Art's Blood Page 9

  They quickly explained that bee gums were a rude type of hive made from a section of hollow log. Branch mint, I learned, grew not on a tree limb but in the shallow water of a creek— locally called a branch. Miss Caro began to recite a vocabulary— And there’s poke for bag and gaum for a mess and if they say mess, it means a lot of, like a mess of beans—

  And, Miss Geneva broke in, if they say, I wouldn’t care to, it means that they would do whatever it is, not the other way round. The misunderstandings we had till we figured that one out!

  The two women were eager to introduce me to their chosen way of life, and their words tumbled over one another’s as they told me something of their history. Geneva had been raised in Atlanta; Carolyn in Charleston. They had each come to North Carolina to attend a weaving class at Penland School for Handicrafts. It was there that they had met and there that the idea for their Center had been born. Both held Miss Lucy Morgan, Penland’s founder, in considerable esteem, and they readily admitted that their venture was modeled on the Penland example.

  Miss Lucy’s been at Penland since 1920, Carolyn told me. We were among the first outside students in ’29. Oh, Miss Lucy is such a delight! She has a fund of wonderful stories about the natives—

  At this Geneva began to smile. Go on, Caro; you know you want to tell that silly tale about Uncle Sol.

  Carolyn needed no further urging. With a broad smile she began: Well, it seems that Uncle Sol had a steer calf that he wanted to teach to pull a plow. But the only yoke he had was for two calves. So he got his son Price to come and help and first they put the yoke on the calf and then Uncle Sol put his own head in the other side of the yoke. Here Carolyn hunched over and began to speak in the same mountain twang I had heard used by many of my fellow passengers on the trip from Asheville to Hot Springs. Now, Price, she said, assuming the character of Uncle Sol, you pick up the rope I done tied to the yoke, walk us around, and see how we does. So Price led the ill-assorted pair up and down and Uncle Sol says, Well, we’re doin just fine, ain’t we? This calf ain’t a-goin to be no trouble to break, no trouble a-tall.

  Now, Price, says Uncle Sol, git that little sled from out the barn and hook us up and see how we pulls. And this next step went smoothly too, so Uncle Sol said, Now, Price, let’s see how we does with a load. So Price stepped onto the sled— and sat down—

  Then Miss Geneva broke in, barely holding back her laughter. But by now, the calf was tired of this game, and he started trotting down the road toward the pasture. And Uncle Sol had to trot too, yoked together as they were. Price hauled on the rope to slow the calf but the rope broke. So Price hung on to the sled as his father and the calf dashed over the rocky ground. The calf was going faster and faster, frightened at the sound of the wooden sled bouncing along behind him, and Uncle Sol had no choice but to run faster too or have his neck broken.

  Just then, exclaimed Miss Carolyn, around a bend in the road came Uncle Sol’s wife Mariah, on her way home from the store. Mariah! shouted Uncle Sol. Ketch us, Mariah! We’re a-runnin away!

  So Mariah ran up to Uncle Sol and the calf, grabbed Uncle Sol’s overalls, and hung on for dear life. Gol darn it, Mariah, Uncle Sol bellowed. Turn a-loose of me and ketch a-holt of that thar calf! I’ll stop!

  I can still see the two, shaking with helpless laughter as they told the story. Indeed, for years after my marriage I dined out, as they say, on that story. I could mimic the mountain twang to perfection and was always called on to “do” the story of Uncle Sol and the bull calf. And I was happy to oblige, for there were other stories that I could never tell.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE OBVIOUS SUSPECT

  (WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AUGUST 31)

  THE COOLER EVENING AIR WAS A RELIEF FROM THE warm house when Elizabeth and Phillip brought their after-dinner coffee out to the porch and settled in the rockers. The chirr of crickets was incessant and from the kitchen came the sounds of Ben and Kyra, laughing as they finished up the dishes.

  “Ah, the resilience of youth.” Elizabeth propped up her feet on a low bench and stretched wearily. “How she can be so cheerful after all that’s happened…”

  Phillip was silent, all of his attention apparently on his cup of coffee. He had arrived at six and he and Kyra had had a lengthy private discussion while Ben tended to the grilling chickens and Elizabeth finished up dinner preparations. All four had enjoyed the food and, by unspoken common agreement, had not talked of the fire nor any of the recent unhappy events. Kyra was wearing some of her new clothes and, in her jeans and pale green T-shirt, her face free of makeup, she looked prettier than ever. She and Ben had obviously enjoyed their trip to Asheville; both were in high spirits.

  Elizabeth had watched Kyra carefully, wondering if this gaiety, following so close on the heels of Boz’s death, Aidan’s arrest, and the fire, was a sign of the mental instability Marvin Peterson had mentioned. But there was no manic quality to Kyra’s demeanor, she decided. Rather there was a kind of relief— as if the girl felt safe and surrounded by friends.

  “We thought we’d take a little walk.” Ben came out of the door, flashlight in hand, dogs at his heels. “The dishes are all done.” He lowered his voice. “She’s feeling a lot better, I think.”

  Kyra slipped out of the door and came to Elizabeth’s side. “Elizabeth, thank you so much for everything. You and Ben have saved my life….” She paused and turned to Phillip. “And Detective Hawkins. I really appreciate your coming all the way back out to talk with me again. It feels so good to have someone like you on my side.” Even in the dim light from the kitchen window, Elizabeth could see the mothlike sweep of Kyra’s eyelashes.

  Too dark, however, to see if Phillip was blushing again. He nodded briefly. “Not a problem. I like coming out here. But, remember, I told you— it’s not ‘Detective’ anymore. Just ‘Phillip’ will do.”

  “Whatever.” Kyra’s hand brushed Hawkins’s shoulder. “I just want you to know how very much I appreciate your help.”

  James, impatient for the walk he’d been promised, began to bark and make little dashes between the steps and Ben. Molly and Ursa bumped at Ben’s knees, eager to be off.

  “Okay, you dogs, let’s go.” Ben reached for Kyra’s hand. “The rock path is pretty uneven; better hold on to me till your eyes adjust to the dark. We’ll go along the top of the pasture. The moon’s not up yet and we can get a really good view of the Milky Way.”

  They set off, accompanied by the three joyful dogs. Elizabeth could hear the crunch of the gravel under their feet as they walked down the road, hands still linked, with James close behind. Molly and Ursa ranged ahead, all their hunting instincts sharpened by the spell of the night. Finally, when the sound of footsteps faded away, Elizabeth scooted her rocker closer to her silent companion.

  “Phillip, have they found out anything about the fire yet? Have you talked to any of—”

  “How serious is Ben about that little girl? He seems pretty protective—”

  “Who knows?” Elizabeth studied her enigmatic companion, trying to read his expression in the faint light from the kitchen window. “He is, as you say, protective. And I know he’s been kind of interested in her ever since she and the others moved to the branch. But, obviously, she was involved with Boz and Aidan.”

  “And they’re both out of the way now.”

  “What are you saying, Phillip? You can’t possibly—”

  “No, Elizabeth, you can’t possibly. I’m afraid you’re too close to Ben and maybe you’re getting too close to Kyra to be objective about all this.” He reached out and patted her hand. “You have good intuitions, no doubt about it— Blaine is still talking about what went down last year and how you managed to be right in the middle of all that crap. But—”

  “Dammit, Phillip!” Elizabeth jumped to her feet and stood staring down at the gently rocking Hawkins. “I will not be patronized and I will not have my hand patted! You’ll be saying ‘There, there, little woman,’ next. Just tell me if you— or Sheriff Blain
e, for that matter— have any real reason to suspect Ben of being mixed up in this.”

  “No, no real reason.” Phillip smiled calmly. “I was just making a point— giving you an example of why you’re not exactly in a position to study this case objectively.”

  She opened her mouth to make a quick retort, thought better of it, and resumed her seat. “Okay. Point taken. But, Phillip, I need to talk to you about all this stuff before Kyra and Ben get back. Her father’s worried about her— says that she’s emotionally fragile and—”

  “Her father? Peterson? Did you talk to him?” Hawkins was alert now. He leaned forward, his attention focused on her, waiting for her reply.

  “Her cell phone rang last night. She had left it on the kitchen table and I thought she was asleep. So I answered it and it was her father—”

  “What’d you think of him? Hank— you know, my buddy in the Asheville PD— Hank didn’t say much when I brought up the Rose Peterson case. Matter of fact, he was downright edgy— just hinted that someone important had shut down the inquiries and that the word at the watering hole had been that the murder was related to Peterson’s previous connections to organized crime. Kind of a settling of old debts. So what did Peterson sound like?”

  Elizabeth considered, trying to replay last night’s conversation in her mind. “Well…I don’t know— he was kind of crude at first but it seemed like he was genuinely concerned about Kyra.”

  Hawkins continued to stare at her, waiting for more. She tried to remember— oh yes, the little tirade about Art! “And not very fond of Aidan. I mainly got the impression of a powerful man, used to having things his own way. I also got the impression that he’s not a supporter of the arts.” A thought occurred to her. “Phillip, what if he was calling to make sure Kyra was awake and could get out of the house before his goon, the nanny, started the fire? I mean, maybe Peterson just wanted to get Kyra out of there and back into Asheville where he could keep a closer watch…could that be a possibility?”

  Phillip made a noncommittal noise and then glanced at his watch. “You talk to him long?”

  “Not really. Maybe five minutes at the outside. But, Phillip—”

  “Then what happened— when the call was over?”

  “I hung up, put the phone back by Kyra’s knapsack, and came out here. That’s when I heard the sirens and discovered that Kyra was gone—”

  “Yeah, she told me about how she couldn’t sleep.” The tone of his voice revealed nothing. “When did she go to bed?”

  “Right after we ate…say seven or seven-thirty. And it was well after nine when her father called, and I remember looking at the clock in the car when Ben and I were heading down the road to see about the fire. It was ten-thirteen. But what does all of this have to do with anything? She did tell you about the black car— the guy she calls her nanny?”

  “Oh yeah, she told me.”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s a possibility that this nanny person is working for her father…that he set the fire so Kyra would have to go back home? Or at least back to Asheville, where she’d be easier to keep an eye on? Or what if this is part of the same organized-crime vendetta thing— what if they’re after Kyra now?”

  Her questions hung unanswered in the still night air. Down the road she could hear the crunch of gravel and low voices as Ben and Kyra neared the house. In the dim light she could see that Hawkins was running his hand over his head— a gesture that, she decided, meant he would like to change the subject.

  “Phillip, quick, before they get back! Who does Sheriff Blaine suspect? I know you two are old friends; don’t try to tell me you haven’t talked to him!”

  Phillip hesitated, then, as the voices came nearer, said quietly, “You probably don’t want to hear this, but the obvious suspect in any fire is the first person on the scene.”

  “And that would be the man in the black car— the nanny.”

  “Um…” He was hedging again. Elizabeth looked toward the steps but the sounds she heard indicated that Ben and Kyra were still out of earshot.

  “Well, wouldn’t it?” She urged, trying to wring an admission of some sort from him.

  He leaned closer and gently covered her hand with his. “Elizabeth, an objective law enforcement type like Blaine— or like myself, for that matter— would have to say we only have Kyra’s word for it about the nanny. No, Kyra’s the one Blaine’s going to be the most interested in at this point.”

  Elizabeth considered this for a moment, trying to ignore the hand that was resting atop hers, then made a grudging admission. “Okay, I can see how that might be. But he will be looking into other possibilities, right?”

  “Oh sure, no-stone-unturned type of thing.” Phillip started to pat her hand again, then hastily withdrew. “Sorry.” In the dimness, he might have been grinning.

  Ben and Kyra seemed to be no closer. The distant murmur of their voices suggested that they were sitting on the rock steps that led to the upper garden.

  “There were a couple of odd things that happened this afternoon,” Elizabeth said. “Let’s go get some more coffee and I’ll tell you about them…as objectively as possible.”

  As they moved toward the kitchen, she told Phillip about the gunshot in the woods. “And I figured it was just kids playing around, because they got right out of there when I yelled. But when I called Morris Roberts— he’s the stepfather— he told me that the ‘young uns’ had been in Asheville all afternoon with his wife. And he’s not the sort who’d lie to spare the kids. He takes as dim a view as I do of shooting guns around livestock.”

  Phillip frowned. “You said they ran off— how many were there?”

  “I couldn’t see. I suppose it could have been just one person.”

  “Did you think about calling the sheriff?”

  “I told you, I thought it was the neighbor kids. And since they…or he…or she, for that matter— I couldn’t see anything— since whoever it was left rather than trying again, I just assumed it was an accident.”

  Phillip seemed to be weighing this assumption. At last he said, “Yeah, that’s likely. Probably was just kids— if not your neighbor’s, some others. And what was the other thing?”

  She told him about the black car that had almost rear-ended her; she pointed out that Miss Birdie had seen the same car several times. Phillip’s maddening and only response was to comment that there was probably more than one black car in the county. But he agreed to look into the matter.

  Footsteps on the porch announced that Kyra and Ben were returning from their walk. As the two came blinking into the bright light of the kitchen, it seemed to Elizabeth that some essential change had taken place. She looked from Ben to Kyra, trying to pinpoint the elusive shift in demeanor, but there was nothing concrete, nothing beyond a fleeting expression. Kyra thanked them both again for their help and, yawning, announced that she was going to bed. Ben too made his good nights and headed for his cabin.

  “Well, time for me to get going too.” Phillip stood and stretched. “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”

  They walked together back to the porch, where James was waiting to be let in. Phillip addressed the small dog solemnly. “What have you done with your girlfriends?”

  James fell on his side and wriggled, delighted at the attention.

  “Molly and Ursa spend the night out a lot— usually excavating a groundhog hole, if the dirt on their noses the next morning is any clue.” Elizabeth held the door open and James shot in, making for his pillow in her bedroom. “It was good of you to make the trip out again, Phillip. Kyra—”

  “Kyra’s not why I come out here, Miz Goodweather.” He switched on the powerful little flashlight he had taken from his pocket and started for the steps. “Good night, Elizabeth.” He paused. “By the way, I’ll see if I can find out who made the 911 call. That could give us a lead.”

  “A lead.” Elizabeth muttered as she watched the beam of his flashlight bob down the dark road. “He needs a lead when it almost
ran into me.” She went back into the house, turned off the lights, and headed for her bedroom, noting the yellow line of light under Kyra’s door.

  “Good night, Kyra.” She kept her voice soft, in case her guest was asleep.

  “Good night, Elizabeth,” came a yawning reply. “Sleep well.” There was a click and the line of light disappeared.

  In the bedroom James was curled in a tight little ball on his pillow in the Windsor rocking chair. Elizabeth turned on the ceiling fan, then stepped into her bathroom and filled the old claw-foot tub with warm water, dumping in enough lavender oil to fill the small room with its soothing fragrance.

  As she settled into the comforting embrace of the bath, her mind turned inexorably to Phillip and to his suggestion that Kyra was the chief suspect in the fire. How can he suspect her? Why would she want to destroy her own house? But it’s not her house, is it? And her art stuff was all out in the barn.

  Still, what would she gain? Sympathy? Attention? She already had that with Boz’s death. No, it just doesn’t make sense.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. Maybe I should make a list— things to look into, people to talk to. From what Phillip says, the police are likely to tiptoe around Kyra’s father.

  She stretched out a foot and turned the tarnished brass tap, letting a little more hot water into the tub. A soak in the tub before bed was one of her greatest pleasures. Usually she brought a book with her and read till the water became too cool or till she dozed off. Occasionally her book would dip into the water as her eyes drifted shut, but she had made it a rule never to read borrowed books in the bathtub. Once wet, a book was never quite the same. It would eventually dry out, but always in a puffed-up, outsize version of its former self.

  I’d like to know more about Marvin Peterson’s former self. The fact that the murder of his first wife is a taboo subject at the police department must mean something. Could Peterson have influence there as well as the organized-crime connections Phillip mentioned?