-off McBrides with jealously and anger, as she did everyone who possessed things or qualities she didn’t.
“This is invaluable data. Your photo close-ups are so clear I can see the details of the notching and tool markings along the logs.”
As Lindsay turned the pages and commented on almost every photograph, she noted that both Elaine and Phil leaned forward slightly in their seats, again waiting for her to find something. She was beginning to catch their anticipation. She flipped to a page that showed what looked like a close-up view of hardwood flooring. The caption described it as a corner of the loft in the older pen. Lindsay glanced up at the loft and down again at the photograph. Something in the photo caught her eye. She looked closer.
“Do you have . . .” She didn’t finish, for as she looked up, Elaine had a magnifying glass held out to her. Lindsay took the glass and examined the photograph again. “Is this writing?” It looked like someone had scratched words into the floor.
The sheriff looked over her shoulder. Elaine and Phil grinned.
“Yes, it is writing. We did tracings, took high-resolution photographs, did some computer enhancements, and finally came up with our best estimate.” Elaine had typed a transcription on the facing page.
Eda Mae
Gone all day
Wouldn’t say
Which a way
“What?” said Lindsay and the sheriff together.
“The spellings aren’t exactly the way they were in the scratches,” said Elaine. “I changed them to the correct spellings to make easier reading. It took me a while to realize that what looked like an
f
on some of the words was actually an
s
.”
Lindsay turned the page. Another close-up photograph. Another translation.
Cherry’s gone a looking
Not at home a cooking
“Cherry, Eda Mae . . . do you know who they are?”
The McBrides shook their heads. “I’ve looked through some of the documents we have at the historical society and talked to a couple of the older society members and haven’t found a clue. I don’t know if this was done by the Gallowses or by the people who lived in the cabin before them, in 1775.”
Lindsay looked up at the date plaque on the wall.
“It doesn’t appear to be the same hand that did the plaque and the floor writing,” said Phil.
“Go on, there’s more,” said Elaine.
Apparently, someone had scratched several little poems on the floor of the loft. Elaine had photographed and transcribed them all into the scrapbook.
Shot him dead
In the head
“That doesn’t sound good,” said the sheriff after Lindsay read the poem aloud.
“We can’t tell the order in which they were written. But, if you look closely, you can see definite changes in the handwriting from one poem to the next. Some are neat, others look a little shaky, some are printed. Most, like that one, are rather dark. A psychiatrist would have a field day with those.”
“This is interesting.” Lindsay was able to read one poem from the photograph.
Bear chased Cally
Out in valley
“Bear? Cally-Kelley? Do you think that’s how Kelley’s Chase got its name?”
“That’s what we think.” Phil gestured elaborately. “Place names around here frequently describe events in people’s lives. There’s a place called Stocking Hollow in the Smokies. It seems that a hunter stopped there to spend the night. He removed his wet socks, hung them by his fire to dry, and fell asleep. Next morning, he discovered his socks had burned up . . . thus, the name for the hollow. Apparently, you didn’t have to do a whole lot to get a place named for what you did.”
The sheriff chuckled. “Phil is somewhat of an expert on names of places around here.”
“Names can let you know what you’re in for,” Phil said. “Anything named after the devil, or hell—like Devil’s Chute or Hell’s Ridge—is going to be a rough place to traverse.”
“What about Holy Butt? How’d that get its name?” asked the sheriff. “I’ve always wondered about that.”
“Not for what it sounds like. A woman renamed the creek that ran by her house from Holly Creek to Holy Creek, thinking it was a much better name. Oddly enough, the name change stuck. The name change also carried itself over to the adjacent mountain peak, and Holly Butt—the old name of the peak—caught the unfortunate moniker, Holy Butt.”
Lindsay laughed and turned the page.
Cherry bell
Bound to hell
“That’s gloomy.” She glanced up at Elaine.
“It gets worse,” she said.
Made no sound
When she bound
The next entries were rather grim. Lindsay and the others frowned as she read aloud. The dark messages sounded odd, written in rhyming couplets.
Buried well
By the gate to hell
Not my sin
The hell he’s in
“What do you make of those?” asked Lindsay after she read the final entry.
“Elaine and I’ve made up all kinds of stories. But basically, it looks like something bad happened—either someone did something or saw something and felt guilty enough to write it down, like a confession of sorts. But that last entry you read sounds like some kind of denial of responsibility.”
“We thought maybe you archaeologists might come up with some documentation mentioning a Cherry or an Eda Mae.”
“It’s too interesting not to follow up on. What did the others say when you showed this to them?”
The McBrides exchanged glances. “We didn’t get that far.”
“I see. And no one in the historical society has any information—how about the library?”
Elaine shook her head. “There’s some older folks I could talk to. We didn’t find the scratches right away, so we haven’t been looking for answers long. Phil’s mother wanted us to sand the floors. I’m glad we didn’t.”
“All the scratches and dents were history to us,” agreed Phil. “Elaine wants to start a project with the historical society where everyone who owns an old home does a similar history.”
“Makes me want to put together a scrapbook of my home. Actually, I think when I get back, I’ll take a magnifying glass to my floor.”
“You can have that scrapbook,” said Elaine. “It’s yours, personally,” she added.
“I understand. Thank you.” Lindsay took another sip of coffee and took a cookie.
“Alfred Tidwell wants Miss Chamberlain here to investigate his aunt’s death and her missing papers,” the sheriff said. Elaine and Phil raised their eyebrows. “Phil here was Miss Susan’s doctor.”
Phil McBride took on a more sober expression. “Why did Alfred come to you? That seems odd.”
“I’m not sure,” said Lindsay. “Someone told him I would be objective. I don’t know who, or exactly why.”
“And are you?” Elaine picked up the coffeepot and offered everyone another round.
“I’ve reached my limit,” said the sheriff. “Makes me hyper.”
Lindsay declined, too. “I’m cutting down on caffeine while I’m working this dig. Thank you. In answer to your question, the president of the company that has the contract to excavate the site wants to know the truth about what happened.”
“I don’t mean to offend, but might you not have a conflict of interest?” Phil accepted another cup of coffee and grabbed a cookie from the plate.
“No, not really. We all want the truth.”
“That’s a little altruistic, isn’t it?”
“My division head, Francisco Lewis, asked me to look into it. Lewis wouldn’t have asked me if they wanted it swept under the rug.”
“But why you?” The corners of Phil’s lips turned up in a skeptical smile.
“In addition to being an archaeologist, I’m also a forensic anthropologist. In that capacity, I’ve worked with the courts and on criminal investigations. I like to consider myself a person of integrity, and I want to keep that same reputation with my forensic colleagues.”
“So, you’re
Dr
. Chamberlain, then?” said Phil.
“Yes, but I can’t practice medicine.”
That brought a round of chuckles and lightened the mood that the mention of Tidwell had ever so slightly darkened.
“I suppose you want to ask me some questions about Miss Tidwell,” said Phil, getting to his feet. “I’ll have to call Alfred. I believe you, Sheriff, but I still have to hear firsthand the family’s permission. Meanwhile, Elaine can take you on the grand tour.”
Phil headed up to the loft while Elaine led Lindsay and the sheriff on a tour of the house. The opposite pen was smaller than the 1775 side by about five feet in length, making it a fifteen foot by fifteen foot square. This was the room Elaine McBride used for her projects. Part sewing room, part craft room, it also doubled as a guest room. The worktable, wardrobe, chests, chairs, and futon frame were made of distressed pine with oxidized pulls and hinges. The futon cover was deep red and green tartan. Lindsay liked the room. She could have worked in these surroundings.
“We added a small bathroom.” Elaine stepped aside, letting Lindsay look at the ceramic tiled sink and porcelain and silver fixtures.
“This is real nice,” said the sheriff. “No wonder every time the women’s club meets here, Leanne comes home and looks at log house magazines.”
Elaine showed them the large modern kitchen and dining room they’d built on the back. “Our bedroom’s upstairs. We put the new addition on the back so as not to interfere with the original design too much. Phil’s study’s in the loft,” she told Lindsay. “Go on up and have a look. You can talk to him there. Remind him to show you the writing.”
Lindsay climbed the stairs and emerged into a room that looked like a nook in a library: shelves of books, a library table, desk with a computer. Phil had just hung up the telephone.
“Come over here first,” he said, as he turned on a corner lamp and removed a braided-rag throw rug from the corner. “We keep it covered to protect it.”
Lindsay got down on the floor and rubbed her fingers over the scratches. Some letters were clear, others just looked like scratches. Elaine must have worked hard to figure out what was written. Lindsay stood. “This window . . . was it here, or did you put it in?”
“It was here. And about that size. We just put in the window framing and double panes.”
“These scratches are a good mystery.”
“Yes, I’m a little ambivalent about solving it. The idea of discovering the secret is intriguing, but once we do, then the mystery is gone. Now, speaking of mysteries, I really don’t think we have one in Miss Tidwell.”
“Alfred said it was all right for you to talk to me about her?”
“Yes, he was quite anxious that I do so.”
“I don’t suppose he told you why he selected me?”
“Yes, but he swore me to secrecy on that.”