Their dinner consisted of salad with cornbread on the side. Presley only ate a few bites of the bread—it was delicious—but she felt guilty afterward.
“I need to get some exercise,” she told her aunt as they washed the dishes. “Once we’re through here, I think I’ll go for a run.”
Aunt Violet looked alarmed. “You can’t run alone in the dark! We might have a murderer in Haggerty!”
Presley laughed. “If the person who murdered our skeleton is still alive, I think I can outrun them.”
“Still, I wish you wouldn’t go alone,” her aunt fretted. “I could call Mac.”
“Do not call Mac.” Presley was firm. “I’ll just run up the road a couple miles. It won’t take long. And I have a gun.”
“If you must run, I’m going to have to insist that you go to the track at the high school.” Aunt Violet could be firm too. “It’s lighted until midnight, and there’s a road that runs by it, so you won’t be completely alone.”
Presley decided to accept these terms rather than fight with her aunt. “Tell me how to get there.”
* * *
After Presley changed into sweats and her running shoes, Aunt Violet gave her the keys to the Honda. “It’s parked under a carport on Cecelia’s end of the building.”
“Thanks,” Presley said as she hurried outside.
She spent a few minutes familiarizing herself with the Honda and then drove to the high school. It wasn’t far, and she found the well-lit football stadium without any problem. She jogged out to the track that circled the field and did a few stretches. Then she took off running at a steady pace.
She took deep breaths of moist, fragrant air. Her legs felt strong, and she pushed a little harder. After two circuits she heard footsteps coming up behind her, fast.
Presley reached into the pocket of her sweatpants and wrapped her fingers around her gun. Then she spun around. Mac McIntyre was trotting toward her. His gait was long and easy, like someone who ran regularly.
“Evening,” he said as he pulled even with her. His longish auburn hair was hanging over his eyes, and he pushed it back with his hand.
She scowled and kept pace beside him. “Aunt Violet called and asked you to come?”
“Actually I called her to check for messages,” he said. “During the course of our conversation, she mentioned that you were foolishly running all alone in a town that might be harboring a murderer. I volunteered to come protect you, as any good Southern gentleman would.”
“Forgive me if I don’t swoon.” She rolled her eyes. “And be glad I didn’t shoot you.”
He laughed and picked up the pace a little. They ran in silence for a while. By the time he slowed to a cooldown trot, her lungs were burning. He came to a stop and leaned on the fence for a few minutes.
Presley forced herself to stay upright just to prove a point. When their breathing had returned to normal, he said, “Have you ever been on a football field before?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. I told you I hate football.”
He walked a few feet to a gate and opened it. Then he beckoned her to join him.
“I don’t want to go out there.”
“Please, just for a minute.”
She felt obligated since he had run with her to give Aunt Violet peace of mind. So she walked over to the gate, thinking mean thoughts about Aunt Violet with each step.
He walked to the end zone and wrapped his arms around the base of the goal posts. “Do you feel it?”
She frowned. “Feel what?”
“The energy in this place?” he whispered. “It’s like an electric charge running through me.”
“I don’t feel anything except mosquitoes.” She swatted at one of the large flying predators.
“I can hear the band playing and the crowd cheering. I can smell the hot dogs cooking on the grill and the popcorn and even the huge dill pickles.”
“I can’t hear or smell anything either.”
He turned his head up toward the floodlights. “This was a magical place on Friday nights in the fall when those lights were shining down on me.”
“Aunt Violet told me you played professionally,” she said. “It seems like you could have mentioned that earlier when we were discussing the subject.”
He sat down and rested his back against the goalpost, staring out at the field. She sat beside him, facing the stands. Their shoulders were close but not touching.
“I was afraid if I admitted my involvement in a sport you are morally opposed to, you’d say we couldn’t be friends. And I could use a friend, especially someone who isn’t from Haggerty.”
“I’ll make an exception to my no-football-player-friends rule just for you. And be glad I don’t have a rule against liars.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.
“Do you want to hear about it?”
“Only if you want to tell me,” she said.
He was quiet for a few minutes, and she wondered if he’d decided that he didn’t want to discuss his ill-fated football career. But finally he began, “So for years, football was my life. On this field, I was a hero, a king. Everyone loved me just because I could kick a ball with incredible accuracy. I never missed.”
“But then in the Super Bowl, you did miss.”
“I missed three kicks,” he corrected. “I lost the game for my team.”
“I don’t know that much about football,” she began, “since I hate it. But I think the only reason a team would kick a field goal is if they can’t score a touchdown. Isn’t that right?”
He turned to face her. “What are you saying?”
“You didn’t lose that game. You didn’t help the team win,” she conceded. “But if they had scored touchdowns, they wouldn’t have needed you to kick field goals.”
He smiled. “That doesn’t make me feel any better, but it was a nice thing to say.”
“Don’t you get tired of people holding a mistake you made in a game against you?”
“Yes, but I understand. I was born with talent and then given an opportunity that almost nobody gets—the chance to play in the pros. I wasted it. I blew it. And that’s what some people can’t forgive.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” she countered. “Even extremely talented people.”
“It’s worse than that,” he admitted. “A mistake would be hard to forgive, but the general consensus is that I threw the game. And that’s impossible to forgive.”
Presley’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t do something like that.”
“It’s hard to say what a person would or wouldn’t do under the right set of circumstances,” he hedged. “But I didn’t throw the game.”
“Still you lost everything.”
“I lost that life,” he said.
“And your wife?”
He shrugged. “She was more attached to the life than she was to me.”
“That’s why she wants a portion of your earnings,” Presley realized. “Because she thinks you’ll go back to football and make a lot of money.”
He nodded. “She won’t finalize the divorce until I sign a paper saying I won’t ever play football again. It’s her insurance against me making millions that I don’t have to share with her.”
“Doesn’t she want to marry the baby’s father?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. We don’t talk personally anymore. Everything is handled through lawyers.”
“Do you plan to play football again?”
“Naw.” He tossed his hair back from his face. “But I don’t like being forced to give up that option. And if I agree to a portion of future earnings, she’ll have a say in everything I do employment-wise. Either way she controls me.”
Presley could certainly understand his reluctance to accept either option, and she was trying to think of an appropriate response when someone yelled at them from the track.
“Hey, get off the field!”
Presley turned to see a man wearing athletic shorts and a T-Shirt with Haggerty High printed across the front in bold letters.
“You’ll kill the grass!” he added. Then he pointed toward the gate. “Out!” He watched with a scowl as Mac helped Presley to her feet and then led the way off the field.
“Evening, Phil,” Mac said as they passed the man.
The man just stared.
Once they were standing between the tow truck and Aunt Violet’s car, Presley whispered, “You know him?”
“Sure,” he returned. “He was my high school football coach.”
* * *
When Presley was alone in her bedroom, she pulled the disposable cell phone out of her purse and called Moon.
“So, are you all settled . . . somewhere?” he asked.
She wondered, not for the first time, if the phone gave him the ability to track her. “Please don’t try and figure out where I am,” she begged. “I’m trusting you with my life.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, “Nobody’s ever trusted me before. So I won’t try to find you—if you promise me that you’re safe.”
She felt weak with relief. “I’m safe.”
“And you’ll tell me if something changes?”
“Yes,” she promised. “Has anything happened with, well, you know?”
“Dr. Khan called your lawyer today,” he said softly.
Presley’s heart tightened painfully.
“He told him you’d been moved to the teaching wing and that he wouldn’t be receiving any more bills for your care. Dr. Khan mentioned the possibility that you’d been exposed to MRSA, just to keep him away.”
“And he didn’t seem suspicious?”
“No,” Moon replied. “Dr. Khan told me all the lawyer said was to make sure the nursing students knew that you were under a do-not-resuscitate order.”
Presley couldn’t control a small gasp. Even based on what she knew about the depths of Tate’s cruelty, this was a shock.
“He’s a real piece of work, that lawyer of yours.”
“Yes, he is,” she agreed softly. “I’ll be in touch, but call if anything happens.”
After turning off the phone, Presley crawled under the covers, stared at the ceiling of her new room, and cried.
* * *
The next morning Presley woke up feeling a little stiff from her run but surprising optimistic. She loved running and was determined to make it a regular part of her daily routine, which should limit future soreness. And since Tate thought she was unconscious at the hospital, she might be able to stay in Haggerty for an extended length of time. Both thoughts made her happy.
When Presley arrived downstairs, she found Loralee sitting at the kitchen table, working on a new puzzle.
“The Eiffel Tower?” Presley observed, looking over Loralee’s shoulder.
“Good morning!” the old woman greeted. “Versie had a doctor’s appointment, so her son Clifton dropped me off. I brought breakfast—buttermilk biscuits just like Miss Blanche used to make!”
Presley’s eyes followed the direction of Loralee’s pointing finger. “I’m surprised they aren’t floating off the plate.”
Loralee seemed to think this was funny. “I don’t quite have Miss Blanche’s touch,” she said around giggles. “I also brought real butter and homemade jelly.”
“Wasn’t it nice of Loralee?” Aunt Violet prompted with minimal subtlety.
“It was nice,” Presley agreed. “Thanks. But biscuits are full of carbs, and jelly is even worse.”
“Just eat half a biscuit then,” Loralee suggested as if this eliminated the problem. She stood and got a small plate down from the cupboard. After carefully slicing a biscuit in half, she put one part on the plate and slathered it with jelly. “Eat it quick before it gets cold.”
Presley took a bite of biscuit and had to admit it was heavenly. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Loralee clapped her hands in pleasure. “I knew you’d like it!”
“I love it.” Presley finished her biscuit and was contemplating the other half when there was a knock on the door. “I’ll get it,” she said. She walked up to the front of the house and, with effort, pulled the door open.
Junior Mobley was standing on the front sidewalk. He blushed crimson when he saw her.
“Can I help you?” she asked in confusion. The police were gone, the hole in the back was filled in, and the governor had canceled his visit. She could not imagine the circumstances that would have brought the funeral director’s son to their front door.
“I just wanted to check on you, ma’am,” Junior said, his blush deepening. “I felt real bad that you found that body in your backyard on your first day here in Haggerty.”
Presley had no idea how to respond to this. So she remained silent.
“I know how hard it can be to get used to a new place, and I thought I could show you around town.” His face was now an alarming shade of burgundy.
Presley opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Then a familiar voice broke the awkward silence. “Hey, Junior,” Miss Eugenia said as she charged up the sidewalk carrying Lady in a basket. Miss George Ann was trailing behind. “What brings you out so early this morning?”
“I was just offering to take Presley around town, show her where things are,” Junior stammered.
Presley turned to Miss Eugenia with wide, desperate eyes.
Miss Eugenia stepped between them, effectively shielding Presley. “Well, Junior, that is very nice and polite of you,” she told him. “But Presley is dating Mac McIntyre, so if she needs to be shown around town, Mac will take care of it.”
Presley was relieved and horrified in equal measure.
Junior took a step back. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to move in on Mac.”
“Of course you weren’t.” Miss Eugenia patted his arm. “You were just being neighborly. But now that you know Presley is already taken, you can head on back to the funeral home. And tell your daddy I said hello.”
Left with no option, Junior Mobley turned and walked quickly to the Haggerty Mortuary van that was parked near the road.
Presley stepped aside so Miss Eugenia and her entourage could enter the house. Once the door was shoved closed, she gave the older woman a grateful smile. “Thanks for your help with Junior. I didn’t know what to say.”
“That was obvious.”
“Of course, now I’ve got to figure out how to explain our ‘dating’ to Mac.”
“You should date Mac. A girl could do worse.”
Presley had no intention of listing all the reasons she could and would not date Mac McIntyre—beginning with the fact that he was still married—so she just turned and walked back to the kitchen, where Aunt Violet and Loralee were sitting.
Miss George Ann seemed to light up when she saw the new puzzle. She sat down beside Loralee and picked up an edge piece. Loralee kindly assisted her with its placement and then handed her another piece.
Miss Eugenia shook her head. “If there isn’t such a thing as puzzle therapy, then there should be. The only time George Ann doesn’t seem anxious or confused is when she’s working on a puzzle.”
“I’m glad it calms her,” Aunt Violet said.
“And thank you so much for George Ann–sitting for me again. My March of Dimes meeting would be very boring for George Ann, and well, honestly I don’t trust her to behave. So far she’s been docile, but if that changes, I don’t want it to be in front of a bunch of strangers in Albany.”
“She’ll be fine here,” Aunt Violet assured her. “We’ve got a whole closet full of puzzles and Loralee to help.”
Miss Eugenia looked relieved. “I won’t be gone too long,” she promised. Then she rushed out with Lady still in the basket on her arm.
* * *
After Miss Eugenia left, Presley asked about the agenda for the day.
“I only have one appointment, and that’s at two o’clock this afternoon,” Aunt Violet said. “This morning I need to mail out some billing statements.”
Presley raised an eyebrow. “For the clients you actually charge?”
Her aunt smiled as Cecelia walked in the back door carrying the customary box of doughnuts. “Morning, ladies!” She plopped the box down on the table, careful to avoid the Eiffel Tower. Then she turned to Presley. “I hear you and Mac are dating.”
Aunt Violet’s eyebrows shot up, and Presley groaned. “We’re not dating,” Presley assured her. “Miss Eugenia just made that up to discourage Junior Mobley, who was here to ‘show me around town.’”
“Junior Mobley.” Cecelia shuddered. “Desperate times do call for desperate measures. But it’s part of the Haggerty gossip mill now, so there’s no calling it back. By lunchtime they’ll probably have y’all engaged.”
Presley felt a little ill. “Oh, gosh.”
Cecelia laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Right after lunch they’ll remember what a trashy gold digger I am, and that story will be back on top of the gossip list.”
Presley gave her a weak smile. She was more concerned about what Mac was going to think than the Haggerty gossipers.
“You should come up with some ready replies so when you get unwanted attention from men you can take care of it,” Cecelia continued. “I know Junior won’t be the last—not the way you look.”
Presley put a hand to her ponytail self-consciously.
“And don’t think that Clark Kent disguise is working.”
Aunt Violet’s eyebrows went higher. “Clark Kent?”
Loralee giggled. “I don’t think Presley looks anything like Clark Kent.”
“I mean how she pulls her hair back in that severe ponytail, wears hideous clothes, and doesn’t put on makeup. She’s trying to hide her beauty the way Superman hid his powers. He put on a pair of ugly glasses and called himself Clark Kent. A disguise like that doesn’t work in the real world. It just makes people wonder how great you would look if you really tried.” She spoke directly to Presley. “So you might as well just accept your beauty and go with it. Let me style your hair and do your makeup. You’re like the most perfect blank canvas.”
Presley smiled nervously. “Thank you. I guess I do try to discourage men by keeping my appearance plain. I’m not very comfortable with my looks.”
Cecelia nodded. “There are worse problems than being pretty, and I’d say it’s time for you to get used to your own face. You should leave your hair down and keep it about shoulder length. And wear a little makeup—nothing garish with that porcelain skin. Give it a try and see if it doesn’t help. Men like Junior Mobley will be too intimidated to even approach you, and the braver souls, like Wyatt—well, you’re going to have to deal with them either way.”
Presley nodded. “I’ll consider your advice.”
Cecelia turned back to the door. “Okay, well, I’ll get back to my salon and share beauty secrets with paying customers for a while. Have a good day, girls!” And then she was gone like a tall, beautiful tornado.
“I hope you won’t take any of that personally,” Aunt Violet said after Cecelia was gone. “She means well.”
“She didn’t hurt my feelings,” Presley assured her.
They had a few peaceful, puzzle-working moments, and then a woman named Sue Perkins and her brother, Stan, came by to get advice from Aunt Violet with a property line issue. They appeared to be in their forties and, based on their style of dress, were simple folks, probably farmers, who didn’t get into town much.
Aunt Violet introduced them to everyone and then had them sit down at the far end of the kitchen table, away from the puzzle. She offered them each a doughnut, which they both declined. Then she asked them to explain the problem.
“You know we inherited the old home place when our parents died,” Sue began.
“Out on Rural Route 57?” Aunt Violet verified.
Sue and Stan nodded in unison.
Sue said, “We haven’t decided what to do with it yet. It’s in bad repair, and we both have our own homes. But we don’t want to sell it since it’s been in our family for so long.”
“We’ve rented the farmland, and that gives us a little income at least,” Stan inserted.
“So what’s the problem?” Aunt Violet prompted.
“The mayor is trying to push us around,” Stan said in an aggrieved tone.
“He owns a hundred acres that border the back of our land,” Sue explained. “He wants to sell it to a real estate developer, but he doesn’t have road access and apparently there’s no deal without it.”
“We only have fifteen acres, but we have road access,” Stan said.
“So he’s pressuring us to sell him four acres by the road.”
“Then he’ll turn around and sell his land for millions, and we’ll have a huge housing development right next to the farmhouse,” Stan finished.
This offended Presley’s basic sense of right and wrong. “Of course you don’t have to sell.”
Stan’s head bobbed. “That’s what I thought. This is America, land of the free. Mayor Witherspoon can’t make us do anything. But I was wrong. Since we wouldn’t sell, he’s arranged for the city to claim imminent domain, and then he can buy it from them.”
“We still lose the four acres and won’t get paid for them,” Sue said dejectedly.
“That was shrewd, if not ethical,” Presley said. “But he hasn’t won yet.”
“He’s pretty much the government in Haggerty. He has everyone on his side one way or another because he owns a lot of property and several businesses around here.”
Presley started to say something, but Aunt Violet gave her a warning look, so she remained quiet.
“I’ll check into it and give you a call when I have some advice,” Aunt Violet said.
After a few minutes of small talk, she escorted Stan and Sue out the front door.
When her aunt came back, Presley said, “I’m shocked that the mayor is using his position and money to push people around.”
“Why are you shocked?” Aunt Violet asked. “It happens all the time. I’m sure you must have seen it in Ohio.”
“Well, yes, big corporations and things like that. But to see one individual trying to take advantage of the very people he’s been elected to protect.” Presley shook her head. “It just seems so personal.”
Aunt Violet smiled. “Everything’s personal when it affects you.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’ll call around a little and see what I can find out about options. I’ll start with Wyatt. Since he’s used to handling big cases, he’ll probably have some valuable insight.”
Presley smiled, and Loralee giggled again.
Her aunt put her cell phone on speaker and placed the call to Wyatt. She explained the situation, and then they waited to hear his response. Presley expected that even someone like Wyatt, a cold-blooded corporate lawyer, would side with the Perkins in this case. But she was wrong.
Through the phone Wyatt’s voice said, “I’ve found that it’s important to pick your battles wisely and be cautious about the enemies you make because some fights are pointless. If Witherspoon wants those four acres of land, then he’s going to get them. He’s the mayor. So instead of letting the county take it from them and getting nothing, the Perkins siblings should sell it for a good price.”
Presley was incensed. “I think we should fight the imminent domain. If there’s no benefit to the city as a whole and no logical reason to seize the property—except to profit the mayor—we have a good chance of winning. I have some contacts who can advise us—”
“Your contacts are in Ohio, and that’s not going to do you a lot of good here. Trust me,” Wyatt implored. “Make a deal with the mayor. Get your clients some money. Don’t try to fight city hall. It never works—well, it rarely works. And sometimes even winning can be losing.”
Aunt Violet thanked him for his advice and ended the call. Then she turned to Presley. “Well?”
“I’d still like to try to fight it. Will you let me do some research and see what I can come up with?”
Aunt Violet nodded. “See what you can find out.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.” Presley went into her aunt’s office and worked for an hour. She called a few people and did some Internet searches. Finally she felt like she had put out enough feelers for the moment and went back to the kitchen.
“Case solved?” Aunt Violet asked.
“Not yet, but I’ve made a good start.”
“Excellent,” Aunt Violet said. “Now do you mind watching our guests while I try to generate some income?”
“I’ll be happy to do anything that will help you generate income,” Presley teased.
Laughing, Aunt Violet dragged her oxygen tank into the office.
Presley watched Miss George Ann and Loralee work the puzzle for a few minutes. Then finally she said, “Okay, Loralee, I’m ready to hear more about Blanche and DuPont.”
Loralee grinned. “Where did we leave off yesterday?”
“They were married, and old Mrs. Monroe had just left.”
Loralee closed her eyes for a few seconds, like she was searching for this particular spot in the story. Then she opened her eyes and began again. “Just after I turned fourteen, we found out that Miss Blanche was going to have a baby. It was the most exciting day of my life. But she didn’t bloom like most women do. The pregnancy aggravated her asthma, and she had to go to a special doctor in Albany, who insisted that she spend the last few months in bed. She fretted and cried a lot. She was afraid her asthma would make delivery difficult, if not impossible.
“It was a hard time. She wasn’t herself. I learned how to deal with her mood swings, but Mr. DuPont wasn’t able to handle it very well. I caught him drinking beer behind the barn on several occasions. I understood that he was under a big strain, so I didn’t let him know I saw. I just collected the beer bottles, turned them in to Mr. Pardee at the general store, and watched my nest egg grow.”
Presley laughed. “Ever resourceful!”
Miss George Ann placed a puzzle piece and reached for another one.
Loralee continued, “When it was time for the baby to be born, Miss Blanche’s doctor wanted her to come to the hospital in Albany, which was very unusual in those days. It was run by nuns—which scared the folks around here since they were all Protestant. But Mr. DuPont wanted the baby to be delivered by the specialist, so she went. She came home a couple of weeks later with the most precious little baby girl I’d ever seen. They named her Eloise.”
“Eloise,” Presley repeated. “What a beautiful name.”
Miss George Ann looked up from the puzzle. “I knew Eloise,” she said. “She was a lovely girl. She would sing in church sometimes.”
Presley wanted to encourage this moment of mental clarity. “Was she your age?”
Miss George Ann’s eyes clouded again. “I don’t know.” She looked back down at the puzzle.
Presley shrugged and turned to Loralee. “Back to your story.”
“Miss Blanche had a slow recovery from childbirth, so they asked old Mrs. Monroe to come nurse her back to health. That left me to take care of Eloise. She was the sweetest baby with the best nature. She slept through the night almost from the first. Miss Blanche gradually got her strength back and took over her mothering responsibilities, but Eloise always felt like she was partly mine.”
“Your real-live baby doll?”
Loralee nodded. “The only dark spot on this wonderful time was that the doctor said Miss Blanche couldn’t have any more children because it put too much stress on her lungs. She cried and cried about that.
“When it was time for them to move back to town for the winter, they wanted me to go with them. Miss Blanche said she couldn’t manage the baby without me, so I went. I’d never been to Albany, and I didn’t much like it. So much noise, and the neighbors were right on top of us. There were no woods or places to fish. I could tell Mr. DuPont didn’t like it either. Sometimes I would see him staring out the window, and I knew exactly what he was wishing.”
“That he was back at Orchid Cove?”
“Yes, and that’s where I wanted to be too. But spring came, and we headed home. Mr. DuPont decided that the house was too small with the new baby, so he hired some men to come and add an upstairs and a proper kitchen. Miss Blanche was so excited. The entire summer we had extra people there working on the house. When we left in the fall, it was all finished and looked pretty much the way it does now.”
“Except that it wasn’t falling down,” Presley contributed.
“Except for that,” Loralee agreed.
“So you went with them back to Albany for the winter even though you hated it the year before?”
“Miss Blanche needed me,” Loralee said simply.
“And spring came soon enough?”
“It never came soon enough,” Loralee corrected with a smile. “But it came. And so did the Depression. Miss Blanche insisted that Mr. DuPont get her more chickens, some pigs, and a milk cow. You should have seen us on that flatboat trying to keep the animals from falling off and drowning—and trying to keep that huge cow from turning the whole boat over! But we finally made it.
“Mr. DuPont set the Heinrichs to work making pens for all those animals, and Miss Blanche told me we were going to double the size of our vegetable garden, so we started weeding. It was a good summer, full of hard work and bountiful harvest and chasing chickens. Little Eloise loved to hear them screech. When the weather changed, I kept waiting for them to say it was time to pack up, but they never did. Finally I asked Miss Blanche. She said with the bad economy, they had decided to rent out their home in town to save money, and we were going to stay at Orchid Cove for the winter. It was the first time I remember crying with happiness.”
The past was safe and enticing. Presley wished she could stay there forever. “So it was your first winter here with the family.”
“It was wonderful!” Loralee whispered. “Mr. DuPont had to go into town a couple of days a week to see patients. And Blanche had no shortage of patients herself—since poor people couldn’t afford to pay a doctor and almost everyone was poor. She usually took me with her; she said I was a natural.” Loralee blushed with pleasure at the memory. “She said my knowledge of plants had prepared me.”
“So while most of the country was suffering through the Depression, the folks at Orchid Cove were doing fine?”
She nodded. “Our garden produced more than we could eat or can, so we shared the extra with neighbors or drifters who passed through looking for work. Miss Blanche provided free medical care to those who needed it. The holidays were coming, and we were all excited about celebrating at Orchid Cove. Life was perfect. And then my father got sick.”
Loralee hadn’t mentioned him in a while, and Presley had assumed he was already dead by this point in the story.
“He couldn’t stay alone, so I had to leave the family to take care of him.”
Presley felt sorry for the young Loralee. There had been so much injustice in her life already; although, she didn’t seem to feel sorry for herself. It wasn’t fair that she was required to leave the family she loved right at Christmas and take care of the man who hadn’t done the same for her. “That must have been hard.”
“It was my duty, but you’re right. Being away from the family was hard, and being with my father was even harder. He was mean anyway, and the sickness just made it worse. Mr. DuPont came every few days to check on us. There wasn’t much he could do except give my father something for the pain. The medicine made him sleep, and that made things easier for me.”
“You must have missed your life at Orchid Cove.”
“Of course I did. I missed Miss Blanche and Eloise and even nursing poor sick folks. Just after Christmas my father died. Mr. DuPont arranged for the funeral and even paid the cost. Miss Blanche didn’t want me to stay at the old cabin alone at night. She was scared for me and thought it wasn’t proper. She offered to let me move into the big house. She said Mr. DuPont would make a room for me upstairs. But I didn’t want to give up my own home.”
“It seems perfectly reasonable that you would want to keep your independence,” Presley said.
“It was more that I didn’t want to forget I wasn’t really one of them,” she said softly. “I loved them and they loved me, but I was a Puckett. I was afraid if I moved into their house, I wouldn’t remember that.”
She looked tired again, and Presley felt instant guilt. “I’ve worn you out. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions.”
“No, I love talking about the past, but it does take a lot out of me sometimes.”
Aunt Violet walked in, followed closely by Miss Eugenia.
“You’ll be happy to know I’ve finished with the monthly statements,” Aunt Violet told Presley. “Have you girls had a good visit?”
Presley nodded. “Loralee’s been telling me some more about Blanche and DuPont.” She turned to Miss Eugenia. “And Miss George Ann remembered their daughter, Eloise.”
Miss Eugenia’s eyes widened. “She did?”
“Just for a second.” Presley tried to limit expectations. “But she said she remembered Eloise and that she was a lovely girl who used to sing at church.”
Miss Eugenia considered this. “Well, that is all true. Maybe George Ann is just going through a spell and will snap out of it soon.”
“Or maybe the medicine the doctor gave her is helping?” Aunt Violet suggested.
Presley looked at Miss George Ann, methodically trying to fit a puzzle piece into each available spot. Her heart sank. It didn’t look like a passing spell to her. She was afraid that Miss George Ann would never again be the person she once was.
“It’s convenient that Loralee is here since we need to get her ideas about the skeleton,” Miss Eugenia said.
Loralee looked up. “Skeleton?”
“I’ve worn Loralee out talking about Miss Blanche,” Presley said. “Maybe she’d rather wait until another time.”
“Oh, no,” Loralee said. “I want to hear it now.”
They took turns explaining about the skeleton in the backyard and how it had come to be uncovered.
Then Miss Eugenia said, “The forensic people in Albany think she’s been dead a hundred years, give or take a few. She would have been a teenager when she died. If the dating is correct, that would have been about the time you were born, so you may not have known the girl personally, but we’re wondering if you heard about a girl who died and was buried out here.” She pointed toward the backyard.
“There is a hole in the back of her skull, so she was probably murdered,” Presley added.
Loralee sat very still for a few seconds, and then she said, “I only know of one teenage girl who died around here. It happened when I was sixteen though, so it would have been about eighty-four years ago not a hundred.”
“The hundred-year figure was an estimate,” Presley said. “Who died eighty-four years ago?”
“Irma Heinrich,” she said, “the daughter of the couple Mr. DuPont hired to help run Orchid Cove. They had a house on the far corner of the property.” Her eyes strayed to the kitchen window. “Which I guess would have been just right out here.”
“What do you remember about Irma’s death?”
“Nothing really,” Loralee said. “Peter told us she got sick and died. She was buried before we knew anything about it.”
“Maybe the skeleton wasn’t Irma,” Miss Eugenia said. “The hole in the back of the skull indicates that she was a murder victim not someone who died of natural causes.”
“Did the skeleton have two toes missing?” Loralee asked.
They all turned to her.
“Yes,” Presley said. “The funeral director thought the missing bones might have been carried off by animals.”
Loralee shook her head. “Irma lost two toes when she was thirteen. She was chopping wood and dropped an axe on her foot.”
“Well, it was Irma then,” Miss Eugenia said.
Presley nodded. “And she didn’t die of a sickness.”
Aunt Violet shook her head. “If she was hurt, even if they were pretty sure she was already dead, surely they would have tried to save her. It doesn’t make sense that they didn’t call Blanche or DuPont over to see about her.”
“Yes, it does,” Loralee said quietly. “Miss Blanche was going to have another baby, and this time her pregnancy was even worse than before. She had Liam just a few days before Irma died. Miss Blanche couldn’t come, and Mr. DuPont wouldn’t have left her—even to save a girl’s life.”
Miss Eugenia nodded. “Okay, so that’s why they didn’t ask the Armstrongs for help, but why did Peter tell you his sister died from a sickness when she obviously didn’t?”
“I hate to speak ill of the dead,” Loralee prefaced her remarks, “but Irma was not a good person. She was vain and silly and lazy. And those weren’t even her bad qualities. She was also a liar and a thief, and well, she didn’t have morals. Everybody liked Peter and his parents. But not Irma.”
Aunt Violet frowned. “Did anyone dislike her enough to kill her?”
“I don’t know. There were a lot of rumors, but I didn’t know whether to believe them and Miss Blanche absolutely would not discuss it.”
“What rumors did you hear?” Miss Eugenia asked.
“That she would dress up skimpy and go to bars in Albany on weekends. Could be one of the fellows she dated got mad at her. Or . . .”
“Or?” Presley prompted.
“Her daddy might have gotten sick of her trashy behavior.”
Presley tried to hide her shock. “You think her father might have killed her?”
“Maybe,” Loralee said thoughtfully. “Back then a girl acting the way she did wasn’t something people overlooked. It could have cost her parents their jobs and their home.”
“Very serious, especially for German immigrants during the Depression,” Miss Eugenia murmured.
“And there was always the risk of pregnancy,” Presley said.
Aunt Violet nodded. “The community wouldn’t have been able to accept an unwed mother and her baby living here. No matter how Christian Blanche was, she wouldn’t have had much choice but to fire the Heinrichs—which would have left them homeless and destitute.”
“So the situation could have been very desperate.” Presley was bonding with this idea. “If she told her parents she was pregnant, the father might have been enraged, fueled by fear and frustration. He might have hit her or pushed her or somehow caused that fatal wound on the back of her head.”
“If that’s true,” Aunt Violet stressed. “We’re getting very far afield from the facts.”
“We can ask the forensic people in Atlanta to look through the soil they collected for evidence of an unborn baby,” Miss Eugenia suggested.
Aunt Violet frowned. “It’s unlikely they’ll be able to find anything. The bones of a fetus in the early weeks would be tiny, and after eighty-four years, it’s hard to imagine there would be anything left.”
“It’s worth a try,” Miss Eugenia insisted. “I’ll ask Mark.”
Presley turned to Loralee. “You knew the Heinrichs. Did the father seem like the kind of man who could get so mad at his daughter that he might kill her, even by mistake?”
Loralee considered this carefully. “I rarely saw Mr. Heinrich lose his temper. But Irma had a way about her—sassy and disrespectful. If her parents were trying to correct her about anything, even just the company she kept, I can see her refusing to listen. And I can see how that might have pushed her father to violence.”
“It might not have been her father. We have to look for other suspects, and we have to find some facts,” Aunt Violet urged them.
“How will we find facts?” Miss Eugenia asked. “Loralee’s the only person who was living then, and this is all she knows.”
“What about records?” Presley asked. “Newspaper records? Church records? Police records?”
“I can check around,” Miss Eugenia said. “But I don’t hold out much hope. Back then newspapers didn’t sensationalize everything the way they do now. There may have been a short obituary in the paper, but it wouldn’t have any details. Since she was buried out here, in what must have been the Heinrich’s backyard, there wouldn’t be any cemetery records. Or church records, either, if there was no funeral.”
Presley nodded. “It’s certainly going to be a challenge, but maybe we can think of another way to find out information about Irma and her death.”
Loralee reached over and put her hand on Presley’s arm. “I’m sorry to interrupt your investigation, but I really am feeling tired now. Would you take me home?”
“Of course,” Presley promised anxiously. “That is if Aunt Violet will let me use her car again?”
Aunt Violet nodded. “Consider that car yours until you get your own back.”
All the way out to the Honda, Presley was chastising herself. They shouldn’t have involved Loralee in the unpleasant topic of Irma and her death—not when the old woman was already tired.
Loralee was quiet all the way home. As they walked slowly up the brick pathway toward the little cottage, Presley felt that an apology was in order. “I’m sorry for all that talk about Irma,” she said. “She was a real person to you, and we should have realized it would be hard for you to talk about something so sad.”
“Irma’s death doesn’t make me sad,” she said. “I told you I didn’t even like her. I just get tired easy.”
Presley was thankful when Versie opened the door. At least she wouldn’t have to leave Loralee there alone.
“We wore her out talking about the past,” Presley told the sitter.
“She’ll be good as new after she rests awhile,” Versie said. “Don’t you worry about Miss Loralee.”
* * *
On the way back through town, Presley passed the Haggerty police station and decided to go in. She wanted to talk to Chief Jones about Stan and Sue Perkins and their property disagreement with Mayor Witherspoon.
She walked into the dingy, cinderblock building and up to the desk where the receptionist was sitting. Then she asked to speak to Chief Jones.
The receptionist had on garish makeup, including long, fake eyelashes. Her features were so exaggerated that Presley felt like she was looking at a caricature instead of a real person.
“And you are?” the woman demanded impatiently.
“Presley DeGraff. I’m Violet Newberry’s niece . . .”
“Oh my gosh!” The woman stood abruptly, overturning her chair in the process. Then she punched a button on the phone console. “Chief! They found more bodies at Miss Violet’s house!”
“No,” Presley corrected. “I came about something else.”
The receptionist batted her fake eyelashes. “What?”
But Chief Jones was already trotting down the hall. “More bodies?” he gasped. His eyes were filled with something very much like terror.
“No!” Presley insisted. “We didn’t find any more skeletons.”
He sagged against the wall. “Thank goodness. Because I’m quitting if the governor threatens to come here again.”
Presley smiled. “I’m sorry I upset you. There was a little . . . misunderstanding.” She shot the receptionist an annoyed look.
“So what can I do for you?” Winston’s voice sounded stronger, but he was still pale.
“Could I speak to you privately for just a minute?” Presley asked.
He nodded and led the way down the hall to a small office with glass windows on two sides. He pointed to a chair in front of the desk, and Presley sat down. Then she told him about the Perkins siblings and her plan to fight the imminent domain threat made by the mayor.
He listened closely, and when she was finished, he advised her against it. “You don’t want to take on Mayor Witherspoon,” he said. “The mayor is used to getting his way, and he can make real trouble for you and your aunt if you step between him and this little strip of property he wants so bad.”
“You’re saying these people have to sell him part of their land even though they don’t want to? Just because a rich man says so? That goes against everything I believe about law and justice and the American way.”’
Winston smiled ruefully. “You’re young and idealistic. After you’ve been practicing law here a little while, you’ll see it doesn’t have that much to do with justice. And rich people getting what they want at the poor man’s expense has always been the American way.”
She stood. “I disagree with you, Chief.”
“Now that’s one good thing about our system of government. You are entitled to disagree with me.” He sat up straight in his chair. “My advice is for you to work out some kind of compromise that makes everyone happy.”
“And just what would make them both happy when they want opposite things?”
Winston shrugged. “That’s your job to figure out. Put all those years of law school to good use.”
She left the police station feeling annoyed and disillusioned. Apparently she could expect no help from Chief Jones.
Distracted by her concerns for Loralee and her disappointment with Winston Jones, Presley didn’t notice that her aunt’s Honda had overheated until the engine shut itself off to prevent irreparable damage. For a few seconds she was paralyzed. She stared at the dashboard’s flashing red lights and dire warnings without comprehension. Finally common sense kicked in, and she guided the car off the road and onto the shoulder.
She rested her forearms on the steering wheel and marveled at this catastrophic turn of events. Surely, even by her standards, this was too much bad luck in a short period of time. After investing a few minutes in self-pity, she climbed out of the car and propped the hood—her signal for “every car I drive breaks down.”
She considered leaving the car and walking back to Aunt Violet’s, but the Honda was too close to the road for comfort, and a wrecked car was worse than one that wouldn’t start. It occurred to her that the time she’d spent on the side of the road may have allowed the engine to cool, thus enabling her to start it and at least get home. With this hope, she turned the key in the ignition. Nothing.
So, left with no recourse yet again, she called her aunt and asked her to have Mac come tow the car.