Authors: Joyce Lavene,Jim

Wicked Weaves (36 page)

BOOK: Wicked Weaves

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“I will. I promise.” She hoped she sounded more sincere than she felt. She might be fifty-three-years-old, a botanist, and a mother herself, but when it came to confronting her parents with unpleasant news, it was like she was still seventeen.

“What do you mean you’re in mud filled with human bones?” Steve asked as though suddenly realizing what she’d said.

“I’ll tell you when I see you.” She saw Jonathon and her mother headed her way. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” Peggy closed her cell phone like a naughty school girl and looked up at them with a smile.

“I hope everything’s all right.” Jonathon looked worried as he got near. “I appreciate your help today, Peggy. I know you have a lot to do without helping us find what’s left of Whitley Village.”

“I was explaning about the Potting Shed and everything else you do.” Lilla smiled in a way that let her daughter know she was working on her behalf. “Jonathon has five cats.”

“Really? That’s interesting.” Peggy knew her mother was probably telling Jonathon her whole life story from winning 4-H ribbons to opening her store. She couldn’t convince her that she and Steve had a serious relationship. Lilla was always looking for new suitors for her daughter. It might not be right to get married again just yet, but her mother was looking toward the future.

“Yes.” Jonathon took his wallet out of the back pocket of his khaki cargo shorts. “They’re my pride and joy.”

“Margaret named her dog Shakespeare. I’m not really sure why.” Lilla turned to Peggy. “Weren’t you thinking about changing his name to something more doglike?”

“No. I wasn’t.” Peggy smiled at Jonathon to keep from strangling her mother. It had always been this way between them. She’d vaguely thought this historical thing might bring them closer together now that Lilla was living a few miles away. But she was beginning to think it might cause another wedge between them. Sometimes she wondered how this woman could be her mother.

“I think Shakespeare is a fine name.” Jonathon put away his cat pictures. “I enjoy plays and poetry, too.”

Peggy didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to encourage him along the romantic path her mother had no doubt sent him. He was probably half her age. She could just imagine her words:
She’s alone like you, Jonathon. I’m sure the two of you would have so much in common.

It ended up she didn’t have to say anything. Geneva Curtis screamed and fell backward into the mud. “Everybody come here! You won’t believe this!”

Mrs. Waynewright, probably the oldest member of the group, got painfully to her feet to see what was happening while the rest of the group slogged toward Geneva, who was trying to get out of the gooey mess where she’d fallen. They gathered around her, grasping her arms, the thick mud creating suction that popped as it released her. She would’ve fallen forward if it wasn’t for Annabelle Ainsley and Lilla holding her up.

“What is it, Geneva?” Chapter President, Dorothy Myrick, looked around where they were standing, her fists on her ample hips. “Please don’t tell me you saw a snake again.”

“I didn’t see a snake this time,” Geneva assured her in a loud voice. “Although, a water moccasin is nothing to fool around with.”

“There are no water moccasins in this area,” Mrs. Waynewright yelled from the shore. “That was probably just a plain old water snake. I’m sure it was more frightened of you than you were of it.”

“I doubt it.” Geneva’s thick black curls shook as she disagreed. “But that’s not why I screamed. Take a look over there.”

“That’s the old post office.” Jonathon looked at his map of the village. “One of the few relics we have from Whitley is the post office sign.”

“That may be. But there’s something in there.” Geneva’s dark eyes were large and frightened in her chocolate brown face.

Jonathon picked up a sturdy piece of wood from the mud while the women began to fall in line behind him. Peggy couldn’t imagine that anything out there could be that ferocious. She fell into step beside the director.

“We’ve had a lot of problems out here with theft,” he confided as they advanced on the deteriorating post office. “None of us realized there was a market for human bones. We could only afford to hire someone to protect the site at night. He leaves at first light and goes on to his real job. The first week we lost ten skulls and various other bones.”

“I’ve read about that,” Peggy said. “Some of the market is for trinkets and the rest is medicinal. People believe powdered human bones are good for them.”

“Yes.” He glanced at her then looked away. “Good for male stamina, I undertsand. You know?”

She smiled as she saw his face turn bright red. He obviously hadn’t thought about his explanation before he got started. “It seems odd the black market could reach a little area like Charlotte but I suppose someone could consider this to be a wealth of material.”

“It was right over there.” Geneva pointed to the eastern side of the stone walls that marked the abandoned post office. “I was poking around in the mud with a stick and I saw it.”

“Don’t leave us in suspense.” Dorothy adjusted the colorful scarf she had covering her gray-streaked brown hair. “What did you see?”

“I’m not sure.”

There was a collective sigh from the rest of the women. Geneva was the youngest of the group, probably in her late forties and frequently indulged in flights of fancy that included seeing ghosts in cemeteries and imagining the shuffling of leaves were woodland creatures about to pounce on them.

“This is a wild goose chase,” Annabelle mumbled, her round face florid from the sun beneath curly white hair. “We’re not going to get anything done if we keep jumping every time Geneva sees or hears a booger.”

“There really was something,” Geneva defended. “Wait’ til you see.”

Geneva’s friend and mentor, Grace Kallahan, pushed through the mud to reach her side. The large, black woman who had been a psychiatric nurse looked around the group as though daring anyone to say another word. “Don’t pay no never mind to them, honey. You saw something that wasn’t normal. It won’t hurt us to take a look.”

Lilla nudged Peggy. “It’s always like this. We go out to shaving cream some graves and someone forgets the shaving cream. This is the most unorganized group I’ve ever been in. It’s a good thing I moved up here. I think they really need me.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” her daughter agreed. “They seem a little scattered.”

“And that’s why I wanted you to be a part of the group, too. You’re organized and you could get us into all kinds of places. You’re a descendant of a Revolutionary War hero, too. Captain Jeremiah Cranshaw would be proud of you joining us.”

“Thanks.” Peggy had heard about her famous great-great-great-granduncle who’d died in the battle of King’s Mountain since she was a baby. It was a great source of pride to her mother’s side of the family.

“Is this where you saw it?” Jonathon had reached the side of the post office.

“This is it.” Geneva pointed to the mud. “See? There’s my stick.”

“What I’m curious about is why you screamed and fell over
there,
” Annabelle said. “This is a long way from where you were.”

“The sheer horror of it hit me as I was making my way back,” Geneva explained. “That’s why I screamed and fell. It was like a delayed reaction, I guess.”

“Very delayed,” Annabelle agreed.

Each of the women picked up a stick to poke around in the mud. Grace dropped hers right away when she realized it was an arm bone. Jonathon walked slowly through the area, kicking his feet hoping to find something.

Peggy stood to one side watching the group search the thick, brown mud. There were too many of them already to find anything. Whatever Geneva saw would no doubt be lost in the traffic. That’s why police kept people out of crime scenes.

The dying October sunlight was drifting across the ghost of Lake Whitley. Another day was over in the search for what remained of the village. In all fairness, the group had collected a sizable number of bones and household artifacts that day. They were all piled on the shore near Mrs. Waynewright who’d covered the find with tarps.

The group knew they were working against time and nature as the state moved further into the active hurricane season for the Atlantic. One or two good storms could leave this area under water again with possibly another hundred year wait until it was dry enough to salvage.

She glanced down at a spot where the sunlight was gilding across something white in the mud. Absently, she leaned down and touched it with her gloved hand. It was probably another shard of pottery.

What her fingers encountered was soft, pliable. She pushed at it, thinking it might be some form of plant life or even a dead fish. Instead, as she prodded it, the round white surface moved, revealing itself to be the face of a dead woman with bright red lips.