‘Prison? They could do that?’
‘In 1952? You bet. As late as 1958 a mixed-race couple named Mildred and Richard Loving were sentenced by a Virginia court to a year in jail for the crime – a felony I should point out – of marrying each other.’
I stared at him, slack-jawed.
‘Not only that, but when building the case against the Lovings, the police raided their home at night, hoping to catch them having sex, which was also a crime under Virginia law.’
I felt queasy. ‘Tell me you’re making this up.’
‘I wish, but it’s true. Mixed-race marriages weren’t legal in all states until 1967 when the Supreme Court overturned the Lovings’ conviction.’
‘I had no idea,’ I said, thinking that the Civics class I’d taken in high school must have been sanitized.
‘My grandfather’s solution was simple, Hannah. Take the money and go away. But when Nancy refused, he was furious. According to my father, he picked up an oar and smashed it over her head.’
I gasped.
‘Then the SOB threatened Dad with the oar, too. Forced him to roll Nancy’s unconscious body into the creek.’
I closed my eyes and took deep, steadying breaths. ‘According to the newspaper reports,’ I reminded him once my breathing had returned to a semblance of normal, ‘Nancy drowned.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So if anyone had bothered to call for help…’
Jack Ames completed the sentence for me. ‘Nancy might have survived.’
Inside the house, I knew, funeral guests were awaiting my appearance. Paul would be plying them with wine, of course, but if I didn’t lay out the ham and egg salad sandwiches soon everyone was going to go home tipsy.
‘How is all the negative publicity going to affect your campaign, Jack?’ I asked as I led him into the house from the garden.
He waved a hand as if shooing a fly. ‘I can’t worry about that. My campaign manager is running around with his hair on fire, but it is what it is, you know. If it’s not meant to be this year, then maybe two years down the road.’
As the two of us straggled into the living room, Jack melted into the group of mourners, flashing a white-toothed politician’s grin. I was thinking sourly, Once a politician, always a politician when Jack singled out Cap Hazlett and drew him aside.
‘What Granddaddy did…’ Jack’s voice broke. ‘I’m sorry.’
Incredibly, Cap Hazlett smiled. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Ames.’
‘Call me Jack,’ he said. ‘Please.’ Jack grabbed Cap’s hand and pulled him into a bear hug. ‘I had to be here,’ he said. ‘Baby Ella was my sister.’
I was standing at the kitchen sink, buried up to my elbows in suds, when Paul walked up quietly behind me.
‘Is everyone gone?’ I asked without turning around.
‘Just waved the Nightingales down the drive,’ he said. ‘Nice people.’
I slotted another flowered dessert plate into the dish drainer. ‘Grab a towel and start drying,’ I said.
‘Towel, schmowel,’ Paul replied. He wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on top of my head. ‘You were amazing today, Hannah. Keeping it all together for everyone.’
I bowed my head so he couldn’t see the tears that were coursing down my cheeks and into the dishwater. Beneath his hands, my shoulders shook.
‘Hannah?’ Gently, he turned me around to face him. He lifted my chin and used a thumb to swipe away the tears. ‘Leave the dishes,’ he said, ‘and come with me.’
Paul took my wet hand in his, led me out the back door and down the lawn to a pair of pink-painted Adirondack chairs we’d installed at the head of the dock. We sat there silently, side by side, staring out over the creek. ‘I know who put Baby Ella in the chimney,’ I said at last.
‘I figured it had to be Nancy,’ Paul said, swiveling in his chair to face me. ‘I saw you having a heart-to-heart with Bernadette Nightingale today. Did she shed any light on the situation?’
I nodded. ‘Bernadette told me that they used to have a pet cat, a calico named Snickers. Nancy was quite young, maybe eight years old, when Snickers wandered out to the concrete slab that covered their cistern, lay down in the sun and quietly died. Nancy dressed the cat up in her doll’s clothes, swaddled it in a blanket and laid it to rest in a box that a pair of roller skates had come in.’
‘Ah. I see. And?’
‘Well, after Nancy’s mother took her home, Ronald buried the cat in the vegetable garden. Bernadette remembers that Nancy was hysterical when she found out about it. She cried for hours and hours, mourning that cat, worried that the animal would be wet and cold.’
As we watched, a Canada goose stirred among the cattails, stood, stretched and fanned her feathers. I counted eight downy yellow-and-brown-tipped heads sheltered beneath her magnificent wings. The mother bird stepped out. One by one the goslings waddled after her, unsteady on their webbed, too-big feet. Gracefully, she eased into the water, turned her head, black neck stretched tall and proud, watching, waiting until the last gosling, a runty little fellow, was floating in the water behind her. Only then did she turn and paddle off.
‘A mother always watches over her children,’ I said.
Paul squeezed my hand. There was nothing more to say.
About the Author
MARCIA TALLEY is the author of four previous books featuring Hannah Ives. A winner of the Malice Domestic writing grant and an Agatha Award nominee for Best First Novel, Ms. Talley won an Agatha and an Anthony Award for her short story “Too Many Cooks.” She is the editor of two mystery collaborations, and her short stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. She lives with her husband in Annapolis, Maryland. You can visit her website at www.marciatalley.com.
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