Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [22]
“Tell us about the attempted grave desecration.”
Eleanor leaned forward. “We returned home unexpectedly late one night. Bitter cold, as I recall. When Monica drove up to the house, someone was silhouetted running across the lawn. They disappeared into the woods, and then that horse came out of nowhere running wild without a rider. It was like a nightmare. Monica and I rushed into the house and locked the doors. The next morning we found where the grave had been disturbed. The thief left his shovel. I’m sure he meant to have the ruby necklace, but those graves are sealed with heavy cement slabs.”
“How did a historian know about this?” I asked.
“I’m afraid we’d told him the old stories about Barthelme and his black horse. He used to terrorize the slaves by riding around on Diablo late at night, or so the family legend goes. Ask the kids in town—they’ll all claim to have seen old Barthelme riding the cliffs by the river. John, the historian, was all over the story. He practically salivated when Monica told him about the millions of dollars’ worth of rubies in the graveyard.”
“But this John person—”
“His name is John Hightower. He’s from England. Lovely accent that hides a roachlike intellect. He’s writing a book about the first Mississippi Levert. Claims he traced Barthelme from England.”
“And he’s been here, in your home?” Tinkie asked.
“Monica and I met with him. He sounded like an interesting man, and of course we were eager to discover what he’d learned about Barthelme. Unfortunately, it was just more of the same.”
“Meaning what?” I checked my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. Tinkie and I needed to shake a leg.
“He had an alleged proclamation signed by a magistrate showing Barthelme was supposed to be hanged in Liverpool for horse theft, adultery, and sinking a competitor’s ship. I’m not certain any of it was true. Turns out Hightower is a descendant of the man whose ship Barthelme supposedly sank. That put a new light on his findings, and one Eleanor and I didn’t care to participate in. The man’s family has carried a grudge for nearly two hundred years. Like I said, he has the cockroach’s ability to survive the passage of time.”
I was glad I was sitting. The problem with digging up bones under the family tree is that some of them are bound to be stinky and crooked. “Is this Hightower fellow still in Natchez?”
“My dear, he’s taken the garage apartment of Helena Banks Gorenflo, one of my archenemies.”
I wondered what kind of archenemies a heritage Southern belle acquired. “And who is Helena Banks Gorenflo?” I asked.
Tinkie’s face showed astonishment. Apparently I’d committed a Daddy’s Girl faux pas with my failure to recognize the name of a dame of society.
“She’s president of the Confederate Belles for Justice,” Tinkie said quietly. “A society of women descended from females who fought to preserve the spirit of the Confederacy.”
“Helena refused membership to Monica and me. She said Barthelme’s wife, Terrant Cassio, was not a loyal Confederate. She said Terrant was the daughter of a Yankee banker who flimflammed the people of Natchez by offering loans through her father’s bank and then cheating the property owners with pernicious interest rates.”
“Is it true?” I asked. Between Barthelme and Terrant, it’s a wonder the town didn’t tar and feather the duo and send them packing.
“Helena can’t prove a thing.” Eleanor sniffed. “She’s just being awful. Monica challenged her at the last meeting to show proof or allow us to join. We have documentation that Terrant Cassio Levert was responsible for building the orphanage for children of the war. Terrant did a lot of good things for Natchez. Helena only wants to focus on the negative.”
“Does everything to do with your family go back to the War and beyond?” I couldn’t help myself. Something to say in favor of the Delaney family—we didn’t inherit enemies or hand-me-down grudges from one generation to the next. We were quite capable of making plenty within our own generation.