“That’s great.”
“Well, I’ll let you get started, then. I’ll be back in a while to see if there’s anything else you need.”
“You’re not going to stay?”
“No. Like I said earlier, I’ve got quite a bit of work to do. Now, you can stay in here, or you can sit at one of the tables in the main area. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remove the books from the floor. None of these particular books can be checked out.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marsh, I really should go. And keep in mind that even though the library is open until seven, the rare-book room closes at five.”
“Even for friends?”
“No. I let them stay as long as they want.”
“So I’ll see you at seven?”
“No, Mr. Marsh. I’ll see you at five.”
He laughed. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll let me stay late.”
She raised her eyebrows without answering, then took a couple of steps toward the door.
“Lexie?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“You’ve been a great help so far. Thank you.”
She gave a lovely, unguarded smile. “You’re welcome.”
Jeremy spent the next couple of hours perusing information on the town. He thumbed through the books one by one, lingering over the photographs and reading sections he thought appropriate.
Most of the information covered the early history of the town, and he jotted what he thought were relevant notes on the pad beside him. Of course, he wasn’t sure what was relevant at this point; it was too early to tell, and thus his notes soon covered a couple of pages.
He’d learned through experience that the best way to approach a story like this was to begin with what he knew, so . . . what did he know for certain? That the cemetery had been used for over a hundred years without any sightings of mysterious lights. That lights first appeared about a hundred years ago and occurred regularly, but only when it was foggy. That many people had seen them, which meant that the lights were unlikely to be simply a figment of the imagination. And, of course, that the cemetery was now sinking.
So even after a couple of hours, he didn’t know much more than when he started. Like most mysteries, it was a puzzle with many disparate pieces. The legend, whether or not Hettie cursed the town, was essentially an attempt to link some pieces into an understandable form. But since the legend had as its basis something false, it meant that some pieces—whatever they were—were being either overlooked or ignored. And that meant, of course, that Lexie had been right. He had to read everything so he wouldn’t miss anything.
No problem. This was the enjoyable part, actually. The search for the truth was often more fun than writing up the actual conclusion, and he found himself immersed in the subject. He learned that Boone Creek had been founded in 1729, making it one of the oldest towns in the state, and that for a long time, it was nothing more than a tiny trading village on the banks of the Pamlico River and Boone Creek. Later in the century, it became a minor port in the inland waterway system, and the use of steamboats in the mid-1800s accelerated the town’s growth. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the railroad boom hit North Carolina, and forests were leveled while numerous quarries were dug. Again, the town was affected, due to its location as a gateway of sorts to the Outer Banks. After that, the town tended to boom and bust along with the economy of the rest of the state, though the population held steady after around 1930. In the most recent census, the population of the county had actually dropped, which didn’t surprise him in the slightest.
He also read the account of the cemetery in the book of ghost stories. In this version, Hettie cursed the town, not because the bodies in the cemetery had been removed, but because she’d refused to step aside and into the road when the wife of one of the commissioners was approaching from the opposite direction. However, because she was regarded as an almost spiritual figure in Watts Landing, she escaped arrest, so a few of the more racist townsfolk took matters into their own hands and caused a great deal of damage in the Negro cemetery. In her anger, Hettie cursed the Cedar Creek Cemetery and swore that her ancestors would tread the cemetery grounds until the earth swallowed it whole.
Jeremy leaned back in his chair, thinking. Three completely different versions of essentially the same legend. He wondered what that meant.
Interestingly, the writer of the book—A. J. Morrison—had added an italicized postscript stating that the Cedar Creek Cemetery had actually begun to sink. According to surveys, the cemetery grounds had sunk by nearly twenty inches; the author offered no explanation.
Jeremy checked the date of publication. The book had been written in 1954, and by the way the cemetery looked now, he figured it had sunk at least another three feet since then. He made a note to see if he could find surveys from that period, as well as any done more recently.
Still, as he absorbed the information, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder from time to time on the off-chance that Lexie had returned.
Across town, on the fairway of the fourteenth tee and with his cell phone sandwiched against his ear, the mayor snapped to attention as he listened to the caller though the hissing static. Reception was bad in this part of the county, and the mayor wondered if holding his five-iron above his head would help him make sense of what was being said.
“He was at Herbs? Today at lunch? Did you say Primetime Live?”
He nodded, pretending not to notice that his golf buddy, who was in turn pretending to see where his most recent shot had landed, had just kicked the ball from behind a tree into a better position.
“Found it!” his buddy yelled, and began setting up for the shot.
The mayor’s buddy did things like that all the time, which frankly didn’t bother the mayor all that much, since he’d just done the same thing. Maintaining his three handicap would have otherwise been impossible.
Meanwhile, as the caller was finishing up, his buddy launched his shot into the trees again.
“Damnation!” he shouted. The mayor ignored him.
“Well, this is definitely interesting,” the mayor said, his mind whirring with possibilities, “and I’m very glad you called. You take care, now. Bye.”
He flipped the phone closed, just as his buddy was approaching.
“I hope I get a good lie with that one.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” the mayor said, pondering the sudden development in town. “I’m sure it’ll end up being right where you want it.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Fate,” he announced. “And if we play this right, just maybe our salvation.”
Two hours later, just as the sun was dropping below the treetops and shadows began to stretch through the window, Lexie poked her head into the rare-book room.
“How’d it go?”
Glancing over his shoulder, Jeremy smiled. Pushing back from the desk, he ran his hand through his hair. “Good,” he said. “I learned quite a bit.”
“Do you have the magic answer yet?”
“No, but I’m getting closer. I can feel it.”
She moved into the room. “I’m glad. But as I said earlier, I usually lock up here about five o’clock so I can handle the after-work crowd when they come in.”
He stood from the desk. “No problem. I’m getting a little tired, anyway. It’s been a long day.”
“You’ll be in tomorrow morning, right?”
“I was planning on it. Why?”
“Well, normally, I put everything back on the shelves daily.”
“Would it be possible to just keep the stack the way it is, for now? I’m sure I’ll go through most of the books again.”
She thought for a moment. “I suppose that’s okay. But I do have to warn you that if you don’t show up first thing, I’ll think I misjudged you.”
He nodded, looking solemn. “I promise I won’t stand you up. I’m not that kind of guy.”
She rolled her eyes, thinking, Oh, brother. He was persistent, though. She had to give him that. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls, Mr. Marsh.”
“No,” he said, leaning against the desk. “Actually, I’m very shy. Almost a hermit, really. I hardly ever get out.”
She shrugged. “Shows me what I know. Being that you’re a journalist from the big city, I had you figured as a ladies’ man.”
“And that bothers you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because, as you know, first impressions can be deceiving.”
“Oh, I realized that right away.”
“You did?”
“Sure,” she said. “When I first bumped into you at the cemetery, I thought you were there for a funeral.”
Five
Fifteen minutes later, after heading down an asphalt road that gave way to yet another gravel road—they sure were fond of gravel around here—Jeremy found himself parking his car in the middle of a swamp, directly in front of a hand-painted sign advertising Greenleaf Cottages. Which reminded him never to trust the promises of the local Chamber of Commerce.
Modern, it definitely wasn’t. It wouldn’t have been modern thirty years ago. In all, there were six small bungalows set along the river. With peeling paint, plank walls, and tin roofs, they were reached by following small dirt pathways that led from a central bungalow that he assumed to be the main office. It was scenic, he had to admit, but the rustic part probably referred to mosquitoes and alligators, neither of which summoned up a lot of enthusiasm in him for staying there.
As he was debating whether he should even bother checking in—he’d passed some chain hotels in Washington, about forty minutes from Boone Creek—he heard the sound of an engine coming up the road and watched as a maroon Cadillac came rolling toward him, bouncing wildly in the potholes. Surprising him, it pulled into the spot directly beside his own car, spewing up rocks as it slid to a stop.
An overweight, balding man burst from the door, looking frantic. Dressed in green polyester pants and a blue turtleneck sweater, the man looked as if he’d dressed in the dark.
“Mr. Marsh?”
Jeremy was taken aback. “Yes?”
The man scurried around the car. Everything about him seemed to move quickly.
“Well, I’m glad I caught you before you checked in! I wanted to have a chance to speak with you! I can’t tell you how excited we all are about your visit here!”
He seemed breathless as he stretched out his hand and shook Jeremy’s vigorously.
“Do I know you?” Jeremy asked.
“No, no, of course not.” The man laughed. “I’m Mayor Tom Gherkin. Like the pickle, but you can call me Tom.” He laughed again. “I just wanted to swing by to welcome you to our fine town. Sorry for my appearance. I would have had you down to the office, but I came straight from the golf course once I learned you were here.”
Jeremy looked him over, still a bit in shock. At least it explained the clothes.
“You’re the mayor?”
“Have been since ’94. It’s kind of a family tradition. My daddy, Owen Gherkin, was the mayor here for twenty-four years. Had a big interest in the town, my daddy did. Knew everything there was to know about this place. Of course, being the mayor is only a part-time job here. It’s more of an honorary position. I’m more of a businessman, if you want to know the truth. I own the department store and radio station downtown. Oldies. You like oldies?”
“Sure,” Jeremy said.
“Good, good. I figured as much from the moment I laid eyes on you. I said to myself, ‘That’s a man who appreciates good music.’ I can’t stand most of that new stuff everyone else calls music these days. Gives me a headache. Music should soothe the soul. You know what I mean?”
“Sure,” Jeremy repeated, trying to keep up.
He laughed. “I knew you would. Well, like I said, I can’t tell you how thrilled we all are that you’re here to write a story about our fine town. It’s just the thing this town needs. I mean, who doesn’t like a good ghost story, right? It’s got folks real excited around here, that’s for sure. First the folks from Duke, then the local paper. And now a big-city journalist. Word’s getting out, and that’s good. Why, just last week, we had a call from a group from Alabama that was thinking about spending a few days here this weekend for the Historic Homes Tour.”
Jeremy shook his head, trying to slow things down. “How did you know I was even here?”
Mayor Gherkin laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, and almost before Jeremy realized it, they were moving toward the bungalow office. “Word gets around, Mr. Marsh. Passes like wildfire. Always has, always will. Part of the charm of this place. That, and the natural beauty. We’ve got some of the best fishing and duck hunting in the state, you know. Folks come from all over, even famous ones, and most of ’em stay right here at Greenleaf. This here is a little piece of paradise, if you ask me. Your own quiet bungalow, out here in the middle of nature. Why, you’ll be listening to the birds and crickets all night long. I’ll bet it makes you see those hotels in New York in a whole new light.”
“That it does,” Jeremy admitted. The man was definitely a politician.
“And don’t you worry none about the snakes.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Snakes?”
“I’m sure you heard about it, but just keep in mind that the whole situation here last year was just a misunderstanding. Some folks just don’t have a speck of common sense. But like I said, don’t worry about ’em. The snakes don’t normally come out till the summer, anyway. Of course, don’t go poking through the brush or anything, lookin’ for ’em. Those cottonmouths can be nasty.”