A Misty Mourning (9 page)

“The sheriff said he should have Clarissa's room and office cleared by this evening,” Gert said.

“Good,” I said. “Dexter Calloway said that there was some stuff up in the attic that Clarissa wanted me to have. Said that the stuff belonged to your mother.”

Gert thought about it a minute. “Wonder what it could be?”

“I don't have a clue,” I said. “Gert, why would somebody want to kill Clarissa? I mean, she was a hundred and one years old, like she wasn't going to the soon enough on her own?”

“Seems to me,” she said, shaking her head, “that whoever it was
wanted to make sure the new will was not read or filed at the courthouse. What other reason could it be?”

“Then that would have to mean it was one of her three children. Other than Norville, who is now out of the picture, and myself, there wasn't anybody else who inherited anything.”

“Maybe they were left something in the old will and got left out of the new one,” she said.

“Maybe Mr. Jett would let me look at the old will to see who else is listed,” I said. I took my last drink of orange juice and sighed. “It just seems so wrong.”

“It could be one of her grandchildren,” Gert suggested.

“Why?”

“Making sure that their parents got the inheritance so that they would in turn get their inheritance,” she said. “And I don't think that was a panther.”

It took me a second to realize she had shifted gears and was now talking about Norville Gross. “Why not?” I asked.

“Panther's not going to come that close to people in the day.”

“What if he wandered into the woods and stumbled upon the panther?” I said.

“It wouldn't drag him back to the boardinghouse. I might be wrong, but do you think a panther could drag a hundred-and-eighty-pound man back to the house? And if she could or would drag him around, why wouldn't she go farther into the woods with him, instead of back to civilization?”

“Maybe he wasn't dead yet and he crawled back on his own,” I said. It was clear that my grandmother had given this a lot of thought.

“Nope,” she said. “He wasn't tore up enough for it to be a panther.”

I reached into my purse to get out my wallet so I could pay the bill. Her words stopped me. “How would you know?”

“ ‘Cause, you forget I was born and raised in these mountains,” she said. “I've seen what parithers can do. Your great-uncle Martin
had a run-in with a panther. Not only did he not live, but there were claw marks and blood everywhere. Teeth marks, too.”

My stomach was turning.

“That Norville fellow's face was all in one piece. Panther's gonna go for the head and neck area. As would any wild animal,” she said.

“Gee, thanks, Gert. Thanks for the lesson in animal attacks.”

“Oh, and the time the bear got a hold of—”

“That's okay. Really. I get the picture.”

The waitress came up to us then to see if we wanted refills on coffee or anything. Since I was having to do the no-caffeine, no-chocolate, low-sugar thing, I had no coffee or soda for her to refill. I know my doctor swears that this is the best thing for me and the baby, but I find this grossly unfair. I'm an American, for crying out loud. Take away my caffeine and chocolate, and what's left?

“Where ya'll staying?” the waitress asked.

“The Panther Run Boardinghouse,” I said. She must have realized that we either sounded like out-of-towners or acted like them, I wasn't sure which.

“Oh, that old place? What for?”

The waitress pronounced
for
as
fer
and I had to smile. My grandmother would slip into her old accent every now and then, but it was just about gone. I always liked it when she'd say things like
poosh
for
push
or
fer
instead of
for.

Before either one of us could answer her, she spoke again. “Heard you had a painter attack.”

I looked lost, so Gert clarified for me. “Panther attack.”

“Right after that gulley washer, too,” the waitress added.

“Well, we think it was an attack by some sort of wild animal. We're not actually sure if it was a panther,” I said.

“Used to be around here, painters were aplenty. They gettin' scarce now,” she said.

“I know,” Gert said. “I'm from this part of the woods.”

“Oh, yeah?” the waitress asked as she picked up our empty plates. “Ain't changed much.”

Oh, but it had, I thought, as she walked away. To her maybe it was the same old stagnant small town with the same trappings as every other small town. But it had changed. Bucky's, who or whatever it was, was gone. There was a McDonald's on the corner as we came into town, which I'm sure had been added in the last ten or fifteen years. A chain grocery store was on the right, back at the stoplight. And once upon a time, this had been a coal town. Owned by the coal company. Meaning it had a company store and a company doctor. Oh, it had changed plenty.

Gert and I went to the register and paid the bill. As I waited for my change, I noticed the woman behind the register kept eyeing me. I got that a lot, because I look as if I had a beach ball stuffed under my clothes, and nobody could wait to ask when I was due.

“Think they'll ever find out?” the woman asked.

“Find out what?”

“Now that Mrs. Hart's dead. They say she was the one who knew.”

“Knew what?” I was surprised by her line of questioning. It was obvious she had either overhead our conversation with the waitress or the waitress had marched right up here and told her that we were staying at the boardinghouse. I wasn't surprised, however, with how quickly the town knew about Clarissa and the “panther” attack of the night before. I was from a small town. I knew how this worked.

“You know,” she said. “Those two miners. You think they'll ever find out what happened to them?”

“We're gonna be late for church,” Gert said to me. She all but shooed me out the door. I barely had time to get my change from the woman.

“Gert—”

“Let's just get to church,” she said. “Don't give me no trouble or my hand's gonna meet your fanny.”

I didn't doubt her. She'd swatted my fanny plenty. I got in the car and drove us to church, wondering all the while what the cashier at Denny's was referring to, and why my grandmother seemed fairly intent on not discussing it.

G
ert and I sat in the third pew from the front on the left-hand side of the church when facing the altar. Shiny hardwood floors reflected everything from the rays of sunlight filtering through the long garden-style windows to my feet, tapping lightly to the sounds of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The walls were plain and brilliant white, and there was no overexhausted ornamentation anywhere within the church walls. The podium was wooden with a cross carved into it, situated just slightly to the left on the altar and a large pine cross hung from the ceiling above the altar. That was it. No other decorations or distractions.

The preacher was a jolly-looking man, with round wire spectacles and a head that was semibald except for the ring of white cotton that started at one temple and wound around the bottom of his head to the other temple. It looked as though somebody had shaved the entire top portion of his head and buffed it until it shined, then glued cotton balls along the bottom portion. As if that weren't enough puffy stuff, his beard was also full and cottony, his pink lips supplying the only color, peering out of the cotton. His voice was raspy, but pleasant, and he shook his jowls when emphasizing a particular word or phrase. He kept his thumbs hooked in his belt,
and every now and then he would rub his belly, which could rival my third-trimester belly.

Today's sermon was about the temptations of the flesh. Gluttony, alcohol, and sex seemed to be his primary focus. He talked about taking only what was yours and not borrowing your neighbor's and how it wouldn't hurt for us, as Americans, to give up some of our comforts for those less fortunate in other parts of the world. I agreed with him on all of it, but I couldn't help but wonder how many meals he'd given up for the sake of starving people the world over. It had long been a source of great guilt for me, the things that my family and I had, and yet. . . just over the horizon was always something else that we wanted. Was it that we were never satisfied, or was it that our goals changed? Or was that the same thing?

Also in attendance this morning was Lafayette Hart, seated in the very front pew on our side. Susan Henry, the cook, was seated on the right-hand side halfway back. “Brother Hart,” as the pastor kept calling Lafayette, would raise his hand every now and then, and he always led the congregation in singing.

“Brother Hart,” the pastor would say, “lead us in song.” And Lafayette would stand and begin the song by himself until everybody else recognized the music that he'd chosen and joined in.

“And the sanctity of the physical relationship,” the pastor said, “of man and wife. . . is the greatest gift two people can give each other.”

I thought about Rudy and was amazed at the overwhelming desire I had to see him. I'd only been gone two nights, and I really and truly missed him. I also thought of the girls and how they were probably sitting on the couch in their pajamas, eating Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and watching Pokémon. Suddenly I wanted to go home.

“But never should you take that sacred act beyond the walls of your marriage,” the pastor said. “And consume not the wickedness of alcohol. The spirits. Booze.”

It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn there
were a few people squirming in their seats. The pastor slammed his hand down on the podium so hard that the microphone nearly toppled over.

“It is pure evil. The root of everything bad,” he said. “Brothers and sisters, when you feel the need to drink, open your Bibles. Turn to God. Brothers and sisters, the alcohol you have in your house— that six-pack of beer. The half a fifth of whiskey or gin. That bottle of wine you keep saying that you use for cookin' those fancy recipes. Don't be fooled by the devil. You gather up alcoholic evils, and you take them to the river. You take them to the river, and you dump them out! Pour them all into the river, and your sins will be washed away with the tide. You will feel better, and you will be a new person. Brother Hart, lead us in song.”

Lafayette Hart stood and without hesitation began singing “Shall We Gather at the River?” The irony was not lost on me nor on half of the congregation as they snickered behind their hands at Lafayette's choice in music. The pastor, however, never faltered and sang along with him.

When the services were over there was a box social luncheon. Gert wanted to stay. I wanted to go home and call my family, but we stayed anyway.

I stood at the end of a table, with a paper plate in hand, waiting for my turn at the potato salad. Gert was already seated and would be finished eating by the time I made it through the line. The pastor stood right behind me talking to Lafayette.

“I am so sorry to hear about your mother,” the pastor said to Lafayette.

“Thank you,” Lafayette said. “We'd been expectin' it for a time now.”

The pastor unexpectedly turned and addressed me. “I'm Pastor Breedlove,” he said and stuck his hand out for me to shake.

“Torie O'Shea,” I said. My little bundle of joy decided to give a good swift kick at that moment. I gasped because he or she was
upside down and kicked me in the ribs, which in turn made me feel as if all of the air had been shoved out of my lungs.

“Looks like you're due about the same time I am,” he said, laughing and rubbing his belly.

“You said that, not me,” I said. I piled the potato salad on my plate and moved down the line to the baked beans.

“I hear you are the new owner of the boardinghouse,” he said, following behind me. “Does that mean you will be moving here?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I could never leave New Kassel. And
will
never leave it.”

Again, it did not surprise me that he already knew that I was the so-called heiress of Panther Run. Not one bit. It did seem as though he was fishing for information, however. What the heck, I'd make it easy on him.

“I've not decided exactly what I'm going to do about this situation, Pastor Breedlove. Besides, I'm not entirely sure that the Harts won't contest it,” I said and smiled as sweetly as I could at Lafayette. It did not go unnoticed that his potato salad fell into the plate of sliced tomatoes.

“So, tell me, Pastor. What do you know about a man named Norville Gross?” I asked.

“Brother Hart was just asking me the same question not two minutes ago,” he said, genuinely. “I don't know.”

“Is there a library around here close?” I asked. “So that I don't have to go all the way down to Charleston to the Cultural Center?”

“Yes,” he said. “There's one over the hill in the next holler. Quentinton.”

“And the county seat?” I asked. “Where is it?”

“Also Quentinton.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“When is your baby due?” he asked.

“Not soon enough has become my standard answer,” I said and smiled. “Seriously, it's due in August.”

“That's nice,” he said. “So . . . are you from West Virginia?”

“No,” I said. By this time I'd made it to the pork steaks. I chose two deviled eggs instead. “My mother was born and raised here. Moved to Missouri in the 1950s. My ancestors go way back in this state.”

“How far?”

“Back to when it was Virginia. Back to before it was a state at all. My ancestors were some of the first to spill over the ridge. Did you know that even the Native Americans thought that this land was too hostile to live in all year around?”

“No,” he said. “Afraid the only thing I know about the Indians is the Morris Massacre.”