Read Online Signs in the Blood by Vicki Lane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vicki Lane
Tags: Fiction
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know, like in that movie you got from the library
—Mrs. Brown
or whatever it was.”
He continued hurriedly; having once broached the topic he appeared determined to have his say. “I mean, everyone knows how you carried on with the farm and the business and no one ever even saw you cry. You were really brave and all. But, my god, since last fall it seems like you've been in a blue funk; instead of getting back to some sort of a normal life, it was like Sam had just died and you were sadder than ever.”
Ben stopped in some confusion, but when Elizabeth said nothing, he renewed the attack. “Aunt E, don't you see . . . the girls and I have been really worried, but you're so . . . what do they call it? . . . such a private person that no one wanted to say anything.” He shook his head. “You know, when Rosemary was home for Christmas, she told me that, in her opinion, you might be clinically depressed. She thought that maybe we should try to get you to talk to a doctor about medication. Laurel's even been thinking that maybe she should move back, but I told them I thought you'd snap out of it before long. I was really hopeful today, seeing you enjoying this guy Hawkins's company. It's time you had some social life.”
Elizabeth stiffened in her chair. Now she felt indignant to think that while she had believed that no one had noticed her sorrow, Ben and her girls had been discussing her and, even worse, pitying her. “I appreciate your concern,” she said formally as she got to her feet, “but I'm fine and I don't really want a social life.”
The screen door slammed behind her and she headed upstairs to her workroom in search of something useful to do, something to erase the memory of Hawkins's cool manner as he said good-bye and started down the road. Behind her she could hear Ben saying dryly, “Sorry, Aunt E. I guess it's none of my business.”
At least you got that right, Benjamin,
she thought, as she climbed the steps to the airy room that served as her sewing room, junk repository, and general sanctuary.
A stack of patchwork squares waited by the sewing machine, an unfinished piece of embroidery lay in its hoop by her ratty but supremely comfortable chair, and a small pile of shirts reproached her from the ironing board. She ignored them all and scrabbled through a closet filled with the odds and ends of her life. At last she found it—a topographical map of Marshall County. Spreading it out on the desk beneath the window, she began to make notes on a yellow legal pad. At the top she wrote, in bold letters, WHERE WAS CLETUS???
An hour later she had a plan. She would get in touch with the sheriff tomorrow and find out if the autopsy had been done. If it had, and if it was clear that Cletus had drowned, maybe Miss Birdie would accept the findings and agree with the sheriff that Cletus had fallen accidentally from the trestle while foolishly trying to cross it in the dark. But just in case Birdie still wanted to search the nearby hollows for any evidence of where Cletus had been before he died . . . Birdie had said that Cletus started out up Pinnacle Mountain, the three-thousand-foot peak that rose above Elizabeth's house.
He would probably have gone up the old logging road that runs along our southern line,
mused Elizabeth, tracing the road along the ridgeline on the map.
Once at the top, would he have gone down the other side immediately? or along Pinnacle Ridge? And which way?
The ridge ran roughly north and south and was furrowed with numerous coves and hollows. A century ago, much of this land had been open pasture and fields, and every hollow had supported one or more large families. The ridgelines had served as highways for travel by foot or horse, and a young man would think nothing of working in the fields all day and then walking miles over the mountain to attend a “singin',” to play baseball, or to go courting.
Like Little Sylvie's lover,
Elizabeth realized, tracing with her finger the
—Mrs. Brown
or whatever it was.”
He continued hurriedly; having once broached the topic he appeared determined to have his say. “I mean, everyone knows how you carried on with the farm and the business and no one ever even saw you cry. You were really brave and all. But, my god, since last fall it seems like you've been in a blue funk; instead of getting back to some sort of a normal life, it was like Sam had just died and you were sadder than ever.”
Ben stopped in some confusion, but when Elizabeth said nothing, he renewed the attack. “Aunt E, don't you see . . . the girls and I have been really worried, but you're so . . . what do they call it? . . . such a private person that no one wanted to say anything.” He shook his head. “You know, when Rosemary was home for Christmas, she told me that, in her opinion, you might be clinically depressed. She thought that maybe we should try to get you to talk to a doctor about medication. Laurel's even been thinking that maybe she should move back, but I told them I thought you'd snap out of it before long. I was really hopeful today, seeing you enjoying this guy Hawkins's company. It's time you had some social life.”
Elizabeth stiffened in her chair. Now she felt indignant to think that while she had believed that no one had noticed her sorrow, Ben and her girls had been discussing her and, even worse, pitying her. “I appreciate your concern,” she said formally as she got to her feet, “but I'm fine and I don't really want a social life.”
The screen door slammed behind her and she headed upstairs to her workroom in search of something useful to do, something to erase the memory of Hawkins's cool manner as he said good-bye and started down the road. Behind her she could hear Ben saying dryly, “Sorry, Aunt E. I guess it's none of my business.”
At least you got that right, Benjamin,
she thought, as she climbed the steps to the airy room that served as her sewing room, junk repository, and general sanctuary.
A stack of patchwork squares waited by the sewing machine, an unfinished piece of embroidery lay in its hoop by her ratty but supremely comfortable chair, and a small pile of shirts reproached her from the ironing board. She ignored them all and scrabbled through a closet filled with the odds and ends of her life. At last she found it—a topographical map of Marshall County. Spreading it out on the desk beneath the window, she began to make notes on a yellow legal pad. At the top she wrote, in bold letters, WHERE WAS CLETUS???
An hour later she had a plan. She would get in touch with the sheriff tomorrow and find out if the autopsy had been done. If it had, and if it was clear that Cletus had drowned, maybe Miss Birdie would accept the findings and agree with the sheriff that Cletus had fallen accidentally from the trestle while foolishly trying to cross it in the dark. But just in case Birdie still wanted to search the nearby hollows for any evidence of where Cletus had been before he died . . . Birdie had said that Cletus started out up Pinnacle Mountain, the three-thousand-foot peak that rose above Elizabeth's house.
He would probably have gone up the old logging road that runs along our southern line,
mused Elizabeth, tracing the road along the ridgeline on the map.
Once at the top, would he have gone down the other side immediately? or along Pinnacle Ridge? And which way?
The ridge ran roughly north and south and was furrowed with numerous coves and hollows. A century ago, much of this land had been open pasture and fields, and every hollow had supported one or more large families. The ridgelines had served as highways for travel by foot or horse, and a young man would think nothing of working in the fields all day and then walking miles over the mountain to attend a “singin',” to play baseball, or to go courting.
Like Little Sylvie's lover,
Elizabeth realized, tracing with her finger the
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