Music to Die For (16 page)

But he never turned his back on them. And he hadn’t put down the shotgun.

Carrie took a step toward Margaret Culpeper’s house, planning to follow the man who was just now reaching the front porch, but Henry’s hand closed tightly on her arm. “Let’s stay here until someone invites us to come,” he murmured.

“Ouch,” she said, then hated the comment, which had been spoken more in impatience than pain. Still, she thought his hold on her arm had been firmer than necessary.

Oh, dear, this was bizarre, like being inside an unpleasant dream. Henry was acting bossy, which meant that he was worried, and of course his worry was now worrying her.

But why was he so worried? True, the Culpepers hadn’t exactly welcomed them, but she and Henry weren’t expecting hugs and an invitation to dinner. They expected people who were reclusive and strange. She already knew Mad Margaret was strange.

And, after all, Henry had easily charmed that dog, and the man hadn’t ordered it to attack them when it ended up being friendly. They were getting along fine. They would
be
fine.

She looked up at Henry and said, “Sorry. It didn’t really hurt.” He nodded briefly but kept his eyes on the front door of Margaret’s house.

Now Carrie’s spine was fizzing again. Henry looked absolutely rigid, and he was being so fussy about not looking around. Was it because they were exposed and vulnerable in this open clearing? Why hadn’t she noticed that before?

Anyone could shoot...oh, stop, stop it! Her imagination was running wild, her thoughts churning back and forth in a good-bad bounce.

No! This might be an unusual family, but there was absolutely no reason she and Henry would be seen as a threat. They were just what they looked like, harmless senior citizens, come to call.

She stared at Margaret’s house and concentrated on seeing the details there; since it was in her line of sight and she couldn’t be accused of looking around. Both this house and the larger one were typical Ozarks cabins. Each had a roofed porch extending clear across the front and a central entry door opening off the porch. Margaret’s porch displayed two rockers and a small table. There was an enormous brass doorbell on the wall by the front door. Or was it a dinner bell?

Like all the buildings in the clearing, the cabin’s vertical board and batten walls had weathered to a soft grey. Carrie would have found it impossible to guess the age of the buildings or of anything else she had seen in the clearing so far, but all of it looked old—and that included Margaret’s son, who had now been out of sight in his mother’s house for a very long time.

Carrie began an attempt to see what she could of the clearing without turning her head, swiveling only her eyes back and forth. The frames of her glasses were in the way, and trying to see beyond their edge made her feel dizzy, so she stopped.

What on earth was wrong with looking around? There were such interesting things here, and much of the junk could be of real value. The copper wash boiler right in front of her was like one she’d seen in an antique shop with a high-dollar price tag attached.

And that brass bedstead over there...why couldn’t she look at it? There was no harm in wash boilers or bedsteads. And why not look at the chicken house if she wanted to? She wished Henry would explain, but he was silent, thoughtful, his eyes riveted on the porch.

More time passed. Carrie was getting very tired of standing still, and she had begun to break the monotony by balancing on one foot and then the other when the cabin’s front door finally opened. Margaret Culpeper came out on the porch. She was dressed in a dark, enveloping garment, and her tightly-bunned white hair caught the sunlight as she came to stand at the top of the steps, giving her an angelic halo that, Carrie thought, might be far from what she deserved.

As Margaret peered down at them, her son came out behind her, and this time he chose to lean on the wall next to the brass bell. During the long wait Carrie had noticed that the bell’s pull rope led inside the house where visitors couldn’t reach it. Well, maybe it really was to call the family to dinner...or something. She almost laughed. Folks like this didn’t have any use for doorbells. It was plain they didn’t expect visitors.

Margaret broke the silence. “Well, come on then, come closer,” she said, sounding impatient. “Micah sez ye’re kin, thet right? Ye’ve come to talk?”

“Yes,” Carrie answered, walking toward the porch and glancing at the copper wash boiler out of the corner of her eye as she walked around it. “Our name is Culpeper, spelled like yours, with two p’s. I’m Carrie. This is my brother, Herman. We’re from Tulsa. Our folks left the Ozarks in 1941. They never came back, but now that we’re getting up in years, Herman and I wanted to visit any relatives we might have here. We thought you would be family and could tell us more about the rest of our relatives in this area.”

Carrie halted at the foot of the porch and looked up into Margaret’s face, which showed more suspicion than welcome. Her son—Micah, she had called him—certainly remained wary. Though he was lounging against the wall and still looked relaxed, his deeply lined face was alert and cold, as if he were daring them to make a false move.

Carrie felt nervous sweat trickling down the valley between her breasts. “Well, you see, our folks never came back here, because...um, well, we think there was some kind of family disagreement a long time ago, but they—that is, our parents—are gone now, and since probably the ones who lived here then”—she looked into Margaret’s ancient, wrinkled face—“ah, most of those who lived here back then may be gone too, well, ur, why would anyone still be

angry at anyone, all these years later, I mean?”

She knew she was babbling, and she felt like a fool, especially since Henry was next to her, the strong, silent male hanging on her every word. He must be wishing he’d done the talking. But, my goodness, how could anyone act normal when they were faced by a stranger with a shotgun?

“Ah,” said Margaret, still studying Carrie, “I remember ye from the woods.” Then, suddenly, her lips lifted in a smile that, somehow, didn’t seem quite genuine, but she stood aside and waved an arm toward the door. “Well, here ye aire then, come in, come in.”

The sudden change in mood startled Carrie, and by now she’d decided she didn’t want to go inside that house at all. She wanted to go back to the Folk Center, get on with her weekend, and forget this stupid involvement in something that really had nothing to do with her. But it was too late. Micah was opening the door for them.

Carrie, with Henry right behind her, his hand now a light touch on her elbow, crossed the porch—and passed through a time warp.

People used to live like this, she thought, but today? Was it real? This was like living in a stage set.

The few pieces of furniture in the log-paneled room were made of hand-hewn wood, though they were far from being crude. The five rush-seat chairs and rocker that faced the large stone fireplace were padded with hand-stitched, tufted quilting. There was a braided circular rug on the floor, its riotous colors gaudy and cheerful among the wood tones. Carrie realized the rug, at least, wasn’t an antique. The bright fabric pieces had the look of polyester.

The room was spotless.

Margaret Culpeper indicated that Henry was to sit in the rocker and pointed out another chair for Carrie before she sat on a low stool between the front wall and the fireplace. Micah Culpeper still chose to stand. He had come inside and was leaning on the wall again. Carrie wished he’d either sit or leave. How could she really talk with Margaret if he kept standing there like a guard?

In spite of Micah’s wary presence and Henry’s warning, Carrie couldn’t help looking around. There was a curtained-off rectangle against the back wall that probably held a bed. A table with a mountain dulcimer on it stood by the bed curtain, and Carrie thought of the music she’d heard in the woods.

Next on the wall was a door to what might be a kitchen or bathroom, and she wondered if the home had indoor plumbing, a kitchen stove, or refrigeration. She hadn’t seen any outhouses in the clearing, but she hadn’t seen electric wires or propane tanks either. Was the wiring underground?

Ah, yes, there was an electric outlet on the wall, but nothing was plugged into it. The lamps in the room were plain, no-nonsense, and had full oil bowls and glass chimneys. All the chimneys were clean except for the one sitting on the table next to Carrie’s chair, which had a light coat of soot. It had probably been used this morning when Margaret ate breakfast at this table.

There was the acid smell of burnt things in the room—lamp oil and wood.

“Will ye have tea?” asked Margaret when they were seated. “Make hit from yarbs I collec’ in the woods and from my garden patch. Most of ’em’s native here.”

Carrie hesitated and was surprised when Henry leaned forward in the rocker and said, “Yes, that would be most kind.”

He, at least, wasn’t afraid of being poisoned in this house.

Margaret rose easily and went to take three white cups from a cupboard next to the stone fireplace. Then she seemed to remember her son. “Ye can go on, Micah. We’ll set and chat a while. I’ll ring the bell if I need ye.”

Carrie looked around again as Micah slipped out the door and saw that the rope to the porch bell hung right beside Margaret’s stool. So it was a warning bell, to be rung in emergencies.

Suddenly, the thought of the gun concealed inside Henry’s overalls was a comfort, and the very fact its presence made her feel safer was in itself unsettling. She usually wanted nothing to do with guns. To be honest, right now she wanted nothing to do with the Mountain View Culpepers either. But she couldn’t forget Dulcey Mason—or her family.

She sighed, and both Margaret and Henry looked at her. She made no explanation. She couldn’t, in fact, think of anything to say, so she just sat there, watching Margaret make her “yarb” tea. Hadn’t she meant herb?

Their hostess opened a tin canister and spooned a combination of what looked like stem chunks and dried leaves into a heavy pottery teapot. She lifted a kettle from a grate that squatted over burning coals in the fireplace and filled the pot with steaming water. After putting the kettle back on the grate, she sat again, looking at Carrie as if she expected her to open the conversation.

But what should she say? So much depended on this conversation.

Finally Margaret broke the silence.

“Ye be Culpepers?”

Carrie gulped. Well, of course, that was what she should be talking about. She and Henry had worked it all out, but now, in this out-of-time place, everything was topsy-turvy and all their careful plans had gone completely out of her head.

“Um, yes, and when I mentioned why we were here to a woman at the Folk Center she told me about you, and I thought we should come see if there was a family connection.”

While the tea brewed, Carrie chattered on about the bomber plant jobs and life in Tulsa for an imaginary Culpeper family. Margaret said nothing and most of the time stared into space, only occasionally glancing over at Carrie with what—and Carrie thought she must be imagining it—looked like amusement.

“And then I saw you in the woods, out on the path, yesterday,” she gestured in that direction with her arm, “and I thought you must live this way.”

Margaret was definitely smiling as she interrupted Carrie. “Ah, Tulsey, ye say? Well, now, don’t rightly know. Not many from thet time left. They’s jes my husband, gone more’n twenty year now, ’n’ his two sisters, both widdered and livin’ together over Timbo way. Puraps they’d recall other kin. Robert E. niver did say—thet’s my husband, Robert E. Lee Culpeper. Culpepers come here from Kaintuck durin’ the war. Think they wuz leavin’ to keep from goin’ to the fightin’, truth be told. My boys calls ’em draft dodgers, though I don’t think they know thet fer a fact.”

“Well,” Carrie said, “maybe my family came here then too, then went on to Oklahoma shortly after. I guess that would be possible.”

Margaret gave her a strange look. “No, I reckon not, it bein’ the War ’tween the States we’re speakin’ of, o’course.”

Henry cleared his throat, and Carrie was sure he was covering up a laugh. She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on Margaret, saying only, “Oh, ah, yes, of course.”

Margaret went on. “They’s bin a lot of Culpepers here in past years, ’n’ now they’s quite a few in jes our bunch—me and my four sons. Three of the boys married. I got grandkids, great-grandkids, three great-greats.”

She paused, reflecting for a moment, then said, “Any more Culpepers over yer way?”

Good, Carrie thought, our story is going to work. She doesn’t know all the history. “Well,” she said, “not so many. I have a son with his father’s name and Hen...Herman has a married daughter who lives in Kansas City now. But, since our family came from around here, we probably are kin.”

“Ah,” Margaret said, nodding her head as she got up to strain a pale gold liquid from the teapot into the three cups. She handed a cup to Henry, set one on the table next to Carrie, and returned to her own low stool by the fireplace holding the third cup. She sipped before she put the cup down on the bench beside her.

Carrie lifted her cup, tasted cautiously, and found that the tea—whatever “yarbs” it was made from—was delicious. She had seen no sugar, but the liquid was slightly sweet. The aroma spoke of lemon balm. She wondered if the brew included ginseng and glanced at Henry. He was sipping slowly, his eyes on their hostess.

Margaret picked up her cup again and held it near her mouth, breathing in the fragrance of the hot liquid as Carrie herself had done.

“They’s more. They’s what ye really come fer,” said Margaret in a matter of fact way from behind her cup.

Carrie almost dropped her own cup. “Oh, I, well...”

The dark eyes were on Carrie’s face, calm and serious. “Ye didn’t dress in thet get-up ’n’ come here jest about bein’ kin, though ye may be kin fer truth. Ye come here fer another reason. Now tell me what thet is a’fore I ring the bell.” Her free hand went to the rope.

Carrie spoke quickly. “The gowerow. Did you know when you told me about the gowerow that a child had been kidnapped from Mountain View?”