Liz Kelly, a young archivist, leaned toward them from the opposite side of the table. “For over one hundred years people here have claimed to see Civil War ghosts.”
Liz Reeser, the assistant treasurer, piped up. “I swear I saw one. A young man who walked right by me in the middle of the night. But I wasn’t afraid. I don’t know why.”
Betsy Park, from Sandanona Hounds in New York, smiled. “Oh, people always say that about a war hospital.”
Mary Reed, Master of Bassets for Ashland Bassets, agreed. “They do, don’t they? Still?” She raised her eyebrows.
Jason Holzknect smiled. “When I was in Turkey, every part of any city or little town hosted ghosts. There were ghosts from the fifth century B.C., ghosts from Justinian’s time, ghosts from Atatürk’s takeover. More ghosts than the living. I never saw one.” He laughed.
Arlene tweaked him. “Maybe you scared them off.”
He laughed back. “Could be.”
Jason rose high in his profession, got good postings, finally ending his career in Paris, owned a car dealership outside of D.C. in Maryland. He’d made a great deal of money. Of course, Clare helped.
“Well, I wasn’t in Turkey like you, but I did see Istanbul,” Arlene said to Jason. “It is exciting. The Russians still lust after it. Always will.”
“We have everything in this country,” Mary Reed added. “Deepwater ports on both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Great rivers. Good soil. When you travel, you realize Mother Nature made us rich.”
“True,” Susan agreed, then turned to Arlene. “Did you ever see ghosts in your travels?”
A long pause followed this.
“I’m not sure. Once I thought I saw something but”—she shrugged—“who knows?”
As the humans chatted away, the two cats and two dogs sat on the porch of the cabin, fur fluffed out to ward off the cold, although Pewter was ready to go inside and sit by the fire. Miss Pewter liked her creature comforts.
“Who’s that?” Tucker noticed a beagle in front of the stone house.
“I thought we were the only animals here.” Pewter sat up for a better look as the beagle moved toward them.
The little dog stopped. The four friends could see its tricolor, its handsome head, but somehow the animal appeared insubstantial.
Mrs. Murphy, whiskers forward, called out. “Who are you?”
The dog stared at them, did not answer, and turned, heading for the tree line behind the kennels.
Pirate, puzzled, remarked, “I can see through that dog.”
All four, now on their feet, watched the disappearing beagle.
Tucker, voice low, declared, “That’s a ghost.”
3
April 7, 2018
Saturday
Playing with him on a notoriously cool day were Cindy Chandler, Nelson Yarbrough, D.D.S., and Catherine Hanlon, M.D., a physician visiting from New Jersey. None of these people said a word about Rick, who did exhale downwind of everyone.
The greens, tended even throughout winter, proved better than expected. The maintenance of any golf course costs a bundle. An old grand course like Farmington really cost. Like all golfing places, it had been added to over time: driving ranges, more parking, and another back course. Poor people did not play at Farmington, but then, in general, poor people did not play golf.
Despite the cold, all four were glad to be outside. There’s something in the back of a golfer’s mind that if you get out at the first hint of spring, winter will be behind you.
Nelson made par a lot, as did Cindy, whose putter was golden this Saturday. Catherine, a beginner, broke 90, to her excitement and that of the others. A natural athlete, she was determined to master this notoriously difficult game.
Grateful for their sweaters and heavy socks, they finished their game in good humor. Dropping their two carts at the small parking area, the cart garage, they were soon seated at the nineteenth hole, shedding their sweaters, glad for indoor warmth.
They replayed every hole until Nelson changed the subject, asking Rick, “You never found out about the body in St. Luke’s graveyard, did you? The one where I looked at the teeth.”
“A body?” Catherine’s antennae picked up. “In a graveyard, of course.”
Cindy, a hot cup of tea warming her innards, which she needed, told her, “St. Luke’s is the Lutheran church, first one here, and it was built, finally finished, in 1787. You’ve driven by it. It’s the lovely fieldstone with the church in the center, steeple on top, white, and then an arcade on each side with white simple pillars, Doric, I think. And at each end there are two duplicate two-story square buildings that were originally used one side for men’s meetings, another for the women’s. The pastor’s big office is in the men’s. The courtyards are beautiful. There’s the one between the arcades and then there are descending levels and each level is a rectangular courtyard finally ending in the graveyard, surrounded by a stone wall, same stone as the buildings. It’s a sort of terraced effect, but flat with steps between levels. People built things to last back then. It’s in remarkable shape and was the design of a British war prisoner who stayed and married here.” She smiled, looking to Nelson. “Did I get that right?”
“Always do.” He adored Cindy. Everybody did.
“Really? A Lutheran church? I thought they were up in Pennsylvania,” Catherine wondered.
“Well, ours was and remains special, but we even had a Catholic church then and that was very unusual, for the prejudice ran so deep, except in Maryland, of course.” Cindy paused. “I am always curious about these things because I’m Catholic.”
“Me, too.” Catherine felt a kinship with the good golfer.
“Then there was Jefferson. You know I read the Jefferson Bible. Interesting.” Nelson had been the quarterback at UVA in 1959 and a good student to boot. “When you go to Mr. Jefferson’s university, you pay attention to things that might otherwise elude you.”
“Curious.” Rick leaned back in his chair. “Back to the body. Catherine, it is that of an African American woman. She was laid, no casket, on the caskets of Sara and Michael Taylor, the first people to be buried at St. Luke’s. We think, according to the notation in the Bible at church, they perished of tuberculosis. They were buried October 15, 1786, before the church was totally finished. Someone last year kept knocking over their tombstone. And really, that’s about all we know.”
“Vandalism?” Catherine’s eyebrows raised.
“At first that’s what the Reverend, actually the Very Reverend Herbert Jones thought. He’s usually in his office at the church, so he believed this had been done in the night. Really cold nights, I add.” Rick filled her in.
“But Harry, you’ve met Harry,” Cindy added. “She’s in charge of building and grounds. She noticed and she told her husband, the big guy, six foot four, an equine vet. So Fair, her husband, and Ned Tucker, a friend who’s also a member of the church, muscled the tombstone upright. All seemed to be well. It snowed. More snow. No problems. The snow melted and boom, tombstone over again. This time Harry noticed incursions like stabbing marks had been made into the earth. Not true digging but stabbing. That’s the word she used.”