Buried in a Book Page 8

  He immediately shook his long bangs back into place over his brows. “That was fun, Nana, but I’m not a kid anymore.”

  My mother studied him carefully. “No, you’re not. You’re caught in that place between boy and man. Can’t decide whether you should be flexin’ your wings or hidin’ under the covers until the tough times pass on by. But bein’ away from Dunston will do you a world of good. This town is as worn-out as my favorite pair of boots. You need to breathe fresh air and be around young folks who know exactly what they want, like those interestin’ people up on Red Fox Mountain.” She looked at me, her eyes alight with mischief. “That’s where Marlette lived, you know.”

  That got my attention. As my mother and I carried boxes to the truck, I asked her if it was a long hike from her place to the co-op.

  “Not at all, sug. Anytime I need to refill my spiritual well I take the path through the back woods leadin’ right up the mountain. The co-op folks are lovely. We trade things fairly regular. I’ll read their cards in exchange for goat’s milk soap or one of their cute hemp shoppin’ bags. Mighty strong, those bags. Can hold two bunches of bananas and three bottles of my leadin’ man, Mr. Jim Beam.”

  I slid a heavy box onto the truck bed and wiped my slick forehead with my shirtsleeve. “And Marlette lived among these people?” I couldn’t picture him coexisting with a bunch of goat farmers and weavers. He seemed too much of a recluse to enjoy the constant company I imagined would be prevalent at the Red Fox Mountain Co-op.

  My mother shook her head. “No, honey. Word has it he had some run-down cabin near the creek. I don’t know where, but I have a feelin’ you’re gonna find out.”

  Ignoring her twinkling eyes, I handed Trey the last of the boxes and settled onto the Chevy’s bench seat with a weary sigh. Despite my fatigue, I watched my house recede in the rearview mirror with a stirring of hope. Sandwiched between my son and my mother, I knew that my little family could make it over this bump in the road. As my mother began singing along to Patsy Cline, Trey did his best to suppress a smile over her off-key notes. Suddenly, I was aware this was one of those moments when I should count my blessings, so as we left Dunston behind, that’s exactly what I did.

  This burst of optimism carried me all the way to Inspiration Valley, but when we passed the sign announcing the town limits, I realized that I needed to be at Novel Idea by nine the next morning. I didn’t have a car, I hadn’t finished reading my quota of query letters, and I’d have to spend Monday night meeting with both a real estate agent and the school board. Afterward, I’d have to haul more of my belongings to the shed behind my mother’s house.

  “Cheer up,” my mother said, sensing my shift in mood. “Least your life’s more excitin’ now. Shoot, I know ladies in the old folks’ home who’ve got more goin’ on than you’ve had for the last twenty years. Now you’ve got a mystery to unravel, a fascinatin’ new job, and good-lookin’ men droppin’ from the sky like cherry blossoms in April. And don’t argue, because I have a clear sense that you’re workin’ alongside a few fine specimens.”

  I considered her words as we bounced along the narrow gravel lane leading to her house. She lived in a refurbished tobacco barn three miles outside of town. Painted cardinal red, the façade was Shaker plain, but the inside more than made up for the exterior’s simplicity.

  To say that my mother was a pack rat was an understatement. Her definition of decorating was to bring home any object that she deemed interesting and to find a place for it somewhere. Anywhere. Her kitchen, for example, closely resembled the interior of a T.G.I. Friday’s. Rusty signs, painted placards, framed movie posters, flags, pennants, and photographs all vied for space on the lavender walls. She even had an illuminated exit sign affixed to the ceiling and a working traffic signal perched on top of a massive open-shelf pine cupboard. I could only imagine what a real estate agent would say upon entering this room.

  It was in this chaotic space that Althea met with her clients. She sat them down at the farm table, brewed a fresh pot of coffee or tea, and served them a slice of fresh-baked chocolate banana bread. I was convinced that my mother had a long list of clients because of her banana bread. If there was anything magical about my mother, it was that bread.

  She’d been making it as long as I could remember. Some of my earliest memories were of being hypnotized by her graceful movements in the kitchen baking this bread. Using slightly overripe bananas and chunks of rich chocolate, she folded them into the batter with such infinite gentleness, singing a soft lullaby all the while, that I used to fall asleep before the pan reached the oven.

  While the bread baked, the entire house would be redolent with the scent of buttery dough, bananas, and chocolate. It was Althea’s secret weapon, for no client could keep quiet about even their most intimate desires as they nibbled her bread and sipped her strong brew. While they savored each bite, Althea laid out their cards, already aware of what they wanted to hear.

  I wasn’t impervious to the smell, either. As soon as the three of us stepped into the kitchen, it settled around me like a shawl. I inhaled gratefully and noticed that Trey did as well.

  Dropping my purse into a chair, I turned to my mother. “Let’s walk up Red Fox Mountain right now.”

  Trey checked his watch and groaned, “It’s almost dinnertime.”

  “Don’t worry, sweet boy. We’ll eat at the co-op. Grab that case of beer outta my fridge and we’ll make ourselves a trade for a fine vegetarian feast.”

  “That’s just great.” Trey scowled but obeyed his grandmother.

  My mother collected an exquisitely carved walking stick leaning against the porch post, and we set off. “The members of the Occaneechi tribe gave this to me,” she said as we struck out through the field behind her house. “I helped one of their seers get over a bad case of blocked vision.”

  “How nice,” I said, casting a covert glance at the entwined snakes carved into her stick. They were so lifelike that I half expected them to wriggle right up the wood onto my mother’s hand. I turned away, preferring to focus on the tall grass strewn with yellow buttercups and the benevolent shadow of the mountain rising before us.

  We left the grassy path and stepped into a copse of trees, instantly cooled by the forest’s canopy of summer leaves and needles. Birdcalls followed us as we strode deeper into the woods, and my cares slipped away as I inhaled the scents of tree sap, pine, and fecund soil. Trey stopped to investigate a clump of mushrooms, squatting on his heels to marvel at the size of the umbrella-shaped caps.

  After another ten minutes of hiking steadily upward, the narrow path widened. It was apparent that someone had trimmed the sapling branches and stray vines from encroaching on the well-trodden trail, and we soon arrived, rather short of breath, at an arch made of willow branches secured by pieces of rope. A wooden sign hung down from the top of the arch. We passed beneath the words Welcome to the Red Fox Mountain Co-op and emerged into a wide and surprisingly flat clearing.

  This plateau was circular shaped and had recently been mowed. Clippings still peppered the grass, and an old-fashioned push mower rested against a chain-link fence that dominated the left side of the clearing. On the other side of the fence, a herd of white goats with brown faces and floppy ears lifted their heads and bleated and then returned to the business of nibbling grain. In the distance, a large unpainted barn rose up behind the spacious goat paddock, and a cluster of small cabins were situated haphazardly to the right of the barn. A pretty woman seated on a crude stool weaving hemp into what appeared to be a hammock raised her hand in greeting. We waved back.

  “What is this place?” Trey asked in wonder.

  My mother gestured around the complex. “Back when the town was Illumination, this was a meditation and retreat spot. Folks used to hike up here to commune with nature. Most of the hard-core New Agers moved out when the money dried up like a creek bed in July, but some people who truly wanted to live a simpler kind of life founded this co-op. Here comes their leader now.”
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  A man in his early thirties wearing a plain T-shirt, dust-covered cargo shorts, and leather sandals made his way toward us. “He looks like Jesus,” whispered Trey, and I had to agree. With a beard and hair of dark brown that fell in soft waves to his shoulder, the man issued a generous smile that reached from his mouth to his lake blue eyes.

  “Jasper.” My mother held out both hands, and the young man gave them a hearty squeeze. “I brought my family to meet you.”

  Jasper studied us for a moment longer than was customarily polite, but then he offered his hand in sincere welcome. “Excuse my rudeness. We haven’t had visitors for a while, and we’ve withdrawn even further from society over the last two days. An acquaintance passed away rather abruptly, and it’s reminded us that the violence and chaos of town life could taint our little paradise.”

  I’d just opened my mouth to ask if the death Jasper referred to was Marlette’s when my mother pinched my forearm—a signal that I should be quiet. “I was hopin’ you’d show my grandson around. There’s nothin’ in Dunston like this slice of heaven, and I wanted him to see that folks can live a rich and fufillin’ life off the land.”

  Looking extremely pleased by the request, Jasper waited for Trey to fall into step beside him as he led us toward one of the larger cabins. “This is where we dry and process our wild hemp plants that we then make into rope for bags and hammocks or twine for jewelry and key chains,” he began. “We have crops growing all over this side of the mountain. Hemp plants and every kind of fruit and vegetable you can imagine. The soil up here is really fertile, and we get more rain than they do in the valley.”

  “Did you say hemp?” Trey looked around eagerly, and then his eyes widened in astonishment. “Wait. There’s no electricity?”

  Jasper shook his head, his wavy locks glistening in the waning light. “Except for the solar panels on all the roofs, we’re a human-powered community.” Smiling, he patted his flat stomach. “Keeps us fit.” He then had us follow him to the dairy barn where the goat milk was bottled or made into cheese, soap, and lotion.

  I was impressed by both the cleanliness of the workspaces and the genuine friendliness of the co-op’s inhabitants. While Jasper invited Trey to sample a piece of goat cheese and my mother began to discuss our supper plans with a middle-aged man labeling the goat products with elegant calligraphy, a young woman entered the barn.

  Upon seeing her gauzy white dress and flowing rivulets of golden hair, I had to blink hard to make sure that I wasn’t envisioning a fantastical forest nymph. The girl was small, with childlike limbs and fair skin, but her blue eyes were large and framed by a sweep of long lashes. She walked en pointe like a ballerina, with an empty metal pail swinging by her side and a dreamy expression on her lovely face.

  “Who is that?” Trey interrupted Jasper’s discourse on goat vaccinations, gazing at the fairylike young lady with utter rapture.

  Grinning indulgently, Jasper beckoned for the girl to come closer. “This is Iris, my sister.”

  She gifted us with a shy smile, her gaze lingering on Trey. “Are you staying for supper?”

  “Yeah,” Trey answered immediately and puffed out his chest in a show of macho self-importance. “And we brought beer.”

  The evening meal was held outdoors on a grouping of picnic tables and blankets. Oil lamps and tiki torches were lit, more for atmosphere than for the light they cast since the sky had yet to darken, and a stream of men and women began carrying mismatched platters and bowls from their individual cabins to the tables. Grilled vegetable kabobs, spinach salad with strawberries and goat cheese, scalloped potatoes, fried goat cheese with sliced tomatoes and fresh pesto, and a berry medley were among the dishes on the communal buffet. As I filled my plate with the fresh, locally grown food, I began to appreciate the advantages of life in the co-op.

  With its wholesomeness, proximity to nature, and close sense of community, the Red Fox Mountain Co-op was somewhat of a utopia. Thomas More’s description of virtue as “living according to Nature” might well have suited these people, who “think that we are made by God for that end.”

  However idyllic life here seemed, I reminded myself that I’d come on a mission. I needed to find out where Marlette had lived. Somewhere inside his home might be a clue to his demise. Perhaps I’d find a copy of the book he’d written or an indication of why his very existence had become a threat that his murderer could not ignore.

  Seeing Trey and Iris sitting alone on a picnic blanket, I decided that it would be easier to worm information out of a girl close to my son’s age than from Jasper or one of the older residents of Red Fox Mountain.

  “I’m sorry to hear that your community is grieving for a lost acquaintance tonight,” I said without preamble. “Was the person a close friend?”

  Iris shook her head. “He wasn’t a member of the co-op, but he shared the mountain with us. He lived in a cabin by the stream, and sometimes he’d write poems and tie them to the branches of a laurel bush for me to find. They were beautiful.”

  This tender gesture caused a lump to form in my throat. “So he was a writer?”

  She shrugged, uncertain how to answer. “Not professionally. He just wrote things and put them in special places. He talked to himself and didn’t take very good care of his things. Some people thought he was crazy, but I didn’t. He was just really shy, but he was sweet, too.”

  “Was his name Marlette?” I asked gently.

  She looked at me with unveiled distrust. “How’d you know?”

  “I met him for the first time on Friday,” I assured her hastily. “And I agree with your description. He seemed harmless and kind.” I hesitated. “Listen, Iris. I know this is going to sound strange, but since I was with him at the end, I’d really like to visit his cabin.” I held out my hands, indicating a feeling of helplessness. “I don’t know how else to pay my respects, but if I could do something for him, like show some of his poetry to a literary agent on the off-chance it might get published, it would mean a great deal to me.”

  “How could you do that?” Iris wasn’t easily convinced. “Do you know a literary agent?”

  “My mom works for the Novel Idea agency,” Trey stated proudly, and I couldn’t help but blush in the face of his boasting even though I knew he was only mentioning my new job to impress a pretty girl.

  Iris considered my request. “All right, but we should go now, before it gets dark. Jasper doesn’t like me to wander too far after sunset.”

  Walking through the woods in the dusky light was a little spooky, but Iris knew where she was going and forged confidently ahead along a narrow path. Well away from the co-op, but not so far that we couldn’t hear the murmuring of voices in the still night, she stopped.

  “This is the laurel bush I told you about,” she said quietly as she stroked a branch. Despondently, she added, “No more poems.” Her sadness made me want to hug her.

  But Trey beat me to it. Gently touching her shoulder, he asked in a tender voice, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded and pointed to the right. “Come on, it’s this way.”

  Twigs cracked under our feet, and I furiously swatted at mosquitoes until we came to a small clearing, upon which stood a cabin. Actually, calling it a cabin was generous. In the shadowy light, it appeared more like an old toolshed.

  “This is where he lived,” Iris said as she pulled open the canvas flap covering the doorway. “Jasper offered to have some of our members build him a real cabin, but Marlette didn’t want it. Said he only heard from his muse when he slept close to nature.”

  “Do you know if anyone’s been inside since he died?” I asked.

  Iris shook her head. “No one ever came here that I know about. Other than Jasper or me, that is. We used to bring him food.”

  I peered inside and was assaulted by a mixture of smells created by an odd blend of body odor, rotting wood, and hemp. It was not unlike Marlette’s own stench, though not as overpowering. Trey moved back from the entry.

&n
bsp; “Do you really want to go in there, Mom?” he asked, waving his hand in front of his face. “It reeks.”

  Scrunching my nose, I stepped through the opening but couldn’t see very far inside the space. “Is there any kind of light in here?”

  Iris thrust a small flashlight at me. “You can use this. I’ll wait outside with Trey.”

  After giving her a nod of understanding, I shone the narrow beam into the interior, illuminating a cozy-looking refuge. Despite the smell, it was a tidy space, with bedding arranged neatly in one corner, a makeshift table in another with a wooden crate in place of a chair, a basket filled with clothes, and an old cabinet with missing doors and dangling hinges. Its shelves were jammed full. One held paperbacks, and the others contained a leather-covered journal with ragged paper edges, two chipped teacups, a dented saucepan, a tin can filled with pens, a ball of twine, numerous empty chip and cookie bags, and dried bouquets of flowers.

  An ancient typewriter stood on top of the cabinet. I touched its dusty keys, remembering Marlette’s pathetic questions about his query, and wondered if he had written anything significant using this decrepit machine. There was also a hand-carved walking stick resting against the table. To me, it seemed to be waiting for its owner to return, for Marlette to grasp its polished knob and set forth for the steepest, most secluded parts of the mountain.

  I stood transfixed. The place was crude and simple, but it had been special to Marlette. A sense of security and peace hovered in air filled with the dust motes. I found this sense of tranquility surprising, considering his lack of possessions and the fact that he had lived in what most people would consider a hovel.

  “‘His house was perfect,’” I whispered, borrowing from The Hobbit, “‘whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking, best.’”What had Marlette liked best? What invisible element remained in this crude shelter, giving it a coziness that seemed incongruous with its appearance?

  My musings were interrupted by Jasper’s voice calling in the night. “Iris! It’s getting dark.”