Long Black Veil (23 page)

He clomped over to their table and flung himself into a seat. “This had better be good,” he said, sulkily.

“They’re going to take away your membership if they find out you went out without proper hair gel deployment,” Devon commented, unable to resist digging at him as he sat there all pouty.

“Bite me,” he practically snarled.

“I woke him up,” Brock explained.

“And you can go straight to hell,” Gil added.

“Charming,” Brock said.

“I’m here, alright,” Gil said, sounding none too happy about it. “What do you want?”

Devon and Brock took turns filling Gil in on everything they’d found so far. They left out everything to do with the ghost and what they’d discovered about Daniel Holfsteder’s trial, focusing on all that they knew about Devon’s mother and father and Jackson Duvall. Gil remained quiet through most of it, although he did make a shocked noise when Devon revealed that Deacon Mackson could not have been her father. When they finally finished, Gil had his hands tucked under his chin and looked a good deal more awake than he had at the beginning of their tale.

“Well, I must say this is better than any soap opera network TV could dream up,” he finally said when they had finished.

“You realize it’s my life you’re talking about?” Devon said drily.

“It would make imminently watchable Must See TV,” Gil replied, grinning at her. “So what do you need from me?”

“Your mother was the same year as my mom. She might remember something. And your parents know everyone—some of their friends might have heard things about my mother and Jackson.”

“This town loves gossip, especially about mountain folk. It’s hard to believe we haven’t heard anything about it, even now.” Gil sounded skeptical. “What else?”

“That’s it for now,” Brock said.

“You okay?” Gil asked, turning to Devon. “I know this can’t be easy to take in.”

Devon shrugged. “It explains a lot. But I need to talk to my Grandmother Mackson.”

Gil made a face. “Good luck with that. You’ve said the woman actively loathes you.”

She nodded. “And now it makes a certain kind of sense.” Devon sighed. “And the only witness was a man she employed. There are too many coincidences about all of this.”

“When are you going to goad the old dragon?”

“No time like the present.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Devon stood at the door to Charlotte Mackson’s house. She didn’t feel up to calling her Grandmother, not anymore. She’d never been close to the woman, and now the space between them might as well have been the distance between the Earth and Sun. She had to admit that she was scared. The woman had always scared her, even when she had her mother and Deacon with her. She’d almost taken Brock up on his offer of company, but knew that there was a good chance Charlotte would say more if it was just her.

It didn’t mean she liked it though.

She pressed the button next to the knob, listening to the deep tones of the bell as it sounded inside the house. Devon stepped back so she could be seen easily through the sidelights. She waited patiently, trying not to shift her balance from one foot to another out of nervousness. Fidgeting could be seen as a sign of weakness, and she did not want to appear weak.

After a few minutes, the door opened slowly. Charlotte’s face appeared in the space between door and frame. The old woman’s face was unhappy, falling into frown lines etched deeply into her skin. “Yes?”

“I would like to talk to you, if you have a moment.” Devon tried to sound calm and pleasant.

Charlotte looked at her for a very long time. Devon met her gaze, steady and silent. Finally the older woman nodded, and held the door open. Devon stepped inside.

Her former grandmother didn’t offer to take her coat and Devon wouldn’t have let her take it if she had. She had a feeling this conversation wouldn’t last long and if she had to leave in a hurry, Devon didn’t want to risk leaving her winter jacket behind. She followed Charlotte through the house and into the back parlor. She sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, watching while the woman settled into a buff-colored wingback chair.

“What is it you want?” Charlotte asked in her faintly musical voice.

“I went to see my mother,” Devon began, eyeing the woman carefully.

Charlotte’s lip lifted in derision. “I do not wish to speak of that woman.”

Devon’s eyes grew hard. In that instant, she matched her former grandmother look for look. “I need some answers.”

“I have none to give.”

“I think you do.” They stared at each other.

Charlotte finally looked away. “Very well. If I answer your questions will you leave and stop bothering me?”

“If you answer my questions, I’ll never darken your door again,” Devon promised.

Charlotte’s mouth tightened. “See that you don’t. Now, what do you want to know?”

Devon ordered her thoughts. She wanted to ask the right questions, but she needed to ask them in the right order or risk being thrown out before she actually got her answers. “You hated my mother, didn’t you?”

“I think I’ve made no mystery of my feelings for your mother.”

Devon clasped her hands in her lap. “Did you always dislike her or was it only after she married your son?”

“I never liked her, even when she and Deacon and Jackson were just friends. She wasn’t the type of girl I wanted my son around, nor was she the kind of girl I thought it suitable for him to date.” Charlotte’s voice was as cold as a glacier.

“Did you object to their marriage?” So far these were all questions she knew the answers to.

“Of course I did,” the woman snapped, clearly irritated by having to answer what she thought was obvious. “But my son was besotted with her. There was no reasoning with him. I threatened to disown him, to cut him out of the will, but he didn’t care. He was going to marry her no matter what I said or did.” Her glare slammed into Devon. “And we can see how well that turned out.”

“Did you know Jackson Duvall or his family?”

If possible, Charlotte’s expression turned even sourer. “I did know his family. We went to the same church and our boys were inseparable. Why do you ask?”

“How did you feel about him?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t feel about him one way or another. I tolerated him and my son enjoyed his company. I didn’t think about him at all.”

“But you didn’t think he was a good influence on Deacon either.” It was a statement, not a question.

Charlotte waved it away, as if it were smoke. “Is there a question in all of this?”

Devon regrouped, feeling out of her depth. “You’ve never wanted any contact with me, even though I’m your granddaughter, even when Dad was alive. Why do you hate me?”

The older woman looked at her from eyes as distant as the stars. “Hate you? I never even considered you. You were merely the mongrel offspring of your slut of a mother. I don’t concern myself with mutts. It made my son happy to pretend I cared for you, but once he was dead—once your mother killed him—I no longer had to keep up the charade. It was extremely liberating.” She climbed to her feet. “And now I think it is time you left.”

“Long past,” Devon said, struggling to keep most of the anger from her voice. She stood and stalked after Charlotte.

Before the older woman opened the front door, Devon turned and asked, “I was wondering who you hired to replace Mr. Abernathy when he retired.”

Charlotte Mackson gave her a strange look. “If you must know, his name is William Larch.” She opened the door. “You made a promise. I hope you’ll remember it.” It was equally parts reminder and warning.

“Don’t worry. I always keep my promises.” Devon stepped out onto the front porch.

The door immediately closed behind her.

Devon walked quickly to the end of yard and opened the gate that led to the sidewalk. She didn’t feel comfortable until she was on public property and was at least a block away. For some reason she couldn’t get the image of Charlotte as an evil witch, determined to snatch her up and take her back to her hidden cottage and eat her, out of her head.

*****

“What did you find?” Brock asked at the other end of the line.

Devon twisted around to make sure no one was nearby. She’d borrowed the library phone from Mrs. Dotson, but she didn’t want to abuse the privilege. “I think there’s more than just a false accusation linking the ghost with my mother. Can you meet me?”

“Later, sure. I’ve got a family thing I have to do now.”

“The church at 6:00? Will that give you enough time?”

“Sure thing. See you there.”

Devon hung up, heading back to her table. She dropped into her chair with a heavy sigh. Jackson Duvall’s setup was slowly coming together in her notes, each piece of the puzzle showing more and more of the conspired whole. She shuffled her notes and made a few more on the related pages.

She had a bad taste in her mouth after the meeting with her ex-grandmother. Devon hadn’t expected it to be easy or pleasant, but it had been worse than she expected. She truly believed that woman was just about capable of anything after that conversation. And if she’d suspected that her daughter-in-law wasn’t exactly faithful, she wouldn’t put it past the woman to have remedied the problem.

Still, condemning an innocent man to prison seemed a little excessive.

Charlotte Mackson had more than the normal share of pride though. So perhaps it wasn’t that excessive when Devon really thought about it. She had read that most of the evidence against Jackson had been circumstantial. It wasn’t until Abernathy had come forward as a witness that the case had really been built.

But what if Abernathy had lied? Or been paid to by someone with enough money and a deep grudge to make it worth his while to do so? Devon rubbed her forehead. She had to be paranoid. Maybe she was going crazy. She was seeing ghosts, having visions of the past, thinking her grandmother capable of fixing a trial to convict an innocent man all to protect her family’s name. She had to be delusional.

Devon gathered up her things, putting everything back in her messenger bag. She slung it back over her shoulder and began her long walk home. The wind was whipping the bare branches of the trees, making the bark of the limbs rub together with a scraping sound. The dark sky threatened rain, but it seemed to be holding out. The clouds scudded like ships across the sea of grey horizon.

She pulled her jacket closed and hoofed it. She took all of the shortcuts she knew, through neighborhoods and cutting across parking lots. Devon reached the main road in good time, and picked up her pace. It was a slow afternoon, especially for a Sunday, with no one on the road. Since she saw no one coming, she strayed into the road where the footing was better.

Devon traveled this way for perhaps half a mile. Then she heard a car coming up at high speed behind her. She walked over to the verge, not really paying much attention. The sound of the engine grew close behind her, and it made her turn. She saw the car’s grille coming up quickly, almost as if it was aiming for her.

She threw herself off to the side as the car sped up. Devon tripped over the lip of the verge, rolling into the field. The car swerved off the road, and Devon kept rolling. She saw the barbed wire fencing that blocked off a field, so she threw herself toward that.

Devon felt her jacket catch as she rolled beneath the fencing. For a moment she was caught, tangled up like a tuna in a net. She yanked hard, fear giving her a surge of strength. She heard her jacket rip, but she didn’t care. Devon staggered to her feet once she was through and took off running across the empty field.

She risked a look back. The car had swerved back onto the road. Devon didn’t stop; she just kept running until the stitch in her side burned her like a brand. She ran on until she was back out the other side of the barbed wire fence. Her breath came in pants as she staggered to the trees. She put her back against one and collapsed against it.

Devon’s breath whistled out her lungs, her throat clotted with tears. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the tremors that tore through her body. With a choked sob, Devon bowed her head and cried.

After a few minutes, she pulled herself up. Her knees were still trembly. She leaned against the tree, waiting for the weakness to pass. Devon wiped her hands across her face, trying to clear away the dirt and tears. Her mind was still a vast blank, barely registering that she couldn’t feel her hands any longer or that the noise was her teeth chattering. She just knew she had to move.

She staggered away from her tree and began to move farther up the mountain.

*****

She didn’t remember how or when she got to the church. All Devon remembered was cold. She fell inside the doors, stumbling over the threshold. Her eyes didn’t register the form of the veiled woman at the front of the room. The woman appeared to float over to her, and took Devon’s hand in hers. This time Devon didn’t notice the white air she was falling through.

*****

There was a crowd gathered already. Jessamy watched as they milled around like cattle, each of them trying to jockey for a better position. She had promised Daniel that she wouldn’t come, but she couldn’t stay away. She’d told Keaton that she was going up the mountain to visit kinfolk in order to be away from the commotion in town. She gone all the way to the chapel where she’d used to meet Daniel, changed her clothes, donned the veil, and then snuck back into town.