Murder Takes to the Hills (12 page)

We stopped in front of a small park. While I took Fargo for a brief run, Cindy asked someone about a restaurant and was referred to the Family Kitchen.

We were seated at a table for six, with four places already taken. We introduced ourselves and began the rather forced conversation of strangers thrown together by chance.
 
We exchanged information regarding hometowns. We spoke of destinations. Just as we were getting to the weather, large platters were placed on the table by rather pretty young women in gray uniforms that came just below their knees and had spotless high white collars, with white cuffs just below the elbow. 1930’s design, I was sure, and still worn by these “plain” young people.

The largest platter held tender roast beef with gravy. Fried chicken was piled high on another. Ham with a honey sauce actually came with a little fat around the edges, and the slices were not even. Good grief! It had not been spiral cut! And it actually tasted like…real ham!

There were sweet potatoes and white potatoes, spinach and red cabbage. Covered baskets held biscuits and cornbread. After I thought I couldn’t eat another bite for a week, here came the applesauce cake and shoo-fly pie—which even Cindy had to try. Conversation collapsed under the largesse. Strong coffee got us all moving again, but with difficulty.

I drove, with a tape of
The 1812 Overture
blasting from the speakers and strong hot coffee in a cup in the dashboard rack, poured from a newly filled thermos. We had asked about a doggy bag and they had given us a meal for a tiger. In the backseat Fargo burped. And half his meal was still in the cooler. I burped, which did not surprise me. Cindy burped, which did.

The motel that night was a motel…period. I didn’t even remember the name of the town it was in.

But it could have been on any major highway in the contiguous United States.
Pseudobrick
and clapboard on the outside,
pseudohominess
on the inside. It was clean, comfortable and utterly forgettable. There was a restaurant attached, with waitresses in the more familiar brightly colored uniforms with short skirts and sleeves. They served a completely forgettable meal. I momentarily considered dipping into Fargo’s doggie bag, but figured it wouldn’t be fair. We walked the dog, fell into bed and all three fell asleep over some forgettable TV.

We found ourselves in the Shenandoah Valley and were enthralled. Surrounded by protective mountains, the valley was somewhat warmer than the nearby areas. Already it was lush with growing crops. Comfortable farmhouses and the occasional mansion flashed by. Well-kept lawns with early flowers and blooming shrubs were the norm.

Suddenly Cindy tapped my arm and said, “Look.”

I did, at a tall, blackened chimney standing alone in the midst of an overgrown, weed-filled yard, surrounded by
unmortared
low stone walls. No one was behind me and I slowed the car and pulled over.

“I think solitary old chimneys and their fireplaces are so lonely and sad.” Her lovely eyes clouded slightly with a prelude to tears. “They seem to be reaching up, begging God please to bring back their house or barn…they provided warmth, perhaps meals were cooked on their grill. Babies were born beside them and the old died in warm, loving comfort in front of them. And now they stand alone, bereft and guarding nothing, no warmth left in them. Useless.”

I had no answer to that, but anyway, Cindy had another thought.

“Do you think that one is left from the Civil War? Perhaps someone deliberately has left it there as a sort of reminder of what Sheridan did to this beautiful land?”

“I suppose it could be.” I shrugged dubiously. “What happened to this valley is a shame. But whether you agree or not, Sheridan said the fastest way to end the war was to destroy southern crops. If they couldn’t feed their army, it couldn’t fight. He said he was actually saving lives.”

“There may be a valid point in there somewhere, but burning families out of their homes isn’t just burning crops. And did you know that members of Sheridan’s own staff wanted him relieved as being insane? They said he acted like a maniac anytime he was involved in killing and destruction. He loved it. But Lincoln and Grant said he was indispensable. How do you like them apples?”

“I don’t,” I shook my head. “But Lincoln and Grant wouldn’t listen to me either. I said crops: yes, houses: no.”

“Idiot!” Her mouth tightened.

But then, honest little scholar that she was, she muttered to herself, “Of course, they said the same thing about Patton.”

I turned my head away until I got control of the smile.

And then we were in the mountains. They were everywhere. If we were at a high altitude we could see them lined up as far as the eye could see, like giant ocean waves suddenly frozen in time. If the road took us lower they towered above us, seeming to lean a little away from us, to allow us safe passage.
 
The mountain laurel flirted, pink and lively in the breeze and the larger, deeper toned rhododendron bobbed and nodded in matronly greeting. The big trees were not yet fully leaved, but were recognizable.
 
Oak, maple, pine, hickory, dogwood, others I did not know.

A small brown critter running right in front of the car brought me to reality with a jerk. Automatically I hit the brakes and cut to the right. The rabbit—I had
ID’d
it by now—finished its frantic run across the highway safely and disappeared into underbrush. But a much larger creature careered out of the forest, and only its desperate scratching, clawing, twisting one-eighty allowed it to miss running full tilt into the right side of the now unmoving car.
 
It gathered itself and trotted shakily back into the woods.

Feeling pretty shaky myself, I leaned my arms and head on the steering wheel. I was almost crying in relief. Cindy was half-out the passenger door, looking for casualties. Fargo was barking loudly and irritably for having been dumped off the backseat and on to various coolers and grocery bags.

“Hush, Fargo!” Cindy ordered. “Alex, are you all right? Are the rabbit and that big dog all right? Should we follow them and make sure?”

“I’m okay, or I will be in a minute. The rabbit is out of breath but grateful to be off the luncheon menu. The big dog is a coyote who is, like me, simply recovering from his considerable scare. We’d never catch up with him, anyway.”

“A coyote? I’ll be darned.”

“Yeah.” I put the car in gear and pulled back onto the highway. The Appalachians were not all pink blossoms and stately green trees.

Finally, finally! We saw the sign. “Welcome to Tennessee.”
 
I had begun to think we were a four-wheeled flying Dutchman, doomed forever to traverse an endless Virginia. Already I felt less tired. Cindy took the wheel, however, in the hopes she might have retained some teenage recollection of the local roads.

We left Interstate 81 for a state road, left that for a county road, left that for an unmarked asphalt road that could have used a little TLC.
 
We passed through a small two-street town, marked by a slanting sign informing us we had entered
Beulaland
, Population 1237. I could not believe it was real.

Cindy slowed the car to a crawling twenty miles an hour. After the speeds we had previously been going, I felt I could get out and push the vehicle faster. My feelings must have showed.

Cindy laughed and said, “Can’t help it. Speed trap. Always has been for any pesky
furriners
—and a
furriner
is anybody from farther away than Elizabethton. Look subtly to your right, a sheriff’s car should be waiting behind the gas station. Or it used to be.”

 
It still was.

Even at our snail’s pace we had passed through the town. About a half mile farther I saw a bunch of big mailboxes lined up along the road next to a turnoff onto a gravel road.

“Hey, look!” Cindy pointed. “There’s Ken’s mailbox, and I reckon that there is his road. Yup! Now all we have to do is go on down this road to the Bromfield Inn and get the keys. Darling girl, we have
made it!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We turned and went through a large ornate gate with the words “Bromfield Inn, 1884” forming the top of the wrought iron span.
 
Just inside was a neatly painted sign reading “Welcome to the Bromfield Inn and Country Club. Please drive slowly.” So we did…past what looked like a three-hole chip and putt golf course, then a double terrace with tables and umbrellas, ending beside a sizeable lake.

A couple of tables were occupied. From behind the hotel itself I heard the
thonk
of tennis balls. Two small kids played in some sand that bordered the water to form a small man-made beach. A girl of maybe fourteen lay propped on her elbow in the sand, watching the kids. Three sailboats cruised the lake, along with several small boats that had to be motor-powered, although I could not hear them. It made a nice postcard scene.

We pulled up in front of the prestigious three-story shingled building, complete with veranda and comfortable chairs. Immediately a young man stood beside Cindy’s window.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Bromfield. My name is Jerry. May I park your car for you?”

Cindy hesitated. “I don’t know that you need to bother, Jerry. I just have to run in and pick up something.”

Jerry cocked his head, surveying the rather messy interior, the car-weary dog and the two of us who were a bit messy also.

“Are you two ladies by any chance headed for Mr. Willingham’s cabin?” At our nods, he continued. “I know our owner, Mr. Bromfield, wants to welcome you. Maybe I could just pull the car over there where it’s handy, and maybe this nice doggy would like a little stroll by the water.”

They sure loved the word
welcome
here at Bromfield’s, but his offer to walk Fargo sold me. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll do it your way.”

We walked into the elegant lobby with its marble floor and impressive chandelier, and I assume Cindy felt as scruffy as I did. A young lady at the registration desk greeted us with a professional smile. “Welcome to Bromfield. May I help you?”

“I’m Cindy Hart, Ken Willingham’s cousin. I believe he left an envelope for me.”

“Indeed he did.” The receptionist turned to a bank of cubby holes behind her and extricated a manila envelope with Cindy’s name on it.

As she took it, she thanked the clerk and turned to me. “We’re in. One more mile to the cabin and we are out of that car for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Oh, please,” the clerk sounded distressed. “Don’t leave quite yet. Mr. Bromfield wants to meet you both. He’s coming right down and asked that you wait in the bar.”

“Oh, of course. We’d be delighted.” Cindy had on her social voice. I don’t know where she found it. I could feel fatigue suddenly settling on my neck and shoulders like a giant pouting toad.

We followed the clerk’s pointing finger into the large room with a beautiful curving mahogany bar and comfortably sized red leather barstools with black backs and arms, and a dozen matching tables.
 
We looked at each other and headed for the bar. A table looked more like you were going to set and stay a spell and I hoped
we’uns
would be
movin
’
shawtly
. I was getting into my mountaineer mode. I also might just have been overtired.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Hart, Ms. Peres.” The bartender smiled as he placed napkins in front of us. “Welcome to Bromfield, my name is Joe.
 
And what is your pleasure?”

Well, at least I could remember his name. I just had to think of Joe at the shabby old Wharf Rat, for which I felt a sudden wistful pang.
 
And I wondered how this Joe knew our names…probably a fast phone call from the receptionist. One more “welcome,” though, and I might say something I’d regret.

“Do you serve anything but beer?” Cindy was asking. I wondered what she thought all those bottles along the mirrored wall held, cleaning fluid?

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Joe reassured her. “The county is dry except for beer, but we are a private club and can serve drinks and wine. Mr. Bromfield says you are his guests this afternoon. And if either of you wish to use any of our services or facilities later on, all you have to do then is sign the tab. It will go to Mr. Willingham’s account. Do order whatever you please.”