Signs in the Blood (2 page)

Her eyes drifted shut but she continued to talk, her voice growing fainter with each word. “I seen it in a dream and the Lord laid it on my heart to tell you. Lizzie Beth, there's more trials ahead but you'll make it through. You just got to have faith . . .” Her voice was a wandering whisper. “I keep a-dreaming dreams. I dreamt of Little Sylvie, that wild girl who used to live up to your place. She was afore my time but my mamaw done told me of her and I seen her just now as plain as anything. She was a-laying in death, a-laying in the dirt with her babe in her arms and a gold locket round her neck . . .”

The dying woman tossed restlessly on her pillows. “How come I to see her like that? Mamaw said that Little Sylvie run off and left her poor baby to starve. I can't make it out.” Dessie's words faltered and at last trailed off into a low snore. Elizabeth sat quietly and watched her old friend sleep.

“She's been talking about that Little Sylvie since she woke up this morning,” said a voice from the doorway. Kylie Sue had returned and was looking down at her sleeping mother with great affection. “She woke up this morning and said she'd had a dream about you and Little Sylvie. She said she'd not go home till she spoke to you.” Kylie Sue's tired smile illuminated her face. “I believe, 'Lizabeth, that with her time so near, why, she's plumb full of the Spirit right now. I reckon she just had to share it with you.”

As her jeep ground its way up the steep gravel road to her farmhouse, Elizabeth found herself wondering about the dying woman's message.
How did Dessie know that I was so unhappy? No one else noticed.
Indeed, she had done her best to present her usual cheerful front. Her daughters certainly had no idea. Laurel was engrossed with her upcoming show at a well-known art gallery, as well as her “day job,” tending bar at a trendy nightspot in Asheville. And Rosemary, busy with her assistant professorship of English at Chapel Hill, was home only for the occasional weekend. Even Ben, her nephew and partner in the herb and flower farm, even Ben, who saw her every day, had no idea of her current state of mind.
But Dessie knew. And she saw something else coming.

The sight of her house, perched on the mountainside and surrounded by tiers of gardens, lifted her spirits as it always did. She and Sam had built it to look like the old mountain houses—board and batten, metal-roofed, with a long front porch. Over the years various additions had been made, but it was still a modest farmhouse of unpainted, weathered wood. Only the bright periwinkle-blue doors, the attached greenhouse, and the solar collector on the roof gave notice that this was not an absolutely typical mountain dwelling.

Elizabeth's dogs greeted her joyfully, each vying to see who would be first to go through the door with her. Once inside, they ignored her and headed for the denim-covered sofas while Elizabeth started into the kitchen to fix a glass of iced tea. Passing a mirror that hung near the kitchen door, she paused to examine her reflection.
What did Dessie see that told her how unhappy I've been?

The face that looked back at her seemed little changed from the previous summer—the long straight nose and high cheekbones a little more prominent, the thick braid of dark hair a little grayer. Her deep blue eyes were clear, but there were violet shadows under them that she hadn't noticed before.
What do you expect?
she asked her reflection.
You're fifty-two. Like that card you got on your fiftieth birthday said, “Remember the glass isn't half empty; it's one-third full!”

“Aunt E?” A deep voice echoed through the house, causing the dogs to bark wildly even as they ran, tails wagging exuberantly, to greet the tall young man coming up the basement stairs two at a time.

“In here, Ben,” she responded. “I'm making some tea. Would you like a glass?”

“No, thanks, Aunt E. I just came to tell you that Miss Birdie called while you were gone,” her nephew said, and stood there shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“I just saw her over at Dessie's,” Elizabeth said, puzzled. Then, with an ominous feeling growing as Ben's sun-browned face held its somber expression, she asked quickly, “What's wrong?”

“It's Cletus, Aunt E. Miss Birdie says something's happened to Cletus. He's not home but she's sure something's happened to him. She sounds real upset and she wants you to come right over.”

CHAPTER 2

W
HAT
W
ENT WITH
C
LETUS?
 (
M
ONDAY)

A
S SHE DROVE THE FEW MILES TO
B
IRDIE AND
Cletus's house, Elizabeth wondered what had happened so suddenly to make Miss Birdie worry about her son. The little widow was used to her Cletus's ways. When his work was done and the crop laid by, he would wander through the woods for days, camping out in all weathers and living off the hard-baked cornbread he carried with him, now and then shooting and cooking a rabbit or squirrel. Eventually he would fetch up at some remote cabin where the inhabitants would give him a meal and call Miss Birdie to come get him.

“He's a good boy and he never goes off lessen we've got a full woodpile and the big chores is done,” Birdie had once told Elizabeth. “But seems like he has to wander some, just like an old hound. You know, you can keep a hound tied up for just so long, then if it can't run the woods, it'll break its heart. Cletus is just the same.”

Elizabeth swung the jeep off the road and rattled across the plank bridge that spanned Ridley Branch in front of Birdie's cabin. Miss Birdie was standing out in the yard holding one end of a length of clothesline, while an excited black-and-white mongrel danced and tugged at the other end. Miss Birdie's wrinkled face was anxious and she pulled the dog along with her as she hurried over to the car.

“Lizzie Beth, I thank you for comin' so quick. I think we had ort to call the sheriff but I want you to do the talkin' for me.”

“What's happened, Miss Birdie?” Elizabeth asked as she climbed out of her car. “Ben said it was something about Cletus.”

“Look over yonder at what Pup brung home.” Miss Birdie pointed a gnarled finger at a filthy camouflage knapsack lying beneath a big rhododendron.

“Do you think that's—?” Elizabeth began, but Miss Birdie cut her short.

“I know that's the poke I fixed for Cletus. I sewed that there patch on the pocket after hit got tore up with him crawlin' under some bobwire fence back of this.”

Elizabeth pushed aside the heavy pink blooms of the rhododendron and grabbed the knapsack by one of its shoulder straps. Across the yard Pup yelped and leapt at the end of the clothesline. As she lifted the muddy canvas bag, she realized that it had a very unpleasant smell and an equally unpleasant soggy heft to it.
Oh, shit,
she thought,
this is going to be something awful.

Holding the knapsack at arm's length, she gingerly undid the buckles. The smell intensified as she pulled back the flap. Inside lay the decomposing bodies of six squirrels. The slimy forms were hairless but for a few tufts of red fur clinging to their sides. The interior of the knapsack was alive with maggots.

“You see,” Miss Birdie demanded as Elizabeth hastily lowered the bag to the ground out of reach of the urgently whining dog. “Somethin' must have happened to Cletus. Else how come Pup to bring that bag home? We got to call the high sheriff and get them to go out and find my boy. Cletus may be layin' up some'ers with a broke leg . . . or worse,” she said grimly. “I'm gonna tie up this dog and bury that nasty bag. Washin' won't never get that smell out. You go on up to the house, Lizzie Beth, and call the sheriff for me.” Miss Birdie stumped off toward a doghouse surrounded by hard-packed dirt, towing the still agitated Pup.

“Wait, Miss Birdie,” said Elizabeth. “Where should I tell the sheriff to start looking for Cletus? Where does he usually go?”

Miss Birdie paused. “Be still, Pup!” she admonished the unruly dog, who was deeply intent on getting back to the knapsack and its reeking contents. Her face was troubled as she said, “Lordy, Lizzie Beth, I can't rightly say. He took off up Pinnacle but he'd a hit the ridge and started walkin'. Ain't no tellin' where he might of come down. One time he ended up almost to Tennessee. They's a world of deep coves all along there.”

As Birdie went to find a shovel, Elizabeth delicately opened the smaller pocket of the knapsack. Inside were several shriveled plants, dried black forest soil still clumped about their fleshy roots.

“Miss Birdie,” she called. “There's ginseng in here too. Where would Cletus go to hunt ginseng?”

From the lower part of the barn Miss Birdie's voice called back, “Lizzie Beth, honey, ain't no sang hunter ever told nobody where he gets his sang.”

Elizabeth found a little stick in Miss Birdie's woodpile and knelt to poke at the knapsack's repulsive contents.
Maybe there's something else in here that would give us some clue as to where Cletus could be,
she thought, breathing through her mouth and trying to ignore the rank odor of the rotting squirrels.
Nothing but maggots and carrion there,
she decided, and turned her attention to the smaller pocket. A glint of yellow caught her eye, and she pushed aside the dirt and ginseng plants to reveal a small, intricately folded origami crane. She stared at the fragile little thing, wondering how Cletus had come by such an exotic creation out in the backwoods of Appalachia.

“I done dug us a hole, Lizzie Beth. Let's go drop that nasty thing in and cover it up good.” Miss Birdie was at her side, holding out her hand for the knapsack.

“Look at this, Miss Birdie.” Elizabeth teased the little yellow crane out of the pocket with the stick. “Does Cletus know how to fold paper into shapes like this?”

Miss Birdie regarded the crane with disapproval. “Naw, I wouldn't think so. Though he's a right good hand to make a paper aeroplane. No tellin' where'bouts he might of picked that up. That boy's like a crow, purely loves bright things.” She sniffed, wrinkling up her face in disgust. “Let's get that poke in the ground. That smell's like to make me vomick.”

Elizabeth said nothing but continued to work at the paper crane with the stick, carefully unfolding it. A few black marks were visible on the paper, and she hoped there might be writing that would give some clue as to the origin of the thing. But as the last fold was opened out, only a few wavy lines were revealed. She peered closely at the paper. It seemed to be a copy, not an original, and there was no writing at all. Just the wavy lines and, down in one corner, something that might be a sketch of a hand.

“You know what, Miss Birdie?” she said, aware of her friend's impatience. “I think we ought not to bury the knapsack. The sheriff might want to see it for evidence.”

Miss Birdie's mouth set in a thin line. “Hit'll be evidence Cletus was huntin' out of season. How come him to do that anyhow? Now, I don't say that boy wouldn't take one or two squirrels if he was wantin' some meat, but what for would he shoot six? Hit ain't like Cletus to do that way. I tell you, Lizzie Beth, there's something quare goin' on.”

The sheriff was not disposed to take the tale of the returned dog and knapsack very seriously. He had known Miss Birdie and her son for years and was confident that Cletus would return home soon. “That dog of Cletus's, it's a right young one, isn't it? I reckon it just got to playin' and grabbed the knapsack. Then Cletus prob'ly hollered at it and it took off for home. Cletus'll turn up directly. Let me speak to Miss Birdie.”

When Miss Birdie put down the receiver ten minutes later, tears brimmed in her eyes. “He don't think nothing's wrong,” she told Elizabeth. “But he said they'd start askin' around and if Cletus ain't showed up by tomorrow, they'll get a search party goin'.” She sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Ay law, I got a bad feelin' about this. What went with that boy?”

Later that evening, Elizabeth was finishing up her supper dishes and thinking about her neighbor. Birdie had sent her home with a promise to call if Cletus returned. “But he ain't a-goin' to, Lizzie Beth; I'm right sure of it.”

Giving the countertop a final swipe with her dish towel, Elizabeth poured a mug of rich dark coffee and flipped off the kitchen light. She was heading for the front porch and a peaceful rocking chair when the phone rang.

“Is this Ms. Goodweather?” asked a polite male voice.

“Yes, it is,” Elizabeth answered warily, being generally suspicious of calls from unknown people. Such calls were never to tell her that she'd won a sweepstakes or was the recipient of an unexpected inheritance; no, usually it was someone trying to convince her to change her long-distance carrier.

“This is Phillip Hawkins . . .” The deep gravelly voice hesitated.

For a brief moment the name meant nothing to her and she was about to hang up, thinking that this was just another annoying telemarketer. Then she remembered. Phillip Hawkins had been a friend of Sam's from his days in the navy. The two men had kept in touch; indeed, had met and traveled together to some sort of reunion just before the plane crash that had ended Sam's life. Hawkins lived somewhere on the North Carolina coast, she remembered, and Sam had mentioned several times that he had even invited him to the farm. But Hawkins's job
—What was he, a police detective or something like that?—
had forced him to cancel plans several times. So Phillip Hawkins had never visited them and she had never met him, at least not till after Sam's death.

Wondering why he should be calling, she said, “Phillip Hawkins, yes. I remember you.”

She could picture him now, a burly brown bear of a man. Hawkins had come to Sam's memorial service and introduced himself to her after the simple and mercifully brief ceremony. He had started to say something about Sam and had become abruptly inarticulate with grief. She still remembered the almost painful handclasp and his hasty departure. Later he had written her a very moving letter about how much Sam had meant to him.

“Ms. Goodweather,” the voice sounded tentative, “I found some old pictures of Sam and I wondered if you'd like to have them. Back from when we were in training together.”

The lump rising in her throat annoyed Elizabeth and she breathed deeply before replying. “Thank you, that would be really nice. Sam didn't keep many pictures from his time in the navy. It would be particularly nice for the girls to see them.” When there was no reply at the other end she went on, “Do you need my address to send them to me?”

“Fact is . . .” Hawkins stopped as if at a loss for words. “Fact is, Ms. Goodweather, I'm in Asheville visiting my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Elizabeth repeated, making polite conversation. “That's nice. Are you on vacation?”

“You could call it a vacation,” Hawkins replied. “I'm on an extended leave—family problems. I have an aunt out in Marshall County, lives back of beyond at a place called Shut In. Anyway, she's pretty much all alone and getting on in years. I've got to check on her living situation and see if she can continue to manage. And then there's my daughter Janie. She's in her junior year at University of North Carolina-Asheville and she's having trouble with her classes and her boyfriend. The boyfriend was the whole reason she came to UNCA in the first place. I tried to talk her into transferring back to East Carolina where her brother is, but no way. Janie says she loves Asheville; says it's her ‘spiritual home.' So I thought I'd come visit and see what was up,” he concluded.

“How long are you here for?” asked Elizabeth, continuing to wonder what this had to do with her. She took a small, silent sip of her coffee.

“Not sure,” was the reply. “I've got a year's sabbatical. I haven't taken a vacation since I don't know when, and the leave time has mounted up. I've talked to some folks at the community college here, what's it called?—AB Tech?—about teaching in their criminal justice program, and they have an opening next semester. I think I'd like to get an apartment and stay around for a while, at least till Janie gets straightened out. She seems to like the idea that I'd be in Asheville, believe it or not.”

Elizabeth remembered Sam telling her that Hawkins was divorced and that his wife had long since remarried.
Not many men would, even if they could, take time out to deal with the problems of a college-age daughter,
she thought.
He must be pretty nice. I wonder why he and his wife got divorced.

“That sounds like it'll be good for you and for your daughter,” she said politely. “Have you started looking for an apartment?”

“Well, actually,” he said cautiously, “that's another reason I'm calling. I thought that maybe you and I could get together and I could give you those pictures and, at the same time, I could find out more about the area from you. I mean, you've lived here for quite a while—”

“I don't know that I would be that much help; I really don't spend a lot of time in Asheville.” As the words left her mouth, Elizabeth realized how unfriendly she sounded.
Good grief, Elizabeth, give the poor guy a break.
“But I'd be glad to tell you what little I do know,” she amended hastily, and then wished she hadn't.

Hawkins ignored her lack of enthusiasm and plowed on. “I was thinking maybe I could take you to dinner and kind of find out about the Asheville area. I'm staying in downtown Asheville but I could pick you up, and we could go to dinner out in Ransom some night.”

“I don't know . . .” began Elizabeth.

“I'd really appreciate it, Ms. Goodweather. I don't know anyone around here over twenty except my ancient aunt at Shut In. And she goes to bed when the sun sets.”

Elizabeth stood in her darkening kitchen, holding the phone to her ear and looking out the window at the fading pinks and lavenders tinting the mountaintops across the valley. She thought about how much Sam had liked this Phillip Hawkins, and how often he had talked about their friendship. She remembered the ravaged look on Hawkins's face after Sam's memorial service, and at last she heard herself say, “Why don't you come out here to lunch one day this weekend? There's not much of anywhere to eat dinner in Ransom.”

Hawkins objected at first, saying that it was too much trouble for her, but quickly allowed himself to be persuaded. He took down her detailed directions and they agreed on the coming Sunday.

“Bring your daughter, if you don't think she'd be bored,” offered Elizabeth. “My nephew Ben is usually here for lunch. He's probably a few years older than she, but they might find something to talk about.”