Authors: Vicki Lane
My twenty-first birthday had just passed when I attended a lecture at the Chilton Club and learned of the Appalachian missions. The women who spoke told of the rugged mountaineers, living amid great natural beauty, but in circumstances of appalling poverty and backwardness. I remember Miss Carolyn, her plain face shining with excitement as she threw wide her arms and called out in a voice that quivered with supplication, Please, Women of Boston, listen! Hear the mournful call of your sisters in the southern mountains! They are begging, crying for your help.
The audience was generous with contributions but, though I gave to the extent that my dress allowance would permit, I was not satisfied. I was determined to take an active part in the efforts to lift these backward folk out of their squalor and misery. I was eager to be of service, to suffer hardship in order to do good, to expunge some of the guilt I felt at leading a comfortable life while all around me people went hungry. And— for I
am
being honest here— I was eager to leave home, eager for the adventure of meeting with the mountaineers of whom such a compelling picture was painted by Miss Carolyn Hedley and Miss Geneva Mills.
These two inspiring ladies had spent the previous three years in western North Carolina, helping local women to develop and market their handicrafts. Miss Carolyn and Miss Geneva told thrilling stories of riding on muleback up lonesome hollows to ramshackle cabins peopled by a hardy folk who spoke a dialect that Shakespeare would have recognized. They told of discovering women who still spun wool from their own sheep, dyed it with decoctions of their own making, and wove it into intricately patterned coverlets on great rude looms handed down from their grandmothers.
There are women and girls all over those mountains, said Miss Geneva, who work like slaves in the fields. They are barefoot; they are ragged; they are worn out before they are forty. If we can help these women to supplement the meager income of the farm with their handicrafts, we can bring them a step closer to the modern world.
I was one of several who spoke with Miss Hedley after the talk and then and there I committed myself to their mission in Shut In, a tiny community in the mountains near Asheville.
It was fortunate that my mother and father (typical insular Bostonians) had heard of Asheville. Indeed, Mother’s best friend’s son had attended The Asheville School after being asked to leave Groton under circumstances that were evidently so
outré
he was exiled from the usual acceptable schools and sent south. I’m sure that Eleonora told me that they have a Junior League there, Mother said, clutching at straws. You can transfer your membership and that way you’ll meet the right people.
So I let them believe that I would be staying in Asheville. It made leaving so much easier. My parents had become weary of my idealism and my scorn for their (our!) way of life, and I think they put me on the train for North Carolina with something of relief. I overheard Father telling my mother that they might as well let me get this foolishness out of my system, that I would be home before six months was past, and that at least it wasn’t Bolshevism like the Lawrences’ daughter….
A
T THE WORDS “EXECUTION STYLE,” A SMALL, INVOLUNTARY
sound escaped Kyra’s lips and she turned away, burying her face in her hands. Instantly Ben was at her side, his arms around her.
“Aunt E, let’s go up to the house.” He helped the trembling Kyra into the backseat of the jeep and climbed in beside her.
“Phillip, please, come with us.” Elizabeth took her place behind the wheel without waiting for an answer. Phillip hesitated a moment, then climbed into the passenger seat. All four were silent on the short bumpy ride up to Elizabeth’s house. In the rearview mirror, Elizabeth could see that Kyra’s head was on Ben’s shoulder, her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be shaking with silent sobs.
Once inside the house, Kyra regained her composure and they all sat around the dining table with glasses of the inevitable iced tea. “I’m sorry that I acted so…so…” She fought back her tears and continued. “It was just that…” She shot a penetrating look at Phillip. “Do you know who my father is? And do you know how my mother died?”
“I told Phillip a little about your family, Kyra,” Elizabeth admitted. “I thought he’d need to know in order to help you better.”
“Did you tell him that my mother was shot in the back of the head?” Kyra’s words tumbled out in a relentless torrent. “That I was the one who found her? Did you tell him about my father’s second wife? Did you tell him—” There was an edge of frenzy to her voice now.
Phillip broke in, his words calm and reassuring. “Elizabeth gave me the story as it was reported in the newspapers, Kyra. Now you need to tell me what you know about Boz.”
Kyra buried her face in her hands and spoke in muffled tones. “I think it was my father. Maybe he didn’t pull the trigger but I think he made it happen. Just like my mother—” The fingers of her right hand sought the tattooed roses on her left hand and began to rub, as if to imprint them on the bone beneath the skin. “He hated Boz even more than Aidan. But this way they’d both be out of the way…” She looked pleadingly at Phillip. “I don’t know how I can prove it. He’s smart; he’s always gotten away with things.”
“Have you ever told the police that you suspect him of being involved in your mother’s death?”
A bitter laugh twisted Kyra’s lips. “My father plays golf every Saturday with the chief of police. So, no, I haven’t bothered with the authorities.” She pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment. “Right after it happened…after my mother died, when I went back to school, I did tell Miss Wingate. She was one of my teachers at Vassar and I really felt close to her. Anyway, she knew what had happened and went out of her way to make sure I was okay. She was someone I really trusted and eventually I told her that I thought my father had something to do with the murder. I told her how for as long as I could remember I’d been afraid of him. And I think my mother was too.”
Kyra looked around the table. Her fingers caressed the tattooed roses, more slowly now, but still without a pause. “I told Miss Wingate all this and the next thing I knew, I was being sent to a private clinic in Massachusetts to recover from my so-called nervous breakdown. I was at the clinic for the whole semester. When I went back to school, Miss Wingate was gone and no one would tell me how to get in touch with her. Everyone was really nice to me, but if I wanted to talk about my mother’s murder, they would just ask if I’d taken my meds. That’s when I dropped out of school.”
Kyra told them how she had often seen dark bruises on her mother’s arms. “She’d try to hide them and if I asked, she’d just laugh and say something about how clumsy she was. But I’m sure he had hurt her. She always slept in her own room but I remember, when I was little, sometimes I’d wake up at night and hear her crying and pleading with him— I think she was terrified of him. Reba, our housekeeper, told me things…. She didn’t mean to but she was my nurse back then and sometimes she let things slip. She’s always tried to protect me….”
The fingers of Kyra’s right hand arched into claws and began to scratch at the tattooed roses in a steady, relentless rhythm as she continued. “Reba said that they didn’t have sex anymore. I don’t know— maybe that’s why he had a mistress. But, in public, Mother always acted the part of a loving wife— she couldn’t admit to her family that she’d made a mistake by marrying him.”
The restless fingers lay still at last. “Everyone’s afraid of him. I try not to be; I defy him with stupid little things like moving out, dyeing my hair, the tattoos. And I know I can get to him. But I never thought he’d go after Boz and Aidan.” She paused, and then looked at Phillip, her eyes wide and pleading. “It’s my fault that Boz is dead and Aidan’s in jail. That’s why I want to hire you to help me prove that my father had Boz killed. Because then they’ll have to reopen the case about my mother.”
Later that evening Elizabeth sat on her front porch, enjoying the sounds of the crickets and the cooler night air. Kyra had swallowed a few bites of supper and, pale with exhaustion, had gone to bed early in the quiet guest room at the back of the house. Ben had retired to his cabin, and Phillip, after declining to be hired as a private investigator, had at last said, “I’ll see what I can find out, unofficially, of course.” He had turned down Elizabeth’s offer of a sandwich for supper, saying that Aunt Omie’s banana pudding was still with him and the walk down to his car would do him good. He had promised to be in touch soon, and Elizabeth had watched him go with a vague feeling of disappointment.
The sweet fragrance of night-flowering nicotiana vied with the earthy odor of the three dogs lying at Elizabeth’s feet. Hypnotic chirring from a thousand crickets almost drowned out the sound of a distant car down on the hard road.
Elizabeth was busy thinking over Kyra’s story when she heard an unfamiliar buzzing inside the house. Puzzled, she went in to investigate and soon realized that the sound was coming from a cell phone lying on the kitchen table by Kyra’s knapsack. She hesitated, knowing that her guest was probably asleep by now— it was well after nine— but feeling that the call should be answered. Reluctantly, she picked up the little device and, after fumbling to find the right button, said, “Hello, this is Kyra’s phone. Elizabeth Goodweather speaking.”
There was a silence at the other end. Then a peremptory voice said, “This is Marvin Peterson. Let me speak to my daughter.”
“Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s awake.” Elizabeth went quietly down the hall toward the guest room. Kyra’s door was closed and no light showed under it.
“She’s asleep, Mr. Peterson. I’d rather not wake her; she’s had a rough day. Do you want—”
“You’re the neighbor, right? So she’s run to your house. I sent a car out for her when I heard about what had happened to her boyfriends, but my man said she wasn’t at her house.”
She could hear him speaking to someone in the background and could just catch the words “…next time…” He sounded furious but when he spoke to her his voice was calm and deliberate.
“Mrs. Goodweather, is my daughter okay? She’d probably refuse to talk to me anyway, even if you
did
wake her up. I don’t know if you realize how emotionally fragile she is.”
“She’s told me a little about…” Elizabeth considered and chose her words with care. “…a little about her mother. And of course she’s upset at Boz’s death and Aidan’s arrest—”
“Aidan!” snorted Peterson, “now there’s a piece of work! A useless parasite like all of them. Artists! They say I ought to support the arts— what bullshit! I figure that the very generous allowance my daughter gets is supporting the arts— both those useless little shits were living off her money—‘but it’s Art,’ they whine…Art, my ass— a bunch of fags and dykes painting themselves with chocolate or saving bottles of their own piss and they want to tell me it’s Art. Well, I say it’s bullshit!”
He paused to collect himself and Elizabeth could picture him wiping the foam from his lips. She remembered that the newspaper stories at the time of Rose Peterson’s death had made much of her husband’s humble beginnings and his swift transition from an ordinary, so-called uncultured, working-class Joe Six-Pack to a smooth-spoken, custom-tailored patron of the arts whose accent hinted at Harvard or Yale. Evidently Marvin Peterson had not entirely forgotten his roots.
“I think Kyra’s all right—” she began.
“Mrs. Goodweather,” Peterson interrupted. His anger was leashed in now and his voice had returned to an even pitch. He sounded almost,
almost conciliatory.
“Mrs. Goodweather, I’ve just been in touch with the doctor who treated Kyra during her breakdown after her mother’s death. He was very insistent, warned that a second trauma could send her totally off the deep end, said that I should get her into therapy as soon as possible. I
have
to talk to her about going back to the clinic for a while.”
Elizabeth’s feelings were torn— the angry vulgarian had abruptly been replaced by
what? Suave diplomat…or concerned father? Is he trying to help his daughter…or get her out of the way?
Her inner questions still unresolved, she assured Peterson that she would have Kyra return his call. His voice was full of warmth, and something else that could have been anxiety, as he thanked Elizabeth for taking care of his daughter. By the time the call ended, Elizabeth realized that she was beginning to be swayed by the man’s charm— the charm that had kept Peterson in the forefront of Asheville society in spite of his dubious past.
After replacing the cell phone by the knapsack, Elizabeth went to the door to call the dogs in for the night. Down in the front yard she could hear Ursa beginning an alto howl in response to a distant siren. Then Molly chimed in with her deep hound’s baying and at last James broke into a high-pitched yipping. Elizabeth smiled at the sounds of the dog chorus, then frowned as she realized that the siren was getting much closer. She stepped quickly out to the porch and listened; yes, it must be just down the road on Ridley Branch.
With an abrupt gurgling noise the siren stopped and Elizabeth was horrified to see a red glow tinting the night sky, just in the direction of Dessie’s house. Pushing her feet into her boots, she started for her car, then turned and hurried back to the guest room.
“Kyra!” She rapped urgently on the door. “Kyra, wake up!” There was no sound within. Elizabeth opened the door and said again, “Kyra—” The light from the hallway revealed an empty bed. The French door leading outside stood ajar.
Elizabeth hesitated. The path beyond the door led down the mountain by way of Ben’s cabin. Maybe Kyra had—
“Dammit, Elizabeth, don’t just stand there,” she said aloud. Stepping out the open door, she faced Ben’s cabin. Lights were still on and for once he didn’t have his music turned up loud. “Ben!” She pitched her voice to carry, and called again.
“Ben!”