The Family Plot (27 page)

“There's nothing to be done about the ghosts, but storms are great for sleeping through.”

“Not when the house is full of holes.” He descended the stairs, letting the trapdoor fall down quietly behind him. Now that they were headed for the main part of the house, he lowered his voice. “The wind makes all these whistling noises, and the house sounds like it's going to fall apart.”

“This house has been here for a century and a half. What are the odds it'll fall down now, the week before it's torn down? You worry too much, kid. Leave that to me.”

At the hallway landing, they saw that Hazel's room was still propped open by the trunk full of books. Dahlia added the satchel and paperwork to the stash of romances and travelogues, and closed the lid. She pushed it inside, but didn't shut the door. “If Hazel wants it shut, she can do it herself. I don't want to accidentally lock us out. Now, go on downstairs, and try to get some sleep.”

“Aren't you coming, too?”

“Yes, but now I need to pee. And I'm leaving the door open, so I want you to go down ahead of me. Give a girl some privacy. And, hey…” She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Your daddy and Brad … they don't need to hear about that message in the attic. It'll only spook them.”

He half shrugged, half nodded. “You're probably right.”

“I usually am. So go on, and settle in. Let me piss in peace.”

When she was done, she flushed, and the pipes rattled from floor to floor; but by the time Dahlia was back inside her own sleeping bag, Gabe was snoring again anyway. She was happy for him and his dudelike gift for tumbling back into his dreams. She was jealous of him, too.

She wriggled down into her bag, this time propping herself up on her pillows against the fireplace surround. The stone was cold through the feathers and foam, and she didn't care. It was cold everywhere, and everything felt damp because of the broken windows upstairs and the water drumming down hard on the roof, on the gutters, and on the porch. By the sound of it, the wind was blowing in every direction at once. It must be some drafty trick of the mountain behind them, twisting the air around as it blustered over the ridge. That must be why the house felt like the center of something, a storm's eye that wasn't calm now, and probably never would be.

Dahlia wasn't getting any more sleep, not anytime soon.

She briefly considered going upstairs and rummaging in Hazel's trunk some more, then discarded the idea. She didn't want to go back and see the door shut, or get another glimpse of a dead boy who used to be a man. She didn't even want to talk to Hazel, who seemed to mean no harm—and might even want to help. And she definitely did not want to catch Abigail, full of rage, with razor-blade fingernails or the strength to wield and carve with a knife. If she could do that to the exposed subflooring, what would she do to flesh and blood?

No more upstairs investigation. Certainly not in the middle of the night.

She pulled out her phone. It offered the only Internet available, and what else was she going to do while everyone else slept? With a flick of her thumb, she turned off the sound, then called up the Web.

She started with a couple of searches on the Withrow family in general, then narrowed it down. There was plenty about the Withrow Monument Company and Judson himself, and a few local history stories about his wife's philanthropy. Dahlia found the birth announcements for all three children, a marriage announcement for Buddy, and even the announcement for Abigail's wedding that never happened. “Tate Arthur Hurley,” she read softly. “So that's who you almost married, the second time around.”

It
must've
been the second time around, given the date. There was no mention of the first engagement to be found, so Augusta was probably right about the attempted elopement. If it had ever happened at all, there was no official commentary. Just family gossip.

On an image search, she found black-and-white photos of the Withrow house in brighter days—including a bit about the annual Halloween parties. Apparently the whole neighborhood came out for them, with small trick-or-treaters climbing all the way up to the mansion to collect treats, drink apple cider, and play ghostly games in the pretend cemetery.

She found only one mention of the cemetery specifically, only a brief note in a self-published book regarding the neighborhood's enthusiasm for holiday fun.

It wasn't terribly useful, except that it verified Augusta's version of the cemetery story, which was … neither here, nor there. That's what Dahlia decided. Augusta had every reason to believe she'd told the truth; but there was at least one body there now, and he'd been there for quite some time. Even if he
was
a murder victim, it made no difference to the Music City Salvage plan.

The police report could wait. Besides, what if the cops came out in the rain and tried to investigate? It'd be one big mess for everybody, all they'd find was a ninety-year-old corpse. Who gave a damn about a murder that old, anyway? Everyone who'd ever cared was dead.

She glanced over at the other sleeping bags. Gabe was hanging half out of his. Bobby was flat on his back, snoring at the ceiling. Brad was balled up inside of his, breathing slowly, and snorting.

Maybe she ought to call her dad.

Not right that moment, but tomorrow, in the morning, whenever. She could give him a progress report, and tell him everything was all right. He'd like that.

Her mind was wandering. Maybe another hour or two of sleep wasn't completely out of the question after all. The phone's screen darkened like a hint, but she tapped it again and tried one more round of queries.

It took less than thirty seconds to learn that the Withrow family members of yesteryear were all buried at the Forest Hills Cemetery, barely a mile away. The rest was good news/bad news.

The cemetery was active and open, with over a hundred thousand people buried there—many of which were unmarked and unknown. That was the bad news. But the Withrows were rich, well connected, and they'd had their own monument company. Their graves were listed right alongside those of the city founders, Civil War officers, and noted politicians of the previous century or two. That was the good news.

Dahlia checked the search records and found the plot numbers for the Withrow clan, but there were no handy-dandy photos of tombstones to click on, so the information didn't do her much good from where she was sitting. She could wander over there tomorrow at lunchtime. According to the map, it was a two-minute walk from “downtown” Saint Elmo. She might not even need to excavate the trucks from the mud; she could hike down there, if the weather let up.

The thought of the trucks gave her pause.

If the weather
didn't
let up, they might have problems. The trucks were heavy even when they weren't loaded down. The roads weren't paved around the house, and all the turf was slick, soaked grass interspersed with gravel.

A distant grumble of thunder sounded on the far side of the mountain—the first she'd heard so far. It might be a good sign. If the storm was that close, it might pass overnight. If the rain stopped by morning, they might be able to rebury the soldier and strip the copper roof off the carriage house. Dad would be delighted if that was squared away before he arrived.

The phone's screen went dark again, and this time she let it stay that way. She pulled her pillows over her head and closed her eyes, just in case sleep might take her despite her doubts.

The last thing she remembered was the creak of a door somewhere on the second story, then a soft squeak, and a click. There was rain on the windows, broken and whole alike. Thunder, spilling over the mountain. The whispering scratches of nails on wood.

 

12

T
WO MORE HOURS
of sleep were better than no more hours of sleep, but not by much, in Dahlia's opinion. She was awake at dawn, goddammit all, and she knew if she tried to wring out another hour, she'd only be more miserable for the effort.

She dragged herself out of the bag and carried her stuff upstairs. She needed to pee again, and brush her teeth, and she didn't want to get dressed with the boys slumbering right beside her. Bobby and Gabe didn't matter so much—hell, she'd been forced to take baths with Bobby until she was old enough to remember it. But Brad didn't get a free show.

She set her overnight bag down in the bathroom, and leaned her head around the corner to take a look inside the master bedroom. Apparently a tree branch had broken the bay window sometime during the night. The window seat was soaked, and there was a dark patch of wet wood for a yard or two around it. Everything else looked okay: The wardrobes, the bed frame, and the fixtures remained unmolested by water, and stray ghosts.

A fine, spitting spray still flicked inside through the missing windowpane, but last night's deluge was over for now. If she was lucky, it'd be completely finished before the day was out. If not, maybe Dad knew somebody with good towing equipment.

It was too early to call him. He wouldn't be up and moving until eight o'clock at the earliest.

So she did what she set out to do—washed her face, brushed her teeth, and got dressed—successfully killing about twenty minutes. After that, her cell said it was only 7:21, which was still too early to rouse the troops or phone home.

She reconsidered getting the boys up, despite the hour. The sun was creeping across the sky, gray and watery such as it was. They could get to work. The house was huge, and they needed to start on those mantels and surrounds. Seven twenty-one wasn't such a crazy time to begin. If Andy were there, he'd have had half the first pink bathroom stripped down already. He always liked being up before everyone else, and he had god-awful taste. He would've been on Bobby's side about the tiles.

She pushed his name out of his head, and out of her morning thoughts. There was no good reason for him to be there. He'd almost never worked with her and Daddy—only once in a blue moon, when they were desperate and he was between jobs. No. There wasn't any room for him here.

She laced up her work boots and chased down an umbrella, then left the house quietly—closing the front door behind herself and not really caring if the boys slept in. It'd be easier to work late into the night than to start this early. Or maybe they'd knock off and go drinking, or find a hotel.

It wasn't that she didn't care; it was that she didn't know. The house might throw a new monkey wrench in their direction, and they'd have to recalibrate their plans. Safer to stay flexible, and rested, and ready.

Two out of three ain't bad.

She drew her coat tight. It was colder out there, on the porch. Colder than inside, and colder than the day before. It actually felt like autumn for the first time since she'd arrived in Chattanooga.

The umbrella flapped open and she latched it into place. It was blue and white, and enormous—a golf umbrella she'd snagged from her dad's office ages before. It was almost overkill.

The hike downtown went faster since she'd made it before. She knew where to dodge the rivulets that had turned into rushing streams overnight; and she'd figured out which little roads connected with which bigger, paved roads.

She made it back to the coffeehouse in about fifteen minutes. The girl with opinions on ghosts wasn't working, which was just as well. Dahlia wasn't awake enough for idle chatter with strangers. She was barely awake enough to idly surf the Net while she munched slowly on an egg-and-cheese croissant—dodging the baleful, begging eyes of a chubby beagle who'd been leashed by his owner to the next table over.

When she was nearly done, she palmed the last bite of croissant and slipped it to the dog. He smacked his floppy lips and wagged discreetly. His person never looked up from her book.

Up by the front counter, there was a plastic tub on a tray. Dahlia bussed her own table, tossing her trash and putting the plate in the tub, then she turned to the barista, who was checking his e-mail on a phone that looked a lot like hers. She asked, “Hey, there's a cemetery around here, right?”

He nodded. “Right over there.”

“Over where?”

He led her to the window and pointed. You could see the cemetery's entrance from the front door.

She thanked him, and composed a text message to the boys back at the house.

Getting breakfast. Back soon. Be ready to go at 9:00. We start with the marble fireplaces.

She hit “send” and set off for the cemetery. It was only a block or two away as the crow flies. She paused when she saw that the grounds didn't officially open until 8:30; but the gates were wide open regardless, so she sauntered on in, passing an office with all its lights still off. This office was a square stone building so small that you could've parked it in the Withrows' foyer. If it'd been open, she could've gone inside and asked for help finding the Withrow plot, but it wasn't.

On the upside, there
was
a large bulletin board to the left of the front door—complete with a map. It wasn't a great map—it'd been blown up from a smaller line-work illustration, and it was difficult to read.

But it was better than nothing.

She stood there in the rain, the umbrella casting a huge, tinted shadow around her. The map was tricky, but if she read it correctly, the Withrows were down toward the front. She checked the general direction over her shoulder and saw a number of expensive-looking, oversized tombstones, and even a handful of vaults. When she looked down another path, she saw more modest graves. According to the Web site, if she went beyond the next few hills, she'd find vast lots of paupers, slaves, orphans, and flu victims. Some had stones, some went without.

She did a quick spot comparison between big names and lot numbers, and, armed with the information she'd swiped from the Web, she set off down a rough-paved road to the east.