Chapter 11

 

Next morning, Pearl Johnson solved Buck's tuxedo dilemma. “You're about Mr. Malone's size,” she said.

Confused, he said, “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Malone left most of his belongings in his room upstairs. I'm sure he has a tux in the closet.”

As Pearl pointed him toward Malone's room, he speculated on Aunt Emma's live-in lover. It made him wish he'd known the old woman. Malone's room was different than he'd expected. The name Bones engendered an image of chaos and disarray. Quite the opposite proved true. The bed was neatly made and nothing seemed out of place. Shelves lined every wall, artifacts every shelf. India ink provided labels for broken pottery, old pistols and photographs. It seemed Bones had collected the entire history of east Texas, storing it in his room.

A piney tobacco odor permeated the air, causing Buck to guess that Malone was probably a pipe smoker. The room was a veritable museum, history weighing as heavily as the prevailing humidity. He opened a window, letting the outside breeze whip blue cotton curtains.

On the wall was a water color painting of a large side-wheeler bearing the name Mittie Stephens. Happy black field hands waving from the bank watched as it steamed past. The picture looked so real, Buck could almost hear its whistle blowing. Beneath the painting was a yellowed newspaper article. “Gold ship sinks!” the headline read. He scanned the article with rapt attention.

“Fire erupted on board the Mittie Stephens, side-wheeler bound for Jefferson, Texas. $150,000 in gold bullion to pay Reconstruction troops was lost. Many of the more than one hundred passengers die.”

He quit reading when something on the floor caught his attention. It was a brass plate bearing the engraved name Mittie Stephens. As he fingered the plate, weighing its heft in his palm, he remembered the brass fitting he'd found in the hole on the backside of Fitzgerald Island.

Bones' room also housed a library containing mostly archaeological reference material. The books were arranged in neat, alphabetically correct rows. There was nothing amiss or out of order. Almost nothing. The imposing orderliness of the room drew Buck's attention to a prominent gap on the second shelf. A large book was missing. He found it on the small table Malone used for a desk.

The book was really a loose-leaf binder filled with codes and corresponding descriptions. Remembering the India ink labels on Malone's specimens, he checked the numbers and letters on an old shotgun against the codes in the book. And there it was. The label said Potpo013. The corresponding description in the loose-leaf binder indicated Malone had found the shotgun at an archeological dig near Potter's Point. It described and classified the gun, detailing its probable age and even postulating on the original owner. He returned the book to its place on the shelf.

When Buck finally got around to Malone's closet he quickly found the tuxedo he was looking for. Although old and cut for a different era, the tux was pressed and functional and he wondered if Malone had ever worn it. Tiger followed him to his room. He hung the tux in the closet and changed into shorts and tee shirt. His body needed exercise. His mind craved it. He decided to go for a jog. Several sandy paths behind the lodge led into the pines. He started slowly, wary of heat and humidity. He soon reached a clearing near the top of a gentle rise and stopped to catch his breath. As he did, an armadillo, looking like a miniature armor-plated pig, waddled toward him from out of the high grass. He watched it disappear into the underbrush before continuing his run.

Buck's path through the forest soon led to a sandy clearing occupied by little more than patches of saw grass and faded nettle. Several buzzards looped slow circles overhead and the potent odor of decaying flesh assaulted him. He had only to follow his nose to locate the offending smell.

Near the edge of the clearing, mounds of fresh dirt imitated the work of a giant gopher. Someone had dug several closely spaced holes, one quite deep and wide. Face down in the muddy water floated the body of a rabbit that had fallen in the hole and drowned. Something shiny flashed up through the shallow water. Reaching down, he fished the shiny object out of the puddle.

The blackened hunk of metal with a leaden feel was an old coin. Something worried him as he let a handful of dirt sift through his fingers. The hole was fresh. Someone had dug it the previous night and morning sun had yet to dry the moisture in the dirt. Backing away from the trench, he continued up the sandy path for a mile or more before turning around and returning to the lodge.

Buck was tired but exhilarated when he reached the lodge. After a warm shower, he propped his feet on the bedstead and indulged himself in the comfort of a gentle breeze blowing through the open window. He soon faded into a fitful nap, dreaming of Lila when Pearl woke him for lunch. He had a question for Raymond when he joined him on the veranda.

“I'm going to a party across the lake and won't be back until late. Can I use one of the boats?”

Raymond gave Buck a quizzical glance. “Think you can find your way back by yourself?”

“It's not that far.”

“No, but you've never done it alone.”

“We’re due west out of Deception. I'll focus on a western star.”

Raymond grinned at Buck's confidence. “If you're sure, I ain't gonna tell you no. Take the boat with running lights in front,” he said, pointing to a bright red boat lapping in the waves against the dock.

“Thanks. What's all the digging about on the backside of the island?”

By the way Raymond scratched his head, Buck surmised he didn't know what he was talking about. “Maybe Wiley's been digging for worms.”

“These aren't worm holes. One is big enough to bury someone in.”

Raymond's eyes widened. “Nobody's missing round here.”

Fingering the lump of gold, Buck said, “Maybe it wasn't bodies they were burying.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Doesn't matter. Maybe Wiley or Ray will know about the holes.”

They carried their dirty dishes to the kitchen. After pouring coffee from Pearl's bottomless carafe, Raymond sauntered toward the door.

“Got to get back to work,” he said. “Buck, you be careful on the lake.”

Noon sun had already burned a hole through early morning haze as he watched Raymond stroll away toward the marina. Wavelets of light danced between the coffee-colored lake and green-cast sky. This time there were no circling buzzards. Only a crow winged overhead, voicing its continuous raspy irritation at a passing flock of blackbirds.

Tiger followed Buck to his room, purring and rubbing his leg as he packed a small bag with tux and other necessities. Planning a few hours of research before the party, he included pen and note pad. Hiking the short distance to the marina, he untied the boat Raymond had provided and pushed away from the dock. The engine sputtered, spitting smelly smoke out the back, before finally cranking on the fifth pull of the rope.

Raymond was right. Crossing the lake alone was not the same as crossing it as a passenger. By using the sun as a guide, he soon reached open water. He finally saw Deception in the distance and docked the boat some thirty minutes later. Confidence bolstered, he transferred his gear to his truck then walked the streets of Deception until he found the Riverfront Museum. An old lady at the front desk collected his admission and pointed to the brick entryway of the musty old building. Buck was the only person in the place.

He followed the hallway, antiquities covering the walls, until he reached a narrow stairway leading to the building's second floor. A small room served as repository for old newspapers and other documents. Bessie McKinney died in 1872, according to Lila Richardson. He began by looking in the file cabinet with the appropriate date. There he found the local newspaper's account of Bessie McKinney. The yellowed newspaper article included a haunting picture.

Searchers had found her sitting on a stump by the lake, her eyes open as if she were staring at something in the water. She didn't move when they called her name. The article described her body as unmarked by violence but rock hard and clammy with the feel of death. The picture left him with no remaining doubt. Bessie was the girl he'd seen drifting in a mist across the lake. Closing the drawer, he backed out of the room.

The maritime portion of the museum caused Buck to momentarily forget Bessie McKinney. Rows of steamships lay moored for posterity in the pictures lining the walls. Exotic names graced their hulls— Edinburgh, Thirteenth Era, Lotus No. 3, Fleeta. He soon came across an old black and white picture of the Mittie Stephens. An imposing craft, the Mittie was a side-wheeler with two tall smoke stacks, and flags on the front and back.

The story accompanying the picture retold the article Buck had read in Malone's room. The Mittie Stephens, a 312-ton steamboat built in Madison, Indiana, was carrying more than one-hundred passengers, many kegs of gunpowder and $150,000 in gold to pay the Reconstruction troops in Jefferson. The year was 1869. At midnight the pilot saw smoke rising from hay on board the boat. Within minutes, the boat was run as close to shore as possible and panic quickly overcame the passengers.

As flames advanced, passengers began jumping overboard. The side wheels continued turning since no one had thought to shut down the engines. Many of the people in the water were drawn under by the action of the wheels. The catastrophe left only forty-three survivors to recount the tale.

Another article caught Buck's eye. In 1983, a team of researchers had searched for the wreck of the Mittie Stephens using sophisticated sounding equipment. Despite their diligence, and an accurate description of where the boat went down, the wreck was never located.

“Sir, it is past closing time. I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow.”

Startled, Buck wheeled around, staring into the eyes of the old woman from the admission desk.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

He rubbed his chin to prevent her from seeing the flush rising up his neck. “Thought you were a ghost for a minute.”

“Wouldn't surprise me,” she said. “You couldn't catch me in here after dark by myself.”

Buck thanked her and made his way downstairs. Time had passed quickly in the musty old museum. Checking his watch upon reaching the truck, he realized he'd spent nearly three hours reading old newspapers and roaming dusty corridors. Summer sun remained high on the horizon and he stowed his notes in the glove box.

He changed into his tux at a service station near the west end of town where a greasy attendant in overalls and welder's cap provided directions to the Richardson Mansion. A few miles down the road he passed a brick wall surrounding what appeared to be a huge estate. The name on the wrought iron gate said Richardson. The main thoroughfare continued into distant pines and he followed the landscaped road a half mile before finally reaching the house.

House was a misnomer. What he saw in the distance filled him with visions of Tara at its zenith. Expensive sedans lined the circle driveway and several couples in tuxedos and evening gowns preceded him into a large ensuing party.

Four massive columns fronted the antebellum mansion and a black man in top hat and long-tailed tuxedo greeted him at the door. They traversed a marble-walled foyer where a giant gold-framed painting hung from the wall. The elaborate foyer barely prepared him for the rest of the mansion.

A black butler accompanied him down a long hallway to a ballroom in the center of the house. Behind the heavy doors, he heard sounds of a party in progress and wasn't disappointed when the butler opened the door. The giant ballroom, its cypress floors highly polished, lacquered walls decorated with paintings in Greek Revival Style, was larger than many houses. Three magnificent crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling but all the ostentatious trappings paled against the ballroom's principal visual attraction: a beautiful winding stairway with lacquered banisters and steps covered by a red velvet rug. Formally attired guests crowded the ballroom and Buck pushed through the throng in search of Lila. He didn't have far to look.

Waves of excitement began pulsating through the ballroom and he glanced up the gilded staircase to see what everyone was staring at. It was Lila, posing like a queen at the top of the stairs, radiant in a diamond tiara and ball gown of Kelly green. The gown was from a different era, complete with lace, hoops and petticoat and a plunging neckline that revealed more than a generous portion of ivory breasts. Diamonds and emeralds graced her bare neck, a tiara crowning honey-blonde hair. With everyone's attention focused, she began her floating descent to the ballroom below. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she twirled like Loretta Young, her performance earning a resounding round of applause.

He watched as Lila began greeting guests, her smile befitting a queen receiving loyal subjects. Finally, she saw him and started toward him looking very different than the day they'd met. Lila had attracted him from the first moment. He remembered her as beautiful and business-like, her ruffled lace collar the only feminine concession to her blue pinstripe dress. Now, her golden tresses flowed in synchronous waves, framing her face and highlighting her hazel eyes. And the neckline of her gown left absolutely no doubt of her femininity. Inadvertently, his heart began thumping like a drugged race horse on a very hot day.