Signs in the Blood (14 page)

Openmouthed, Elizabeth stared at her daughter. Finally she managed a feeble “Do what?”

“Mum, he's an outsider artist. You know, like Howard Finster or . . . or Minnie Evans. Self-taught, but look at the raw power in this drawing.” Her long fingers traced the outline of the flames. “Just a few people know about him so far. He only sells his paintings at the end of his revival services and he's never had a show in a gallery. One of my professors was a real fan of his and she said that this guy was an untutored Van Gogh. But this could be a chance . . .” Laurel was pacing up and down the room in excitement. “If I could talk to him and get him to agree to a show, the folks at the co-op gallery might let me curate it. They would be so thrilled . . . I mean, talk about a coup . . . they'd probably give me a one-man show later on. The revival starts next week, it says. Oh, Mum, I've got to go! Please come with me!”

When Laurel set off back down the road three hours later, her knapsack was swollen by several books, a container of Elizabeth's frozen tomato-and-herb sauce, and a loaf of homemade oatmeal bread. She had also extracted from Elizabeth a reluctant promise to consider attending the tent revival.

Elizabeth dreamed often—always in full color, sometimes only mundane, sometimes truly exciting. She had little faith in the idea that her nighttime adventures actually meant anything, seeing them merely as the product of her busy mind churning over recent events. Occasionally the dreams were truly frightening and she would jolt awake, happy to have escaped whatever terrors her subconscious had arranged for her.

She was wandering in the woods. Brilliantly colored birds fluttered all around her, and wherever she turned, pools of water appeared at her feet. In each pool stood a figure that looked like Cletus. Then the pools all merged into one pool and the water turned to fire and Laurel was in the flames, laughing with pleasure. Elizabeth saw herself standing there with Harice Tyler before her, offering her a huge rattlesnake, but as she tentatively put out her hand for it, the viper turned into a thorny branch. Harice smiled at her and scolded softly, You just got to have faith, Elizabeth Goodweather.

She awoke gasping, then lay still, trying to trace the sources of the vivid images her sleeping brain had conjured up.
All those pools of water were like the wood between the worlds in that Narnia book
The Magician's Nephew.
But then the fire, that was straight from that flyer about the revival. And Laurel . . . of course because I worry about her . . . And the thorny stick was because of that thing stuck on my car,
she thought sleepily.
And Cletus, who drowned . . .
Her thoughts rambled on to that little pool by Walter and Ollie's old house that she and Sam had gone skinny-dipping in so long ago. She remembered how later Ollie had shown her the hidden natural shelf at the edge of the water where butter and milk stayed cool behind a fringe of ferns.

She yawned and thought again of the Harice Tyler in her dream.
What did he say? “You just got to have faith.” Wasn't that what Dessie told me too?
Elizabeth lay there in the dark, rethinking the dream and remembering the sticker with its ugly message that had been slapped on her car. Suddenly she was no longer sleepy. Switching on her bedside light, she reached for the telephone and dialed information. In reply to the automated voice, she answered “Asheville,” and to the nasal voice of a live operator, she said firmly: “Janie Hawkins.”

IV-J
UNE
1901

Hit was wash day and I was haulin water from the spring when Levy Johnson come down the mountain. My fire was goin good but I needed me some more water for the rinsin. Levy was on his way to help Daddy with plowin the corn and he was ridin a big sorrel mare, all geared up, but when he saw me he slid down from the mare's back and said, I'll tote them heavy pails for you. His hair was the color of Mister Tomlin's gold pieces and his face was smooth and put me in mind of the ripe peaches on our red-leafed Cherokee peach tree. I smiled when I thought this for just then the sun broke through the mornin mist and I could see fuzz just like a peach has all along Levy's jawbone.

Hit was then that I hated my Daddy for what he had done in tyin me to a smelly old man with whiskers on his face.

I had been a wife for over a month now but I had yet to find the part about likin it just fine. Mister Tomlin treated me well enough, I reckon, but he had his notions. Though he went off most days, he had said that he wanted me to stay close to home and not go runnin back down the mountain to gossip with Clytie and Rom. I had made me a little garden and had that to tend and I had planted me some orange lilies and a slip of the old pink rose from down at the homeplace. Aetha had come to visit and showed me how to use my sewin machine. She had brung me some patterns traced on newspaper and I was makin a shirt for Mister Tomlin. Aetha had brung me a basket of scraps too and I was startin to piece a Lone Star quilt. But hit was tiresome to be by myself all day and when I saw Levy something inside me just seemed to bust loose.

My washtubs was set near to the branch and the clothes was soakin. I watched Levy pour the water into the rinse tub and thought how strong his arms looked and how sweet was his smile. He seen me lookin at him and he said, Well, Miz Tomlin, I best be gettin on. Yore daddy'll be lookin fer me.

Hit felt awful queer him callin me Miz Tomlin and him some four or five years older than me. I'd knowed Levy and his kin all my life. Though he went to school and to church over on Bear Tree Creek, while I went to the Ridley Branch ones, we had seen one another at shuckins and log rollins and the like. And at a play party last winter when we was all playin Tap Hands, ever time Levy was It, hit was my hands he'd tap. Clytie had been bad to tease me about him atter that but I hadn't seen him since.

How come you not to be at my marryin? I asked. I seen the rest of yore family that day.

He turned and walked over to where he'd hitched the mare. I don't know, he said, reckon I was too busy with work to go loaferin around. He stepped on a rock and swung himself up on the big mare's back. I got to get on, he said, and headed off down the hill.

I watched him out of sight but he didn't look around, not once. I thought again how pretty he looked with his yellow hair a-shinin in the sun. Then I went back to my washin.

Though Mister Tomlin had talked big about his wife not havin to lift her little finger to work, there was still the washin to do. And the cleanin and cookin. Mister Tomlin said that when we got into that house he was going to build, I'd have someone to help me. But hit didn't much matter to me for I had to have something to do all the day whilst he was off buyin up timber and makin arrangements for his sawmill. He traveled all around and sometimes, like this mornin, he would say, Don't look for me till nightfall, Little Sylvie, for I've business in Ransom with Lawyer Bailey.

I got my rub board and began to scrub at the dirty clothes. The sun was full up now and atter I rinsed the clothes in two waters and wrung them good, I stretched them out to dry over the big boxwoods that grow there by the branch. Then I dipped some of the wash water into a bucket and took it and the lye soap to wash the cabin floor. Not that hit was in much need of cleanin but I knowed Mister Tomlin set a great store by things bein just so.

Like I said, he had his notions. The least little smell of sweat just provoked him something fierce and he'd tell me to go wash myself afore I got into the bed. He said that when our house was built, hit'd have gravity water and a room with a bathtub all set up where I could take a bath ever night of the week. I never heared of such.

But what I can't understand is the part that goes on between us in bed. Hit don't never take very long, and they's not much to it. I have puzzled about hit some and I still can't see what makes Aetha like this foolishness so much. But then her man Fate is a young man.

The sun was droppin behind the mountain when Levy and his mare come back up the road. I was settin on the cabin steps brushin my hair that I'd just washed. Levy looked at me and nodded and made as if to keep on goin but I called out, Light and set a spell, Levy Johnson. You can give me some news of yore family.

He looked at me funny-like but pulled right up and set there atop that big old sorrel mare. My family's fine, Miz Tomlin, he said, like the words was coin he didn't want to spend.

Don't be hateful, I said. You call me Little Sylvie like you always done.

Well, hit took a time but at long last he clumb down and come and set beside me. He told me all the news from Bear Tree—Sim Shotwell was courtin Noveenie, the youngest of the Johnson girls, and the Davis cow dropped twin heifers that they named Hattie and Mattie. We was a-laughin about some silly something or other when all of a sudden, here comes Mister Tomlin a-trottin up the road on Neb.

Levy stood up quick but a hank of my hair was caught somehows on his shirt button and he had to stop to tug hit loose afore he could go down the steps. Mister Tomlin set there in the saddle and watched but didn't say nothin, even when Levy called out, Evenin, Mister Tomlin, I was just givin Miz Tomlin the news of my family but I got to be gettin on. Then Levy clumb up on his horse and said, Evenin, Miz Tomlin, I'll tell them you asked atter them.

He pulled the mare's head around but before he could take her up the road, Mister Tomlin spurred Neb to block the way. He looked hard at Levy and said, I'll thank you to stay clear of my wife from now on.

He had his hand on his pistol when he said it and for a mercy, Levy didn't say nothing back, just kindly shrugged his shoulders and kicked the mare with his heels to send her on up the road. Mister Tomlin watched them go then turned to me and said, Get in the cabin, Little Sylvie, and get me some supper.

He didn't say nothing more whilst we et our supper but atter I had washed the dishes and was gettin ready for bed, he called me over to him where he sat in the big hickory-backed armchair.

Little Sylvie, he says, real soft but kindly eager like, do you know what Paul says about women? His eyes glittered like a cat watchin a baby bird and he pulled me close to where I was standin between his legs. The ruby ring felt heavy on my finger and I said No, sir, I don't guess that I do.

Paul says to the Ephesians, Women, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord. Didn't you hear the preacher say that back on our wedding day? He pulled me closer and his breath was comin fast. Little Sylvie, says he, I'm going to have to punish you for whoring after that Johnson boy.

I started to speak up for I wanted to say that he hadn't ought to use that ugly word about me when all I done was talk to Levy but then he goes on, It says in the Book that committing adultery in your heart is just as bad as if you'd laid down with him.

Mr. Tomlin, I never—I start to say but he clamps his hand over my mouth. Don't speak another word, Little Sylvie. Just you go over there and lay facedown on the bed.

His eyes was wild-lookin and I was afeared of what he might do iffen I talked back so I went and laid on the bed like he told me. My heart was poundin as he took off his coat and vest and undid his belt. I figured I knowed what was comin and wasn't none too surprised when he come over and flung my skirts up. Then he commenced to pullin down my drawers and I closed my eyes and thought, well, maybe if we do it back to belly like the animals do, hit'll work better.

When the belt strap hit my rump I hollered like one thing and tried to jump up but he grabbed aholt of my shoulders and pushed me back down. Little Sylvie, you got to learn who is the master here, he said. You got five more coming, then we'll say no more about it.

Well, he give me five more licks and I bit my lip hard as I could to keep from hollerin again. That old belt burned like fire but I was set on not lettin him know how much hit hurt. Then when he was done, he unbuttoned his pants and went at it, his big old rough hands a-grabbin at my pore scalded bottom. I could feel that his old thing had gotten harder and this time he almost done it.

CHAPTER 11

H
UMBLE
P
IE WITH
P
INEAPPLE
S
ALSA
 (
S
ATURDAY)

E
LIZABETH AWAKENED AS THE ROOM GREW LIGHT AND
sat up, as she usually did, to watch the sunrise. Her bed faced three large uncurtained windows that looked due east, and she loved the endless variety of sunrises that greeted her from day to day. Growing up in Florida and in the suburbs, she had never realized how the sun paced back and forth through the year, like a restless dog on a tether. During the winter it rose far to the southeast and skulked along the ridgeline, disappearing in mid-afternoon. But now it was rising a little past due east, on its way to the northeast where it would achieve the summer solstice, then begin the slow day-by-day journey back to the winter solstice. Watching the sunrise, with its reminder of the endless and inevitable cycles of life, was, she thought, her version of religion.

She waited till nine to dial the number the operator had given her. At some point in the night she had decided to swallow her pride and get in touch with Phillip Hawkins—partly because he was a friend of Sam's and a nice man who deserved better treatment than she had given him—and partly because he was a police detective and might be willing to give more advice on how to proceed in answering the growing questions about Cletus's death. An answering machine picked up almost immediately, and Elizabeth began awkwardly to explain to the mechanical voice that she needed to get in touch with Phillip Hawkins. She was giving her phone number, enunciating slowly and carefully, when a sleepy and rather grumpy female voice broke in: “Who is this anyway?”

Taken aback, Elizabeth stammered, “Ah—is this Janie?”

“I asked you first,” retorted the voice at the other end. “Who are you and why do you want to talk to my—to Phillip Hawkins?” A huge yawn echoed in Elizabeth's ear. “And what time is it anyway?”

Remembering her own daughters' tendency to sleep till noon on weekends, Elizabeth felt a twinge of guilt for having called at an hour which was obviously far too early to suit Janie, if this was indeed Janie. Trying to collect her thoughts, she replied gently, “I'm sorry if I woke you. My name is Elizabeth Goodweather. Phillip Hawkins is—was a friend of my late husband, and he came out to my farm last Sunday for lunch. I need to talk to him and don't have his phone number. I was hoping you could give it to me. And it's nine o'clock.”

Silence at the other end greeted her words. Elizabeth began to wonder if Janie, if it was Janie, had gone back to sleep. Then there was another long yawn. “I don't think I should give out his phone number but I'll tell him you want him to call. You already gave your number to the machine. So I'll tell him, okay?”

There was a click and Elizabeth said “Thank you” to a dead line.

Dammit, Elizabeth,
she thought wearily,
this could have been avoided if you hadn't acted like a . . . like an idiot. You could have gone out to dinner with that nice man in a perfectly civilized manner; you could have asked for advice about Cletus; you could have had a nice, rational, mature person, a police detective yet, to discuss this with. But, oh, no, Elizabeth, you had to—

The portable telephone, still in her hand, shrilled, cutting off her inner diatribe.

“Lizzie Beth, honey.” Miss Birdie's voice trembled. “The sheriff done called. He says that hit's for certain sure that Cletus drownded.” She paused, as if gathering strength. “They done that 'topsy and that's what hit showed. But I still ain't believin' he went for to cross that trestle. Something ain't right here and I'm a-countin' on you to help me find out what did happen. Lizzie Beth, honey, we got to go back to that Holiness church and see what else Belvy can tell us.”

In the background Elizabeth could hear Dorothy twittering away. “Now, Birdie, you lay back down and let me talk to her.” And then Dorothy was on the phone. “Lizzie Beth, she's takin' on right much about this. I told her you'd help her ever way you can, for she's that set on believin' that this weren't no accident.”

Dorothy went on to say that Cletus's funeral was planned for the following Wednesday “with the viewin' Tuesday night. And Pastor Briggs says he's goin' to ask that revival preacher, that John the Baptizer, to give a message at the graveside.”

“Tell Birdie I'll be there,” Elizabeth assured Dorothy, “and tell her that I'll go with her back to the Holiness church.” She sighed as she put down the phone. For all of the twenty-some years she had lived on Ridley Branch, she had never visited the local churches, knowing that she was not a believer and being afraid of giving offense if she went once and did not return. But now it looked as if she was in for a big dose of the emotional preaching so beloved by her mountain neighbors.

She glanced at the clock and considered her options. The flower beds needed weeding; the house needed vacuuming. “And I need someone to talk to,” she said aloud. As if in response to her wish, the phone rang again.

“Ms. Goodweather,” began a somewhat cautious voice, “this is Phillip Hawkins. My daughter said you wanted me to call.”

She hadn't actually thought about what she would say if he called and it all tumbled out. “Phillip, I want to apologize—I don't know—that is, I didn't mean—oh, hell! What I'm trying to say is that I would very much like to have dinner with you. Sometime.”

There was a silence and to her horror she heard herself babbling into the void. “That is . . . if you still . . . I mean, you did suggest it last Sunday and I—”

A warm chuckle put a merciful end to her faltering explanation. “That would be great, Elizabeth. What about tonight?”

Though her first impulse was to suggest another night
—all the restaurants will be crowded on Saturday night; my hair needs washing; I'll miss
Prairie Home Companion—she bit her tongue and replied, “That sounds fine. Where shall I meet you?”

“Where would you like to eat? There seem to be restaurants all over downtown Asheville. Janie told me about some place called Dapas—or something—that she really likes.”

“Oh, Tapas. Good choice! I ate there a few months ago and the food's terrific. Pretty spicy and incredibly creative. It's very popular, though; we might need to call ahead.”

Phillip said he would make a reservation for seven o'clock, and they agreed to meet at the restaurant. Elizabeth hung up the phone, feeling a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. She was glad she had talked to Phillip Hawkins—he was a link with Sam in some indefinable way. Sam had always spoken of his navy buddy as “a guy you can count on—totally rational and down-to-earth.”
Rational would be good,
she told herself, thinking unwillingly of Harice Tyler and the dream of the night before.
And maybe he can suggest something for me to tell Miss Birdie. Or tell me what else I can do to find that damn shotgun.

As she walked from the parking garage to the restaurant, she realized that she was early, so she slowed and began to look in shop windows. A cluttered display in an antique shop claimed her attention and she whiled away a few minutes examining the pricy blue-and-white transfer ware and the faded quilts that seemed to be a specialty. A movement caught her eye and she found herself gazing at her own reflection in a streaky old mirror propped at the back of the window.

She had made some effort with her appearance tonight: her hair, instead of hanging in a single braid down her back, was twisted into a soft knot at the nape of her neck. No makeup
—I got over that, years ago,
she thought—but her eyebrows were still dark enough to give definition to her features, and her blue eyes and silver-shot dark hair were a striking contrast to the golden tan of her face. As a further nod to the occasion she had abandoned her small gold hoops for larger earrings in the graceful shape of ginkgo leaves. A long flaring black linen skirt, a periwinkle-blue knit shell, and an unlined black linen blazer seemed very dressy after her usual jeans and work shirts. Flat-heeled black sandals completed her outfit.

I feel too dressed up,
she thought dubiously,
but this is the kind of thing a lot of women wear every day.
She peered at the mirror with a slight sense of disbelief.
I do look pretty good . . . in a dim light and an old mirror.
With a parting grin at her reflected image, she turned toward the restaurant. A discarded newspaper flapping on a bench seemed about to blow into the street and she stopped to gather it up. As she was beginning to push it into a nearby trash receptacle, a name caught her eye.

The article was on one of the back pages, just a few lines. The body of Dewey Shotwell, Marshall County resident and locally famous ginseng hunter, had been found in the river below Ransom. Accidental drowning was the presumed cause of death.

Quickly she tore out the article, folded it, and slipped it into her jacket pocket. After cramming the rest of the newspaper into the trash container, she hurried on to Tapas.
Okay, this can't be a coincidence. Two bodies in the river in a month. And Dewey Shotwell was a sang hunter like Cletus. Could that old man, Mr. Tyler . . . ? But he acted as if he liked Cletus . . . And he said there was lots of sang up on Devil's Fork . . .

Phillip Hawkins stood waiting for her in front of the restaurant. His khaki slacks and crisp sport shirt were unexceptional, but his face was freshly shaved and the faint aroma of shaving cologne indicated that he too had gone the extra mile in getting ready for this meeting. He greeted her with a smile and his eyes seemed to study her appearance in appreciative detail. “Ready to go on in?” he asked. “I checked, and our table is ready.”

When they had been seated and had given the waitress their orders, there was an awkward silence. Elizabeth shook out her napkin and spread it across her lap, straightened her knife and fork, took a cautious sip of her water, and said, “So, did you find an apartment?”

“A house. I rented a house in Weaverville,” Phillip replied. “It's someone's vacation cottage and I have it for a year.” He straightened
his
knife and fork and went on, “It's okay. It doesn't have much of a view and it does have a little too much cutesy country stuff for my taste, but once I put away some of the teddy bears and ruffled pillows it'll be fine.” He caught himself and looked at her, saying hastily, “Nothing against teddy bears and ruffled pillows, I just—”

“I know what you mean.” Elizabeth laughed. “Duck decoys with bows around their necks and lots of soft blues and dusty pinks. It's a look that a lot of people like, but—”

Somehow their shared lack of appreciation for ruffled pillows had broken the ice. Phillip relaxed visibly and smiled. “You know,” he said, “I'm glad you called. I was thinking about you the other day and wondering what had ever happened about that neighbor of yours. The one they found in the river? Has the autopsy been done?”

“It has, and it showed that he drowned—”

“So you're off the hook.” Phillip pushed the basket of bread toward her as the waiter arrived with their wine. “You won't have to help his mother find out what happened. I was a little concerned when you said she was wanting you to go all around looking for a murderer—”

“But that's just it,” Elizabeth broke in. “Miss Birdie is still convinced that someone killed Cletus. I don't know whether she just doesn't trust the autopsy or what, but she's dead set on our going back to the snake-handling church to see if the prophetess can tell her more.”

She dipped her bread into the bowl of golden-green olive oil on the table between them, and continued thoughtfully, “I don't know, maybe I'm just humoring her, hoping she'll get over this notion she's taken. And I have to admit that I find the Holiness church absolutely fascinating—I mean, I was brought up an Episcopalian, one of ‘God's frozen people' they used to call us. A service at the Holiness church is so far at the other end of the religion spectrum that I feel like I'm in a different world.”

She fell silent, remembering the intensely visceral response she'd felt during the noisy, emotional meeting, the ecstatic state of the worshippers, the calm certainty of Harice Tyler's preaching, his compelling
—Stop it right now, Elizabeth,
she warned herself.

“And then, there's another odd thing.” She pulled the folded piece of newspaper from her jacket pocket and spread it out before her dinner companion. “I just saw this article—this Dewey Shotwell who drowned—I think there has to be some connection with Cletus.”

Phillip glanced at the article briefly, then said, “Another drowning? Could be a coincidence, but . . .” He didn't finish his sentence. Frowning, he said, “What do you know about this Shotwell?”

Elizabeth explained about the ginseng, telling Hawkins how Raym Tyler had made threats against Dewey Shotwell. “And the thing is, both Cletus and Dewey Shotwell were known to hunt for ginseng in the same area, there around Little Man Holler and up on Devil's Fork.”

“Devil's Fork?” Hawkins said sharply. Elizabeth's eyes widened at his peremptory tone, and he continued quickly, “Unusual name. Where's this Devil's Fork located?”

“It's up at the end of Bear Tree Creek,” she explained. “Some horrible militia group owns a lot of property up there. Supposedly they have a lot of weapons and I'm pretty sure they would be capable of . . . of almost anything. And there's the thing about the red squirrels.”

She had just finished explaining the squirrel connection when their food arrived, large plates heaped high with grilled fish, black beans and rice, fried plantains, and several spicy salsas. One salsa in particular captured Elizabeth's attention.
What's in this?
she asked herself.
I want to make it at home. Red onions, garlic, hot peppers, probably jalapenos, cilantro, and pineapple.
But the pineapple was different, almost caramelized in places. Finally she decided it must have been grilled before being chopped up.

Phillip was saying something, she realized, forcing herself to abandon her analysis of the salsa. “. . . Those militia groups are unpredictable.” His voice was low and serious. “Some of them are only big boys playing with big toys . . . though they can cause plenty of trouble just by being too macho. Then there're others with a serious political agenda. Those guys aren't afraid to break the law in pursuit of what they believe is right. And some of them probably have some legitimate gripes with the government.” He paused and sipped his Rioja. “But whoever it is you've got up there on Devil's Fork, I'd suggest you give them a wide berth, red squirrels or not.”