Strangled Skein Page 2

  Upstairs, the central hallway was lined with bedrooms, each with a view of the surrounding landscape that was simply gorgeous. I could almost picture sheep grazing in the front pastures, and I imagined that in the winter, the river was visible through the trees that lined it. People in that time period surely knew how to set a house.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I told Mark and Mariah.

  Mariah nodded. “She is. A bit stark, and we hope to update her a bit. Make her a bit more homey, but we’re going to preserve the architectural integrity. Maybe just brighten the paint a bit, add some extra heat and AC,” she said as she waved her hand in front of her face. It was a bit warm on the second floor.

  I looked around the bedroom in which we stood for another minute, trying my best to be polite and not lunge toward the wardrobe in the corner to see what delights it held.

  My anticipation must have shown because Mark smiled at me and said, “You’re dying to see what’s in there, aren’t you?” He tilted his head to the mahogany cabinet that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  I nodded and resisted the urge to clap my hands with delight. “Definitely. Do you mind?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Mariah said.

  I pranced over to the wardrobe and slowly opened the door, not sure what I’d find. Inside, instead of clothes hanging, as one might expect, I found stacks of bankers’ boxes. Carefully, I lifted the top one off the shelf, surprised by how heavy it was, and set it down at my feet. Then, I sat on the floor, cross-legged, and opened the box.

  Inside, I saw groups of letters bound together with twine, some loose sheets of paper, and several leather-bound books. I could hardly wait to look at all of it, but I picked up one of the books first. When I opened the first page, I smiled. “It’s a ledger for the plantation, expenses and income.” I turned the book to show it to everyone and looked up expecting to see the delight in their faces.

  Instead, I was greeted by blank stares and remembered that most people didn’t find columns of numbers in faded handwriting to be as exciting as I did. I nodded. “This will tell us a lot about the workings of the plantation. Where they bought what, who they did business with, and even - if we’re lucky - some of what the enslaved people here did with their time.”

  Mariah nodded, and while she was now smiling, I could tell she still wasn’t convinced that even that information was important. “For people descended from enslaved people, these kinds of ledgers often give the only information they have about their ancestors. In that way, and in others, these books are invaluable.” I gently closed the book and then stood up.

  “If I may,” I said as I walked back over to them, “could I ask if you would mind donating these records to the Octonia Historical Society? I don’t have use for them personally, but I know Xzanthia Lewis at the Society would love to have them.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Mark said. “We can box them up and take them over later today if you’d like.”

  I appreciated his enthusiasm, but I needed to slow his roll just a bit. “Actually, it might be helpful for Miss Lewis to see the items as they are now. They might be grouped together by date or some other method.” I looked from Mark to Mariah, and they seemed to understand. “Would you mind if I invited her out with me tomorrow to sort these items? Then, she and I could take them to the Historical Society for you when we’re done.”

  “A lovely idea,” Mariah said. “We’ll have coffee and scones ready at 9.”

  I smiled. “Wonderful. I assume you have other things you’d like me to sort, too?” I asked with a growing sense that this might just be the project I’ve been waiting for, in more ways than one. At that moment, I couldn’t have told you why, but I definitely felt this opportunity was going to yield something big.

  For the next half-hour, we walked from room to room, opening wardrobes and closets, digging through drawers, and even venturing into the attic and outbuildings to get a peek at what was there. The only building we didn’t visit that Mark and Mariah wanted me to salvage from was the barn, and the only reason we didn’t go there was because I was too overwhelmed by what I’d already seen to even begin to take in another space.

  It looked like I was going to have a couple of months of work ahead of me, and I couldn’t wait to get started. “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” I said as I shook the Owens’ hands. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Just then, Sawyer came charging around the house with a tiny boy close behind him. “You can’t catch me. Nana nana boo boo,” he taunted.

  Wyatt then lunged and tackled him, and while I held my breath to see if anyone was hurt or made, they stood up and laughed. “You got me,” Saw said with a grin. “You’re so fast.”

  I heard my own voice in his words and smiled. “Time to go, Sawyer. Maybe you can come play again soon.”

  He sprinted toward us before turning to wave goodbye to his new friend. “See you soon, Wyatt,” he said.

  As the three of us walked to our vehicles, I was grinning ear to ear, both because of the job and my son’s new friend.

  “Going to be a good gig, Paisley girl?” Saul asked.

  “Going to be the best,” I said. I could feel it.

  2

  That night at dinner, as Santiago cooked us an amazing lemon-thyme chicken that made even the kale salad underneath it appealing, I told him about our time at the Sumner Place with the Owens and then filled him in on what Saul had told me on the way home.

  “So apparently, they made their money selling hemp for fabric,” I said still surprised and delighted that such a thing was possible. I had been a big hemp necklace wearer in my younger years, and now I loved the hemp and cotton t-shirts Santi had gotten me for my birthday because they didn’t get the little holes at the belly that all my other shirts did. They were durable and comfy. “I’m wondering who they grow for.”

  “Is that what they’re going to do at the Sumner Place? Grow hemp?” Santi asked, and I could hear a little edge to his voice.

  “I know you know this, but hemp and marijuana aren’t the same thing. Are you worried about that?” I asked, trying to figure out what was making him a bit nervous.

  “No, actually, I’m not bothered at all if they want to grow pot, as long as they have the proper permits and such. It’s legal now, and that’s just fine with me.” He moved the skillet off the burner and turned to me. “My issue is that a lot of other people don’t know the difference. If they’re growing out there, I probably need to talk to them to be sure we’re supporting their security measures.”

  I nodded. “That makes sense. Want to go with Ms. Lewis and me in the morning? I can text Mariah to let her know you’re coming.”

  Santi plated the chicken over the greens and then slid fresh-roasted brussels sprouts onto the plate. “Sure. Thanks.” He stepped to the door and called Sawyer in from where he was digging a rather massive hole in the side yard. “Dinner, Saw.”

  My son dropped his blue shovel and sprinted to the door. “Did you cook?” he asked Santi as he slid into his chair across from me.

  I turned away and rolled my eyes at my fiancé. These days, Sawyer almost never ate what I made, even when I catered to his preschooler’s palate with macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets. But whenever Santi cooked, which was most nights now, Saw was ready and willing to try-- and usually consume -- most anything, even roasted brussels sprouts.

  Tonight, he waited, as I had taught him, until Santiago sat down beside me, and then he dug in, starting with the kale. I shook my head and laughed as I took my own bite and groaned. It was delicious.

  “Sawyer, did you have fun playing at the big house today?” I asked between bites.

  My son nodded as he chewed and then said, “It was so fun. They had a huge slide.”

  “Oh really,” Santi said. “A huge one, huh? How huge?”

  “This big,” Saw said as he spread his arms as wide as they would go. “I kept landing on my butt.”

  I laughed. “Ooh,
did that hurt?”

  “Nope, I’ve got cushions.” Saw said as he patted his behind.

  “Yes, yes you do,” I said. “You and Wyatt had a lot of fun. Do you want to go back with me tomorrow?”

  Saw wiggled in his chair and nodded. “Wyatt said we can go down to the river if I bring my swim stuff.”

  “Great. I’ll double-check to be sure that’s okay, and we can all go in the morning,” I looked over at Santi and winked. “It’ll be a family outing.”

  Santi squeezed my knee under the table. We were still a couple months out from our wedding, but since Santiago had moved in, it felt like we were already coming together as a family. After all, only Santi could get this boy to eat kale and brussels sprouts in one meal.

  * * *

  The next morning, with Mariah’s enthusiastic support, the three of us made our way to the Sumner Place. When we pulled up, Xzanthia Lewis, the director of the historical society, was just stepping out of her car. She stood to her full height, took a deep breath, and said, “A perfect Virginia summer day.”

  I shook my head as I walked toward her. “If what you mean by perfect is ‘stinking hot,’ then I agree.” I was already turning red from head to toe. “I can’t believe you like this heat.”

  She smiled at me as we walked toward the front door of the big brick house. “I can’t believe you don’t.”

  When I had called the day before to tell her about the trove of papers the Owenses had in their wardrobe, she had calmly replied, “Did you, by chance, ask if they would be comfortable with me seeing said papers?”

  I had smiled and laughed. The calmer Ms. Lewis became, the more excited she was. It was a trait of her personality that I loved, especially since I was the opposite. Excitement made me childlike. It made her dignified.

  When I had told her that they welcomed us the next morning, she said, “What time?” and “I’ll bring archival folders and boxes.”

  Now, here we were, Santiago, Sawyer, Ms. Lewis, and I loaded down with folders and collapsed boxes, ready to work. Fortunately, Mariah and Mark met us at the door and took Sawyer’s load because as soon as Wyatt rounded the corner, my son was off with nary a wave in our direction. “Oh, man, he’s excited,” I said. “Is Belinda okay with this?”

  “Are you kidding?” Mariah said. “She gets to sit and read instead of build roads in the sand. She’s delighted.”

  I laughed and nodded. I knew that feeling far too well. “Well, we’re pretty delighted, too. Mariah Owen, this is Xzanthia Lewis, director of the Octonia Historical Society.”

  The women exchanged pleasantries, then Mark said to Santi, “Let’s go talk about the plans we have, Sheriff, make sure we’re helping you keep us safe.”

  Santi squeezed my arm and then followed Mark into the dining room while Mariah led Ms. Lewis and me directly to the room with the wardrobe. I appreciated that she didn’t feel the compulsion that many of us Southern women have to make small talk and spend time in pleasantries. All three of us were about business.

  When we walked into the bedroom, I saw that a small table had been set up in the corner with a coffee carafe, cream and sugar, and a glass-covered plate filled with what looked like some of the best scones I had ever seen. It took an immense amount of willpower for me not to put down my supplies and go right to the table, but I followed Ms. Lewis’s lead and moved toward the wardrobe instead.

  Fortunately, Ms. Lewis had done this kind of work many times before, and she had a system she had already explained to me. As she began to open archival boxes and set out a variety of pencils and one pen on the floor between the window and the wardrobe, I could see I was in good hands with this work today.

  “Would you care to join us, Ms. Owen?” Ms. Lewis asked our host. “We could always use another set of hands and eyes.”

  Mariah grinned. “I didn’t want to impose, but I have to admit I am so curious. If you don’t mind....“

  “Please,” Ms. Lewis gestured to a portion of the floor across from where she had just gracefully folded down to sit, and Mariah joined her. I, with slightly less poise and a small grunt, got myself folded down to the floor, too. Without further ado, Ms. Lewis explained her process for sorting archival materials.

  “We move box by box first, making note,” she handed us each a pencil and a yellow legal pad, “of the contents in each box – type of document, date, and any prominent names that are easy to spot.”

  Mariah and I nodded as Ms. Lewis continued, “Then, once we know what is in each box, we can decide if the organizational strategy with which these items were stored was simply one of efficiency or actual content.”

  I smiled and was grateful I had suggested we bring in Ms. Lewis today because, as I had expected, she had a definite plan here.

  With her plan set forth, Ms. Lewis stood, removed a box for each of us from the wardrobe and set us to work. The box I had in front of me now was entirely full of letters tied into stacks with a twine much like the one Sawyer and I used to stake up our peas in the garden. With Ms. Lewis’s permission, I snipped the twine and reviewed each set of letters. Each set was indeed organized by sender, and so I wrote down how many envelopes were in each set, from whom the letter was sent, and who received it. Most were notes to women in the Sumner family, and while I didn’t know the family well enough to recognize the women by name, I guessed that the letters I was seeing were written by younger people, given the bubbly shape of the handwriting. Loops seemed a sort of universal element of young women’s handwriting, no matter the time period.

  After I made my way through about half of my box, I excused myself to use the restroom and then came back to work only after sipping a cup of coffee and consuming – far away from the old papers – what truly was one of the most amazing blueberry scones I had ever eaten.

  When I settled back down on the floor, Ms. Lewis took her leave and did the same as I did, except with the poise of a supermodel. When she came back, the three of us finished up our boxes at roughly the same time. “Care to tell us briefly what you found?” Ms. Lewis asked as she put her materials back in her box and closed the lid.

  I shared about the letters I had viewed and placed back in my own box, and Mariah said she had mostly business papers including the ledger I had shown her the day before, as well as a couple of smaller farm books that detailed the planting and harvest schedules for the plantation.

  Ms. Lewis said her box was full of similar items: letters, ledgers, and other miscellany including some papers that looked to be shopping lists. “Most interesting,” she said as she held her bejeweled fingers against her chestnut-colored cheek. Even when she was pondering, she was elegant. “Shall we move along?”

  For the next two hours, the three of us perused boxes and made notes. Most of what I looked at was correspondence, and while I had encountered some letters of a sort that had been really crucial in previous research of mine, the majority were the usual small talk or family discussions that, while precious, were not of truly important historic merit.

  I gathered from Mariah’s infrequent sighs and smiles that she was enjoying what she was reading but not being monumentally bowled over by it. Of course, I couldn’t be sure of that since she might have been a fairly reserved woman, but somehow, I figured she might be a bit like me, unable to keep good news to herself.

  Ms. Lewis was another story altogether. She might have unearthed a signed original copy of the Declaration of Independence and continued in her methodical, careful way through the rest of the box before she shared her find as being of potential merit. Still, she seemed to be taking a fair number of notes, and I hoped she was encountering some great stories at least.

  Mariah finished her box first and stood up to stretch and refresh the coffee carafe. I was done next and began to tidy up our notes. Finally, Ms. Lewis finished, stood, stretched, and when Mariah handed her a full mug of coffee, Ms. Lewis said, “Well, I do believe we have a real discovery here.”

  Her tone was so matter-of-fact that I thou
ght I might have misunderstood, so I said, “What do you mean by ‘discovery,’ Ms. Lewis?”

  She gestured to the box she had just perused. “Well, if I am right, Mrs. Sumner was suffering from postpartum depression and killed her husband.”

  I stared at the historical society director and then looked over at Mariah, who was standing with her mouth open and a coffee mug halfway to it. “Come again,” she finally said.

  “I can’t be sure without further corroboration of course, but I do believe that Eliza Sumner was a murderer.” Ms. Lewis nodded for emphasis. “Perhaps you’d like to take a look at the evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” Santiago said from the doorway. “You women doing police work in here?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet,” I said, “but it may well be that. Please show us the journal, Ms. Lewis.”

  “Indeed.” She took two brief steps to the box she had just finished reviewing, lifted out a small, suede-bound book, and said, “The most clear evidence is from May 1871 until June of that same year.”

  Mariah gestured toward the door. “If it won’t do any harm, Ms. Lewis, maybe we could go to the dining room and sit more comfortably.”

  I was grateful for the suggestion since my lower back was ready for the support of a chair after all that floor time.

  “Of course,” Ms. Lewis said. “I’ll bring the box so we can pull additional of her journals if needed.” She looked at me. “Your notes might help, too?” She smiled at me, and I picked up the legal pads from the floor, not sure if Ms. Lewis’s tone was friendly or school-marmish. Maybe a bit of both.

  At the table, Mark joined us, and Ms. Lewis informed him and Santi of what she felt fairly certain was a murder confession in the journal. Mark looked at her and said, “Does she outright say that?”

  “No,” Ms. Lewis shook her head. “She doesn’t, but she does discuss the ways one might disguise the flavor of mountain laurel in food.”