Chapter 6

After lunch, Tuesday, April 12

“Elsie, Mr. Riggins at the Historical Society is going to be in his office all afternoon. You interested in visiting over there?” Mattie had been flipping pages in a new Homes and Garden magazine, and the pictures of a renovated farmhouse reminded her of the old sketch. “I’m not sure Kate has thought about it any more.”

It was several weeks since the discovery. Kate had been busy with work, in between moving and unpacking. Mattie and Elsie had kept their curiosity about the plat to themselves for a while. As they drove into town later, they discussed where to look in the historical records. Mr. Riggins would help, if he was in a good mood. Sometimes he could be abrupt, engrossed in a project of his own; they’d need to word their requests “just so” to get useful information from the elderly genealogist.

The Historical Society occupied a double storefront just a block from the courthouse. A former dress shop on one side was connected by a large archway in the center of the building to the shoe store on the other. The property had been gladly donated for a tax write-off when the elderly owners retired to Florida.

The Dalton County Genealogical Society used about a third of the building, a logical fit since many county records served both groups. Maps, antique posters, and meeting notices nearly obscured the actual glass store windows. Changed infrequently, the displays had become a local landmark. Newcomers were simply told to look for “the map building.”

The historical records occupied the back of the brick building, and the Society’s only paid staffer kept a log of who was browsing what. Volunteers helped visitors find family information, deed books, probate records, etc. Visitors were discouraged from helping themselves, considering the condition of the oldest materials.

Joseph Wells Riggins was a walking history book. As the initiator and founder of the society, he was fiercely protective of what he considered “his” records. Still, a little soft soap went a long way with him, and if you asked the right question (one that interested him), a tremendous amount of information was usually forthcoming. The trick was finding just the right question.

Fortunately, this sunny afternoon found Mr. Riggins (no-one ever called him by his first name) in a good frame of mind. He’d had a pleasant morning, one where few people came in, and those who did were appropriately respectful. Mattie and Elsie adopted the proper gratitude in advance, inquired as to his health, and after an abbreviated chat, Mattie asked their carefully thought-out initial question.

“Have you ever heard of Jenson’s Branch, Mr. Riggins? My daughter-in-law came across a reference to a Jenson’s Branch in an old sketch several weeks ago, and we wondered where that might be. Of course, Jensen’s Creek borders my late husband’s family land, so we were curious.”

“Of course, the Elliott land. Went back to Revolutionary days, as I recall. Ummmm, let’s see now,” he pulled out a plat book from a lower shelf. The heavy leather cover was stained and the oversize pages had degraded to a mottled light brown. The first pages gave the date ranges, 1840 to 1850.

“My, but that’s quite old,” Elsie whispered. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to speak aloud in the presence of such venerable records.

“Well, not so old as all that, you know,” Mr. Riggins replied with a sniff. “Some of our more delicate materials are kept under lock and key, but we should be able to locate something in this volume.” He quickly turned to the page he sought. “Yes, indeed. Here we are,” he pointed to a handwritten notation, flowery quill penmanship delineating the ownership of a parcel of land.

“This section seems to be what you’re looking for, Miss Mattie. Jenson Branch, it was called back then, to differentiate, you see. There was a Jenson River in the southern part of the county at one time, then it was renamed to Grant’s River in the carpet-bagger years, and Lee’s River later on, but of course you’re probably aware of that history.” They hadn’t been aware of it, actually.

“However, before all that, Jenson’s Creek as we know it today, was called Jenson Branch. The spelling alternates quite a bit in these old books, deeds, plats and such. Same water, though.”

Mattie and Elsie looked at each other. The plat began to make more sense. They tried to think. What other question might be appropriate, that Mr. Riggins would be inclined to answer?

“Did you ever hear of someone owning, perhaps deeding, a very small parcel of land, oh, only 100 or so feet on a side, that backed up to Jenson’s Creek, Mr. Riggins?” Elsie knew she had worded the question awkwardly, but it was hard to try to explain why they wanted to know.

“One hundred feet, you say? That sounds more like a graveyard, I’d think, Miss Elsie. What are you two ladies up to?” He smiled, his interest piqued. “Perhaps if I knew a little bit more about this sketch?”

Taking a deep breath, Mattie considered how little they themselves knew. “Would you mind if we bring the sketch in for you to see, Mr. Riggins? It doesn’t truly belong to me, you see, it belongs to Kate, and I would like her to come back with us. If we could call you back for an appointment?” Mattie smiled.

“Certainly, certainly, Miss Mattie.” They thanked him courteously, he bid the two ladies “adieu,” and they left him humming a little tune as he carefully replaced the plat book on its proper shelf.

A graveyard, Mattie thought as she cranked up the engine. That would indeed explain the small size. Perhaps on Elliott land — well, except that it wasn’t Elliott land any more. Remembering the date on the little plat, 1813, it occurred to Mattie what that would mean. Who would need a burial site in 1813? A Revolutionary era person, possibly the landowner. Maybe one of Whit’s ancestors.

Turning toward Kate’s condominium, Mattie didn’t even suggest going back to the Villas. Mattie didn’t usually have to prepare a conversation in advance with Kate, but now she tried to find words that would stir up an interest in Kate for this project.

Chapter 5

Three weeks later, April 4

“Hey, mom.” Jamie came through the door just as Kate was taking a dish out of the microwave.

“Hey yourself,” Kate answered. “Want some eggplant casserole?” She didn’t think he would, and he didn’t. “No thanks, Mom.” If he’d let her know he was dropping by, she would have prepared meat of some kind.

“I thought I’d do some laundry, if you aren’t using the washer tonight.”

“Sure. How about a sandwich?”

“Okay.” Jamie lugged his pillowcase of dirty clothes down the hall and in a few minutes she heard him turn on the washer. As they sat down at the kitchen table, he with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, they bowed for a simple blessing of the meal, then both tiredly began to eat.

“What’s up at school, son?” Kate knew he was doing well in his classes, but she liked to hear him describe the teachers, other students, anything in particular that he was enjoying about college life.

“Same old, same old, that’s about all. But something kind of interesting did come up at work today.” He took a long drink of milk before continuing. “Looks like somebody is going to build on grandaddy’s place.”

Jamie proceeded to tell her about a site plan he’d seen in the country planning office earlier. “Johnson Developers. You ever heard of them?”

“I’m not sure. What kind of building?” Kate was making conversation, but she was achy with tiredness and it was an effort.

“Houses, I guess.”

“Well, it’s a good location.” All the land out that way was appreciating in value, Kate knew. She regretted that the land had passed out of the Elliott family, but Mattie had needed the money. Holding onto the property for sentimental reasons had never been an option. The little sketch in the old Bible and her promise to Mattie suddenly came to her mind. Kate firmly pushed it back down.

Chapter 4

Kate felt guilty to be glad Mattie and Elsie had finally left. The house was still a mess, but at least it was more of an organized mess than before. She was annoyed at herself for promising to follow-up on that map, or whatever it was. Well, they’ll forget it in a few days, hopefully. A gnawing twinge in her stomach reminded her of the time. Glancing in the nearly empty shelves of the refrigerator, then at her watch, she made a quick decision. Grocery store first, then supper.

A lot of other people seemed to have the same idea, Kate thought as she yanked a shopping cart from the rack. She’d had to park towards the back of the parking lot. Her list wasn’t long, milk, bread, cereal, fruit, sandwich fixings. She was picking through the display of supposedly fresh bananas when she heard the clang of metal on metal.

“Oh, please excuse me.” Startled at the voice so close, Kate glanced up to see the serious face of a man whose cart had collided with hers. He seemed so apologetic at the infraction that she quickly responded.

“That’s all right, no harm done.” His cart contained a head of lettuce, two tomatoes, a stalk of celery and a bunch of spring onions. Her own held a bag of red delicious apples, two grapefruit and a container of fresh strawberries, so far. She tugged her cart a little closer to her side. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed him making his way down the aisle a little, then saw him stop and turn back towards her.

“Would you happen to know which aisle the salad dressing is on?” Kate’s first thought was to just shake her head, but he still seemed so serious, not flirty or pushy.

“I believe it’s just down this same row a little way.” Kate found herself asking, “Is this your first visit to this store?”

“I’m afraid so. The corner market near my apartment seems a little short on produce, a little high on prices…”

Kate noticed the notepad in his hand. He was shopping with a list, unusual in a man, she thought.

“Do you always shop here? Find everything you need? Of course, that’s none of my business, is it.” His brow had been almost scowling, but a tiny smile lightened his countenance as he spoke.

He’s just being friendly, Kate thought. “Well, if you like day-old fruit and overripe vegetables, it’s okay. I don’t always find everything here, but the prices are pretty good. I usually rotate between here and the Supersaver, actually.”

“I might have to try that next. I’m sorry to be holding you up. My name’s Carter Davison. Thanks for your help.” He smiled a little broader and turned his shopping buggy in the direction of the salad dressing.

Nice smile, Kate thought to herself. It changes his whole face.

“I’m Kate Elliott, Mr. Davison. You’re not holding me up. These too-yellow bananas were doing that…”

Chapter 3

Mark Johnson, Developer

“What’s the hold-up, Mark? You know how long it’ll take the get the house like I — like we want. School will be starting again before we get in it, as it is!”

“Donna, you’ve got no earthly idea what it takes to get a subdivision laid out, much less a house built like you want it. You want to drive in there, or you planning to helicopter in?” He was fed up with her harping on that house. As if this house wasn’t good enough for all our so-called friends, he thought. But no, now they had to have a bigger house, on a bigger lot, fancier furniture, even a gardener, for God’s sake. That’s all he’d heard about since he made the mistake of mentioning Elliott Pointe to her.

Tall, square shouldered and solid with hazel eyes and sandy brown hair, Mark Johnson looked the part of a successful contractor, which he was. Everywhere but at home, he was respected and liked. Only listening with one ear, he felt his stomach burn as he gulped his hot coffee. Lately he’d taken to skipping breakfast at home, preferring the cheerful noise of the diner near his office.

Mark’s father Wilbur had made a good living with an old-fashioned hardware store, with pot-belly stoves and hurricane lamps, plumbing supplies, you name it. Wilbur Johnson and Whit Elliott had built the business from scratch many years ago.

Mark’s mom had departed for “greener grass” some years back, taking his teenage brother with her and leaving the grown Mark to keep an eye on his father. Sarah Anne Johnson had wanted to “find herself.” Mid-life crisis. Menopause. Whatever it was, Wilbur was too tired to fight it. She seemed to be doing fine up in North Carolina, keeping her new husband on the road a lot in the summertime. With his pension and their motor home, they lived like nomads. Some days Mark envied his mother. This was definitely one of those days.

“I know what that land is worth, Mark. The bank’ll fall all over you giving you a bigger loan if you need it, so just what is the problem?” Donna stood against the kitchen counter, one hip thrust outward and a tanned arm draped across the countertop, as if posing.

That land, Mark thought. As if all it took was snap your fingers and just like that, all done, streets, houses, everything. She had no concept at all, he thought again, and tried to keep his temper.

Whit Elliott had keeled over in back of the store, dying from a massive stroke within a few hours. Wilbur Johnson had grieved right along with Whit’s family and scraped together the money to give Whit’s widow a fair market price for her share of the store and land. Except for the store and parking lot, the land just sat there, grown up in scrub pines and oaks. A couple of years of hard work later, Wilbur’s heart acted up. You got to retire, the doctor said. Wilbur grumbled for a few months before selling the business. He held on to the land. It just didn’t seem right to sell the Elliott land, and the hardware store sure didn’t need it. When Wilbur died a year later, he left some cash, some life insurance, the house Mark had grown up in, and the Elliott land.

Over the years, Mark Johnson had worked long hours, sweated right along with his crew, saved and borrowed, until the business occupied nearly a city block close to the center of Dalton. Johnson Construction and Development had grown into a successful, well-run company. Everyone one in town knew that. What most people didn’t know was how much competition there was in the building business now. It meant cutting costs without getting into trouble. Subcontractors were getting picky about who they’d plumb for, or sheetrock for, or pour cement for. It all boiled down to the bottom line for everybody.

Elliott Pointe had seemed like an excellent idea. Several condominium blocks, patio homes and mini-estates on the water with docks for canoes, it would offer something for everyone. The 135-acre Elliott property extending back to Jensen’s creek was a perfect location, and in the real estate business the three keys to success are location, location, and location.

Mark had sunk a sizeable amount of his own money into it. The county council had adopted the idea, investors had leaped at the idea, and the construction would be a boost to the Dalton county economy. It just wasn’t easy to implement. There seemed to be no end of needed permits. Site plans kept having to be re-drawn. Percolation tests. Wetlands — the government! Flood plains. Geological surveys. There were always more costs, more delays. And Donna. He never should have told her about it.

She had immediately wanted the first estate home, but she wanted it with a circular driveway, big columns and a tennis court. Mark had tried to describe what he had in mind, but everything he said went in one ear and out the other.

“We can certainly afford it,” she stubbornly insisted. “God knows we’re entitled. The girls and I put up with your long hours enough to get something nice out of it.”

Donna was beautiful when she was pleased with things, Mark had to admit. She kept herself up. Her skin was still flawless, her long hair still golden and silky. She worked at maintaining her looks. And she worked at maintaining the proper social standing in the community. Pretty blonds like their mother, tall and slender, the girls would be real beauties. Mark shuddered to think about the expense of raising teenage girls in the style Donna wanted.

“You have to find a way to speed up this development process.”

“I’m working on it, Donna. We’ll build the house when we can build it! Maybe in a year or so. Don’t you get it?” There was no reply, just a weighted silence.

Mark was glad she didn’t say anything more. He still loved Donna, he supposed, but she was getting harder to put up with. As he pushed open the side door with his elbow, coffee mug in one hand and a sheaf of reports in the other, he was wondering how much more of her he could take.

***

Donna Mattison Johnson

Donna got it, all right. For once she kept her mouth shut, but in her mind she was saying, you can keep dragging your feet if you want to, but you are going to find a way and it’s not going to take a year, either. Jason won’t wait another year…

Donna had married “beneath her raising.” She had fallen head over heels in love with the handsome Mark and had pitched a fit until her parents agreed to their marriage. As the years went by, Donna did all she could to help Mark succeed. That is, to make him fit the mold of the perfect husband, befitting one of her standing in the community. She looked for subtle chances to remind Mark that her family roots went back to before the Revolution, and thus she and the girls deserved — whatever it was she wanted at the moment. It had not been a particularly successful campaign. Thus Donna had begun the covert search for a replacement. Jason Harrell was perfect husband material, everything Mark wasn’t, but he was growing inpatient at waiting. He didn’t quite understand about her new house.

In recent months Donna had concentrated on making her twin daughters the best at everything. It was a trifle expensive. Today her pressing need was ready cash. Mark wouldn’t be forthcoming, and Daddy was keeping a firmer grip on his wallet these days, due no doubt to the fact that her mother was so level-headed.

She waited until she knew her father would be settled in his office with a second cup of coffee, then crossing her fingers mentally, she dialed his private number. Those new outfits would give the girls just the right edge at ballet school. He answered on the second ring.

“Baby, it’s your husband’s place to pay for vacation trips, not mine.”

“Oh, this isn’t a vacation, Daddy, it’s just a couple of days and one night, and the girls are so looking forward to some new ballet shoes. You can give your only grandbabies a little spending money, can’t you?”

Donna sat on the edge of Mark’s desk, her foot kicking the back of his leather chair. Her crossed legs were clad in the latest shade of honey-gold, slacks color coordinated with her hair. The pads of her fingers thrummed on the desk top; she glanced down at her hands, careful not to chip her new metallic peach nail polish.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on tweedling daddy into parting with a few bucks “for the girls.” She was good at tweedling Daddy; it was one of her best talents. Of course, it worked best in person, but today she didn’t want to take the time. Or the risk.

“I’m just stretched out here on the sofa thinking about you, Daddy. I’m wearing your favorite color today, hot pink, from the bare skin on out. I used that magnolia body lotion you gave me after a long soak in the tub, too. I brushed my hair hundreds of strokes this morning, too, the way you used to do for me, remember? Wish I could come over, but I know you’re busy…” She let her voice trail off to a breathless whisper.

Donna could almost hear her father thinking on the other end of the phone. There was the sound of a deep sigh, a slight pause before he responded.

“Baby doll, the girls surely don’t need New York fashions to play dress-up in.” Unfortunately, Daddy and Mark agreed on this particular thing. Ballet for the twins was just playing dress-up. Relaxing her jaw again, Donna forced a low, nonchalant smile into her voice.

“You can tell how important this is to me, Daddy.” Donna softly described just why he should indulge her this favor until he promised an advance on her birthday.

“Donna, please don’t ask for something else next week. You know how your mother is…”

“Umm hmmm, thanks ever so much, sweet sweet Daddy!” Donna pursed her lips and smacked him a kiss over the phone, then hung up the receiver with a gratified smile. Glancing at her makeup in the hall mirror, she smoothed the wrinkles in her slacks and headed up the stairs, planning what to pack for a weekend in New York.

Chapter 2

Lee Carter Davison, Investigator

The whole department needed housecleaning. Carter found himself looking at everything with a critical eye as he distributed his meager personal possessions into the battered metal desk. His desk was jammed between one scarred file cabinet and a bulging set of shelves in what once served as a storage room. The whole courthouse was cramped for space. The sheriff’s department occupied the third floor, city police the first floor, and the jails divided up the second floor. City and county courtrooms were squeezed into the two top floors with the water
department and assorted administrative personnel.

Carter was grateful to have a private office, no longer sharing one single desk with two other people. He tried the wobbly swivel chair for a few minutes, vowed to spend some of his own money on a replacement the first chance he got, and switched to a folding chair for the morning.

Lee Carter Davison was a “local boy,” although he hadn’t thought of himself like that for some time. At age thirty-eight he’d been in law enforcement of one kind or another most of his life, starting as a junior deputy in the 8th grade. In high school he’d joined the Navy ROTC and thrived on the discipline, unlike his peers who seemed to thrive on the opposite of discipline.

The Navy had been his means of getting a college education. When it came time to select a specific area of training, the intelligence field appealed to him. The next few years were spent assigned to posts around the globe. The work was interesting, but after a long while Carter began to look towards home. When the next assignment would have attached him to an embassy in the Far East, he requested retirement instead and came home to the States, and to Dalton.

A short vacation later, Carter made an appointment with Dalton County Sheriff Tommy Fitzsimmons. Chronically frustrated by a shortage of training funds for his department, Tommy knew Carter’s credentials would be a dream come true, except for one problem. There was no money to pay him.

Over several lunches, they devised a temporary solution. A volunteer, unpaid advisory position would be created for Carter. He could afford not being on salary for a while. The two made a good team. Tommy’s affable smile and southern drawl disguised a keen and suspicious mind, while Carter’s unassuming courtesy never missed the smallest detail, and he saw — almost felt — things that even career investigators overlooked. His value to the county was proved in a few short months, and Tommy’s temporary advisor became a permanent employee in his own, fully-budgeted position the first of the next fiscal year.

Carter was dark where Tommy was fair, hazel eyes and brown hair with a hint of a wave, cut in an executive business style. Skin that never burned, weight maintained to within a couple of pounds of his Navy days, and business suits tailored to look ordinary, caused people to underestimate Carter as just another small-town cop. These days the other officers felt they’d known him all their lives. They tended to forget he’d ever had another life, which was okay with
him.

The department wives kept trying to fix Carter up with a nice girl. He’d found it hard to get close to any of their well-meaning blind dates. Current events to them usually meant what movie was playing, who had recently gotten married, bought a house or had a baby. Current events to Carter meant world or national politics, which country was in the midst of a revolution, or the value of the dollar against the yen. His last serious attachment had been overseas. It had ended amicably enough; he was content to be single a while longer.

The first week of Carter’s paid employment had been assigned to studying cold cases. After settling in, scrounging in the break room for a clean coffee mug and filling it from the almost fresh brewed pot, he spent an hour or so browsing through the files before selecting several intriguing murder cases. He began creating a spreadsheet on each one, details to be transferred later into a computer database at home. Making meticulous notes as he went of questions to ask and people to see, Carter began his usual thorough, painstaking process of
investigation.

***

“Tommy, you got a minute?” Carter stood in the doorway of Tommy’s office.

“What’s up? Had a good morning so far?” Tommy was hanging up the phone. “Push something off a chair and have a seat.”

“I went through the last seven years worth. If you don’t have lunch plans, how about we get a sandwich and let me run these by you. Maybe you’ll remember something about one of these cases.”

Before Carter got the last sentence out of his mouth, Tommy was on his feet, headed for the door. “Best invitation I’ve had all day.”

They turned toward the stairs. The elevator had always been so slow that the cement steps on their end of the building were worn down from use.

Carter couldn’t think of anything he’d rather drink with a meal than sweet iced tea. Of course, many places overseas you couldn’t even get ice, so forget it. But it wasn’t just a preference for cold tea, it was the southern lifestyle that sweet iced tea conjured up.

The waitress at the diner had quickly learned his preferences. As soon as she saw them come in the door, she prepared two large glasses of sweet iced tea for Carter, a cup of coffee with cream and sugar for Tommy. Carter drank a third of his first glass down and sat back, relaxing. Dalton was beginning to feel like home again. Tommy added cream to his coffee mug, blew on the surface to cool it a little, then sipped before reaching for the sugar dispenser.

The front of the Downtown Diner was a for-real railroad passenger car from the 1930’s. Somewhat dilapidated when the owner bought it, he’d restored one side for the front and added on to the other to create a dining room and kitchen, leaving the rail car, windows and all, for a long bar with stools across the back and tables across the windowed front. Antique political posters competed with railroad paraphernalia for decorations. Real southern fried chicken, collard greens and okra, chicken bog and beef stew were staples on the menu, right along with mashed potatoes made from potatoes, not a mix, authentic butter and buttermilk.

“So, what did you decide on, Carter? Some of those cases were cut and dried, we just didn’t have enough to win in court, even knowing pretty well who was responsible. But there were a few I thought might get your juices flowing.” The waitress reappeared with her pad and pencil. They studied the one-page mimeographed menu for a moment and placed their orders before continuing their discussion.

“There was one that seemed unusual for a town like Dalton, actually. Technically it was a city police case. I was surprised to find it in your batch.” Carter looked up to see a twinkle in Tommy’s eye. “Evelyn Wright?”

“I had a hunch you’d like that one. Both departments worked on that case, we were all so short-handed back then. You’re right about the unusual part. Evelyn was one of those quiet girls, okay but not outstanding, you know?” The waitress set their plates in front of them and checked the level in the coffee carafe. Tommy waited until she walked away to continue.

“She lived with her parents over on Elm Drive. It was just three blocks, so she walked back and forth. She was saving up to buy a car according to her folks.” He paused to pick up his cheeseburger for a bite.

Carter lifted his tea glass for a swallow before asking his next question. “She was found at the bottom of the stairs in the courthouse basement. What can you tell me about that?”

“Well, that day she was the last to leave. The security guard didn’t start his rounds until a few minutes past 5:00. According to him, she was still at her desk, said she’d be leaving in a few minutes and he went on down the hall. When he came back about 5:30, she had left. Well, it’s just a ten minute walk, if that, to her house. By seven o’clock her folks were getting anxious, so they got in their car and drove the couple of blocks where she could have walked, then came on to the police department. When they kept insisting somebody look for her, the city desk sent a patrolman to look around the building, and he found her.” Tommy paused to dunk a couple of french fries in ketchup and stick them in his mouth.

“Was it obvious to the patrolman that she’d been killed, or did he think it was an accident?” Carter was writing in a pocket-size notebook, in between slicing and forking his meatloaf.

“He thought she must have fallen down the stairs, but the coroner was called in, of course. He said her neck was broken. He also said she’d have to fall down an entire flight to hit her head hard enough to break her neck, but her head wasn’t bruised. And you know what those stairs are like. You can’t fall down an entire flight on those stairs with the landing in there.” Tommy lifted his coffee mug with his left hand and took a long drink, then refilled it from the carafe.

“The problem was, who’d want to hurt Evelyn? We couldn’t actually prove it wasn’t an accident, and nobody turned up with a motive. So the case was marked down as accidental.” Tommy picked up his last french fry and swabbed it back and forth in the remaining smear of ketchup on the his plate.

Carter was alternating bites between salad, homemade mashed potatoes with real butter, and the remains of his meatloaf. He was saving his dinner roll for dessert.

“If you thought it was accidental, why did you put her file in with the unsolved cases?”

“I just knew you were going to ask that question.” Tommy signaled to the waitress that his coffee was running low again and began working on dessert. Banana pudding with meringue.

“Rumor was that Evelyn had a boyfriend. A married boyfriend, some said. One of the girls in the office had a theory that maybe Evelyn was putting a little pressure on the boyfriend to leave his wife and marry her. Nobody knew who it could be, and we never found anybody who had seen Evelyn with any man on a regular basis, much less a married man. She had a good reputation, just seemed quiet. That was how everybody described her. We had to ask her folks about a possible married boyfriend but they said they didn’t believe it. And we never found any proof of one.”

“What did she look like, Tommy? That picture in the file wasn’t much.” Taken after death, the grainy black and white photo had been washed out with no real detail.

“Oh, straight blond hair, kind of medium long, five foot three or so, 110, 115 pounds. All that’s in the file. When she smiled, it made her look real pretty. Nobody had one negative thing to say about her, unless you call quiet a negative word.”

Carter was eating the last bite of his meatloaf and tearing off a bite of dinner roll. “Vague suspicions aren’t enough to keep a case open.” His eyes looked a question at Tommy.

“Well, there was something else, not related to this case. Another case.”

Carter’s left eyebrow went up ever so slightly. “Similar?”

“Uh huh. A few years before Evelyn died. Another blond girl, another broken neck. Sue Grady. Both accidents? It seemed like an odd coincidence for a small town like Dalton. That was my first unsolved case. It always bothered me. When Evelyn Wright died that was the first thing I thought about. I dug out the Grady file and went over everything again. When we get back to the office, pull that file too.”

The men left tips on the table, Tommy joked with the cashier as they paid their bill and they began leisurely strolling back towards the courthouse. Carter carried an extra cup of sweet iced tea to drink later.

“Was there a mystery married boyfriend in that case?” Back inside the courthouse, they took the stairs two at a time as they talked. Carter pulled open the door at the top of the staircase, held it for Tommy and they paused in the hall a moment.

“Well, that’s the thing, Carter. One of the women where she worked said occasionally Sue came to work more dressed up than normal, like she had a date after work, you know? This was one of those days, they said. They asked her like they always did, who was the special guy. She just kind of grinned but wouldn’t answer. Makes you wonder.”

The two men parted, the sheriff back to his paper-laden desk, now littered with pink phone messages, Carter to his own messages. Carter took a moment to find the case file on Sue Grady and lay it on top of Evelyn Wright’s. He didn’t believe in coincidences like this any more than Tommy Fitzsimmons did. He’d take those folders home tonight and make a few more notes. Maybe an idea would present itself.

Chapter 1

Saturday morning, March 19, 1988

I have to get out of this house, Kate repeated to herself. I have got to be able to breathe again. The only thing I’ll truly miss is the yard…

Kate Elliott stood at the kitchen sink gazing through the kitchen window. Recent early mornings had been spent on the back deck, a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other, looking out occasionally into the peace and quiet of the back yard.

I wish the movers were coming today. I wish I was unpacking at the condo, right now, this minute. Kate sighed again, picked up the paper plate of sandwiches and grabbed a handful of napkins as she elbowed the living room door open. Her mother-in-law Mattie and Mattie’s friend Elsie had volunteered to help her finish sorting, tossing out and packing. She was grateful for the help, really.

“Kate.” Mattie had been rummaging through an old pasteboard box from a shelf in the living room. Now she was holding a large, leather-bound Bible, still intact though covered with a whitish powdery mildew.

“This was Whit’s father’s Bible. I vaguely remember Whit studying this a while before he gave it to Jim.” She handed the Bible over to Kate. “Surely you want to keep this…”

Kate took the heavy volume from Mattie’s hand and carefully opened the front cover.

“No wonder Jim wanted this Bible, Mattie. Have you ever really looked at it?” Kate carefully slipped the Bible across the table. The cover was loose but still attached to the pages, stitched to the thick paper. The printed text on the initial pages gave the publication date: 1785. Published in England.

“This one is titled Receipts, Kate.” Mattie squinted a little as she examined the pale, uneven strokes of a quill pen. “It looks like a housewife’s book. It has to be from the 1800’s, from the look of the writing. This couldn’t have belonged to Whit’s mother, I know. Possibly his grandmother.”

Elsie was squinting, trying to read the small print of the hymnbook. “I’ve never heard of these hymns,” she said. But Kate looked puzzled, as she was staring down at her own given name on the pages of the Bible. Martha Katharine. Martha Katharine, spelled with an “a”, not an “e” in the middle of Katharine. How strange, she thought.

But that Martha Katharine Elliott was married in 1803 to Jonathan W. Sims. Jim’s great-great-aunt, maybe. There were three entire pages of names alongside marriage dates, birth dates, and death dates. The handwriting changed several times as several authors had added to the family history.

Afraid she would damage the brittle paper with her fingers, Kate yanked a straw from the kitchen broom and used that to carefully separate individual pages.

“What is that,” she muttered. A small, folded sheet of parchment lay between the next two pages.

“Do you suppose it will disintegrate if we unfold it?” They all looked down at it for a moment. It was Kate’s decision. She pulled another straw and using the straws like tweezers, Kate meticulously laid back the first fold.

“Is it a map?” Kate was thinking out loud. A network of fine lines, some intersecting, with feathery handwriting sideways across the edges and more at the bottom, appeared to indicate the dimensions and shape of a plat.

Carefully and slowly, she inched open the last fold and slightly smoothed out the browned parchment. It didn’t want to stay unfolded; she laid a couple of old magazines across the corners.

“I think it’s a plat.” Elsie was trying to make out some of the words. “300 to Red oak.” “100 to Black gum.” “150 on Jenson’s Branch.”

“It was probably a personal copy,” Mattie suggested. “Kate, your eyes are better than mine. Can you make out that date?”

“Looks like 1813. If it’s a plat, isn’t it pretty small to be a parcel of land? 300 feet by 100 feet by 150 feet? That’s more like an individual house lot. That would have been skimpy for a home site in those days, though.” She stepped back to make room for Mattie and Elsie, elbowing each other to get a better look.

Mattie and Elsie spent a few minutes searching through the Bible for any further loose sheets. Kate listened as they chattered about how she should visit the historical society, perhaps the archives at the country library, and chase down the location delineated on the sketch. Her polite replies were noncommital. Her personal inclination was just to pack up the old book with the lamps and throw rugs and forget it. Well, maybe Jamie would like to have the old Bible, she thought.

Kate wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense; lovely was a better description. Five feet, five inches and a few pounds overweight, some days she tried to battle with fat grams and cholesterol.

Her dark brown hair was slightly curly and never did what she wanted it to. Summer highlights would help to hide the few gray strands. Her blue-green eyes didn’t miss much, although her expression was usually thoughtful and reserved.

Kate’s lips seemed to be habitually pursed nowadays. She chewed on the inside of her cheek when she was tired, and she was tired now.

Though the necessary changes in her lifestyle had hardened the steel in her soul, she was determined not to let it show this morning. Not around Mattie, who had been so very good to her.

I have to get my life on track, a new track, Kate whispered in her mind. Jim’s been dead two whole years. Two incredibly lonely years. Her concentration re-focused on getting the present job done. As she glanced at the long sofa and overstuffed armchairs, Kate mentally reviewed the condo floor plan.

No living room and no den and no dining room, she was thinking. Just a great room. And it WILL be great. She blew a stray hair off her forehead and yanked open another box of books to sort.

Prequel

Two hundred and five years later…

Don’t they say, the clothes make the man? Well, the uniform might not be perfect, but black sweat pants, turtleneck shirt and driving gloves could become anything he wanted in the dark. A vivid imagination and crepe sole shoes fit like a captain’s boots. It was the captain’s duty to wield this weapon, so a captain he would be tonight. He sat on the ground behind the river oak, legs extending straight out away from the narrow dirt road. This spot had been carefully sought out. No fallen branches, not even twigs or leaves were left in the semi-circle around his body. When he rose to his feet, it would be in silence. Dead silence.

From this select angle, no moonlight glinted off the steel to warn his adversary, but he didn’t have to see it to enjoy the smoothness of the surface. Ungloved hands caressed the metal, fingers touching, reaching carefully to test the edge. The single unfullered blade had not retained its cutting power that well; regretfully he couldn’t sharpen it. Still, the hardwood grip was not cracked or chipped, the brass washer was intact, and the simple knuckle guard graced his hand. An excellent investment for any collector of early Americana. First, business must be conducted. He hefted the blade once more before resting it at his knee, pulled on his gloves and patiently waited.

The crackle of the tires against dry pine needles and leaves gave advance notice. On time for the appointment, the truck slowly pulled up to the agreed meeting place, the lights were switched off, then the engine. He didn’t move from his place yet. It seemed like longer, but only a few minutes went by until he heard the creak of the truck door and the click of a cigarette lighter. Acrid tobacco smoke filtered through the air to his hiding place. He continued to wait. Footsteps slowly circled the pickup. Now he could hear the steps turning in his direction. They stood in place a moment as if staring into the darkness, then seemed to turn, to start away. He stood quietly but quickly, raising the blade to waist level before whispering, “Leaving?”

It performed well, even after so long. A single upward thrust, and the answering groan was rewarding. Death wasn’t instantaneous, but it was swift. He repeatedly rubbed the steel on clumps of weeds and wild grass before sliding the blade home in its scabbard. Truly it was a pity to hide it away, but soon he’d display it proudly, this lost family heirloom. Just for a while, a little while, he whispered lovingly to the blade as he replaced the scabbard in its case, satisfied that his handiwork was equal to any captain’s.

Prologue

Prologue

May, 1783

“Ma!  Ma!  Come quick!”

“Lord, child, quit your hollerin’.  What’s disturbing you?”

“Oh ma, come quick.  It’s pa, it’s pa, he’s come.  He’s come home, ma!”

Young John seemed almost feverish and was certainly breathless.  He’d run as fast as his spindly legs would carry him, to where his mother was struggling to rise with the heavy basket of late potatoes, hands and skirt soiled with the dark earth from digging. 

Most of the potatoes were done now, it was coming on summer, and other crops stood in need of attention.  But potatoes were too valuable a food to neglect, and even the smallest tuber was carefully dug out and collected.

“What’s that you say, John?  Are you visionin’ things, boy?” 

Sarah Katharine Elliott’s heart was caught in her throat.  She didn’t dare believe she’d heard him right.  Little Martha, age two, kicked her bare feet in the mounds of earth left from the potato plants.  She was more interested in the bugs than in anything John might say.  Her clothes were covered with dust, dirt and grime, from ‘helping’ her mother, always wanting to ‘me do it, me do it…’  She didn’t remember her father.  She’d been just a few months old the day he marched away with the Captain. 

But her brother, age nine, remembered, and loved his daddy well.  He could not contain his excitement.

“No, ma, it’s pa, it’s him, it’s him, come on, come on.”  He was tugging at her skirt, yanking really, nearly pulling her off her feet in his frenzy.

And it was him, it was truly the elder John Elliott, home.  His thin frame, his faded, torn clothing and halting steps couldn’t disguise those beloved features.

So many months with no word at all, after Captain Sims had rallied all the able bodied men from these parts, making up a local militia company.  It didn’t matter how many souls were left at home to feed, without freedom food would be bitter in the mouth.  No soul could live in tyranny, and tyranny had tried to claim Carolina.

Jenson’s Branch was a peaceful backwater, far from any organized town.  Men sought this land because it was far, and difficult to reach, and private, and dearly loved.  They had carved homesteads and planted farms in this Carolina frontier.  They didn’t welcome many visitors.  They didn’t welcome disturbances, or news of revolts, or news of war.

News traveled hard to reach Jenson’s; it took days, and was often more gossip than fact.  But in the summer of 1780, other travelers came to this out of the way place, seeking men who loved liberty more than privacy, who would value freedom enough to defend these green, cool, fertile but hard acres.

John was only one of several dozen roused from the Jenson’s land and given a tearful send-off.  Fears mingled with tears as wives and children, sweethearts and parents clasped the loved ones in their arms for one long, last moment, and watched as young men and old marched as best they could behind the Captain’s horse.  Reddened, tear-filled eyes strained to watch until no more glimpse of those beloved forms could be seen.

It had been twenty-two long months.  They were farmers all, except for the youngest; they had no training in warfare, but they knew how to fight for their land.  They knew how to survive.  They knew their Captain, and they knew the value of liberty.

The women fended for themselves and each other during those long months.  Crops suffered with those remaining, neglected not because of a lack of caring, but because of a lack of ability.  Even the smallest child had to do his part in gathering, in hoeing, in planting, even in preparing food.  A lot of food spoiled in the field.  There were not enough hands to pick it, ripening came too quickly.  There wasn’t salt to preserve the meat, not enough feed for animals and humans.  Thus many women became workers for other women, bartering field work for food.

Most had survived, but some hadn’t.  No medicines, no-one who could ride to borrow medicines, nothing to ride had there been someone.  Mortality rates among infants and children, mothers in childbirth was horrendously high.  Smallpox, yellow fever, even malaria took their toll in the backcountry too; although much more in the lowcountry.

But Katharine, little Martha and young John had survived, and so had her husband.  Behind him came a half-dozen others who looked much the same as he, tattered and dirty, and tired.  So very tired!  But home.

As Katharine and John held each other up, young John ran and jumped, leading them to the house.

“He’s home, my pa is home, he’s home,” he wouldn’t stop yelling, though no-one else was around to hear.

“John, can you tell me?  How went the war, John?…”  Katharine was almost afraid to hear his answer.  There had been no news for many, many days.  The last news wasn’t good.  It had been getting on for cold weather, and the courier wasn’t more than ten years old.  He wasn’t  very dependable as a news source, but he’d been the only one available to send when essential supplies were gone.

On foot, it had taken him a week to make the settlement at Simsville, and there he didn’t find much in the way of supplies.  Salt?  Might as well have been gold, couldn’t buy it if you did have gold.  Or rice.  Or wheat.  Or oil.  What the village folk did have, they simply gave the boy, they felt such pity for him and his assignment.

And they gave him news to take home, bad news.  General Washington could not win, the previous cruel winter had decimated his troops, now winter was drawing on again, and the redcoats had control of Charlestown.  It seemed a dark day for liberty in Carolina and the other colonies.

But here was John, her real flesh and blood husband, not a ghost, but a man!  So she asked, “How went the war?”  There was real rejoicing at Jenson’s Branch that evening.  The General had prevailed!  The redcoats were driven away!  The war was over.  The costly war, the necessary war, the battle for freedom was won.  A treaty had been signed in Paris, November 30, 1782.  It had taken many days for the news to reach everyone, for the militia, the regular army, everyone, to believe it.  And many more days for the farmer-soldiers to make their way home.  But now, in the late spring of 1783, the war was truly over.

John Elliott hadn’t brought much home with him, except for a fever, and a sword.  It wasn’t much to look at, just the simplest of designs, and they’d never had a sword in their household before.

“Where did you acquire such a blade, John?  It wasn’t present in Jenson’s afore the war, was it?  How did you come by it, John?”

John’s speech was much slower than it used to be, and it took him some time to tell the story of the sword.  He’d been made an officer by virtue of need: by virtue of his intellect and his quick grasp of situations.  There weren’t many farmers who could read and write, not many with what it took to become officers.  He hadn’t wanted the responsibility, but he hadn’t shirked it.  The sword was a gift, plain and simple.  It was the only sign of his rank as  ‘lieutenant.’  John had no horse, no uniform, no gun.

The wounded Captain Sims had given John the charge, and the sword to raise as a banner, to lead by.  The sword was his to keep, for Captain Sims had not lived out the first winter, hit in the leg by a redcoat musket ball, and dying of infection.

John had not taken the only gun he’d ever owned to war.  It lay where he left it, in the loft across the back wall of their main living quarters.  He’d tried to teach Katharine the basic mechanics.  Bears weren’t common in these parts, there were no marauders, no Indians to be fearful of, but there was plentiful game.  And he felt they’d need the game animals for meat — if he didn’t return.  She learned the basics, but she had refused to shoot the rifle.  It lay just as he’d left it.  And now here was this simple, beautiful blade.  It represented life to Katharine now; it had brought John home to her.

The days flew by so swiftly, and John’s fever worsened.  Travel was easier now they had a man to send again, but medicines were still very scarce.  Home remedies didn’t ease the fever.  Poultices were applied and renewed.  Herbs were soaked, distilled, and forced down his throat nearly against his will, he felt so sick.  Gruel and broth refused to stay down, and three weeks after his homecoming, John Elliott succumbed to the fever.  War never killed his spirit.  But the effects of war had destroyed his body.

It was a hero’s ceremony they gave him.  The place they chose to lay him was beneath a favored spot, in the glade closest to Jenson’s Branch.  The settlers and their families gathered around as John’s eldest nephew, eleven year old James, read the eulogy.  Reverend Lynch came from Simsville to preach the funeral sermon.  One after another of the surviving patriot soldiers gave their remarks, some with personal remembrances of the lieutenant’s courage.

And Katharine Elliott read John’s own words*, laboriously written when he knew he couldn’t survive.  Her heart itself was like a stone in her chest until the last words were whispered, the tears began to freely flow, and her heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Carved gravestones were usually reserved for the wealthy in backcountry Carolina, but the Elliott family were rich in friends if not in worldly goods, and within a few weeks, a small, simply carved stone was erected to replace the wooden marker, and John Elliott’s gravesite was enclosed with small, irregular stones gathered out of surrounding fields.  It was often visited by Katharine, little Martha and young John.  Small boughs of pine, oak, or elm, decorated his grave.

John Elliott, patriot and Revolutionary hero, dead at age 28, rested in peace at Jenson’s Branch.

* The Defending Blade

Ne’er hearth and home, ne’er glen and glade, nor thee forsake I swore,
till Tyrant’s shadow did invade fair Carolina’s shore
and Captain raised the defending blade; and I loved freedom more.

Nor loved I less the soft caress of this dear glen and glade,
my very soul, my life’s last breath and all allegiance swore;
but Captain raised the defending blade; and I loved freedom more.

Nor could I leave thy hand and thee for less than all I own,
but all men own is liberty, the Almighty’s gift alone.
‘Tis He that raised the defending blade against cold tyranny,
and freedom’s cost was gladly paid, and ‘neath this stone, I’m free.

John Elliott
June, 1783