 
Copyright © 2010 Jeanne Irelan

http://jeanneirelan.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

EYE OF THE SUN

A Judge Baby Godbold Mystery

BY

JEANNE IRELAN

Prologue

He stood in a small clearing in front of his easel. Water was nearby, a fast moving stream that cut through bluffs of limestone. He liked water, the stream, the pond, the waterfall. Its movement and changing colors excited him. The sun, low in the northwestern sky, struck full across the side of the bluff and outlined its surface. As always, he seemed to see a face made by the shadows outlined in the rock. Sometimes he thought it was the spirit of the woods, sometimes his own face. Now from the corner of his eye he noticed a quiet, darting movement among the harboring trees. He turned to look, but it was gone. Nothing.

Painting like this, in these hills, he felt more strongly than ever his keen pleasure when as a youngster he ran among these woods. Sometimes, even then, he stopped to draw on the tablet his sister had bought him. Life had been good then. He remembered a dog they had–Blondie. Not his dog, though she ran with him. Sister's dog. Both were gone now, many years, he thought. Poor Agnes. She was older, so she had to take him and move to Nashville after Mama died. She wrote things, little Bible stories for the man who paid her money. Then she died and he went to The Place. He didn't draw or paint for a while. How long? He couldn't remember.

They let him go finally, and he got his check once a month so he could buy his paints and canvases. Sometimes he'd go by the shelter where the people there would buy him canvases. He needed more and more canvases so he could go to the park in Nashville and paint. There, he felt more at home. Then he found out buses came near here, and he could walk the miles into the hills with his box of paints. He brought along cans of beans and a pan to heat them in. Apples, too. Crackers. He liked crackers to munch, and a candy bar or two. When he ran out of food and canvas he went home again to the old downtown hotel where they gave him a room that didn't cost much. But there was a store here, and he thought he might dare to buy food now. He didn't want to leave again except to go to Nashville and get his check so he could buy more paint and brushes and canvases.

He could barely remember his days in the old house not too far away in the little town, or his mother. He searched for the memory of that feeling when he could run and see with the happy eyes of a child. Mostly he got the feeling when he stood alone and watched his hand make the picture that was in his head. The colors he saw inside of him stood out the most; all the people and trees and lumps of hills and pooling waters were soft, bright colors that belonged to him.

He wiped the brush and stepped back to see his work. The palette knife now, for the water. He liked it quiet, not noisy like the city. But the silence of these woods was not silent at all. He had again grown used to the small sounds around him and overhead--rabbits, woodchuck, squirrels, birds. He had made no friends among the creatures of the woods; he also kept away from the few people he saw in the woods. Sometimes he put the people in his paintings if he was sure they hadn't seen him. He needed no one, no living thing except those few creatures, human or animal, he happened upon and could use in his paintings.

Footfalls came from somewhere beyond the clearing and blended with other rustlings. He would pay no mind to the sound, he decided, but still they intruded. Then he felt a creeping of the skin along his spine, a danger signal, not the first time he had had to take cover. He turned his head for a glance. But no, the figure coming nearer was a familiar one, safe, would leave him be. He turned back to his painting. The soft steps through deep wild grasses grew closer.

He couldn't quite fix what happened when the blow came, the sensation of being struck hard, and again. Rock met bone, and a scream, his protest at extinction, arose in his head and died in his throat as the light faded.

The person beside him watched him fall like a log onto the earth. Blood seeped from the wounds, pooling and then mingling with the dry grasses under his head. It took no longer than a few seconds to walk to a nearby sinkhole hidden by a large hawthorn bush and toss in the bloody rock to endless depths.

Now to drag the body out of the clearing. It was too large to go into the hole, but the bush would cover it. The paintings and paint things were stuffed in the cardboard box and hoisted up onto a strong shoulder. Then the figure with its awkward burden set off and soon disappeared among the trees and underbrush.

Chapter 1

The old Mercedes tooled along the nearly empty highway at a moderate speed, rounding curves solidly, slowing down occasionally as the driver glanced around here and there to examine the countryside. She'd left the interstate thirty minutes ago, traveling on the two-lane highway that led her closer to the village of Barton. It had been many years since Judge Penelope "Baby" Godbold had been in the remote foothills of the Great Smokey Mountains. She and Dan had gone to a concert at the University of the South–how long ago had it been? At least fifteen years. And now she was making this trip, fulfilling some need that had been building since Dan's death almost two years ago. Funny how her job had even paled without him to discuss legal points and their respective cases. With his practice in civil defense litigation and her work in Chancery, they ran into many of the same issues. It was mainly because of the bleakness that now overhung her life, the emptiness that yawned before her, that she'd decided to retire much earlier than she'd planned. Life must hold more for her, and she was determined to seek out new adventures. Thus, this trip to the hinterlands of Tennessee. And she couldn't have picked a more beautiful time for a trip to Barton.

The early April weather was always changeable in this part of the country, as if teasing the locals into believing spring had arrived. But even though the day had been mild when she left Nashville, and March had gone out like a lamb, spring was not necessarily around the corner, especially in the hill country. Of course, many of the trees had begun to sprout leaves, showing off their delicious new green colors, and some of the flowering ones like the dogwood and redbud were starting to bud out, giving the roadside a more decorative look. Backing the smaller trees were the conifers, huge and dense, and beyond them were what seemed to be virgin forest. But that wasn't possible. Baby knew the land had been settled and, if not developed around tiny hamlets, was owned by timber companies with the trees routinely harvested and the strips, obviously, replanted.

The swelling hills she traveled over were like stepping stones across the deep gorges that cut into the land, a wild and wooly landscape to her eyes. She was more accustomed to the gentler slopes of the Nashville basin where the land undulated with the geosynclines that swept across middle Tennessee. These were formed during the subsidence of the inland sea from an earlier geologic era and had become rich farmland. Still, Baby appreciated the ever-changing landscape of this very different, rougher country. She suspected the people would be different, too, from what she was used to, as she believed the land played a role in developing the character of its inhabitants. She was curious to know how Guy and Marnie were adjusting to living in Barton. Dan would have been amused to think his citified nephew had actually taken up residence in a rather remote village, commuting to his law practice in Chattanooga. Unquestionably, this was a very strange sort of place for the both of them!

After passing the mountaintop hamlet of Monteagle, the road straightened out and before her lay the ribbon of highway, rising and sinking here and there but not a curve in sight for miles. She speeded up without thinking, even having to press rather hard on the stiff accelerator to jump the big motor into more revolutions. It settled into a cruising speed that seemed as easy and comfortable as riding in the gondola of a Ferris wheel. Then from behind a clump of trees in a lane, she glimpsed from the corner of her eye the distinctive outlines of a patrol car. The term "crouching" came to mind, but she braked swiftly. In the rear view mirror a light flashed and she heard the bleep of a siren.

She drove the car onto the narrow shoulder, came to a stop, and turned off the motor. She began to rummage in her capacious purse for her billfold and then rolled down the window, smiling at the young highway patrolman who seemed to be looking sternly at her from behind his dark glasses.

"Hello, ma'am, did you know you were going eight miles over the speed limit?"

"No, officer, I didn't. The road was clear, the day is lovely, and I suppose I felt like flying. I'm terribly sorry to have gotten carried away." She handed him her license.

"Well, even though there's not much traffic–ah, are you by any chance Judge Godbold?" He bent toward her and gave her a sharp look. When she assented, he smiled at her. "I guess you hadn't checked your speedometer, and with these big cars and the straightaway, it's easy to speed a little." He handed her back the license. "Where are you bound for, Judge?"

She told him about going to visit relatives in Barton for the first time, and he nodded. "You're only about five miles from the turnoff. Let me escort you so you won't miss it. Watch the speed limit in these parts, y'hear? We don't want anything to happen to the famous Judge Godbold." He saluted her briefly by touching his cap, turned and went back to his cruiser. Baby sighed and watched in the rear view mirror until a couple of trucks passed by and then the officer's car pulled around her. She followed him as they proceeded down the highway at a stately pace, turning at a well-marked road toward the town of Barton. The sign invited visitors to the "Historic Barton Restorations. Houses and Lots For Sale."

Earlier in the day, two women stepped briskly along the oiled road, Cleo Connery matching her stride to her friend's. They were near the same height, and both wore jogging suits. But Marnie Godbold, her red hair bouncing, walked with a graceless nervous energy. Cleo's step was easier, more fluid. Even so, she had to speak in short bursts because of their quick pace.

"--I met her . . . probably two years ago . . . but she made quite an impression. . . . Not just as a judge, but as a very unusual woman. She seems so dynamic. . . ."

Marnie laughed. "Baby's dynamic all right. . . . I expect she'll feel she's rusticating . . . in our peaceful hill country." She stopped abruptly and dropped onto a large rock which marked the entrance to a wooded lane, breathing heavily.

"I've got to rest a sec," she apologized.

"No problem." Cleo found a matching rock across the lane and gratefully took a rest, too, taking the opportunity to re-tie her long blonde hair into a more secure ponytail. She regarded her friend fondly. Marnie did everything with enthusiasm, sometimes misplaced or beyond her scope. She walked and cleaned house and played tennis and sometimes made plans in the manner of a runaway engine.

Marnie had engineered the plan to get Cleo to Barton, a venture outside Cleo's usual writing projects. And it might prove to be just the push she needed to get her out of her comfort zone. Leave it to Marnie to lead the way.

Cleo had protested at first. It'd been almost a year ago when Cleo had first visited the Godbolds in the tiny hamlet of Barton, set like a worn jewel in its crown of hills. It was the first time she had been to the foothills of southeastern Tennessee. That was only the beginning of other firsts.

"I've never taken oral histories," she had protested at Marnie's suggestion. "I expect I wouldn't like it. I've only researched in libraries and museum archives. It seems too much like prying for my taste."

"Nah," scoffed Marnie. "Anyone can do it. The hard part is the writing, and you can't deny you're a pro at that."

"Besides," Cleo went on, "I doubt if I could get a contract for a book on Barton, even if I thought I could do it." She felt herself weakening, growing interested. It might be a good idea.

Marnie Godbold said emphatically. "You just call up several editors you know and tell them you're going to do a book on this curious place. You'll get a contract."

Cleo had gotten the contract and set about making plans to acquire some sort of accommodations for residency so she could do the necessary research. She figured she had enough saved to support herself for six months--not that living in Barton would compare to living in Nashville. There were no apartments or amusements or restaurants to speak of within fifty miles, and only a very average motel fifteen miles from the town of Barton, which she supposed would have to be her home away from home.

"But you'll stay with Guy and me," offered Marnie at once. "By April, we'll have the house practically ready. It's so much bigger than our house in Nashville, we're absolutely rattling around in it. You'll have your own wing upstairs, and with the new bath, it's a virtual apartment."

Now a resident of the hamlet, though temporary, Cleo looked at her friend perched on the rock and noticed with amusement she was engrossed in making a mental list, ticking items off on the fingers of one hand.

"So have you got the day's itinerary laid out?" she asked.

Marnie nodded. "Pretty much. I wish I could go for a run without having to plan ahead, but I still have some things to do before Baby gets here this afternoon."

"Your calling her Baby always jars me a bit. It seems so peculiar a name for a venerable jurist."

Marnie rolled her eyes. "That Marshall family! There are four children with unlikely nicknames, according to Guy, who had heard how they came about from his uncle Dan, Baby's late husband. Anyhow, the oldest boy is Son, who happens to be a retired general; the oldest daughter is called Sister, and she's a professor at Vanderbilt; the next one in line is Brother, an attorney in Washington, D.C.; followed by Baby, obviously, who brings up the rear. Her real name is Penelope, which doesn't quite fit either. So to her friends and family, Baby she is and Baby she remains, even though she's had a wonderful career as a lawyer and jurist."

"You said she's retiring from the bench. Is that one reason, other than your obviously scintillating company, why she's visiting here? Looking over a place to settle down in for her retirement years?"

"Maybe. Not that there's a another house belonging to Dan's family that needs restoring. Guy's ancestor and Baby's husband's ancestor were the same person, so there's no other family home but ours. But there are plenty of other houses available to restore if she's interested. Since Dan died, I know she's tried to keep her mind occupied with her work and other interests, but maybe that's not been enough." Marnie gave a shrug. "I hope she does buy a place here, but I doubt that Judge Godbold will settle too far from Nashville except for vacations."

"Why? Is she too social?"

Marnie gave a brief laugh. "Hardly! If you knew her, you'd realize how funny that seems." She shook her head and the coppery curls glittered in the sun. "The only society she's interested in is the criminal one. She's very involved with the crime scene in Nashville. It's more than a hobby with her, really. It's her avocation. The police call her in all the time to . . ." Marnie hesitated, wrinkling her brow, "to put together the parts of a puzzle, she once told me." Marnie stood up and jogged in place. "You'll soon find out for yourself about Judge Baby Godbold. Ready? Let's take another turn around the town and then jog on home."

"Fine by me. Do you mind if we walk the rest of the way? I'm not used to thirty minutes of jogging. Maybe I need to accustom myself to your pace in small doses."

The two women took up a brisk walking pace and conversation dropped to an occasional remark from Marnie, who tried to point out landmarks or explain to Cleo where a road led or what families were settling where. Before long, they arrived at the Godbold residence, with Cleo stopping at the front gate of the picket fence that bordered the property. "You've done a great job with the place." She admired aloud the rich ivory color with deep green trim as well as the decorative painted shingles in the peaks of the gables and around the turret that made up the asymmetrical lines of the American Queen Anne style of the 1870s. Half of the front of the house boasted a small porch with stick decoration, furnished with a couple of wooden benches. Altogether, Cleo thought but didn't say that the look was like something out of Grimm's fairy tales. At the front door Marnie gave a test pull to the restored door bell. Its sharp ring audibly pealed from inside.

"Much better than that electronic sound, don't you think?" Marnie asked.

"Oh, I definitely agree. And I love the sherry-colored door and matching benches. You must have researched everything."

"We had a professional restorer come out for an evaluation. She dug around with little tools and scraped off layers of wallpaper and paint until she came up with authentic colors and materials. It was such fun!"

"Only you would call living in the mess of restoring an historic house fun," retorted her friend.

Then Guy came clattering down the stairs, inquiring as to their run. Chatting happily, the group drifted toward the kitchen where refreshing fruit-water drinks awaited the joggers. The kitchen table overlooked a long greensward that led to wild honeysuckle bushes that had grown thick and tall. Behind them rose pin oaks and maple trees interspersed with cedar trees.

Cleo gave appreciative nods. "I can see why you made the decision to come here. It's a far cry from your Nashville neighborhood–not that it wasn't a perfectly lovely house, but it was very urban. This is so beautiful and peaceful. It will be a great change for me, too, not having the usual commotion and upsets that get in the way of my writing." She placed her hand over that of her friend's and squeezed. "Thanks for inviting me. As I keep saying, I have trepidations about getting hold of the material I'll need, but not of the venture itself."

Chapter 2

Cleo watched from the open door as Marnie went to the driveway with Guy to greet his aunt, who was cheerily waving goodby to the patrolman. The two women embraced briefly, the older one talking in an effusive manner, her hands describing circles.

Judge Godbold's arrival at her nephew-in-law's house was unusual, Cleo wryly observed, but according to Guy, that was characteristic of her style. At the moment, Guy was shaking with laughter as he pulled suitcases out of the trunk. His amusement was apparent to Cleo as she heard the judge explaining how the patrolman came to be part of her entourage.

"Somewhere outside of town, I exceeded the speed limit. I was so engrossed in the scenery, so delighted with the empty roadway, I'm afraid my speed was of secondary interest." She gave Marnie and Guy a rueful look. "Imagine my embarrassment when I was pulled over."

She was dressed casually in a loden green barn jacket with leather collar, a crisp white shirt, tan gabardine pants, and sturdy brown oxford shoes. Casual she might have been, but she also wore dangling amber earrings and a long necklace of copper and amber beads. Her silver-streaked dark hair was worn back from her face in a short, rather severe style. Her imposing proportions impressed Cleo anew, and she remembered noticing her size the first time she'd met her. The judge towered over Marnie and was nearly as tall as Guy with shoulders as broad. For all that, she was an attractive woman and pleasing in her manner.

Cleo held the door for them, first letting in the judge, then Marnie with a small case, and finally Guy with the luggage. "I don't know why you all are carrying my stuff; I'm bigger than both of you," Judge Godbold said with a wink at Cleo. "It's probably my age. People get mighty considerate when you hit sixty."

"Baby," said Marnie, "you remember my friend Cleo Connery? You met a few years ago at that party we had for Richard Younger when he was running for governor."

Judge Godbold tilted her head and looked searchingly at Cleo's face; she nodded slowly, and then broke into a smile. "Yes, indeed. How are you?" Her features were uneven but strong, and Cleo was surprised at how youthful she seemed; she didn't look ready for retirement at all. Cleo again thought of their first meeting and how the judge seemed imbued with fellow-feeling--hardly what one would expect from an avid crime-follower as Marnie called her.

"You're the writer, aren't you?" the judge asked. "I just finished reading a piece of yours in, I think, Historic American on the `Grey-eyed Man of Destiny.'"

Cleo felt a predictable surge of pleasure. "Yes, William Walker."

"I enjoyed that article. Nice job. I wish more historical writers could do such a lively portrait rather than the cardboard characters we find in most textbooks or scholarly tomes."

The verdict! Cleo murmured her thanks, trying to look modest. She and the judge stood in the living room while Guy took the luggage upstairs and Marnie hovered around them excitedly.

The judge went on, her large voice flowing in a liquid stream. "I believe you've published some books, too, right? How I envy anyone who can stick to a subject for so long and still make it come out interesting for readers. I have a literary bent myself, not that I expect to get published," she finished with a self-deprecating shrug.

"I didn't know that, Baby," cried Marnie. "Are you writing about some of your seamier experiences in criminal investigations?"

Baby laughed. "Not exactly. There are some things that only poetry can do justice to, and the uncertainties of life can be a continuing source of inspiration."

"So you're a poet," said Cleo, raising her eyebrows with barely concealed amazement. How very unlikely from appearances and reputation!

Baby waved her hand dismissively. "Just a dabbler."

While Marnie led the judge upstairs to her room, Cleo stood for a moment alone. With the judge's departure, Cleo sensed the atmosphere had gone suddenly flat. She half expected an echo if she called aloud, a fanciful thought, she knew. But the woman definitely had presence--perhaps stage presence. Cleo decided to put on the teakettle. Judge Godbold would want some refreshment, a cup of tea or hot chocolate. The weather in Nashville might be warming with spring breezes, but here in the hills of the lower Appalachians, it was still a trifle chilly and something warm going down might be very welcome.

"How do you like living in this unusual environment?" the judge asked her niece-in-law, after they had been served their tea. "Do you miss Nashville?"

Marnie sighed. "It's been a little lonely, I must admit. I--we thought there would be more year-round residents by now, but mostly we see them roll in on weekends."

"Are your new offices in Chattanooga working out, Guy?" asked Cleo, helping herself to a slice of pound cake. They were sitting around the small kitchen table, a walnut country Hepplewhite Marnie had found at a farm auction in Kentucky. It was set with a Blue Willow tea set and plates of finger food.

Guy smiled . "The office is fine," he nodded. "Chattanooga is not Nashville, of course, but the firm there had gotten so many new insurance cases in the southeastern area of the state that it worked out perfectly for both me and the firm. There are only five lawyers in this office, but I expect it to grow in the next few years. I still have some trials to finish up back in Nashville, but then the majority of my work will be in the Chattanooga area."

"I don't know this part of Tennessee at all," Cleo said, fighting back an apprehension that was starting to become her nemesis. She was an experienced writer, had won some recognition--not bad for someone not yet thirty. Yet now on the brink of this new assignment, she felt as wobbly as a novice. "I wonder how I'll get the information I need for my book."

"This book will also be a history, I presume?" the judge asked with interest.

"Yes. I'm limiting it to this town, from the time when it was settled by English settlers more than a hundred years ago, to its decline and near extinction, and then something about its restoration as a new community."

"Don't forget the Melungeons," added Marnie. "They have always figured in the history of this place and still do. Cleo plans to get some oral history from them too."

"What about these Melungeons? How am I to get information from them?" Cleo asked Marnie and Guy with an apologetic look to Judge Godbold as she explained herself. "I'm nervous about this project of mine. I've never taken oral histories. I've never even been in this part of Tennessee before. To top it off, I've had to begin this with almost no background information."

The judge clucked sympathetically. "I'm sure you'll get accustomed to the inhabitants fairly quickly. As I understand it, the Melungeons are a race of people who have lived among the hills of Tennessee and Virginia since time immemorial."

"I'm familiar with the name," Cleo admitted, "but that particular group has not been in my sights for research. Do you know more about them?" she asked the judge.

Baby shrugged. "A little. Some think that the name possibly originates from the French melange, meaning mixture; others think it's from the Afro-Portuguese word melungo, meaning shipmates."

"I've heard," Guy interjected, "that these people were thought to be a mixture of American Indian, Portuguese, and black, or other racial strains. Also, they have in their vocabulary certain early English terms. All very confusing as far as heritage is concerned. But as for your getting information, Cleo, the locals may seem surly at first," he went on, "but once they know you, you won't be able to shut them up. From our experience, most are invariably suspicious of newcomers, which might be considered natural since they've had these hills to themselves for quite a long time, but they soon warm up and talk like house-afire." His thin face with deep blue eyes had become animated as he spoke of the inhabitants, Cleo noted with approval. That augered well for her research if the rather stodgy lawyer could enthuse about them.

"Your best source for Barton's history will be Alistair," said Marnie. "He's sitting on all that original material in the old Library. I can't wait for you both to meet him. He's really a professor of history, but mostly what he's doing now is promoting Barton as a restoration project and eventually as a resort. He's using a similar and earlier community in the northeastern part of the state as his model. They've been organized as an on-going restoration project for many years and attract visitors by the carload."

"Alistair's the reason we came here," Guy offered. "He sure sold us."

"I just hope," Marnie shrugged, "we made the right decision to restore Guy's 'ancestral home.' We didn't give much thought for its isolation."

"Alistair says," Guy went on, "we'll soon see a vibrant, growing community with tourists hankering to visit us. I admit it's going a little slower than we thought it might."

"Do I detect a questioning of Alistair's hopeful scenario?" the judge queried softly. "I think these development projects usually take a while to get established. Don't be surprised if you folks remain part of a small group of Barton pioneers for some time."

Cleo smiled to herself at the judge's pronouncement and the bleak look that appeared on Marnie's face. Surely this woman of decided opinions couldn't be right on everything, as respected as she seemed to be by one and all. Only time would tell.

Chapter 3

Saturday morning, Judge Godbold and Cleo took a stroll through the town, the crisp, clean air almost like a foreign substance compared to the city atmosphere Cleo regularly breathed. The Godbolds' house was a few blocks from Main Street, originally called Queen, Cleo observed aloud, remembering her notes. The town appeared as a motley collection of simple to elaborate late-nineteenth century houses and public buildings in various stages of repair or disrepair. Some had nearly fallen down completely while others looked as if only a coat of paint and a new roof would make them habitable. A few were beautifully restored.

Walking past the few business establishments, they looked up and saw the diminutive carpenter-Gothic church directly ahead in their path--almost as if the main road through town ended at the church steps. As they got closer, however, the road veered to the right in front of the church. Side streets that trailed away into distant wooded areas were thinly populated by residences and vacant lots.

Almost every Victorian style of architecture was in evidence. Many of the homes were turreted and gabled, oddly appropriate, thought Cleo, to the setting of immense oaks and chestnuts, the dense cedar thickets. It continued to impress her as a storybook hamlet, The Town That Time Forgot.

The Library and Archives, as the sign in front proclaimed, was in a late Greek Revival style. "I suppose," said the judge, with a grin, "a classical facade was deemed more appropriate than any old Queen Anne or Gothic, considering its contents."

"We'll be seeing the redoubtable Alistair tonight at Marnie's dinner. Also, Sam Taylor, the local winemaker."

"No! Really? A winemaker, you say?" Then touching Cleo's arm, the judge steered the younger woman across the street toward a rather small, non-descript building with a weather-beaten sign that said, "Barton Café."

"How about stopping in for a cup of coffee? Marnie's was a little weak to suit my need for a good dose of caffeine in the morning."

They entered the café, finding themselves sharing a many-windowed dining room with several groups sitting around small tables.

A waitress, dressed in a green coverall, came up to them with a pleasant smile. "Kin I he'p ya?"

The two visitors introduced themselves and then ordered, succumbing to the temptation of homemade doughnuts made especially by the owner and waitress herself, Mrs. Collins. A few customers left before they finished their coffee, so Cleo took the opportunity to put some questions to Mrs. Collins about her own links to the town.

"My fambly's been here nigh onto two hundred years now, as far as we know." She turned to an old man propped up in a wheelchair near the cash register. "That right, Pa?" she yelled. "We'uns been in these here mountains about two hundred years?" The old man nodded, but didn't speak. "My dad had a stroke, but he still knows a tail from a beak. I can't say for sure where my people come from, but I do know the Collinses started the café when the English come. That was a right smart piece ago, I reckon."

Cleo thought Mrs. Collins would be a good source of stories for her book and tried to think of this questioning as a sample of what was to come. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult if everyone was as forthcoming as Mrs. Collins.

The woman, as well as her father, was more dark-skinned than light, but yet Caucasian in features with very dark straight hair. Cleo had no substantive information about the antecedents of these "other people" in the area. She knew a little something about the English–younger sons of squires and noblemen who arrived in the nineteenth century to what they improbably believed would be a Utopian existence. But from what she was hearing, the Melungeons apparently had been here to greet them.

In a low voice, Cleo pressed Baby to explain further how she came to know so much about the mountain people. "I was interested to hear what you said last night, and it seems to me you know more facts about them than just from what you learned through hearsay."

Baby agreed. "I suppose I had always heard about the mysterious Melungeons, and so I did some research before I came here, mainly on the computer, and then looking in the library at some material that was referenced. It is quite fascinating."

She'd read about those early settlers, she went on, like the ancestors of Mrs. Collins, who were now thought to be descended mainly from Portuguese sailors, mentioned first in anecdotal material and later determined from DNA testing. That would mean those people came far inland from perhaps a shipwreck and ultimately made their homes in the hills of Virginia and Tennessee. Intermarriage with native Americans had also been suggested, which would account for their dark coloring. But mostly this was speculation, the judge conceded.

The research the judge spoke of was appealing to Cleo and she was eager to get started herself. She also was determined to have an open mind as she explored various histories of the people of Barton. This was one of her rules: Do not begin a project with preconceived ideas. Sometimes she had been surprised into taking a much different tack than she might have supposed from the common sources. And Barton would be a fertile field, considering there had been little or no writing about the historical venture.

"Do you get the feeling that the original settlers always refer to the later ones as the English?" Judge Godbold asked Cleo on their way home.

"As far as I can tell everyone does. I know a little about those later immigrants. They were a very different sort of people to settle in such a remote and inhospitable area. It must have been difficult for them, leaving a civilized country for one that was just barely so."

"Who were they," persisted the judge, "some group of religious protesters or something?"

Cleo shook her head. "No, not at all. They may have been part of the Utopian movement of that century, but they apparently were looking for economic freedom. Well, maybe that's not altogether accurate. We'll have to corner Alistair tonight and find out more about the English."

Around six-thirty that evening, Cleo, the judge, and Guy were sipping preprandial drinks, again seated around the kitchen table. Marnie was attending to last minute dinner preparations but from her vantage point nearby could hear their conversation and made occasional contributions.

"So tell me more about Alistair and Sam," the judge was saying. "What's a winemaker doing out here in the hills, anyway? For that matter, how does someone make a living from selling people on the idea of moving to Barton?" She was dressed in a long black knit dress; accented by multi-strands of pearls.

Guy nodded at Judge Godbold's query about the two men. "They really are as different as night and day, Baby. Sam's a former dentist from some little town near Knoxville. He gave up his practice a couple of years ago to build a vineyard and winery out here, maybe looking for the simple life, maybe running away from something. I have no idea, but he seems to be a good enough fellow."

"Has he produced anything yet? Will we be likely to get a sample at dinner?"

"I'm afraid not. I think he expects his first finished wines next fall, maybe this summer. He's been growing grapes here for about five years, but he only moved here two years ago. He lives like a hermit. No luxuries for our Bacchus."

"He sounds very determined." The judge looked expectantly at Guy. "And Alistair?"

Guy shook his head wonderingly. "Alistair's quite a fellow. He seems to hold body and soul together by teaching classes part-time at the University of the South and by giving lectures on Barton and other historical subjects in Chattanooga and any other venues he can scrape up. I doubt if he makes much, but he obviously doesn't need much, either, living as he does in that old library."

"Does he have any family?" asked Cleo.

"Not as far as we know. He had been married and divorced, but he hasn't any children, I guess. No one else has turned up as his relatives, so I guess he's alone for all practical purposes."

Cleo asked Marnie, who was fussing about at the sink housed in an island counter top, "Anything I can do to help?"

"Nope," Marnie looked up from washing the salad greens and smiled at her friend, "just look pretty and go easy on examining our guests tonight. There's plenty of time for that." Cleo laughed and shook her head in good natured resignation. Marnie was always trying to get her to ease up from her work and take time to "smell the roses." Although, Cleo reminded herself, Marnie was hardly one to speak; she seldom slowed down for anything.

"I can't let down, can I," she had told Marnie shortly after arriving in Barton, "when I must earn a living? That doesn't mean that I'm not interested in meeting new people, male or female." The conversation was a familiar one. Marnie was convinced Cleo was a failure at relationships with men simply because she had rejected too many "eligibles" that Marnie had provided.

Marnie had given Cleo a serious look, "I want you to enjoy yourself while you're here. You're not just a pencil and notebook and tape recorder, you know. You say you're only concerned about your work, but wait until you've been here for a while. Something funny happens to you. You'll think differently about a number of things, including yourself."

"If I must," Cleo said dryly.

This evening, she had chosen to wear a simple blue silk, knowing it was her best color. She was, in spite of herself, excited about meeting the two bachelors, an excitement no doubt engendered by Marnie. Cleo suspected this evening had been arranged for more than an introduction to the area and gave herself a word of caution not to expect too much. She'd been the recipient before of Marnie's zeal to get her seriously interested in a man, but nobody had clicked as far as she was concerned. Maybe Marnie was right–she had thrown herself into her work as an anodyne for a loveless existence. Bah! She scoffed inwardly at her musings and left with the others who were heading toward the living room or parlor, as Marnie called it, to await the visitors.

Chapter 4

The men guests were synchronized in their arrival, although Alistair obviously walked the few blocks while Sam drove from the more distant winery. Both of them stood silhouetted in the frosted and etched glass of the front door. Guy went to admit them while Cleo rose from her chair to tell Marnie that company had arrived. Baby struggled to sit up straighter in the deep, soft sofa where she had been nearly reclining.

"Remind me never to sit in anything but a straight chair while wearing a dress if you see me tempted again," she said with a grimace. Cleo laughed and hurried into the kitchen.

"You and Baby and Guy can entertain the men without me for a little while," Marnie instructed. "I'll come in as soon as I finish this salad."

"No, let me help you get done with it so you can join us." Cleo set about thinly slicing red onions into the wooden bowl on top of the salad greens, mandarin oranges, and chilled snow peas. The two worked swiftly and silently until Marnie announced they were in good shape and Cleo could rejoin the others.

When she entered the parlor, she first saw a thickset man in his early thirties seated in a large wing chair to one side of the fireplace. His sparse hair was sand-colored and rather fine-textured. He was dressed in a rough tweed jacket and flannel trousers, his shirt open at the throat. He immediately stood up, followed by a more languid type, who had been sprawling in the opposite corner of the sofa from Baby. Cleo smiled at each of the men while Guy introduced her. The stockier man was Sam Taylor, "our Bacchus." Cleo thought he might more aptly be called Brother Sebastian. All he needed was a tonsure, for he had the earnest, absorbed look of a toiler for some higher purpose. Alistair Walker was a tall, somewhat older man with the aquiline nose and aristocratic manner of a handsome standard poodle.

"Tell me about Barton," she asked of Alistair, as she sat nearby on an opposing wing chair from Sam's. He was wearing a well tailored grey suit, a pale blue shirt and foulard tie of blue and maroon. Cleo was amazed at the rather formal attire for this country setting, but she'd been warned by Marnie that the more recent residents preferred high standards when it came to taste and style, maintaining, Cleo suspected, a pseudo-cultural atmosphere in their entertainments.

"Don't get me started," he said with a lift of his eyebrow. "It's my raison d'etre. You must have been told that."

"Yes, but that's the point. My task for the next several months is to know all about this place, its history, its people," she turned to Sam who was silently sipping a drink and said, rather too brightly, she thought, "and its success stories, like yours."

He shook his head. "Too early to tell. I haven't gotten to the point where I can claim either success or failure. I can only hope I do better than the earlier entrepreneurs. If you know anything of their history, you know they failed miserably at everything they attempted. But as far as my operation goes, you're invited to come see the winery for yourself."

Cleo thanked him, helping herself from a tray of drinks that Guy was handing around. "Well, are we all here and getting acquainted?" Marnie swept in, carrying with her the exotic scent of some expensive perfume and a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Does everyone know everyone by now?" She looked at Alistair sitting beside Cleo. "Wasn't I right, Alistair? Isn't Cleo everything I told you she would be?"

"Knowing your usual rather overweening approach, I am pleasantly surprised," he replied with suave good humor. Cleo, embarrassed by Marnie's tactless enthusiasm, tried to deflect the comment by asking Alistair about the community's development. She decided without any real reason she didn't much like him, but she saw why Marnie would be amused by his sardonically formal ways. "I shall make it my task," he went on to Cleo, "to convince you to take up residence here."

Cleo smiled but shook her head. "I like city life. I'm lost in this kind of wilderness."

"Then," he said smoothly, "we shall endeavor to change your mind. I've had some success with selling Barton to the initially unconvinced."

Cleo looked away. Was he always so pretentious? Maybe she'd like him more when she got to know him better.

Guests for dinner made a very special occasion at the Godbold's, Cleo observed anew as they entered the dining room. The polished mahogany Duncan Phyfe table gave ample room for the six of them, the light from the silver candelabra lending an air of cozy intimacy. Cleo sat beside Alistair with Sam across from her and next to the judge. Sam was looking at the chopsticks on his plate with a frown, eventually placing them above his plate and taking up a fork. Three Chinese porcelain bowls of different meat and vegetable combinations were positioned at the end of the table near Guy, who handed them around.

Besides the salad which had been placed on plates in front of each person, they were also served handleless cups of hot tea, rice, and little steamed dumplings. Various sauces were passed in small pitchers. Cleo smiled to herself watching Sam clumsily pouring a sauce on his moo shu pork pancake from a delicate little pot. He set it down with a grin to Cleo.

"I expect an Oriental would have an easier time of it."

After dinner, Cleo found her opinions sought after by these men, both of them showing an interest in her work and giving her extra attention. Sam brought her a small footstool, with Alistair sitting beside her on the sofa. She was flattered. She found out more, too, of interest about the town.

"I know from preliminary research, of course, that Barton as such was founded in the 1870's by younger sons of landed gentry in England even though there were settlers already in the area–a convenient servant class, I presume. I tried to tell Judge Godbold something of why they made such a move, but I don't know exactly what their reasons were."

Alistair nodded. "Those people had no strong ideological bias in moving away from England. They simply needed a place of their own though the fact that they were going to a pristine wilderness must have appealed to some utopian ideal so common at that time. Their families were land poor. In England, the elder son inherited the estate and the cash to run it. The younger sons had their choice of the military or the church or the law, all the 'respectable' professions. Some just wanted a cheap piece of land of their own, so they came here.

"Most of them had attended the public school called Barton, and the alumni of that school got together and engineered the whole deal, following the lead of an earlier group. These men formed a small corporation, getting not just former students but friends and, well, anyone they could involved by selling shares. Some of the shareholders had visited here early on and were impressed by the beauty of the place."

"Pretty gutsy of them," the judge remarked. "They had lived relatively soft lives before this venture, I presume."

Alistair nodded. "Absolutely. They weren't pioneer types, obviously, but they were optimistic and determined and were able to acquire a parcel of land dirt cheap. The locals who already lived here were really just squatters. This land had early on been allowed them, since it was considered worthless, not really suitable for farming or cattle. Anyhow, the settlers christened their settlement with the name of their old school hoping to start a fresh and prosperous community."

"But it ran out of steam," interjected Sam, "after the first World War, due mainly to failures in various projects, and it's been going to seed ever since."

"That's soon to change," Alistair shot back with some heat. He raised a fist in the air. "Barton will rise again!"

Everyone laughed, and Cleo gazed thoughtfully at these new pioneers, not so different perhaps from the first ones who had intruded themselves among the hills and woods and people of different ways.

"But in the meantime," Baby said with unexpected fervor, "how do you stand it? The loneliness, the strangeness." She glanced out the window, shrouded by darkness. "It seems–well, fey, I think the word is."

The others looked at her in astonishment at her tone of foreboding, everyone except Cleo, who said, "I understand what you mean, Judge. I've felt it, too. There's something a little eerie going on here, and I don't think it's all a writer's imagination."

Then the judge gave a short laugh and apologized for casting a little gloom upon the gathering. "I think I'm a bit affected from being surrounded so closely by hills. Some people are comforted by them, feeling protected. I tend to get a sense of claustrophobia if I think about it." She leaned toward Guy, "Not that I feel overly oppressed in your home, dear boy. I was speaking from generalities and past experience in my travels, I'm afraid."

"No harm done, Baby," Guy replied cheerfully. "We think we'll like it here. I was hoping to interest you in maybe a weekend retreat, one of the smaller places to restore, but I have a feeling that won't happen."

"I'd love to come to see you folks occasionally, but I'm pretty sure two residences aren't in the cards for me anyhow. Too much trouble. And, of course, I like to keep current with what's going on crime-wise in Nashville."

Then the visitors wanted to hear about Baby's secondary career, which she corrected to "avocation." Giving a brief rundown of some of the cases she'd worked on, questions arose from not just Alistair and Sam, but also from Cleo, who was getting a very different perspective of this powerhouse of a woman. Maybe someday she would have to take her on as the subject of a book. Her life seemed to be chock ful of drama and even a frisson of danger, very unusual for a woman with her background. Yes, an interesting woman indeed.

Chapter 5

Monday started out a lazy day for everyone except Guy, who'd left early for work, a distance of fifty miles, but a quick trip, he'd assured Cleo and his aunt as they saw him off. "No traffic to speak of."

"I've had the ultimate experience of the roads around here," Baby said with an ironic lifting of her eyebrow. "Just keep an eye on the speedometer."

Guy chuckled. "I know all about speed traps, Baby. I'm just sorry I didn't warn you before you came."

Cleo decided to spend part of the morning doing preliminary research on the Internet with her notebook computer, so she was able to sketch out a course of action to get started on the interviews. During lunch she found out Marnie and Baby had walked to the general store in town to pick up a pair of hose for Baby, who had gotten a run in her one-and-only pair Saturday night.

"I know you like to travel light, Baby, but that is ridiculous," laughed Marnie with an affectionate look at her aunt-in-law.

"I'm always optimistic when it comes to my stockings. And I wasn't sure how much I'd need to wear my dressier clothes even though you cautioned me about parties and such. Mostly, I envisioned tramping through the woods, lounging in the sun, picking wild flowers. That sort of vacation."

"We haven't turned into hillbillies yet!" Marnie asserted vehemently. "But you'll do plenty of that outdoor stuff, too, if you want."

After lunch Cleo took a nap, realizing she was still not quite rested from the pace of city life that she had only recently fled. She must have been running on nerves for months and not known it.

Later in the afternoon, she went downstairs with a novel and curled up in a deep cushioned chair. She heard the quiet murmur of voices in the kitchen, but instead of reading, she thought about Alistair and Sam and Marnie and Guy and even Mrs. Collins at the café. Everyone was in some way connected to the history of this place. This project might prove to be a more fascinating story than she had first imagined. She had the feeling that Barton was about to offer up the story, maybe quite easily, of how diverse peoples lived and worked together, her central idea for the book.

Marnie had just interrupted Cleo's reverie by proposing a glass of wine when they heard a car come into the driveway. Marnie peered out the window. "It's Sam Taylor. How odd. He usually doesn't take the time for drop-in visits."

Baby walked into the room while Marnie was opening the door to admit Sam.

But from the expression on his face, Cleo surmised this was not a social call. "I won't beat around the bush," he said, stepping into the room with an urgent air. "I just got word from one of my helpers, Jacob Mullins, that there's been a murder. Maybe I should say that when Jacob was walking home from work, he stumbled across the body of a man in the woods off Deep Branch Road with his head bashed in, and the police suspect murder."

Cleo and Marnie gasped.

"Who is the dead man?" asked Baby, directing Sam toward a chair, which he refused.

"He hasn't been identified. For one thing, it evidently took place several days ago. There don't seem to be any identifying papers or marks on the clothing, so they'll be conducting an investigation. I just wanted to warn you ladies to be on the alert since you're alone during the day. And for Pete's sake, don't go into the woods!"

"Do you think the murderer is around here still?" asked Cleo. She glanced toward the window as if expecting to see the culprit lurking.

Sam shrugged. His hair seemed longer than Cleo had remembered and pale strands had been tossed over his forehead by the brisk wind. "It's hard to say. It might have happened elsewhere and someone wanted to hide the body. On the other hand, some stranger might have come here for some reason and been killed. In either case, finding the body might stir someone to action, make him panic. Just be careful and lock your doors."

"Please come on and sit for a minute, Sam," insisted Marnie, taking his jacket to hang on the coat rack in the hall . "I think we could all use a drink. Chardonnay all right for everyone?"

"Have you any idea why a man might have been murdered here?" Cleo had thought Barton would be the last place to harbor a criminal. She hoped she had left behind violence, at least temporarily, when she left Nashville. On the other hand, she remembered hearing about mountain feuds that went on for many long and bloody years. And then there was Baby's unusual, maybe prophetic, feelings of foreboding about this place.

"Not really ideas," Sam answered. He looked at her with frank blue eyes. "I wouldn't put it past some of the people I know."

"Ooh," Marnie shuddered, returning with wine glasses and a decanter. "I don't like not knowing. I hope the cops find out soon who was killed and who did it."

"You say the local authorities are taking charge?" asked Baby.

"Yes, but from what I've heard, one of the problems out here in the sticks is that the Sheriff's Department isn't exactly the FBI. The sheriff makes a feeble effort, but then any puzzling crimes slide into the cold case file. We may never hear another thing about this."

"I wouldn't bet on that," murmured the judge. She said musingly, "Maybe I'll talk to the sheriff myself about this. He may want to call in the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. I expect murder is somewhat rare these days in this area. It's pretty sparsely populated and usually the local law is happy to leave it to more experienced officers." She nodded. "Yes, I will call the sheriff and find out what's going on. See if he's amenable to calling for some help."

"Would you, Baby?" cried Marnie. "That would make me feel better, knowing real crime experts were on the job."

Baby left to place the call while the two woman continued to ply Sam with questions surrounding the discovery of the body.

He held up his hands in protest. "You're asking the wrong fellow. I really don't know anything."

Marnie looked thoughtful. "You know, this is a convenient occurrence for Baby." She turned to Sam. "There's nothing Judge Godbold loves better than an unsolved crime."

"I thought she jumped pretty quickly on the chance to call the sheriff. That's okay by me."

Sam could not be persuaded to stay for supper, saying he had to close up the winery for the night. After he left, Marnie locked all the doors and checked the windows. "Guy will be home shortly, but in the meantime, as Sam suggested, let's be careful."

When Baby came back from making the phone call, the other two women looked at her eagerly. "Well," said Marnie, "what did the sheriff say? Will he be cooperative? Or were his feelings hurt?"

Baby laughed. "Goodness, he didn't take my suggestion personally. I think he was a little relieved. He even asked me to call the TBI myself sometime tomorrow, since I know several of the officials. I was able to assure him I'd pull whatever strings I had to my little bow. Actually, I do know some of the agents well, having worked with several on other occasions, and I think the TBI Director will be happy to supply us with an investigator."

"Oh, good," sighed Marnie. "This murder business is so disturbing to contemplate, and just when we have you two for company." She turned to Cleo. "I don't think you'll be pleased to have your researches complicated by a manhunt."

"I'll manage okay," Cleo assured her friend. "I can't remember if murderers are supposed to hightail it out of the area or return to the scene of the crime."

"It depends on the murderer," Baby commented. "If the spot had been picked for remoteness, with the victim lured there for the purpose of murder, then he'd not come back, even for a look. On the other hand, if this crime was committed by a local, well, yes, they could stop by periodically to see what's going on at the crime scene."

"That sounds so peculiar," cried Marnie, "to be talking about murderers and crimes in our little quiet Barton. How terribly upset Alistair will be. I suppose it will be harder to sell Barton to the buying public with a mysterious murder in the immediate neighborhood." She looked reproachfully at Baby. "Not everyone's like you, Baby, and relishes a good murder."

"Oh dear me, Marnie, please don't suppose I like them. I just can't resist poking my nose in when I'm confronted by a mystery." Yet her eyes were sparkling and she seemed quite rejuvenated.

Chapter 6

One morning several days later, Cleo found herself driving around the area on a solitary excursion, thinking that with Marnie's well-meaning but rather overwhelming personality it was good that she would have plenty to keep her occupied and out of the house. She had gone down several roads leading from the town center, seeking a feel of the area. Almost no cabins or houses of the hill people were visible from the country roads. Instead, Cleo saw dented mailboxes in little clumps that bore such names as Mullins, Collins, Hale, Goin, Bowlin, and Sexton. They were all British derivative names, even Goin, which she had understood from Alistair was a version of Gwinn. Yet all the people she'd seen so far were dark and rather exotic looking and, according to the research she'd begun to undertake on her computer, had no racial memory, no clue to their ancestry. But now, with the advent of DNA, researchers had come up with some answers.

Alistair told her that evening at the Godbolds' he had been aware of at least two favorite scenarios bruited about through the years to explain the origins of these people: They were part of the "lost colony of Virginia," which had vanished before the rescue ship from England had returned with supplies; that they were descended from Portuguese sailors, who had been on exploratory ships even before Columbus. Up until the recent DNA tests taken from volunteers living in an adjacent county, no one, including the Melungeons themselves, had seemed to know who their ancestors were or when they came. Now the Portuguese connection would seem to have been the right scenario for some. But for others, the racial mixture was too confusing and varied for a definitive answer, which in any case did not explain their names, but that was probably another story.

Alistair also told her about the relationship of the English settlers of the last century and the hill dwellers; though so different from each other, they had apparently gotten along well enough. Alistair himself might have stepped from an English manor house as a dissolute younger son with his fine-boned face and slightly worn look. Yet his enthusiasm for this project was genuine, and he seemed less enigmatic when describing his plans for Barton. She could see why Guy and Marnie and the other new settlers had bought into Alistair's ideas. It was appealing to think of oneself as a pioneer, at least if one didn't have to give up too many amenities.

He had promised her the use of any materials housed in his restored Library and Archives which also served as his living quarters. The correspondence and diaries of the English, as they were known, would enlighten her, he said, about the conditions when they had first come to the region. She'd begun to get some ideas about the expectations of these well born people and the ensuing disappointments confronting them. But she was eager to see what, if any, accomplishments Alistair could point to regarding his ancestors and their compatriots. They'd built lovely homes, so it must have been a successful venture for a while.

She drove back to the main street, the original Queen Street, and parked the car in front of the combination post office and general store. It catered to various tastes, she saw when she explored the interior. She fingered a silky black nightgown that was for sale at a shockingly high price and then strolled to a shoe rack that featured rubber Wellingtons and lace-up camping boots. She saw racks of work gloves and heavy socks for men, women, and children. Bins with dividers held an assortment of small hardware items for customers to pick and choose like candy. Magazines and paperbacks were displayed near the door. She picked out a news magazine and went to the counter to pay.

"You visiting?" asked the woman behind the counter. She used no selling techniques that might have included a smile, but Cleo liked her straightforward manner nonetheless.

"Yes--at least for a few months. I'm Cleo Connery." She held out her hand. "I'm staying with the Godbolds and doing some research for a book I'm writing about this area."

The woman grasped Cleo's hand in her own broad one and squeezed out a smile. Mrs. Collins from the café must have gotten her heavy cotton coverall from the general store, for the proprietress wore an identical one in dark gold, and Cleo saw a row of them on a rack nearby. "Glad to meet ya. I'm Ruth Sexton. Me and mine have run this store for fifty years." She cast her dark eyes downward in a shy manner.

"You must know a lot about this town and the people around here. I'd like to talk to you later, if you don't mind, about your family history." She hesitated a moment, then asked timidly, "Have you heard about the murder?"

Ruth Sexton's head shot up. "I heard about it. They say it was the Walking Man who got done in."

"The Walking Man? Someone who lived around here? I thought he hadn't been identified yet."

"He didn't live here, but he walked the woods. He painted things. Shy as a rabbit. Nobody could get near him."

"How fascinating! But why would anybody want to kill him?"

The woman shrugged. "Who knows? Mebbe he went where he wasn't welcome."

"Why wouldn't someone be welcome to wander in the woods around here?" Cleo asked, genuinely perplexed.

Mrs. Sexton gave her a half-smile. "Don't do no good for anyone to be where they ain't supposed to. I dunno why, but folks here like privacy to their homesteads, a lotta which border the woods near Deep Branch Road. Could be he just trespassed oncet too often."

Cleo shuddered. "Thank you for you time. I'll be getting in touch with you later."

Cleo left the store with Ruth Sexton's agreement to be interviewed. She looked with interest at some of the other small businesses on the main strip of road through town, trying not to think about the murdered man. But the thought of a quiet, harmless painter being brutally struck down gave her the willies.

She focused her attention on Main Street. The café, of course, a laundry and dry cleaning establishment--how convenient!--a grocery store without a pharmacy, only over-the-counter health aids, and according to Marnie, the store good for quick pick-ups, not weekly shopping; lastly and most surprisingly, she saw a minuscule bank housed in a charming two-story, extremely narrow building. She had had no reason to seek its services, but today she peered through the front window and saw one person sitting at a desk typing. Guy had said the population in the county was about fifteen hundred souls, with the county seat a town little bigger than Barton.

Cleo crossed the street and walked across the lawn of the old church, thin tangles of weeds poking through the dirt like random tufts of hair on the balding head of an old man. She knew she could get the key of the church from Alistair, but she didn't want to ask any favors of him yet. For all she knew, he was a busy man.

She had hoped to get an appointment to view the materials in The Library and Archives, but he had not mentioned any specific time. Besides, she needed to get a sense of the place first, see the buildings, get the lay of the land. Environment had always been important to her in beginning any story. What had the conditions of living been like? What kinds of physical adaptations had people had to make in order to live? These questions fed into her theory that the space around people influenced them and was part of their story.

She noticed a sign that designated the church as Episcopal and its founding date. Well, of course, it was Episcopal. The English settlers would have carried along their Anglican traditions, including religion. The building itself with the diminutive spire was sorely needing a coat of paint. Its tan and burgundy and charcoal grey Victorian colors were now only a faded memory. On the far side of the church she spotted a path that led through huge trees with a girth of several feet. Odd, but she had the feeling she was not quite alone. She wasn't frightened; she was still possessed of the not-quite-real storybook feeling about this place, as if she was being observed by fairies who wished her well. The path sloped downward, at first gradually, then more steeply. She hadn't realized that the elevation of the town was so high. No wonder she'd had trouble jogging with Marnie.

The sound of running water caught her attention, and shortly she saw its source. Coming from a wide cut in the side of the mountain, water gushed into a fairly wide pool, a deep one, too, judging by its dark blue-green color. Stone steps led to a rock embankment, but on the other side of the pool the land leveled out. She walked down the steps, noticing across the pool heavy low posts positioned at ten-foot intervals on the embankment. She was puzzling over their use when a small boat bobbed out from the protective overhang almost beneath her feet. It contained a man sprawled its length, apparently asleep, his arm draped over his forehead.

Startled, she stepped backwards and let out an involuntarily gasp, cursing herself for being so foolhardy as to leave the town center. She also knew that the man was far beneath her, and she could easily outrun him if it were necessary. So she stepped forward, peering curiously at the recumbent figure. Then she recognized the long limbs and partially exposed face beneath the arm.

Chapter 7

Either her exclamation of surprise was louder than she realized, or Alistair might not have been asleep, for he sat up and, looking around until he spotted her, waved.

"How about some fishing?" he called, pointing to his pole fastened to the side of the boat.

She shook her head. "I'm just out for a walk and happened upon this place."

Alistair reeled in his empty line and then taking up the oars motioned to her to follow as he made for the opposite side of the pool. She walked around the embankment, which was spongy with pine needles, to join him. After grabbing his fishing pole, he disembarked and tied the boat to one of the posts.

"You've arrived at the Gentlemen's Pool," he said. "I don't know if anybody but me uses it anymore, but once it was a favorite recreational spot for my ancestors and their friends."

"Was there a Ladies' Pool, too?" Cleo asked. Alistair began to steer her toward the side of the mountain where the waterfall emanated.

He laughed. "That's what Judge Godbold wondered, too, when I mentioned the pool to her. There's only a little stream called Virgin's Spring. I don't think it was limited to woman with any claim to that status, though," he added with a grin that sweetened his expression so much that Cleo at least partially relented in her reservations about him. "Actually, it simply started out as Virgin Spring because of its purity, but through the years it got its apostrophe and more picturesque name."

"You mentioned Judge Godbold. Are you still hoping she'll succumb to your promotions?" She glanced at his profile as they walked.

He smiled archly. "Yes, indeed. I don't give up at initial discouragement. If I can persuade her to restore one of our available structures, it would be quite a coup for us."

"Oh? Why is that?"

Alistair made an impatient sound in his throat. Cleo turned toward him and saw he was looking at her in apparent astonishment. "Her connections, of course! She knows all the right sort of people we want to attract to Barton."

"Are you concerned about the murder driving people off?"

"The murder?" He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, the man found in the woods." He began to walk, slower now. "I'm afraid murder is not that uncommon around here. Usually, it's clan related, you know–feuds, that sort of thing."

Cleo nodded. "Of course, tradition has it that these hill people sometimes take justice into their own hands, but things have been quiet around here for years, from what I understand. Have you heard if the victim had some connection with Barton?"

Alistair shrugged. "He's not been given a name yet, has he?"

"I've heard the Walking Man mentioned."

"Who said that?"

Cleo told him of her conversation with Ruth Sexton, but Alistair didn't comment further.

The water was a pounding roar now in Cleo's ears; instead of turning aside to go the long way around, Alistair beckoned for Cleo to follow him. He stepped quickly onto a ledge that led behind the waterfall. She entered after him into a strange, light, room-like cavern, the sun striking the liquid curtain and sending moving rays along the walls of the cave.

"Oh, how beautiful," she breathed. "How wonderful."

"This spot may have been where the young ladies lost their right to bathe in Virgin's Spring."

Cleo held up her arms to the water, as if calling on the local pagan god who had furnished this place. "I don't blame them for coming here with their lovers. It's enchanting."

"It's yours for as long as you're here. I don't think anyone else comes here--at least I've not seen them."

Cleo noticed in the shimmering light a swirl of color near the ledge. "Is that some extraordinary rainbow effect?" She knelt down to examine the curiosity.

Alistair merely shrugged, "Probably just some mineral deposits."

"Whatever it is," Cleo said, fingering the swirl, "it's lovely the way it changes colors in this light." She rose to her feet. But everything seemed surreal about this hidden place. The falls covered the entrance but barely. Beyond the curtain of water the pond was visible, though seen as a mirage.

They walked toward the other side of the opening where they had to navigate another, narrower ledge. It turned into the embankment where Cleo had first come upon the pool. The path uphill was harder going; frequently, Alistair took her arm or hand in a courtly way and pulled her over high, steep steps cut into the rock.

"What other magical things are here in Barton for me to discover?" she asked, puffing a little from the climb.

"Many, many things," he answered, rather solemnly, she thought. "We'll speak of some when you come to the library, but others you will, as you say, have to discover."

Walking across the church lawn, Alistair stopped abruptly and called in a sharp tone, "Come out here, right now."

Cleo saw framed in one of the arched windows of the church a small face capped by a fringe of dark bangs.

"Who is that child?" Cleo asked.

"Hardly a child. She's not supposed to be fooling around in there." Alistair looked up at the structure. "My great-great-grandfather went back to England and took Holy Orders so the sacraments could continue to be offered here since the first priest only lasted about three years. He apparently suffered from a lack of faith." He gave a harsh laugh. "Those Victorians were so blind to human nature. I wonder how they explained to themselves their magnificent failure here?"

"So there aren't services here anymore?"

"Not yet. I keep hounding the bishop to set up some sort of service, but anything resembling a viable congregation has disappeared, along with the settlers, I'm afraid."

Cleo felt put off again by his tone but didn't reply, for the church door opened and a young woman stepped onto the porch. She was short and lean, but not a child, Cleo could clearly see from the outline of her body even with the loose shirt and jeans The girl stared at them for a moment in an unfriendly way and then gave a leap and, running like a wild thing, plunged into the deepest part of the woods beside the building.

"That child is an animal," Alistair muttered.

Cleo was surprised at his description, but only inquired, "How did she get in? I thought the church was locked."

To her surprise, Alistair flushed and stammered angrily, "Who knows--I suppose she might have . . . , that is, she probably picked the lock, for all I know."

"And who is she? A Melungeon? Or one of the newly arrived?"

"Jincie Goin. Strange girl, but then, she's part of a peculiar family. Definitely Melungeon."

Cleo wanted to ask more about their peculiarities, but Alistair began talking about the inns that had been on Main Street, both having burned down years before.

"My goal," he went on, "is to build another inn for travelers, tourists. I think it would be a draw."

On the street in front of The Library and Archives, they parted with an invitation from Alistair for Cleo to visit him the next day at ten o'clock for a tour of the library.

Back in her car, Cleo was assailed by contradictory feelings. She thought of the gruff locals she had run into at the little general store and other places in town. And then there was Alistair with his urbanity, his fanatical dedication to his venture. She felt no need to be wary of any of them, but she mustn't forget someone had murdered a man not far from here.

Perhaps living in such isolation they had different values from what she had expected. What had she expected? In her other historical works, she had an idea of the nature or character of those figures she was writing about. Her goal was always to bring them to life, so to speak, to the reader. And if her reviews were to be taken seriously, she had been successful from that standpoint.

Another hallmark of her writing was careful research. She steered away from speculation, which attributed beliefs, superstitions, or goals to her subjects without any real documentation. Of course, she was equally careful to choose subjects who had left behind a substantial trail of evidence to work from. This project that she was now engaged in was so very different, especially the task of getting to know the residents of Barton called Melungeons. Again, she felt the qualms she kept trying to fight off about taking oral histories. Was she up to the job?

Chapter 8

Mostly Marnie left Cleo to her researches at The library without interfering, but on Thursday she cajoled Cleo into joining Baby and her for a day out, an excursion to Chattanooga.

"I can't do this sort of thing very often," Cleo warned, as they returned from a shopping trip that included a leisurely lunch at the famous Chattanooga Choo-Choo Station.

"It might have been just what you needed to give you perspective," said Baby. "I've found in my own work, both in my vocation and my avocation, that it's sometimes helpful to get away from something for a while." Did she believe that? She thought ruefully her advice seemed hollow and unhelpful, for she knew Cleo was continuing to feel uncomfortable about her proposed project.

Cleo frowned. "I seem to be mainly getting away rather than working lately. Other than some limited research, I've done nothing."

"Nonsense," Marnie said, setting her packages on the counter. "You've set up appointments with some of the locals, and you've been digging in Alistair's library among all those damn books. So I'd think a day out is exactly what you need now and then to clear your head."

"I enjoyed the trip, though, and I thought we got some great bargains at the Outlet Mall."

"Indeed, we did," nodded Baby enthusiastically, retrieving from a shopping bag a large Coach purse of black leather with tan stitching. "Handsome, I think, and what a deal!" The younger women had concentrated on the clothing shops, but Baby's size made casual shopping for apparel difficult. Still, she was glad for the excursion and that everyone had a relaxing day, despite the murder hanging over their heads. She noted that it had been several days since anyone had mentioned it, and she would keep to herself her concerns that no one from the TBI had yet arrived.

Marnie pulled out a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. "I'm thirsty–and I bet y'all are too. Tea all right?" At the others' assent, she poured the beverage into tall tumblers. "How are you and Alistair getting along with all that chumminess, Cleo?"

Cleo had decided she needed a routine of daily work in the library. Alistair had been more than helpful, assuring her that his home should be considered her special place of research any time she needed it.

Cleo sighed resignedly at Marnie's persistence. "I hardly see him. He's busy, too, you know. If he's around, we sit on opposite sides of that great table in the main room of the library and work like two graduate students preparing their theses. When I finish, I say goodbye and leave. As a matter of fact, I don't think I like him very much."

"Why ever not?" Marnie asked, her voice rising in bafflement.

"I don't know for sure. He doesn't seem quite honest, or maybe I should say real. He seems like someone out of a book or a play, in a role that he enjoys, of course. He's intelligent and seems to know a great deal about many things, but--well, maybe I'll feel warmer to him when I find out if I have met the real Alistair."

"That sounds like a mystery." Baby gave Cleo an appraising look.

"Not really. He may be hiding something or that may simply be his manner. Whatever it is, I'm not going to any trouble over him or Sam Taylor either, for that matter."

They took their glasses over to the kitchen table and settled gratefully into the captain chairs. "I have been meaning to ask you about a girl named Jincie Goin," Cleo said to her friend. "Do you know her?"

"Not really. I know she lives with her grandmother and her father in a cabin off Spring Valley Road. She quit school this year, I understand. About eighteen years old. Sam mentioned he could use her at the winery to do some menial tasks."

"Who is this person?" asked Baby.

"A young Melungeon girl who seems to turn up here and there around town," answered Cleo with a shrug. "I saw her inside the church one day, of all places. And later when I was working at the library, I asked Alistair about her, but he just indicated she was one of the locals who maybe represents something of the character of the town. Mainly, though, he talked about her grandmother, who I think might be an interesting person to interview."

Cleo recalled the circumstances of the conversation.

They were sitting across from one another at one of the large, polished mahogany tables that sat in the main room of the library. Cleo hooked the heels of her loafers on the rung of her chair, her arms clamped around her knees. Alistair was looking particularly seedy that day, pouches under his light eyes and his smooth, rather long hair rumpled. Normally smartly dressed, he looked as if he had slept in his clothes.

"I never thought of Jincie as very reliable," Alistair had said to her in an offhand manner in answer to her query. "I had her doing some light housework for me and had to let her go, but she may do better at the winery."

"Does she have any brothers or sisters?"

He shook his head. "She lives with her widowed father and her grandmother who also happens to be the witch of the area."

"Oh, really?" Cleo was interested though her tone was sceptical. "Does she do incantations and such?"

"Mainly she uses herbs--what she call yarbs--to heal sicknesses. But she also makes things move, I hear. I've never witnessed it myself." Alistair said all this with a straight face.

"What kinds of things?"

"They say she can make the shoelaces move right out of your shoes and crawl along the floor like worms."

Cleo didn't blink an eye. He would have his little joke at her expense. "Then I must definitely put her on my list to interview," she said dryly.

He continued as if she had not spoken, "I know she keeps a rock heated in her fireplace to keep the hawks away from her chickens. I've seen that. If they come near, so Jincie tells me,

their claws become useless and they fly away."

"Oh, don't tell me you believe that stuff!"

"`There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" He waved his hand airily.

"But I thought these people were very religious." Cleo had seen an old sign advertising a revival that had taken place a few months ago, and she had understood from Marnie that the local Baptist church was well-attended by the hill people.

Alistair leaned back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head, and regarded her with a sardonic smile. "They like to think they're religious, always hanging out at their prayer meetings, but I swear they don't believe in the Trinity. They have a Quartet--Father Sun, their power source, and Brother Moon, their favorite, and, of course, Mother Earth and Sister Wind."

Cleo gave Alistair an incredulous look. Did he really think she was such a fool?

He smiled. "It's true. Haven't you heard them say, `The eye of the sun be upon you'?"

"Yes, but I imagined that was a colorful way of saying `Peace be with you' or 'Good luck.'"

"Not quite. They believe the sun is the All-Seeing Eye. I suppose that might indicate to an anthropologist that they have had an influence from some American Indian ancestors. It's probably as good a religion as the one they outwardly profess. Not that all Melungeons in Tennessee or Virginia are quite so backward and superstitious. This is a particularly isolated and ingrown group. Most have been here since their ancestors first came over the mountains."

"Still, the eye is a symbol of God, isn't it? I thought that's why it's on the dollar bill. Supposedly a remnant of the Masonic influence in the early days of our country, so I've heard." Cleo didn't think of herself as devout, but she was a little surprised by his casual references to the pagan ideas of the hill people. He surely wasn't correct about the Melungeons' beliefs. Maybe he was trying to shock her a little.

She remembered that Guy had told her a few days earlier that Alistair called his horse Hell Forever. Now she wondered if there was something other than irreverence or impiety in using such a name.

"Is that," Cleo now asked Alistair, "why you call your horse, Hell Forever? Do you mock these people and their veneer of Christianity?"

He gave her a long, appraising look. "Very good, Cleo. Not many see the point. There is always that hypocritical piety one must stand up to. I personally am not fond of that attitude, which abounds here."

She speculated then he might not be fond of anything besides his project, which seemed to less to do with reclaiming a piece of history than with restoring some prestige to the name of his family. He only became really animated when he spoke of the glorious histories in England of those ancestors or his project to reclaim Barton from the encroaching wilderness.

She didn't speak of all this to the two women, but she did mention Alistair's estimation of the local folk religion.

"How very interesting," Baby exclaimed. "That may put a new slant on the murder. Local superstitions are sometimes so powerful they outweigh usual moral considerations--although they seldom prescribe murder." Yet it was true that the deeply held ideas of the people in these hills, so remote from other influences, certainly might figure into the murder, but thanks to the recalcitrant Bureau and an invisible agent, she could only theorize at this point.

"Which reminds me," said Marnie, "Why haven't the TBI or whatever gotten down here to investigate? I worry about Cleo and you charging around hither and yon."

Baby nodded. "I know we have an investigator assigned to this murder. He may, for all we know, be already investigating. I expect we'll soon hear from Agent Everly. I asked for a seasoned investigator."

"Do you know him personally?" Cleo asked.

"Haven't met him, but I understand he's a crackerjack." Baby smiled at her niece. "Don't worry about Cleo and me on our rovings, my dear; my experience tells me most murderers are closely connected to their victims. Cleo and I shouldn't interest anyone, even if he's still in the area." Baby swallowed the last of her tea. "Unless, of course, we happen to stumble upon something that's supposed to remain hidden. Then we might be in for it."

"Oh, Baby, no," Marnie cried with a horror stricken expression on her face.

Baby clucked her tongue, amused. "I'm joshing you, Marnie. We'll watch ourselves. I haven't reached my present age without knowing when to duck. Besides, crime reports tell us that two women are considerably safer than one when it comes to being attacked."

"Then whatever we do," said Marnie, "let's all agree never to go out walking alone. Will you abide by that, Cleo?"

Cleo sighed. "How am I supposed to get my work done if I don't go out among the residents? And most of those I need to interview are tucked among the hills and valleys surrounding the town."

"Go by car, of course, as far as you can," Marnie answered. "That is only common sense. If you want to ramble in the woods, save that experience for twosomes or threesomes."

Cleo grinned and gave a mock salute. "Yes, captain."

Baby had listened to Marnie while sipping her tea, and she nodded her agreement. "I think Marnie is right. You are doing something that hasn't been done here, maybe ever–digging into the lives and histories of some very private, if not secretive, people. Don't underestimate the threat that you may pose to someone. With the murder of a man, rather than a woman, I feel it was a targeted crime and not one of opportunity, but I would caution you to be careful. None of us knows the motive for the murder, and we don't know the people who might have been associated with the victim. Just keep your eyes and ears open and all should be well."

Her words were encouraging, as she'd meant them to be. No point in getting panicky, she thought. Yet she genuinely believed Cleo might be specially vulnerable and that the young woman should take precautions while doing her interviews. This murder was out of sync for the area with no obvious motive or suspects. She, herself, intended to be prudent in her exploration of the town, but she also knew she wasn't about to be confined to this house and Main Street.

Chapter 9

"Would anyone like to take a walk before dinner?" Baby was pulling on her hiking boots, and tucking the legs of her roomy jeans into them. "I feel the need to stretch my legs and see something of the local scenery, and I want to follow Marnie's advice and have some company."

Cleo refused, saying she had planned to type some notes. Marnie hesitated but also turned down the invitation.

"I've already exercised on the stationery bicycle, Baby, and I've got some things to do for dinner. Otherwise, I'd go with you, not that I'd be much help if we ran into trouble." She shivered. "I don't see how you can wander around without worrying."

"I know a woman doesn't have to be young and beautiful to be attacked, but I think I should present a more formidable figure for any threats to my person. I'll be fine." She reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a blackjack filled with shot. "A policeman friend of mine gave me this 'sap' during one of my investigations of an unlucky prostitute. I got it out of the car a while ago for this very purpose."

"Heavens!" Marnie exclaimed. "The things you're involved with, Baby! Now, you be careful and stick to the neighborhood roads around town, hear?"

Baby agreed and set off to walk some of the places that she had not previously explored. She was curious about how the local people, the Melungeons, lived. She envisioned log cabins, but that was probably erroneous. More likely clapboard structures not unlike the little country places around Nashville.

She tramped up and down a landscape that did its best to obscure the dwellings. Occasionally, she saw a puff of smoke coming from a brick chimney. How disappointing not to see more! She thought about exploring deeper into the back country but decided she needed to be prudent, that she had gone far enough.

She began to back track, but her sense of direction was confused by the twists and turns of the roads. Nothing was squared off, and one dusty lane looked much like another. After making yet another turn onto a narrow road, she spotted a track wide enough for one set of wheels. There were four mailboxes with names painted on them: Goin, Trent, Collins, and Hale. She felt a sense of relief. A telephone. Someone would surely have a phone. She'd get Marnie and Cleo to drive over and pick her up.

She approached the cabin warily. A milk bottle was positioned on a wire fence. That seemed strange. She wished she knew the customs of these people. Perhaps she was too hasty in seeking out local color. The gate was open, though, and she followed a weedy gravel path leading to a house of board and batten siding with a tin roof.

Stepping cautiously onto the front porch, a fragile affair of rotting boards piled with household junk, she peered through a window and saw a hoydenish-looking girl sprawled on a couch, a set of earphones attached to her head. Baby relaxed a little. Teenagers were the same everywhere, it seemed, no matter how far from civilization.

At her firm knock, the door opened a suspicious four inches.

"What'dya want?" the girl inquired ungraciously.

"Sorry to bother you. I've lost my way and I need to use your phone. May I come in?"

The girl opened the door slightly, but not enough for Baby's ample frame to squeeze through.

She explained further, hoping to allay any of the girl's native suspicions. "I was out walking, you see, and the roads look so much the same. I have no idea where I am."

"You the judge lady?"

"Why, yes, I am? And you are--?"

"Jincie. Jincie Goin. Me and my pa and granny live here. We don't see many English folks back thisaway."

"Yes, indeed. You're really quite secluded." Baby motioned to the inside. "May I use the phone?"

Jincie let her in without showing her the phone, and while Baby tried to acquaint herself with the layout of the room, she heard a rough motor outside that proclaimed someone else's arrival.

"Pa's coming!" Jincie ran toward the stove where some pans were steaming and began to hurriedly dish food from them onto platters and bowls.

"He'll be right cranky if he thinks I haven't been getting' supper ready."

The door banged open and a small man entered. "Supper afixt, yit?" He smelled yeasty, a mixture of sweat and corn. Then he noticed Baby and nodded to her.

She spread her hands placatingly. "I've asked to use your phone. I was out walking, and like a fool, I went too far. Now I'm lost, or at least I don't know how to find my way back to the Godbolds'. I'd like to call my niece so she can come and get me and take me back to town." She still hadn't spotted a phone in the room.

Jack Goin looked her over. Without answering, he went to a sink in the corner of the large room and began to wash himself.

He turned, drying his face, his hands. "I'll run you back. If'n you wait till I have my victuals."

"I hate to put you to any trouble. If I can just call--"

"No trouble. You might have a bite with us. There's always plenty. Right, Jincie? You've met my girl, Jincie?"

Baby nodded. Somehow, she didn't feel right insisting on using the phone, as if she was insulting them by refusing their hospitality and calling for help. Maybe some code of the hills. She asked if she could wash, feeling grimy after her walk, and Jack pointed to the same kitchen sink that he'd just used. Baby took a wet sliver of soap and made the best of it, but looking over the towel, she decided to air dry her hands as unobtrusively as possible rather than use the wet rag Jack had thrown on the counter.

Jincie went on setting the table and said, "Hit's almost ready. Granny's eating with us. I mean to go get her, though." She went through a door and reappeared almost immediately with an old woman.

"Wal, looky here," Jack Goin roared, seeing his mother at the door to the front room, propped up on Jincie's arm. "You can't be all that sick, ol' gal, if you can hobble in here thataway!"

The four of them sat at the table, Baby opposite Granny. The Goins set about spooning up helpings of sweet potatoes, crowder peas, greens, and fried ham. Jincie smiled proudly when her Pa said, "These is good victuals, gal."

Baby took a modest serving of each item, also complementing Jincie on her cooking.

Jincie ducked her head slightly to Baby as she had when she addressed her father. "Thank you, ma'am." Then she turned to her father.

"Grandmam got up this evening and went outside for a bit, Pap. Ain't she the one!"

The old woman glanced out the window and spoke in a reedy voice. "I heerd somethin' from little sister today. The wind she was strong. I got sent word that a ghost is walking in the hills, but not a stranger."

"Who might that be?" Goin asked, munching his food in his deliberate way. "I ain't heard about any of our kin lately died."

The old woman shook her head slowly. "No kin of ours. Don't know yit who t'is. Could be it's the Walkin' Man. I got it in my ear somethin' about walkin'."

Baby sat quietly eating. She looked with interest from one to the other in the family. "Did you know this Walking Man?"

Goin frowned. "Nobody knowed him as far as I heard. He wandered through the wood like a spirit, but he was real enough. Hid if'n he saw anyone, though."

Jincie sat back in her chair and put down her fork. Her eyes were like her grandmother's, button black. "I'm through. Kin I go, Pa? I want to run to Maxie's for a minute."

"You after her brother, gal? Seems you'uns are allays hanging out."

"I cain't stand that Jimmy," Jincie flung back. "I'll do the dishes up when I get back."

Baby called out a thank you to Jincie as she left to go outside, but the girl merely sped out the door. Baby noted she was wearing no jacket, only her raggedy sweatshirt and decided the locals had acclimated themselves to the brisk weather here in the high hills.

"Don't miss comin' home afore dark, y'hear?" Goin instructed. He looked at his mother's plate. "Are you not for finishing that ham? I'd take that piece for a sandwich tomorrow if'n you'd wrap it up."

Granny nodded and scraped the piece back onto the platter. "I 'spect," she said, "I'll hear more about the ghost soon's I can bide the wind better. Hit's so raw on my chest these days."

"Have you been sick, Mrs. Goin?" Baby looked sympathetically at the old woman.

"The cough, hit gets me in the spring."

"You get well, Mam, afore you set yourself outside much. Hit won't be long. Then you kin tell us who that ghost be when you hear the name." Jack Goin grinned and winked at Baby as if to tell her he was humoring the old woman.

He belched and rose from his chair. "Tasty meal. After Doll weds me and comes to live here, I think she'll be right pleased of Jincie's cooking."

"What's that, you say?" His mother called him back with a note of command in her voice. "Who's that you say?"

"Doll Hambrick, you know, Mam," Goin explained with forced patience. "She's promised to me, remember?"

"I haint heerd of any signs on that yet. I'd take a while if I was you."

"We'll take our chances, Mam," he said good-naturedly. He hitched up his pants and motioned to Baby.

"I be ready if you are."

Baby wished Granny well while the old woman responded by raising her hand as if in blessing to wish that "the Eye of the Sun" be upon her. Then Baby followed Jack Goin out the door to the car. She'd like to visit some more with Granny. Maybe in a few days, when the wind brought no chill on her chest, but instead gave her the rest of the story. Could she really have gotten a message from the beyond, as she claimed, or had news about the Walking Man filtered down through something Jincie or Goin had said in the woman's hearing, deaf as she was? She seemed to actually believe she'd been visited by some sort of entity that gave her information. Remarkable!

As they roared out of the weedy drive, Baby pointed to the fence post with the attached milk bottle. "What's the significance of the milk bottle? I think I spotted another one on the post farther down the road."

Goin grinned. "That means we'uns ain't exactly invitin' folks in to visit. If'n we didn't abide by that, my mam wouldn't get no peace. Milk bottle, co'cola bottle, don't matter. If'n its down, then they know they can come in to see her for her spells and such." He turned his head briefly from the road to look at Baby. "She's called the Witch Woman, you know."

"No, I didn't. But that's so very interesting. And I'm sorry I violated your rules and came on to your property. I had no idea."

"No matter," Goin replied. "We'uns don't expect you city folk to abide by our customs."

Well, Baby thought to herself, she'd trespassed without knowing the rules, and the Goins had been remarkably hospitable, considering. She wondered what other mysteries were yet to be uncovered in this place? She was tempted to ask more questions, but prudently decided it would sound too much like prying and so kept her mouth shut for the remainder of the ride.

Chapter 10

"We were ready to get out a search party," Marnie cried as Baby entered through the back door. Jack Goin's pickup could be heard roaring out of the drive. Cleo and the Godbolds were sitting around the kitchen table eating dinner.

Baby leaned against the door without moving for a minute. "What an experience. I'm so sorry. Really I am. That was Jack Goin who gave me one of the wildest rides I've ever had. Sliding in gravel has no meaning for him."

"But how did he happen to drive you home?" Marnie looked somewhat aghast.

Baby peeled off her jacket, hanging it on the hook by the back door. "Stupidly, I walked too far afield. I stayed on the roads, which I assumed would lead me back here, but I didn't realize how twisty they were. Anyhow, I lost my way, and when I found the Goins' place, they practically refused to let me use the phone. If I'd insisted, somehow I believed they'd be offended, and I didn't want to ruin my visit. They invited me to dinner--and very good it was too--before Mr. Goin drove me back. Jincie, his daughter, seems to be the chief cook and bottle washer with Granny Goin recovering from bronchitis and doing witchy things."

"Amazing!" Marnie's eyes goggled. "I don't know of anyone else who's seen the inside of one of their homes, the Melungeons, I mean, except, I suppose, Alistair." Then her expression turned into an accusatory frown. "But why didn't you use your cell phone?"

Baby looked abashed and admitted she didn't have one. "I've been encouraged to get one, but somehow I seem to manage without–or I did until now."

"Then you'll take mine," Marnie stated, "whenever you go for a walk without me."

"So you get service way out here?" Cleo asked. "I haven't tried mine out, but I've wondered."

Guy nodded. "We're fairly close to Sewanee and the University, so there was enough of a demand, I suppose. Service is somewhat unreliable, however, because of the hills. Anyhow, Baby, you probably should carry a phone, just in case, when you're wandering around here. Half a message received is better than none."

"I guess you're right, but I wouldn't have missed the experience for anything." Baby looked at Cleo. "You'll have quite a treat in store if you decide to interview any of the Goins. Just make sure you watch for the visiting sign."

"The what?" Cleo looked at Baby expectantly. "Tell me more."

"I saw a milk bottle, but any bottle will do, apparently, atop the fence post outside the property. That means the family is not at home to visitors. That's true for most of the Melungeons, apparently. If it's in place, don't go barging in like I did. You'll do well to make an appointment ahead of time. Even though I never saw a phone, I presume they have one."

"I didn't know that about the bottles," Guy said. "You ferret out the darndest things, Baby."

"What was their house like?" Cleo asked. She was beginning to feel envious of Baby's experience.

"Very simple, rather run down, I'd say, but adequately furnished. I was more interested in the people. I don't think I've ever come across any like them. They seem to be a mixture of independent thinking and a suspicious attitude compounded by ancient traditions and speech patterns. To a disinterested observer this makes them quite a study. I'm sorry to have missed your dinner, Marnie, and frightened you to boot, but it would have been rude to refuse to eat at the Goins." She grinned. "I decided you'd sooner forgive me than that bunch, and I didn't want to alienate them for Cleo's sake."

Her face had crumpled a bit from the wearing afternoon. "I think I'll take a small rest while you all finish your dinner." She gave Marnie a hug. "I do hope, dear, I didn't worry you too much, but you should realize I know how to take care of myself. I really do try to be as alert as possible to avoid being ambushed. I sometimes feel I've seen it all when it comes to criminals--city types or back country rogues, either one." She left the room with a weary tread.

Marnie smiled and gave an admiring shake of her head. "What a fearless character she is. I have to wonder about her fascination with crime, though. I don't think her brothers and sister have any connections with the police, and I don't remember Uncle Dan being so interested in nefarious goings on, just Baby."

"What about her career on the bench?" Cleo asked Guy. "Maybe dealing with criminals spurred her on to real time adventures."

"Actually," Guy explained, "she's a Circuit court judge--divorce or other family disputes, and civil suits of various sorts. She's fascinated by crime because--well, I don't know, for sure. Her reputation as a detective is considerable, I understand, among her cronies at the police station or the D.A.'s office in Nashville. She seems to have an unlikely knack for solving crimes."

They ate silently for a few minutes, and then Guy excused himself and left the room, headed for his chair and the TV.

"Maybe," said Cleo with a smile, "Baby's coming was a Godsend, having a murderer among us."

"Myself, I'm hoping he's long gone." Marnie chewed thoughtfully on a cookie. "This murder just about tears it!" She lowered her voice. "I wouldn't say this to Guy, but I get so lonely sometimes that I think I want the whole world to come to Barton. But no murderers, thank you."

"How many people have moved here in the last few years?"

"Counting ourselves, there are maybe ten restorations, although Sam didn't actually restore anything. He just moved in to that broken down farm and is hoping for the best. I hope it holds together until he can get his first wine sold." She took some dishes over to the sink. "The Humphreys are just summer people. They're both in education. He's director of computer services at a college in Jackson, and she's a secretary at an elementary school. We'll see them when school lets out. Their house, Leafy Willows, is a little off the beaten track, but remind me to show it to you sometime. They've been working on it every spare moment during school holidays and should get it finished this summer."

"Who else?" asked Cleo, refilling her glass from a pitcher of Marnie's fragrant iced mint tea.

"The Phillips were the first, after Alistair, to come here. They have that huge place down the street behind the church. They live here only intermittently, though. He's some big-time commercial real estate developer from the Gatlinburg area. It seems odd they would leave the Smokies to come here to the foothills for their getaway place. I think they have pots of money and are intrigued with the idea of an exclusive, ancestral home. She's sort of obnoxious, collects folk art and calls everything 'quaint'. That's how she amuses herself while they're living here. She scours the neighborhood and surrounding counties for craft items." Marnie raised a disapproving eyebrow. "That great-looking house has been ruined by the overload."

Cleo laughed. Marnie was practically compulsive about neatness. Although her guests were made to feel comfortable, there was always a certain amount of unobtrusive tidying up.

"Let's see," continued Marnie, "there's the Robinsons, who have that charming cottage on the side street near the café. They live in Chattanooga and come here for weekends--she and the kids for the summer. I like them; they're more our type." She raised her eyebrows significantly.

"What does that mean?" asked Cleo with a smile. After Marnie's analyses of Sam and, in particular, Alistair, she didn't exactly trust her friend's observations.

"Well, I guess I'd say we have more in common, age-wise, and maybe background, too. Charles Robinson owns his own business and has similar political views to Guy's."

"Good enough. I'd like to meet them."

"You will," Marnie promised and then went on to further describe her neighbors. "There's a restoration still in progress two streets over by some people named--I forget their name. I only met them once and they didn't impress me, an old, stuffy couple. And we have the complete opposite in the Robinsons' neighbors, Andy and Rona Grigsby. They're Sierra Club types--go back packing and keep a stock of natural foods in their basement. They run a herbal mail order business from what Anne Robinson tells me. I haven't actually talked to them." She giggled. "How's that for a critical exposé of the residents that I've actually met?"

Cleo agreed Marnie had been quite forthcoming about expressing her opinions. "So really, except for you and Guy, Alistair, Sam, and the Grigsbys, there are mainly part-time residents who live here as the new interlopers?" She began to load the dishwasher.

Marnie frowned. "Too few full-time residents, for my taste. I could stand a little more congestion." She looked above her. "I'd better go get Baby before she sleeps too long. Who knows, we may be getting a visit from an investigator tonight."

Chapter 11

But they didn't.

Another week drew to a close with everyone's displeasure over the inactivity of the authorities growing daily. Marnie announced on Friday she'd decided to entertain again.

"Just because somebody's bumped off a stranger, doesn't mean we have to quit living ourselves," Marnie earnestly explained to Guy, walking with him from the car. He was returning home from Chattanooga ready and eager for a relaxing weekend. But instead of asking about his wife's intended entertaining or household matters, he had immediately started in about the murder, focusing on the victim.

"He may not be a stranger, or at least not unknown to a few people." He hoisted a large sack of groceries to a more secure perch on his arm.

"How do you know?" Marnie gave her husband a look of surprise.

"I talked to Sam--ran into him at the grocery store. He says the man apparently was someone who lived here once, and Sam had it from one of the deputies. He says the victim was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But that's frightening! Any of us, on our little walks, could have done the same thing."

"Exactly. He was found in a pretty remote area, so you gals simply must stick close to town when you're out walking." Stopping at the door, Guy reached for his wife and nuzzled her curly head. "Now what's this about another party?"

"Not a party exactly. Just a few people in for drinks and conversation tomorrow night. At least it will be a distraction from thinking about such sad things as old men being killed practically next door. And I've specified it's to be very casual."

"Who's to be the guests of honor this week?"

"The Robinsons have come in from Chattanooga. We'll also have Sam and Alistair--the usual."

"Won't we all get sick of each other if we socialize all the time?" Guy glanced over at his aunt and Cleo who were sitting together at the kitchen table and gave them a wink.

"Probably," his wife flung back, "but at least you can escape at work during the week while we'll be running into most of these folks over and over again." She slapped her forehead and rolled her eyes dramatically. "What a horrible fate!"

The Robinsons had been a welcome addition, Cleo thought. She had looked forward to meeting more new settlers to Barton. After introductions Cleo sat next to Anne on the sofa and asked her about their move to Barton and their choice of a home site; had it been in the family?

Anne nodded. "Our house was built by one of the last settlers to come from England in the 1870s. Charles is related to them only remotely, but we've gotten so interested in the area and the restoration we feel almost as if we have a close connection to that family."

"Who were they?" asked Cleo. "I may have run across them in what little research I've

done so far."

"Terrell was their name," Anne said. "The last occupants, a spinster and her brother Tom, something of a mental misfit, moved to Nashville in the sixties after the old mother died. Miss Terrell put her brother in Clover Bottom in Nashville and sold the property to Charles' father who was from another branch of the family--a much older family in America, not from Barton at all. We heard Agnes died some time ago."

Cleo turned to Judge Godbold, who had been listening with interest. "I have a diary that Alistair lent me written by that very woman, Agnes Terrell." She smiled at Anne. "I haven't gotten into it much yet, but after I'm finished with it, I'm sure Alistair will let you look at it. Miss Terrell's struggles are an incredibly moving story."

The judge nodded, "Even after all these years, that must be sad to read. It's almost hard for us to imagine the trials she went through. Think of the despair she must have felt. Desperately poor, probably lonely, and saddled with an incompetent brother in a dying community. Impoverished gentility, as the English call it. No wonder she took off to Nashville when she could escape."

"He wasn't totally incompetent, from what I read," Cleo said. "He was an artist, a rather gifted one, according to his sister. I wonder if he ever made anything of his talent, or if his mental problems kept him from pursuing art as a career."

Judge Godbold shook her head. "Usually, if someone is too enfeebled, they haven't much chance of a career. Of course, the poor fellow may have been what is called a savant--someone who can't operate normally but who has an extraordinary talent." The judge spoke in a gentle, musing tone.

"Artistic talent?" Marnie asked, interested.

The judge nodded, "Yes, music or art, but it could also be a genius for math, for instance." She stared into space for a moment, not saying anything.

"What is it, Baby?" asked Marnie. "You seem to have thought of something else. Does that remind you of something?"

"I don't know. But I wonder--" She looked around brightly. "Never mind me. I have a one-track mind sometimes."

This evening Cleo noticed the judge's appearance was very different from the ordinary. Her salt and pepper hair was curled forward, softening the lines of her face, which was animated and high-colored even without much makeup. Judge Godbold's clothes were sometimes most unusual, if not bizarre. But tonight she wore a flattering pants suit of gray linen. Besides a large squash blossom necklace of silver and turquoise, her other jewelry consisted of heavily engraved silver earrings, and a huge Zuni coral and turquoise ring on her right hand.

Although the judge was smartly dressed this evening, Cleo wondered if it all depended on her mood. Sometimes, her clothes were ultra casual, as if she were feeling downright folksy; other times, like tonight, she looked prosperous and urbane. Marnie had said that the judge was the widow of a successful attorney. "She has quite a bit in her own right, though," Marnie had explained. "Old Nashville money, but, quite frankly, you'd never know it. She couldn't care less about showing off possessions."

Anne Robinson and her husband were owners of a printing company in Chattanooga. Anne had formerly been an editor there, she said, but had given up the work when her children, now school age, were born. "I guess I could go back to it, now that Jason and Samantha are in school, but I've time now to do some of the things I missed when I was younger. This is the first time I've felt free to do my own thing." She smiled at her husband, however, as she declared her independence. Her dark good looks were set off by a bright pink shirt and purple slacks of raw silk. She looked to be somewhere around thirty-five years old.

Charles Robinson was nearer Alistair's age but looked considerably more tired. He would have been better company that evening, he said, if he hadn't had several business problems to wrestle with that week which were still unresolved. "Nothing makes you want to get out of the business more than having a WEB press break down, or the union threaten three different grievances." He gave a weak grin. "I'd better shut up about my troubles since I came here this weekend to get away from them."

With Marnie's excellent snacks and Guy's refilling of glasses, conversation flourished, and the evening went by quickly. At ten o'clock Charles was making tentative moves to depart when the murder was touched on, but no one seemed to have seen or talked with any officials other than Sam, who repeated what he'd heard. Everyone hoped that surely the TBI agent would come at least on Monday to interrogate the residents. Alistair had heard from the locals the same Walking Man story about the victim, but his name was still unknown.

Baby listened to the speculations with a bright eye and even said that some things were starting to add up, though nothing was yet certain. Marnie shuddered. "I hate talking about such things. Police business always seems like dirty business to me. Not only is it frightening, but it's somehow degrading to be involved in a crime, even as bystanders."

The judge looked at her with astonishment. "Well, Marnie dear, I don't agree at all. As one facet of human nature, matters of law and crime are utterly fascinating." She shrugged. "How else can we know the human condition fully except to study what boundaries we set for ourselves? I'm continually amazed at the lengths human beings go to satisfy their deepest and hidden urges." She suddenly looked abashed. "Listen to me go on! I'm afraid I've been too long on the bench and can't resist lecturing."

But Guy nodded soberly. "You must admit, Baby, that your interest is unusual. Not everyone longs to understand the dark side of human nature." He turned to the rest of the company. "In case you haven't heard, Baby has an extraordinary reputation for crime-solving and has worked extensively with the authorities."

"You flatter me, Guy," Baby answered. "I'm probably just an old busybody." She didn't look particularly embarrassed by the compliment, but only smiled.

"You seem to suggest," said Anne Robinson, "that it takes philosophy as well as psychology to be a good detective."

The older woman smiled and tilted her head back and forth in a speculative manner. "I'd like to think they work hand in hand. Take this murder, for example. Why would some apparently harmless soul who walked these woods be bludgeoned to death, if not for the uncontrolled passions of another human being? Why must we be subjected to such danger ourselves? Or are none of us really innocent, even as victims, if we enter into someone else's province?"

Marnie stood up and began to collect their coffee cups on a tray. "Well, whatever you say, it still bothers me having policemen come to call. It makes me feel our little haven has been violated."

"It has," said Alistair gloomily, "it has. We can only hope it can be put to rights quickly." He had lounged comfortably all evening long in the deep leather chair that Guy usually took naps in. He wore an immaculate blue shirt and dark grey dress slacks.

In contrast, Sam sat uncomfortably upright in a wing chair, but his clothes seemed to be lounging. Cleo thought he should have taken advantage of the local laundry, for his plaid shirt was wrinkled at the collar and cuffs, and his khaki pants could have done with a good pressing. But Sam, Cleo remembered guiltily, had little money or time for anything beyond his winery. Next week, for sure, she would take him up on his offer to show her around his place.

Altogether, the evening was a success, the entire household agreed after the guests had left. The judge said she thought it interesting that after the lengthy discussion about Cleo's research and the community itself, both historically and currently, the conversation switched to the murder.

"It's obviously on everyone's mind." She picked up a tray with the remnants of cheese and crackers and followed the others into the kitchen where Marnie was cleaning up the dishes and putting away leftovers.

"I agree," said Cleo with a nod. "I got a distinct impression, Judge, that you had an idea or two about the murdered man's identity. Can you tell us?"

Baby sighed. "I was thinking too hard and gave myself away, I suppose. This is only speculation, you realize, but although I'm puzzled by the Why or the motive, I have an idea as to the Who. I think it was quite a coincidence that we should be entertaining the Robinsons and finding out about their shirttail relatives, the Terrells. I've been wondering all evening if the victim could have been poor Tom Terrell? First of all, Barton had been his home, which makes his presence logical, and supposedly the authorities have now discovered his identity. More will come out soon about this, I'm quite sure.

"Secondly, he would be the right age to qualify as the murdered man. Why he haunted the woods, keeping to himself like a shy rabbit, isn't immediately clear to me, but I suspect it had something to do with his mental condition, which is another clue as to his identity."

"What gives you that idea?" Guy asked.

"If the Walking Man had portended danger to the community, he would have been suspected of all sorts of crimes, apprehended by the local authorities, and sent packing. As it was, he was seen as innocuous, and his frequenting the woods over such a long period of time indicated some deep interest in Barton, maybe a kind of obsession."

Cleo nodded her approval of Baby's theory. "I agree that he's a likely candidate, though, as you say, the motive is elusive on the surface."

Baby went on, "And the method of his murder–that makes sense, too, if one considers him to be Tom Terrell."

"What do you mean?" asked Marnie.

"With his habits of keeping to the woods and waters surrounding the town." Baby answered, "almost any determined seeker could find his whereabouts and do the deed without fear of discovery, which suggests less a crime of opportunity and more one that was planned. The murder weapon still hasn't been found, according to the local sheriff, the last time I talked to him a few days ago. At that time, he knew little about either the victim or the weapon, but his men had made a cursory search and had given up after finding a small sinkhole where a weapon of some kind, a rock or club could have been tossed in and lost forever."

"Enough!" cried Marnie, throwing up her hands. "Let's not talk any more about it and call it a day. I just hope I don't have nightmares."

As she dressed for bed, Baby continued to contemplate the circumstances of the crime and the need to get on with the investigation. She could do nothing on her own except get to know the people of the area. But oh, how she longed to talk to the TBI agent and see where she might help to get this terrible business put to rest.

And that was the problem, she thought. She felt helpless and frustrated. Time was a'wasting, and she didn't like the idea of a murderer being on the loose. As she'd said to the others, this hadn't the hallmarks of a random killing, and certainly not an accidental one, unlike some inadvertent shootings in wooded areas. He had been marked as someone who had to be eliminated. Maybe in his wanderings, he'd come upon someone doing something nefarious. But no suspicious activities had been reported as far as she knew, so that didn't seem likely. Well, all this speculation was a bit trying, given her preferred active methods in helping the authorities. She reminded herself that it was futile to speculate on practical matters, not her usual routine. In fact, she was driven to the inertia of useless speculation by the slowness of the TBI agent put on the case.

She chided herself for thinking she had a certain amount of clout when she requested a "seasoned investigator." Regularly deferred to in the Nashville area, she guessed the state officials of the criminal investigation community were not as impressed with her talents as she had hoped, since they weren't exactly snapping to at her request. She wasn't overly concerned about this aspect of the delay, however, realizing that most folks in general and judges in particular needed to get their comeuppance from time to time. Otherwise, there was always the tendency to turn into petty dictators or, at the least, overbearing martinets. She yawned and settled comfortably into the eiderdown. Nothing to do but wait–just one more day, and then make another call on Monday. So much for the theory that the first forty-eight hours after a crime were the most significant. Apparently, the head of the TBI didn't ascribe to that notion. She fell asleep with a vision of an old man being pursued in the deep woods, hampered by his painting materials and, absurdly, his easel as he tried to elude some shadowy figure with a club.

Chapter 12

Sunday afternoon Cleo and Baby were strolling through the little village, looking at the various homes and businesses. The judge indicated a property pointed out to her by Marnie as a possible place for Baby to restore. It was a dilapidated one-story rock house, literally dilapidated, she joked, which she confidently predicted to Cleo would never be restored by her personally.

"I don't have the time or patience to fool with all that stuff that goes into renovation projects. Can you see me occupying myself like Marnie with pins in my mouth or forever on the phone haranguing workmen?"

Although the invitation had included Marnie, just the two of them were on their way to the Robinsons' for tea with Anne while their hostess was resting from her labors.

"Marnie has finally collapsed," Cleo commented. "She's been knocking herself out ever since we've arrived, I'm afraid."

"Yes, but knowing her stamina and energy, she'll bounce right back. I think it's nice we can do some things on our own, too." Baby smiled at Cleo as a new-found friend.

Cleo had been favorably impressed by the Robinsons and now looked with interest at their home as they approached it. She thought about the previous owners, the Terrells, Agnes and her brother Tom, and wondered aloud what their life was like after they left for Nashville.

"That's a very interesting question," Baby replied. "Maybe Charles Robinson knows something about them."

The Robinson's house, a spinet-style bungalow, seemed much smaller than its two-story neighbors. It would not be small inside, Cleo knew from her touring of historic areas. The homes of the 19th century always were more spacious than they appeared; the proportions were the key. The front door would be a full eight feet in height, while the interior ceilings were upwards of nine or ten feet.

The Robinsons' cottage also looked different because it sat back farther than the other houses on the block, as if it, the baby of the family, had wandered off untended. From evidence of freshly hacked stumps, several trees in front of the house had been cleared, leaving only a magnificent old maple. Its branches grazed the roof of the house and in full leafing would shelter the walkway from the sun. The house had recently been painted ivory, the trim black and ocher--authentic, original colors, Anne Robinson had explained to Cleo at the Godbolds'. Like the keyboard of a spinet piano, the porch was set in exactly the middle of the front of the house with the entry to the left side. Two large windows overlooked the porch, which contained wicker furniture.

Turning in at the long gravel walk of the Robinson house, playful cries of children diverted them. They strolled onto the drive and around the house to see Jason and Samantha, their names Cleo recalled from Anne's description, playing on a swing set. An Irish setter leaned on one elbow and regarded the visitors with a bemused expression. Nearby on a jungle gym, a larger figure was upside down, a girl, hanging by her knees from the highest bar. She swung herself off with skill and grace to land before them on her feet. It was Jincie Goin.

She seemed as startled to see them as they her. Before she could dart off, Cleo asked, "How long have you been practicing gymnastics, Jincie?"

"I just started when I seed the bars here a month or two ago." The girl was slender but firmly muscled with strong flanks, a tiny waist, and full breasts. Her blue jeans were ragged around the cuffs, and her grey sweat shirt was filthy.

"You've done very well in such a short time," said the judge. "Do you come to town often?"

"Yes'm. I been comin' most days to help Alistair clean his place. Hit's not so far through the woods."

"Maybe you should give some serious thought," said Cleo, "about wandering around by yourself. You've heard about the murder, haven't you?"

The girl nodded. "I ain't skeered. I kin take keer of myself." Then she tilted her head and gave Cleo a look of confidence and well-being. "The woods is friendly to me. It's my home."

She looked tough, Cleo silently agreed, but she thought the girl too childish to be aware of real danger. "Still, you'd probably better stick to the roads for a while."

Jincie shrugged and then fixing her penetrating gaze on Cleo said, "You writin' stories about we'uns?"

Cleo, startled, managed a smile. She had no idea news of her work would have spread to the likes of Jincie. "Yes, in a way, I am. I'm hoping to talk to those who have lived here a long time--your grandmother, for example."

Jincie nodded but didn't comment as she went back to her turns on the bar. The judge had seemed to lose interest in the conversation and was staring instead at the Robinsons' neighbors, working outside in their garden. The man was turning soil in a plot at the rear of their property. His wife was spading a flower bed near the house, which was itself not in a pristine state, needing a coat of paint among other things.

"Have you met them?" she asked Cleo.

Cleo shook her head. "They're the Grigsbys, Mona and Andy. They are on my list to interview--or at least she is. It's her family who first settled here in that house."

The judge moved toward the Grigsby property. "Let's get acquainted." She stepped across the lawn in a purposeful manner, Cleo following.

The Grigsby lawn was immaculate but extended only a short distance from the house. A large garden bordered the sides and back rim, but beyond that was a screen of brush and then a deeply wooded area. As the two woman approached, Mona Grigsby looked up surprised.

Baby gave her a smile. "I'm Judge Godbold and this is Cleo Connery. We're on our way to visit the Robinsons next door, but we're staying at the Godbolds'." Baby extended her hand to the younger woman. "We thought we might take this opportunity to meet you folks."

Mona introduced herself and then called to her husband, who stopped working and looked at her with an inquiring expression. "Come here for a minute, Andy."

Andy Grigsby was a lanky man in his early thirties with cavernous eyes and long brown hair, which he had tied back with a piece of string. He didn't smile when he met the two women, but his words seemed cordial enough.

"Are you planning on settling here?" he asked Judge Godbold.

"I doubt it," she answered, laughing. "I have a chance to get some run-down property here, and I'm being urged by my family to decide if I want to contract for someone to fix it up for a summer place or not. How do you find Barton?"

"Very nice," said Mona, glancing at her husband. "It's quiet, of course, but since we have a mail order herb business, it suits us fine." She looked at Cleo. "Are you thinking about coming here, too?"

"I'm just living here temporarily," said Cleo. "I'm writing a book about the settlement and staying with my friend Marnie Godbold for a few months or until I complete my research."

"What kind of a book, a novel?" asked Grigsby.

Cleo laughed. "I wish! No, I'm an historian. I hope to do a detailed study of this community's origins, particularly the relationship between the original settlers and the latter-day ones that came from England." She turned to Mona, "I believe you are descended from one of those families."

Mona nodded. "We just accidentally ran across the deed in my family's papers," she said. "It seemed a good deal for us. We didn't want to be too far from civilization, but we needed a nice place in this climate for our plants. The price was right, too. All we had to do to our house was repair some water damage and paint it, which we'll be doing this summer." They all turned to look at the Grigsby home. The house had remnants of salmon-colored paint with white trim, and though of a somewhat awkward design, it looked comfortable.

"I'd like to interview you some time," said Cleo. "I'm limiting my research to the locals, the Melungeons, and those who have roots among the English that settled here." Mona Grigsby nodded without enthusiasm when Cleo promised to call for an appointment later. There seemed nothing more to say, so Cleo and Baby left the Grigsbys to their work and walked slowly back to to the front of the Robinson home.

"Rather odd types for this community," commented Baby when they were out of the Grigsbys' hearing.

"Really? I might have thought that back-to-nature sort ideal for this remote place. Do you mean they are not quite social enough? I admit they didn't seem particularly friendly."

"Yes. They're loners and rebels, too. Peculiar, I thought, that they didn't really welcome us or talk the place up. Not at all what a restoration community needs." The judge was so definite in her pronouncement that Cleo felt chastened by her lack of perception.

"Do you mean they might be a detriment to the community or just not helpful when it comes to seeing to the needs of the new arrivals or the town?"

Baby waited a moment before responding and then said, "I don't know about being a detriment, but they just don't seem to fit in. It's like this: whenever there's a new venture going, certain people are attracted to the enterprise, and they are the ones who will work to make it prosper. They want it to succeed, you see, and are willing to give something to achieve that–money if they have it, or time or talents or all three. I just don't see the Grigsbys as particularly giving, in that sense, or even very interested. But maybe I'm being fanciful." She laughed. "This place does affect me strangely."

"Don't I know," Cleo agreed fervently, using the brass door knocker. Anne Robinson opened it almost immediately as if she'd been at the window watching for them, and invited them into the parlor, where a large round table was laid with tea things and surrounded by upright chairs.

Anne had prepared a high tea of deviled eggs, watercress sandwiches, pound cake and strawberries soaked in Grand Marnier. While Cleo and Baby chatted with their hostess, Charles, she had explained, was getting things in order before their trip back to Chattanooga. When he finally came into the living room, the two women were about ready to leave.

"I'm sorry I missed the tea, but my time here is short and I have chores around the house that I can't leave until the next time we come."

"Of course," said the judge with understanding. "If you have minute, Cleo and I are curious about the people who sold your family this place. Do you have any correspondence, anything that might tell us something about them? They didn't just disappear, did they?"

Charles scratched his head. "Why no, not really. My folks kept in touch with Agnes until she died, as I recall. Her brother, Tom, was institutionalized, of course. I must confess I've never given him much thought. Must have died, I suppose, years ago. In fact, I was young enough at the time my father bought this place to be singularly uninterested in its former inhabitants."

"Ah," breathed the judge. "Just curious."

The two women left soon after to conclude their walk. For the sake of exercise they decided on the long way home, which took them around the perimeter of the town. "I'd like to show you something. I bet you haven't seen the Gentlemen's Pool," said Cleo, thinking of the waterfall room, "but with a murderer on the loose, we'd better stick close to town."

"Yes, at least for now," said Baby, looking with keen eyes at each structure they passed. "Unlike the wood nymph back at the jungle gym, we're both a little out of our depth in this environment. I still don't think that we would be of much interest to the murderer, though. Although I'm pretty sure who the victim is, it might be a while yet before we have a clue as to motive."

"It does seem odd that someone so seemingly innocent, if indeed that's who it is, could have been a threat to anyone."

"Like the lost lamb, he returned to the fold, but instead of a good shepherd, he found a wolf."

Cleo looked at Baby quizzically. "Your quite sure he's the man, the Walking Man–the murdered man?"

Baby nodded. "Its obvious psychologically when you think about him, left alone and probably terribly unhappy in the city environment of Nashville. All he remembers of happy times is centered around Barton and his precious woods where he played as a boy. He certainly wasn't seen as a danger by the locals, and he painted things. It all fits."

"If that's true, Judge, and I have no reason to doubt you, then the Terrells' story is even more poignant--tragic even. Don't you think you should share your ideas with the authorities?"

"I will, if I ever find anyone in authority! If an investigator doesn't show up soon, I intend to start making some phone calls. But for now," she went on, "let's keep our toes pointed toward civilization, such as it is. I haven't learned enough about the 'respectable' citizens of Barton past and present yet."

"I'm beginning to think it will be quite a job to learn more about the people here."

"I agree. It will be important in solving this case, I think, to know what kind of people settled here once upon a time or are now settling here. I intend to find out–or rather, I will if I can get permission from someone in authority."

Chapter 13

Cleo glanced at the Library as they walked past, and without thinking why, she looked up at what Alistair called his "sitting room" on the second floor and caught him peering at them through the window. She gave him a friendly wave of her hand and he followed suit, smiling lazily. What a peculiar man, she thought, and then called Baby's attention to the Library restoration.

"It's an interesting building, don't you think? Alistair had a copy of the original plans which helped him to authenticate his work in restoring it."

"He seems to be a particular sort, and he cares for beauty, too. I like that in a person." If Baby had seen Alistair at the upper window, she didn't comment about it to Cleo.

They walked on, but both turned their heads at the sound of a motor. They saw a red sports car with a hardtop slowly rounding the curve and heading down the street until it stopped in front of them. A youngish man, not much beyond thirty with light hair and eyes, leaned across and rolled down the passenger window, smiling at them.

"Excuse me, ladies, can you direct me to Alistair Walker's place?"

His open, attractive face with slightly irregular features was disarming; Cleo felt an immediate clutch of feeling in her chest, and as she pointed down the road, she had a strange impulse to delay his departure. She, however, gave a rather brisk answer, "It's that big place back there–The Library and Archives. He lives upstairs, but he'll be able to hear you if you ring the doorbell."

He thanked her, but rather than driving off, he unfolded himself from behind the wheel and emerged from the car. He was quite tall, above six feet, with a muscular build that suggested some regular athletic activity. His dress was sporty, a khaki windbreaker over a blue sweatshirt and jeans. He came around the side of the car toward them.

"I'm Agent Brad Everly with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation." Quickly he brought out his I.D. and held it out for examination. "The local sheriff called us in to help on a murder here."

"Yes," Baby said dryly, "we've been expecting you–for a couple of weeks, actually."

"I know we've seemingly ignored you down here, but we'll make up for lost time, I promise you," Agent Everly said with conviction. "I thought it best to see some of the residents before folks left for their city homes. I understand that for some people this place is a weekend retreat." He looked from one to the other. "Where do you all live?"

"We don't actually live here, either one of us," explained Cleo. "We're just visiting--staying with the Godbolds. I'm Cleo Connery and this is Guy Godbold's aunt, Judge Godbold." Baby held out her hand. "I'm from Nashville and staying here for a time on a writing project."

"Ah, yes," Brad Everly smiled. "I'm delighted to meet you; I understand you talked to the Sheriff and requested our services." He inclined his head respectfully. "Quite frankly, I'm pleased that you'll be in the neighborhood. Your name is well respected at the Bureau. I know you've been called in on several other cases."

"Anything I can do to help. . . ." Baby's voice trailed off modestly.

"I've been tied up with another case until last week. Since then, I've been reviewing this murder and checking out the area. I'm eager to get going on this case, even though it's Sunday."

"Carpe diem!" said Baby with an approving nod. "I couldn't be happier to see the TBI on the job. We've been needing someone to get things moving." Cleo was grateful she hadn't exclaimed, "About time!" which she knew to be the judge's sentiments.

"I hope to see the Godbolds this evening, perhaps about seven or so. We'll talk more then."

They watched him turn his car around in the middle of the road, a bit more vigorously than was necessary. Baby chuckled. "Something like a Greek god, isn't he? Showing off a bit for you, I think. Aren't men just little boys at heart?"

Cleo laughed. She thought it might be true, but she liked the looks of Agent Everly, nonetheless. Energy and lightness was all about him, from his quick movements to his appearance--his blue eyes and blond hair, his tanned skin, itself a light, golden color. He was nice looking, but not male-model handsome, and for all that, he seemed to be a very human Apollo, predictably come to oversee their all-too-human affairs. Well, she mustn't get carried away with someone come to help them, just someone doing his job. And that was the important thing, wasn't it–solving this crime that still hung over their heads.

On the way to the Library, Brad Everly reflected on the impromptu meeting with Judge Godbold. Although he couldn't help noticing the attractive woman with the judge–Cleo Connery, she said–his concerns were with the impression he might have made on a VIP like the judge. The call she'd made to the Chief requesting their help couldn't have come at a worse time. The Bureau was down in numbers with a class of new recruits still in training to replace the nine agents who had retired or changed jobs over the last few months. Then, too some of his peers were at Quantico, getting trained by the FBI in various specialties. He'd just finished one session there himself and so could qualify as a "seasoned investigator" requested by Judge Godbold, so his boss told him.

Seeing the great looking, flaxen-haired woman with the judge had reminded him of his monkish existence. Not since college, it seemed has he been close to a woman. One of these days he was going to wake up and smell the roses. But, as always, he had other things to concentrate his mind on at the moment. Later, maybe later, he might have a chance to find out more about her if he hadn't lost the touch.

Chapter 14

Alistair saw the small car pull into the long drive and halt at the front. A tall young man unwound himself from the driver's seat and looked over the library. Alistair sighed and lifted himself wearily from the chair that he had positioned deliberately in front of the window where he could examine closely what he thought of as his domain. Oh, he knew it didn't officially belong to him, the town and environs, but he had made it so. He had reclaimed it from a slow extinction. Even the Melungeons had started moving away until he had taken charge and brought new life to the place.

Looking across the town and beyond to the near hills was one of his favorite contemplations. He needed to do some more work on promoting Barton, but at the moment he felt too exhausted for anything mentally taxing. Now with someone coming he would be obligated to answer some passing tourist's questions about the place. He doubted that such a young man was a prospective customer off the mailing list. But you never knew. He just might have a connection.

He'd gotten in last night from Marnie and Guy's party a bit tired and had looked forward to a quiet read and then welcome sleep. As he entered the bedroom, however, a figure sprang from his bed.

"I thought you'd never come home! I 'bout gave up, but Pa thinks I'm staying with Maxie and don't expect me back tonight, so I camped out here."

"Jincie!" He removed his hand from the light switch. One never knew who'd be out walking the dog or just taking an evening stroll and look up to see the two of them. The bedroom was upstairs, true, but the damned land was so hilly, at certain points it was possible to see right into his upper story windows.

"I told you we mustn't continue to see each other. I want you to stop coming here." It had been nearly a month since they'd made love here at the house. It was to have been the last time then, he had thought. But like a panther on the trail of her prey, she had trailed him two weeks ago to the Gentleman's Pool and begged to let her join him in his boat.

The sun had sunk beyond the hill, leaving the pool in inky calm when she had tormented him with her body until he took her in the bottom of the boat on a folded bit of canvas he had stashed there. God! What if anyone had passed by? Half of the hill folks would have thought nothing of such a casual coupling, but others, the newcomers in particular, civilized people, would have been horrified, as well they should. Here he was, trying to build the reputation of Barton to attract the right sort, and meanwhile he spent his free hours making love to a child-woman who might well be a witch herself, for all the hold she had on him.

Last night Jincie had come to him and wound one leg around his, pressing her breast against his body, nuzzling under his chin. His body responded as though he had no volition. He groaned. They were a pair, the both of them.

Well, last night would absolutely be the last time. He wiped his brow shakily, going down the stairs to answer the bell. Almost every day or night the girl came here. He had pretended to others that she had helped him with the dusting and cleaning, but he couldn't help wondering if people might suspect a closer arrangement. But no, it was so improbable, so unlikely that a man of his age and position would have an affair with the likes of Jincie, that it wouldn't occur to nice folks in this community. Sometimes he had put her off, if he could keep her downstairs, but not for the first time she had sneaked up to the dark closeness of his bedroom; then he was lost.

Why in God's name had he started with her? He knew why, but his loneliness and isolation were no real excuse. This had been going on for only a few months, but it should never have started in the first place. He had become a kind of victim of the soft, dark nights, the whispering branches outside his window, the merciless poetry of Jincie's body. She was so determined and he so weak that he'd no doubt have to change the locks and then try to remember to lock his doors. Recently, he'd fobbed her off onto Sam, hoping she could do some regular work at the winery, but knowing her history of unreliability, he had his doubts about anything permanent there.

He reached the front door, trying to put the thought of Jincie and his problems behind him, and peered through a side light next to the door. The man was nearer thirty than twenty as he had first thought. He was looking around while he waited for the door to open, the western sun casting shadows on some few lines that scored his tanned face.

"Greetings!" Alistair said with a smile, opening the door wide. He was getting to be a good salesman. Maybe the man knew someone who'd heard about the settlement.

"Are you Alistair Walker?"

Alistair nodded, watching the man extricate a card from his pocket. "I'm Agent Everly from the TBI, here about the murder. Can I come in and speak to you?"

"Oh, yes. Step in, please." The murder investigation, of course. He led Agent Everly into the reference room of the Library rather than his small office which was cluttered with his papers. He had been expecting a visit from some representative of the law.

The man made light conversation about the weather while they got settled in their seats, two arm chairs near the window, Alistair realizing this was Agent Everly's way of easing people into the machinations of the law.

"Any idea yet who was murdered?" Alistair asked abruptly. There was a brief duel of eyes: Alistair felt some tension as he gazed unblinking at the other pair, light and hard with the glittering clarity of a gemstone.

"Yes, we know. The fingerprints were easily checked out. He'd been institutionalized." Agent Everly got out a small notebook from an inside pocket.

Alistair felt a chill come over him. "And--."

"I'll get to that in a moment. Let me ask you first what you do here in Barton. I know you are listed as the contact person for Historic Barton Restorations, but what does that mean?"

"For the last three years I've been spearheading an effort to encourage descendants of the first English settlers and other interested parties to rebuild or restore property here with an eye toward a kind of resort area--nothing fancy, mind you, but a quiet, countrified sort of place--as well as museum quality restorations for tourists. I get no compensation for any sort of management, other than a one-time development fee from each new renovator." Then he added quickly, "but I do ask for a fee whenever I research for someone or write anything for publication."

He gave a wry grin. "Quite frankly, I'm barely able to keep up this establishment, simple though it may be, but if worse comes to worse, I can always pick up some extra bucks by teaching a class or two at Sewanee where I used to work full-time."

Everly nodded. "About this business at hand--the dead body--where did you find out what you know?"

"From--Sam Taylor first, I guess. I heard about it from several people all about the same time, but I believe Sam called me with the news on the Wednesday afternoon. When I went to the café for supper, June Collins told me she'd heard about it. Then when I got home, I got another phone call from Marnie Godbold. There may have been a couple more the next day, but by that time, I had lost count."

Everly waved a pen in the air. "I didn't mean for that much of a rundown. I'm not checking out the Barton grapevine. I just wondered who had gotten in touch with you first. They are all your, ah, clients or newcomers to Barton, the ones who told you?"

"No, June Collins is one of the old settlers, as I call them. Her ancestors were here to greet the Englishmen and their families when they arrived."

"When did you come here to live, Mr. Walker?"

Alistair thought for a moment. "It's hard to say. You see, I was born here, but my family gave up and moved to Monteagle in the sixties when our home burned down. My father was a bookish man with no formal education--a rather tragic situation. In order to earn a living, he was forced to work at menial jobs at the University of the South. He died about five years ago, my mother much earlier when I was in college. Those poor jobs of my father did help get me in and through the university, however, mainly on scholarships."

He dropped his eyes. The memory of those years was still painful. "But in answer to your question, I moved into this old building four years ago and began my work here. As a bachelor, it suits my purposes and is adequate for my needs. Also, this historic building needed renovation, which I worked on for several years with some help from the State Historical Commission."

"You were acquainted with the Terrell family then?"

"Slightly. I was very young when they moved away. Poor old Agnes Terrell. I knew, of course, her circumstances, and that they moved to Nashville after selling out to the Robinson family. But I wondered what became of them."

"She died in the late eighties. He died last week in the nearby woods from blunt force trauma." Agent Everly stared at Alistair as if ready to measure his reaction.

"What? Old Tom Terrell was killed? How astonishing! Was he the Walking Man?"

"Walking Man?"

"That's what the locals called him. I never saw him myself, but he apparently hung out in the woods painting, as shy as any woodland creature. He didn't let anyone get near him." He shook his head in puzzlement. "Yes, it must have been he, then, who was the Walking Man. Tom Terrell killed. What can it mean?"

Brad Everly shrugged and looked at him with eyes that seemed almost transparent in the sun that streamed through the window. "That's what we hope to find out. You say Agnes Terrell sold her house here to the Robinson family? Are they the same family who are living here now on the weekends?"

Alistair nodded. "Yes, the same family, but the son and his wife now. His father had been the purchaser from Agnes."

"I see. Well, I'll be checking them out shortly before they leave. I understand they're weekend residents and that their official residence is in Chattanooga."

"Exactly. We have a few people who come here sporadically, too. Maybe only for a month or so in the summer to escape from the city. I can tell you who had been here during the last month, if you wish."

"That would be very helpful, Mr. Walker. I have a list of homeowners and their main addresses, but knowing who was here during the unfortunate circumstances would be extremely helpful." Brad turned to a page in his notebook and checked off the names as Alistair recounted who had been present and who had not.

"Of course, there's the hill folk," Alistair said off-handedly. "They live here all the time. I wonder if they're even on the property register."

"Oh, yes, indeed they are," Brad laughed. "That sort of casual squatting in the hill country might have gone on unnoticed for years, but every county is looking for taxes, now, so no one is exempt." He rose from his chair and thanked Alistair for his help;

"I'm sure I'll be talking with you again later on," the agent said as he stepped out the front door. Alistair gave the man a sardonic smile but didn't respond.

Brad left the Library and while walking to his car unfolded a small map taken from his jacket pocket so as to take his bearings. He intended to see the Robinsons immediately; they would be heading back soon, he surmised, to Chattanooga, if they hadn't already left. Another couple from Gatlinburg he'd interviewed earlier in the day. The drive to the Robinson's house was short, just around the corner from the Library. He parked in the drive and walked briskly up the walk to ring the bell. It was answered immediately by a little girl, who listened to his introduction and request for one of her parents. She turned and yelled, "Mama! Some man's here."

The woman read his credentials carefully and then invited him in. She called to the back for her husband to join them in the living room. Agent Everly looked around admiringly. "This is a very attractive place. I understand you bought it from Agnes Terrell."

"Thank you. We've enjoyed fixing it up very much. I'm afraid poor Agnes didn't have the where-with-all to keep it up and even after Charles's father purchased it, nothing was done for years to renovate." She smoothed her hair nervously as she rattled on. "We thought it would be a delightful weekend and vacation retreat, so after Charles inherited it, we got busy." She laughed ruefully. "I didn't know what we'd be getting into. What a job!" She sat down on a couch authentic to the late Empire period of the 19th century and motioned for the agent also to sit.

"I can imagine," Brad said, taking a chair opposite the couch. He stood up again as Charles Robinson entered the room. The two men shook hands and introduced themselves.

"What can we do for you, Agent Everly?" Charles asked, sitting on the substantial arm of the sofa near his wife.

"I'm not sure. My task is to find out everything I can about those of you who may have met the murdered man or had dealings with him or his sister, Agnes Terrell."

Both Charles and Anne gave exclamations of surprise at Brad's words. "So Tom Terrell was the man who was killed in the woods?" Anne asked.

"Indeed he was. I wanted to ask you what you might know about Terrell. Did you ever meet him, even casually? I understand he haunted the woods here for years."

"No, I didn't know him, never even bumped into him as far as I know." Charles looked perturbed, suddenly standing up and pacing a bit. "This is shocking."

"We were informed that your father was the purchaser of this house from Miss Terrell, Mr. Robinson, but I'm hoping you might be able to shed some light on Agnes Terrell's move to Nashville since your families are connected. Do you recall anything about the circumstances?"

Charles Robinson sat down again on the arm of the sofa, frowning in concentration. "Very little, actually. I was just a baby at the time Daddy bought the place from Agnes. I didn't know her. Why are you interested in her change of address in connection with this murder?"

Brad shrugged. "We look into many things when there is an unexplained murder. Why, for instance, was Tom Terrell destitute with only a Social Security check as his sole means of support if his sister had sold a house and had invested the money? She lived on for twenty years apparently, but surely she'd made some provisions for her brother. I thought you may have heard if she'd lost her money somehow before she died."

"I wouldn't know, " Charles said stiffly.

"So you never came across this Tom Terrell anywhere?" Brad persisted.

"Never!" The word and tone were definite.

Agent Everly rose from his chair and thanked the couple for their cooperation. "I suspect we'll be seeing more of each other as the investigation progresses. Will you be here next weekend?"

"Yes–" Anne replied, but was interrupted by her husband.

"We won't know for sure until later in the week. My business may require my presence."

Anne Robinson looked at her husband. "But the children and I will be here. We make this our regular weekend excursion, Mr. Everly. Please call on us any time if you have more questions."

He again thanked them and left the house, wondering about Charles Robinson's obvious nervousness. Was it merely the closeness of the murdered man's connection that was so disturbing to him? Time would tell. In the meantime, he was eager to talk to Judge Godbold this evening and get her impressions. He wouldn't mind seeing the Connery woman again either, come to that. He had no reason to presume she was available, but a pretty woman discovered in these hills was too serendipitous to be ignored. Still, that was a side issue. His job, which he took seriously, was to investigate this mysterious murder of a seemingly harmless old man. He felt, rather than knew as a fact, the tangled threads that were beginning to emerge in this odd community. Nothing, he was quite sure, would be simple in this investigation. But Judge Godbold was at the ready to help, and suddenly her bulky, benign presence seemed more than comforting. He figured before this case was over he'd need all the help he could get.

Chapter 15

Brad drove off toward the Godbolds' hoping that when he spoke again to the Robinsons the following weekend, he would have better questions to ask. Maybe by then a more certain direction of inquiry would be indicated. Leads, dammit, he thought, impatient to get to the heart of the investigation. He needed something to go on. He'd long heard about the reclusive hill country people, and although the murdered man had not been of that strain, those involved with

his murder might well be. And he knew very little about those folk, other than they kept to themselves. For that matter, Charles Robinson had seemed reluctant to talk much about the Terrells. It seemed strange that the family connection had been so little discussed by his parents. Yes, Brad thought to himself, he was very eager to talk to the judge. If her reputation was accurate, she could be key to the investigation, having been on the spot.

By six-thirty, Agent Everly had met with the Robinsons' neighbors, the Grigsbys, without learning anything more, they claiming to know almost nothing about their new community. For them, their attitude toward Barton and its inhabitants could be summed up as simply a convenient place to settle. They deemed it a lucky break to have inherited the house along with large enough grounds having excellent soil for growing herbs. Leaving them after the brief meeting, he made a note to check further into the antecedents of the Grigsbys to make sure they were what they seemed–two wannabe hippies getting back to nature.

He had just taken a seat at the Barton Café to get a bite to eat when he thought to have a word with the stocky woman who had taken his order and served him his hot roast beef sandwich. "This is wonderful. Who cooks for you?" he asked. There were several other occupied tables, and the dining room hummed with an undercurrent of conversation.

"My cousin Annie Collins and I do it ourselves." She went on to explain that she was the proprietor, June Collins.

"I guess you do a pretty good business. I didn't notice any other eating place around here."

She nodded, wiping her brow with one finger. The café was warm from the nearby kitchen. "We see everyone sooner or later, the new folks mostly, but we get plenty of Melungeons, too."

"Ah, yes, the Melungeons. I've heard the term, but I'm afraid I don't know much."

"That's what we call our people. They settled on the ridges a couple'a hundred years ago when the laws was changed makin' the holdin' of farm land illegal for us. We was called free people of color which weren't true. For a time we 'uns couldn't vote or nothin'. It was just a

way to get our good land, we being darker skinned and all, not like the other settlers comin' in. Nobody cared for this hilly, rocky area, so we was let be, and we been here ever since."

"I guess you've had a hard time making a go of it along these ridges."

She nodded emphatically. "Durn right. We was always the underdogs, always having to move over for the English. The first English even took some of our land and we was forced to be their servants to make a living. Why, up until Mr. Alistair come back here to live, we wasn't allowed to go inta the Library or the church or nothin'. Not that most of us wanted to," she added with some heat.

Brad gave a sympathetic nod. "Do you Melungeons ever get together, have a council or anything?"

Mrs. Collins frowned, shaking her head. "Not what you was to call a council. Purtynear all of us'ns go to the same church. We talk over things that concern us after meetin'. Although, I hear tell there's a good bit about us on the Internet now. Someone came up with a websomethinorother. Whattayacall it?"

"A Website?"

"That's it. So if'n ya wanna know more, you kin find out. I don't have them technical skills myself," she laughed. "I just cook like I allays did."

"And a fine job of it you do," Brad said appreciatively.

He finished his meal, and as he got up to pay his bill, Mrs. Collins went to the counter to ring it up. He noticed an old man in a wheel chair pushed against the wall. His hair was still dark as were his eyes which seemed to glare malevolently at Brad, even after Brad smiled at him.

"By the way," he said casually to Mrs. Collins, "you've heard about the murder, I understand." He flipped open his billfold, showing her his I.D.

"Ah, I thought you might be official. Yep, I heard about that! I heard that somebody crushed the head of the Walkin' Man." She shook her head. "Poor old thing."

"The Walking Man, you say. I'd be interested to hear what you know about him. Could

we talk a little more, maybe when the restaurant is not so busy?" They agreed to meet the next morning at ten o'clock.

"I'll be needin' to get on with lunch fixin's, though," she cautioned. "So's we'd best keep it short as we can."

He whistled tunelessly as he went to his car. Would he have time to see the Godbolds and their guests tonight? He thought so; it was nearly half past seven, and unless they ate fashionably late, they should be free to talk by the time he got there.

He was interested in the inhabitants, temporary or not, of this out-of-the-way village. Judge Godbold of all people! That continued to amaze him. And that highly educated, articulate Alistair Walker, pompous ass though he was. He laughed softly to himself as he maneuvered the streets according to the directions he had gotten from the judge. That was one of the things he liked so much about his job–meeting and reacting to the unexpected.

He peered down one street and saw a gabled roof amid large grounds. That would be the Godbolds'. A face again flashed into his mind--the young woman with the judge--Cleo Cannery. She hadn't been wearing a wedding ring. He wondered how long she planned to stay in the area doing her writing.

He was admitted by Guy, who introduced himself and showed the investigator into the living room, where the others had assembled. The TV was on, but Marnie quickly switched it off, looking with interest at the newcomer. He sat down on one of the wing chairs and reached into his briefcase to retrieve his notebook.

"Now, then," he began, "I need to start with your names and relationship to one another." He looked at Marnie, who gave her information and in addition, started to introduce the judge and Cleo. Brad held up his hand. "I believe I've got those names, after we met on the street. Let me just check the spelling." He turned to Cleo and they spoke in low tones as she informed him in more detail about herself and her reason for being here. Brad nodded to himself with satisfaction. So she was a single woman, and from Nashville, too, which might be very convenient for him later on if all went well.

"You folks know by now that the murdered man has been identified as Tom Terrell, a former resident of this community up until about forty years ago, when at that time he and his sister moved to Nashville. For a time, he'd been in Clover Bottom, but in the mid-seventies, inmates were de-institutionalized and he lived in his sister's small apartment with her until her death in 1984. Since then, he apparently has been almost a homeless person, living in shelters and sometimes a fleabag hotel when he could afford it."

"We heard he was an artist, though," Cleo commented. "I wonder how he got his supplies. They can be expensive."

"Apparently, that was accomplished from charitable contributions. I'm not absolutely sure who all his benefactors were at this point. We've only just begun to delve into his strange history. What we know, though, is that he frequented the woods around here, and according to local gossips, this has been going on for many years."

"That's what we understand," Guy offered. "We're relatively new to the place, though, so I doubt if we can help you in any significant way."

Brad looked up from his notes, and met the eyes of each one of them. "Has any of you heard anything of interest that could affect this investigation, give us some help?"

"I wish we could," Baby said, "for this does seem to be a pointless murder. I think it will take a lot of digging to get at the truth. But I'll be glad to keep my eyes open and relay to you anything that could be significant."

"Thanks, Judge," Brad said, nodding his head. "I was hoping you'd say that. I have a feeling we'll need a lot of help getting to the truth. We have these hill people, who seem to be very much to themselves. Also, so many of the newer residents are only part-time and don't know much more than tourists."

"Maybe Cleo could come up with some theory, too," Marnie piped up. "I mean her work is going to take her into people's homes, particularly those whose families lived here formerly, some even for generations. They might be more forthcoming about who they call the Walking Man."

Cleo demurred, saying, "Marnie, I don't want to give any false hopes that I am an investigator in the sense the agent means. I'm taking oral histories for a book I'll be writing, that's all. Of course, I'll let you know if anything of real interest to this investigation emerges from my interviews." She smiled at Brad and he smiled back.

Yes, she was a treat for the eyes. For a moment he was speechless; then he recovered his poise and returned his notes to his briefcase, rising and thanking them all for their cooperation. The Godbolds both insisted he come back for a more social visit when he returned next week. He assured them he'd be in touch and left.

"Whew!" breathed Marnie. "Now there's an interesting fellow, right, Cleo?"

Cleo gave an offhand shrug. "I suppose so. He seems nice enough."

The two of them went into the kitchen, leaving Guy and Baby to return to the TV show that had been interrupted. "Nice! I didn't think of that. He's looks pretty hot! And no wedding ring, either. I'm going to see about getting him back here soon."

Cleo grabbed her friend's arm. "Please, dear, don't do it. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but let's leave the possibility of romance to propinquity and fate, I beg you."

Marnie smiled. "I do seem to jinx you and any prospects, don't I. OK, I'll let nature take its course. Oh, how I love to play matchmaker, though. You may have to tie me up!"

"I'll do that very thing if you start trying to corral Agent Whatever-his-name."

"Everly," Marnie prompted. "And don't pretend you didn't remember!"

Chapter 16

Monday morning, soon after breakfast, Cleo set off with her list of prospective interviewees. Her appointment with Granny Goin, Jincie's grandmother, was for nine o'clock. This would be her first face-to-face oral history-taking and she was nervous. She wondered if Jincie would be around. She hoped not. The girl was so strange, childish and simple-seeming yet complicated by some dark secret life that clung to her face and speech and made her seem to be an ancient crone.

She also wondered if she would meet the investigator, Brad Everly on her ramblings. His questions last night hadn't produced very fruitful answers. Or so it seemed. But maybe to an investigator their lack of knowledge about the victim, the area, the local residents and their goings-on at least eliminated one household for further probing. She liked him. He was a very attractive man, who might also be interesting, an unexpected boon after Alistair and Sam proved so disappointing to her taste. And Marnie had promised to be good and not scare him off.

Drawing her car alongside a row of mailboxes she saw the one she was looking for, Goin. Cleo checked the hand-drawn map that Alistair had given her. She would have to take the so-called road to her right, more like a cart path, and park some little distance from the Goin's house. She sighed. This was a job for an outdoor enthusiast, not a hot-house, book-bound historian.

Surely this was not the only way to reach the Goin's. Brambles tore at her slacks as if beseeching her to turn back. Thank heavens she had worn khaki pants and sturdy shoes. She looked curiously at the wire fence that straggled unevenly across the front with no forbidding bottle atop a post. Then she viewed the house; though the siding was weathered gray, the place was not as run down as she might have expected. Another drive led out back and to a different road, she supposed. Climbing two shallow steps to the front porch, she knocked sharply on the closed door. She knocked long and loudly but got no response. Stepping off the porch, she looked for a rear entrance. Maybe the old woman was in the back of the house and couldn't hear her knocking. She saw her in the garden before she herself was seen. Calling out a ringing hello, Cleo walked timidly up to her.

"I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Cleo Connery, here for the interview. Are you Mrs. Goin?"

The woman straightened up slowly with a hand supporting her mid-back. She held a small trowel in her other hand and had evidently been engaged in transplanting some tomato seedlings. She stood looking at Cleo with her head tilted in the characteristic way a person of poor hearing listens, wheezing slightly.

"What's that?" she yelled, cupping her hand to her ear.

Cleo repeated her introduction, explaining again she would like to interview her for a history she was planning to write on the town of Barton.

Granny Goin nodded and led Cleo to a small stoop by the back door. "Come in, then. I'm still not long on my legs. Been sick with the bronchitis." She gave a wheezy cough as if to prove it.

"I appreciate this so much," Cleo shouted. "I'll try not to keep you too long. Just a few questions, you know." Cleo looked around the room they had entered. It was obviously their common room, half kitchen, half parlor. A wide stone fireplace was on the left. Cleo looked for the stones on the hearth which would keep the hawks away but only saw a stack of wood and some old iron tools. They seemed to be quite alone in the house.

Cleo was disappointed to see linoleum covering the floor and a chrome dinette set near a window. She had expected scrubbed pine and a trestle table. "Have you heard," she began conversationally, easing herself into a lumpy upholstered chair and turning on her tape recorder, "about the recent murder?"

The old woman nodded placidly. "I knowed it was the stranger. Sister Wind told me that."

Cleo gave a minced exclamation. "Sister Wind? You hear things in the wind?"

"I heard it plain about a stranger walkin' in our midst--his spirit."

"Did you hear who the stranger is?

"The Walkin' Man, as some say. I can't hear more, though, as to who put him in the world of the wind. Mebbe I will when I get shet of my chest complaint." She gave Cleo a confidential look. "I can't always take in the message, you see."

"Yes. You get words from the wind. How fascinating! Have you told others about it, anyone who might have come to see you? You do have visitors, don't you?"

Granny looked disgusted at Cleo's ignorance. "Lotsa folks comes to see me. I gives 'em cures and 'nosticators."

"Nosticators?"

"You know. Tells 'em what they kin expect."

She must have meant something about prognostication. "Have you had company recently?" Cleo didn't want to be too persistent, but if Granny really was considered the witch, as Alistair suggested, she would like to talk to some of her "clients" about their experiences too.

Granny nodded, settling deeper into her chair, an upholstered rocker. "I seed Al'stair and Mizrus Bell a day or so ago. Yestidday, I had to put up with that damned Doll Hambrick, the one that thinks she'll marry my Jack. Like I say, people is allays comin' here, some I wish for to help, some I don't much care to." She gave Cleo a gap-toothed conspiratorial smile. Cleo had to suppose she herself was somehow favored but this Doll Hambrick was not.

"You don't like her?" Cleo questioned her timidly; would she resent all these questions, consider Cleo so nosy it'd still her tongue? She needn't have worried.

"Can't abide a primpy woman. She thinks to take over this house, but she won't." Granny wheezed and coughed until Cleo ran to the sink and poured her a cup of water.

"Thankee," Granny gasped. "Hep yourself to the coffee on the stove, if'n ya want. I haven't had much but water since I been sick. Just now gettin' my taster back." She settled again in her chair and began slowly rocking.

"I'm fine," Cleo assured her. With the emergency over, she referred to her notes. "I'm hoping to get some recollections of your dealings with the Barton residents, the English, as you call them."

The old woman pulled a pipe from the pocket of her apron. Cleo almost nodded approvingly. This was more like it. Authentic, but perhaps dangerous for someone suffering from bronchitis. Still, the Witch should know best. Granny fished around with her pipe in a packet of Prince Albert and stoked the bowl before answering Cleo.

"I can tell you a lot of things. What d'ye want to know?"

"May I have your full name first, please?"

"Marthy June Givens Goin."

"Martha?"

"Marthy."

"The years after World War One, specifically the '20s or '30s, which of the–er, English were here that you knew? What do you recall of them?"

"Wal, I remember some and I disremember some. The Walkers and Carters and Godbolds and Terrells was some I remember."

"Good, that's fine. Tell me how you happened to know those families."

"I know 'em from town when I happened to be there to do sewin' for 'em, before I got the arthur-itis and my fingers turned to bird claws." She held up her hands for Cleo to inspect.

Cleo murmured sympathetically. "When did you start sewing for them?"

"I was a young'un, hardly even Jincie's age. My mam taught me, but I could hemstitch prettier than her even. I sewed the weddin' dress of Al'stair Walker's grandmam." The old woman gave a quavery chuckle and began coughing.

"What was funny about that?"

Granny hawked noisily and spit into a pork and beans can beside her on the table. "I might've been that bride, if'un I hadn't been a hill dweller."

"Oh, how was that?" Cleo felt the hot excitement of imminent discovery, certainly as exciting as stumbling upon a clue in a dusty volume. With the certainty of a clairvoyant, Cleo knew that the old woman was about to reveal something that should have remained hidden. She was old and garrulous, probably senile. In her younger years she would have resisted the temptation to tell all. Now, her inhibitions were gone, and given the chance she would speak with the candor of a child.

"Phillip Walker was my secret beau that spring, 1939 it was. I saw him ever' weekend when he come home from the university." She crinkled her eyes at Cleo with humor. "I spoke with him for the first time at his bride's house when I was sewin' her gown, as I say.

"We was struck when the moon was nigh full." She gave Cleo a knowing look. "If any love was to be, it would grow fer sure then, which it did. 'Course I'd seed him earlier around town, too, so we wasn't strangers. Anyways, we snuck out ever' chance we got and met at the Virgin's Spring. Hit was private, hardly ever used for bathin' anymore, so we was always alone." Granny turned her head coyly. "I was a sweet-lookin' thing, not like you see now, all dried up and ugly." She stroked her cheek and smiled, showing more gum than tooth.

"I guess you loved each other very much."

"We wouldn't have said no to anything," she nodded. "Why, he'd hang on me and tell me of his love and said he wouldn't give me up. I knew he would, though, by the time the leaves turned and fell off the trees. I knew it would be over soon, so I fixed it to go my way."

She interrupted her own narrative to puff on her pipe. "I made sure he spilled his seed 'fore he told me he'd have to leave me." She laughed her shrill laugh. "He was cryin' and huggin' me, sayin' he'd never forget me even though he married. I didn't cry. He'd never forget me, that I knew, for I carried his child in me."

Cleo swallowed. She heard the faint whirr of the tape recorder. "And the baby?"

"I went late that fall to Phillip's pa and showed him my belly. He knowed it was true enough about Phillip and me. I was a right truthful gal, and even the English knowed me for that and believed me to be pure, too. Maybe that was it, or maybe someone had seed us by the spring, but he believed me. So he worked it out with my folks and with Phillip and his wife.

"I went to my aunt's on the north Highland Ridge outside of Nashville. Old Mr. Walker he give me a right smart amount of money to live on and do right by doctorin' and the hospital bills when I had that baby. It was a boy. The birthin' was late winter, January. I stayed there till the end of March nursin' him. I even had a little 'lowance he give me til I was back on my feet and able to work agin. When it come time, Mr. George, that was my Phillip's pa, fetched the babe and gave him to Phillip to raise. They moved away, though, and I never seed Phillip agin. I regret some that I never seed my baby grow up." She gave a little sniff and looked pensively into the dead ashes heaped in the fireplace. "But the boy come back here as a married man and settled for a time. Then he left for good, and now Phillip's grandson has come back amongst us."

Cleo let the reference to Alistair pass though her scalp was prickling. "And your son Jack? You married later?"

"I married Jack's pa many y'ars later. I didn't have Jack until I was thirty, nearly fifteen y'ars after the first young'un. I hated that man, though, Jack's pa. He was allays hittin' me and Jack no matter how hard we tried to please him." She narrowed her rheumy eyes in reflection. "One night when he was blind with the drink, I give him an elixir and put a spell on him. He was dead within the month."

Cleo was so startled by the confession, so rattled by the information that her mind was blank to further questions. She turned off the tape recorder and gathered together her notes. "I must be off, Mrs. Goin. I'll talk with you again, later."

The old woman laid her pipe on the table and rose along with Cleo, but instead of showing her the door, she stumped off to the kitchen sink and began filling the tea kettle, leaving Cleo to find her way out and back to the car.

Heavens! she thought, did Granny actually say that the proud, urbane Alistair Walker is her grandson? Did she tell me she had killed her husband? Cleo took a deep breath and climbed into her car. She sat for a few moments to calm her thoughts before starting off.

Should she take seriously what the old woman said? Did such tales indicate senility, or worse--the truth? She hadn't realized the kinds of decisions she'd have to make about incorporating material into her book. If true, Granny's revelations would make for interesting reading and help explicate the character of not only the people of the region, but the relationship between the gentry and the Melungeons.

Yet, she couldn't be a party to what amounted to unsubstantiated tall tales. And then there was Alistair to think about. Even without naming names, would it be evident to the locals who the people were? Cleo sighed. She would have to mull this over considerably.

And there was Granny's "hearing" in the wind who the victim was--and, even more startling, that she expected to find out who had killed him. Cleo shook her head wonderingly. Crazy or psychic, Granny was an amazing old woman.

Chapter 17

It was half past ten when Cleo reached the town center. She thought it might be a good time to see Mrs. Collins at the café to make a date for an interview. She felt herself to be on a roll and didn't want to quite give up the momentum. As she parked in front of the café, she saw the rear of Brad Everly's red sports car making off down Main Street and felt a twinge of disappointment in missing him.

Inside the café, her first glance around took in Judge Godbold sitting at a table eating a pastry and drinking a cup of coffee. She motioned for Cleo to join her, sweeping her new black leather bag off the top of the table and hooking it over the back of her chair.

"I like coffee first and then a midmorning snack rather than one of Marnie's hearty early breakfasts. And since I know from past experience that my niece-in-law doesn't like her kitchen messed up between meals, I thought this would be very convenient." Baby gave Cleo a conspiratorial grin and Cleo smiled back, appraising Baby's appearance, which had a kind of outré charm. She apparently had decided to dress for some outdoor activity, for she wore what might have been men's work pants and an oversized chambray shirt with the shirttails hanging out. Even so, she hadn't left off earrings, on this occasion thin triple loops of hammered silver.

Cleo sat down opposite Baby. "I'm famished myself. I just got back from a pretty draining interview. I could use something hot and strong." When Mrs. Collins approached, she gave her order for coffee and the same homemade coffee cake that Baby had on her plate. The proprietor agreed to see Cleo that afternoon for "a little talk."

"So, whom did you see this morning?" Judge Godbold asked. "I know it wasn't the handsome stranger, our investigator," she said teasingly. "He just left."

Cleo laughed and then gave Baby a look that betrayed her concern. "I had an interview with Granny Goin, Jincie's grandmother--the Witch of Barton or so Alistair tells me and I'm beginning to believe." Did he know he was talking about his grandmother?

"That sounds intriguing. Did you get some good folk tales, old stories of fey happenings?"

"Yes, fey happenings maybe; peculiar ones, sure enough," Cleo said in low tones. "First she told me she was hot on the trail of the murderer. Sister Wind would inform her. Then she admitted she killed her brute of a husband with some mysterious potion."

"Interesting! She's a real character all right, and maybe exaggerates for effect."

"But that's not the most disturbing news she gave me. I'd been trying to make up my mind what to do about it. I need some advice." She looked around for eavesdroppers and then related the story of the long-ago romance and the child born of it. Baby listened intently, her expression unreadable.

"How strange, how strange," she murmured when Cleo finished. "One wonders if it's the ramblings of an unhinged mind or the actual facts. Still, for purposes of your book, names aren't important, are they?"

"No, not at all. I only wonder about the story coming out from other quarters and maybe hurting Alistair. If Granny told me so quickly, she must have told or will tell others."

"Maybe not. Maybe that sort of recollection has to be solicited. Probably no one ever asks her anymore for her thoughts about her girlhood. Poor old thing! What if that story about the baby is true? I suppose she might have buried the information because she'd been paid to do so, but with those involved all dead and gone, she's most likely forgotten she was supposed to keep mum forever."

"So you think my talking to her and asking her for her memories was so out of the ordinary she won't be tempted again to tell the story to anyone else?"

Baby nodded. "That's my guess. Still, I think it only fair to talk to Alistair about this. He may know of his relationship to Granny, but he may not. His heritage seems to be important to him, don't you see. I doubt if he has much to do socially with these hill people." She refused another cup of coffee as Mrs. Collins came around with a pot. "I must be off. I'd like to take a look at the scene of the crime. Would you care to come along?"

"Yes, I think I would." In fact, she would almost rather confront the murderer than Alistair with Granny's tale. "I feel a little safer with the TBI agent on the scene."

They stepped out into a day that was fast warming up to short-sleeve weather. As they turned onto the sidewalk, they both saw the small, lean figure of Jincie Goin stepping quickly from the side door of the Library and disappearing into the trees behind the stable.

"That Jincie gets around, doesn't she?" said Cleo, dryly.

"She's apparently dropped out of school. Doesn't she work anywhere?"

"She was supposed to be helping Sam but maybe that came to nothing. Maybe she still does odd jobs for Alistair even though he told me he'd let her go."

"I think she's got some real feelings for Alistair, though," Baby said thoughtfully. "That may be Alistair's fault, of course. An older man who might be taking advantage of a young and rather odd young woman. And I do mean woman," she added.

"You mean she seems old beyond her years?"

"I do, in the sexual sense. We've all heard stories about such backwoods promiscuity, not that city girls aren't more active now than ever themselves. But this carrying on with an older man seems not so unusual here, for some reason."

Cleo nodded. "I know what you mean. As if the rules are suspended." She shivered. "Talk of murder, witchcraft, unnatural liaisons, what next?"

Chapter 18

"I'm not exactly sure where this crime took place, other than it was in the woods off Deep Branch Road," Cleo said. "Maybe we should drive out to Sam Taylor's place first and ask for specific directions." Cleo thought it unwise to wander around the area, and since Baby was determined to go, at least they should be prepared. Cleo also thought, though she didn't mention it, that it was a good idea for someone else to know of their visit to the crime scene.

"Since it was one of Sam's workers who discovered the body, I think that sounds reasonable."

Cleo nodded. This would be a good opportunity to see the winery, too. Accompanied by Baby, she wouldn't give a false impression to Sam about any personal interest in him.

Sam was welcoming, almost overwhelming in his enthusiasm to show them his operation. They had hardly gotten themselves out of the car when he took the judge's arm and began leading her across the drive. "Over here is the laboratory. I'm having to run the tests myself, of course, but eventually I'd like to hire a part-time chemist from the university."

"What a great set-up!" cried Baby admiringly after their tour of the winery. "How about your storage area? I understand the climate control is always a big problem with spirits of any kind."

Sam grinned. "Usually it is, but I'm fortunate to be located in the Cumberland Plateau, foothills, you know, with all their convenient caves. A half-mile to the west of us, we have a perfect cave storage area--58 degree constant temperature, humidity-stable environment." He looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid we're keeping you from your work," said Cleo.

"No, not at all. Nothing I like better than showing off my little project. I was just wondering where my help had gone to. Jincie has been coming in to work for me. She quit school in January and didn't want to do housework or leave the hills, so I agreed to use her services."

"Did Alistair ask you to help her out?" Baby inquired pleasantly.

"Why yes, he did. About two weeks ago, I guess."

"She's not working in the lab, is she?"

"Oh, no. I've got her doing some field work. The vines need tending quite a lot--spraying, clipping, tying, that sort of thing."

Baby nodded. "That's good. She should be able to handle that."

"I must admit," laughed Sam, "I've wondered how that harum-scarum thing would stick to a schedule, and I guess I'm finding out. She was supposed to start at 10:00 this morning."

"I wouldn't count too heavily on her reliability," said Baby with a raised eyebrow, moving into the shadow of the lab.

"Maybe she's been scared off by the murder, coming out to my place through the woods, I mean."

Cleo gave a short laugh. "I've been assured by Jincie that she has no fear of walking in the woods."

"I understand," said Sam, "that someone named Tom Terrell was killed, the famed Walking Man of the Woods." He scratched his head. "Why would somebody have it in for him?"

"Agent Everly doesn't seem to have a theory yet," Baby admitted, "so we can only speculate. My best guess is that he was an unwelcome observer."

Sam gave a humorless laugh. "That seems a bit drastic."

"Yes, but I suspect this murder was an anomaly." Baby said. "It'd better be, because Cleo and I are planning to take a look at the crime scene. Would you give us directions to get there?"

"Are you sure you two want to go there by yourselves with a murderer still at large?"

"Yes, yes," answered Baby somewhat brusquely but with a smile, "we're going to be careful."

Sam gave them the route to follow and again cautioned them. "I'll see if I can locate the TBI agent and let him know where you're headed."

Baby smiled politely and said, "I think that's unnecessary, but I appreciate your concern. Let's be on our way, Cleo." She turned to Sam and shook his hand, thanking him for his time and expressing her good wishes for a successful venture.

Chapter 19

The woods surrounding the supposed murder scene was luminous with its fresh spring growth as if nature had been experimenting with shades of green. Cleo picked her way through underbrush and low-growing trees, following as closely as possible the long strides of Judge Godbold, who herself was oblivious of the brambles and twigs snagging her heavy trousers. Cleo decided the wilderness in the flesh was less appealing than literature declared.

They had parked along the side of the road where Sam had indicated and followed a barely marked path through the woods. As they moved farther into the area, the trees took on immense proportions, providing a canopy overhead. Smaller evergreens, still fifty feet high had left a carpet of needles mixed with the dried leaves of the deciduous oaks and linden. Following the path, they soon spotted the yellow police tape of the crime scene a few yards off the path. Yet, reaching the clearing meant wending their way through underbrush and bushes which seemed to purposely hamper their progress.

Baby slowed her pace as they came to a more open area and saw the stakes left by the police. "It must have been right about here," said Baby, peering around her, "that the murder took place. Brad Everly said the body had been moved a short distance--there, I think, near that bush."

"It's certainly is remote," shivered Cleo. Large trees to all sides gave a sense of an amphitheater.

"How interesting!" exclaimed Baby. "This is actually a clearing, not an unexpected feature near the stream nearby but also not what I'd call a good place for an ambush. On the other hand, it takes a bit of doing to reach it, so the odds of not being overseen are pretty good." She shaded her eyes and began to trudge toward the creek at the far end of the clearing. "Tom Terrell must have been painting this scene. It looks innocuous enough."

"Maybe he painted something somewhere else, and the killer waited until he was alone and isolated to attack him."

"Yes, and the paintings were never found, either. That's suggestive in itself!" Baby's face was damp from the exertion and pieces of leaves and twigs hung in her hair. "Didn't Brad Everly say last night that the ridge dwellers seemed to know about him, but only two or three had actually admitted to having seen him?"

Cleo nodded, hugging herself nervously. They might have been a couple of actors in a sylvan theater-in-the-round. Did they have an audience besides the mockingbirds who whistled and chortled at them? "How strange that Tom Terrell turned up in these hills only to find malevolence. I wonder what he actually was seeking when he came back to paint. Was it simply the beauty of this place, or was it his own past? That earlier time must have seemed idyllic in his memory compared to what took place later."

"Who knows. We need to find out more about him--and his work. I'm interested to know his style, for one thing." Judge Godbold kicked at a mound of dirt the authorities had overturned in their search for clues. The smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation permeated the air.

Cleo could hear water rushing some little distance away, too loud for the sluggish little stream nearby. Was it the Virgin's Spring? They were too far from the Gentlemen's Pool for the cataract to be audible. "I wonder if--. She paused.

"Yes? Have you thought of something else?" asked Baby.

"I just thought about the Robinsons--if they might have any of his early paintings, I mean. They are living, after all, in Tom Terrell's old home, and Charles Robinson has that distant family connection with the Terrells."

"We can assume," said Baby, "his branch of the family either 'rescued' the Terrells, or did a turn on them in getting hold of the house. Whichever it may have been, I'd like to find out."

"Oh, wow," said Cleo checking her watch. "It's already 12:30. Marnie will have lunch ready and waiting. I suppose we'd better hurry back or she'll be sending out a patrol."

"Let's do. We don't want to aggravate our hostess!" They swung back onto the sun-dappled path, Cleo trailing Baby, glancing behind her from time to time apprehensively. The sun had thoroughly warmed the air by now, and its rays intermittently striking her eyes gave her a dizzy-headed feeling as she moved clumsily down the path. She wasn't at home in these woods. She remembered Alistair's words about the Eye of the Sun and an icy hand seemed to touch her spine.

As they approached their car, another car, which Cleo saw to be that of the TBI agent, came down the road toward them.

"That man surprises me," she said softly. "He doesn't seem like an orthodox investigator. He's not quite from Miami Vice or L.A. Law, but neither is Tennessee quite like Florida or California."

"He's a nice guy, not addicted to officialese; that's why you were surprised. He may even be a creative investigator. Now that really would be unorthodox." said Judge Godbold, resting against a tree next to the road, her arms crossed, watching the car approach.

Agent Everly emerged from behind the wheel and gave them a wave. "I'm glad to find you two. I was just at the winery, and Sam said you were going to the first crime scene." Cleo looked at him questioningly. His hair gleamed as with a halo in the sunshine. He was wearing jeans again and a yellow-striped cotton sweater.

"First crime scene?" Baby asked with surprise in her voice. "Is there another one?"

"I may have mis-spoke. I just got a call on the radio that another death has occurred in the area, a sudden death. I wanted to warn you ladies to get on home, as I see you're in the process of doing."

"What happened?" said Baby.

"Not sure yet. I'll be heading out to their place shortly. For now, the local sheriff and coroner are handling it."

"Who is it?" asked Cleo in a near whisper.

"An old woman named," he referred to his notebook, "Marthy Goin."

Cleo gasped and put a hand to her face. "I just saw her this morning. It can't be!"

"I'm afraid so. Her granddaughter reported the woman keeled over unexpectedly only an hour ago. Before she could get help to her, the woman died. It may be perfectly natural, of course, but I'll not make any assumptions and order a post mortem."

"I know she had been recently sick," offered Cleo. "When I spoke to her she was still suffering from a bad bronchial cough."

"We need to find out the cause of death, of course, with Terrell's murder hanging over our heads. From what I've heard, there weren't any visible signs of violence," he said. Then he turned to Cleo with an expectant look. "I most certainly will want to talk to you about your contact with her this morning. I'll check with you later." He got back into his car and pulled out slowly so as to keep the gravel dust from flying in their faces.

Cleo and Baby got into their car. "What do you think about this latest mystery, if it is a mystery?" Cleo asked. "She was an old woman and hadn't been well. Maybe the police are making too much of it."

"Possibly, but I hope they'll be aggressive in looking at this death very closely, which I think Agent Everly will do. I'll be curious to hear the results of the post mortem." Cleo had started the motor but continued to sit with the motor running.

Baby gave an emphatic nod. "I think, Cleo, with Granny now dead, Alistair really should be told about Granny's confidences to you as soon as possible. I'll come along with you if you like. Heaven knows I'm experienced in giving people shocking news."

"Would you? That would be very helpful to me and much appreciated.." The task would be daunting even so, but having the older woman along to help out gave Cleo an immeasurable feeling of comfort.

Chapter 20

"Where have you two been?" Marnie demanded. She wasn't cross, however, and merely indicated that the table was set and the food ready for lunch.

"We'd like to wash up, dear," said Baby, giving Cleo a wink.

"That's fine. I've fixed just sandwiches and soup, so nothing will spoil."

When they were finally seated, Marnie asked them again about their morning. Cleo told her about the news of Granny's sudden death.

Marnie gasped and put her hand to her mouth. "What's happening around here?"

"Maybe not that much," Cleo said. "It might have been a natural death. I may have been one of the last outsiders to see her alive, from what Brad said." She paused, feeling a belated shock as she heard her own words. Brad--she had unwittingly called the TBI agent by the name that was in her thoughts.

"Was Jincie in the house when you talked to Granny?" asked Baby.

"No," Cleo said but then added quickly, "or at least I didn't think she was. No one answered my knock at the front door, so I went around back. I found Granny there in the garden. While we talked, I heard nothing in the house to give me a clue that anyone was there."

Baby nodded. "Well, we'll know more in the next few days, I expect." She turned to her friends with a sparkling look. "Isn't this exciting!" She tilted her head back and laughed at their horrified expressions. "Not that I wished the old woman any ill, but as long as it's happened, I'm glad I'm on the spot. I mean to be as involved as possible."

Cleo looked at the judge. "What do you really think about Granny's death?"

Baby shook her head. "I just have a feeling that her death is too sudden. When I saw her, she was still too sick to go outside much, but she'd heard some things from Sister Wind about the ghost walking among them. At the time, I must say she didn't look like she was at death's door."

"I agree. She was getting around fine, even up to doing some work in the garden when I came. It's all very upsetting."

The Sheriff's Office was located, along with the jail, in a square, one-story brick building one block off the square. Brad Everly sat across the desk from Sheriff Thompson who was assuring him of a quicker toxology report than might have been expected in this backwater county.

"We have a little deal with the University, y'know," he said in his customary cheerful manner. There were laugh lines around his eyes, which seemed to have a perpetual twinkle. Yet, Brad knew the Sheriff to be an efficient, if not overly busy lawman. "They are always wanting county records for their research projects. Sometimes they want to interview prisoners even. They call it cooperation between town and gown." He laughed. "I asked 'em what in the heck that meant, and they said it was an English expression referring to robes on campus or something."

Brad smiled. "Yes, that university has a long and strong English tradition, so at one time the professors and maybe even the students wore robes, or what the English universities call gowns, on campus. Interesting, though, and very helpful of them to work on the blood and other samples along with stomach contents. Maybe we'll be able to determine if this is murder or natural causes quickly."

"Maybe. Doc will get everything ready to be sent over this evening. Since he has a regular practice as well as being the coroner, he can't do a complete autopsy, if it becomes necessary, until this weekend. In the meantime, the body will be on ice at the funeral parlor."

"That should work out fine. I'm obviously eager to find out what really happened to the old lady. She'd been sick, apparently, but recovering, according to someone reliable who'd just seen her this morning."

The sheriff leaned back precariously in his chair which gave a terrifying screech. "That so? Well, I'll call you as soon as the chemistry department gives me the report. Let's hope this all shakes out as perfectly normal. I don't like the idea of multiple murders around here."

"I suppose it's been awhile since you've had a murder."

"Four years ago a drug deal went bad. Fellow shot and left by the side of the road. We'd had our eye on some druggies in town, so when we went to get them with the aid of a search warrant, we found enough to satisfy the D.A. The two of them are now residing in state prison." He gave a cheerful laugh.

Brad reflected on the way to his car that the Sheriff of this county must have one of the most rewarding of jobs--respected, happy, and successful. Maybe the man's luck will transfer to this investigation and the mystery of at least the first motiveless murder will be solved.

Shortly after one o'clock two days later, Brad Everly knocked at the Godbolds's door and was eagerly admitted by Baby. The other women came into the room while Baby was offering him a seat, which at first he declined. He greeted Marnie and Cleo, his gaze lingering for a moment on the face of the latter.

Then he said briskly,"We got the report. And very fast it was. As luck would have it, this county is home to the university, and the county coroner is a chemistry professor. He was able to speed up his examination of the tissue and blood samples at the university chemistry lab so we could proceed quickly if the death proved to be suspicious."

Cleo looked at him anxiously. "And they found . . .?"

He nodded. "Poison. A common-garden-variety but very lethal substance found in the bean of the castor plant. I wanted to inform you right away, Judge, so you'll know what we may be up against."

Baby thanked him and murmured, as if to herself, "Then there's no question she died of natural causes."

"No. The active ingredient from the bean is ricin, a very lethal substance. The question is, first of all, was it accidental? She messed around with herbal remedies and other possibly dangerous natural substances, according to her son. If she didn't somehow ingest the substance accidently, the other question is why would she be killed? She seemed a harmless old woman with no one to gain from her death. Certainly no inheritance at stake."

Again, Baby motioned for him to sit down as she settled on the sofa. He went to a chair nearby.

"She was known as a witch," said Cleo. "You have heard that, haven't you?"

"Yes, I heard." He looked thoughtful.

"How was the bean oil introduced to the victim?" asked Baby. "Somehow, I can't see Granny getting her 'yarbs' mixed up."

"In tea, evidently. Tea was found to be the last substance she'd taken, and in testing her stomach contents, they found the poison. Apparently, it's not hard to extract. The tea canister had some herb tea in it and I presume it will contain the poison. It's being tested as we speak."

"Oh, no!" cried Cleo, covering her mouth with her hand.

"What is it?" Brad said with concern.

"When I left her, I saw her filling the tea kettle. If I had waited just a few minutes more, I might have helped to save her."

"And you might have had a cup of tea and been another victim," Baby added.

Cleo stared at her. "I hadn't thought of that."

"What about the other members of the family?" said Marnie. "That girl looks untrustworthy to me, and her father is terrible!"

Brad laughed. "We have to have a little more to go on than appearances. Both the Goins, father and daughter, were elsewhere at the time of Granny's death, but in the case of poison, alibis mean very little because of the time element." He paused and shook his head. "The motive for

murder is not clear at all, not only for her, but also Tom Terrell."

"Did you look around the cabin for castor beans or the oil itself?" asked Baby. She seemed rather perturbed and during the conversation had run her hands through her short hair, which was sticking out comically in little wiry tufts. "The sheriff's men are searching now." He gave the older woman a close look.

"I don't expect that will make a difference, even if you find it among her nostrums. She had plenty of company, who probably knew where she kept her potions and what the labels meant. She was a garrulous old woman."

Brad turned to Cleo. "Did she talk to you at all about her, ah, witchcraft?"

Cleo nodded her head slowly as she recalled the old woman's confession. "She did tell me that she gave her husband a potion and put a spell on him because he was so mean, and he was dead within a month."

"Really!" exclaimed Marnie with a grimace.

"I didn't know whether to believe her or not. I bet she dosed herself with herbs, though. Could she have gotten mixed up and used the wrong thing?"

He nodded. "That's a possibility, if they can locate the poison, that is. Most likely, it would be among her things if she was responsible." He stood up and looked around, his eyes lingering a second more on Cleo. "Thank you. You've all been very helpful."

After he left, Baby sat quietly for a few minutes. Then she said, "Poison is the most difficult method of killing to link to the criminal. I wonder who had been to see her recently." "She told me when I asked her that many people came to see her, which was not unusual. She named Alistair and a Mrs. Bell, and Doll something who is supposed to marry her son, Jack. But who would know if others came to that cabin? Jack was off somewhere during the day doing what he does. And Jincie–well, we know she got around town and stayed at home as little as possible. It will be quite a task, if not impossible to know who might have come to the cabin to do her harm, if that's what happened."

Judge Godbold nodded. "I fear you've hit the nail on the head. That cabin is too conveniently tucked away in the woods for any nefarious goings on to be observed. There may be no way to know for sure how Granny was poisoned or who did it. I don't look for her to speak from the grave, witch or not."

Chapter 21

Later that afternoon, Baby cornered Cleo in the upstairs hall. "I'm wondering if you think it's time we have a little talk with Alistair?"

"I suppose so," said Cleo unenthusiastically. "We may as well get it over with. You don't think we're just being nosey about something that's none of our business?"

The judge wagged her head speculatively. "I suppose it could be taken that way, but if I were Alistair as heavily involved as he is in this community, I'd like to know the truth, if it is the truth, about my antecedents. At least we can tell him what Granny said. He can do with it what he wants."

They took off on foot, traversing the several blocks to the town center in less than seven minutes. Another fine day with the crispness of spring combined with a warming sun made the walk especially pleasurable. The houses or remains of houses were few and far between on this road. They talked about the house that Judge Godbold had been urged to restore. It was not far from Alistair's place on the opposite side of town from Marnie and Guy's. Cleo was curious to know if Baby had changed her mind and could possibly see herself as part of this community.

"How are you feeling now about living here as a weekender?" she asked. "Has it grown on you, what with all this crime turning up?" she added mischievously.

Baby gave a good-natured hoot of laughter. "The town is a little more appealing and my first impression of Barton as a boring place has modified. And it's true I agreed to check out the place since I'm between sessions until July and see if I'd like it as a retreat." She laughed. "But frankly, I've never in my life wanted to retreat from anything, so I must say no to that project even though it will disappoint Marnie and Guy. Even with murders turning up here, I understand from the Sheriff that such things are an aberration in this area, that it's basically what it first seemed to me–a retreat."

Cleo gingerly made her way around a pile of garbage spilling from a plastic bag, no doubt thrown from a passing vehicle. At this stage of the game, Barton could not be termed well-groomed, despite Alistair's efforts. "I understand you're planning to retire sometime in the near future. Have you set a date?"

"Nope. I like to keep my colleagues guessing." She shrugged and waggled her hand to show her uncertainty. "I want to get out and I don't. This is the first time in my life, I think, that I haven't been clear in my mind about my goals, my future. Am I too old, Cleo, to want to have a future and not simply settle passively into my declining years?"

"Certainly not," Cleo said with some surprise. This remarkable woman certainly had not seemed unsure of herself in their earlier conversations. "Why settle for anything? Strike out for new horizons--that's my advice." Then she gave Baby a rueful glance. "Well, I'm not particularly adventurous myself."

Baby laughed, her voice full and rich with delight. "Wonderful advice, though! Keep my options open, eh? None of that going gently into the good night. I like that."

Alistair answered the doorbell within a few seconds, receiving them cordially and inviting them in. "What a pleasant and unexpected surprise. Welcome, Judge, Cleo, to my hall of relentless pleasure."

"We won't keep you long from your work." Baby looked around as she spoke. The room was fairly uncluttered, but strewn books on the large table and a coffee cup indicated he had been recently at work in this room. "Very nice. I've been wanting to see the inside of this place, but for some reason, I've not gotten around to it."

"I'd be happy to show you around now. I'm never too busy to conduct tours of the library."

The judge shook her head. "We can't stay." She looked at Cleo, who remained silent, her heart thumping. How glad she was to have the judge in charge!

Alistair drew up the chairs that stood against the walls to the table where he had been working. Cleo sat down quickly, nervously wanting to clear her throat, knowing her smile must have looked forced. She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Three walls contained eight-foot high shelves filled with the original volumes provided by the schoolmaster founder of the community. Or rather the funds were solicited by him, according to Alistair, from as many wealthy benefactors as he could muster. But she mustn't get distracted from the purpose of the visit. She focused her gaze on their host.

"Mind if I smoke?" Alistair asked, reaching for his cigarettes.

Judge Godbold nodded her assent. "If Cleo doesn't mind, I don't. My late husband smoked a pipe."

"Cleo early on gave her permission, though I try not to take undue advantage of her tolerance," he said, lighting his cigarette with steady, deliberate movements. "What can I do for you ladies?"

Baby looked at Cleo with a little smile of reassurance and then turned to Alistair. "I want to bring up something that is probably none of my business, but since we have found it out and it concerns you, I felt you should know."

A strained expression flitted across his face. "Ah, an intrigue. What nether things have been said about me now?"

Baby frowned and waved her hand. "Nothing about your conduct, I assure you. I believe you are fairly well acquainted with the Jack Goin family?" When he nodded, she went on. "The morning of Granny Goin's death, Cleo went to her place to take an oral history, I believe you call it," she said with a questioning look at Cleo. Cleo nodded and Baby went on. "Granny gave out an almost unbelievable story to Cleo about an incident that happened to her when she was quite young."

Alistair laughed. "I can believe that! Granny Goin was the Witch Woman, you know. She was highly regarded by most of the hill folks for that talent. I regarded her not for her magical powers, but for her entertainment value."

Baby held up a cautioning hand. "I think you should know that she claimed to have had a child by one of your ancestors, your grandfather, Phillip Walker. That child, she said, was adopted into the Walker family and raised as their own son. He would be your father." Baby went on to give the circumstances of the birth as described by Granny to Cleo.

For several agonizing seconds no one spoke. The cigarette in Alistair's hand burned between his fingers unheeded. Cleo continued to look at the man, for the first time in their acquaintence able to stare at him without any suggestion of sexual interest. She noted his narrow face with the rather square jaw with a five-o'clock shadow , the hazel eyes, a little puffy on the lids. His brown hair was neatly combed, but thinning on top.

He swallowed and then said quietly, "I've wondered about a few things myself, and this information seems to confirm those flitting thoughts that came to me."

"You were never informed about these supposed circumstances of your father's birth?" Baby asked gently.

He shook his head. "No, no idea about the connection or how it might have happened. Only now, when you spoke the words I remembered some things. They didn't quite make sense as a child, but my father must have known. He wanted me to love the simple people, I remember. He couldn't live here because my mother wouldn't have it, but he brought me here often as a boy to learn about the woods and appreciate the landmarks of the countryside. He kept his horse stabled at the Goin's, and it was there with him that I met Granny for the first time."

He looked at them then and said gravely, "I thank you very much. I don't doubt for a minute that Granny was telling the truth. She was old and peculiar, but she wouldn't make up something like this. There was no wishful thinking or subterfuge, for that matter, in her makeup."

Cleo hoped they could now decently retire from Alistair's presence. Was there any more to be said. She felt she should say something–but what?

"Alistair," she began with a catch in her voice, "I want you to know that this information won't go any further. I mentioned it to the judge because of her experience in dealing with family matters. I felt sure she would be the best person to explain about this long-ago occurrence."

Alistair nodded, but remained silent.

Baby rose from her seat, followed by Cleo and then Alistair. "Cleo can give you further information about the interview if you'd like. But you might want to check the birth records in the county where Granny claimed to have given birth, just to make sure. If records show that a male child was born to her on the appropriate date. . . ." She spread both hands expressively. "You'll know by your father's age and birth date, of course. I hated to hit you with this without warning, but we thought it best to get the message to you promptly." She moved briskly to the door. "We'll leave you now. You'll need some time alone to sort this out."

"Yes, yes," he said with a serious demeanor, thanking them for their concern and inviting them back another time. Cleo noticed that though his words were lucid and sensible, his facial features seemed to have shrunk.

Once outside, Baby gave a large sigh. "I can't pretend to you that I was unmoved by all that, Cleo, and rather embarrassed as well." Then she turned to the younger woman with a gleam in her eye. "But fascinating, fascinating!"

Cleo couldn't supress a chuckle at Baby's words. "So you think this really was news to him? That he wasn't pretending surprise?"

"Oh, I don't claim that! Alistair is a salesman, and very good, I expect, at dissembling. No, I wouldn't like to say for sure if he was really taken aback or if he was merely acting for our benefit."

"You plan to check those records yourself, don't you?" Cleo said in a lightly teasing tone.

Judge Godbold glanced at her and grinned. "Of course. Don't think too badly of me. I always want to be on firm footing if at all possible, and I have come to learn that trusting people's memories is foolhardy at best. I wanted to give Alistair a chance first to admit he knew about the family skeletons before digging any deeper, but now I think more investigation is indicated. Let's just say I like to be sure about the facts since I look pretty ungainly under ordinary circumstances, let alone when I'm falling on my face."

Chapter 22

The recipe looked so easy, Baby thought, when she'd watched the TV cook prepare it. She had downloaded it from the Website after deciding it would be perfect to serve when she did her turn at dinner, and today, Friday, was her day. Weeks earlier, Cleo and the judge had worked out a scheme to take some of the burden off Marnie, each of the two in charge of dinner once a week. Monday evenings they took the Godbolds out to eat at the café, and every week they all split the cost of groceries.

As for Baby's potential dinner, she was up to her elbows preparing the vegetable–chopping, slicing, and then sauteeing while repeatedly checking the long list of instructions. What had purported to be a moderately difficult recipe for Chicken Tetrazzini that should have taken thirty-five minutes to prepare was proving to be in actuality an hour-long-plus project. She had planned to have the casserole, oven ready, waiting in the refrigerator to be baked at the proper time, but at this rate, she thought she might still be in the midst of preparation at the dinner hour.

Marnie had offered to clean up after Baby completed her work, and though at first she had demurred, not wanting to put Marnie out, it became clearer and clearer that it would be kinder to let the poor girl try to get her kitchen in a semblance of order before they ate. She called her into the kitchen and they both stared ruefully at the disorder. A huge pan of milk, cream, flour, butter and wine was slowly thickening on the stove, needing just an occasional stir, while a deep skillet containing the chicken along with sliced mushrooms, garlic, onions, and finely chopped fresh basil and parsley rested on the stove top. A pot of water was coming to a boil and would soon be ready for the pasta to be dropped in.

"How near done are you?" Marnie asked timidly.

Baby relaxed her tense expression and indicated she was nearly ready to put it all together in the dish. "Then I just need to mix up the bread crumbs with Italian seasoning and Parmesan cheese, sprinkle it over the casserole and top it with dabs of butter."

"Sounds wonderful. What can I do?"

"Well, I still have to concoct my salad," Baby said, consulting a recipe, "called Crunchy Pear with Mixed Greens. Of course, it has lots of other stuff in it, too, like dried cherry-flavored cranberries, shoestring carrots, walnuts, and tomatoes. I'll wait, of course, to put on the dressing. It calls for a 'light, sweet Vidalia onion dressing', which I have at the ready," she said, brandishing the bottle. "In the meantime, I think I've dirtied every pot and pan and mixing spoon in the kitchen, so I thought maybe you could help me by coming along behind and . . . ." She spread her hands beseechingly.

"Of course I'll help clean up!" Marnie swung into action and within a few minutes she'd carried the dirty things to the sink and was either washing them by hand and putting them away or carefully arranging them in the dishwasher.

Before she could complete her task, however, the phone rang, and after answering it, she handed it to Baby. "It's Brad Everly."

The judge wiped her hands, removed the pots from the heat, and took the phone away from the confusion into the calm of the living room. "I hope you've got something interesting to report," she said jokingly, flopping gratefully into an easy chair.

"I think you'll be very interested to hear that all the jars and bottles in Granny Goin's larder that we tested were clear of poison, or at least no castor bean oil. There were, however, some mighty strange substances there, I must say. Also, there's no castor bean plant on the property; it's a little early in the season, of course, but if there was one around, we probably would have found some remnant of it ready to start leafing out."

"That's very interesting indeed." Baby thought for a minute while Brad explained that Jack Goin had been cooperative about the search of the cabin and grounds, not requiring a search warrant. "Was there anything unusual about his demeanor, or Jincie's for that matter?"

Brad gave a brief sigh. "I honestly don't know. I'm not sure I know how to read these people. In some ways the two of them seemed stoical about the old woman's death. But there were some signs about the cabin that indicated they'd taken it seriously and perhaps were mourning in their own way."

"Such as–?"

"Well, the mirrors had black cloths covering them. And Granny's bed was moved outside. It and all the bedclothes that had been near her when she died were to be burned. We'd already taken what we needed for forensic purposes, I might add, and under great protest from Jincie, especially."

"Superstition, I suppose," Baby commented.

"I'm sure. Anyhow, I'll keep you posted as to anything that comes up regarding the investigation, and I hope you'll let me know if you get any clues that might be helpful."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, something has come up that I planned to mention to you next time I saw you. It probably doesn't relate to the investigation, but it is connected to Granny Goin." She explained about the connection of Granny to Alistair, and the fact that the birth information had not yet been checked out. "When Cleo and I went to see Alistair about this, he seemed genuinely ignorant of this information, but not particularly surprised because of the attitude of his father toward the Melungeons. I advised him to see about the county records, of course, which I plan to do myself."

"I'm glad to know about this though I can't see that it has much bearing on the two deaths, at least at this stage of the game, but thanks very much for informing me." Brad hesitated a moment and then said, "Alistair left word at my office to call him. When I did, he invited me to what he called a 'soiree' at the library two weeks from tomorrow. I presume you folks are invited?"

"We haven't yet gotten our mail for today since we're at the tail end of a rural route, but I'm quite sure we'll also be invited if this is some sort of promotion for Barton, and why wouldn't it be, knowing Alistair?"

"Does the timing of this event seem at all odd to you?"

"I'm not surprised he's going ahead with plans to get people interested in the place, despite the murders, and despite his newly discovered relationship to Granny. After all, he can't suddenly manufacture feelings he's never before felt. And I suppose he's had this plan in the works for some time."

"That sounds reasonable. At any rate, I'll be glad to see all of you there, if not before. Ah, I wonder if you would call Cleo to the phone. There was something I wanted to mention to her." His voice was cool and diffident.

"Surely." The judge called upstairs to Cleo, who soon picked up the extension, and Baby trailed back into the kitchen, her mind more on poison and murders than Chicken Tetrazzini.

Cleo had spent that afternoon reading Agnes Terrell's diary. It had belatedly occurred to her that it might offer some clue to Tom Terrell's death. She intended to get in touch with Brad about the diary, but she wanted to read it herself first. During the latter part of the week, she had been occupied with material from the library. Since Granny's death, her zeal, such as it was, for interviewing the locals had lessened even more. Breaking into her conscious thought was the electronic ring of the telephone in her room and then after several minutes she was aware of the judge's voice calling her. The voice was faint, as the house was large with high ceilings, five bedrooms with a master dressing room upstairs, a living room, kitchen, and Guy's study down.

"I've got it," she called and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Cleo? Brad. I thought you'd like to know that we were able to search the Goin cabin but found none of the poison that killed Granny." He paused for a moment and then said, "I thought you'd like to know since you were the last person, supposedly, to see her alive, and I know how upsetting this whole thing has been for you."

So now they were Cleo and Brad. "Thank you. I am interested. So it was murder for sure?"

"We think so. The tea leaves were doctored by someone other than Granny. The thing is, both Jack Goin and Jincie claim they never drink tea. I wonder how many people knew that. Granny didn't offer you any, did she?"

"No, she told me with her illness, she hadn't had a taste for tea or coffee, only water."

"Is that so? Thank God she wasn't particularly hospitable and didn't offer you any." "I shudder to think! If she had, I might have taken her up on it. But as far as poison goes, isn't that kind of a shotgun approach to killing someone?" The thought that she'd come that close to being exterminated continued to give her pause.

"It sure is. Probably whoever poisoned the tea had only recently done it. We're still checking on what visitors she had during the last few weeks. She was left alone quite a bit, though, and was rather tight-mouthed about her business, her family say. I doubt if they were very interested in her 'business'. They didn't know you were coming to see her, for example."

"Yes, I can imagine that she would have to be prodded a bit for information like that. Jincie and her father have their own interests, apparently, which didn't include Granny Goin."

"By the way, the judge said the old woman confided to you about her past. That must have been shocking to hear."

Baby must have thought the information about Alistair's heritage was important somehow if she'd mentioned it to Brad. "I was completely dumbfounded. I'll be interested to learn the results of Judge Godbold's researches and if Granny's statements can be proven."

"Yes, me too. Well, if you can think of anything else pertinent to the investigation, let me know. Anything at all. You do have my cell phone number?"

"I do." She picked up the journal lying on the table beside her. "Actually, I had something that may be helpful or may not. For my research, Alistair gave me an old diary belonging to Tom Terrell's sister Agnes. Perhaps something in the past drew him back to this area, and you could find a clue to it in the diary."

"I'd like to look at it. Could I pick it up tomorrow?"

Cleo agreed to hand over the diary to him and hung up the phone. Saturday? The man kept peculiar working hours. He must be the most dedicated man in the department.

She herself had not run across anything in the pages of the diary that she could term a clue. It simply detailed the pitifully meager existence of the Terrells in their decline. The spinster made a bare living selling children's stories she'd written to the Baptist Sunday School Board in Nashville. She had been constrained to stay at home either because of her old ailing mother or to keep watch over the erratic Tom. She loved her brother with a fierce protectiveness that almost denied his disability.

"Tom's record in school (Cleo read) doesn't reflect his genius. Teachers are so hidebound and narrowminded! If only I could get some of his artwork to Nashville and into the hands of some art dealers or museum curators, they would undoubtedly recognize his talent for it's worth. If only, if only. My constant lament. But I must be patient and encourage Tom to continue painting even when his black moods are overwhelming him. Once outside among his beloved woods and hills, he seems to improve, though he'll never be normal. I've come to accept that. But the paintings that emerge! How richly detailed, how meaningful they are. He sees more than the rest of us do, I think, which is reflected in his paintings. That is his glory as well as his terrible burden." Page after page detailed the life around the Terrells and their inevitable slide into desperation. Eventually, the woman mentioned approaching the Robinsons and the beginning of their negotiations. Then the account broke off abruptly. Cleo made a mental note to ask Alistair how in the world he acquired the journal; it was so personal most people would have hesitated to offer it as resource material.

Cleo placed the diary on the stack of papers that were accumulating and went downstairs where she could hear a lively conversation between Guy and his aunt-in-law. They were in the kitchen drinking wine and chatting about an open house at the Library. The invitation had just come in the mail for Cleo and the Godbolds.

"Join us." Guy said to Cleo. He went to a drinks tray and held up a wine goblet of generous proportions with a questioning look.

"I'd think I'd prefer gin and tonic."

"Coming right up."

"Where's Marnie?" Cleo asked.

Baby spoke up. "She went to her room a while ago to make some phone calls after the invitation came. It appears this is a party for prospective buyers and the Bishop of the Episcopal Middle Tennessee Diocese with the hope of getting the church restored and the occasional services of a priest. I think she's trying to get some friends from Nashville to attend, with Alistair's concurrence, of course. She called him immediately with some suggestions."

"She'll probably turn into a supersaleswoman, trying to sell others on the place." laughed Guy. "She's about got you convinced, hasn't she, Baby?"

Baby shrugged. "Not exactly. I must admit I'm intrigued by the neighborhood, but not because of Marnie's encouraging words. It's fascinating here! So many interesting people and bizarre occurrences."

"I doubt if Alistair or the TBI will want to keep a series of resident murderers on hand for your entertainment," Guy responded dryly.

"No, but while I'm here, Guy, the natives, both English and Melungeons, are of abiding interest to me. We've hardly made any rounds of the community and already I could write a case book of 'types,' starting with Alistair."

"What type is he?" asked Guy, handing Cleo her drink.

"The mid-life crisis type," Baby said promptly. "Or I should say that he's the type who doesn't pass through life stages easily. He seems dissatisfied with his life and maybe is looking for a new identity--something bound up with youth and, oddly but not so oddly if one knows the cause, with his roots."

"You mean he needs to grow up?" asked Guy with a puzzled look.

"Maybe just grow," said Cleo. Baby looked at her approvingly.

"That's what I think, Cleo," she said. "Our boy Alistair is a seeker, introspective to a fault. He'd do better to hitch himself to a plow for a time or help Sam harvest his grapes. He needs immediate satisfaction from a job well done, not the mental stress of this project." She sipped her wine musingly. "Assuming he's not the murderer, I might fear for his mental health if he goes on driving himself all for the sake of his dream."

Marnie entered the room. "Alistair's an old poop, but if he could get a little richer, he would be a lot happier."

"How can he get richer?" Cleo frowned. The Barton restoration project looked fiscally hopeless from her standpoint. Even if more people settled here and paid the small Association dues, that would hardly be a windfall for Alistair.

"Grant money, of course." Guy answered. "Haven't you heard about him applying for that Museum grant from the Historical Commission?"

Cleo and Baby shook their heads in the negative.

"I can't think where you all were," Marnie piped up. "When he was here last, he told me that he'd applied for a huge amount, about a million dollars, I believe it was, for Library restoration and a visitors center and management fees. He could relax some if that came through."

"Does he have a good chance to get it?" asked Cleo.

Marnie raised her brows speculatively. "From what he said, he might, if all goes well. He had gotten U.S. Senators and the Governor to write recommendations, extolling his virtues as a site manager and the great tourist possibilities of a restored Barton. After all," she said in hopeful accents, "it is just a few miles from the Interstate."

"Wow!" exclaimed Cleo. "No wonder he's a bit edgy. I'd be a wreck, too, if my life were hinging on one deal to go through."

"That's another of Alistair's flaws," said Baby. "He puts all his eggs in one basket."

Chapter 23

"So much of his life spent at Clover Bottom or in shelters," Baby said. "How pathetic."

"He was just moderately retarded," Brad commented. He, Cleo, and Judge Godbold were sitting around a glass-topped table on the Godbolds' terrace, sipping iced tea and enjoying the pleasant weather. Marnie and Guy had gone to Monteagle to shop for groceries.

"But how did he live when he wasn't in the institution?" asked Cleo. "Agnes Terrell was always strapped for money, wasn't she?"

"She supported him as best she could and then after she died, he lived on his social security check, which he evidently used for his basic needs. He also had a bank account for a while, according to Social Services in Nashville." He shrugged. "Probably what Agnes left him from the sale of the house here in Barton."

"I know you're eager to see the diary," said Cleo, handing Brad the small, bound book. "I've already looked it over and taken some notes."

"It shouldn't take me long to know if there's anything here to help us find out more about the Walking Man."

She watched him thumbing through the pages of the yellowed diary and thought of Marnie's teasing words when she heard Brad was coming over that day.

"I thought you seemed to have your head in the clouds. Now I know why."

"That's ridiculous," Cleo scoffed. "I admit I like him, but I'm a little old to be mooning over any man."

But Marnie merely smiled in a maddening sort of way. Now, sitting together, working with Brad, Cleo wondered to herself if he was becoming more important to her than she had believed possible in such a short time. She wondered, too, if Judge Godbold had made them a twosome. She had not betrayed by anything she said or did that Cleo's love life or lack of one was of any particular interest.

"Cleo let me read the diary, too," Baby was saying to Brad. "Mainly it shows a dull existence. The poor woman was reduced to writing about the most commonplace details. Not that those can't sometimes be informative, but I only found one thing that may help in this case."

"What's that?" Brad asked, setting down his glass.

"The reference Agnes Terrell made to her brother seeing more than others."

"Yes," said Cleo, "I noticed that, too. What can it mean, though, other than he had the artist's eye and could see into reality deeper than most of us?"

"You mean he saw, maybe, relationships between things or people that others didn't notice?" Brad looked speculatively at the judge.

"Yes," she nodded. "And maybe even some physical characteristics that ordinary observers couldn't or wouldn't see. Alistair's, for example. Is there a resemblance between him and Jincie? And then there's the winery operation. Could the artist have seen something in those storage caves he shouldn't?"

"You're not suggesting--" Brad stared at her.

Baby shrugged. "I'm suggesting we have a mystery that can only be solved if we discover what secret was too important to be disclosed in a painting."

"You think his paintings may give us a clue?"

"No, I shouldn't say that so definitely. The poor man may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am curious about his painting materials, though. Did you locate them? I've been wondering if they were hidden somewhere."

Brad shook his head. "I have no idea where they are. They haven't turned up. For that matter, neither have his clothes or any personal items. He may have had a room somewhere, either nearby or in Nashville, but we haven't found that either. And then he may not have been painting the day he was killed. I've even wondered if he lived in a cave while painting here."

"Has the Nashville police department gotten any missing persons reports on him?" Baby asked, frowning.

"No one has reported him missing. He left a small footprint, so to speak."

Baby nodded but didn't comment further.

"I'm intrigued by that so-called gift of his," said Cleo. "And Granny may have had a similar talent, in her own way."

Cleo had trouble getting Granny out of her mind, even wondering aloud if they, or just she, should go to her funeral. The others, however, talked her out of it, saying the hill people might be more taken aback by Cleo's appearance than gratified at her interest. She agreed but she hadn't been very successful in tamping down the guilt she felt when she thought about the strange old woman.

"She wasn't known as a witch for nothing," Baby remarked. "Others around here took her seriously." She looked Cleo directly in the eye. "You must take great care from now on."

"Me? What do you mean?"

Brad turned to the judge. "Do you think her life is in danger?"

Baby Godbold took a sip of tea and slowly nodded her head. "I think it's possible because of that interview with Granny. I expect the tom-toms here work very efficiently. If Granny was important enough to be killed, then the murderer may suspect Cleo found out something."

"So you believe there is a connection between the two deaths?" Brad asked.

Baby, however, answered him with another question, "Have you thought how to go about finding out who visited Granny during the week or so following Tom Terrell's murder, outside her family?"

He groaned and said, "That will take interviews, interminable interviews. I think I can get some help from one of my colleagues next week, so maybe we'll be lucky enough to hear that a car was spotted in the Goin's lane or someone was seen on the nearby footpath. Unfortunately for us investigators, with every passing day, people's memories get foggier and foggier."

"Is there anything I can do?" Baby persisted.

Brad shook his head and reached for a sugar cookie, Cleo's work, which she had baked that morning in a sudden revulsion from research. "As we all know," he answered, "anyone could have dropped by, like Cleo, and seen her without being observed by anyone else. That's the damndest thing about these backwoods locales. Not like a city street!"

"Yes," Baby mused. "That complicates matters. Too bad Granny didn't keep a diary."

"That reminds me of another reason why I'm here," said Brad. "You mentioned, Cleo, you had used a tape recorder when you interviewed Granny. I'd like to listen to the tape for anything unusual, any references that might have a bearing on her activities or even her mental state. Would you mind letting me borrow it, too?"

Cleo went upstairs to her room to get the tape for him. She thought she remembered placing it in her briefcase following the interview, but it wasn't there. She swore mildly. Where had she put it? She had never listened to it again after the interview; could she have left it in the recorder? No, the recorder was empty. Feeling like the absent-minded professor she searched through the shelves of her materials. No tape.

She walked slowly downstairs, thinking furiously. What had she done with the tape? She had taken her briefcase to Alistair's when she and Baby had confronted him with the news. It had occurred to her he might wish to hear the interview, but somehow that had been passed over as not important. She visualized herself sitting at the long library table, getting the tape out. Later, when she and Baby left the office, she must have literally run out of the place in her urgent need to escape the uncomfortable situation. That was it then. Most likely she had left the tape on the library table, which was its usual mess of Alistair's papers. She wondered if Alistair had found the tape and if so, why he hadn't called to inform her. Would he have listened to it? Not that it mattered. He had already found out about Granny Goin's history.

Dialing Alistair's number from the kitchen phone, Cleo contemplated whom she should interview next. She simply must get on that end of her work. But if Judge Godbold were right, then it might be dangerous for her to go traipsing around the countryside alone. Alistair answered

after several rings and assured her he had found the tape and put it aside for her, apologizing that he hadn't let her know. He was not his usual debonair self.

"I'm embarrassed to say," she explained to Brad back out on the terrace, "that I left the tape at Alistair's on Wednesday when the judge and I were there. I think I was still reeling from the information Granny had imparted and wasn't at the top of my form. I'll be sure to pick it up and see that you get it."

"Thanks. There might be something helpful there."

"I don't want to tell you your business," Cleo said, "but I doubt that the interview will show you anything except how odd Granny Goin was. She revealed startling things, yes, but except for some rather biting comments about her prospective daughter-in-law, I can't think that she said anything that would shed light on why she was murdered."

"Still," Brad nodded, "something she says may give me a clue as to whom I need to question next."

"Now that we know she was murdered," Baby interjected, "her interview might be very interesting."

Chapter 24

The Bishop was a short, elderly man with a very red face and intelligent blue eyes that seemed to shoot sparks as they roved around the room. Cleo had had a spirited conversation with him about the early Episcopal missionaries in Tennessee, she questioning their zeal compared to the Baptists and Presbyterians.

"Oh, I don't know," he retorted. "Made pretty good headway for so few of them. Had to be ordained in England while the Presbyterians and Methodists were setting up shop willy-nilly."

She laughed and thought she might change the subject. "Do you plan on doing anything about the Barton church?"

"Like to, like to very much. Costs money, though. Can't open a church that has no outward and visible sign of support." He stared soberly at her, waiting for her to smile at his pun on one half of the definition of a sacrament and then allowed himself a chortle. "We'll see, though. I'm talking to some possible donors. I told Alistair, if we can get over that hurdle, then maybe a monthly service would be possible, at least during the summer months."

"How nice that would be," said Cleo. She tuned out as another guest of Alistair's came up and greeted the Bishop. Alistair had put on the dog for this affair, she noted, catering all the food from Mrs. Collins at the café and even getting her to help serve. She wondered where all the silver and crystal had come from. If it were his, Alistair's family must have been very prosperous once. Maybe his inheritance consisted of only such articles brought out for such occasions. She herself had dressed with particular care, wearing the one real party dress she'd packed for her stay here. It was a black organza with sheer sleeves, a white organza collar, and pearl buttons down the bodice. A wide self-belt accentuated her waist and the short, full skirt.

She gazed about her, wondering if she had missed talking to anyone she knew. The Phillips had come in from their Gatlinburg home. His real estate work was mainly in that area, but Katherine Phillips had told Cleo they loved to "kick off their shoes" in this retreat during the summer months and a few special weekends. Cleo supposed this was one of the weekends. Alistair still seemed to be buttering them up, dancing attendance on the attractive but rather full-blown Katherine Phillips.

Cleo didn't want to be too critical of Alistair, however. As Baby said, he had a lot riding on the success, one way or the other, of this project, and the Phillips seemed to have more money than they knew what to do with. She couldn't blame him for trying to get a piece of the pie.

She saw the elderly Marshes, the couple Marnie didn't know and said she didn't particularly want to. Mrs. Marsh sat enthroned on a large, neo-gothic Bishop's chair which Alistair had rescued from the church (later to be re-installed, he said). She was a large, petulant woman who seemed to dominate her husband. He stood at attention near her, holding a plate of food which she occasionally picked from. Her loud high voice penetrated well beyond their immediate area to where Cleo stood.

"I wonder where all this fine furniture came from," she commented in flute-like tones to her husband or anyone in the vicinity. "I would have thought more countrified pieces to be found in these parts."

Cleo had discovered the Marshes had no family connection with Barton, but had been attracted to the settlement as an economical place to retire.

She began to sidle her way to the end of the room where beneath two high windows hung some few prints, old framed photographs, and paintings. She had never before noticed them, and with the nearby lamp turned to illuminate them, the guests seemingly absorbed in conversations, she thought this would be an ideal time.

She looked first with interest at the photographs, mainly of the homes in town, saving the paintings for last, almost afraid to see if Tom Terrell's work would be among them. The top one was his, about the size of a legal pad turned sideways. It was an oil in surprisingly delicate hues, a landscape painted with precise brush strokes, showing an intimate scene of an undulating stream embedded among woods and hills. The perspective was odd, as if viewed from quite far above. The style was not crudely romantic as might have been expected, nor even impressionistic, but rather realistic to a fault, startling in its attention to the details of limb, leaf and the glinting foam of fast moving water. In the upper right-hand corner, an angry red sun bathed the scene in a peculiar light, a kind of off-note to the rest of the painting. Cleo shivered. That damned sun again. The painting was signed in block letters, "T. Terrell."

The only other painting of his was larger, at eye-level, and completely different in subject matter and tone. He had painted his house, now the Robinsons'. Cleo's impression of the house as a wandering child had been observed by Terrell, too, for the dwarfed house seemed to be held up by the overreaching bare branches of two immense, now long gone, elms on either side. A slender woman stood near the front steps holding a flower cut from a bed of daffodils nearby. The painter's sister Agnes, no doubt, wearing a sack dress of the late fifties.

Cleo felt someone come up beside her.

"You're looking very swish tonight," said a familiar voice.

She turned quickly and smiled at Brad Everly, who stood there examining the paintings as if they were the real attraction. He looked quite dashing and different in a dark grey suit with a white shirt and multicolored silk tie.

"I wondered if you'd be coming to this party. I'm very glad to see you." She surprised herself with the warmth of her words.

He looked at her then, and his look went crashing through her, causing a sharp, sudden sensation beneath her rib cage.

"I like you, too," he said quietly, giving her hand a quick squeeze, and then, dropping it, noticeably switched gears. He glanced about him with interest. "This sort of thing isn't usually my beat, and I'm not sure why I was invited, unless Alistair thinks I might be a good prospect for a renovation. Anyhow, I thought I might have a good time--I hoped you'd be here--and maybe pick up some information while I was at it."

"Don't you ever quit working?"

"Bulldog Drummond, that's me. The folks at the motel up the road are beginning to treat me like a son."

"Have you seen these paintings by the dead man? Painted quite some time ago, of course."

"No, I didn't even know they were here. Do you regard them as clues? Something about them that may be important?"

"How should I know?" she said with a smile. "You're the detective. His use of color is unusual and so is his realistic style, as you can see."

"I like them. I don't go for formless blobs and nameless streaks in my paintings. It's nice to know what I'm looking at."

They began to slowly stroll toward the punch bowl. "It's been awhile since we last talked," Cleo said in a neutral tone. "I think you had planned on interviewing people around here. You still haven't an inkling as to why those two people were murdered?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "We've spent the last two weeks talking to everyone within a five-mile radius."

"How about Granny's interview tape. Any help there?"

"I had hopes for that, but no, she was focused on the past, as you well know. Too far in the past, I believe, to affect the murder of Tom Terrell. It's true she seemed to know who the dead man was from some mysterious source. Even the judge said when she met the old woman she knew someone had died nearby when the rest of you didn't."

"Everyone believed her to be fey, you know. And maybe she was." Cleo said.

"So far I only know that Terrell was to some of the local inhabitants the Walking Man, that some had seen him carrying what looked like painting materials, but none had talked to him. He'd been seen in the area for about six months or so, but he apparently ran away if he saw anyone." He looked around the room again. "Have you noticed the Grigsbys are not here?"

"I suppose this sort of party is not their thing. They seem to prefer jeans and each other."

"I can understand that." He smiled into her eyes. "Actually, we've been looking for them for several days. The sheriff's men discovered an extensive new crop of marijuana in the woods behind their house. He must have just set out the plants. Poor timing that," he laughed, "with cops nosing around everywhere."

"Marijuana! So that's their game! I wondered how they could make a living selling those paltry herbs. But you haven't made an arrest?"

He shook his head. "There's a warrant out. They may have gotten scared and beat it, hoping no one would miss them. Or they may be legitimately out of town."

"Does Alistair know about this?"

Brad shook his head. "I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet."

"Poor Alistair. When so much depends on the good will and trust of so many people, he's betrayed again." Cleo sipped at the wine punch without tasting it. She put the cup down slowly and turned to Brad. "I wonder about the Grigsbys. The Walking Man evidently roamed far and freely. Could he have seen the marijuana and Andy Grigsby seen him?"

"I thought of that. But what does Granny have to do with the Grigsbys and marijuana? Well, it is a sometime medicinal herb, of course. If the two murders are connected, that is. Furthermore, Grigsby must be a real idiot if he thought he could eliminate one source of danger only to bring on a whole raft of bloodhounds and risk discovery from us."

Baby Godbold walked up and joined them. She had gone all out for elegance and drama in a flowing red silk with long full sleeves which buttoned at her surprisingly small wrists. Diamonds glittered on her hands and at her throat. "What about bloodhounds?"

Brad explained and added, "I want to be very careful and say again that the Grigsbys' warrant is for dealing in an illegal substance, not for murder."

Baby nodded. "Yes, I see. You were only speculating that poor Tom Terrell might have spotted the crop. Of course, there's no way of knowing what he saw or where or when he saw it. I wish we could find the rest of his paintings! I am almost convinced that he saw something. Maybe something recent, maybe something from the past. I'm not sure yet."

"From the past?" Brad looked puzzled.

Before Baby could reply, June Collins appeared with a new tray of food. They all complimented her on her buffet.

"It's mainly simple things like ham and biscuits and fruit tarts." She looked hot and fussed. That's all I know since I couldn't go to a French cooking school. I can't do the fancy-fine stuff that you folks most likely expected." Despite her harsh words, she softened her expression and gave them a shy smile so no one should take her remarks personally.

"Nonsense!" said Baby. The others chimed in with their protests. "Your food could grace tables at the Governor's mansion!"

"That's mighty kind of you, Judge." She tilted her head as she glanced at each of them in turn. "You'uns are not like everyone here, though." She moved off, a stolid, strong-looking woman, unnoticed by the crowd.

"She's really quite friendly to me in her café," Cleo said.

Baby continued to watch the woman serving the guests. "Mrs. Collins knows better than anyone the great divide between the gentry from the country people. This place got off to the wrong start, with those English and their class system. Gentlemen's Pool, for Pete's sake." Baby gave a derisive snort. "Did you know, Cleo, that soon after the English settlers arrived, they organized a riding academy and croquet tournaments? And that's just a couple of examples that Alistair mentioned to me that show how oblivious they were to the demands of a wilderness. On the other hand, ancestors of Mrs. Collins were their labor force, ill-paid, unrecognized, and generally ignored. No wonder the settlement failed! I'm very happy to say those English were not my ancestors."

"Do you think," asked Brad with a thoughtful look on his face, "that the differences in privilege here would be enough of a cause for serious resentments to fester into violence?"

"Murder, you mean," said Baby. "Possibly. I wouldn't rule it out as a motive. Of course, there would have to be some personal sense of outrage. Folks usually aren't so ideological-minded that they would go to that extreme for a cause." She grinned. "I haven't yet seen any wild-eyed anarchists running around here, which would be the sort I should imagine would kill for their beliefs or for injustices perpetrated upon them and their ancestors."

"Think of the murder victims, though," said Cleo, "a mental defective and an old, maybe senile, woman. A sick individual might see them as useless or valueless. So in a way, there is some rhyme and reason for their murders by someone just looking to stir up trouble for this community--drive away the new settlers, say."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. However," said Brad, turning to address Baby, "the victims are from both elements of the population, and the methods of killing are different."

"Very different, indeed," the judge responded. "Yet, both seem rather impromptu and one would require only moderate strength, unlike, say, strangling someone. Neither crime employed what we think of as typical weapons of violence like a gun or knife, say. I think Cleo has a point–that the crimes could be related."

"Maybe we should forget murder," beseeched Cleo, "just for one evening?"

Brad and Baby laughed, neither obviously not as troubled by discussions on murder methods as Cleo. Baby was interrupted by Alistair wanting to introduce her to a prospective client who also happened to be a judge from Memphis. Brad and Cleo were left to themselves and moved as if by one will to a secluded corner of the room where a column seemed to shelter them from intrusion by others.

"What about us doing something together next Saturday night?" he suggested in an offhand manner.

Cleo was not surprised by the invitation.

Chapter 25

Brad was on the phone. "I have a few other things to do this afternoon, but I should be able to get back to the motel and get changed by six. Can you be ready by then? It'll take us forty-five minutes to get to Chattanooga, so it might be a good idea to start early."

Cleo smiled to herself. A man after her own heart, planning ahead. Later, she laughingly told Baby about Brad's penchant for planning. "We seem to be on the same wave length. I don't know what to think about that. I've always heard opposites attract, which may be for a very good reason."

Baby, who had been smiling in a reflective sort of way, remarked, "Not at all, Cleo. It is true that we project-oriented types have to work at enjoying the process, but believe me, it doesn't hurt a relationship for friends to have to have a similar outlook about time. My own late husband and I were very alike about such things, and it worked great for us. If you want my opinion, you and the young investigator just may have a future together."

So the judge had given them her blessing! This was not the first time Baby had taken an almost maternal tack with her. Cleo felt pleased that this woman with such sterling credentials that attested to her good judgment approved of the "match."

She couldn't have anticipated their date more if she'd been an anxious teenager. At the appointed time, she was dressed in a pair of navy gabardine slacks and a light blue jacket over a matching camisole and a necklace of pink pearls, a combination she knew to be flattering. Her wait wasn't long, however, and as soon as the little red car appeared., for once with the top down, she ran out to meet him.

"Have you got a scarf? " he asked, opening the door for her. "The ride to town won't be too cold, but it will be breezy. If you'd rather have the top up--"

"No, not at all. I have a scarf, see, and the night is lovely. Let's take advantage of it."

And the evening continued in that vein of light conversation with the added attraction of sexual tension underlying the banter.

They dined, saw a movie, and drove back to Barton in companionable conversation, with confidences on their respective lives. She discovered that like her, he'd never married. He told her that he had come close to marriage while at the University of Tennessee, but after that fell apart and his life became more focused on his career, his chances for romance seemed to have thinned out.

"Dating was out of the question at GW University Law Center, and now my job requires that I be kind of a workaholic, I guess."

"Do you want to make law enforcement a career?"

"Not really. I'm thinking about going into private law practice. I thought at first I might like prosecution, but I've considered civil defense litigation as an interesting field. Of course, this job won't give me the background I need for that kind of law. I'd like to jump ship immediately when I think about this frustrating case here in Barton, but I believe it's useful work, and the better I get to know Judge Godbold, the more convinced I am that it's right to stick it out for a while longer, at least until we get the murders solved."

Cleo nodded. He was sensible, kind, smart--too good to be true? She felt a little worried; had she built a paper man in her mind that would fold up on better acquaintance? What did he think of her? Or did he think of her at all? He had kissed her on the doorstep after their date in a way that made her think he cared. Well, she would just have to quit being schoolgirlish about this and get on with her work. He walked her to the door and kissed her–and she kissed him back with enthusiasm.

The next two weeks passed slowly for Cleo. She was on tenterhooks, for one thing, expecting at any moment to hear of another killing and for another, like a song she couldn't get out of her head, expecting to hear from Brad. But since their date, other than a phone call the next day when he repeated his pleasure in her company and promised to get back with her at his first opportunity, she had not heard a word from him. She'd hoped they would continue to see one another whenever he could squeeze time out from the investigation and his other work. She knew his office was in Nashville, and his work demanded much of him, the inevitable paper work and appearances in court, but still hadn't he given unmistakable signals of interest?

During the course of their acquaintance she'd managed to discover that, like her, he'd never married She was setting a heavy schedule for herself these days, taking copious notes from the material provided by Alistair and beginning to organize those notes into tentative book chapters. On the other hand, she was still leery about going among the locals for more interviews, feeling almost superstitious about probing for more reminiscences from them, as if more ill-fortune might result. Then there were the cautionary words from Baby and Brad. She would need to take great care when she began going out among the hill dwellers. But she wasn't about to do that yet, not quite yet. She would, instead, talk to Charles Robinson this weekend when they were due to come in from Chattanooga. She wasn't quite satisfied that she'd gotten all the information he had to give about the house they were living in.

"I'd like to trail along with you, Cleo," said Baby on Sunday morning at breakfast. "if you don't mind, that is. I promise not to take over the interview." She laughed at Cleo's doubtful look. "I really can keep my mouth shut when I have to. Well, most of the time."

"Of course you can come! I don't mind at all–and you can ask as many questions as you want. As a matter of fact, next week I must begin to get to the Melungeons, as Mrs. Collins calls them, and I insist on your company."

Charles Robinson had evidently been watching a ball game on TV when the two women arrived. Anne was outside gardening while the children played. He still looked exhausted, and Cleo wondered if he was continuing to be plagued by business or maybe money problems, or maybe even ill health. He didn't turn off the TV but merely turned the volume down, an obvious signal to Cleo that he didn't expect them to be there long.

She asked him about his memory of how his family came to acquire the house from Agnes Terrell; he seemed to know little about it. He inherited it from his mother's estate. Cleo asked if he had old photographs of the town or its people or letters that spoke about Barton or the Terrells; he knew of none. Well, now that she mentioned it, he believed he'd saved among his mother's things a letter of thanks written by Agnes. He'd hunt that up and give it to Cleo for her work. Cleo persisted. Had he ever visited the place as a boy? No? How did his family come to buy the house, then?

"My father bought it as a favor to Agnes Terrell who, I think, desperately needed money. She knew we were related, by marriage on my mother's side. I guess she kept up with the genealogy of the family and knew to reach my father in Chattanooga. I don't know what might have happened to her researches. As far as this house, though, no one in my family ever occupied it until Anne and I restored it."

"And," inquired Baby, who had been silently observing all the while and now gave a brief, apologetic glance to Cleo, "where and when did this real estate transaction take place, if I might ask?"

"Oh, it must have been at the local courthouse, in about 1961 or '62, I suppose. I've got the date on the deed, of course, but I didn't think to look it up. Frankly, I can't imagine that my family's acquisition of the property would add much to your book." Cleo squelched her annoyance at his lack of cooperation and asked him to call her with the information. The deed might also have something about the original owners, the Terrell family. Alistair had some material on them, but the deed would be more specific.

"I've been wondering, Charles," said Baby, offhandedly, "did you personally know Tom Terrell, the murder victim?"

He shook his head slowly. "I never set eyes on him. I barely knew he existed. I think my father may have mentioned him, but we never talked about him, as I recall."

"So you didn't try to contact Terrell after your mother died?" the judge went on.

Charles' expression tightened. "I could hardly do that, could I, if I didn't know where he was. And what would have been the point? We weren't really close to that side of the family, you know."

Cleo nodded her understanding and rose from her seat. He'd been right; she didn't need to stay very long to glean anything from him. She thanked him and rose from her chair. In the hall, Baby paused before a framed photograph. It appeared to be the same view of the house in Tom Terrell's painting, only no slender woman stood gaunt and lonely at the front steps. The trees were there, weeping over the chimneys.

"You do have an old photograph of the house, I see," she commented.

Charles looked surprised, embarrassed. "Sorry, I forgot about that. My father took it sometime after he bought it, I guess, and Anne must have put it there. She does the decorating."

He ushered the two women out, but before getting into the car, Cleo saw Baby looking back at the Robinson's house where she, too, saw Robinson still at the door watching them. He quickly closed the door.

On the drive back to Marnie and Guy's, Cleo said, "He seemed a little close-mouthed, didn't you think?"

"Yes, I thought he might have been just tired and uninterested until I saw him staring at us, maybe thinking about something connected with our questions. For my own satisfaction, I'd like to check the office of Deeds and Records at the courthouse, just to see what kind of deal was cut."

"Really? Do you really think poor old Agnes was cheated by Charles's father?"

"Could be. Of course, that may not have much to do with your history, other than to show how depressed this property was in the early sixties."

"Tell me, Judge, is there something else on your mind? Are you thinking we may have heard something that might figure in the murders?"

The older woman shrugged. "I can't rule out anything at this point."

"The more I find out about this place and the people, the more of a puzzle they become."

"That's because you think like an historian, Cleo." She smiled as she spoke. "Information is not all facts and records and even reminiscences. People and their obsessions, that's could be the key to understanding what is really going on here."

Chapter 26

Marnie hung up the receiver and exclaimed, "I can't believe it! Sam Taylor is hosting a barbecue Saturday night. Will wonders never cease!"

"Why?" asked Guy, resettling the Sunday papers on his lap. "What's so unusual about that?"

Cleo and Baby exchanged amused glances.

"Because," Marnie explained patiently, "a single male without much experience in such things rarely entertains for the hell of it."

"Isn't that a bit hard on poor old Sam?" muttered Guy, lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

"How will he manage?" asked Cleo. "Are we to bring anything?"

"No, he said he'd provide it all, and he's having Jincie help out with the cooking and serving."

"Jincie!" cried Cleo with surprise. "Great, we'll probably be treated to barbecued hog lips and chicken feet."

"Now, now," soothed Marnie, "she's not my favorite person, either, but remember, Baby's actually tasted her cooking and said she's pretty good at it. Anyhow, Sam seems to be getting along with her well enough."

Cleo made a wry face, but immediately felt ashamed of her uncharitable attitude toward the motherless girl. What kind of life she must have had! With her half-crazy grandmother and brutish father, no wonder that she too was a bit strange. Actually, it was rather sweet of Sam to pay back those who had treated him. She hoped he would invite Brad, but that might be too much to expect. Not everyone knew, she supposed, that they had been seeing each other. Probably not Sam, who was totally absorbed with his own affairs. She was beginning to wonder if Brad had merely taken advantage of the local opportunities when he asked her out. Now she was afraid that without any progress he would soon be putting the case in the cold files, so perhaps she'd never see him again.

"I suppose Sam thinks it might be good advertising, too," said Baby, "to introduce folks to the winery. He's a very methodical sort of person. This is probably all part of his master plan. We can expect the Grand Opening in about October."

Everyone agreed, chuckling over Sam Taylor's determined pursuit of success.

"Too bad the English settlers didn't have that kind of perseverance and industry," commented Cleo. "They tried wine-making, too, as well as a canning factory. The only thing that remained from their tries are the labels that Alistair has. Beautiful ones for the wine, called Bishop's Hill, and hundreds and hundreds of tomato labels for tomatoes that never got canned."

"I wonder what Sam's label will be," asked Marnie.

"Barton's been taken," said Guy from behind his paper.

"So has Taylor's," laughed Judge Godbold.

"I've got it," said Cleo, "Ridge Redeye!"

After she uttered the words, Cleo thought of the Eye of the Sun, Redeye, again shrinking as from an unpleasant reminder. This aversion she felt to the local superstitions was getting hold of her. She must shake it or she'd have to do her work from Nashville. "Maybe," she continued, "he'll announce his label at the party."

Monday morning Cleo stayed at home writing, but that evening at dinner she asked Baby if she'd like to go with her to see the Hattler Trents. She had found that the Trents had been here for nearly 150 years, and she hoped this family might have some stories or documents to share. She had called and made an appointment for the next morning. Baby seemed pleased to be asked.

As they stepped out of the house that Tuesday morning, Cleo gasped and pointed at the lawn.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Baby.

A dead dog was pinned to the ground by a long, sharp stick driven through its body.

"How horrible," Cleo whispered. "Who could have done such a thing and why?"

The judge was looking at the lawn surrounding the dog's body. "I don't know. Either it's a sick kid trying out a bad joke, or our murderer is warning someone to back off."

"Back off what?"

Baby shook her head. "I'm not sure. I'm also not sure who is being warned--you, maybe with your interviews, or me because of my interest in crime, or Marnie and Guy because they are living here now." She stepped closer in an effort to examine the animal.

"This would let the Grigsbys off, anyhow," Cleo said, remaining on the sidewalk. "They're still out of town and missing, the last I heard from Brad."

"If they're still missing, they could have come here last night, thinking the cops had quit hanging around, which in fact they have." She bent over the dog, small, brown, and pathetic looking in death. "Killed first, of course, by some not-so-obvious method, maybe poisoned food or strangulation. At least there's no blood from this wound."

"We need to call the Sheriff at once," Cleo said with a shudder. "Someone needs to clean this up and also get it on record."

Later, after the local police removed the dog's body and departed, Baby suggested they start out again for the Trents'.

"Really?" said Cleo. "After this?"

"Of course. Now more than ever do we want to get acquainted with our neighbors."

The Trent house was one of a cluster near the Goins' on yet another trail that led from the road. Cleo's car could barely make it over the ruts, and if another car had approached, she guessed they'd have to decide who would back up. At least this trail led directly to the house, more or less, and she could pull up alongside the front gate to a long expanse of rough lawn and scraggly bushes. They protected the house from any prying eyes near the drive. Like many houses of the old settlers, the Trents' place was more a cabin, its front porch a cluttered catch-all of old furniture, plants, crockery dishes, and tools.

Hattler Trent was not at home, but his wife Millie let them in, saying that he was out cutting wood and wouldn't return until lunchtime. "He done told me to let you'uns see whatever we have on hand, and what I kin give you by mouth."

"Does he cut wood for a living?" asked Cleo, after settling in a chair and taking out her notebook.

"Yes'm, he does that and farms somewhat, a piece of bottom land." She smoothed a stray dark lock that had escaped from a pony tail. Her face showed wear marks of maturity, but Cleo could hear small children chattering somewhere in the house.

"I understand that this land has been in the hands of the Trents for a long time. Are you from around here, too, Mrs. Trent?"

"Yes'm, my family come from over the next ridge to the east. We was Vardemans, the Fly-by-night Vardemans, not the family in the upper ridge that is so prominent."

"Ah," said Cleo, scribbling. "And have you any old papers from your family or Mr. Trent's, any photographs, that you might let me see?"

Mrs. Trent went to a bureau in the corner and rummaged in a drawer. She came back with a large paper envelope and a box. "Will we be in a book, you say?"

"You bet. I have a contract for it, and all I need to do is finish it so it can be published."

"Wall, that's fine, yes, ma'am." She thrust the material at Cleo. "You can look up the old folks in this here stuff. Last winter I had went through and put names on the pictures. There's a deed in the box and some other stuff I don't reckon I know much about. Have what you will, but I'll say we kindly need it back sometime."

Cleo assured her she'd guard it well and return it promptly.

"Tell me," Judge Godbold remarked casually, "have you a dog, Mrs. Trent?"

The woman looked surprised by the question, but answered, "Yes'm, we do. But it took missin' this weekend. He's probably after some female," she laughed.

"Is it a light brown shorthair, young and rather small than large?"

Mrs. Trent nodded with a frown. "Have you run up on him?"

Baby explained some of the circumstances of the dog's appearance in the Godbold's yard, omitting the stake through its body.

"Dead!" the woman exclaimed. "I can't imagine what from. It weren't sick, nor even old, just a randy pup we picked up on the road," she said. "Or it picked us, I should say. I guess we're out a dog for the time being. Sue Ella and James'll be right disappointed."

Cleo thought she took the loss of a pet lightly, but then they obviously hadn't had it long either.

Mr. Trent came in and talked for a while to Cleo, claiming direct ancestry to a part-white Indian chieftain named Willow Jack McHenry. His great-grandmother had moved with her family at the time of the Trail of Tears to the hills instead of Oklahoma as President Jackson had ordered.

"That's how she come to be here. 'Course, she married my great-grandpap who was already livin' here. I don't know when he and his people come. He was white, though, not Indian or colored like the law said he was. But his land was so far in the hills he wasn't bothered none by nobody."

This was a twist on a now familiar story, and Cleo took names and dates eagerly. She got so engrossed in the stories she nearly forgot the dog episode. Only after she and the judge left and were seated in the car, did it come to her with a sickish remembering.

"How did you guess that the dog in question was their dog?"

"I didn't know, you're right, but I guessed from looking at what might have been dog's dishes on the front porch. Let's go home now and see if Brad is coming in from Nashville because of this latest incident."

"I wasn't expecting to see him at all this week. I know he had several things going on. He told me he'd call later."

"You like him, don't you, Cleo?"

Cleo nodded, carefully executing the narrow drive. The car seemed to be a little hard to steer.

"I do, and the more I know him, the better I like him." Now on the road, she definitely felt a pull on the wheel.

Judge Godbold said, "I think we may have a flat. If you'll stop, I'll get out and see."

"Oh, dear," cried Cleo. "That darned trail we were on. I probably picked up a nail or glass or something."

Between the two of them, they thought they could change a tire. "Now, aren't you glad I came along," laughed Baby. "I've done this a few times in my life, but it has been awhile, and I was a bit younger."

No cars came along to help them. Eventually, they wrestled the spare in place and secured it. "I wonder how we managed that?" said Cleo, pleased.

"Let's haul that old tire to the service station and have them repair it if they can. I'll be interested to know why it was flat."

The report from the service station attendant surprised Cleo.

"Cut? You mean deliberately slashed?"

The attendant turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice downwind. "I can't say if'n it was, and I can't say if'n it wasn't. I know when I sees a cut, though."

Back in the car, Baby said with concern, "I think these misfortunes are coming too close together."

Chapter 27

Brad called Cleo from Nashville on Thursday, ostensibly to discuss the episode of the dog, but she quickly, nervously, told him about her tire. He said nothing for a moment.

"Do you think there might be a connection to the dog?" she asked during the pause.

"Yes, and I'm not quite sure why all of a sudden we're seeing a rash of malicious mischief." He sighed. "Usually, I have very little emotional reaction to criminal activities. I've been trained to remain detached, but I'm really getting concerned about you. Since it was your car that was involved, I expect you're the target, but I had no idea you'd be singled out by someone still in the area. You're not really part of that community; you're virtually a visitor, so why are you being warned off?"

"I know," she said in a small voice. "Judge Godbold and I have talked about it, and I can only think my prying into local history has disturbed the killer. But what I have found out, or what I may find out is still the unanswered question."

"I'm driving down tomorrow," he said decisively. "I'll see you then. Take care--I mean it!" He rang off.

Cleo gave a shrug She wondered how she was to protect herself, short of locking herself in her room. With a job to do, she had to get out and around. Brad was good to caution her, but she would have liked a more intimate approach, irrational as that was at this stage of their relationship. But, apparently, when it came to murder or danger, he was all business. She wished fervently he would come up with the person responsible--and fast. How could she reasonably expect to continue her work, in fact, until these crimes were solved?

Marnie seemed to be working herself into a frenzy. "I won't let you go gallivanting all over with a murderer on the loose! I feel responsible--after all, I was the one who practically insisted you come here to write."

"You didn't twist my arm that tightly," Cleo laughed. The three women were again on the patio the hour before lunch. Brad is coming tomorrow, Brad is coming tomorrow, sang a voice in Cleo's head, a normally cool head, she reminded herself, but one that now had been quite definitely turned. Even the worrying situation, the concern about her own safety could not dampen the warm glow that suffused her when she thought of him.

"Of course, Baby, it may be you being warned off," said Marnie teasingly. "You were riding in Cleo's car, and maybe the 'perpetrator,' as the police say, thought it was yours. The dog could have been for any of us. You're the one who suggested it's Cleo they're after."

Baby nodded slowly and said, "I called Alistair and asked him about the significance, if any, about a dog thrown in the yard that way. He said it was some sort of curse or warning, as we expected." She leaned her head against the back of the chair and gazed thoughtfully upward as if at the surrounding trees or the sky. Her skin was beginning to sag slightly near the deep creases around her mouth and jaw. Her eyes were nestled in laugh lines.

Cleo thought the judge an intriguing combination of looks, manner and interests. No one could appear less self-conscious, almost without vanity, yet her clothes made a pretty clear statement about her awareness of line and color and personal style, eccentric as that might be. She rarely shopped, she claimed, but bought clothes and accessories on impulse, usually on her travels. She had never commented about her good pieces of jewelry except to say, if asked, that one piece or another was a gift from her husband or a family piece.

She was forthright to the point of bluntness, yet her mind seemed to be engaged in some deeper-level activity that excluded others. And then there was her keenness on crime. She seemed a peaceable, kind lady, in the best sense of that out-dated word. She could hardly be called bloodthirsty or even salacious in her obvious interest in these crimes, yet she positively glowed when considering her favorite topic.

"Here's a thought," suggested Cleo. "Why don't we hike over to the Gentlemen's Pool after lunch and I'll show you a secret place."

"Oh, no you don't!" exclaimed Marnie. "You stay put till these murders are solved!"

"Now who would attack me with two bodyguards, and besides, how do you know the criminal is the one who's playing these tricks? It might boil down to the antics of a back country practical joker."

"I don't know who it is, but we shouldn't take chances, don't you agree, Baby?"

Baby had been relaxing with closed eyes, but she seemed to awaken magically to life. "I think your plan to visit the pool is an excellent idea, Cleo. We need a diversion, and I can't believe even a maniac would take on three women in broad daylight."

"You don't have to go, Marnie, if you don't want to," offered Cleo.

"If you all go, then so do I!" Her auburn curls shook with the determination in her voice. "Of course, I'll take my cell phone. Sometimes I can get a signal."

They set off after a leisurely lunch. At Cleo's suggestion they wore boots and jeans or heavy twill pants. "The weeds and bushes have come out a lot since I was there before, and the going was rough then."

They began their descent on the faint path to one side of the church where Cleo remembered it. Now, later in the growing season, it was barely discernible. They were nearly out of range of the village when they heard a car chugging down Main Street, and turning, they noticed an old green Volkswagon Beetle. They saw the sharp features and long hair of Andy Grigsby through his car window. The women looked at each other in amazement.

"I'm sure they must have been off on a perfectly innocent trip," said Marnie, laughing.

"They may have been innocent of running away," said Baby, grasping a low tree branch for support as the path steepened, "but I question how innocent their pursuits on this trip were." She turned back to the path to follow Cleo. "They must be fools, thinking they could pass themselves off as herbalists. The law will pounce on them like rats on cheese."

Down the incline, despite rocks, stumps, and fallen branches, the three women kept up a good pace. At the faint sound of rushing water, Cleo stopped in mid-stride, holding up her hand. "Listen, the water cataracts over a rocky ledge. We can just hear it. Come this way."

They stepped into the small clearing high above the pool. The waterfall to their right was like a moving scrim behind which the cave entrance was barely visible. Cleo led them on the path that went behind and through the waterfall.

"I wouldn't have believed we could get here without getting soaked," said Marnie.

"Beautiful!" Baby cried, looking around the natural room they had entered. She walked around the sides, examining the walls and then moved toward the back of the cave, carefully treading on the rough floor. Marnie and Cleo were looking out onto the pool.

"You girls ought to see this!" Baby's voice echoed eerily. "There are some weird formations back here. I wish I had a flashlight." She was quiet for a moment and then called in an urgent voice, "Come here, both of you!" They saw she had gone behind a ledge which was part of another cave-like entrance.

"Oh, Baby," cried Marnie, clutching Cleo's arm, "don't go any farther!"

Emerging into the light, Judge Godbold was puffing a little as she clambered down onto the main floor of the cave. She had a large box in her arms which she handed to Cleo. "I think we may have found the missing articles that belonged to Tom Terrell."

"This is exciting." said Cleo, lugging the box toward the lighter area near the waterfall. "Now aren't you glad you came?" she asked Marnie. Cleo saw a small, fold-up easel sticking out of one end of the box. Opening the sides of the box further, she saw that canvasses had been stacked carefully to either side, most of them already painted.

Baby knelt beside the box and pulled out a paper bag which contained brushes, tubes of paint in a lidded can, and turpentine. A small duffel bag completed the inventory. Judge Godbold looked up at Cleo and Marnie gleefully. "We've hit the jackpot!"

"I wonder how long it took him to paint all those pictures," Cleo murmured. Baby pulled out some canvas gloves from her pocket, which she had used to grapple her way through the underbrush and began removing the canvases while Cleo and Marnie looked on.

"They all seem much in the same style," Cleo said, "as the paintings at the Library."

Baby nodded. "We don't want to disturb any fingerprints, but I think we might examine a few of them a little more closely." She took a couple of paintings nearer the opening and held them to the light. "You know," she said, "I'm reminded of Winslow Homer. I sense that same kind of disturbing reality in them. What do you think?"

Marnie nodded vehemently. "Yes. The trees are accurate enough, but they still are weird. Look at that one!" She pointed to the larger canvas that depicted an overview of the Gentlemen's Pool. "The light is so funny. Why, he might have been up here where we are."

Cleo agreed. The scene had a peculiar greenish cast; a quiet scene that yet gripped the viewer with a threatening presence. The small stream that was egress to the pool wandered off the canvas, showing the painter's intrinsic eye for composition. In the dead center, however, Cleo pointed out a large area that was strangely smeared and blank, out of context with the rest of the carefully detailed painting. "What happened there, I wonder?"

"I expect he changed his mind about something," said Baby, "and decided to repaint it. I understand painters do that sort of thing all the time." She started to replace the pictures in the box, but then pulled out another canvas. Marnie and Cleo gasped.

"Good God!" exclaimed Cleo. "It's been purposely cut!"

"And it's from the same angle or point of view as the other one." Judge Godbold spoke in a thoughtful tone. "Well, nothing more we can learn now. We'll let Brad take a look at this as soon as possible." She carefully folded over the sides of the box to seal it.

Cleo shook her head wonderingly. "I knew you'd like this place, but I didn't dream we'd ever stumble on anything so important. Come closer to the edge and see this."

The women moved cautiously toward the spraying water, a wide, thin curtain gleaming before them in the afternoon sun. Cleo pointed at the rock floor.

"What's this?" Baby stooped to look more closely at the splashes of color on the ledge. She scraped at it with her nail. "Paint, of course."

"I noticed that when I was here with Alistair; I thought it was an unlikely looking mineral deposit. I'm sorry to say paint never occurred to me."

"Look," said Baby, standing up and peering out, "we can see the pool so clearly. From outside, the water is like a screen, but from in here with the reflection of the sun it's more a glass. She turned to Cleo. "Alistair showed you this place?"

Cleo nodded. "He acted as though the locals didn't know or care about it."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"Hey, haven't we been here long enough? " said Marnie, her voice edging toward panic. "I think we're too vulnerable in this spot. Someone could come along and trap us in here--shove us over the edge." She shivered.

The other two gave each other amused looks. "I believe in taking precautions, dear," said Baby, "but not in imagining the preposterous. Can you picture anyone spending the day here, just waiting for unsuspecting strangers to wander into this secret place?" She shook her head at Marnie. "Not very likely."

"I don't care. This place spooks me. Let's get back to civilization."

"I can hardly wait to take a closer look at the contents of the box, but I guess we'll have to wait until Brad shows up." Baby grabbed one end and Marnie the other. "You lead the way out, Cleo."

Oddly, Cleo felt no fear, as if the benign presence of Baby Godbold was protection enough. Or perhaps she was becoming more reconciled to the wildness, more attuned to the sighing trees and singing water. True, she wouldn't have ventured here alone, but now, in this place, she felt safe.

Chapter 28

Carrying the box between them, Baby and Marnie followed Cleo through the narrow passage behind the waterfall to the path outside and began the laborious climb back. As they wound their way through the dense foliage, Cleo suddenly stopped and held up her hand.

"Listen! I hear something moving through the woods, quite near us, too."

"Oh, my God," quaked Marnie, setting down her end of the box with a thud.

"Let's just wait here then," advised Baby.

Slightly above them, the trail zig-zagged, and Alistair suddenly came into view through the greenery.

"Hello!" cried Cleo, relief giving her voice a sharp edge. "We wondered who would be out here. Thank heavens it was you."

"Ladies, I'm charmed but a little surprised. What's the idea of setting foot in this wilderness by yourselves? And after being warned, too." He gave a chiding cluck with his tongue. Dressed like an ad for Town and Country, he wore jodhpurs and boots and a designer chambray shirt with a silk scarf tucked into the throat. Cleo thought they might have asked him the same question but then remembered he frequently haunted these woods for exercise either on foot or sometimes on horseback as he most likely had been doing earlier today.

"I just wanted to show them the Gentlemen's Pool and the secret waterfall room," she said airily.

"Not much of secret now, eh?" He came up smiling beside Cleo and pointed at the box. "What have you got there? Not your lunch, I suppose."

Everyone laughed, rather nervously, Cleo thought. She and Marnie looked at Baby who gave a dismissing wave of her hand and said, "Actually, yes. We thought we might have a picnic, but Marnie decided the bugs and snakes might join in, so we're turning around. Maybe the patio is better after all."

He didn't question their unusual picnic basket as he hoisted it to his shoulder and began to lead the way up the trail.

"I'm sorry if I betrayed your own hidden place." Cleo followed him closely. Preying on her mind was the suspicion that the box may have smelled of paint. Thank heavens cardboard was a good insulator. The painter, too, had been neat, and no paint was smeared around the outside of the box.

"Not at all. Maybe we should commercialize it for tourists. 'See the spectacular waterfall room, high above a secret pool.'"

Everyone agreed it had possibilities.

"Have you spent much time at the pool yourself lately?" called the judge from the rear.

"A little. It is a marvelous natural feature, you know," he said, puffing a little from the uphill climb, "and rather pleasant in this mild weather . . . for solitary contemplation. I suppose . . . it's not good for much else . . . except pole fishing and the brave soul who wants to swim in seclusion. I don't recall . . . seeing anyone from around here . . . swimming, however."

They parted from him near the library, he transferring the box to Cleo and Marnie's arms and watching them as they trudged along toward the road that led to the Godbolds'.

"This is not that heavy," Cleo said, "but it's damned awkward to hang onto."

"Why didn't we tell Alistair about it?" asked Marnie.

"Because," explained Baby, "the fewer people who know about where it was found, the better the likelihood of not alerting the real culprit. I will, of course, call Brad as soon as we get home so he can get to examining it. How lucky we are that he's planning a trip here tomorrow. I'm eager to hear what can be found."

"You mean we can't look at the contents until he gets hold of it?" Marnie asked. "Why not, for heavens sake? I think we deserve more than a peek after what we've done."

"We'll get another look when he comes," Baby said confidently, climbing a hill behind the others, "but we mustn't contaminate evidence." Although they passed houses, some of which were occupied, they saw no one about.

"Oh, evidence. I see." Marnie shifted the box higher in her arms as the trio reached level ground.

"So you think," Cleo asked, "the killer tampered with these materials?" She glanced back at their awkward burden as if she might see the imprint of a killer.

"It's only logical, isn't it?" Baby was smiling. "We can safely say that the artist would never cut up his canvas. I'm not sure, however, that he was the one who smeared out something recently painted. That may have been done by his killer, who could have been in his view when he painted that scene, or it might have been someone else, someone we've not considered."

"What about Alistair?" Cleo asked. "He was the one who showed me the waterfall cave. Speaking of logical, doesn't it make sense that he knew about the box being hidden there?"

"I suppose he could have known," Baby agreed. "But it's more logical to my way of thinking that he knew the place so well, he would never have investigated further. That's if he's innocent, of course. If he's the guilty one, his showing you the place and calling it a secret might have been a way to deflect its importance. It would have been his bad luck that you decided to show the place to us and that I'm naturally nosy."

"How can we ever know?" said Marnie wistfully as they rounded the corner that led toward her house.

"All will be made clear eventually," Baby said. "That I promise. One way or another, the culprit will be found. So far he or she has left no telling evidence behind. That may have been a lucky accident, of course, and not planned at all. We're in an environment that lends itself to obfuscation and secret goings-on. But justice will prevail."

"I'm glad to hear it," Cleo said, "from someone as experienced as yourself. You think the killer will eventually make a mistake?"

The judge seemed to muse on the question for a minute. "I'm not sure if mistake is the right word. I'm convinced something mysterious, a force of some kind is driving this person. When we have a clearer notion of what that is, we can possibly lay a trap. Sometimes, that's the only way to solve a crime when hard evidence is lacking."

"But finding the art supplies and paintings might be very helpful, right?" asked Cleo hopefully.

"If not with fingerprints and other clues, yes, maybe what we found will point us in the right direction as to motive."

Without questioning her further, Cleo wondered if Baby had already formed a preliminary judgment about who might have stashed the box of supplies. Would that have necessarily been the killer? What if someone came along behind, shortly after the murder and suspected, rightly, who had done the deed, and wishing to protect the killer's identity had taken the paintings away? Nothing seemed simple the more Cleo thought about it. She marveled that the judge seemed so calm and so sure that justice, indeed, would prevail.

Chapter 29

Brad arrived shortly after ten on Friday morning to see the new evidence. He carefully unpacked the box using protective gloves. "Where exactly did you find this?"

"In a cave behind the waterfall at the Gentlemen's Pool," answered Cleo. "Alistair had showed me the place soon after I arrived at Barton."

Brad shook his head. "I think you all should use a little more caution in your rambles. That's a pretty remote place, you know. Don't forget we still have a murderer on the loose and presumably in the area."

Baby started to protest, then shrugged and watched Brad arrange the paintings.

"I know it must have been a great temptation to tear into this box. I appreciate it that you gals didn't touch any of this." The women looked at each other guiltily. "We might be able to get some fingerprints, but don't hold your breath. I'd think even the most unsophisticated type knows about touching a smooth surface like a painting without gloves. And it's notoriously difficult to get anything from cardboard."

There were eight paintings of various sizes, which he positioned against the fireplace. He opened the newspaper-wrapped parcel which contained painter's supplies and some other small tools. A paper sack was stuffed with paint-smeared rags. Brad loosened the top of a little canvas duffle bag and pulled out shaving gear, a few undergarments, canned goods with a can opener and plastic spoons and forks. There were no cooking utensils. "I think it's safe to say he didn't make any fires to cook food."

He then turned his attention to the paintings, which Judge Godbold had already begun to re-examine more closely. Most were small canvasses, under sixteen inches, but the two showing the Gentlemen's Pool were about sixteen by twenty inches.

All the paintings were similar in subject matter, to Baby's eyes. Not bad art work, she thought again, all landscapes of the area, but any clues that might be in the paintings themselves seemed maddeningly elusive. Brad crouched beside the judge, both looking with interest at the mutilated painting.

"What do you make of that?" she asked, pointing to the damage. "And that?" She indicated the painting with the large spot that had been wiped clean.

"I suspect someone besides the artist did that. It seems too coincidental that he was killed and his work was too, in a sense. Particularly with the box of supplies hidden like it was, this defacement seems the work of the perpetrator. The question is why? What had Terrell painted that needed to be obliterated?"

"I wonder if any tests or restoration could be done," suggested Cleo, "that would reveal the original subject."

Brad held one up to the light. "The paint was thoroughly doused with mineral spirits. We may never know what had to be wiped out."

"Yet somehow I believe we will," murmured Baby. She moved on to look at the other paintings, exclaiming occasionally in approval of the artist's technique. "I think he might have had a career if he'd been taken over by someone who knew how to help him. He obviously has had some training."

"Can you detect anything in the other, undamaged pieces," Brad asked the group at large, "anything that might show what his sister meant by his 'seeing' more than others?"

But no one could offer any insights. "I expect she was merely a very proud sister," said Marnie.

Judge Godbold rose to her feet awkwardly. "I wonder why these things hadn't gone the way of the murder weapon, probably at the bottom of the pool. That's suggestive in itself, isn't it." She was beginning to believe, as she had mentioned earlier, that the paintings were more than a revealing record; in fact, they might be considered a talisman. Something had to explain why they were not completely destroyed.

Brad nodded as he re-packed the box. "Maybe the murderer wasn't the culprit here." Turning to Cleo he invited her to ride with him to the Sheriff's office. "I'll let them keep this stuff until I can get them back to our forensic experts to go over the box and contents." He smiled at her as if they were alone and not being observed by two interested women. "But first, you show me the cave, and then we can have lunch in Monteagle. I know a pretty decent place there."

Cleo's face lit up with pleasure. "I'll just get my purse and be with you in a minute."

While Cleo was upstairs, Baby mentioned her interest in checking out the birth records of Alistair's father and her intention to visit the county courthouse to see what the Robinsons' purchase of the Terrell house looked like. "I'm not necessarily expecting anything to come from that," she explained, "but I like to tie up the loose ends. Charles Robinson was not very helpful, and Cleo and I thought he might have taken more interest in his property's history."

"Good thinking," Brad said approvingly. "I'm appreciative of any efforts you make on behalf of this puzzling case. Call me if you need any of the Bureau's services for your investigation and I'll get right on it. I wish I could devote myself to this case full time, but my chief has practically relieved me of duty here. It'll take something pretty important to move the case out of the cold files. Just be careful not to put yourselves in jeopardy."

"Don't worry," Baby assured him, "I'll keep you apprised of any developments. I've never wanted to be a lone wolf in my prowlings. It's always wise to have backup, and as far as that goes, the local sheriff is a good man and has offered his help if necessary."

Cleo re-entered the room with fresh makeup and her hair neatly tied in a pony tail. She had slipped on a pair of loafers and changed her shirt. She gave a cheerful wave to the two women as she sailed out of the room ahead of Brad, who was carrying the box on his shoulder.

"I half expect her to call and tell me she'll see us Monday morning," said Marnie after the door closed behind them. "It looks serious to me." She straightened some magazines on a table by the hearth and rubbed the table with a dust cloth. The woman who regularly came to clean had not shown up, so Marnie had gotten out her cleaning supplies and was going through the house like a whirlwind. Baby offered to clean her own room and the upstairs bath, but Marnie declined her help.

"No, you find something else to do. If I'm to get this done before Guy comes in, I'll want no distractions. Scoot!" she said, with a shoving motion of her hands.

"All right. I have some phone calls to make and then I might take off for the county courthouse after I get some lunch at the café. This is as good a time as any to check some records I've been meaning to look into. I'll be back later this afternoon." She headed upstairs to the phone.

First calling the records office of the county where Granny had claimed to have given birth, Baby gave her name and asked the for the County Clerk. This county was adjacent to Baby's own, and she had had many occasions to get information from the Clerk. The woman greeted her with enthusiasm and the two chatted a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries. Then getting down to business, the official took the information needed to check for the child's birth record. The judge knew Granny's maiden name from Cleo's interview and the date she gave for the delivery. The information was soon forthcoming, faster and easier than Baby might have expected.

"We're now totally computerized," the Clerk announced proudly when Baby complimented the speed with which she returned the information.

The woman, Marthy June Givens, had had a male child, father unnamed. The next step was to check the death certificate in the county where Alistair's father had most likely died. It would give his birth date and county as required information. It was either that or a call to Alistair, explaining her need to check Granny's story, which she didn't want to do. But this query would mean a trip to the local county courthouse, which suited her plans to find out more about the sale of the Terrell house to the Robinsons.

On the way out of town she concentrated on finding the right road that would lead to the county seat, following a map, not a difficult task. The county seat had been relegated to the hinterlands long ago as the area, except for Alistair's efforts, was virtually undeveloped. Her research might prove fruitless, but Charles Robinson had been a little fuzzy about the details of his father's purchase of his house. Something about the deed didn't ring quite true for Baby, and she wouldn't be satisfied until she looked up the record of that transaction.

Chapter 30

The courthouse was fairly new for this part of the country–a bare hundred years old and sat, not in the middle of the grassy square, but with a short frontage, as if the county fathers had thought it needed room to expand behind. It never had, and even now its small bulk with the stubby clock tower looked half vacant. Baby parked her car between the nose-in parking lines. Three other cars were off to one side in a row, presumably those of the court house employees.

Inside, the place seemed more vast than it was because of its emptiness. Baby's footsteps echoed on the marble floor as in a great hall. She found the records office and asked for information on deeds dating from the early sixties and for death records of Alistair's father a decade later. The clerk stifled an exclamation of impatience but only commented that they were all in the archives and she would need a few minutes to dig them out. Baby gave the woman her card and a disarming smile, both of which had their effect. The clerk gave Baby an embarrassed nod toward her desk. "Sorry to be so abrupt, Judge, but I'm the only one here today, so I'm trying to do three jobs at once."

"I really do appreciate this. It's an important matter, otherwise I wouldn't have bothered you." She took a chair and leaning her head against the wall, closed her eyes, instantly relaxed. This ability to rest herself, no matter where or when, she considered her secret weapon, her salvation. Others had underestimated her because of her busy schedule or now her age, but she knew she could always emerge from these brief rests refreshed and invigorated.

Staggering under the load of a cardboard box with a large envelope on top, the clerk came out from the inner recesses after fifteen minutes. No one else had entered the office. Baby had never been in one of these tiny rural courthouses, and she couldn't help comparing it to the teeming Nashville center of justice that had been so much a part of her life. Judges here would not have to officially retire to have an easy life.

"Thanks so much. Tell me where I can go to sort through this."

Directed to an adjacent empty office, Baby spread out the materials on a large mahogany table designed for an age of more enduring values. The death certificate was the easiest since they were organized by decade alphabetically and in the envelope she found the Walker record without any trouble. The birth date checked out and she nodded with satisfaction. So Granny's story was accurate.

Concerning the property information, she found what she was looking for within twenty minutes of shuffling through packets of deeds and scrutinizing those records. As she expected, the Terrell-Robinson real estate deal was not a Quit-claim Deed. Charles Robinson, Sr. had taken over the property with a rather strange life estate proviso; he could not sell it or transfer ownership as long as either Agnes or her brother were alive. If the deed holder's death preceded the deaths of the other two, the property was to be returned to the survivors or survivor. Well! This arrangement presented a tempting opportunity for perfidy. Baby studied the document for several more minutes and made some notes.

The question was–did Charles Robinson know of his father's unusual real estate transaction and ultimately how Tom Terrell was cheated?

Chapter 31

The night of the barbecue was hot and dry for mid-June in the foothills. No rain for several weeks had baked the earth and dried the weeds and grasses surrounding the winery to hay-like tinder. Sam had earlier hosed down a grassy area behind his house that lay under a grove of hickory trees. Luckily, thought Judge Godbold, as she watched some late arrivals pull up the drive in a cloud of dust, the slight southwesterly breeze blew the gravel detritus away from them and the food.

Baby knew that Sam had called Cleo earlier in the week and pointedly asked if she would like to bring a guest. She also knew that Marnie had put him up to it. Cleo had called Brad at his Nashville number and invited him, so it was convenient for him to spend Friday night at a local motel. The two of them had sat out on the Godbolds' patio until long after the others had gone to bed. The next evening he'd picked Cleo up at the Godbolds' to take her to the barbecue. Baby saw them standing together talking to their host with Cleo looking radiant, wearing a butter yellow Hawaiian shirt and matching slacks. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face with combs, setting off her high cheekbones and blue eyes.

Judge Godbold recognized some of the guests at the party to be the newcomers of Barton: the Humphreys, the Robinsons, and the old couple whose name no one could ever remember. There were also some new faces. She discovered they, upon introductions, to be from out of Sam's past, mainly dentists and their wives. His brother Richard had come from Knoxville with his wife in tow. A small group, composed of Baby, the Godbolds, the Humphreys, and Anne and Charles Robinson, stood in a small circle, speculating about the Grigsbys' arrest.

"So far, the charge is for producing an illegal substance," said Baby. "I expect they're busy trying to prove they were growing it for their own use and not for resale. I haven't heard if it's their first offense." She had decided to get decked out with a Southwestern theme this evening. She wore a costume purchased some while back in New Mexico--a white, peasant-style blouse with embroidered designs of dancing figures and a fuchsia gauze skirt which grazed her ankles. Beautifully tooled huaraches, not quite as comfortable as she had hoped, completed the effect. She tugged now and then at a wide green sash that kept thinning to a binding rope of ribbon.

"I don't think the Grigsbys will get off very easy," scoffed Guy, "when they're running a mail order herb business. I bet their records have been confiscated and their customers rounded up. Huh-uh, they'll throw the book at them." He glanced at Brad a little distance away and lowered his voice. "I noticed drug officials were burning the crop yesterday when I drove by."

"Yes," Baby nodded, "while I admire their zeal, I was somewhat concerned because of the drought. But I understand they'd asked for the fire department's water truck to stand by."

"Are the Grigsbys . . .what do you call it . . . prime suspects, do you think, in the murders?" asked Marnie. She kept moving her feet from time to time, trying to keep her heels from sinking too far into the deep grass and now softer earth.

Looking at her niece-in-law in her slim, pink linen dress made Judge Godbold sigh wistfully. How lucky some women were, being able to wear tight clothes and not look from behind like pigs fighting in a sack. She'd had to face the unpleasant truth years ago–she'd inherited her father's large frame and was inclined toward plenty of flesh to cover it.

"That's an interesting question" she said in answer to Marnie. "If they are, Brad and his boys are playing it close to the vest. Any suggestion that they may have done the deeds themselves or ordered the killings, as payment, say, for drugs would put them at risk of prosecution under the Kingpin law--a capital offense. Then again, we haven't heard if they are or they aren't the prime suspects." She nodded at Alistair who had just joined the circle.

"Did I hear you talk about murder suspects?" he asked with an easy smile.

"Isn't it possible," Mr. Humphreys said, "that maybe the Walking Man in his rambles and Granny Goin with her herb knowledge spotted the crop and had to be dealt with? If the Grigsbys really had a cash crop, it might have been worth the risk to kill them."

Baby nodded her head. "Oh, yes, it's possible. Money is one of the most popular motives for violent crimes. But somehow, I still feel that the passionate impulse is the clue to these murders. We're all familiar with those seamy reasons of profit, revenge, or double-cross that drug dealers are so famous for. They especially are ruthless if someone outside the operation stumbles upon it and threatens it. But even if the Grigsbys were somehow trying to protect their interests, they must have been small-time operators. Maybe they really were growing for their own use. At this point all we can do is speculate, but they aren't my favorite suspects."

"Very interesting theory," said Charles Robinson. "I wish you'd go on. What's your profile, then, on the murderer?"

"I don't exactly have a profile, but I will say that it's apparent to me that the murderer is trying desperately to hang onto something that represents life and breath." She said no more about her speculations. It was not her practice to give away ideas that came to her before they could be checked out. She had no wish to be thought a rumor-monger. In fact, her mind kept going back to the Terrell house sale and the terms of the contract. Poor Agnes thought she'd come up with the ideal plan to always protect her brother if anything happened to her first. The sale price was abysmally low, but probably the best she could expect from this depressed area at the time. Altogether, it hadn't worked out the way she'd planned, and that thought was a disturbing one. She probably believed she could manage their few assets, but she knew the money would eventually run out for her younger brother. The deed proviso was her best bet.

Suddenly, the discussion was interrupted by Jincie who approached the group, gingerly balancing a tray of drinks and looking more presentable than usual this evening. She had on a flowered cotton sun dress which showed to advantage her mature figure. Without hesitation she went up to Alistair and nudged him gently. Judge Godbold was next to them and saw Alistair turn quickly and say in an harsh undertone to the girl, "Serve the women first!"

Jincie glowered and shoved the tray nearly into Baby's face. "Thank you, Jincie. I can hardly wait to taste this," she remarked to the group at large. "I believe Sam said all the wine served tonight is his very own though from a limited sample crop."

Sam, looking every bit the harried host, came up to them and announced that the food was ready and would they mind serving themselves at the buffet table. The food--pork barbecue, beans, and cole slaw--had been placed in enormous serving dishes. Sam had further provided rolls and corn bread, and besides the wine to drink there was iced tea, soft drinks, and beer. Three large trestle tables with benches were under the trees away from the drive.

Toward the end of dinner Sam, as predicted, announced his label to be "Mountain Home," the name of a town in the Ozarks, he admitted, "but so what. Maybe that will help sell it in the stores." Jincie began clearing the table of dishes and cutlery.

"You are going commercial then?" asked Baby. She was holding the glass to the light and admiring its clear, red color. Alistair was doing the same, murmuring something about it being a "nice claret."

"Oh, absolutely. I hope to interest my friends and neighbors in a great investment, as a matter of fact." He gave her a sheepish look from under his brows. "Not that I invited you only to put the touch on you."

"Don't worry," Guy called out, "we married men, anyhow, are pretty much immune to pressure exerted by memorable meals."

Marnie let out an exclamation of protest and popped him on the shoulder with her fist.

At that moment, a pickup truck roared down the drive and slammed to a dusty, sputtering halt. A small, wiry figure familiar to Baby jumped out and ran over to the party. The guests were all looking at him curiously when he grabbed Jincie and pulled her away; several people gasped audibly and a few men stood up, surprised by the violence of the action.

"You're gettin' home, my girl," the man said in a snarling voice. "I tol' you to stay away from these'uns."

"Jack Goin goes too far," murmured Alistair to Baby. She lifted her eyebrows.

"Look here," cried Sam, distractedly running up to the man and the girl, her arm held uncomfortably high by her father. "I hired Jincie to work this evening. What do you mean by this intrusion?"

The little man's face looked like the meat of a pecan, contorted as it was into grooves of hatred. "You'uns is bad for us, and my gal ain't gonna be comin' 'round no more at your fancy do's. I won't tolerate any more of those ideas of your'n that have crope into her head." Jincie began crying and looked towards Alistair, pleading with her eyes for him to rescue her, Baby thought. But Alistair remained mute, uncomfortably staring at his plate.

"Well," said Sam with a gesture of dismissal, "go on then. I only thought to help you all out by letting her work here. I'll send you your wages, Jincie. Sorry." He turned to his guests who were talking among themselves, watching the truck scuttling off. "No harm done, folks. Let's have some ice cream." His sister-in-law rushed over to help him serve.

Marnie, on the other side of Judge Godbold, shuddered and put a cold hand on her arm. "Have you ever seen anything like that in your life? What a horrible man!"

Her aunt-in-law shrugged. "He only does what most of us would like to do, I imagine; he speaks his feelings." She turned to Alistair and said, "What is your estimation of that outburst? You know these hill people better than most, I imagine."

Alistair looked surprised. "I–know them? Hardly. I've concerned myself mainly with attracting the better sort to settle here. Oh, some of the locals are good enough people, of course, but I don't socialize with them."

As he spoke the words, Baby noticed his cheeks redden. Was he angry or embarrassed about something?

Chapter 32

Later that evening at the Godbolds', Cleo and Brad sat with the others drinking coffee and discussing the interruption of the barbecue by Jack Goin.

"I'd already talked with him after his mother was killed," Brad remarked with a thoughtful glance at Baby, "but I think I'd like to have another little chat as soon as possible and find out the extent of his hostility."

"Won't he object to your prying," Cleo asked. "He can take his daughter home if he wants, can't he?"

Brad smiled. "Of course, but investigations may take us in any direction, and most folks are happy to cooperate. Also, I might ask him if he was concerned about Jincie's safety. He can't object to that."

"Do you mind if I tag along?" Baby inquired. "I'd be very interested, too, in hearing what he has to say."

"Fine. Tomorrow afternoon at about two? I hope to catch him at home then."

The judge nodded. "As I understand it, he works on a roofing gang occasionally."

"What I don't understand," said Marnie, "is why he would blame us for the trouble. It stands to reason that these awful things going on must be the work of some demented back country yokel. Look at those strange beliefs they have. It might even be some ancient feud we don't know about."

"Now, now, dear, we don't want to generalize about these people," Baby cautioned gently. "Besides, Tom Terrell wasn't one of them," she reminded Marnie. "Your theory might have possibilities if certain families were killing off each other."

Brad nodded in agreement. "I wish crime-solving was that simple, Marnie. My first case came about when a nice, middle-aged housewife, a Sunday School teacher, contracted with a lowlife she'd heard about from her handyman to kill her husband. He couldn't quite manage it since the word had been put out by someone else that she had unsuccessfully approached, and we were able to stop it. If he'd accomplished her purpose, who would have suspected her or her connection to him?"

"Using my theory of the passionate impulse," Baby commented, "you might not have been so surprised." Her voice grew eager as she warmed to her subject. "See, you have to begin from the premise that most crimes have the basis of long-repressed passion that finally erupts into violence."

"So you think we all operate from these passions, expressed or repressed," mused Cleo, reflecting from the stance of a writer.

Judge Godbold nodded emphatically. "That's been my experience. Me, for instance--I have an overriding passion for justice--not that I believe I'd ever kill to achieve it, but I cannot rest until I have satisfied the arousal of that impulse to see justice done."

"And me?" asked Marnie with an upward tilt of her chin. "How do you see me?"

"Passionately absorbed in making order out of chaos!" Interrupting the laughter at her analysis, Baby smiled but continued placidly, "To get to the truth, we can ask ourselves what was it about the murder victim that might incite or inflame deep, strong feelings in someone, someone unstable, of course." She turned again to Brad. "Are you no closer, then, to solving the crimes here?" Cleo thought the judge had a peculiar gleam in her gray eyes.

"Not really. I feel we have a few clues, partly thanks to you, Judge," he acknowledged, "but we haven't been able to pull them together. Have you found any more significant clues, or what might end up being significant?"

She didn't move from her relaxed position on the couch; her voice was nearly expressionless. "I checked around at some county record offices and confirmed some things." She looked at Brad. "About Granny's story of her first childbirth, for one. You probably checked this out too, but I wanted to satisfy myself. Anyhow, the facts bear out Granny's contention that she is, in fact, Alistair's grandmother."

"But does that change anything?" Cleo asked.

Judge gave a noncommittal shrug. "I still don't know if this is important or not. But I have been thinking about Alistair and what connection he might have in all this trouble." Marnie said with feeling, "I can't help but feel sorry for him. Somehow, I wanted to believe Granny's story was just that, a story that made her life a little more exciting."

"But Baby," said Cleo, "this wouldn't make Alistair a suspect, would it, even accepting the fact that he already knew about his parentage before you told him?" She felt a chill come over her--all this talk of murder and suspects linked to a real person, someone she knew instead of a name in a newspaper story.

Judge Godbold sat more upright and gave a shrug. "It is a motive, isn't it? We have no proof of anyone committing the crimes, so that makes anyone with a motive fair game."

"Why is it a motive?" asked Marnie, with a puzzled frown. "What good would it do to kill Tom Terrell, and what does Granny's death have to do with protecting his good na--oh, I get it," she exclaimed, interrupting herself. "Granny was spreading the word and Alistair found out maybe from Jincie and hoped to stifle her before it became common knowledge. But that still doesn't answer the question of Tom Terrell."

"Yes, I know," said Baby. "It's not a perfect theory. If the motive was to put an end to Terrell so he couldn't "see" anything more, we still need to find out what he saw. Did he paint it? Maybe he glimpsed Alistair in the woods and saw the resemblance to Granny or even Jack Goin.

"Or maybe he'd heard about the birth when he lived here and Alistair knew he knew but thought he was long gone until he turned up." She shook her head. "Well, it's still a puzzle, isn't it. And don't forget, since Cleo was the last outsider to talk with Granny, logic tells us she could be on the murderer's hit list."

Cleo sat very still, looking calmer than she felt at the judge's blunt words. She had suggested that possibility earlier, but now the danger seemed much more real and threatening.

"I thought you said that passion was the controlling factor in this kind of murder," said Brad. "I don't see Alistair as one who operates from passionate impulse."

Baby nodded. "Maybe, maybe not. He's certainly controlled when we see him, but still waters run deep as they say."

"About Charles Robinson," said Guy, "what damning piece of evidence did you confirm in your researches?"

"I didn't say it was necessarily damning to him personally, just confirmatory. We already knew his father had bought that house from Agnes Terrell, but we didn't know what the deed contained. I had a feeling, because the house was considered to be then such a poor investment, that the sale had some unusual features. I was right."

"Is it connected to Tom Terrell?" asked Brad.

Baby nodded slowly. "The original deed was supposed to have protected Tom's interest if he outlived his sister. In fact, when Charles's father died, Tom had been let out of Clover Bottom and had become one of the homeless misfits, wandering incognito for all practical purposes. I expect Charles's mother knew that the property was to revert to Tom, but she didn't know how to get in touch with him, nor could any lawyer that may have tried. The upshot is that after she died, Charles, we assume, simply took over the property without checking the deed. That is, if we want to believe him innocent."

"Oh, Baby," cried Marnie, "that's too awful to think about! Surely he wouldn't have killed that poor old man over a house!"

"Oh, dear girl, you are so innocent about these matters. That house may be worth quite a lot of money someday, and Charles is hurting for money, or haven't you noticed. He seems quite desperate about something--a business with problems, maybe a wife who wouldn't take kindly to roughing it." She glanced at Brad. "I expect you could tell us some hair-raising stories about murders committed for less."

Brad agreed. "As far as Charles Robinson is concerned, though, we're again left without proof. We may be a little ahead of ourselves anyway since I haven't heard from the lab yet about fingerprints, if any, on Terrell's belongings. I should get that information Monday."

"That's good," said Baby, "but I doubt that even that will be conclusive. Too many people wandering those woods. Too many people who knew Tom Terrell and probably knew where he kept his stuff. But we'll see."

"I hope somebody sees what's going on," cried Marnie vehemently. "First you have me thinking Alistair did it, and then I'm convinced Charles Robinson is the guilty one. It makes my head hurt!"

"Who else is suspect, Baby?" Cleo persisted.

Baby shrugged. "I'm still speculating at this point, considering possibilities. We haven't mentioned the conspiracy theory--a group of Melungeons vowing to run off the new settlers. Tom Terrell represents the old gentry with his meddling paint brush, a reminder of the hated time when the English lolled in comfort while the hill people slaved for them."

"But I've been thinking about Granny Goin," said Cleo. "How does she fit in with that scenario?"

Baby grimaced. "Not well, I admit. Of course, she had made her own illicit connection to the English, which was probably whispered about from the beginning. She was old and easily killed. Her death would send the right message to Alistair and others who thought they could resurrect the past--we want nothing to do with you. Leave us alone!"

Brad shook his head. "I hope that theory is just that! I'd hate to have to try and prove a double murder conspiracy."

"It is unlikely," Baby admitted, "but for these people, perhaps not impossible." She suddenly straightened up into an alert posture. "Still, I'm working my way into an idea that should be much easier to prove."

"Anything I can do to help?" Brad offered.

"Just include me in on any more interviews with our likely suspects. That may help clear out the cobwebs."

Chapter 33

Jack Goin adjusted the valve of his antique copper distiller. Too much pressure and the thing could blow up; too little and it wouldn't raise a drop. It had no instruments or gauges, only his years of experience to tell him how much corn to use, how much blaze under the steamer to cook the mash, how much each valve should be adjusted. The still was located in a small lean-to behind the garden, its location covered by dense bushes and a thick grove of pine trees, all of which completely obscured the entrance and the shiny equipment.

He heard the car coming toward him down the lane. No one he knew would be visiting him; most likely they'd be traveling right by him to other homes farther along the ridge. He'd better check, though, just in case some sightseer got lost. He walked slowly to the front of the house and looked toward the lane.

The ancient symbol for no trespassing--now an empty milk carton rather than the former pottery jar--hung from the wire fence that bordered his land. No one but the ridge folks knew what it meant anyway, so he might as well forget it--strangers would march in uninvited no matter what he did. Hand lettered "no trespassing" signs tacked to several trees were so weathered the message was impossible to read. He saw through the tangled brush the red of a car parked along the lane. He muttered a curse. The young investigator and the older woman soon came into view on the overgrown path. Jack Goin knew her well enough.

With judges and cops hanging around all the time, he'd best hide his equipment in the cave yonder till things cooled down. How he hated to lose days of production, though.

He kept his face stern and unwelcoming as they approached him. They'd get nothin' from him.

"Hello," called Brad Everly.

Goin nodded.

"You remember Judge Godbold? We'd like to ask you a few more questions. Could we speak to you?"

"I reckon. But I can't add much from t'uther day. How much is a body to take? You'uns keep peckin' away like a man has no feelin's." He edged nearer his house as if to guard the entrance.

Brad took the judge's arm and guided her toward the front porch. She cautiously sat down on the rough boards near the edge and crossed her legs, as if making herself as comfortable as possible. Goin turned and reluctantly came closer to them.

Brad towered over the older man, yet to Goin they seemed well matched. "We're not here about your mother's death. I've some questions about your taking your daughter from Sam Taylor's last night."

"Any law agin that?" Goin sneered.

"No, but I was curious, in light of all that's been going on around here, why you are so much against her working there? Are you concerned about her safety or what?"

"She don't need to fool with them folks. It'll give her ideas. She got plumb funny hanging around that Walker fella."

"What do you mean funny?" asked Judge Godbold.

Goin shrugged. "She wanted special clothes and she didn't come home much--sometimes gone a couple a days. She's just a mite over sixteen and I had to lay down the law on that. I didn't know but that Walker fella'd been taking advantage of her tender years," he added, giving it his most pious tone.

"You're an exceptionally careful father," commented Baby wryly, "but from the looks of it, I'd say your concern might have come a little late."

"How do you mean?"

She gestured toward the house and supposedly Jincie. "She doesn't seem to care what anybody thinks, and she does what she wants. Where is she now, for instance?"

Goin frowned. What's it to them, he thought with barely repressed fury. Still, he'd be holding back if he wanted rid of them. "I reckon she'll soon be back. She might've gone to town for somethin' or other at the drug store. I can't keep track of her every gol durned minute. She's always been one which is bounter do what she wants."

Brad looked at Judge Godbold with a puzzled frown.

"Bound to," she murmured. "She's bound to do it."

"How much do you have to do with the newcomers who are moving in around here?" Brad asked.

Goin hesitated a minute. He had sold some of them his moonshine--mostly he sold to taverns outside of the ridge--but he didn't want to give away either his business or those who supported it. He decided to play dumb. "Nothin'. I don't have nothing to do with any of 'em. Don't hardly know who they are anyways. Keep moving in so fast I can't keep track. Purty soon we'uns who've always been here won't recognize the place."

"Does that make you angry, that Barton is changing?" Baby posed the question and gave him a look that seemed to cut right through him.

"Durned if it matters to me none. Not if'n they leaves me and mine alone. I aim to leave them alone."

"But what if Jincie needs to work among them?" Brad said. "It's about the only thing she can do if she doesn't want to leave the ridge, isn't it?"

"Well, mebbe so. I've told her she kin do some work for Miz Collins at the café, but she'd better tell me when she's to be elsewhere. I don't relish bein' the last to know that my own kin's gone off amongst them folks at their fancy do's."

"So you found out at the café last night," said Judge Godbold, "that Sam Taylor was having a barbecue and Jincie was helping?"

He nodded, surprised that the judge had guessed the source of his knowledge. "I felt like some fool, not knowin' where my own kin was. Hit's not right for a man to be took by surprise about his own daughter's whereabouts."

"You mean you had no idea she was working for Sam Taylor," Baby persisted, "even when she was doing the field work?"

"Nary a thing. She's nearly growed and I can't see to her whereabouts every minute, but she'll not go now where I don't want her to as long as she's under my roof."

Brad and Baby looked at one another. "Thanks so much, Mr. Goin, for giving us your time." said Brad. "We'll be off now."

"One more thing, Mr. Goin," said the judge casually, "was your mother a heavy tea-drinker?"

Goin shook his head. "Nope. She didn't go for that, except when she was poorly--nor coffee neither. 'Bout the onliest drink she cared for was a drop of spirits 'fore she went to bed." He scratched his head. "That's what frets me so about her dyin' like that. Who would've thunk a sip of tea would carry her off? Another thing," he said, pointing a finger at Brad. Talking about his mother's death gave him an idea on how to strike at these busybodies. No one could blame a man for being riled up. "Why haven't you caught the sinner who done that awful deed? I've been waiting to hear from you'uns, but it looks to me that killers can run free if they kill us Melungeons."

"We're continuing to work on the case, Mr. Goin. These things sometimes go slower than anyone could wish, but you'll be the first to know when we have something positive." Brad nodded politely at Goin and turned to help Baby get down from the porch; they went to the car, he opening her door and waiting until she fitted herself into the small space.

"Was that what you expected?" she asked, as he settled himself in the driver's seat.

He nodded. "Just about. I don't believe much of what he says, of course. His easy acceptance of new people moving in seems peculiar. Jerking Jincie away from Sam's party--I don't know, maybe he felt everything was out of control. He could still exert himself over his daughter and where she works. What do you think?"

Baby hung onto the side bar as Brad rounded a corner. "I agree he's a champion dissembler. But his daughter invokes no great protective instinct in him. That attitude is a dodge, I think. He has a still, you know. I'd bet he's considerably more intent on protecting that. I think he'd be quite willing to kill if he thought someone like Tom Terrell had discovered it and was maybe even painting it. If that's true, the painting would have been destroyed, I bet."

Brad whistled. "How'd you know about the still? Don't tell me you've been tracking Goin through the woods."

Baby chuckled. "Not quite! I noticed smoke or steam about a hundred feet behind the cabin, for one thing. Don't you think it's a little warm for a campfire? And then, I saw when I stayed there for supper one evening–a long story I'll tell you about some time--a shelf with rows of jugs and jars--not for canning either." She laughed. "And that smell, just a whiff came our way, but that was sour mash from corn if I ever smelled it."

"Circumstantial, my dear Judge." Brad glanced at her with amusement.

Baby was used to unbelief in her methods. She knew she went on intuition coupled with clues, but more often than not she'd been absolutely correct.

"Well, look then at his taking Jincie off the job at Sam's. Don't you see how he might think a winery is competition? He'd not want anyone from his family to help run him out of business." She turned as best she could in the bucket seat to look at Brad. "He's remarkably calm about newcomers for someone with such a temper. I expect he sees them as potential customers. He may not be far from wrong, either. Some city folks relish that moonshine, and it is a fur piece from the nearest liquor store," she added.

But Brad didn't smile. "I can imagine him killing the Walking Man for discovering his still, but I can't see him poisoning his own mother."

"Can't you? Don't you remember Cleo's tape of Granny's conversation? When she spoke of Doll Hambrick, she acted as though she planned to stop the nuptials. His mother hated his father, and admitted she poisoned him. Why might he not have harbored a grudge against her all these years, and now her meddling ways had become a danger to him, too."

"Ah, another driving passion scenario."

"Indeed, yes. You may joke, but Jack Goin could be a contender for suspect number one."

"Could be?"

"Yes, we're fast approaching the point where we must have some definite proof."

"Time to bring out the rack and thumbscrews," Brad joked. "Anyhow, I'd like to check out your moonshine theory, if nothing else. I'll have to get the ATF boys on it."

"Seems it takes a whole regiment of Federales to quell things in Barton. We'll have to do something quickly, though, about solving these murders. I don't know that we've seen the last of the killings, Brad. And I can't quite believe Cleo is at all safe. There've been too many things that indicate her presence is unwelcome."

"Such as the tire slashing, the dead dog?"

"Yes, but also the looks I noticed directed toward her by several people. She's feared by somebody, maybe by a number of people, but I'm convinced she's feared by someone unstable."

"But why? What has she done besides interview a few people?" Although Brad's response seemed disinterested, Baby noticed a muscle in his jaw tightening.

"It would be because of her writing. Maybe some other reason." Baby seemed to be talking more to herself than to Brad, and they rode on to the Godbolds' in silence, both with solemn expressions on their faces.

Chapter 34

Sitting in her room, Cleo heard the car drive up and doors slam shut. She put down a blouse with a loose button half sewn on and went to the top of the stairs to listen for voices. Brad had come in with Judge Godbold. She laughed softly at her internal excitement awakened just by the sound of his voice.

They were all in the den by the time she got downstairs. Guy was stirring in his chair and yawned discreetly as if he might have had a nap. "Find out anything unusually nefarious about old Jack?" he asked.

"For one thing, we know that he had a show of temper last night brought on partly by embarrassment, partly resentment, too," said Baby, sinking into one end of the couch. Cleo had taken a chair opposite Guy, but she was exchanging looks with Brad, who was sitting on the raised hearth.

"Oh," she asked, turning to Baby with a lifted eyebrow. "Can he really be capable of embarrassment?"

Baby laughed and extended her hand to Brad for him to explain.

"I guess he was told where she was by someone at the café, maybe the proprietor, who might have supplied Sam with some of the food last night. Anyhow, it got his dander up that he was ignorant of his daughter helping out at a social function, so he says. We think there's more to it than that, however."

"So it wasn't a wasted trip?" asked Marnie.

Brad shook his head. "Not really. As the judge says, he seemed to be resentful of his daughter assisting Sam at the winery. We don't know for sure, but I expect we can find out that he's operating an illegal business--a still. He seemed nervous, jumpy. That's an indication of something."

Baby stretched her legs. "That might have been because we were invading his domain, or it might be that he has something to hide. Jack Goin is an impulsive man and one who doesn't like being interfered with."

She paused, frowning thoughtfully. "He also told us that Granny Goin didn't regularly drink tea. I find that extremely interesting," she added.

"By the way," Brad said, "the Grigsbys should be home by now. They've been arraigned on pretty minor charges–no proof of anything more serious, according to the D.A., so they'll most likely just be paying a stiff fine for their trouble."

"Really?" Cleo said. "No trafficking evidence?"

"Nothing showed up on their records. They apparently either kept two sets of books, and hid the one most successfully, or else they were, as they claimed, growing marijuana for their own use. People do, you know."

There were murmurs of disbelief or surprise as Brad explained the difficulties in the prosecution of cases like this.

Cleo felt confused as Brad spoke about the Grigsbys. "Are they out of the picture, then, when it comes to the murders? Are they now deemed innocent of those crimes? I can't see why I'd be a threat to them, can you? Why I would be warned off?"

"We don't know everything about them," Baby answered. "You interviewed Granny, remember, and she may have said something incriminating, which might end up in your book, something that will bring to the fore a motive for murder. You may not even know it yet, but in your further researches, the damning truth will come out."

Cleo shook her head. "It's true that I've wondered where Granny got her poison. That's a question that's not been answered. Maybe a more detailed search of the Grigsbys' gardens would be in order. Granny couldn't have grown all the stuff herself, not in her physical condition."

Baby then cleared her throat dramatically. "Or she may have had her 'yarbs' around for years. We can prowl around ad infinitum looking for proof and all we may get is an educated guess. Proof is indeed a problem in the prosecution of these murders. Interviews and fingerprints are helpful, I know, in lieu of a confession, but I've been thinking about executing a quicker and surer scheme to find the killer. We need a plan for drawing the murderer out." She sat up straighter in her chair. "My idea sounds somewhat dangerous, especially for Cleo, but if we take precautions, there really shouldn't be any trouble."

"Oh, my God," Marnie gasped. "Please, please, let's leave this sort of thing to the police."

Cleo had been momentarily startled by Baby's mention of her name, but she said in an even voice, "What's your idea?"

Baby gave Cleo a smile. "I apologize for springing this on you without notice, but if you agree to it, I believe we should be able to bring the killer to justice and put an end to the recent terror around here." Baby looked around at the others, all staring at her with varying expressions: Marnie's was horrified, Guy's bemused, Brad's frankly interested. She went on, "The plan would require everyone's participation."

Brad gave her an inquiring look. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"Would you consider setting a trap?"

"A trap? I might. Let's hear about it first." He stood up in front of the fireplace, facing Judge Godbold squarely.

"I've been thinking about the waterfall area." She looked at Brad. "Remember the painting that had been smeared?" He nodded. "It's the angle, the perspective that interests me. There's another painting at Alistair's which is from the same place."

"Obviously, it overlooks the Gentlemen's Pool," observed Guy. "Tom Terrell must have been in the cave or above it. And the cave may have stored more than paintings."

"I have a feeling, Guy," Baby said, "that the cave and the Gentlemen's Pool play an important part in this. Actually, my plan centers around that location."

She then addressed Brad. "I know you think the cave where we found Tom Terrell's belongings is a danger area, and we can assume Tom Terrell was somewhere around there, so why don't we set it up for Cleo to go back above the waterfall, but not in the cave itself, of course. Let the killer have notice so as to stalk her or lie in wait."

Guy burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Baby, but it sounds as if you mean to post a notice, 'Killer, I'll be at the Gentleman's Pool, Love, Cleo.'"

Baby gave an indignant snort. "Don't be ridiculous, Guy; I would have the word spread very carefully, very subtly, casually, but widely that Cleo is spending her mornings at the Gentleman's Pool with her notebook, engaged in writing."

She smiled brightly at Cleo. "We can say how much you enjoy the spot, raving about how idyllic--well, I wouldn't use that word, but how peaceful it is and how helpful it is for your writing. You need to get away and concentrate, you see. Sounds reasonable, doesn't it? You won't actually turn up there, however, for several days. Next Saturday should be about right."

"I can't believe you'd suggest such a thing," cried Marnie hotly. "That's the most dangerous, foolish plan ever. I'm sorry, Baby, but there's a limit to crime-solving!"

Brad, with his cool head, hadn't yet commented, Cleo noticed, and she now looked at him inquiringly. He was studying Baby's face with a serious but somewhat abstracted expression as if thinking beyond the immediate proposal.

"What do you think, Brad?" she asked.

"I'm not convinced, but I'm still listening. What do you have in mind, Judge, for Cleo's protection, a stake-out?"

Judge Godbold nodded. "I'll be nearby, myself. You and the sheriff's deputies will be posted out of sight around the perimeter of the clearing where Cleo will be working. She'll be relatively safe because we'll have our protection at the ready."

"What makes you so sure Cleo could remain unharmed before we could intercept the killer?"

"If the killer is who I think, Cleo will be in no danger by an attack from afar, with a gun, for instance."

"You know?" cried Marnie. "Oh, tell us, Baby!"

But Baby shook her head. "I have a pretty good idea, but I think it would be very unwise to tell anyone now. And I may be completely wrong, too. There's an aspect of the murders that doesn't quite fit, and I have no explanation for it. Thus the need to draw out the killer. Everyone must go about as usual or else this plan won't work. On the stake-out, if the plan seems to be going in an unexpected direction, I'll know at once and break cover. Cleo will be protected in any case."

Cleo sat quietly, examining the faces of Baby--earnest and excited--and Brad--worried and thoughtful. She thought it time to tip the scales. "I think it's worth a try. I can't continue to work until the murderer is caught. I can't go on my interviews while constantly looking over my shoulder in fear. If there seems to be no other way, I'm ready."

The judge looked at Brad. "Sound okay? Can you make arrangements to have the area staked out? You would have to get it set up for very early Saturday morning. I think that would give us enough time to saturate the area with our story."

Brad gave a soft whistle. "What a plan! I know you've thought about this, Judge, but . . ." He began to pace slowly. "I don't know. We should know in a few days about fingerprints on the painting materials, and I will want to talk to Charles Robinson." He looked at Baby. "I'll see him tomorrow. But despite all that, unless someone confesses, nothing would point positively to anyone. I guess we can always cancel the plans if we get lucky and discover the culprit before we set up Cleo as the bait."

He was pacing now, seeming to weigh the factors with each step. "I don't much like any suggestion that Cleo might be a target, and if my boss knew of this being planned, he'd probably have my head."

He came over to Cleo and sat on the arm of her chair, his arm encircling her shoulders. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? I expect our local law enforcement agency would be more than happy to provide protection, but do you really think you're up to it?"

She looked up at him and nodded. "I'll trust you to get it set up. I can do it."

Judge Godbold smiled at them.

Later, walking Brad to his car, Cleo felt strange. Her feelings frozen, her actions automatic. She wondered how much she could trust Judge Godbold's instincts for baiting the killer, not to mention trusting the reliability of the sheriff's men for offering protection. "So you think the judge is on the right track?" she asked finally.

He drew her to him more closely and kissed her forehead. "I do. I think we have limited options at the moment. I hate to disillusion you, but most crimes like this don't get solved. Sometimes it takes a crazy, daring plan. But don't worry, honey, I won't let anything happen to you."

With his arms around her, his voice close to her ear, she was comforted if not entirely reassured. But if she was to finish her project, she had to have some sense of security as she moved around among these people. She would be brave.

Chapter 35

All the next week Baby and her band of conspirators were busy spreading the word about Cleo's need for solitude and the ideal spot she had found. Cleo and Marnie had agreed the subject was easy to introduce; most newcomers in the vicinity were intrigued by the countryside, and the Melungeons, proud of their mountain home, agreed it was hard to stay away from enjoying the area's beauty.

"It sounds logical, all right," admitted Cleo. "I hope it doesn't rain on Saturday. I expect the police would like to get it over, and so would I!" She was trying to tack courage onto her matter-of-fact consideration of the plan, but every so often her nerve failed her.

They had gone separately and in pairs to village stores, the post office, the Library, and Sam's winery, taking care to speak in front of his employees working in the processing area. At the café, the news was easy to disseminate as the place was small and the patrons interested, including the shameless Grigsbys, who though saying nothing, listened to the Godbolds talking enthusiastically about Cleo's work. Marnie noticed Jincie behind the pass-through to the kitchen.

"Look," she nudged Guy. "Jack Goin must have laid down the law as to Jincie's employment."

"I guess he still has some clout with the girl when he tries."

Cleo, out for a walk, stopped by the Robinsons' where she saw Anne working in her garden. She casually mentioned her plans so that old Vardy Hale, a sometimes gardener, could hear as well.

All of the judge's cohorts spoke to any of the newer residents they happened to meet walking along the road for their daily constitutional. Introducing the subject of the resident historian was not difficult as Cleo had called attention to herself well before now, and everyone seemed interested in her work, if not furtively hoping to appear in the book.

Brad called on Wednesday to tell Baby that the rough surface of the box had made it impossible to get any decent fingerprints, only smudges. A few that belonged to the painter had been identified on some tape that held the box together. No prints appeared on the pictures themselves, including Tom Terrell's.

"So someone had possession of the box and tried to cover that up," Baby suggested.

"Exactly. But that doesn't help us much, does it? Also, my interview with Charles Robinson was no more than we might have expected. He denied knowing about the conditions of the deed. How can we say he did know, and even if he did and bumped off Terrell, how does that connect with Granny Goin?"

"I suppose a case could be made that Granny, with her contacts, personal ones, of course, not supernatural, had found out about the deal," Baby said. "But again, we have no proof of anything. Even the times the two victims were killed is problematic, so we can't consider alibis. Tom's death can't exactly be pinpointed because he wasn't found immediately, and Granny's tea leaves might have been doctored anytime."

She took a deep breath, "So, the Gentlemen's Pool Plan is still on?"

Brad sighed. "I guess so. I'll see to getting the deputies and myself there by seven o'clock Saturday morning. Do you plan to station yourself before Cleo arrives?"

"I'll be there at seven, too. We can't be fainthearted now. What we need is proof, and from that we'll uncover the motive, I promise."

Brad's information about the fingerprints came as little surprise to the others, and proceeding according to plan, they continued to spread the word as carefully and deliberately as possible to all they met during the remainder of the week.

At some point, Cleo began to feel foolish, like a child playing a game--a very dangerous game. This all seemed so obvious and so futile. Would any killer be led into some risky maneuver on the strength of such a weak story? Brad had agreed to the plan and had gone to the trouble to get the sheriff's deputies to join them. She should have more confidence, but by now she was going on force of will.

"Our backup better be in place on time," said Baby Friday night at dinner. "It's possible our killer will be there early too, waiting for Cleo to arrive."

"Guy," said Marnie, "don't you have your dad's old service revolver somewhere? I think Cleo should be carrying protection herself."

"Not me! I don't know how to shoot!" Cleo sat back in her chair, startled. She looked at Baby with consternation. "You don't really think it will come to that--me fighting for my life?"

Judge Godbold shrugged. "I won't underestimate the danger, but I think we can control events by careful staging and by staying alert." She looked at her nephew. "I'd like the revolver, please, Guy. I don't want any ammunition, but I'd like to carry a weapon."

Guy groaned. "Oh, this is great! Come to the beautiful foothills for a relaxing vacation. Quiet waters, deep woods, stake outs, murderers running amok--bring your gun!"

Baby excused herself from the others early and went upstairs. She was tired, she said. She needed to get her sleep if she was to be out of here in the morning at the crack of dawn.

All that was true, but she wanted to be alone for a few minutes to make a telephone call. She had an extension in her room, which was good, considering cell phones were useless in this neck of the woods. As she dialed the familiar Nashville number, she hoped her brother had not gone out for the evening. Mary Rose, his wife, was a notorious social butterfly; Baby had jokingly remarked she half-expected her to grow wings.

She listened to the drone of an unanswered phone, waiting impatiently, silently urging Son to answer, but when she heard his deep voice intoning the mechanical instructions, she groaned aloud. Well, maybe they would be in early and he could return the call.

"Son, this is Baby. I'm still at Marnie and Guy's. The num--"

"Baby?" It was Son in person, breaking into her message.

"Did you just walk in the door?"

"We old fogies happened to have gone to bed early. We had a benefit last night and both of us were pooped. I hadn't gone to sleep, though. What's up?"

"Gee, I'm sorry to have disturbed you. But since you're up, I'd like to talk to you a little bit about a situation here in Barton that is starting to give me the jitters."

"Those mysterious murders? I heard about them in the Tennessean and even on national television. You mean you haven't caught the murderer yet?" His voice was warm with affection. The oldest and the youngest, Baby and Son had always been close. From the time she could remember, Son had been her idol--strong, calm, and brave.

Now retired as a general from the U. S. Army, Son was more available to talk to his sister on the phone or meet her for lunch when they were in town. Not that Baby disliked his wife, but Mary Rose's interests were not her own, while her brother seemed eternally fascinated by Baby's hobby horse.

"We hope to catch the murderer tomorrow, as a matter of fact. That's the problem. You know, I've risked my own life a few times in pursuit of justice, and I've risked the reputations of bureaus and departments, and I've risked the political success of various politicians who have gone out on a limb to help me, but I can't ever remember risking the life of an innocent individual."

"Wow!" Her brother paused for a moment and then said, "Can you tell me anything about the circumstances?"

"I'd better not say too much. We're close to a solution, but it means setting a trap and using a very dear girl as bait. It's the only way without proof. I'm convinced of it."

"Is she aware of the risk?"

"Absolutely! And she's willing to help. She's got a stake in this herself. My question to you, Son, is how did you do it--mentally, I mean? How did you risk all those lives for different causes, some good, some not so good."

"Ah, the pain of command, you mean? The responsibility of authority? I can't say I ever got hardened to the quaking feeling, but I had to think of the ultimate purpose. Sometimes, as you said, the cause seemed less than honorable, but I could always tell myself that sending young men into battle was important for this country's position in the world. In other words, the less apparent but overriding cause is what I had to consider."

"You could justify sending them maybe to their death for political reasons?"

"Political, economic, you name it. My cause is duty to this nation. Your cause is justice in society. We're not ever supposed to let the end justify the means, but that is life, Baby, if you're involved. Oh, I suppose if I found myself in what seemed to be an immoral situation, I'd call a halt to it. But as an officer in the armed forces, I'm sworn to uphold the Constitution of this country. That's the real cause I fought for and sometimes surrendered the lives of others for. If your own cause has justification that you can live with and that serves the greater good, you have to take the chance, don't you?"

"Thanks, Son. I see what you mean. I believe it is justified. The larger risk would be letting this person roam around to possibly commit more murders. I'll go to sleep now."

"Good night, Baby."

She gently hung the phone into the cradle. She could barely hear subdued voices downstairs as she undressed and slipped on her nightgown. Son's words of wisdom had again done the trick and she felt as reassured as was possible. But her usual silent prayer tonight was not so silent. With a whispered urgency, she beseeched the powers that guided human affairs to watch over Cleo and the others in their dangerous venture. Then she turned off the light and went immediately to sleep.

Chapter 36

The entire household was stirring at five o'clock the next morning. Marnie was cooking everything in sight so Baby and Cleo would be well fortified for their watch.

"If I eat all this," Baby said, looking with dismay at the oatmeal, eggs and bacon, thick slices of toast, and hash browns, "I won't be able to move from my hiding place."

"Where will you be?" asked Marnie, holding a piece of bacon between tongs.

"We worked it all out yesterday," Cleo said calmly. She wasn't quite as calm as she sounded, however. But she was trying for everyone's sake not to act panicky. "I'll be under the tall pine tree in the little clearing above the falls. Baby will be under a mountain laurel about twenty feet away. Brad is to be behind my position hidden in a cedar thicket, while the two deputies are positioned more around the perimeter by the path."

The doorbell rang before Marnie had time to comment. Nervously, she went to answer it herself, returning almost immediately with Brad and the two deputies. It was only six o'clock. They agreed they would have time for another cup of coffee.

"What about your cars?" asked Cleo, suddenly concerned. If she was going to do this, she didn't want anything overlooked that might give away their plans.

"All taken care of," Brad answered. "We're putting both my car and the patrol car in Guy's garage. We'll be walking through the woods, taking the back way in to get to the area."

"That way," Baby explained, "no one going through town would wonder why any officials' cars are parked on Main Street or adjacent streets, for that matter." She grinned at Marnie. "I for one am delighted to have the chance to walk off all this food."

By six-thirty the cars had been moved, and fifteen minutes later Baby, Brad, and the deputies headed across the Godbolds' back yard for the mile trek to the site. All were carrying campstools, all were armed, though Baby's gun was empty. Cleo ran up to Brad, ostensibly to ask for some last minute instructions but actually for reassurance.

He gave her a kiss. "Don't worry, honey, it'll all be fine."

"I know, really, I do. I'll be there in position by nine o'clock."

Above the waterfall, ragged brush and a dense thicket of cedars and pines covered the flattened hill. The ground sloped gently on one side, more steeply on the other to reach the path that bordered the Gentlemen's Pool. The whole area atop the hill was fairly large, perhaps half the size of a football field.

Cleo had stationed herself at the tall pine about twenty feet from the edge of the cliff in a small clearing. Below, the waterfall gave off an incessant, muffled roar. She saw the places that hid the others, but no rustle or movement betrayed their presence. Cleo took her notebook and tape recorder out of her briefcase. She was reclining with her back against the pine tree, her seat a cushion of old pine needles covered by a small rug. She glanced around surreptitiously, remembering Baby's cautioning words when she left the house early that morning.

"Try not to act anything but normal, please, Cleo. It's very important that you not look suspicious or scared. You'll have a lot of people doing the looking for you, so just keep on working as you might do in your own back yard."

Now attempting to adjust her back to a more comfortable position, she muttered to herself, "Why the hell would I ever sit under a tree in my back yard." Nine o'clock was not particularly early for her. She habitually began her day at seven, ready to start work by eight o'clock. The hour would no doubt be late for these hill dwellers, too.

Except for the soft, continuous rush of water, stillness reigned. Before, when she had come to the Gentlemen's Pool, she had either masked the silence by her movement through the brush, or she had been accompanied by someone, and their speech made it seem almost normal. Now listening more carefully, she could pick out occasional bird calls around her.

She sat facing the direction of the Gentlemen's Pool. Twenty feet away, near the edge of the cliff, which was directly above the waterfall cave, she knew Judge Godbold had stationed herself, seated on her campstool, peering through gaps in the foliage. Neither Cleo nor Baby had given any recognition signals, however, and the motionless bushes gave rise to Cleo's nervous suspicion that Baby was dozing.

On the far left, the overgrown path from the churchyard to the pool descended sharply. Cleo's eye was caught by some movement on the trail. She tensed immediately, swallowing hard. Someone was crashing along the path.

Within seconds she saw the bulky figure of--Sam Taylor! Sam was swinging through the underbrush, cutting his way with swipes of a heavy walking stick. He hadn't yet seen her, his attention seeming to be focused more on the area around the pool. Then he swiveled his head, and looking upward he stopped in his tracks. He raised the arm holding the stick and seemed to brandish it at her. She gave him a tentative wave. "Act normal," she cautioned herself.

In order to reach her, Sam had to descend completely to the ledge, go around the pool and then climb laboriously to the uppermost clearing. For a few minutes, Sam was out of Cleo's view. Her mouth had gone dry; inside her chest a heavy pounding was making it hard to breathe. Sam! That huge stick he carried. Was that what he had used to beat poor Tom Terrell to death? Sam! Cleo could hardly comprehend the implications, but then she thought of his strength, his scientific bent. He was a man of science, even did his own lab work. Who better than he to have concocted a poison introduced into something as innocuous as tea? Was something nefarious going on at the so-called winery? Oh, that couldn't be!

His head and shoulders emerged first as he topped the hill. He was using the stick as a staff to help in his swift climb; he was not breathing hard.

"Hello," he called in his normal, friendly manner.

She couldn't stand up; her legs felt too weak. She forced a smile, however, and tried to swallow, but her throat was terribly dry.

Coming nearer, he looked closely at her. "I'm glad to find you. I called the Godbolds', but no one answered. From what you said earlier, I figured you'd be around here." He approached her more slowly. "I got to thinking about your coming here to work and got more and more worried." He shook his head, his brows furrowed with concern. "I don't think you should be out here alone, not after what's been going on."

Cleo giggled with relief! Sam, the dear soul, the bumbler, would probably ruin everything by his good-heartedness. How could she have suspected him? "Sam, please don't worry. I'm perfectly safe, really I am! It's been a long time since poor Tom's death."

"No, Cleo, I don't think it's safe. You don't know that the killer has gone from the neighborhood."

She stood up, wanting to seem in control. "Now, Sam, I insist you let me take care of myself. I'm not worried a bit, really!" She placed her hand on his arm reassuringly. At least as an actress she should get high marks. He seemed so determined to rescue her she was afraid he might pick her up bodily and carry her to safety.

He continued to frown, but something in his manner indicated a relenting. He held out his stout walking stick. "Here. You keep this, anyway. I made it myself out of hickory and it will put a dent in anything."

She accepted it gratefully. "Thanks, Sam. I'm not planning on staying here long. Only a couple of more hours. I'll be fine, really."

"Well, if you're sure . . . I should get back to my work. I can't leave my help too long. Otherwise, I'd stay with you."

"Goodbye, Sam, and thanks." She waved as he turned to give her another worried look before dropping out of sight along the side of the hill.

Sinking back into her former position, she allowed herself to relax for a moment. If this ploy worked and the real killer came up on her, would she be able to stave him off before Brad and the sheriff's men took over? Judge Godbold seemed so sure that the threat could be handled, but no one could outrun a bullet. She could only hope Baby was right about the suspect not having a gun. Doubt assailed her. Why had she trusted Baby's crazy ideas? More, why had Brad trusted them? She had willingly put her life in the hands of people she hardly knew. But she did know them, and she must have faith in the plan.

She suddenly sat upright. No, she would not look around; that soft scurrying was only a rabbit or a squirrel--something perfectly natural. The strong sun slicing through the tall, overhanging birch and maple trees washed out the colors on the hillside and eerily--it seemed to her–filtered out sounds. Where had the birds gone? She looked from under her brows, but nothing was visible, including any of her "protectors."

The morning wore on. Cleo helped herself to a drink of iced tea from a thermos, wondering if Baby and Brad and the others had thought to bring anything to assuage thirst or hunger. The poor deputies must have been up since the crack of dawn. They had revealed themselves to Cleo as she passed by their hiding places on the way to her tree. Without a breeze, the air was stifling in its stillness, and she took a deep breath, feeling as if she needed oxygen. But this was a panic reaction. She knew she mustn't hyperventilate. Keep calm, she cautioned herself again.

Judge Godbold still hadn't stirred from her position and Cleo again wondered if the older woman was quite up to the tedious task of waiting. The day would be warm, even for the foothills; it was already in the high eighties, she reckoned. As she was screwing the lid back on the thermos, she again heard a rustle behind her. She stiffened. Too much noise to be a small animal.

"Miss Cleo!"

Cleo turned her head quickly and scrambled to her feet, stepping away from the tree trunk and again feeling almost sinking relief from tension as she saw Jincie approaching from the far side of the hill. The terrain there was rough with thick woods that led to a ravine. Cleo smiled as she watched the girl's progress, moving with her usual half-skipping step, occasionally pausing to leap upward to pull a leaf from a branch. The sun on Cleo's face felt harsh, almost stinging.

"What are you doing, Jincie," Cleo called, "taking a walk?" The girl approached with the unself-consciousness of a puppy, wearing her usual attire of ragged tee-shirt and cut-off jeans. Cleo chuckled. "Aren't we the pair, just like the fabled mad dogs and Englishmen."

"Huh?" Jincie squinted and drew closer. "What d'ya mean about the English?"

"Oh, I didn't mean the English here. It's just an expression about the foolishness of going out in the noonday sun."

"What about the dead dog?" Jincie didn't look at Cleo; she was pulling pine needles from a sprig and chewing on them and spitting them out.

"It's not dead dog, but mad...." Cleo's voice trailed off. Jincie had walked behind her and was circling the tree. She held on to it with one hand and let her body swing loosely. Under her shirt, Cleo saw the handle of what could only be a knife, tucked into a scabbard.

"What are you doing here, Jincie?" Cleo couldn't keep her voice from rising. She couldn't help looking around for someone to advise her. She felt dizzy. The sun was so hot. She moved closer into the circle of shade so she could see the girl better. She mustn't lose control of the situation.

"Would you like a drink? I've got some iced tea." Cleo then saw that Jincie was coming nearer, her knife unsheathed and in her hand.

Cleo stiffly backed away from the girl, whose face had taken on an ageless and evil expression, but Cleo's notebook was underfoot, and she stumbled and fell to the ground. Would her rescuers suspect that the girl was a killer? Words that might have helped in either alerting those in hiding or in halting the girl's menacing progress were frozen in her throat. She picked herself up, grasping hold of the big stick that Sam had given her.

Jincie moved closer, the knife held forward now, her teeth bared for attack. She was muttering something under her breath, something that sounded to Cleo like "--kill the power, kill the power--"

"Stop, Jincie!" The girl's attention was suddenly diverted from Cleo not only by Baby's words, but also her noisy exit from the honeysuckle. The older woman had crashed through the branches, holding the empty revolver firmly in front of her. Before she could reach Jincie, however, Brad had come from another direction, Cleo had not seen where, and had hit Jincie's arm. The knife fell to the ground. The deputies were not far behind, and they pinioned Jincie's arms to her sides.

Then it was over. Cleo started to sink to her knees. Her legs were trembling uncontrollably. Brad came over to her and put his arm around her, pulling her close to him.

"Are you okay, honey?" He gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Sorry we had to wait so long before we could intercept her. We needed to catch her in the act."

Cleo nodded numbly. With his arm around her, she felt she could face her attacker, look her in the eye. Jincie, her jaw stiffened in defiance, was still glaring at Cleo. She had not struggled after her arms were confined, but her expression clearly conveyed her murderous intentions.

"Why?" said Cleo, looking at the girl, "why did you want to hurt me?" But Brad held up a cautioning hand and read the girl her rights. "Do you understand, Jincie?" he asked her. She nodded.

Judge Godbold, who had been studying the girl's face, said, "I believe this had everything to do with Alistair. Jincie knows I'm right."

Jincie looked sullenly at Baby and then at Cleo. "I want to see Alistair, right now!" Her face crumpled then, and she began sobbing. "I want Alistair!"

Cleo gave Brad a questioning glance. He turned to Jincie and said in a gentle voice, "You have to understand that you're under arrest. We'll send for your father, but for now you'll be seeing only him and a lawyer if you wish--no one else for the time being."

Baby laid her hand on Brad's arm. "I think we should talk to Alistair very soon. Will you come with us?"

Brad nodded. "Let me go first to the county jail where we have an arrest warrant waiting. I'll need to take care of some legalities and inform her father, but we can meet at the library later this afternoon." He promised to call them when he was free.

Guy and Marnie stood to one side of the lawmen surrounding Jincie. "We couldn't wait at home," Guy said apologetically to Brad. "We brought our camp stools and went to ground under a big cedar tree. We were well hidden."

"It was terribly prickly, but we had to be here," added Marnie, nervously picking needles from her sweatshirt.

"That was foolish," said Brad sternly. "You didn't know which direction she'd come from." He looked with a frown of perhaps pity, thought Cleo, at Jincie being marched off between two deputies.

Cleo, too, now that the excitement was over, felt a wave of pity for the girl even as she shrank from her. She was small and wild like the animals which moved furtively nearby. She had struck at anyone who she thought had endangered her, Cleo supposed.

But Baby was moving away from them toward the trail; Cleo joined arms with Brad, with Guy and Marnie bringing up the rear.

"That was the scariest thing I've ever seen," Marnie cried with little puffs of breath as she struggled through the tangled brush. "Cleo, I was so frightened for you!"

Cleo began to explain her feelings, but as she remembered the raised hand holding the knife, she could only shudder involuntarily. She held on tighter to Brad as they descended.

Chapter 37

Alistair was standing facing the fireplace at one end of the Library, his hands on the mantel, his head bowed. "I will see to it that Jincie has an attorney of real merit to represent her," he muttered gloomily. "I know it sounds absurd to say, but she shouldn't be treated as a dangerous criminal." Except for his hold on the mantel, he looked as if his legs might have given way.

Baby, Brad, and Cleo had been joined by the Godbolds, who asked to be present as interested parties and residents of the community. They both had promised to stay as quiet as possible during the encounter with Alistair.

Brad nodded his agreement to Alistair's comment. "She won't say a word she doesn't want to. She'll have a local court-appointed lawyer to get her through the preliminaries. Also, I've explained to her what her rights are. Now with this case becoming so high profile, she'll have no trouble getting a first rate pro bono attorney for her trial."

"Her best bet, of course, will be to confess freely and fully and throw herself on the mercy of the court," said Baby with compassion in her voice. "At her age and in her mental condition, it shouldn't go too badly for her. I think we'd all like to get this over and done with. Wouldn't you, too, Alistair?"

"Yes, yes, of course, but I can't see pillorying a child, even a bad child, in the interest of so-called justice. I can only hope you're right in how this case should be handled." Turning, he gave the judge a sharp glance. "You suspected her, didn't you? From the sound of the capture, I presume you set a trap for her."

"We set up the situation, hoping to draw out someone desperate enough to attempt an assault." Judge Godbold shrugged. "Of course, I did suspect Jincie, mainly because of the nature of the crimes and misdemeanors--the murders committed with objects at hand, the stake through the dog, which belonged to a neighbor of the Goins, and the tire slashing. Everything pointed to a child-like outburst–almost unpremeditated in the legal sense.

"However," she went on, "I could hardly believe she would kill her own grandmother. This was the fly in the ointment for me in assigning blame for the murders. It didn't make sense, considering her background. In fact, Brad says she's been crying over and over she hadn't meant to kill her Granny. She'd believed the old woman wouldn't have taken tea. She knew that Cleo had an appointment to interview her, so her hope was that Granny would offer tea to her guest, which she sometimes did to those who visited her. And Cleo said the old woman did offer her coffee. Then Jincie planned to remove the tainted stuff immediately following the interview. But with Granny feeling the wind on her throat and trying out the tea for comfort, Jincie's plans were foiled. Finding her grandmother so ill, showing obvious signs from the poison she'd ingested immediately after the interview, she guessed what happened. In Granny's weakened condition, her system couldn't tolerate the substance, and she succumbed very quickly. Jincie panicked and called the police."

"Ultimately, I had to agree with Judge Godbold that Jincie was our best suspect," interposed Brad, "mainly because of her proximity to the second murder victim. I thought she had the best opportunity to doctor the tea and get it to Granny without being detected by someone, yet the motive was obscure, which confused the issue. As far as availability of the poison, Granny obviously had some castor bean oil around. Jincie knew how to use it and knew enough to dispose of it. But we had no way to prove she had poisoned the tea. With her living in the house, fingerprints would have been useless. And then with people coming to see Granny for various reasons, Jincie might not have been the only one with access or knowledge of all the dangerous potions lying around. That, too, was preying on my mind. "Because of the lack of evidence, forensic or even circumstantial, I allowed the stake-out with Cleo as bait. After conferring with the judge, I agreed that it most likely was Jincie and that she would be dangerous only to the unsuspecting. It was probable her methods of a hands-on attack wouldn't change. That made it easier to protect Cleo than from, say, a man who might possibly have a gun."

"For one horrible moment," said Cleo, "I froze when Sam came along the trail; I thought. . . ." She stopped and bowed her head shuddering with the memory.

"We couldn't take Sam into our confidence," said Baby, "but neither Brad nor I thought he was the guilty one. I must say I was worried stiff he would botch things up! You did a superb job of getting rid of him, Cleo."

"But how does it all fit together?" asked Guy, breaking his silence. "I see that Jincie went berserk, but why so violently and why those particular victims, if you count Cleo?" "Let me try to explain how I believe this came about," said Baby, including everyone in her glance around the table. "Some of my reasoning is based on fact, some on speculation, some on educated guesses, and some on my observations of Jincie's basic character.

"Tom Terrell was the Walking Man, and his work in the woods we can presume had occupied him for the better part of this year. He obviously was not so mentally deficient he couldn't take care of himself in the most basic ways. We do know that he was picking up his disability check. Isn't that right, Brad?" He nodded and she went on:

"His habit was reclusive, however, and not many people walked the deep woods. Only Jincie regularly and . . ." She looked at Alistair and paused significantly.

He stared back at her and then said haltingly, "Yes, I, too, spent time alone with Jincie in the woods. You knew about us, didn't you?"

Baby nodded. "I guessed from Jincie's behavior, in and out of your house, her possessive glances at you, but it was at Sam's barbecue when I knew for sure. You were so unnecessarily unkind to her; it was the cruelty of purposeful rejection." Then she said in a brisk tone. "But first tell us what you know of Tom Terrell."

Alistair gave a disconsolate nod. "I'd seen him, of course, but he seemed harmless, and I didn't pay much attention to someone with an easel. I swear I had no idea he was Barton's Tom Terrell. At some point, though, I realized Jincie and I together would be seen and probably painted by him somewhere. I even thought I saw him a few times on the hill above us at the Gentlemen's Pool. I made the mistake of telling her about him, hoping to convince her we had to end our–closeness."

"Hoping to convince her?" cried Cleo, with unexpected heat. "You're the adult. What made you think she had to be convinced?"

He gave a small shudder and passed his hand over his face. "You don't know her. She . . . she insists, and I haven't been very good at turning her away."

"So when did you find the paintings?" asked Brad.

Alistair passed a hand over his face again. "I suppose it was a week or so after the murder. I had gone earlier to the cave room with Cleo, just to point it out to her. That was when Cleo noticed some paint specks near the ledge. I thought I'd better look around further, particularly since none of his belongings had been found. I had a feeling he might have hidden them away." He gave an abrupt laugh. "I was right. I didn't know until I found the box of painting supplies and the paintings that he'd not only spotted us from above the waterfall, but he also painted us . . . in flagrante delicto." He passed his hand over his brow. "But more than that, I saw for the first time how much I resembled Jincie. Tom Terrell had captured a family resemblance."

"Did you slash and smear the paintings?" asked Brad.

"No, I wiped off any fingerprints and put them back the way I found them, hoping to think of some way to dispose of them–or even if I should. Somehow, it seemed wrong to destroy a man's work so cavalierly."

Judge Godbold continued to address him. "Did you tell Jincie you'd found the box of supplies and the paintings?"

Alistair shook his head. "I didn't, honestly. But it was stupid of me not to guess that she'd been the one to hide them. At the time, though, I didn't suspect her of–murder."

"Did you discuss your family relationship?" continued Baby.

"No, but obviously Jincie knew from talking with her grandmother. When you told me about my grandfather's connection with . . . with Granny, I thought Jincie would see that we could never be more than friends, if not for the obvious reasons of age and social differences. But she knew about it a long time ago apparently. She wanted to enter my world, not have me enter hers. I had made her ashamed of her heritage." He glanced around at the others, looking miserable. "How much you must despise me, especially since my behavior caused such tragedy."

"Not exactly caused, but you are culpable, in more ways than one," said Baby. "It's true that you were the inspiration for Jincie's murderous behavior. She felt you were slipping away from her, but instead of you she blamed, first of all, Tom Terrell, thinking that Tom's paintings showing your physical characteristics pointed clearly to the fact of your being related, which she thought you'd object to. I could only guess at this, but if she told you her reasons, that's good enough for me. I suspected as much after hearing about Granny's love child that Tom had 'seen more' as his sister always claimed about his talent, and that his insight went on his canvases. Secondly, Cleo presented herself as an educated person who also could alter Jincie's plans for herself and Alistair, someone who could wreak havoc with the relationship. She saw Cleo's frequent presence at the library as a threat to her."

"Dreadful obsession," Cleo murmured, more shaken now than ever. "I still have to marvel that she was led to murder with no more basis than she had." Cleo gave a puzzled shake of her head. "Was it just jealousy and fear and her twisted logic?"

"Not entirely," Baby replied. "Here's what I think: Tom Terrell was a painter; you are a writer, and to Jincie those arts are a kind of black magic, almost as powerful as her granny's charms. Thus her invocation when attacking Cleo to 'kill the power.' The act of putting words to paper or paint to canvas seemed magical to her. She feared them as totems that could work for or against a person. In her terrible ignorance, she believed by eliminating the source of her threat, she would have Alistair free and clear and her killings would go undetected."

Baby looked at Alistair. "As I suspected, you were life and breath to her. You were the kind father she had never known, the mother she had missed since she was a small child, the lover she needed for gratification. She clung to you for the most elementary reasons. Unfortunately, her unbalanced personality read the signals wrongly. She hadn't the moral guideposts to direct her."

The room was dead quiet as Baby offered her explanation. Cleo tried to pay attention, but the shock of the morning was telling on her. She took a deep breath and sat up straighter. Brad, across the table, gave her an encouraging smile.

"After killing the Walking Man," Judge Godbold was saying, "who she feared would show others his painting of the both of you and your telling resemblance to one another, she was aware that Cleo planned to interview Granny that morning. She could only hope that Cleo would be offered tea, which would have served Jincie's purpose most expeditiously. Since that backfired, she would be looking for a way to either scare Cleo out of Barton, or if that didn't work, for an opportunity to get rid of her permanently. And there lay the need to set a trap."

"I can hardly believe it," said Alistair. He had sunk into a chair dispiritedly, resting his elbows on the table in front of him.

"Yes," said Baby, "this has been a bad thing. Jincie's single-minded desire overruled other restraints, if she had them at all. I'm always astonished at the strength of that drive in certain types." She went on more briskly, "But now the spell is broken; it's ended for Jincie."

"What will happen to her?" asked Marnie.

"I hope she'll break down now." Baby asserted. "With her confession about Granny's death, it won't take much encouragement, and I believe a good lawyer will seek to get her committed, rather than serve hard time."

"The motto of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation," Brad said quietly, "is engraved in stone outside headquarters. It might have been written for these circumstances: 'That guilt shall not escape nor innocence suffer.' I hope the judge or jury will be fair."

"She's so young," murmured Alistair. "She needs help to make up for all the hurt I've brought her."

Judge Godbold looked at him with a softened expression. "You were obviously unwise to get mixed up with her, which started the whole chain of events, but once committed, I doubt if she would ever have let you go, no matter what the reason. Don't you see, you could hardly have been expected to completely realize her nature. Rationality had nothing to do with it. You tried to end the affair, but she would not accept rejection; her crimes were fostered by her passion for you. Any obstacles that stood between you and her had to be eliminated." She shook her head. "It's all very sad."

"It is sad," said Cleo, speaking in a low voice, "and it will haunt me the rest of my life. And yet it's not entirely unexpected that something so weird, so evil, would have taken hold in these hills." She looked around the table. "I've felt all along that this is an unreal place with a storybook charm, yes. But paradoxically, it's very real in the sense of the primal, the atavistic." Her voice quavered with strain and emotion. "Even so, I'm not sorry I came."

Cleo heard other voices chiming in, but her head was swimming confusedly. She glanced at Brad who stood with his arms crossed leaning against a high backed chair. He gave her an intimate smile. Were their own emotions toward each other real in the sense of being true, a lasting bond of deeply held feelings? Or were they, too, like Alistair and Jincie, caught as fellow travelers in the overripe atmosphere of Barton? What would happen to their closeness once they returned to their regular lives?

As he continued to gaze at her, she let out her breath, relaxing, smiling at him in return. They would have a chance to find out. She happened to catch a look from Baby. The older woman nodded reassuringly as if to say, "Don't worry, this time it will be right."

"I suppose when the news of this hits the streets," Alistair was saying, "we'll be dead meat as far as Barton Restoration is concerned."

There was awkward silence until Judge Godbold spoke out. "Barring criminal prosecution complications, I don't think you should be afraid of bad publicity, Alistair. If you really care about Barton, you'll meet the challenge head on. I expect your job will be somewhat harder now, but it's not hopeless."

"We'll put it behind us," said Marnie, "as soon as the press lets us."

"Just another occurrence in the strange and romantic history of Barton," Guy murmured.

"Ah," said Alistair fervently, "if only I could believe that!"

Cleo was beginning to feel uncomfortably chilly in the room, which was being cooled by the window air conditioning unit. She slipped unobtrusively from her chair and went through the door onto the front steps where she sat down. The sun warmed her cold skin and seemed to clear her head. The trees bordering the church were in full leafage, and with the breeze ruffling their tops they seemed to be waving to her in a friendly fashion. Behind her the door opened and she turned to see Brad coming to her.

Chapter 38

Baby tooted the horn twice and waved goodbye to Marnie and Guy standing on the front steps. Cleo had gone off somewhere with Brad. She suspected they would be together for some time to come. They hadn't known each other long, but that was the way it went for some couples. She and Dan, for instance, decided to get married after only a month. Couldn't get married for another eighteen months, though, until they had finished law school.

What a brick that Cleo had been. Baby admired courage, even misplaced, for she suspected Cleo's willingness to put herself in jeopardy had more to do with Brad being on the spot than any real desire to catch a murderer. Still, Baby couldn't thank her enough. Without that putting-yourself-on-the-line kind of action, Jincie's part in the crimes would never have come to light.

She sighed, turning the car onto Main Street. One more turn through the town before she left. She would be coming back only for visits, she guessed. Marnie had been disappointed that Baby declined to restore an old house, but Baby knew she wanted no long term projects right now, even if anyone could count on Barton for future development. She had to wonder if even Marnie and Guy would make this place their permanent home, despite all the work and expense.

The Library and Archives loomed before her, small though dignified in appearance, just as the founders had wished. Too bad Alistair had been so weak. He might have helped Jincie instead of inspiring her to murder. But would it have made any difference?

Baby pulled around the church and through an uncrowded intersection. Despite the tragedy of the situation--the deaths, the girl possibly facing years in prison, maybe this community failing as a tourist haven--she still came down firmly on the side of the law. It was a necessary unraveling that somehow would be put back together in good time.

The law and justice would be forever her rallying cry. Mercy sometimes, but she was not on the side of the criminal, even pathetic ones like Jincie. Civilization would perish unless societies set the rules and kept them, no matter how tempting it was to do otherwise.

She would hope, of course, that through counseling Jincie could be rehabilitated. She didn't set much stock by it, however. Mostly, the reformed criminals she knew had changed their lives only through spiritual conversion. Would Jincie be a candidate for such a change, coming from a pagan-like background? She doubted it. Still, she had seen evidence before at the power of "true religion and virtue" in someone's life. There was always hope.

The car hummed along, faster now, as she swept through the countryside beyond the town. The road was curvy and gradually descended through guardian trees. She might have been alone in this wilderness.

Yes, she was glad to depart. It was a beautiful, remote place, but she figured the excitement was over, maybe for many years to come. Unlike Cleo, she was not completely citified; she liked the occasional venture into the wilds, but only if her mind was engaged. And she wasn't ready to vegetate yet. As she had told Cleo, she was setting forth to new places, ready to tackle the unfamiliar, if called upon.

Retirement would be easy, she considered. Life seemed to open before her just as the blue flowers along the roadside were opening to the warmth of summer. She laughed at herself, her spirit upwelling with delight. The sensation was not unfamiliar. What would be in store for the others in this backwoods drama, that she couldn't say–but she could guess. Even if Jincie were confined to prison, it wouldn't be for long, given her age and whatever mitigating circumstances her attorneys would put forth. She had a feeling that Alistair wouldn't abandon her either. Now that he acknowleged their true relationship, they would be bound together somehow. No doubt Jack Goin would settle into a new domesticity with Doll Hambrick and continue to ply his trade in white lightening as long as Barton brought in the tourists. And Alistair would surely keep working to that end, most likely securing his grant to restore the public buildings.

Then there was Sam, so hopeful with his winery but fighting the odds. After sampling the early pressing at the barbecue, she had a feeling he might be in for a bitter disappointment–literally and figuratively–come fall. Getting the proper grapes to grow in certain soils was a tricky business, and his harvest might not be as sweet as he had hoped. She wondered if "Mountain Home" would become a household word. That would be a good thing.

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