L'Oro Verde (25 page)

“Do you think she believed what
Garibaldi told her—that Bernardo knew Garibaldi was his biological father and had
been blackmailing him?”

“I certainly don’t believe Enzo,” Sister
Angela said.

“I imagine it’s something we have to
look into,” DiMarco said. “It’s definitely a stronger motive”

“And Bernardo’s baby—why do you suppose
Garibaldi wanted to get rid of it?” Sister Daniela asked. “Do you think it was
for moral reasons?”

“Unfortunately, Nicola didn’t know she
could go to the hospital to abort the baby and believed Enzo knew what he was
doing,” the nun said. “I suppose he worried that if they went to the hospital
in Petraggio, the fact that the baby wasn’t his might not matter. He would lose
everything if Gina ever discovered what he was up to. His wife called his office
often—even more frequently in recent days. It was her money that built the
company, and she wasn’t going to let her husband mess up everything. In the
end, I think Enzo’s motive was simply jealousy. He didn’t care about Bernardo. As
Nicola pointed out, he probably asked Mariella to abort that baby too. But I
suppose Enzo helped Vittorio with the burial because Mariella stood firm about
him showing some responsibility. After all that happened, he didn’t insist on
seeing his own baby. To tell you the truth, I doubt Enzo Garibaldi is capable
of loving children. It’s a good thing he and Gina never had any.”

“You know we have to arrest Vittorio for
Bernardo’s illegal adoption too,” DiMarco said. “The bus driver and the Renis
won’t be charged if they agree to be witnesses.”

“I think Vittorio will be relieved. I
hope he doesn’t get jail time for it though. I guess I’ll have to follow that
closely to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

“So you feel it all goes back to the oil
and money. Where’s the love?”

“Sorry, Alessandro, but I believe there
was love between Nicola and Bernardo, don’t you? And look here around you now.
This is love. And these are new beginnings.”

Along the table at one end, the best man
stood up and waited for everyone to quiet down. “I have a request from the groom,”
he announced. “He has asked me not to toast him and his stunning bride as is
normal at this sort of function. And that’s good because I wasn’t ready anyway.
I put it off, figuring that the bride would find out about her husband-to be and
shun the whole affair. Fortunately for him, she’s still innocent and will have
to wait to find out what he really does when he climbs those trees. Seriously,
though, that isn’t the toast. Instead, let us drink to Nicola who’s ill in the
hospital. We know she really wanted to be here today. To Nicola…”

“To Nicola,” the guests responded.

And then the music started. It was not
the usual waltz. The bride and groom got up and started dancing to wild swing
music. They boogied all over the dance floor before others joined them. DiMarco
politely asked Sister Angela if she wanted to dance.

She giggled and then declined. “Maybe
when they play the soft rock,” she said. “And only after I change into my sneakers.”

Author
Bio

Coralie
Hughes Jensen loves to travel. While living in Europe, she was able to visit
and make friends in northern Italy. Tuscany’s beautiful landscape inspired her
to place her first amateur detective in a tiny hill village set among the olive
trees and grapevines.

L’Oro
Verde
was first published in print in
2008 under a pen name, but Coralie has decided to use her own name for the
eBook. Soon to appear in electronic form, her other print books include a
historic suspense novel,
Winter Harvest,
published by Five Star, and
Lety’s
Gift
and
Passup Point
, both set in Labrador/Newfoundland, published
by LRP and
The Pukeko
, set in New Zealand. She has received honorable
mentions in the
Writer’s Digest Short Story Competition
and has published short stories here and abroad.

Excerpt:
WINTER HARVEST

By

Coralie Hughes
Jensen

1
Lucy

“It
was a moonless night. The darkness was so heavy it tumbled down over the grassy
field. The pond, a black syrupy molasses, swallowed the speckled starlight.
Mary usually liked her walks, the clatter of late autumn keeping her
company—the persistent
whirr
of crickets, the
crackle
of dried
leaves underfoot, and the
swoosh
of wind through the straggly branches.
But this night was hushed, the cloak of shadows muffling all sounds. Mary didn’t
even hear the approach. She felt it, the ground shuddering restlessly, like a
spasm that sends concentric ripples through water—a signal that launched dread
in the pit of Mary’s stomach,” Elizabeth whispered, her face contorted by the
flicker of flames from the hearth.

We
young girls sat cross-legged in front of her. Our mouths agape, we wrenched our
skirts and twisted our fingers. Charity closed her eyes in an effort to stop
the flow of words from reaching her brain. Molly’s gaped so wide, you would have
thought her mouth would be stuck open forever. But I did not move. I could not
move. My ankles and wrists were frozen in place. A scream hovered just below my
vocal chords, thrusting upward, but my throat was constricted and unable to
release any sound at all. My chest throbbed in anticipation as I waited for the
climax.

“Mary
could feel the hot breath on her neck before she heard him,” Elizabeth
continued. “She smelled it too—burnt flesh and dung. Her skin prickled, but not
enough to make her move, to step away, or, God forbid, to run. And when he
touched her, she closed her eyes, trying not to look at his tortured visage,
knowing who he was by the stories that preceded him. He caressed her arm,
ripping her sleeve and leaving a track of blood to her elbow, his long nails
having become claws so he could survive in the forest. Then he grabbed her
waist and pulled her to face him.”

The
screams began to escape from the mouths of Elizabeth’s young audience who had
already scattered like leaves in the wind, hiding behind chairs or tables but
unable to escape because Elizabeth had locked the doors. I still sat
cross-legged before her, trying to act stoic but unable to move or even close
my eyes to the ugly scene I knew Elizabeth was about to reveal.

“Mary
pushed him away. She poked at his eyes, but the skin of his eyelids came loose
in her hands. He clung to her, trying to get her to kiss him, but when she
twisted to pull back, his grip slipped, his talon-like nails running along the
front of her torso. Blood and insides oozed from her wound. He grasped at her
neck to turn her toward him once again, but she wrenched away—too hard,
slitting her throat on his claws. As her knees buckled from loss of blood, she
slid from his arms, feeling the repulsive hirsute skin against hers. Suddenly,
he
howled,
piercing her eardrums. He thrust the swooning body above his
head in triumph before flinging Mary into the pond, the thud producing
numerous wavelets along the shore.”

“Did
they find her?” Molly asked.

“Not
at first. She’d lost too much blood and couldn’t swim. Finally the pond must
have released her, I guess, because her grave’s in the forest.”

“Where?”
asked Charity.

“In
that small cemetery at the end of the path. Haven’t you seen the assemblage of
headstones there?”

“No,”
we all said in unison.

“I’ll
have to show you. We can take a walk there while the weather’s still good. The
Community’s built on what were once three different farms. The one out in back
of the pond here belonged to the Fieldings. Mary Fielding was the daughter. The
headstones are for that family.”

“How
old was she?”

“She
was sixteen or seventeen, I think—and a devout follower of our mother, Ann Lee,
as were her parents. Mother Ann was scouting the area, looking for recruits for
her church. John and Mariah Fielding would house Mother Ann when she traveled
from New York, and she’d perform meetings right there in the farmhouse.”

“What
happened to them?”

“Before
our church, the United Society of Believers, was established here, the locals
persecuted families who helped Mother Ann. First, the hairy man murdered Mary.
A few years later, the authorities dragged Mr. and Mrs. Fielding to the city
jail to try them for treason. This was a new country, and people were still
fearful British spies hung around, trying to bring down our fledgling
government. Mother Ann was British, so people must have thought the Fieldings
were her agents. Anyway, they never went to trial. The jail burned down with
them still in it. Someone claimed the hairy man did it. With them dead too, no
one cared enough to seek revenge for Mary’s death. In their will, the Fieldings
bequeathed the farm to Mother Ann, but I don’t think they really left,”
Elizabeth said, dropping her voice. “Someone’s out there protecting those
headstones. Someone we can’t see in the dark.”

“Did
they catch him?” I asked, my voice squeaking like a trapped mouse.

“No.
They looked for him for years and years and even tried to ambush him.
Unfortunately, he always escaped capture.”

“But
he’d be dead by now, Lizzy,” said Charity. “He’d be too old.”

“You’d
think so,” said Elizabeth, her face still animated. “But some of us have seen
him walking around on late autumn evenings—like tonight.”

“No
you haven’t,” said Molly, sitting down in front of the fire again.

“Well,
maybe not him but his footprints. Because they’re so long, his toenails curl
over, leaving a distinctive human print. And we can still hear his anguished
howl.”

“Nuh-uh.
That’s a fox or maybe a wolf.”

“Think
what you like, Sister Molly, but Sister Peg believes she saw him when she took
leftovers out to feed the chickens and cats after dinner one evening. She said
he was along the tree line, skulking like a raccoon, only this one was a man
bent over like a hunchback.”

Molly
and Charity hugged each other. “Who was he?” they asked.

“Some
say he was once Mariah’s lover before she married John Fielding. She’d sneak
out at night to meet her beau in the thick wood. They wanted to marry, but her
father wouldn’t allow it. She’d go against him and God’s laws, however, and continue
to meet him in the forest. Evidently, her father suspected or somehow found out
because he hung around, hoping to see Edgar—that was her lover’s name, Edgar—in
the forest one night. When Edgar waited for his lover to come to him, Mariah’s
father sneaked up from behind and poured boiling oil over him. It melted his
head, chunks of hair and skin dripping down his neck and arms. He was so
deformed, he ran into the forest to hide himself and learned how to survive
like an animal. When Mariah found out, she was irate with her father. But of
course, he was her father so she had to marry the man he chose, even though the
idea of sleeping with her new husband was repulsive to her. She still took
walks in the forest but always hoped she wouldn’t see Edgar because she knew
he’d be deformed and felt so guilty.”

“Did
she love him?” asked Charity.

“Probably
not. Would you love a man who looked that bad? I’m positive I would’ve thrown
up. Anyway, after they recovered Mary’s body from the pond, they buried her
there in the forest so her gravesite would haunt him.”

“Will
you take us there tonight?” Molly asked.

“Good
Lord, no. Eldress Evelyn wouldn’t let us out at night.”

“She
lets us go out to the shed.”

“That’s
only if you’re sick. Otherwise you use the pots and certainly don’t go to the
forest. All sorts of men wander through these woods. Edgar isn’t the only one
yearning to sink his blade into a pretty young virgin!”

“Is
that the story?” Charity asked. “I can’t wait to see the headstones.”

“Yes,”
said Elizabeth. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,”
the other girls agreed.

“Are
you all right, Sister Lucy?” Elizabeth asked.

I
pulled myself up. “Yes,” I said, still feeling a bit shaky.

“Off
to bed now. I’ll have to come up with another story for next week.”

“So
you made it all up?” I asked her.

“Not
at all. This one’s true. Ask Brother Seth to show you the tracks he found out
near Otter Creek.”

*

My
father, Marcus Hammond, had a commanding voice. My brothers and sisters and I
could not help but listen. Even if we covered our ears, we could still hear
him. One early spring evening after dinner in 1838, he gathered all five of us
around the table, thrust his hands into the pockets, and announced, “We aren’t
makin’ it here, kids. I talked to Mr. Broderick at the bank, and he said he has
no more money to lend us. They’re takin’ the farm away. I guess you can’t fight
nature when she’s turned her back.” I watched Papa’s eyes focus on me. “Your
mother and I have a plan, though. We’ve heard there’s more land openin’ up out
west. We have enough cash and supplies for some of us to make it there but not
for everyone.”

He
stopped to listen to our gasps. My little brother Paul started to cry, and I
put my arms around him.

“That
doesn’t mean we’re leavin’ any of you here permanent. We just have to get to
western Ohio. Then we’ll start sendin’ for you again.”

“Where
do we have to go?” Willie asked. William was the eldest, nearly sixteen and
big, with unruly hair, red as a cock’s comb.

“There’s
a community near here that takes in children and educates them. All you have to
do is learn their religion, and they’ll take you in. You all need religion. We
talked to them already, and they want to meet you, Lucy. The other girls are
too old, and we need the boys to help set up the farm on the other end.”

The
air rushed out of my lungs. “Who are they?”

“They’re
called some long name I can’t remember, but they have a beautiful clean place.
Broderick calls them Shakin’ Quakers, because they’re peaceful like Quakers.”

“Why
are they shaking?” I asked.

“It
has somethin’ to do with the way they pray. They sort of dance when they
worship. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it, Punkin? It’ll be like goin’ to a
ball every Sunday.”

I
gazed at the others and saw surprise unfurling across their faces.

“What
about the rest of us?” Constance, my eldest sister, asked.

“We’ve
got to check out some more places for you and Martha,” he said. “And there’s
still the possibility little Paul will have to be left somewhere, requirin’ us
to collect him later.”

Lydia,
our mother, had not said a word. In fact, she was not even in the room. But, of
course, Mama had little say once my father got it in his mind to abandon the
farm and move west.

*

I
recall my first day at Hancock because I could not believe no one had mentioned
it was only a few weeks before my eighth birthday. I also remember hugging my
brothers and sisters in the wagon because my parents would not let them go in.

“Are
you scared?” Martha asked.

I
squeezed past her knees to climb down. “No,” I said, not sure how to answer.
“You and Mama and Papa are coming back for me as soon as you’re all settled.
Mama said so.”

Tears
rolled down Constance’s cheeks, but she turned away before I could hug her. I
patted her shoulder.

“Let’s
move,” said Papa. “The sooner we go, the sooner all will be settled.”

Mama
shot Papa an angry look. I took her hand, and she slowly led me up the walk.
Leaving me at the door, she kissed my cheek, and burying my head in her collar,
I threw my arms around her neck.

She
knelt down and pulled me away. “The time will go fast, Lucy. I promise.”

Removing
the scarf that hung from her neck, Mama wrapped it around mine. Then she left.
I hardly remember her face—mostly her back as she walked away without glancing
around, and her smell, of course, though I suspect the scent of the scarf has
changed over the years of her absence.

*

“Hancock
Village is like a small town,” Eldress Evelyn said, leading me into the
members’ dwelling to meet another eldress, Abigail. “This building’s one house.
There are two more like it near here. But the town has more than just
dwellings. It also has businesses. Most of the buildings around here are
businesses—places where we work.”

I
stood beside her, afraid to let go of her hand.

“You’ll
go to school in another month or so,” she said. “Girls attend school during the
summer months and work after classes. Because most of the heavy work is done in
the summer, boys go to school in the winter.”

I
resisted the urge to insert my thumb into my mouth. My mother had warned me on
numerous occasions I was too old to do it, but it made me feel so much better.
“I go to school in New Lebanon next year. There’ll be mostly boys in our
class.”