Speaking in Bones (15 page)

I
woke suddenly, clueless where I was. Then recall.

Turned out the “nice” B&B belonged to Ramsey’s aunt, a lady in her seventies with nurturing instincts to give Clara Barton a run for her cap. And, despite snowy hair, a lime-green bathrobe, and crocodile slippers, a demeanor that suggested she was not to be crossed.

We’d arrived at eight, damp and muddy and shivering. While I showered and Ramsey washed up and changed shirts, Aunt Ruby had prepared her version of a light snack. Leftover meat loaf, ham hocks and beans, pickled beets, mac and cheese, peach cobbler and ice cream. I was unconscious before my head hit the pillow.

Now I lay a moment, listening to birdsong and watching dawn bring details of the room into focus. Rosebud wallpaper. Acres of gingham. Pine pieces so thickly lacquered they looked like plastic.

Outside, a rooster resolutely announced daybreak. Somewhere in the house a door closed. A soft squeak, then water trickled through old piping.

I turned on my pillow to check the bedside clock, a round affair topped by double bells with a tiny hammer between. Both scrolly hands were pointed straight down.

I threw back the quilt, swung my feet to the floor, and, wearing the panties and tee I’d slept in, tiptoe-hurried to an upholstered rocker I’d scooched in front of a heat vent. My jeans had dried where I’d scrubbed the knees and rear. I pulled them on, added the same bra, sweater, socks, and boots in which I’d left home twenty-four hours earlier.

The bath, two doors down a flowery hall, was mercifully empty. Pedestal sink. Black and white tile floor. Freestanding tub with a plastic curtain featuring dolphins and crabs.

On the sink were a cellophane-sealed toothbrush and a tube of Crest. I brushed, yanked my hair into a pony, and headed downstairs.

The dining room was through a parlor that stayed true to the theme upstairs. Centered in it was a long wooden table flanked by benches. Along the walls were two-tops. Ramsey was at one, already working on waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs.

When I drew near, the deputy did that half-standing thing men do when joined by members of the opposite sex. My bum had barely hit the seat when Aunt Ruby appeared carrying a stainless-steel pot. The robe and slippers had been replaced by a floral dress, pink cardigan, and sensible shoes.

“Good morning, missy.” Raising the pot.

“Thanks.” I held out my mug.

“Did you have a good sleep?”

“I did.”

“Pancakes or waffles?”

“I’m not really a breakfast—”

“Can’t start the day without food in your belly.”

“Pancakes.”

“Sausage, bacon, or both?”

“Sausage.”

“Coming right up.”

“There’s no point arguing,” Ramsey said when she’d gone.

“Oh, I definitely get that.”

Ramsey raised interested brows. No way was I explaining Mama at seven in the morning.

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

“The early service kicks off at eight. We’ll be waiting outside when it ends.”

“You’re sure the Teagues will attend?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t we just go to their home?”

“I’m fond of surprises.”

“You want to catch them off guard.”

“Something like that.”

Ramsey ate and I sipped for a while. I was about to ask if he’d learned more about the church when Aunt Ruby returned bearing sufficient food to feed a small nation.

Despite myself, I downed all three pancakes, the unrequested eggs, and two of the five sausages. One pumpkin scone.

I was working on my second coffee when a couple appeared in the doorway. The man had a long gray braid snaking down his back. The woman, at least a decade his junior, was tall and slim with very short hair. Both wore boots and cargo pants, and had bandannas tied around their necks. I guessed they were hikers.

The two were talking quietly. On seeing Ramsey’s uniform, their conversation slammed down in mid-word. A quick scan, then they settled at a corner table, the farthest from ours.

I glanced at Ramsey to see if he’d noticed. A subtle nod said he had.

Aunt Ruby again intercepted the question I was about to pose. She beamed at us through spotted lenses and waggled the pot.

“No more coffee, thanks,” I said.

“Just a check,” Ramsey said.

The wrinkled lips made a sound like air exploding from a piston. Then, to me. “Zeb tells me you’re a doc up from Charlotte.”

“I am.”

“Says it’s strictly professional.”

“It is.”

Ramsey pulled two tens from his wallet and placed them on the table. Aunt Ruby ignored him.

“He’s a fine boy,” she said.

He’s pushing fifty, I thought.

“He tell you I’m the reason he left Georgia?”

“He didn’t.”

“Broke my hip.” With her free hand, she patted the joint in question. “Zeb came to tend me. Never left.”

“I’m sure you enjoy having him close.”

“He’s all I’ve got. Just wish he’d find him a new wife. Last one wasn’t so hot.”

My eyes flicked to Ramsey. A blush was rising from his collar and mottling his cheeks.

Not noticing her nephew’s discomfort, perhaps not caring, Aunt Ruby yammered on.

“Now don’t be thinking I’m a delusional old fool. I know that whole marriage mess is the reason Zeb stayed. That and the snarl left by our moron sheriff. The dead one, I mean. The new one seems a bit brighter. Well, what the hooey.” Her hand flapped the air as though shooing a fly. “The turnover made for a job. So here he is.”

Ramsey rose, clearly embarrassed. I followed and went to gather my belongings. At checkout, Aunt Ruby was obstinate in refusing payment for my room.

I thanked her for her generosity. Then, while Ramsey went to bring the SUV around and, I suspected, run the plate on the vehicle belonging to the hikers, Ruby and I engaged in small talk.

“Seems a bit warmer today.” I figured weather was always safe.

“Spring’s a-coming. Always does.” Pause. “So where you off to?”

“Church.” Also safe.

The rheumy eyes narrowed behind the speckled glass. “Don’t reckon I’d count Zeb among the believers.”

“It’s business.”

“His or yours?”

“Both.”

“Which church?”

“Jesus Lord Holiness.”

Again, the derisive pooching of air through her lips. I waited.

“You’ve come all the way up here to go to Mass with crazies?”

“What do you mean?”

“Those folks are barmy. Nuts. Batty as loons.” The old gal didn’t mince words.

“Can you elaborate?”

“I knew one of them once. Nice person until that church bunch got hold of her. Made her crazy.”

“Define ‘crazy.’ ”

“Where do I start? They reject the pope and the president. Honest to God, probably penicillin and pizza.” An elevated tone suggested strong thoughts on the subject. “Parishioners are supposed to stay all hush-hush. But my friend,
former
friend, let on how they think.”

Three of her words linked up in my head.

“Wait. Are you saying the group is Catholic?”

“Not sure the Vatican would lay claim to that lot. But yes, they’re some sort of splinter faction. Charismatic or Pentecostal or whatever you call it. All into faith healing and prayer meetings and speaking in tongues.”

I was about to probe further when Ramsey pulled up in front. Aunt Ruby walked me to the door and held it wide with one scrawny arm. I again said thanks, then hurried outside.

“You two be careful out there,” she squawked at my back.

“What’s that all about?” Ramsey asked as I was buckling my seat belt.

I recapped the conversation I’d just had with his aunt.

Slowly shaking his head. “She does have some pit bull tendencies.”

The previous night, in the dark, Ruby’s place had been nothing but a long gravel drive ending at a yellow porch light. Curious, now that I could see it, I looked around.

The B&B was a two-story, green frame with lavender trim, an old farmhouse undoubtedly treated with less whimsy in its previous life. Wrapping its front and left side was a porch overlooking a lawn now brown and soggy with postwinter melt off.

A small sign identified the home’s current status as the Cedar Creek Inn. Overnight the clouds had passed, and the rising sun was now bronzing the Cedar Creek’s roof and windows.

The drive took fifteen minutes. I was glad I wasn’t making it solo. Our target lay deep in a hollow, many lefts and rights off the blacktop. The entire trip, I saw not a single sign. We encountered no other vehicles.

Ramsey knew the way. And timed our arrival well.

The Church of Jesus Lord Holiness sat with its back to a mountain. A tire swing hung from the branch of an enormous oak off to its left. Picnic tables sat in four rows of three by the tree’s trunk.

Roughly thirty cars and trucks waited in a paved parking area in front. Ramsey joined them and killed the engine. We both eyed the setup, assessing.

The main building was small, perhaps constructed specifically for worship, perhaps converted from some previous use. Its exterior was whitewashed, its windows plain—no fancy grillwork or stained glass.

Two steps led up to a stoop that looked as though it were scrubbed daily. A pair of double doors bore matching wrought-iron crosses. Above the doors, a simple wooden cross rose from the peak of the roof. No bells, no steeple.

An outbuilding sat twenty yards off the right rear corner of the church. Same double doors. Same whitewashed exterior. No cross. A gravel track forked from the entrance road toward its rear.

I lowered my window. From inside I could hear the muted sound of a piano being played with gusto. Warbly singing, the kind typical of small congregations.

I strained to listen. Caught a phrase or two. Latin. That tracked with Ruby’s account.

Ramsey started drumming a thumb on the wheel.

“It won’t be long.”

My comment drew a questioning glance.

“They’re singing the Agnus Dei.” Lamb of God. “The Mass will end soon.”

“You Catholic?”

I offered a noncommittal lift of one shoulder.

Six days a week. In my little green jumper, patrolled by Gestapo nuns. In my Sunday best, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Memories still slice through my dreams. The smoky sweet incense. The gloomy organ drone. The poorly padded wood under my bony kid knees.

Ten minutes of watching, then a priest and an altar boy emerged, both in full ecclesiastical garb. Together, robes billowing like clotheslined laundry, they pulled wide and secured the doors to shiny metal rings embedded in the stoop.

The boy disappeared back inside, then, one by one, two by two, and in family groupings of varying sizes, the worshippers trooped out. Every male over ten wore a suit and tie, every female a hat or veil.

The priest shook hands with the men, blessed the women and children with a pat on the shoulder or head. An hour of torturous restraint, yet all the kids stayed with their parents. Not one bolted for the tire swing, a game of tag, a cartwheel, a run with arms outstretched like a plane.

The exit parade was tapering off when Ramsey’s thumb went still.

The priest was speaking to a couple I guessed to be in their fifties. He was built along the lines of a bulldog. She was taller, more so with the headgear. Both were sporting black.

“Showtime,” Ramsey said softly.

I unbuckled my seat belt.

“Best let me do the talking,”

“Works for me,” I agreed.

Ramsey got out and began weaving through the back-pewers now arriving at their cars. Ignoring the distrustful looks and the chorus of
wheep-wheep
s around me, I hurried to keep up.

The priest was of average height and scarecrow thin. Black hair greased and combed back from his face, acne-scarred cheeks, indigo eyes. On spotting us, he abandoned the conversation to watch our approach. The Teagues turned to see what had robbed them of their pastor’s attention.

Recognizing Ramsey, or his uniform, John’s face went rigid. Unconsciously or not, he rolled his shoulders and spread his feet, a kid preparing for a double dare.

Still tracking us, the priest leaned in and said something I couldn’t hear. John nodded, but remained coiled.

“Sunday blessings, Deputy.” The voice was deep and rich as honey on toast. “What can I do for you this fine day?”

“Good morning, sir. We’d like a few words with Mr. and Mrs. Teague.” Neighborly grin, just a simple country sheriff doing his job. “Won’t take but a minute, then we’re on our way.”

“Of course, of course.” The priest smiled and arced an arm at the church behind him. The flapping vestment made me think of a giant green bird. “But at the Lord’s house? On the Lord’s day?”

“And you are?” Ramsey was still grinning, but far less warmly.

“Father Granger Hoke. Father G to my followers.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Teague know the reason we’re here.”

“May I ask what that is?” Again flashing yards of priestly dentition.

Ramsey stared at John, who stared right back.

Up close, I could see that Teague was rat-faced, with an undersize jaw and florid complexion. His wife was bland and colorless, the type you’d pass on the street and later be unable to describe. Though she kept her eyes down, a twitch in one lower lid danced feathery shadows across her cheek.

Hoke’s smile swung between Ramsey and the couple at his side, holding, but losing ground.

“First that meddling old hag, now you. This is harassment.” John’s voice was deep and gravelly. The one I’d heard on the audio? I lowered my breathing, anxious to catch every nuance.

“Hag?” Ramsey asked.

“The clown-haired one. The woman needs a good—”

“Hazel Strike?” The question was out before I could stop myself. “When did you last talk with her?”

Teague looked my way, but offered no reply.

“When girls go missing we take the situation seriously.” Ramsey, getting back on point.

Hoke’s lips tightened and his brows rose slightly. Surprised? Wary? His hands dropped into an inverted V in front of his genitals.

“No one’s missing,” Teague growled.

“You’ve heard from Cora?”

A beat, then, “Proverbs thirty, seventeen.” Teague’s pitch was low and threatening. “The eye of one who mocks his father and who despises the childbearing of his mother, let the ravens of the torrent tear it out, and let the sons of the eagles consume it.”