Skeleton's Key (Delta Crossroads Trilogy, Book 2) (3 page)

“Ouch!” Her forearm burned where the skin had touched the hot metal. Opening the car door was like unsealing an oven. She cranked the air conditioning and lost count of how many minutes passed before the air was breathable.

She’d lived through thirty Indiana summers, suffering through days that were so hot walking outside was nearly unbearable. But nothing compared to the take-your-breath away misery she’d just experienced.

Doubt cluttered her head. What was she thinking moving down here? Starting a new life entirely on her own so soon after her mother died?

Her barely recovered breath lodged in her aching throat. Had it really been less than six months since she’d buried her mother? The grief ebbed and flowed, and right now it flowed stronger than rushing flood waters. Diabetes. The silent killer. But the disease wasn’t so silent in the end. Death came as a relief to Dani’s mother, but it nearly shattered Dani. She’d spent the last few years of her life caring for her mother, and suddenly, there was nothing left but her career.

Dani’s world splintered. Pain swallowed her whole. Her mother’s influence stretched over every facet of Dani’s life. Her mother encouraged Dani’s profession, and after her mother’s death, work was a prison, and home was hell. She couldn’t bear to walk through the house, expecting to hear her mother’s throaty voice and then realizing the comforting sound she’d relied on her entire life was gone. The loneliness was indescribable. Days drifted by until she realized she’d sunk to the bottom of the well of grief. Something had to change, or she’d spend the rest of her life sleepwalking between her warm bed and a haze of misery.

And even then, her mother’s guidance remained.

Dani’s mother nurtured her love of history and lived vicariously through Dani’s career in historic preservation. They’d dreamed of traveling the Deep South, exploring the old plantations, and maybe finding one of their own to restore.

Her mother never got out of Indianapolis, but she’d made Dani promise to follow that dream someday. Embarking down this road without her mother stung worse than a yellow jacket, but it was better than rolling into a ball and giving up.

So here she was, melting in a Mississippi inferno, a new preservation specialist at the Adams County Historical Foundation, and the proud owner of a once great plantation home in desperate need of her expertise.

With a skull in the basement.

She caught her wilted reflection in the rearview mirror and realized she was smiling. She should probably be frightened–or at the very least, sickened. She definitely shouldn’t be rushing down to Roselea nearly two weeks before she was due to move. But she’d been counting the days. Her apartment was packed, her affairs were in order, her goodbye party at Indiana Landmarks Association over and done with. A skull in the basement gave her the perfect opportunity to grab the necessities and leave early.

Cage Foster had called this morning to let her know the coroner believed the remains to be more than a hundred years old. With Dani’s permission, the coroner and Cage were digging for more bones, which would then be shipped off to a state medical examiner for identification.

Ironwood’s caretaker had sounded testy on their second phone call, and Dani worried she’d embarrassed him with the good-natured teasing she’d given him about assuming she was a man.

“You don’t need to come right now.” Cage’s lazy drawl would have been appealing if it weren’t for the disdain in his tone. “We’re taking care of it.”

“But it’s my house,” Dani had said. “I should be there.”

“We’re capable.”

“I don’t mean to say you aren’t.” Dani had tried to smooth things over. “I just think I should be there.”

“I suppose you need someone to pick you up at the airport and drive you into Roselea?”

She needed to make things right with Cage as soon as she arrived at Ironwood. The historical foundation raved about his work as Ironwood’s caretaker, and she didn’t want to lose him.

“No, thank you. I’ve got a rental car. I’m sure I can find my way.”

“All right then. Call if you get lost.”

This afternoon should be fun, Dani thought as she navigated away from the airport and onto the interstate. The exit for US 84 was four miles ahead, and according to her GPS, she’d arrive in Roselea in about two hours. The Union Army spared the town in the Civil War, and many of the antebellum homes and plantations survived. Roselea’s location at the southern tip of the Natchez Trace made the town a thriving tourist stop.

A sign for Route 61 caught Dani’s eye, and for a moment, she was tempted to change course and head for the northern end of the Delta. The legendary crossroads where blues great Robert Johnson allegedly sold his soul to the devil was just a few hours down the road.

Patience. She could do that another day.

She had another day.

Reality began to sink in. Finally, after all these years, she was here, ready to see the places she and her mother had so coveted.

She had all the time in the world.

During the ride from Jackson, she was grateful for the traffic’s leisurely pace. It gave her plenty of time to soak up her surroundings. The grass was a deeper shade of green, lush beneath the bright sun. Large farms, many of them old, dotted the landscape, but the ramshackle places with rotting roofs and sad looking lawns were just as prevalent. Poverty and grandeur interwoven into the state’s fabric.

She reached the outskirts of Roselea right on time and wistfully turned south instead of driving straight into town. There would be plenty of time to explore its history after she got settled. Anticipation began to swirl in her stomach as she threaded her way through the countryside, squinting to read the mailbox addresses and trying to keep her heart from taking permanent residence in her throat.

And then she saw it: 15 White Creek Road. The mailbox was a simple plastic affair–green with white letters. A wooden rail fence sat on each side of the dirt drive marking the entrance to the property. Ironwood sat back off the road more than a hundred feet, and a hulking live oak that had taken up residence in the front yard hid Dani’s initial view of the house.

Ducking her head to see beneath the oak’s drooping branches, Dani turned into the drive. Glimpses of dirty white railing partially hidden by rosebushes had her clenching the steering wheel with anticipation. The path wound slightly to the left, around the big tree, and Ironwood emerged.

Pictures hadn’t done her justice. The mansion’s wooded exterior was gray and faded, the balconies sagging dangerously in places. Its four front columns were cracked, its iron railings rusting, and the widow’s peak had lost part of its outboards.

But she was still beautiful, like a weathered grandmother who’d seen more of life than most could comprehend. The grand home’s front was a five bay structure, its centerpiece a two-story portico with four perfectly spaced Greek pillars. An exquisite bracketed cornice marked the roofline, and while several of the Italianate brackets were missing, their craftsmanship was still visible on the remaining pieces. Standing guard over the house was a widow’s walk with a balcony that circled a small cupola. Additional porticos marked the east and west sides of the house.

Dani closed her eyes and imagined the house’s mistress standing on the walk, waiting for her son to come home from the Civil War. Her summer dress would be lightweight, but hoops and underskirts would have added several pounds to her frame. Her hair might have hung in pin curls or been done up in a more stately but ornate knot. A delicate white handkerchief etched with precise stitching – probably flowers – would be crushed in her hand as she prayed for her son’s safe return from the war.

That son would have been John James Laurent, and he did return from the war. He and his father kept Ironwood afloat during the Reconstruction, and the plantation employed free blacks for decades, running a modest but successful cotton crop until sometime during the Great Depression. Ironwood had been slowly sinking into quiet despair since. The once grand home was no more than a shadow of its former glory.

Moisture dripped onto Dani’s lip. She flushed, hastily wiping the tears away. Old homes had always held a special power over her, but the plantations were a force she couldn’t explain. It was as if the last remnants of a forgotten way of life desperately grasped for survival. For someone to remember. To save them.

She would save Ironwood
.

She wiped her face once again and checked her reflection. Her fair Irish skin was no longer pink, but her hair was still flat from the humidity. Quickly, she dug a brush out of her purse, dragged it through her hair, and pulled it into a loose ponytail. That would have to do.

An Adams County Sheriff’s cruiser was parked in the winding drive in front of what was obviously the carriage house. Single story, moderately maintained, a few flowers out front. Lived in.

The flowers.

Her attention was drawn back to the sprawling house. Well-kept blooming rosebushes surrounded the front of the house, and sweet jasmine peeked out from the bottom of the bushes. A mint julep plant adorned the side of the house, its rugged foliage neatly trimmed. Two large planters loaded with azaleas marked Ironwood’s entrance.

Someone else loved this place, too.

The front door, partially shaded by the portico, swung open. A tall man stepped outside wearing a sleeveless shirt and dark cargo shorts. Standing well over six feet, he was broad shouldered with just the right amount of muscle in his bare arms. Tanned skin, long legs, and chestnut colored hair that could use a trim.

He strode down the steps toward her car. This must be Cage. She reached for the door handle, ready to greet him with as much friendliness as she could muster. The door didn’t open, and she realized it was locked. She fumbled for the button in the unfamiliar car.

He was at her door now, squinting in the window, a tight smile on his face. Dani snapped the door handle at the same time as he grabbed for it, swinging the door into his outstretched hand.

He stumbled back, shaking his fingers. “Damn.”

“I’m sorry!” She stood on rubbery legs, immediately tearing at the heat. “Oh God, it’s hot.”

He grunted and then stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Ironwood. I’m Cage.”

“I’m so sorry about your hand.”

“‘S’all right.” Cage shifted his weight, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Let me get your bags for you.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d love to get inside the house.” She shaded her eyes to gaze at Ironwood. “I just can’t wait any longer.”

Cage cocked his head, staring down at her as though he were trying to decide if she were worthy to enter. She didn’t break eye contact and tried to smile, but she was pretty sure the heat made her look like a mangy stray dog.

“Go on ahead, then.”

She forced herself not to sprint to Ironwood’s front steps. There was nothing like walking into a pre-restored historical home for the first time. She’d entered her first when she was fifteen, and had been in countless others since then, traveling throughout Midwest for her internship and later career. No matter the state, every one breathed whispers of the past in Dani’s ear. Instead of crumbling foundations and cracked walls, she saw decades of life, family hardships, and strength. Instead of a money-sucking eyesore, she saw something to be cherished: a living structure waiting to be rescued.

She loved every home she’d ever worked on, but Ironwood was personal. The grand old home represented everything Dani loved about her mother and the promise she’d made to move on with her life. Stopping in front of the bottom step, she swallowed the hard lump in her throat and tried to will the stinging tears not to fall.

Close-up, the house looked even more dismal and haunting. Weather had scrubbed off massive sections of paint, and several of the porch spindles were rotting. The portico’s floor looked worn through in some places, making it impossible to tell what the original color had been. But she saw beyond all that–saw the beauty of what had once been.

She saw home.

“I haven’t been able to do much to the outside.” Cage stood beside her. “Spent most of my time getting the inside cleaned out. Church didn’t want to give any money toward upgrades so—”

“I’m glad they didn’t.” Dani knew her words were coming out too fast, but she couldn’t slow down. “That’s the biggest mistake made with these old homes. So many of them are gutted of their original designs. Old windows replaced with new, supposedly more efficient ones.”

“Why is that a mistake?”

“Because these houses aren’t made for the new windows. There is so much cost to fitting the old sills for modern windows, the energy savings are eaten up. It’s better to restore the old ones.”

He flushed and looked away.

“Did you replace any of the windows?”

“Not yet. But it was on my list.”

Dani breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Less mistakes to fix the better. What about the interior? Is everything still the same as the pictures I’ve been shown?”

“Yes ma’am. Majority of the woodwork is all original. Some is in pretty lousy condition, though.”

“That’s okay. As long as you didn’t mess anything up, I can work with it.”

Irritation flashed across his face. “No ma’am, I sure didn’t.” He strode up the sagging porch steps leaving Dani behind. She hadn’t meant to offend him. She just got so excited about restoration, and she’d encountered so much damage by well-meaning amateurs over the years.

Cage pushed opened the solid oak front door. Warped and faded, but solid. He held it open for her. “After you.”

Anticipation derailed her manners and she bounded up the steps. Dani’s pulse thrummed in her chest; her stomach danced. Her eyes threatened to tear again. Taking a deep breath, Dani stepped into Ironwood for the first time.

The musty scent of old wood and the past greeted her. Her vision took a moment to adjust from bright outdoors, but when it did, she found herself staring at Ironwood’s exquisite double staircase. Directly across from the door, the grand structure took center stage.

“What a statement,” Dani whispered.