New Mercies

N
ew
M
ercies

ALSO BY SANDR A DALLAS

The Persian Pickle Club
Buster Midnight’s Cafe
The Diary of Mattie Spencer
Alice’s Tulips
The Chili Queen

S
ANDRA
D
ALLAS

NEW MERCIES
. Copyright © 2005 by Sandra Dallas. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartms.com

                    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dallas, Sandra.
        New mercies / Sandra Dallas.
            p. cm.
        ISBN 0-312-33619-5 (hc)
        ISBN 0-312-33620-9 (pbk)
        EAN 978-0-312-33620-2
        1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction.
    3. Aunts—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction.
    5. Natchez (Miss.)—Fiction. 6. Home ownership—Fiction. I. Title.
    PS3554.A434N49 2005
    813′.54—dc22
                                                                                     2004051162

10 9 8

For Harriett Dallas
1912-2001
One daughter’s greatest mercy

I first heard about Natchez’s infamous murder on a trip there in 2002 with my daughter Dana. While touring Auburn, one of Natchez’s splendid mansions, I picked up a booklet entitled
The Goat Castle Murder
. The idea for
New Mercies
came from that booklet. Both the real victim and my victim, Amalia Bondurant, were reclusive women, murdered in their mansions in the 1930s, and an elderly neighbor was the primary suspect. Beyond that, the stories diverge, and
New Mercies
is entirely fiction.

Natchez people are gracious to interlopers, and I’m grateful to many Natchezians for sharing their history. Mimi Miller at the Historic Natchez Foundation, Delores Mullins and Janet Minor at the Natchez Library, and Ron Brumfield, general manager of the Natchez Eola Hotel, helped me with local fact and folklore. Clarence and George Eyrich and Patricia Clark, whose family
owned the Eola for many years, shared hotel stories. Don Estes supplied information on Civil War firearms.

Denver and Carl Mullican explained Southern history and attitudes and gave me the best lines in the book. Philip Atchison researched architectural details. My Georgetown friend Nell Tomasi shared her collage technique.

My longtime agent, Jane Jordan Browne, to whom I owe an incredible debt, read the first draft just before her death in 2003, and made helpful suggestions. Scott Mendel helped shape the book in its early stages. Danielle Egan-Miller, who ably took over for Jane, and Joanna Topor at Brown & Miller Literary Associates shepherded the book through its final drafts, and my editor, Jennifer Enderlin, and copy editor, Carol Edwards, at St. Martin’s made final improvements.
New Mercies
wouldn’t have worked without all of you.

Thanks to Arnie Grossman for sharing the highs and lows of writing and even more, for being my friend. And thank you, Bob, Dana, Kendal, Lloyd, and Forrest. You are proof that new mercies come every day.

I
t is or the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

—
Lamentations 3:22-23

N
ew
M
ercies

I
N THE ODD CITRON LIGHT
of dusk, the house appeared grand and elegantly proportioned. Four fluted pillars equally spaced across the front of the old place rose two stories, setting off porches on each floor—galleries, I later learned to call them. The pillars were optical illusions, tapering slightly just above their midpoint to give an exaggerated sense of their height and sending the house soaring into the Mississippi sky. Avoca must have been one of the grandest houses ever built in Natchez. Of course, that was years ago. This was 1933, so the house was seventy-five or eighty years old at least, built before the Civil War.

Peering through the window of the taxicab, I could tell that, while grand, Avoca also was in peril of falling down. The house was set back two hundred feet or more from the dirt road, and looking across the expanse of weeds and rubble that passed for a front yard, I saw that the paint was gone, leaving weathered and
splintered boards, many of them lying on the ground. Six chimneys jutted out of the roof; two of them had crumbled to almost nothing. Windows were broken, and there was a hole in the center gable of the attic. The railing on the second-floor gallery had crumbled, and a ladder was propped against the porch floor, replacing wide stone steps, which were now broken and scattered.

Branches from a low-spreading tree that was heavy with Spanish moss hung over the roof, softening the decay but, at the same time, giving the sullen house a slightly sinister, almost funereal, appearance. The air was heavy with moisture, and the lush foliage that surrounded the house was wet, overripe. It had rained earlier, and from time to time, beads of moisture the color of lemon drops ran off the leaves, splashing onto the ground and adding to the smell of rot. But the overwhelming feeling of the place was of misery and great sadness.

“Will you wait?” I asked the driver.

The man shrugged. He’d said earlier that he had taken others to Avoca, and I knew he probably thought of me as just another morbid tourist. But he was agreeable. “I ain’t got nothing to do but die and stay black.” He gave me a sideways look. “Folks don’t go inside. They just want to see where the goat lady lived, where they found them shackly bodies. You sure you want to get out?”

“I’m expected.” I wasn’t so sure of that now. The old house wrapped in moldering foliage was not inviting.

“Ma’am? You what?”

“I may be spending the night.” The driver continued to stare at me, his eyes wide, so I added, “Or not.” The day was slipping away, and the house had become gloomier in the time the two of us had sat there. “Would you like to come inside with me?”

The driver looked at me as if he’d been invited to enter a tomb. He muttered something about “hants.”

“What?”

“Hants, you know, raw head and bloody bones.”

Haunts, I thought. Ghosts. “Wait, then.”

He got out of the cab and opened the door for me, and I started along what had once been a brick driveway. Wide enough for two carriages to pass, it curved in front of the house before returning to the road. The drive was broken through and uneven where tree roots had forced themselves under the bricks and pushed them up, a good twelve inches in places. Weeds and briers as high as my knees grew in the cracks. I should have worn sensible shoes instead of my good slippers, but I’d a notion—a ludicrous one, as it turned out—that I should arrive properly dressed. After all, I had wanted to make a good impression—but on whom, on the haunts that flitted behind the broken windows? A brick crumbled under my foot, and I stumbled, righting myself and glancing back at the taxicab driver.

He was slouched against the car, arms folded, watching, and he waved me on. “Room over there on the right. That’s where they found ’em. She was murdered cemetery-dead.” He seemed to be amused at me, but whether that was because his passenger was a white woman or a northerner or a fool wasn’t clear. I’d encountered Negro porters and draymen all my life, but I’d never known any colored men personally, never thought about them really until today, when I’d arrived in Mississippi in the wake of my aunt’s murder and seen so many black faces. I’d never thought about Mississippi, either, until a week ago, when the telegram arrived summoning me from Denver to settle the
estate of an aunt I had not known existed. There was a time when getting away unexpectedly would have meant canceling a dozen social engagements, but that was before my divorce six months ago. Now I was at loose ends, ignored by former friends and with only a few business responsibilities.

I continued down the pathway and climbed the ladder to the porch, then tried the massive front door—it did not occur to me to knock at that crumbling house—but the door did not open; it was locked or boarded shut. I’d read once that southern mansions did not have keys to the front door because guests were welcome day and night. Besides, there was always a servant, or slave, to answer a knock. Avoca was not one of them, not now, at any rate. There was no way to force the door; a cannonball would not have broken it down, although something had broken the fanlight overhead, as well as the leaded-glass sidelights that flanked the door. The openings were not large enough for me to slip through, which was a relief.

There were enormous French doors on either side of the main entrance, each set centered between two pillars. The doors that led to the room on the right were open slightly; a tattered drapery had caught in them and prevented them from being closed securely. With some reluctance, for I felt like an intruder, although I had as much right to be there as anyone—more, in fact—I walked across the porch. I tiptoed, but the sounds of my shoes reverberated on the boards, which gave a little, making me wonder if they would hold my weight or break, sending me through the floor into the foundation.

But they held, and I reached the room without mishap, pushed open the door, and peered into the darkness, wishing
for a torch or even a candle. Of course, I hadn’t thought of either, since I had expected the house to be habitable, with someone there to welcome me. Perhaps it was just as well there was no light, because I did not care to explore the old house at night—nor by day either, at least not alone. It wasn’t that I was fearful. David had remarked on it once, saying, “I’d bet a fourdollar dog you’re the bravest girl in Colorado.” Of course, that wasn’t true. Nonetheless, I didn’t frighten easily.

Still, I was not foolhardy and thus knew it would be best to return tomorrow with someone besides a cabdriver. One thing was certain: I would not be spending the night at Avoca, even if someone had received the telegram with my arrival date and was expecting me.