Southern Exposure, page 36
There was only one thing we didn’t talk about as we gathered together to see Harriet off. We didn’t talk about the inquest. It was held three days after the fire, which totally destroyed the house before it was over. Harriet’s body had been removed from the dining room just before the roof caved in, through the heroic efforts of fireman Jesse Morney. At the inquest it was determined that the fire resulted from arson; the rubble yielded an open gasoline can somewhere in the vicinity of the sleeping porch. Harriet, it was surmised, had been awakened by the smoke and had initially tried to save some of her belongings. Fifteen of the forty or more oil paintings survived, including eight which had been damaged. Apparently Harriet had gone back into the burning house and had been overcome by smoke. She couldn’t call anyone; her phone line had been cut outside the house. No one could tell, from the rubble, whether anything had been taken. When the body was recovered, Harriet was wearing her customary jewelry—except for the diamond she wore on her right pinky finger. The conclusion of the inquest was that the arsonist was guilty of premeditated homicide.
Harriet’s daughter Betty was taken aback by the funeral her stepmother’s will requested. Harriet didn’t want a service at the Lutheran church as everyone had expected. No, a graveside service was all she required—on a pretty day, of course. But she did want her casket pulled through town on a horse-drawn wagon first—it would deliver her to the cemetery like in the old days. Betty honored her mother’s request for a closed coffin, but she would probably have forgone the wagon ride had it not been for Stoney and Marian, who insisted upon it and arranged the whole thing. And so, on the morning of Harriet’s high-noon funeral, we stood on our sidewalks and watched her go by. Almost everyone in town. Marian in front of her house, Stoney and Anna in front of theirs, Elsie Fenton, the Loadholts, the Wilsons, Seth and his parents, up and down the street we were thick as flies on a picnic basket; many people from Willowbrook drove over to the old part of town so they could see the funeral wagon, and they brought their children. Some children threw flowers at the wagon but they were somber too, as though they knew they wouldn’t see the likes of this again.
Some of us remembered FDR and JFK, when tragedy made a nation a family for an instant. As with national leaders, we had never truly believed Harriet would die. People with the soft, sweet soul of an Emmas Thomas or a Sadie Thompkins died. But not legends. Legends were eternal, immune to mortality. The only possible reason Harriet Setzler was dead was because someone had killed her. Otherwise, she would never have succumbed; she would not have allowed it.
We watched the chestnut horse in its polished brass bridle pull the newly painted Fenwick wagon past us. Amos Tumley, who had once worked for both the Fenwicks and Harriet, held the reins, sitting straight and tall in a black suit. Behind Amos loomed that solitary bronze coffin, covered with an embroidered purple-and-white altar cloth made by the Lutheran Church Women’s Circle. (Harriet’s will said she wanted no flowers, that no florist ever grew any as pretty as those in her own front yard.) That morning Marian had given Amos a white rose for his lapel from the bushes Harriet had planted in Marian’s back yard. It was the only adornment on the wagon, save for the coffin itself, which gleamed in the morning sunlight. As we stood and watched Harriet go out of our lives forever.
When the wagon had passed, however, our mouths tightened with anger, with a monstrous hatred for Harriet’s killer. Harriet had been our yardstick. We always measured ourselves against her strengths and weaknesses, and so her presence gave us balance, equilibrium, at times a sense of grace. Without her we listed at a tilt.
Seth Von Hocke said it best. His parents released his bicycle on the day of the funeral, and he left his mother and father after a while and rode over to watch the wagon go down Laurens Avenue. Finally he ended up on the sidewalk with Stoney and Anna. Just as Harriet’s coffin passed the McCloskey house, Seth looked up at Stoney and said, “It’s a big wagon.”
At the cemetery we lined up just outside the wrought-iron gates, the family and some of the older townspeople at the front, led by Heyward Rutherford. Behind them, the second line began with Marian in a cream silk suit, Stoney and Anna behind her along with other young couples whose step was lighter. The older group marched in evenly, but the second was a more disjointed, fragmented column. The Setzler plot was covered with a green canopy and we gathered beneath it for the short, traditional ceremony Harriet had mandated. Within a half hour the white-robed minister was making the sign of the cross above the casket. He reached down and scooped up a handful of Low Country dirt and drizzled it across a corner of the casket. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change the body of our low estate, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself.”
After the benediction people spilled out from under the canopy and gathered in small tight knots, some intersecting from time to time, to talk. Many people went over to say hello to Harriet’s children and cousins; several stopped and spoke to Marian and Stoney about what had happened. Almost everyone seemed reluctant to leave. After a while Marian, who was surrounded by several people, noticed that the funeral home attendants were preparing to lower the casket into the gaping hole between William and Elizabeth. Marian glowered at the men. How dare they be in such a hurry. She gazed around and saw that no one else was paying attention to what the men were doing. It was over; in a way everyone was relieved. But it isn’t over, she thought, looking back at the triple headstone. It isn’t over at all. Abruptly she strode over to the gravesite. Someone should be there. Someone should be Harriet’s witness.
Two men were kneeling beside the casket, adjusting the winches on the pulley which would lower the coffin into its vault. They looked up at Marian as she approached. She stopped at the foot of Harriet’s casket, turned her head and eyed the flat tombstone with its military insignia perched at Elizabeth’s feet. The men finished with the winches, and one of them got up and nodded at the other. Marian’s hand shot out. Both men stopped instantly. Silent tears streamed down Marian’s cheeks and she reached out and laid her hand on the coffin, just held it there against the cold metal for a moment. Then, because there was no other choice, she let go. She stepped back, still at the foot of the casket, and looked at the men again. Released by her eyes, they knelt down and turned the winch. And slowly Harriet’s coffin disappeared into the earth.
Finally Marian turned and walked toward Jim Leland. She touched him on the arm and said, “Could I talk to you in your office tomorrow morning? Ask Bill Jenkins and Stoney to come if you would, and Anna McFarland too.”
Stoney and Anna went to dinner that night at Fairfield Plantation. They hadn’t planned to go out but at the last minute it just felt like the right thing to do, to get away from Essex for a few hours, especially away from their neighborhood, where it seemed the smell of smoke might linger forever. Stoney had gone to work that afternoon but it had been a wasted day; even Sumter Brownlow had been quiet and subdued. Anna had spent the afternoon with Marian but had finally left, sensing that Marian really wanted to be alone. Now Stoney and Anna sat in semidarkness overlooking the Salkhatachie River, the half-eaten prime rib still in front of them, the cabernet almost gone, as he reminisced about Harriet Setzler.
“You know, she scared me to death as a kid. I even think Dad was afraid of her.” Stoney paused, smiled slightly, then added, “I never knew anybody who could be so kind and so intimidating at the same time. I can’t imagine an Essex without Harriet Setzler.…” he trailed off. Then he added bitterly, “We’re going find who did this—he is not going to get away with it. Not this time.”
The dark look in Stoney’s eyes matched the one Anna had seen in Marian’s eyes earlier that afternoon.
“Let’s go home, Stoney.”
They drove back in silence; there wasn’t anything they could say to each other that helped. Upstairs later, in the bathroom, Anna thought about going back downstairs and getting a drink and sitting in the living room to listen to Mozart or the Pachelbel “Canon,” as she sometimes did when depressed or unable to sleep. When she emerged from the bathroom, Stoney was already in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Anna sat beside him on the bed, in the silk gown he’d given her for their anniversary. She leaned down and kissed him. “Think I’ll get a drink and go down and work for a while.”
He put his arms around her and held her. “Don’t stay up forever.”
About to rise, Anna turned instead and leaned down and kissed him again slowly, gently, tenderly. She reached up and ran her lips over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. “I am so sorry, Stoney.” Over and over again she traced the contours of his face with her fingers, touching him again and again with softness, as though she might be capable of massaging the pain away.
They didn’t speak. Anna just touched his face and he held her. After a while, unhurriedly, he leaned up and kissed the edges of the V-neck above her breasts the same slow way, almost ritualistic in his touch, as though partaking of a sacrament. Slipping the smooth silk from her shoulders, he turned her onto her stomach and ran his fingers and lips up and down her back, across her rounded hips, down the backs of her legs to her feet, his hands holding her soles, running his finger back and forth against the soft underskin there. He turned her over and looked at her with visible longing. He ran his tongue over her breasts and down her stomach with mounting passion. His fingers circled her abdomen and she floated on the languid sensuality of his hands. All movements were dreamlike; even when he was inside there was no urgency, only a sense of natural ease. No one searched for the meaning of life; instead, they savored the experience of life. They moved gently, and she grew warm and he grew warm and suddenly all she could feel was the need to share this warmth, to give it back to him until he felt nothing else.
Afterward, he lay on his side like a saved man, with one arm around her, and stroked her arm for a long time without speaking.
Bill, Stoney, and Anna gathered in Jim’s office the next morning at ten. Marian was late, because of a trip to Harriet’s grave. Jim and Stoney both stood when Marian entered. She sat in one of the two seats across from Jim’s desk. Anna, sitting in the other, reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Thanks for coming,” Marian whispered to Anna. “I need you here.”
Stoney crossed his arms over his chest and stood against the wall behind Jim’s desk. Bill Jenkins perched on the low bookshelf behind the two seated women. Jim Leland looked at Marian for a second and then said, “I’ve been thinking about this all night, Marian. I called the SLED chief in Columbia and they’re sending two guys down at the end of the week. If Turner is anywhere around here, we will find him. That’s a promise.”
“It isn’t Turner, Jim.” Marian took a deep breath. “I believe Leonard Hansen killed Harriet. And Sarah.”
Stoney bolted forward.
“You’ve been listening to him, haven’t you?” Jim said, indicating Stoney.
Marian looked at Stoney. “I wish I had.”
“Well, I already know what Stoney thinks about Leonard, but we don’t have one shred of evidence. An old scar Leonard gave him a hundred years ago doesn’t prove a thing.”
“For Christsake, Leland, let Marian talk.” Bill Jenkins sighed and picked up his notepad.
Abruptly Marian unbuttoned her blouse until the top curve of her bare breasts was visible. Embarrassed, the men looked down. Marian stared at Jim. “You mean like this?”
Stoney looked up first. Between Marian’s breasts was a tiny thin scar, about two inches long.
“Leonard,” Anna exclaimed suddenly. “Oh God. It was him?” She looked at the scar on Marian’s chest.
“He used a razor blade,” Marian explained when Jim finally looked at her. She buttoned her blouse. “This was to frighten me into keeping my mouth shut.”
“About what?” Jim asked.
“About rape.”
Stoney walked over to Marian. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
Marian stared at the floor. “I honestly didn’t think it had anything to do with Sarah. I had suspicions but nothing concrete. I didn’t figure out a connection until yesterday, when Anna told me what Harriet had said about telling Sarah something she shouldn’t have. As far as I knew, Leonard was reformed; like all of you, I knew he had been a brutal teenager, I also knew he had blackmailed and raped me. But when he came back to town, he treated me with distant politeness, he stayed away from me mostly, and he never made even the vaguest reference to what had happened years ago.”
“But you should have told us anyway,” Jim said. “This puts an entirely different light on things. Beating up people as a kid is one thing. Rape is another.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Marian cried. She gazed over at Anna. “You think a woman who’s been victimized likes to talk about it, likes to bring it up? I don’t even like to think about it. And as long as it didn’t have anything to do with Sarah’s murder, I saw no reason to put myself through this.”
No one said anything for a second. Finally Stoney said, “Marian, we’re sorry. We don’t mean—”
“Oh Stoney, stop it. Stop trying to make up for the world’s sins. It’s presumptuous. And it’s giving you gray hair.”
“Here, here. Next thing he’ll be fat,” chimed Bill Jenkins. “That’s what happened to me.”
For a second everyone laughed nervously. Then Jim said, “I still don’t see what this has to do with Sarah. Why do you think this is proof Leonard killed Sarah?”
Marian hesitated and looked at Anna again. She was suddenly glad Anna knew the parts of the story she was going to omit. “After Leonard raped me,” Marian began, “I turned for help to the only person I had. I went home to Harriet’s one night in torn clothes, bleeding. She bandaged me up and I told her what had happened. She was outraged.”
Stoney interrupted, “Did Leonard know you told Harriet?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not then. See, I swore Harriet to secrecy. I knew many people wouldn’t believe me—a black girl accusing a white boy, no one did believe such things then. What I didn’t know until after Harriet was killed was that she didn’t keep her promise. She told Sarah Roth what Leonard had done to me. Sarah told Leonard’s father, I believe.…”
“Who marched ‘him’ downtown,” Anna finished, her eyes wide.
“And made him join the Marines,” Stoney added almost at once. He looked at Anna for a second, then back at Marian. “But how did Leonard find out it was Sarah who told his father?”
“I don’t know.” Marian gazed toward the window, thinking of Harriet. Her eyes misted and she blinked.
“Sarah could have told Leonard when he lived with her,” Bill suggested.
Marian’s eyes were clear again. “She had him stay there out of guilt, I think. She always wanted to reform people. My guess is she felt guilty for having been responsible for Leonard being sent away in the first place.”
“But why would Leonard decide to get even now?” Jim stared around the room. No one said anything for a moment and then Jim jumped up and opened his mouth.
Bill Jenkins was also on his feet. “The money,” he said before Jim could get it out. “The money his father didn’t leave him.” Bill looked from face to face around the room. “Don’t you bet finding out your son is a rapist might sour you on him forever? We all know Joe Hansen and Leonard never made up while they lived here. What if they never reconciled and that’s why Joe didn’t leave Leonard a dime—Joe made all that money and Leonard’s mother is dead but Joe left all his money to a guy who worked for him. Why? Because he never forgave Leonard!”
Stoney walked toward Bill, matching the other man’s thoughts the same way they matched strides when jogging. “Leonard came back to town to get the only thing his father did leave him. An old house he couldn’t even sell. Worth maybe $20,000 tops. Whereas the old man’s estate”—Stoney looked back at Jim for confirmation, recalling a conversation they’d had about this several months ago—“was about $300,000, wasn’t it? Leonard had to fix the house up just to get anything out of it and so he’s been out there stewing about who’s responsible for him losing out. Remembering why his father never forgave him. And who told his father.”
Jim said, “If you’re right, why did he kill Brockhurst, why cut up parts of a goat, why set fire to his own house?”
“To protect himself,” Stoney said with vindication. “I knew it. I knew he did it. He never changed, he just made us think he had.”
Then Bill added, “He must have known Turner was spotted in Beaufort. So he made us think Turner was here by setting fire to his own house. Which gave him the perfect cover to kill Mrs. Setzler—the other person he would hold responsible. We were to believe Turner killed Mrs. Setzler.” Bill’s voice rose to a pitch. “Leonard has had us all fooled. Except Stoney.” He turned to Marian. “You’re in a hell of a lot of danger.”
Marian patted her purse with the derringer inside. She had carried it for years in honor of the man who had raped her. “I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine once he’s arrested.” She looked away again, thinking of Harriet. “If only I …”
