I turned to stare out over the bridge. “What about on the water?”
“Nah. I ran out of gas not too long ago and had to wait all morning before anyone came along to give me a tow. Not enough towers in the area,” he said. “You’re out in the boonies.”
“Well, thank you for stopping to check on me.”
“I wouldn’t hang out here for too long,” he cautioned. “These swamps are full of meth heads. They’d knock their own mama in the head for a buck.”
Suppressing a shiver, I nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
He drove off slowly, and I tried the phone from both ends of the bridge before climbing back into my car. I sat there for a moment, staring at the guardrail as I dredged up Ethan’s account of the accident.
According to him, Mariama had contacted 911 and then Devlin from her sinking car. How had she managed one call, let alone two, without a signal?
A little while later, I pulled around to the back of Chedathy Cemetery where I’d parked on my last visit. It was early afternoon, but the eerie tremolo of a loon tapped an icy tattoo down my spine as I jumped the ditch of brackish water and set out through the cemetery.
In the Gullah tradition, personal mementoes decorated the graves, along with seashells and broken pottery. Every now and then the sun shone down through the heavy canopy to catch a mirror just right, and the flash of light simulated a spirit in flight. I loved these old seacoast cemeteries. Everything that had been left upon the mounds—lamps, clocks, bits of porcelain and glass bottles—was an acknowledgement that life did not end with death.
I knelt beside Shani’s resting place and cleaned away leaves until I uncovered the seashell heart. The antique doll that I’d seen Devlin place on the grave last May had been taken away, probably having been ruined by inclement weather. I slipped the garnet ring from my finger and placed it inside the heart just as I had done before. Then I covered it back over with leaves to wait for Shani.
It was only three-thirty, too early for her ghost to appear, so I decided to take a walk by Essie’s house. I wouldn’t call on her unannounced, but if she happened to be sitting on her front porch, I could stop by and say hello. Maybe even work the conversation around to Darius. He was her grandson, though, so I’d have to be very careful not to offend her with my questions.
The sun was still warm on my shoulders as I walked down the gravel road toward the small community of clapboard houses. Birds sang from the treetops, and I could hear the distant laughter of children. It was all very tranquil until my gaze was drawn to one of the houses where several men stood around a hole that had been cut in the siding. As I stopped to watch, a draped stretcher was passed through the opening into their waiting hands. That the sheet covered a body, I was certain. A hearse was parked in the dirt drive, and I could hear weeping from inside the house.
As I gazed upon the bizarre scene, a girl of about sixteen ambled down the road toward me. She carried a baby in her arms while she shepherded a small child on a tricycle. Like me, she stopped to watch the house, and I turned to nod an acknowledgement. She was tall and gangly with high cheekbones and dark, luminous eyes. I thought her vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
Resting the baby on her hip, she eyed me with open curiosity. “Did you know old Mr. Fremont?”
Fremont. My scalp bristled as every instinct warned me to pay close attention. Here was yet another of those meaningful coincidences. “Mr. Fremont?”
She nodded toward the house. “He died this morning. They’re carrying him down to the funeral home now to get him ready.”
“I never met him,” I said. “But I did know another Fremont from this area. His name was Robert.”
“That cop? He was Mr. Fremont’s grandson.” Despite the time of year and cooling weather, she wore flip-flops with her jeans. I could see a flash of hot pink toenail beneath the tattered hems. “How did you know Robert?”
“We met in Charleston.”
“He was a friend of yours?”
“Yes, I guess you could say that. Such a tragedy what happened to him. His death must have been a blow to the community.”
“Mama said the old man never got over it.”
We stood watching the strange proceedings in silence for a moment. “Why didn’t they bring the body through the door?” I asked. “What’s the significance of the hole in the wall?”
“In case he comes back,” she said with a shiver. “Once that hole is closed, his spirit won’t be able to find its way into the house.”
“I see.”
She shifted the baby to her other arm. All three stared at me with those dark, shimmering eyes. “You have folks around here?” she asked doubtfully.
“No. I was just visiting Chedathy Cemetery.” And just like that, it came back to me where I’d seen her before. “I know you,” I said. “Your name is Tay-Tay.”
She glowered. “No one calls me that anymore. I’m Tamira. These are my brothers.” She bounced the fretting baby to quiet him. “This one here is James and that’s Marcus.”
I said hello to all of them. “I’m Amelia.”
“How do you know me?” she demanded.
“I walked past your house once with Essie and Rhapsody Goodwine. We saw you on the porch.”
Her eyes widened, and I could have sworn I saw a flicker of fear. She called down the street to another girl chatting with a group of friends. She looked only a year or two younger than Tamira. “Timberly, you get your butt over here right now!”
The girl rolled her eyes and said something to one of her companions, then sauntered over to Tamira. “What do you want?” she asked sullenly, bending to scratch behind her knee.
“I need you to carry the baby home and give him a bottle. Take Marcus with you.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I can’t,” Tamira snapped imperiously. “Now you do as I say or I’ll tell Mama you been sneaking out at night to meet up with that old Peazant boy.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, yes, I would,” Tamira threatened. “And don’t give me no more lip about it, either.”
The girl took the baby and plopped him none too gently on her scrawny hip. “I’m never having kids. They ruin everything.”
She trudged off with Marcus in tow, and Tamira turned back to me. “You come to see Miss Essie?”
“No, I told you. I’m visiting the cemetery.”
“You got people buried there?”
“I’m a cemetery restorer. I take care of graveyards,” I said vaguely. “Chedathy is one of my favorites.”
“That old place?” She turned to stare down the road toward the cemetery. “I reckon that’s where they’ll plant Mr. Fremont even though they wouldn’t bury his grandson there.”
“Why not?”
Despite that earlier flash of fear, she looked to be enjoying herself now. Her eyes gleamed with self-importance. “Because of the wudu.”
“Wudu? You mean magic?” I asked.
“Black magic.” She leaned in. “She was very powerful, they say. Powerful enough to come back from the dead. His people were afraid she wouldn’t let him rest in peace and they didn’t want him coming back. So they buried him someplace else.”
“Who wouldn’t let him rest?”
“Mariama Goodwine.”
I felt the chill of a ghostly breath down my collar even though it was hours until twilight. “Did you know her?”
“I used to see her in the bone-yard sometimes. She went there to meet him.”
“Robert?”
She nodded.
“You saw them together?”
“Lots of times. You want me to show you something?”
“I…sure.”
She led me back to the cemetery, pausing outside the lichgate to make the sign of the cross over her heart. Then we walked deep into Chedathy where the thick canopy all but blocked the sun.
“See this?” She pointed to a carving in a tree trunk. “This is where they used to meet. They cut these initials in the bark when they was just kids.”