Airtight Case (46 page)

“Ah,” said Lindsay. “‘
Cherry gone a looking, not at home a cooking.
’”

“We got that wrong,” said Marina. “We thought the poem was talking about a love interest for her.”

“Don’t jump ahead.” Elaine grinned. “Faith was left to do the chores, and she resented it. Unfortunately, according to Hope’s diary, ‘
Faith bore more a likeness in complexion and figure to our ruddy robust father than our fair delicate mother.
’”

“Oh, no,” said Marina, “homely, and forced to do the chores.”

“Yes, and that plays a part in what eventually transpires. From the time Charity was a little girl, she had made trips with her father to the Warfield trading post for supplies. Sheldon Warfield had an only son named Nathan who clerked for him. Nathan was just three years older than Charity, and over the years of seeing each other, he and Charity fell in love.

“Then, in about 1782, a tragedy occurred. The girls’ parents had a fatal accident while visiting neighbors deep in the cove. When her parents died, Charity and Nathan married and he went to live on the farmstead with her and her sisters. Hope was only five at the time, Faith was twelve, Charity was sixteen, and Nathan Warfield was nineteen. Now, Charity and Nathan slept downstairs and Hope and Faith slept upstairs.”

“Where were the parents buried?” asked Lewis. “There’s only one grave in the farmstead cemetery.”

“There’s no mention of that,” said Elaine. “There could have been another church with a cemetery somewhere in the cove.”

“Then, is Nathan Warfield the one buried in our cemetery?” asked Marina.

“Chances are, he is,” said Elaine. “Nathan Warfield was a good hunter and provider for Charity and her sisters, by all accounts. On one of his hunting trips he came down with what I believe was appendicitis.” She turned to her husband, who sat leaning on the table with his palm propping up his head. “You can look at the symptoms, hon, and see what you think—fever, vomiting, pain in the right side.”

“That sounds like a reasonable diagnosis.”

“He was brought home by a relatively new friend, a surveyor named William Kinkead who had been hired by the brand-new State of Franklin.”

Marina jumped up and whooped. “Yes! We got him here on the premises with his bone-handled knife, hinged compass, and belt buckle with the initials W. K. Not to mention a bullet hole in the head.”

“You do!” said Elaine. “You found him, too?”

“Under the first lead coffin,” Lewis told her.

“I take it Nathan died?” said Eric Van Horne.

“Yes, and his father, Sheldon Warfield, was devastated. Hope says in the diary that it frightened her the way he carried on at the funeral. His son was not just his son, but his heir to the dynasty he wanted to build. The really sad thing is that Cherry was pregnant, and now she was alone with her two young sisters on a farmstead in the middle of the wilderness.”

“Her skeleton indicates she bore a child,” Lindsay commented.

One of Mrs. Laurens’ daughters came around offering more pie. All of them gladly helped themselves to another piece.

“I love key lime pie,” said Elaine. She took several bites before she continued. “I’m going to catch us up on Eda Mae MacIntyre. Her and Faith’s families were neighbors in the cove. She and Faith were friends—about the same age. When the surveyor came to the cove, both girls got a crush on him. Eda Mae even sneaked out to see him, telling her parents she was visiting Faith. She swore Faith to secrecy, but wouldn’t tell her where she was going.”

“‘
Eda Mae, gone all day, wouldn’t say, which a way
,”’ Phil McBride quoted.

“That’s what I figure,” agreed Elaine.

“Charity’s husband, Nathan, died in the summer. The baby was born in the dead of winter. Eda Mae’s mother, Erlina MacIntyre, delivered it—a little boy, and naturally Charity’s father-in-law was very happy that he had a new heir. Charity and her sisters were getting along fairly well—the neighbors helped, of course. William Kinkead did some hunting and chopped wood for Charity and the girls. The Indians . . .” Elaine stopped and looked at John.

“You don’t mind if I call them Indians, do you?”

“No. Like the man said, I’m just grateful Columbus wasn’t looking for Turkey.”

Elaine broke up giggling. Jarman had to think for a moment before he broke out laughing. The others laughed out loud, except for Drew and her husband, who only smiled.

They look worried
, thought Lindsay.
Good. I hope I worry them
.

“Anyway,” continued Elaine. “The Cherokee brought them dried pumpkin and fur to last through the winter. Hope wrote their names—Catahe and Ewaynah.”

Another incident of the kindness of the Indians helping the settlers through the winter,
thought Lindsay.

“On one trip, they brought her a doll carved from wood and dressed in leather. It was a happy moment in a very frightening time for her as a five-year-old girl, and she remembered it always. Over fifty years later, during the forced removal of the Indians in the years around 1838, she wrote in her diary that she remembered the kindness of the Indians to her and her sisters when they were little girls, and she and her husband, much to the anger of some of the cove folk, spoke against forcing the Indians to leave. She, her husband, and a few of the other residents of the cove sneaked food to the Indians hiding in the mountains. A little Indian girl touched her heart, she said, and Hope gave her the doll she had kept and treasured all those years. Hope Foute seemed like a very nice lady.”

“What happened to Charity?” asked Marina.

“According to her diary, Hope didn’t know. Charity just disappeared. Hope remembered the day Charity’s baby died. That was in March. Charity’s father-in-law, Sheldon Warfield, came to see to things. The death of the baby, his last living heir, devastated him all over again. She remembers there was a lot of commotion, with lots of people around for a while, but after the baby died, and Mr. Warfield and the other people came, she never saw Charity or William Kinkead again. Some folks thought they left together.

“According to what she wrote years later, she asked the adults where Charity was, but she was just a child and no one would tell her anything. Faith was apparently just as upset as she was and couldn’t tell her anything, either. Hope didn’t remember much more about that time. She wrote that she had nightmares and thought she saw a ghost running in the woods outside her window in a flowing white dress. She was only seven at the time and was terrified. Faith carried her to the MacIntyres, who took both of them in and raised them.”

“That’s not the end, is it?” asked Jarman. “After all that?”

“Most of that was in the first diary. In the second diary, as we know, she writes about the Gallowses and their neighbors. In the third diary she writes about her sister’s death, and about her life with her husband. I tell you, you get a span of a whole lifetime reading the diaries. I really cried when I read some of the passages. She writes better than I tell it.”

“Did she write any more about what happened to her sister Charity?” asked Lindsay.

“Not exactly. If anyone knew, no one ever told her. But there was a curious entry. Let me read it.” She pulled a pair of white gloves from her purse and opened the diary.

“‘Faith is fading from me, going to God. I think she’ll be happy in his bosom. She found no serenity here on earth, except, bless their souls, in my children, their children, and their children.’” Elaine turned the page. “‘In the end, she lay in the pillows like she was lying in clouds, like an angel with skin as thin and pale as the skin of a pearl onion. She told Robert and Melanie’ . . . Those were her great grandchildren,” said Elaine, “‘. . . to never give in to envy and covetousness.’

“‘When she and I were alone in the room, I thought peace would come like a dove, but it did not. She looked at me with her clouded blind eyes—seeing with clarity something, I was sure. “Forgive me, Hope and Charity. I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know . . . poor Eda Mae . . .”’

“‘I’d not heard Eda Mae’s name for many a year. Eda Mae . . . When we lived with her family, an evil came upon her, provoking her to awaken in the night screaming. Her poor parents would rush up the loft steps to Eda Mae’s bed and shake her awake. In the morning her face would be swollen and red. Once I saw the mark of a hand, like the devil’s thumb on her smooth plump jaw. At first, Eda Mae’s good people thought we were to blame . . . but the same evil happened when she stayed with a neighbor. They brought her back and told her parents to keep her away from them, she was done possessed of the devil. Cruel people.’

“‘Now after all these years, I’m reminded of her. “
Please
,” my sister said to me, “
Will God forgive me and Eda Mae? We didn’t understand . . . but we should have . . .
” She passed before I could tell her God always forgives. I didn’t ponder what it meant. I reckoned to find out soon enough.’”

“That’s full of possibilities,” said Marina. “What do you think, Lindsay?”

Lindsay hesitated a long moment, aware that all eyes were on her.

“Guilt, it sounds like,” said Phil McBride. “Deep guilt.”

“Was it Faith really slapping Eda Mae, you think?” Marina mashed her fork on the graham-cracker pie crust, bringing the crumbs to her mouth.

“No,” said Lindsay, “Eda Mae was doing it to herself. Like Phil said, it’s all about guilt.” Her gaze rested on Drew and her husband.

“How do you know she was doing it to herself?” asked Jarman.

“It happened when she was at home with only her parents. It happened when she slept with Faith and Hope, and it happened when she stayed with neighbors. The only person present at all those times was Eda Mae herself. And there is the evidence of the thumb print on the jaw. If it were done by someone else, the thumb print would most likely be on the cheek.”

“Could guilt really make a person act like that?” asked Marina.

Phil McBride nodded. “Guilt can manifest itself in a host of physical and psychological ways.”

“What do you think she did to feel that guilty about?” asked Marina.

“Eda Mae and Faith caused Charity’s death,” said Lindsay. “I don’t think they meant to. They were only fourteen. Even though girls married at that age then, fourteen is still fourteen.”

“You’ll have to spell it out for me,” said Jarman. “I’m purely an empiricist. If I can’t measure it, I don’t know it.”

“Faith and Eda Mae had a crush on William Kinkead the surveyor. He may have had a thing for Charity, or he may have just been helping a friend’s widow through the winter. The two teenage girls became jealous, especially Eda Mae, who had apparently sneaked off with him a time or two. They may have put some spiteful bug in Sheldon Warfield’s ear that made him believe that Charity and William Kinkead had killed his son, Nathan, perhaps poisoned him, so they could be together. Or they could have confided their spite in someone else who told Warfield. Anyway, there are poisonous plants all around the place here. And Nathan’s symptoms of appendicitis could have been construed as a poisoning. Being the self-centered egomaniac he was, Sheldon Warfield didn’t see two silly, jealous fourteen-year-olds. He could only see his own lost dynasty. He got even. He was the rich guy. He was from Pennsylvania, a more urban and longer-settled place at the time. The lead coffins probably represent his family’s burial practices.”

“Those poor little girls,” said Elaine. “I’m sure they didn’t have any idea he would react that way. They probably somehow saw or found out what he had done, but for some reason couldn’t stop it or tell anyone.”

“Other people knew, too,” said Lindsay. “Perhaps men who worked for Sheldon Warfield. That lead coffin weighs thirteen hundred pounds. It took several men, horses or oxen, and a wagon to move it. They could have been sworn to secrecy, but word would get out. That’s why the place had such a mysterious reputation for being evil, but no one could put a finger on what it was—they’d talk about evil, but not the specific act of it.”

“That’s a big leap—saying the father killed Charity and the surveyor,” said Eric. “It’s a leap to say the girls said those things.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Lindsay. “But something like that happened. If Sheldon Warfield did it, it would’ve taken something that important to him to make him murderous.”

“He went back to Pennsylvania soon after,” said Elaine. “I think you’re right. I think he killed Charity and William Kinkead.”

“We’ve accounted for all of the loft poems,” said Lewis, “except one.” He paused a moment and put a hand to his head. “‘
Not my sin, the hell he’s in.
’ What about that?”

“Probably refers to Sheldon Warfield,” said McBride. “Faith felt guilty, but tried to deny it by saying if Warfield goes to hell, it’s not her fault.”

“We may never know,” said Lindsay. “But it all sounds reasonable.” She looked out over the dark Smokies. Oh, God, she thought, and shifted her gaze to McBride, who looked her in the eyes.

“You all right, hon?” Elaine asked her husband. “You look kind of pale.”

“Been sitting here a while. I think I’ll go use one of those porta-johns.” Lindsay watched him go not to the portable toilets, but into the crowd.

The music was going strong, and people were dancing and having fun. Lindsay wished she could, too. She stood up and stretched.

“I think I’ll turn in.”

“You look as exhausted as I feel,” Elaine said. “I’m going to find Phil, and we’re heading out.”

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” Lindsay promised.

“I think we need to be heading back to the motel, dear,” Eric told Drew.

“I agree. See you tomorrow, guys.” Drew waved as she and her husband left.

Jarman walked with Marina over to the dancing.

“Let’s go to bed,” said John. “I know you’re tired.” He brushed a strand of hair out of Lindsay’s eyes.

“I’ll go to the house with you,” said Lewis. “I’m tired, and tomorrow’s a long day.”

They walked back to the house silently. When they got to the bridge, out of earshot of everyone, Lewis turned to Lindsay.

“What passed between you and McBride. Where did he go?”