Chapter EIGHT
We heard it first from Burdette. Leona and Lum hadn’t come downstairs yet, and Uncle Ernest had already left for the hospital. Grady and I had finished our cereal and were on our second cup of coffee when we heard somebody hollering outside. I jumped up, recognizing the voice at once. My cousin Burdette’s accustomed to projecting into the far corners of the sanctuary—with or without a microphone. Something had happened to Josie, or to Marge or one of the boys!
By the time I reached the door, Burdette was already halfway up the front steps and his round face was as colorless as a slice of white bread. “Cell phone’s dead,” he said, charging past me. “Gotta use the phone.”
I stepped aside, too terrified to do anything but stammer, “W-what’s wrong?” Following him, I tugged at his elbow. “Burdette, is somebody hurt? Is Josie all right? Tell me! What’s going on?”
Burdette mopped his brow with a crumpled red bandanna and shook his head. “No, Josie’s fine, Kate. Everybody’s okay . . .” He stopped to catch his breath. “It’s just that we found—Well, we were trying to dig up this old wisteria vine in the churchyard over there, and we pulled up a skeleton with it!”
“Dear God!” I said, wishing I had skipped that second cup of coffee. “Can’t you just shove it back in and cover it up?”
“You found a what?” I turned to find Grady standing in the kitchen doorway.
“A skeleton.” Burdette punched in the emergency numbers and told the dispatcher what he’d just shared with Grady and me.
“Yes, ma’am, I know we can expect to find skeletons in a cemetery,” he said, “but this one was buried in a shallow grave with no marker, and it appears to have been wrapped in some sort of tarp . . . tarp, yes . . . one of those plastic covers you use to keep out the rain.”
I could see that Burdette, although usually calm, was beginning to lose his cool because his face was getting flushed. “No, ma’am, I don’t know how long it’s been there, but I suggest you get in touch with the people from forensics who might be able to find out . . . the police. Right. Whoever this person was didn’t wrap up in that tarp and climb in by himself. Or maybe it was herself. That’s another thing they’ll have to find out.”
I glanced at Grady and the two of us couldn’t help but smile at our cousin, who was usually the model of composure. Burdette’s shirt and face were wet from perspiration, so I went to the kitchen for ice water while he gave the woman directions on how to reach Remeth churchyard.
“Good Lord, what a shock! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,” Burdette said. “I guess I’d better get back over there before the police come. I left Parker and three or four others who had volunteered to help clear the old place off, and they’re as curious as I am to find out what this is all about.”
“Sounds like it’s all about murder to me,” I said. “Why else would somebody dump a body in an abandoned graveyard?”
“Where did you find it?” Grady asked.
Burdette drained his second glass of water. “Over by that far corner, sort of away from the rest. There aren’t any graves around there, so you can imagine what a jolt it was to dig up a skull!”
“You can send the police over here when they’re finished with you,” I told him as he started to leave. “I have something to show them, too.”
I told them about the box that had held Ella’s cat, only I had to lie and say I’d picked it up in the woods the day before but hadn’t noticed the claw marks until last night when I went to throw it out.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Grady wanted to know. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this morning.”
“It might not mean a thing,” I said. “I didn’t want to cause a panic.”
Burdette stuffed the bandanna into his pocket. “You’ll have to admit it makes sense, though. If somebody wanted to draw Ella to the edge of that ravine, that would’ve been the way to do it.”
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“Well, this is turning out to be one fine reunion, isn’t it?” Uncle Ernest said over our lunch of bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches—or lettuce and tomato sandwiches in Aunt Leona’s case. My uncle had returned from the hospital about an hour before to tell us that Ella’s condition was unchanged. The housekeeper remained in intensive care and the nurse had assured him they would call if Ella’s condition worsened. No one, including Uncle Ernest, seemed to think it would improve. “They only let me in to see her for a few minutes,” he told us, “and she didn’t even know I was there.”
“Can you think of anybody who would want Ella out of the way?” Lum asked him, and Uncle Ernest shook his head. “Strangest thing I ever heard,” he said. “I just can’t believe anybody would do such a thing.”
Uncle Ernest turned to me, “Kate, are you sure a cat was in that box?”
“You saw it,” I said. “How else could it have been shredded from the inside?” Only a few minutes before, the police had left with the cardboard box after questioning all of us about the activities at Bramblewood during the past few days. They seemed especially interested in Ella Stegall’s background.
“I never really knew much about poor Ella,” Grady admitted. “She was just always here.”
My uncle raised a bristly brow. “Beg pardon?”
“I said, Ella was just always here,” Grady told him.
“Be forty-one years come October,” Uncle Ernest said. “Came from somewhere in Virginia, she said. Had a brother there. As far as I know, he was her only kin.” He paced the living room, pulling out the contents of drawers, turning vases upside down, and I knew he was looking for his pipe. Uncle Ernest never smoked his pipe unless he was upset about something.
“It’s on the mantel,” I told him, pointing the way. “Behind that picture of Nana.” (Nana was the name we used for our Great-grandmother Templeton.)
“She hides it, you know—Ella does. Says she can’t stand the smell.” My uncle tapped his pipe to empty the bowl, and frankly, I wasn’t too keen on the odor, either.
“What on earth made you hire her?” Aunt Leona went straight to the point. “I mean, the woman couldn’t cook—even when she could see—and her housekeeping was hit and miss, to put it graciously. It couldn’t have been for her sparkling personality, and I certainly don’t remember Ella being any great beauty.”
“Leona!” Uncle Lum looked as if he wanted to smother his wife. “That’s an awful thing to say, and with poor Ella lying—”
“That’s just it,” Uncle Ernest said. “Poor Ella. She’s always been such a sad creature, even when she was young—or younger. I don’t think Ella was ever young. Must’ve been somewhere in her midthirties when she came here. Worked for a while at Horace Warren’s insurance agency, but Horace never was much of a businessman, and the firm went under. Horace felt kind of responsible for Ella, I guess . . . the woman had nowhere to go, and he asked me if I could use some help.”
“But forty-one years! That’s going over and aboveboard, isn’t it?” Aunt Leona said, ignoring her husband’s scowl.
“Who else do you know who would be content to live way up here so far from town?” Uncle Ernest came close to growling. “The guesthouse was empty and Ella seemed glad to get it. Then, as she got older, I fixed up some rooms for her here. She never got in my way, and I never got in hers. Seemed to work out just fine.”
That was all well and good, I thought, but it still didn’t answer the question of who might have had it in for Ella Stegall. “By the way,” I said, giving my scheming side full rein, “did Belinda Donahue find you yesterday? Said she planned to go by the hospital.”
Uncle Ernest frowned. “Did who what?”
“Belinda Donahue. Did she find you at the hospital?”
He nodded, drawing on his pipe, then leaned back in his chair. “Stayed for almost an hour. It really bothered Belinda, I think, this happening to Ella that way.” Uncle Ernest blinked at us over the smoke. “Didn’t get along, you know.”
I started to say I’d heard, but my uncle didn’t give me a chance. “Guess you might as well hear this before everybody else does—bound to come out sooner or later . . . Belinda was married to Ella’s younger brother back in Virginia. It wasn’t a happy arrangement, but she stuck it out far longer than she should’ve. They had a daughter—married now and lives in Atlanta. After the daughter left home, Belinda filed for divorce and took a teaching position somewhere in North Carolina using her maiden name. Her husband never did reconcile himself to it, it seems, and according to Ella, the man grieved himself to death. Died a couple of years after that—of cancer, Belinda says, but Ella never forgave her for leaving him.”
Uncle Ernest chuckled almost to himself. “You should’ve seen Ella’s face when Belinda Donahue showed up here in Bishop’s Bridge!”
“What was the matter with her husband?” Grady asked. “Was he abusive or something?”
“Abusive? No, not physically,” our uncle said, “but I think he must’ve been a negative sort; put her down a lot, and wouldn’t let go of a dime. Belinda doesn’t talk about it much, but I think she just got to where she’d had enough.”
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“I’ll bet you thought I wouldn’t remember you promised me a blackberry pie,” Grady said after lunch.
He was right. I had completely forgotten the pail of berries we’d dropped on the path when we heard Ella’s cry the day before, only it seemed much longer ago than that. “I doubt if they’ll be any good,” I said. “Most of them spilled on the ground.”
But my cousin insisted we make certain, and sure enough, we discovered over half the pail still filled with blackberries. It didn’t take long with both of us picking to get enough for a cobbler for supper.
“Mom says Uncle Ernest wants to go ahead with the reunion picnic tomorrow,” Grady told me, untangling himself from a thorny branch. “The doctor said Ella’s vital signs are stable; she might linger like this for days.”
“Maybe in time she’ll even recover,” I said. “I wish she could at least regain consciousness long enough to tell us what happened.”
Grady stuck a bleeding finger in his mouth. “She did tell you what happened. She said she was pushed, and that box you found had been shredded from the inside. Had to have been Dagwood in there.”
“But what if she remembers more? Ella was in a lot of pain when we found her—good Lord, look how far she fell! There’s a chance she might have seen who pushed her.”
“Even if she lives, Uncle Ernest won’t be able to take care of her here,” Grady said as we walked back to the house. “Spooky as she was, Uncle’s going to miss her. Heck, I guess we all will! I remember when I was little, she used to make me hot chocolate.” Grady laughed. “It was awful, but if you put enough marshmallows in it, you could get it down.
“Have you ever wondered what will happen to this place when Uncle Ernest goes?” he asked.
I honestly hadn’t. I couldn’t imagine Bramblewood without Uncle Ernest. “I don’t think any of us would love it the way he does,” I said, and as I spoke, I saw our uncle walking alone in the meadow. He wore an old beat-up canvas hat that was probably as old as he was, and swung his arms as he walked. Now and then he would pause and gesture at something and I could hear his laughter all the way to the orchard.
“Did you hear that, Kate?” Grady shook his head. “Looks like the old man’s goin’ ’round the bend. What do you suppose he’s laughing about?”
“Probably just clearing his head. Sitting in a hospital waiting room all those hours has to take its toll,” I said. We stood quietly until our uncle strolled out of sight, knowing he wouldn’t want witnesses to such a private moment. I knew Uncle Ernest was accustomed to taking long walks and that his beloved fields and woods were like personal friends to him, but I’d never seen him talk to them before.
Back at the house we took our berries to the kitchen, where Grady put them in a colander to wash while I started on the pastry. My cousin went upstairs to change, and I was up to my elbows in flour when Uncle Ernest returned and poured two fingers of bourbon over a small glass of ice.
“Thanks, but I really don’t care for any,” I said, reminding him he hadn’t offered.
My uncle smiled. “Sorry, Kathryn. Sometimes I forget you’re all grown up now.”
I noticed that he still didn’t offer me anything to drink, but that was okay. Grady had the makings for margaritas in the refrigerator, and after picking berries and baking them into a cobbler, I was about ready for one.
Uncle Ernest tasted the drink and swished it around in his glass. “And where’s Miss Josie?” he asked.
“Oh, she’ll be here tomorrow for the reunion,” I said, speaking slowly so he could hear. “She’s staying with Marge for now.”
“Sorry I missed her this afternoon—saw her little friend out there. Funny little thing—do you know, a fawn came right out of the woods and nuzzled her hand? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes!” He took another swallow and looked pleased with himself.
“Out where?” I asked, wondering just how many drinks my uncle had tossed down. “Uncle Ernest, Josie hasn’t been here since last night. She and Darby went fishing today with the youth group from Burdette’s church.”
He frowned. “Why, out in the meadow just now—I saw a girl. Thought she must’ve been a friend of Josie’s since she seemed about her age—maybe a little older.” My uncle laughed. “I reckon she must’ve been a woods sprite. Looked a lot like one of those old illustrations from a fairy-tale book. Did my heart good to hear her laugh!”
I turned away to put the cobbler in the oven, glad Uncle Ernest couldn’t see my face. It looked like Penelope was being careless again.
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“Have they found out anything about those bones they dug up this morning?” Uncle Lum asked of no one in particular as we sat on the porch after supper.
“Uncle Ernest said they don’t know much of anything except they’ve been there for a while.” Aunt Leona fanned herself with one of those old cardboard fans with Jesus blessing the children on the front that probably came from the local funeral home.
“How long is a while?” her husband wanted to know.
“Well, my goodness, Lum, how should I know? Thirty or forty years, I think he said. Maybe even longer.” Leona fanned faster.
Uncle Ernest had left earlier for the hospital and the four of us had just blimped out on warm blackberry cobbler with ice cream on it—except for Aunt Leona, who only had a little doll-size helping with about a teaspoon of ice cream on top.
“I just wish they’d hurry and find out who it is,” she said. “Makes me sad thinking about that poor soul lying there all those years without even a proper marker.”
Grady stretched his long legs in front of him. “I’d kinda like to know who put him there,” he said, “and why.”
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Because of the two margaritas I’d drunk earlier, I decided to stay again at Bramblewood instead of risking the steep curving road back to town. My uncle and aunt retired fairly early and Grady had some work he needed to do, so I waited downstairs reading one of Carolyn Hart’s classic mysteries until Uncle Ernest came home from the hospital. I could tell even before asking that Ella was the same.
The telephone rang just as I was getting ready for bed, and I answered it quickly before it could wake my aunt and uncle. What time was it in California? Maybe Ned had taken a break from his busy agenda to check on his family on the other side of the States.
It wasn’t my husband calling, but it was the next best thing.
“Mama . . .” Josie’s little voice sounded lost and far away.
“Josie? Are you all right, honey? Is anything wrong?”
“No, I’m okay. It’s just that everybody’s asleep but me, and well . . . I just wanted to tell you good night.”
I went to bed smiling. In spite of Ella’s “fall” into the ravine and the Belle Fleurs Garden Club digging up old bones next door, I should sleep soundly tonight.
That was why it was hard to force myself awake a few hours later when somebody sat at the foot of my bed and jerked the covers from me.