Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Page 7

  “One of them could be expandin’,” Fred offered.

  “From what I see,” I said, “between the options, actually buying the properties, and then permits and building costs, a developer would have to be pretty darn sure the project would return a small fortune.”

  Sherry snorted. “Lilyvale is a nice little town, with light industry adding to our tax base, but it’s no place to make a fortune.”

  The kitchen again fell silent for a moment.

  “Do we need a plan of action?” Dab asked. “Sherry, you mentioned having a meeting of the neighbors.”

  “We could do that, just so everyone knows where everyone else stands.”

  “How about holding the meeting Tuesday afternoon?” Aster said. “We need to clean the parlor tomorrow anyway.”

  “I’ll make snacks,” Maise declared.

  “Sherry and I can make the calls,” Eleanor added.

  “But Nixy has to leave on Tuesday,” Sherry put in.

  “So what?” Fred barked. “She won’t be here to see this through anyhow.”

  “Now, Fred, you know Nixy has a job she needs to get home for.”

  “She has vacation time, doesn’t she?” he groused.

  “Not enough, and not right now, but I can leave after the meeting, Aunt Sherry. And”—I paused to give Fred the stink eye—“I’ll call every day next week to check on you.”

  “That’s somethin’ more than you have done,” Fred said with an I won look while Sherry patted my hand.

  “Well, then,” Maise said as she rose, “there’s nothing more to do other than be sure we’re locked up tight at night and leave the yard lights on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to read my Navy Seal book.”

  “Which one are you reading?” I asked, as any book lover would.

  “One with a very handsome model on the cover, Miss Nosy.”

  The men harrumphed, I snorted a laugh, and Maise sailed off.

  Sherry grinned at me. “Your laugh reminds me of Sue Anne’s, Nixy. It’s good to hear it.”

  Emotion blindsided me again. While I blinked away the second teary lump in my throat of the day, the rest of Sherry’s friends began drifting away.

  Aster strode off to her garden, and a minute later a Jimi Hendrix song blasted from the south side of the house.

  “What on earth?”

  Sherry giggled. “That’s Aster. I’ll bet you thought she’d play classical music to her plants.”

  “I didn’t think about her playing any music to them, but acid rock is, uh, a bold choice.”

  “She says it gives her herbs extra oomph.”

  “Uh-huh.” If I hadn’t seen her garden, I’d wonder what kinds of herbs Aster grew.

  Dab came through the kitchen with a handful of tools, declaring himself ready to break down the stills as promised. Eleanor offered to help, and with only a slight hesitation, Dab accepted.

  Fred clomped his walker to the back door. “I’m gonna mow old lady Gilroy’s yard.”

  “Old lady Gilroy?” I echoed as Fred and his walker clanked out the back door and onto the deck.

  “I guess we shouldn’t call her that, but she’s ninety if she’s a day.” Sherry carried her tea glass to the sink. “She lives in the small house next door. Irascible woman. We take meals to her every few days. Not that we see her in person, but the food disappears off her porch right enough.”

  “I’m guessing that’s one neighbor Hellspawn never talked to.”

  “It’s Elsman, dear.”

  “Not in my book. How does Fred get the riding mower over there?”

  “There’s a gate in the chain-link fence. You can’t hardly see it if you aren’t standing there, but the barn is set a good ten feet from the fence. The gate is there, so Fred has plenty of room to maneuver the tractor.”

  “I noticed her yard goes back to the next street like yours, except she doesn’t have all the trees. I suppose that was part of your homestead once.”

  She gave me a sideways glance. “Um-hmm.”

  I felt like I was missing something, but plunged ahead. “So, what do you usually do on Sunday afternoons?”

  “This and that,” Sherry said. “Today I want to spend time with you. What would you like to do?”

  I smiled as an idea occurred. “Will you show me the family cemetery? I’d forgotten about it until Mr. Lambert mentioned it this morning.”

  Sherry’s breath caught and she blinked rapidly. “You’re a Stanton, child. Naturally you should meet your ancestors.”

  • • •

  WHEN I’D CAUGHT TRUDY BEHIND THE BARN yesterday, I’d only glimpsed a sea of pink azaleas. Now I saw the azalea bushes surrounded a three-sided whitewashed picket fence, which in turn enclosed the cemetery. The south edge of the cemetery reached almost to the edge of the barn, and the chain-link fence, bare of bushes, sealed the north boundary of the graveyard.

  Chain-link fences, in fact, outlined the back and side yards of each home all the way down the block. I counted six houses, three facing west as Sherry’s did, and three facing east. One fat cat lounged on a round wicker table in the nearest yard, but I didn’t see or hear a single dog. Perhaps they were all too old to be bothered to bark at us.

  “Sherry, which house is the Lamberts’?”

  “The last one on the right. It’s blue with white shutters on all the windows. Jane’s a bit of a nut about shutters, and John indulged her.”

  I had to smile because I imagined Sherry’s husband, Bill, had indulged her, too.

  We continued strolling past the south side of the cemetery to the gate on the east side, not far from the woods between Sherry’s land and the street behind her house. The azalea bushes at the gate were trimmed back to allow access, and the cemetery was so well maintained, the hinges didn’t even squeak as we entered. An oak tree outside the fence spread its limbs over the upright, mostly modestly sized markers. Tombstones were engraved with names and dates and short epitaphs that Sherry didn’t need to read.

  “I’ve known each grave by heart since I was a tyke,” she told me. “In fact, I taught your momma about the Stanton ancestors.”

  With that, Sherry reeled off names and family history. Samuel, his family torn apart by the Civil War, had survived the battles to move his wife, Yvonne, and their children to southwest Arkansas. Samuel had bought a huge tract of land from a widow named Hendrix, then he and Yvonne founded Lilyvale, named after Yvonne’s favorite flower. Sherry made the past come alive as she shared more stories of Stanton descendants, both those who had lived long lives on the land and those who had died young. Two American flags represented Stanton boys who’d died in World War I but had been buried overseas.

  I absorbed her enthusiasm as much as the stories. It didn’t even bother me when she expressed her hope that I’d want to keep the property. Much. And, okay, I diverted her attention with questions.

  “Why are there only twenty graves? It seems like there should be more.”

  “Samuel laid out the cemetery for thirty plots, but some of the Stanton clan moved away, as people do. Then, too, burials had to stop along about 1925 after Lilyvale annexed part of Stanton land.”

  “The same time your granddad sold off land?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said on a sigh. “After that, family started being buried in the city cemetery. Sissy was the only original Stanton child who lived here most of her eighty-nine years but had to be buried in the city cemetery because of the annexing. She ordered markers for herself and her husband, Josiah, to be put in here so she’d be with family.”

  “Is that why the stones read ‘in memory of’?”

  “It is. Sissy had memory markers made and installed for my great-grandparents, too. She even left a trust for things like upkeep of the markers. I paid to add the stones for my mother and dad, your grandparents. I think it’s nice to
see their names with the rest of the family.”

  “It’s lovely, Sherry, but did you say Sissy lived to almost ninety? When was she born?”

  “Long about 1860, if I remember right. Sissy was some kind of character. A feisty go-getter, rather like you.”

  I sidestepped that comment and pointed at the three-foot-high angel on a short pedestal spreading its wings over the small markers in the children’s section. Four graves were grouped slightly apart from the rest.

  “What about these graves in the children’s area, Sherry? You didn’t mention any McAdoos on the family tree.”

  “The family legend is that the McAdoos were passing through when their children died from influenza. Samuel and Yvonne had just lost their little Vera, so they offered plots and gravestones to the McAdoo parents. The parents accepted, and they stayed for a few months to work for Samuel, but they moved on to Texas. I guess they couldn’t bear being reminded of their loss.”

  When Sherry’s family stories wound down, I wanted to stroll in the wooded area behind the house. The tree house my mother had fondly recalled was long gone, but I enjoyed the soft wind singing through the trees.

  We didn’t go far, though. The path was somewhat overgrown with low bushes and young trees. I stopped and looked harder at the path. Hadn’t Trudy galloped through here just yesterday? How had she known there was a path at all, much less known where it was located? Because she’d helped Hellspawn burglarize the barn?

  I mentally shrugged. I supposed it didn’t matter now. I let those thoughts go. As I did, neighborhood sounds receded, too, and I felt the peace I saw reflected in Sherry’s expression.

  “Sherry,” I began as we turned back to the house. “Did the married Stanton children live with their parents? I know the house is large, but it seems that would get awfully crowded.”

  “No, child. Back when we owned more property, they were offered tracts of land as wedding gifts to build their own houses. Some did that, and some moved to town. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Have you ever considered applying for a historical landmark designation for your house?”

  Sherry linked her arm in mine. “The county historical society suggested we do that back in the eighties. I found trunks filled with family papers and mementos that Sissy had gathered. I even had most of the research together, but I always got sidetracked. Besides, I don’t know that the house is any finer example of architecture than a dozen others in the county. Other than being used as a courthouse for a spell, nothing particularly historical happened here. It’s simply where the Stantons raised their families.”

  “It can’t hurt to apply. If the application goes through, I think it will protect your house from being torn down. At least make it harder to do. Do you still have your research?”

  “I imagine I packed it all and left the trunks in the parlor.”

  “The one that needs cleaning?”

  She waved a hand. “It’s not really dirty. We do some of our crafting in there and in the dining room, and just haven’t tidied it yet.”

  “Then are you up for a little digging with me?”

  “I would love that!”

  Sherry gave me a smile of near rapture and a hard hug before she bustled inside. I admit I walked on air a bit as I trailed her, happy that I’d suggested a project that excited her. If we didn’t finish it on this trip, I’d make another one to work on it later. Or I’d ask Sherry to let me take the information home.

  Or so I thought until I saw the sheer volume of treasures packed in a trunk and two cedar hope chests.

  I dragged the trunk and chests out of a storage cupboard in the lower part of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases built into either side of the fireplace. Magnificently crafted bookcases that made the parlor look more like a library. Then, at Sherry’s direction, I arranged them in a semicircle around two wingback chairs. She moved basket-making supplies and labels for Aster’s herb concoctions out of the way, retrieved a large magnifying glass from the desk near the front porch windows, and we were soon elbow deep in Stanton family detritus.

  I latched on to copies of deeds, Samuel Stanton’s Civil War records, a delicate journal that had belonged to Samuel’s wife, Yvonne, and other papers. Age had faded the ink, so the magnifying glass came in handy. Sherry held up daguerreotypes, ambrotypes, and tintypes from the 1800s, and photographs going back to the early 1900s. I oohed and aahed over each one, partly because that’s what Sherry expected, but mostly because I got caught up in a feeling of family history I’d never experienced before. We reverently examined each memento, from leather shoes and kidskin gloves to watches and rings, brooches and bracelets. Nothing escaped our attention as I peppered Sherry with questions. I even went to the kitchen to grab my tablet so I could take photos and type notes.

  The exercise reminded me a little of going through my mother’s things with Sherry, but without the aching sadness. I was so deep into the discoveries, I startled when Maise poked her head in through the pocket doors we’d left partially open.

  “Time for the drive-by.”

  Sherry folded a lacy christening cap her grandmother had tatted. “Do you think she’s coming? She skipped yesterday.”

  “She set Shoar on you this morning. She’ll show.”

  “Maise’s right.” I put aside an open photo album. “Let’s go.”

  Sherry offered me a place on the porch swing with her and Eleanor, but I opted to sit on the porch step for a front-row seat.

  “Attention, troops. Here she comes. Prepare to wave and smile. No, wait. Belay that. The woman isn’t slowing down. What in the world?”

  I shot to my feet as the dark blue Hummer wheeled into the driveway, spewing gravel. The vehicle veered across the yard, plowed over the crepe myrtle sapling, and rocked to a stop spitting distance from me.

  Chapter Eight

  THE SIX WERE ON THEIR FEET, TOO. I COULD TELL by their voices closing in behind me.

  “My poor tree!” Sherry.

  “That woman’s a menace.” Dab.

  “Her bumper’s a goner.” Fred.

  “She’s gettin’ a thousandfold backlash now. I need my lavender.” Aster.

  “I’ll give her a backlash. Where’s your Colt, Fred?” Maise.

  “I do believe I’ll call Detective Shoar.” Eleanor.

  Good thing someone thought of placing a call, because I seemed to be frozen. I gaped at the women through the Hummer windshield. Trudy, hands still braced on the dashboard, sat in the passenger seat visibly shuddering. And Hellspawn?

  The witch climbed out of her car and stomped toward the porch. In spiked heels and on grass, the stomping lost a lot in translation, but her face, contorted in rage, made up for the lack.

  Trudy, I noticed, more or less tumbled out of the passenger seat, grabbing the open door with both hands. I guessed to keep from falling on her face. She let out a moaning “Now, Jill, don’t say something you’ll—”

  “Shut up, you cow,” Hellspawn barked.

  For a second, Trudy’s eyes blazed with hatred. Then, lips tight, her expression became resigned. I’d have punched Hellspawn’s lights out. Heck, I was tempted to do just that on Trudy’s behalf. Never mind Sherry’s.

  Instead, when Hellspawn turned back to me and took a step closer, I descended a stair tread to confront her. She had to stop or plow into me. She stopped, and in spite of our height difference, I held the high ground.

  “What the devil are you trying to pull?” she demanded, hands planted on her hips. “You vandalize my Hummer, then sweet-talk that detective into believing I did something to your car? That’s bull!”

  “First, I didn’t sweet-talk Detective Shoar. Second, none of us touched your car. Until now, I didn’t even know what it looked like.”

  “Liar,” she spat. “You saw me leave yesterday.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was busy putting my aunt
’s baskets back on display. The display you ruined.”

  Hellspawn didn’t have the grace to look even a smidgen ashamed. She went right back on the attack. “You can’t deny that you’re conspiring with other landowners to shut me out. Three of them slammed doors in my face in the last hour, and one held a shotgun on me.”

  “With your winning personality? Imagine that.”

  Hellspawn reddened and oozed closer. “I’m offering a good deal to these people. More than they’d ever see in a conventional sale.”

  “Why?”

  She opened her mouth again, closed it, and blinked. “Why what?”

  “Why do you want the land? What are you building? A big-box store? A mall? A factory?”

  Her nose went higher in the air. “What do you care?”

  “I don’t, but you’d get more cooperation from people if you let them in on your plans.”

  “They don’t need to know my plans. I promise you, they’ll take the money and thank me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “I have no interest in stopping you. My aunt and her neighbors make their own decisions, and they’ve decided you’re a manipulative liar.”

  Hellspawn’s sudden smile would make a rattlesnake wary. “I will have this land, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Is that a threat?”

  “Let me put it this way. Mowing down that little tree is nothing compared to what I’ll do to get my way.” She gave me a long, cold glare, then snapped her fingers. “Come, Trudy.”

  Hellspawn slammed the car door, ran back over the sapling, and swung out of Sherry’s drive in another spray of gravel right into the path of an oncoming car. Brakes screamed, wheels screeched, and time suspended as the brown sedan rocked to a stop in the middle of the road.

  I turned to the Six, who stood huddled around Sherry, staring in silence.

  “Are y’all okay?” I got murmurs and nods, so figured heart attacks weren’t imminent. Aster looked ready to bolt inside for her lavender, but she stood fast.

  “I’ll go check on the people in the car,” I said.