Winds of terror (12 page)

"I want you to call Mr. Garrett and have him come out here right away." Addie's voice sounded desperate. "Don't argue with me, child. Just do as I say. I'm going to put my clothes on today, too. I've got to muster some strength. I won't let Todd take me to my grave without a fight."

Melanie looked at the spirited old woman. She was

spunky, all right, and she would go down fighting. But Melanie was now more puzzled than ever. If it were true about the traps being in Uncle Bartley's room, then Mark had gotten them out. But the room was supposed to have been sealed. Yet, Butch had had fits to get in there! Was there something in there? She shivered. Just thinking about the room that had been locked for fifteen years gave her the creeps. Had Mark gone in there just to get one of the steel traps to kill Butch? Had he killed the dog to try and frighten Melanie away so that she would not be around to do Addie's bidding? Maybe he had murdered Butch because the dog sensed something odd about the room, and Mark was afraid it would arouse everyone's suspicion.

Just what was going on around Beecher House, Melanie wondered, overcome by waves of panic. Dear God, she didn't know, but oh, how she prayed that she mightl

"Go now and call Mr. Garrett," Addie urged her, whispering as though she feared they might be overheard. "Do it now, right away. Do you hear me? Have him come at once. Don't tell him anything over the phone, just that it's urgent that I see him as soon as possible."

Melanie nodded and quickly left the room. Hurrying down the hall, she was reUeved to notice that Cale had returned to his room. She had sensed immediately that he did not approve of his grandmother's summoning her lawyer. As she descended the stairs, she wondered whether Cale's appraisal of the situation had changed after Mark made that dreadful remark about Cale's dead mother.

She shuddered as she reached for the telephone—it had been an ugly scene. Lifting the receiver, she heard the familiar voice of Flossie Hasbrook, the elderly lady who ran the town switchboard, and always had, it seemed to Melanie. Linville, Alabama still did not have modem dialing equipment.

"That you, Melanie?" Flossie's twangy voice sang out after Melanie stated she wanted Lawyer Garrett's oflBce. "Honey, I'm sorry as I can be, but I've already put a call through to Ben's office, and I heard Margie, the girl who works for him now, say that he's in Talladega in court today. He won't be back till about five this evening."

She shifted her noisy chewing gum to the other side of

her mouth and went on: "Now I can ring Margie and leave word for Ben to call you when he comes back in if you like ..."

"No, no!" Melanie was alarmed by the forceful sound of her own voice, and she immediately lowered it to a calmer key. "It's okay, Flossie. It's not important. I can reach him later."

She hung up and stared worriedly at the telephone. She couldn't leave word for Mr. Garrett to call here. What if Mark happened to answer the phone? She thought it wise to say as little to him as possible, and, if Addie did decide to change her will, to keep this fact a secret. Melanie didn't really care about the will herself, but she was ready to do whatever Addie asked.

She returned to her aunt's room and told the old woman of her unsuccessful attempt to reach Mr. Garrett. "I can call him later today. Right now, I want to fix your breakfast.'*

Addie seemed a bit more relaxed now. The pills were doing their job, and she was eager to have something to eat and spend the morning resting. Melanie returned with her tray, and then said quietly, "I've got to go and bury Butch, so I will be away for a little while."

Addie's eyes softened. "I'm so sorry, my dear. Why don't you get one of the field hands to do it for you? It will only upset you to do it yourself."

"I think I want to do it myself. Fm going to bury him beside Snowball, if I can find the pet cemetery."

Addie assured her that she would have na trouble locating it. "When they clean the family cemetery, they usually clean the pet cemetery, too. I remember when Bartley had the wrought-iron fence put around it. It was after he lost that prize colt that one of his champion mares foaled. Folks laughed at him for putting up a marker and all, but that was Bartley—sentimental."

"You know," Addie called out as Melanie reached the door, "I don't think there's been a pet buried there since you and Mark buried Snowball. You had a fimeral service and everything, remember?"

Melanie nodded and went on out, her heart heavy. She remembered, all right. Mark had cried along with her. He felt almost as bad about Snowball dying as she did, but the years had certainly changed things. It seemed hard to believe, when she thought of that sobbing child

of yesteryear, that today he could hint' without shame that he had something to do with another dog's dying.

Some of the workers had found a small wooden box that just fit Butch. Melanie located a shovel, which she put into the small wooden cart she would use to transport Butch's little coflSn to the animal cemetery.

She began making her way to the cemetery. First, she cut across the back yard to the woods, and then made her way along the little dirt road that wound back among the dogwoods and the elms. It was cool and green, and the air was pungent with the heady scent of honeysuckle and wild crabapples. Her load was not heavy, but it was difficult to steer the little cart over the bumpy path. Actually, she might have enjoyed the walk were it not for her sad mission.

There was a small wooden bridge that crossed a babbling stream, and she paused to look down at the cool, gurgling water. There were several large rocks, and upon one sat a lazy, moss-covered turtle. She remembered many summer days, picnicking beside this stream. Her mother had come with her, and together they went wading, delighting as the polliwogs darted and danced and tickled their bare toes.

Such happy times. Such happy memories. But now they were disappearing, fading just as the turtle who slid off his resting place and sank below the stream's surface, left nothing behind but the memory of his presence. Had he really been there? She did not know for certain. Had she ever really been happy in her whole lifetime? How could she be certain of even that? All she had to show for any happiness was a memory—and memories are not tangible.

The bridge was wide enough for a carriage; it had been used to transport the coffins of family members buried long ago. She wondered if they had brought Todd here by carriage.

She came to a clearing, and there it was—the Beecher family cemetery. The tombstones stood tall and white and erect, important even in their loneliness. She left the cart at the end of the path and walked reverently among the rows of long-dead relatives, most of whom she had never known. Then she reminded herself that they were not really any kin to her, for she had been adopted and was a part of the family in name only.

She paused before a tall, white angel, who stood with bowed head and upraised arms. Beneath its vigilant gaze lay the grave of her mother, Ruth. Addie had wanted her beloved sister buried here on the Beecher plantation, where Ruth had known so many happy days.

Melanie felt a tear sliding down her cheek, and she brushed it away. There was a job to be done, and she had to hurry so she could finish and get back to Aunt Addie. She didn't like leaving the old woman alone, knowing how distressed she was over everything. She knew, too, that her mother would have preferred her not to waste time at her graveside.

Melanie didn't want to look to the far end of the cemetery, where the stately oaks overlooked the square brick building, but something compelled her to gaze in that direction. She winced at the sight of the windowless walls, the big, solid iron door and the letters, B-E-E-C-H-E-R engraved into the brick.

The Beecher family mausoleum.

It was here that the fine Beecher men were buried— Bartley Beecher; his father Vernon Beecher; and on back for several generations, each coffin lined up neatly against a brick wall, each perched on its own catafalque.

Qosing her eyes, Melanie remembered that day so long ago when Mark, Todd, and she had filed obediently into the mausoleum to pay their final respects to their uncle Bartley. She had counted six coffins resting in a row along one side of the little house. Uncle Bartley's became the first along the other side. It had seemed gruesome and ghostly, and Melanie had held tightly to her mother's hand, wanting to turn and run. She remembered that the air had been stale, heavy and sickly-sweet, like the fragrance of rotting flowers.

Now she pictured Todd resting beside his father. That left only three places—one for Mark, one for Cale, and one for Aunt Addie, who had vowed to break with the tradition that dictated she be buried outside with the Beecher women.

"I'm going to rest through eternity beside my beloved Bartley," she had said more than once.

Melanie wondered what difference it made. She doubted that Cale would ever be buried here, since he would leave Beecher House as soon as he could walk. Mark might be, but she doubted it. She was certain that

as soon as he gained control of the plantation everything would change. Family traditions would not prevent him from following out his plans. It would be as though the old plantation had never existed. Mark would clear the land for timber and make room for more crops. He would care nothing about preserving the natural beauty of the place, and, if he could get away with it, he'd plow the cemetery under. Melanie bristled at that thought. Surely, he hadn't turned that cold and callous. Besides, there were laws! She decided to dismiss the unpleasant notion.

Turning back to the cart, she picked up the shovel and walked several yards to the far side of the path. There she found a small fenced-off area, and just as Addie had promised, the area was as clean as the family cemetery. She brushed fallen leaves away from the crude headstone of Snowball's grave, and beside it she marked off a space for Butch and began to dig.

It was quiet. Somewhere a bird trilled, then stopped abruptly. Melanie didn't like being there. She didn't like cemeteries; she found them depressing. She began to dig faster, hoping to finish her task and leave this place as quickly as possible.

She began to slice into the hard red clay faster and faster with her shovel. A sudden roll of thunder made her jump in fright, and she admonished herself for being so easily scared. Though the rain was sorely needed, she hoped it was not a bad storm building up.

A wind was beginning to blow, and the sound of dry leaves sweeping across the flat markers, covering some of the graves, made an unappealing, frightening rustling. The earth was hard and Melanie's arms were growing tired.

She paused, looked down into the hole. It was deep enough, she decided. Once the coffin was inside, there would be perhaps two feet of dirt on top, enough to discourage wild animals from digging up the grave. Later, maybe she would cover it with stones.

She lifted the little coffin from the cart and placed it in the grave, working slowly because she was so tired. She whispered a sad goodbye to her pet, then began shoveling the dirt into the grave, the first clods hitting the wood with a lonely thud.

The vision of Butch's bloody body flashed into her

mind, as did the scene with Mark that morning. Anger replaced apprehension, and she became consumed by her rage. It made her work faster; it removed her from the reality of her surroundings. Melanie was oblivious to the sounds around her. She did not hear the snapping of a twig, the quiet but unsuccessfully muffled footsteps crackling through the dry leaves. All she could think of was Butch . . . why did he have to die? And Mark . . . how could he talk so foolishly? And Cale . . . did he really love her, and did she really love him, and if love was there, why did he want her to leave? Why was he so secretive about his intentions? So many questions . . . and no answers for any of them!

Suddenly, she felt a sharp, cracking pain across the back of her head. But the pain was blotted out by instant oblivion. She felt herself falling, and then . . . nothing.

Chapter 11

Rain slashed down in angry torrents and violent rolls of thunder sounded. Streaks of lightning split the sky almost rhythmically, illuminating the drenched earth below momentarily. It was twilight, but darkness hung over Beecher House like a heavy cloak,

A bell tinkled irritably, then stopped. A few moments passed, and the bell sounded again through the otherwise quiet mansion. This time it did not stop, and Cale rolled his chair out into the hallway at the same time Mark came striding out of his room, obviously annoyed.

Mark looked at Cale and frowned. "Where is Melanie? It's her job to jump when Auntie rings that infernal bell, not minel"

"I'm sure she's somewhere around the house," Cale answered, his voice cold. He had not forgotten the scene that had transpired earlier in the day. He doubted that he ever would.

Cale continued to roll his chair, behind Mark, in the direction of Addie's room. Mark did not bother to knock, merely pushed the door open and glared inside at the old woman.

"Well, where is Melanie?" Addie snapped, returning his glare. "I certainly didn't want you!"

"I haven't seen her since early this morning," he said. "Didn't she bring your lunch? I had to fix my own, but the least she could have done was bring your tray." He glanced around the room, consternation on his face.

Cale pushed his way through the door, and Mark had to move quickly to get out of his way. Cale did not bother to apologize. He moved swiftly up to his grand-

mother's bed. "Well, when did you last see Melanie?" he asked, worry furrowing his brow.

"Oh, she's probably asleep somewhere," Mark sighed, exasperated, and turned to leave the room. "I'll look downstairs."

Addie's eyes were frightened. "I took the pill she gave me to calm my nerves this morning, and I fell asleep and only just now woke up and rang for her. Surely she hasn't been digging that grave all this time."

"The grave for Butch?" Cale asked, and Addie nodded. He bit his lip and stared out the rain-streaked window, watching the rivulets race each other to reach the bottom of the pane. "No, she wouldn't still be out there in this ram," he said quietly. "And it's been raining like this for over a half hour."