Last in a Long Line of Rebels Read online

  “You think those boys are going to be finished with the bridge by fall, Pete?”

  “They better be,” the man in the suit said. “That’s when their pay stops.”

  “If they are,” another man laughed, “it will be the first time the county’s met a deadline that I’ve heard of.”

  “Things have changed since I became commissioner. You boys remember that when I’m up for reelection.”

  I glared at the back of his head. That had to be the sorry thief who was trying to take my house. I elbowed Benzer. “Is that Blake’s dad?” I asked, whispering.

  Benzer nodded.

  Franklin opened the door. “I call the front seat!”

  I gave one more hateful look at the back of Pete Winningham and ran outside.

  The Grey County Museum was housed in what used to be a shirt factory. It had closed a while ago, and since no one seemed interested in buying the building, the town donated it to the historical society. Bertie is passionate about a lot of things, and history ranks right up there. She organized the town ladies, and they held raffles, spaghetti suppers, whatever they could think of to raise enough money for remodeling. Benzer and I went to the grand opening, but we didn’t get to see much of it. We’d signed the guest book—Verbyl Belch and Anita Goodman— and Daddy had parked us at the entrance taking tickets.

  I could see why she was so proud of it. The foyer was very fancy, with gleaming hardwood floors and a greeter wearing a green top embroidered with ZM on the lapel. I recognized her as Thelma Johnson, Bertie’s ex-neighbor.

  “Morning, Alberta,” she said with a sniff.

  Bertie just nodded and herded us through. She and Thelma have been feuding ever since Thelma married Bertie’s ex-husband. The only reason they can be in the same room together is because they each know how much it irritates the other.

  Carrying a paper towel and a bottle of window cleaner, Thelma walked over to the front doors and began wiping the glass. “Suggested donation is three dollars,” she called over her shoulder.

  Bertie snorted. “I’ve got a suggestion for her—find some looser trousers. Hers are so tight, if she so much as toots, her shoes will blow off.”

  I grinned at Benzer and whispered, “Who knew history could be so fun?”

  “Bertie makes everything fun,” Benzer answered.

  We walked from the foyer into a wide hallway. There were several people scattered around, going in and out of different rooms. “Is it always this busy?”

  “Yes,” Bertie answered. “Sometimes even more so. The museum’s got people thinking about their own history and connection to the town. We get all kinds of folks coming in to do research on their family tree and that sort of thing.”

  “Can we do one for ours?” I asked.

  Bertie opened her eyes wide. “This day is full of surprises. Of course we can.”

  A door to the left was open, and we could see shelves full of Ball jars. “What’s in there?” Franklin asked.

  “That’s the gift shop,” Bertie said. “We sell all kinds of good stuff; honey from the valley, homemade jellies, and local genealogy books.”

  “Are the Mayhews in them?” Franklin asked.

  “Of course! It wouldn’t be a book about Grey County if they weren’t.”

  I started forward. “Let’s get one now.”

  “Hold your horses. I’ve got lots of the same books at home on my bedside table.”

  We passed a room full of antique medical equipment and one set up like an old schoolroom. “That’s a replica of the Maynard School,” Bertie said. “I had to fight to get that included.”

  “What’s the Maynard School?” Franklin asked.

  “The school that used to be on Maynard Street—you know, where the black students had to go before integration.”

  I thought about Isaac and the red flyers we’d seen on our walk. “I guess things haven’t changed as much as you would hope. You know, we’re only two hours away from where the Ku Klux Klan was born.”

  Benzer ran his hand across one of the old wooden desks. “I can’t believe it, but they’re still around today. My dad and I watched a documentary on it. It’s crazy how people are raising their kids to hate people.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I was so gung ho on starting this museum,” Bertie told us. “You’d be amazed how quickly people can forget their own history if you don’t preserve it. And when you forget the past, you’re bound to repeat the same old mistakes.”

  A man was staring at us from across the room, and I recognized him from the Tate Brothers auction.

  “Bertie,” I whispered, “who is that?”

  She looked at where I was pointing. “You ought to know, he spoke at our Grand Opening. He’s a prominent historian named George Neely.”

  “The opening was weeks ago. What’s he doing still here?”

  “Oh, he’s doing some research,” Bertie said. “It’s very hush-hush. I suspect he doesn’t want to tell ’cause he’d have everybody in town putting in their two cents.”

  We walked from room to room, passing displays of quilts, arrowheads, even a room set up like a 1950s kitchen. A large cabinet in the hallway held antique guns and swords. Benzer and Franklin stopped to read the sign.

  “What does ‘Rebel Relics’ mean?” asked Benzer.

  “Rebels was what the Yankee newspapers started calling folks fighting for the Confederacy,” Bertie said. “Course, they didn’t expect them to wear the label with pride, but they did.”

  “Because they were rebelling against what they thought of as a tyrannical government,” Franklin said.

  “If tyrannical means ‘bossy,’ then you’re exactly right. That’s why you find Southerners still using the term today. We’re not big on having the government tell us what to do.”

  I thought about Pete Winningham. “I can see why.”

  “Of course, it would have been better if they weren’t rebelling over slavery,” Benzer said.

  Bertie smiled. “So true. You got me on that, Benzer. But if the cause is right, being a rebel can be a good thing.”

  The last room we entered held hundreds of black-and-white photographs under a large piece of glass.

  “What’s this?” Benzer asked, leaning in close.

  “This is a Who’s Who of the town. It was a great idea—mine, of course. Everyone that donated money to the museum could place a picture of their most esteemed relation in here. Everyone wanted to be included. This room alone paid our expenses for six months.”

  The photos were labeled underneath. A sour-looking man in a black coat and high white collar caught my eye. “Silas A. Whittle,” I read aloud. “Hey, that’s the guy that owned our Bible!”

  “That’s him, all right. He was one of the first preachers in town,” Bertie said, “and a close friend of the Mayhews.”

  I frowned at him. And the owner of the magic Bible that brought trouble, I could have added.

  I walked along the wall, reading names. “Here’s a Jackson and a Weldon—hey, Franklin, here’s a Kimmel.” I stared at the old photograph. There were four young people standing together. “Brody Kimmel, Louise Duncan, Olivia McDonald, and Walter Mayhew,” I read. I elbowed Benzer. Walter Mayhew! “So Franklin’s ancestor and mine were friends?”

  “There are actually two Mayhews in that photo,” Bertie said. “Louise Duncan married Walter a few years later.”

  “That’s the Louise? The one I was named after?”

  “The very one.”

  “Wow! And who’s Olivia McDonald?” asked Benzer.

  “A cousin on Louise’s side, I believe.”

  “Bertie, how do you know so much about Daddy’s side of the family?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve always loved history, and the Mayhews are fascinating.” She smiled. “Also I’m a bit of a snoop. Just because they’re long dead doesn’t make their lives any less interesting.”

  “Bertie,” Thelma Johnson called from the doorway, “the museum in Sparta’s on the phone.
They say they never got the books you were supposed to send.”

  “Tell them to call the post office. I sent them a week ago.”

  “You tell them,” Thelma said. “It’s your doing, not mine.”

  “Mercy. That woman is as useless as a milk bucket under a bull!” Bertie followed Thelma out, stepping aside as George Neely walked into the room.

  We smiled politely and then went back to looking at the pictures.

  “Franklin, can you take a picture of them for me?”

  He nodded and held out his camera. “I’ll drop the film off at the drugstore later this week.”

  I leaned in for a better look at the photo of my ancestors. “Walter said Louise had a sweet smile in the letter I found, and she does have a nice one.” Louise was standing in profile, smiling up at Brody Kimmel. “I think she’s kinda pretty.”

  “Yes, she is. Brody is not bad, either. He sort of looks like my dad.” Franklin took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.

  Brody and Louise were the only ones smiling in the photo. Olivia was blurry, like she’d gotten impatient and moved. Walter looked like he’d swallowed a bug. “He looks too serious to be a gold thief,” I said. “Did you find anything about it on the Internet?”

  “No. The only thing that came up from a search of Mayhew and gold was a golf tournament in Mayhew, Mississippi. Gold sponsorships are one thousand dollars.”

  “It might just be a rumor, anyway,” Benzer said. “Like Mrs. Hall said.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But remember, Daddy said no one would do business with them.”

  “That’s right,” a voice said from behind us.

  We turned to see Mr. Neely peering over our shoulders.

  He continued, “Emotions were high at the end of the war, a lot of families and friends never spoke again, but Mayhew had a particularly tough time of it.”

  “Because of the gold?” I asked, peering at the brown photograph. “Is that why everyone hated him?”

  “Perhaps. Or it could have been the murder.”

  “Murder,” I squealed. “Who did he kill?”

  Mr. Neely looked at us, a surprised expression on his face. “You’re related to Walter Mayhew, and you don’t know the story?” He rubbed his chin, staring at the photograph. “It was never proven, of course, but some thought he killed that young man there, Brody Kimmel.”

  It was Franklin’s turn to look stunned. “Lou’s ancestor killed mine?”

  “Yes, well, as I said, it was never proven,” Mr. Neely said.

  “This is just wonderful. Not only did my crazy ancestor supposedly steal some gold, but he was a murderer to boot. Why do people even like history?”

  Mr. Neely smiled gently. “Don’t take it so hard. Try to look at it as a puzzle. Your ancestors left you a great mystery to solve.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Hall called it,” I said. “What’s the big question—whether the Mayhew dude was a run-of-the-mill murderer or a serial killer?”

  “No.” Mr. Neely laughed. “I was speaking of the gold. If he did steal it, he did a very good job of hiding it. It’s been well over a hundred fifty years, and the stolen gold has never been found.”

  From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew

  August 1861

  Cousin Olivia has arrived from Knoxville to help, since Mother’s illness has left her confined to her bed and we are all stretched beyond our norm. I am especially glad to have someone my own age in the house. Olivia was firmly against secession, and is quite shocking in her statements regarding the ills of slavery. I trust seeing how much our lives depend on Jeremiah and Dode’s help in the fields, and Molly, Lainey and Singer’s for the housework and cooking will see her properly educated.

  Franklin and Benzer talked excitedly the whole walk home, stopping every now and then to high-five each other on the sidewalk, and chanting, “Stolen gold, never found.”

  Benzer smiled at me. “Lou, this is awesome news. Why are you so quiet?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because my great-great-grandfather killed Franklin’s ancestor?”

  Franklin took off his glasses and wiped the lens against his shirt. “Great-great-GREAT-grandfather,” he corrected. “I admit that was an unfortunate piece of information. But I can hardly hold it against you, Lou.”

  “That’s right,” Benzer said. “And honestly—haven’t you wanted to kill Franklin at least once or twice since you’ve known him?”

  “Benzer!”

  “Seriously, Lou,” Franklin said. “Mr. Neely said people only thought Walter murdered him. It wasn’t proven. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Thanks, Franklin.”

  “But just in case, you don’t have any weapons at your house, do you?”

  “Ha, ha!” I rolled my eyes.

  “Can we get back to what’s really important?” Benzer said. “The lost gold?”

  Franklin laughed. “It is a very exciting development. I think we should make plans on where to go from here.”

  “Isn’t it pretty obvious?” Benzer asked. “I say we find it!”

  “Well, I guess that would show Sally Martin!” I said. “You went on a cruise? Big whoop, we spent the summer figuring out a Civil War mystery and finding gold!”

  Benzer punched me playfully on the shoulder. “See? I knew that Bible was the real deal.”

  “I wish we’d had more time to talk to Mr. Neely,” Franklin said. “Between him and Mrs. Hall, we’d probably learn a lot about what to do next.”

  We crossed the street, jumped the ditch, and stood in front of my house.

  “So what’s first, Franklin?” Benzer asked. “The house or the yard?”

  “I vote for the house,” I said. “If it’s buried in the junkyard, we’ll never find it.”

  “Not without bulldozing the whole thing,” Benzer said.

  “Which the county is planning to do anyway,” I added.

  Franklin stared at us. “That brings up an interesting possibility.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “There are other vacant lots within the city limits. What if Peter Winningham believes the rumors? That could be why he picked your land!”

  “Seriously?” Benzer asked. “That seems like a lot of trouble for a rumor.”

  “They’d get the land either way. I bet Franklin’s right. We have to find it first.”

  “Yeah,” Benzer said. “Let’s start with the house. Maybe Walter stuck it in the attic or something.”

  “I guess.” I wasn’t too hopeful. A lot of construction had been done to the house through the years. “But you’d think someone would have found it by now, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been in every hiding place in the house.”

  “But you weren’t searching for anything before, and now we will be,” Franklin said.

  I looked over at the library. “Let’s start tomorrow. First we should get some of the history books Mrs. Hall was talking about. Maybe there’s a picture of what my house looked like before all of the additions. There’s no use searching a part of the house that wasn’t built yet.”

  Mama and Bertie spent the afternoon painting the baby’s room a bright yellow. It had been a guest room before, and a perfectly acceptable shade of green. “Your father got that green paint from the nursing home,” Mama said. “Babies need stimulating colors.”

  I offered to help, but Mama just laughed. “We still have paint on the ceiling from when you helped us paint the dining room.” I acted insulted, but truthfully, I was glad to get out of the chore. I found a cola from Bertie’s secret stash and went out to the junkyard, where Daddy’s workshop stood. I wasn’t getting a whole new room like the baby, but the box I’d found at the auction would look cool at the end of my bed.

  The familiar smell of oil and sawdust hit me as I opened the door. Rows of assorted machinery lined the floor. A long workbench ran the length of the back wall, covered with tools, old paint cans full of nails, and scraps of wood.

  The box was sitting on the co
unter next to a can of paint remover Daddy had left out. I smiled; he had already removed the hinges for me.

  I opened the window and put on a paper mask. I found a brush, dipped it in the remover, and began covering the box. Even through the mask I could smell the fumes, but the paint began to melt and run off.

  I took a wire brush and worked the remover into the grooves and around the carvings. They were very detailed. Little birds held branches with leaves and vines covered with fruit. On the back, in the middle where all the birds and fruit met, was an oak tree. The only flaw was a tiny wormhole near one of the leaves.

  “You’re still pretty,” I said, admiring it. Daddy always said I got the love for making old things new from him.

  After I locked up the shop, I sat down on a pile of roofing shingles and drained my cola.

  Looking at the top part of my house that was visible over the fence, I tried to imagine what it used to look like. Could there really be gold hidden in there somewhere? The chances of it still being in the house were next to nothing, and if it was outside under the junk, we’d never find it.

  Bertie and Mama had finished painting by the time I got back upstairs, but Bertie had left two pieces of paper on my bed. The sticky note in the corner read Nice historians share their research. For a minute, I thought she was talking about my research, but the papers were copies of genealogy charts, one for each side of the family.

  I looked over Mama’s side briefly, then put it away for later and stared at the one with MAYHEW written across the top. The lowest branch had my name on it. Above that was written Tucker and Lily Mayhew. Since Daddy didn’t have any brothers or sisters, the line went straight up from his name to my grandparents’, John Mayhew and Melissa Stansberry. I followed the lines up through two other generations until I found the name Walter Lowery Mayhew. It was crazy to think that these people once lived right here in this very house. Walter and Louise had walked these halls during the Civil War, the Civil War. I ran my finger across the word Mayhew. No matter what my relatives had or hadn’t done, I was here because of them. If they hadn’t lived, good, bad, or thieving, I wouldn’t be here. It was almost too much to take in.