Stitches In Crime Box Sets

Chapter 3

When I was six, my mom made a terrible slip in judgment at the prompting of another parent and gave the okay for me to watch the movie Poltergeist. The other mom had said it was actually pretty funny, but I had nightmares about people coming up from the ground for weeks. The only thing that had calmed me was for Mom to remind me that God puts a hedge of protection around us and to assure me that it stretched out “even on the bottom.”

PoltergeistThat night, as Mary slept under Sawyer’s spaceship sheets, those nightmares came back, except this time the horror wasn’t that I would be attacked but that I wouldn’t be able to help. I just kept seeing those people reaching up through the ground, and I couldn’t move to save them or even hear them. I woke in a cold sweat.

Since I couldn’t possibly go back to sleep, I got up, made coffee, and sat down on the couch with Beauregard to cross-stitch. I was working on a very simple red bulldozer to give to Sawyer at Christmas, and the fact that I only had to use one shade of red thread on the boxy pattern was immensely soothing. I counted and stitched until my strands ran out. Then, I rethreaded and began again.

Typically, I liked harder patterns, ones that involve multiple colors and blended threads, maybe even some metallics for flare, but this morning I was grateful for simple and clear. The in and out of the needle soothed my mind, and by the time I needed to shower to get ready for our meeting with Dr. Harmon, I was feeling much better.

As I finished getting ready, Mary woke and came down the stairs. “That bed is super comfortable,” she said. “I haven’t slept that well in a while.”

“Wow, well maybe I’ll just give Saw my bed and get into that one. If you slept well after all the news yesterday, that must be a miracle mattress.” I stepped out of the bathroom and pointed to the small table in the corner. “I left some towels here, and use anything in the shower you want . . . if you want to shower.”

She nodded and gave me a quick hug as I stepped around her and headed to make breakfast. I decided we needed good sustenance and protein for the long morning ahead, so I whipped up scrambled eggs with extra-sharp cheddar and popped some bread into the oven for avocado toast. When I had first seen the mention of avocado toast on Fixer Upper I had scoffed. It seemed weird and trendy; wasn’t guacamole good enough?

Fixer UpperBut then, I’d tried it with some feta on a piece of bread, and I was hooked. It was delicious. Now, it was a staple for most breakfasts in my house, even though avocados weren’t local and sort of broke my loose rule about not having food shipped thousands of miles. I made an exception for avocado toast, however.

When Mary came out of the bathroom looking fresh and vibrant, I placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of her and poured her some strong, dark coffee with cream but not sugar, just like she liked it. She threw back her head and laughed. “Watch out. I may be staying at Chez Sutton all the time now. Between the bed and the breakfast, this is pretty sweet.”

“Anytime. Sawyer eschews his bed, so it’s always free . . . and when he’s here, maybe you can convince him to try a bite of avocado,” I said with a smile.

“I do have a magical way with children,” she said, chuckling. But she wasn’t exaggerating. Mary lost her own son to cancer when he was fourteen. But despite that grief, she taught Sunday school and helped in the nursery at church, and after services children held onto her legs like she was Santa Claus. They adored her . . . and so did my son. Auntie Mary was one of his favorite people, along with Santiago and his police car.

The two of us ate in relative quiet, each catching up on the world through our phones until we heard Santiago pull in the driveway. He’d brought his 1980-something pickup, and I loved it. But not for a ride into Charlottesville. I valued my spine health too much for that. We’d be taking my car, rock-hard fruit snacks and all.

Before Santiago could even knock, the two of us were out the door, leaving Beauregard to stare longingly after us. I often took him with me on trips because he loved to ride and he walked well on a leash, but I didn’t think taking him to visit a university was exactly appropriate this morning. I’d make it up to him with canned tuna later.

I pointed to my car as Santiago greeted us, and he turned on his heel and made it to my door before I did, opening it for me with a flourish. He wasn’t one of those men who stood on chivalry as his highest virtue, and for that I was glad . . . but I was also glad when he did little things to take care of me, too.

When he insisted that Mary sit up front, I smiled, but Mary protested until finally he climbed into the seat behind me, shut the door, and buckled his seat belt. Mary rolled her eyes and then climbed in next to me. “Don’t worry. His stubbornness landed him in a seat that might not be quite dry from Friday’s chocolate milk incident,” I said.

Santiago lifted himself out of the seat and then said, “Glad I wore dark pants!” as he laughed.

The drive to the university usually took about forty-five minutes simply because of traffic once you got close to town. But on an early Sunday morning, the roads were clear, the lights were in our favor, and the drive was quite fun since Mary insisted that we go back to our teenage years and listen to the classic rock station. I was still coming to terms that the music I’d listened to in high school and college was “classic” now, but when Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” came on I didn’t hesitate to sing along, even though I knew I was Rickrolling myself.

Dr. Harmon’s office was in a stately brick building near the Rotunda at the center of campus, which UVA refers to as “the Grounds.” He’d told Santiago that he’d meet us on the front steps to let us in because the building was locked up for the weekend. I hadn’t been in this or many buildings at the university since I hadn’t attended here and didn’t spend a lot of time in the area. But the Grounds were beautiful with big old trees, crisscrossing sidewalks, two-hundred-year-old buildings. It was what I always thought of when someone used the word university.

universityWhen we reached the steps, a slight, graying man with fair skin was waiting for us. He had on sneakers, a baseball cap, and a T-shirt that said “Make My Day” in bright yellow letters across the front. I liked him immediately.

We said our greetings, and then he led us up two flights of stairs to his office, which was a lovely space with natural light, a collection of shadowboxes full of arrowheads (which he would tell me were more appropriately called “projectile points”), and bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room sat a majestic desk with huge feet. It looked like it might have killed the people who had to carry it up here.

Dr. Harmon had gathered chairs for us, and we all sat down and got right to it when he asked to see the journal Mary was carrying. On the way over, she had slipped some old ribbon I had in the car into the seams by the appropriate pages, so the professor was able to read through what she’d found quite quickly.

“Well, this is fascinating,” he said, “and disturbing, of course.” He leaned back in his chair and studied Mary’s face. “I’m sorry you have inherited this history at your church. It is not your fault, but of course, it is now your responsibility.”

Without hesitation, Mary said, “Absolutely, and I will do all I can to do right by the people involved in this story.” She glanced over at me. “And I know Paisley will too.”

“Of course. That’s part of why we are here. We need to know what to do, and Santiago thought you might be able to give us some guidance.” I found my voice surprisingly choked with emotion.

Santiago, who was always compassionate but also able to maintain his equilibrium a little better than I was, added, “Do you think it’s possible that there are Monacan graves under that building?”

Dr. Harmon stood and walked toward his desk, where he picked up a road atlas and brought it back to where we were sitting. “Let me show you a bit about where the Monacans lived and often placed their burial grounds.”

He first located Octonia and then said, “Between these two rivers, the Fleur and the Skonset, are some of the ancestral homelands of the Monacan people, although the Monacans had settlements and traveled to hunt and trade throughout this area. Historically, they built their villages along waterways and had their burial mounds a bit away from water.”

I leaned closer and studied the map. The church and parish house were almost equidistant from the two rivers, and given that they sat on a slight hill, it made sense to me, with what little I knew, that people might choose to bury their loved ones there. “So it’s possible?”

“Possible. Probable, even,” Dr. Harmon said. “We don’t reveal specifically where burial mounds are anymore because people then visit them as tourist sites.”

“And because I suspect people rob them, too,” Santiago added.

Dr. Harmon nodded grimly. “Exactly. But I can tell you that there is another burial mound not far from this location, so I’d say that it would be very wise and historically just to take these claims that this woman is making very seriously and do some more research.”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I said.

Mary added, “Yes, thank you, and I assure you we will take this all very seriously. I give you my word.”

Dr. Harmon smiled. “Would you like me to introduce you to the chief of the Monacan Nation? I’m sure she would be eager to talk with you and work with you to discover more.”

A smile lit Mary’s face. “I would like that very much. If you don’t mind making that introduction, I’d love to have her – and you if you’d like to come – to the church so we could do some preliminary looks at the site.”

Santiago looked at me and gave me a thin smile. “Looks like they’ll have a delay in the demo, and rightly so. Did you get all the things you wanted from the house already?”

“I did,” I said and then turned to Dr. Harmon. “I do architectural salvage, and this is one of my sites.”

“How fascinating,” Dr. Harmon said. “I bet you find the most interesting things.”

“I do. That’s how we came to find these journals, actually.” I looked back at Santiago. “A delay is just fine if we do right by these people buried here. I know Saul will agree.”

“Agreed,” Mary said. “Let’s call Saul right away and let him know that we’re on an indefinite hold, and I’ll get the deacon board together right away.”

We stood, and each of us shook Dr. Harmon’s hand. “Whenever the chief wants to come out, I will make myself available,” Mary said. “This is now my top priority.”

“Thank you very much, and I know Chief Stephenson will be eager to come out. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know,” he said as he walked us to the door. “Sheriff Shifflett, can you send me everyone’s numbers?”

Santiago took out his phone and tapped the screen. “Done.”

As the three of us walked back down the stairs and let ourselves out of the building, I felt a twist of anticipation in my stomach. This situation was potentially horrible, an act of the worst levels of disrespect and prejudice possible, and moving through these next few days was not going to be easy for any of us. But still, it felt good, exciting even, to be able to be part of righting a historical harm.

The ride home was a quiet one. As Santiago drove, Mary and I sent dozens of text messages and answered the responding phone calls to give more details. By the time we pulled back up at my house, Mary had a plan to meet the deacon board right after the church service and there was a visit with Chief Stephenson and Dr. Harmon planned for three p.m. I had already let Saul know to move his crew to other jobs for the first part of week, and I was going to accompany Santiago to the site to hang police tape and cordon off the building and the immediate surrounding yard.

This was something Deputy Winslow would typically do, and Santiago had kept her up to speed. But since there was no real police work to be done and it was Sunday, he decided it would be fine for me to help with this small thing and let Savannah enjoy the rest of her day off. “She’ll have a busy enough week ahead anyway,” he said. “Besides, it’ll give me a chance to pay my own respects to the people there.”

“We don’t know for sure anyone is buried there,” I said, hearing the incredulity in my voice even as I spoke. “I mean, I think people are buried there, and we need to treat it with respect. But it wouldn’t be wise to presume anything.”

Mary sighed. “Exactly. We need to act as if, but also not spread any rumors.”

“Agreed,” Santiago said as Mary walked toward her car. “So nothing to anyone who doesn’t already know, right?”

Mary and I both nodded. “The word will spread fast enough as it is,” Mary said.

I feared she was right. People in Octonia were hungry for news, and bad news burned through our community like a dynamite fuse. I wanted to be optimistic, but I expected the word would be out by late afternoon at the earliest. I could only hope that the church could put a plan of action together before people started asking questions.

Once Mary was on her way to make copies of the journal pages for the deacon board and prepare her presentation for them – a presentation that she hoped would make them at least pause the demo and construction plans without any outside intervention – Santiago and I sat down on the porch with a fresh pot of coffee.

“Not exactly what I expected when I was popping baseboards off twenty-four hours ago,” I said quietly.

“I imagine not, but you did the right thing when you found those journals, Paisley. It would have been easier to just cover things up, pretend you hadn’t read anything.” Santiago said as he took my hand. “But you are not someone who does easy when easy is wrong.”

I smiled. “Sometimes I wish I was, though. I don’t want to be that way, but I totally get why people tout ‘leave the past in the past.’ Pulling the legacies of history into the light of now isn’t always pleasant work.”

“No. No, it’s not.” He took a long swig of his black coffee and rocked in his chair for a few moments. “Did you tell Mika the latest?”

I nodded. “I texted her on the way home. She’s at the shop today but offered to close up early if we need help.”

“That was kind of her, but I think you and I can handle what we need to do.” He stood and helped me to my feet. “You ready?”

I finished my coffee and nodded. “Yep.” We put our mugs in the dishwasher and then got into Santiago’s cruiser for the drive back into town.

As we parked at the back of the lot, I could hear the congregation singing inside, and a pang of longing went through my chest. I wanted to join them, but I knew that wasn’t wise, not today when I might not be able to keep myself from talking about what we’d found. I wanted to give Chief Stephenson and the deacon board a chance to consider the situation first before people started asking a lot of questions.

So while the strains of “A Mighty Fortress” wafted through the sanctuary walls, Santiago and I wrapped bright yellow tape all around the house and the fence without saying a word. I knew that in some ways this action shouted that something was going on, but we needed to be sure we were doing our best to protect the resting place of the people who might be buried here, even if it might draw more curiosity than we wanted. We needed to keep people out, and we needed Chief Stephenson to see we were doing our best to respect the assumed graves of her people.

Fortunately, we finished long before the service let out so we were able to move the cruiser down the street and wait for Mary. I’d told her we’d be available if she wanted us at the deacon meeting, and Santiago was eager to be on hand if people had questions about the legalities involved. While we waited, he called a contact at the Department of Historic Resources in Richmond, apologized for disturbing her Sunday, and then explained the situation. She said we were taking the right action and that she’d be out at three to hear what the chief wanted us to do and to give legal guidance about next steps.

I was glad she was coming, but this situation felt like it was getting bigger and bigger very quickly. For a brief moment, I wondered if we were taking things too far, and then I thought about what I would think if someone built a house over the cemetery where my mother was buried. The rage that sparked in me at just the idea reminded me that we were taking appropriate action, that we needed to do everything we could to find the truth and protect the people buried here – if we found out there were graves.

For a moment or two, Santiago and I tried to chat about Sawyer and other lighter things, but soon, the weight of the situation settled onto us with silence. I put my head against the car seat and watched the sun dance in the trees above.

After a few anxious minutes, Mary texted and asked us to join her for the meeting. “They’re singing the final hymn now, so if you want to come in the back, you can avoid most folks.”

Santiago and I made our way up the wheelchair ramp at the side of the building and slipped into the side door that led to the back entrance to the sanctuary and the Sunday school rooms behind it. We found Mary in the largest classroom and joined her in the circle of folding chairs that lined the room.

She was wringing her hands in her lap, and beside her on a small table, she had Earnestine’s journal and stacks of paper. “Thanks for coming,” she said.

I reached over and took her hand. “Of course. We’re here to support you, so you just let us know what you need when you need it.”

She nodded. “Santiago, maybe you can be prepared to explain what it means for something to be a crime scene?”

“Definitely. Just let me know when.” He smiled and straightened his uniform. He was ready, as usual. I knew that his work wore on him sometimes, but in moments like this, he was confident in his ability to do his job well. It was an attractive trait, for sure.

While we waited for everyone to join us, Mary went over what she was going to share, showed us the pages of Earnestine’s journal she had copied to distribute, and asked us if we thought she should mention anything else. Santiago told her about the Department of Historic Resources rep coming this afternoon, and she jotted that down on her notes. “That’s good,” she said. “I think most people here will be on the same page, but we have spent a lot of money and time on this addition. It’s going to be a blow that we have to stop work for a bit.”

I nodded. “I totally get that, but hopefully everyone will understand.” I wasn’t sure they all would, but I wanted to reassure my friend, give her a boost of confidence.

The doors to the sanctuary swung open, and I could hear the organist playing his postlude, a lively rendition of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” I said a silent prayer for understanding and cooperation, and then braced myself for a hard hour.

After everyone was seated, Mary did an excellent job of recounting the events of yesterday, of explaining why we needed to halt all the plans, and suggesting a course of action moving forward. Then, before allowing anyone else to speak – and a lot of people had something to say – she asked Santiago to inform them about the status of the house site.

“It’s an active crime scene,” he said, “so as you can expect, we need to keep it closed to everyone except those who need access to evaluate the grounds and study the situation. I know you understand.”

Several of the individuals who had been sitting forward ready to weigh in sat back and nodded. But one man didn’t wait half a second until after Santiago finished before he said, “I need to say something here.”

He was very polished in a fine, three-piece suit and the shiniest dress shoes I’d ever seen. His haircut was crisp and tight to his head, and he had on gold-rimmed glasses that were the perfect complement to his walnut-colored skin. This man looked like he was used to commanding a room.

I braced myself, ready for him to set into the run-down on what the church had gone through to raise the funds and make the plans, but instead, he said, “My family’s graves were plowed through over near Chestnut Heights Plantation. I will never know where they were buried. Because they were slaves, no one marked their graves, no one honored their resting place, and no one respected their lives. We cannot let that happen to anyone who might be buried on ground that we own.”

Mary scribbled on her notepad and turned it slightly toward me. Demetrius Cleveland, chair, her note said.

Demetrius Cleveland, chair“I’m glad to hear you say that, Demetrius, because I completely agree. I think a lot of us will never know the final resting place of our people because of s*****y and Jim Crow. The least we can do here is pass along the honor and respect we wish our ancestors had been given,” Mary said.

Almost every head at the table nodded, and I felt a weight lift. We were, it seemed, in agreement. Now, I felt like I could speak. “I’ve also asked a friend to consult with an architect to see, if need be, if the addition could be accommodated in some other way. He’s donating that consultation fee to the church.” I knew Saul would not be asking for any payment, so I felt confident making that assurance.

“Good. Thank you,” Chairman Cleveland said with a nod to me. “So let’s vote. Do I have a motion?”

One woman in a fine purple hat said, “I move that we halt any further action on the proposed church addition, including demolition of the existing manse, until a complete and full study of the site, its history, and the presence of any burials can be conducted.”

I was impressed. She had succinctly and professionally summarized just what Mary had suggested, and a man across the table seconded her motion without hesitation.

When Chairman Cleveland called for the vote, it was unanimous, and Mary audibly sighed when the motion passed and the meeting was adjourned.

As everyone started to get up and go about their day, Santiago said, “There is crime scene tape around the building now because we all know this is going to be news on the gossip train here in town. Would you all mind calling if you see someone on site who isn’t authorized?”

Many of the church members lived on this same block, including Mary, so they would be the best alarm system Santiago could employ.

Several people spoke up and said they would, and then, everyone but Demetrius Cleveland headed toward their cars and, I suspected, some really good food. As my stomach growled, I felt a pang of regret that I wouldn’t be having my usual lunch at Mary’s house today. Her pot roast was out of this world.

“How can I help?” Chairman Cleveland asked Mary as we all milled around the table, not sure what to do next.

Mary smiled. “You did a lot this morning, Demetrius. Thank you. Would you like to join us this afternoon at three?”

“I would like that,” he said, “and let me introduce myself, Paisley. I’ve seen you at services but haven’t made a point of meeting you. I apologize. Demetrius Cleveland.” He put out his hand and gave mine a firm shake.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said with a smile. “Now, if it’s not too forward and selfish, could we all go get some lunch before our next meeting?”

Demetrius clapped me on the back. “I knew I liked you,” he said. “My treat for burgers at the Pierce Inn?” he asked.

I smiled. “Did you say burgers?” Their veggie burger was incredible, and I made it a habit to never pass up a free lunch.

We all laughed and headed to the historic inn up the street.