Music of Ghosts (31 page)

epilogue

Eight months later …

“Do I look okay?” Mary turned away from the mirror, her eyes bright.

“Yes,” said Ginger. “You look beautiful. Do I look okay?”

“You look incredible.” Mary tried to peer out of a slit in the tent. “What's going on out there?”

Ginger peeked out to gaze at the crowd sitting beneath another white tent erected in the middle of Mary's cow pasture. “I see Cochran and Tuffy Clark and Judge Barbee and about a hundred other people sitting down. I think everybody's waiting for us!”

“Then grab your flowers,” said Mary. “It's show time!”

Ginger picked up a bouquet of blue forget-me-nots. “Are you nervous?” she asked.

“Kind of,” said Mary. “But I just keep telling myself to do what we did in rehearsal last night, and it'll be over before we know it.”

“Good idea,” Ginger said, taking a deep breath as Mary gathered her own bouquet of blue hydrangeas. “Well, here we go. See you on the other side!”

Their bouquets in place, Mary and Ginger walked decorously over to the other tent. As Lige McCauley and three other ancient musicians struck up a string band version of the “Wedding March,” Mary gave Ginger a wink, then started to make her way slowly down the aisle. As she walked she nodded to a few of the guests—Dave and Jackie Loveman back from Israel, Nick Stratton in the same suit he'd worn to court, and Sam Ravenel, recently returned from Charleston. Standing pale but proud, Jerry Cochran smiled at her from the little grapevine altar, backed up by his best man, Tuffy Clark. She walked to the spot marked for the maid of honor, then turned. As Lige and his band began playing with greater gusto, Ginger started coming down the aisle, wearing a short white frock that swirled like thick meringue. Mary smiled. Never had she seen her friend look so lovely. She walked to stand beside Cochran, then they all turned to Judge Wilson Barbee.

Five minutes later, it was over. Cochran said “I do” and “I will” with absolute conviction, his voice command-strong. Ginger responded more softly, but no less lovingly. After Barbee pronounced them husband and wife, they walked back down the aisle to an Irish jig and the happy applause of the guests. Mary took Tuffy Clark's arm as the best man escorted the maid of honor from the altar.

“That's a load off,” whispered Tuffy, still walking with a slight hitch. “Now we can move on to important things. Are you playing tennis this summer?”

“Probably,” Mary said, nodding at Rob Saunooke. “Why?”

“Just wondered if you'd like to partner up for mixed doubles. They've got some good tournaments coming up. Folding money for the winners.”

“Give me a call,” she replied. “If I'm in town, I'd love to play.”

The party funneled out of the wedding tent into a much larger one that held chairs and tables, food, and a dance floor. Later everyone would feast on barbecue and form squares for a square dance. Now all gathered to watch Jerry and Ginger slice a flower-bedecked cake, then take the first turn on the dance floor, twirling to Lige's version of the “Waltz of the Wind.”

“They make a lovely couple, don't they?”

Mary turned. Eleanor Cochran stood there, a white corsage pinned to her lavender suit.

“They certainly do,” Mary agreed. “I had no idea Jerry could dance so well.”

“He couldn't until about a month ago.” Eleanor's eyes twinkled. “I took him down in the basement and gave him emergency waltz lessons.”

“Well, you did a great job,” said Mary. “He looks like he's been at it for years.”

Eleanor laughed. “As long as he sticks with the waltz, he'll do alright.” She put a hand on Mary's arm and leaned close. “You know, I used to think maybe you and Jerry would get married.”

Mary smiled as Cochran waltzed by, gazing at Ginger. “I appreciate the compliment, but I think he's found the perfect girl for him.”

Eleanor's impish look faded to one of concern. “Have you heard anything from Jonathan?”

Mary knew someone would ask that question today. For weeks she'd wondered how badly it would hurt to answer it. To her surprise, her words came out with unusual ease. “No. Not a word.”

“I'm so sorry,” Eleanor said. “I thought you two made such a handsome couple.”

“We did, for a while,” Mary said. “But I guess we both changed.”

“Still,” Eleanor squeezed her hand, sympathetic. “You'd be surprised how things can work out. Last year I was dying of cancer, today I'm going to dance at Jerry's wedding.” She started to say something else when a tall, elegantly dressed couple approached.

“Eleanor?” the woman asked. “Is this the famous Mary Crow?”

“Why, yes it is!” Eleanor reached up to hug both the woman and her equally tall husband. “Let me introduce you. Mary, these are my cousins from Philadelphia, Rhonda and Larry Ross. Rhonda's a mystery writer, just like me.”

“Hello,” Mary smiled as she greeted the couple.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” said Rhonda. “Eleanor's told us so much about you.”

“About me?”

Rhonda nodded. “About how you and Jerry and Ginger were on the same track with that Fiddlesticks case. Fascinating.”

Mary shrugged, not wanting Fiddlesticks to darken the wedding festivities. “Actually, Ginger and Jerry did the heavy lifting. I just did what I could to keep from going off a hacking stand.”

Rhonda's gaze sharpened. “What do you mean Jerry did the heavy lifting?”

“Jerry showed up about five minutes after Smith died,” said Mary. “He found my recorder that accidentally recorded Smith's confession and then he figured out where the mica mine was.”

“That's where he dumped those other poor girls,” added Eleanor.

“What I don't understand is why nobody caught on to him sooner,” said Larry.

“Smith had a real gift for the con,” Mary replied. “He had a buddy in the toughest holler in the county giving him an alibi, which one of our rookie detectives bought. Until he tried to kill me, I thought he was just an eccentric old codger who worked for Nick Stratton.”

Larry gave a sly grin. “So did you get the million-dollar reward?”

“No, the governor came back and endowed the Lisa Wilson scholarship in environmental studies at Western.”

“Fiddlesticks never got over losing his wife,” Eleanor chimed in. “It'll all be in my next book, which, by the way, my editor already adores!”

“How nice for you.” Rhonda gave an envious smile.

“Well, I'll leave you two authors to chat,” Mary said, extricating herself from the trio. “I need to make sure the party keeps rolling along.”

She left as Eleanor went on, rhapsodic about her new book. Wondering how Jerry would find life with two writers in the family, Mary strolled over to the refreshment table, where a white-coated waiter served her a slice of wedding cake. She'd just taken her first bite when Nick Stratton walked up.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “You look gor-
geous.”

“Thanks.” Even though she knew all eyes were rightfully on Ginger, she was still pleased that someone had noticed the pale peach dress she'd driven all the way to Atlanta for.

“And you did a terrific job as maid of honor.”

“It's not hard,” she said. “Just walk down the aisle and try not to fall on your face.”

“They look mighty happy, don't they?” Stratton gazed at the pair, who were now greeting people in a receiving line.

“They do.” In a way, it surprised Mary that Jerry and Ginger had invited Stratton to their wedding, and that Stratton had decided to come. But the two men had gotten past whatever awkwardness existed between arrester and arrestee, mutually agreeing that Cochran had simply been doing his job. Mary noted that the real villain of the piece, George Turpin, had been omitted from the guest list.

“Want to dance?” Stratton asked as Lige and his band launched in to another waltz.

“If you don't mind your feet getting stepped on,” said Mary. “Twinkletoes I'm not.”

“Me, neither.”

He took her hand. They started off around the edges of the floor, steering clear of the more adept couples swirling in the center. After two cumbersome, knee-bumping circuits, Tuffy Clark cut in. One waltz with Tuffy led to one with bumbling Ravenel, then someone across the room requested a square dance. Rob Saunooke grabbed her as the squares began to form. With Lige calling, they do-si-do'd and flutterwheeled away as the spring afternoon turned into a lingering dusk. She was just about to launch into the Farmer's Quadrille with Dave Loveman when Stratton again took her arm. “Can you leave for a few minutes?” he asked.

“I think I'd better.” Mary fanned herself. “Before I do-si-do myself into a heart attack.”

“Then come on,” he grabbed her hand. “I want to show you something.”

He led her out of the tent and through the field that comprised the rest of her front pasture. The sun was just beginning to set, casting her land in a pinkish twilight. Though the air still held a slight chill, it carried the damp, earthy scent of new growth. Birds she had not heard since last fall chirped along her fencerows and the world looked freshly painted in the tender pastels of spring.

“Where are we going?” Mary asked as they walked toward the back of her property.

“Take a guess.”

“The barn? To see the shy Mrs. Owl?”

He nodded.

Mary smiled. “I heard her the other night when I was helping John Sanders move his cows out of the pasture for the wedding. She wailed like some kind of banshee.”

Stratton laughed. “They don't call them ghost owls for nothing.”

They walked through the meadow, into the cool, sweet-smelling dimness of the barn. Stratton started climbing up the ladder to the hayloft. Kicking off her pumps, Mary followed him. He helped her up through the last steps, then he headed over to the far corner of the barn. He knelt down on the floor, motioning to Mary. She walked over to stand beside him.

“Look at all these pellets she's regurgitated,” he whispered, pointing at a dozen or so grayish looking balls. “That means she's hunting regularly.”

“You think she has babies?” asked Mary.

“Probably.” He peered up into the shadowy rafters. “I could climb up there and look.”

“No. Let's leave her alone. It's enough that she's back home and thriving.”

“Yeah.” Stratton nodded. “You're right.”

They walked back to gaze out the wide hayloft door. All of her farm lay spread out before her—the house, the woods that surrounded the fields, the just-lit Japanese lanterns that now bobbed like fireflies around the party tents.

“Having second thoughts about leaving?” asked Stratton.

Mary leaned against the rough wood of the barn. “No. It's just hard to say good-bye.”

“You don't have to go. You've still got your practice here.”

She looked over at her house. Though his words tempted her, in her heart she knew it was time for a change. The honorable Ann Chandler had offered her a job, was giving her a chance to do what she'd been meant to do since her first day in law school. On June 1 she would move to Asheville as the special prosecutor for all the counties of western North Carolina, serving at the pleasure of the governor.

“Ravenel can mind the practice,” she said. “Sometimes you have to go away. Then you can come back new.”

“I understand.” He sat down on the hayloft floor, letting his long legs dangle out the window. “Sometimes I feel like last year was a long, bad dream I'm just now waking up from.”

She gazed out at her farm, lost in thought. The past eight months had not been easy for her, either. She'd daily climbed up in this hayloft and watched for a red truck to come down the driveway; for a tall driver and small passenger to get out, cross the swinging bridge, and run into the house. But as the green summer turned into a golden fall, she began to realize that it wasn't going to happen. Though she held on to a slim hope throughout Thanksgiving, and Christmas, on New Year's Eve she gave up and turned her porch light off. She had not turned it on since.

She resolved to live the new year differently—brushing up on her French, painting her dining room a rich shade of gold. As she worked, she started re-joining the world—hosting a dinner party for the Legal Aid society, going to a movie with Stratton. It felt odd, as if she were learning the art of enjoyment all over again. Then, in late January, on the night of her birthday, something awakened her. She woke up and looked out her window. New snow covered the ground and the inky sky shimmered with stars. As she looked across her back field she noticed a line of footprints. They emerged from the woods behind her house, traveled in a single line to her backyard gate and then vanished. She could tell they were human, but what caught her attention was that they'd been made in the way of the ancient Cherokees—a single-track, heel-to-toe pattern that, in the old days, made it difficult to count the number of men in a war party. Jonathan Walkingstick was the only person she knew who walked like that.

Hurriedly, she put on boots, threw a parka over her pajamas, and went outside. As she hurried through the frozen snow, she looked for him—leaning against the fence, or hovering in the shadowy edge of the woods. She didn't see anybody, but when she reached the back gate she found a smooth stone studded with garnets carefully placed on the post. She grasped it, pressed it against her cheek. In that instant a curious sense of peace came over her. She knew he had come back; knew that someday, months or even years hence, they would meet again. “We are not finished yet, Walkingstick,” she'd whispered, her words a frost in the air. “Not even close to being through.”