Grave Heritage by Blanche Day Manos

Author:Blanche Day Manos [Manos, Blanche Day]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781683130321
Publisher: Pen-L Publishing
Published: 2016-09-18T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

As I parked in front of our house, my first thought was that the zinnias had recovered nicely since Trace had driven his motorcycle through. That day seemed like such a long time ago.

My mother and I walked up to the familiar porch, climbed the steps, and rapped on the front door. I knocked a second time, more loudly, and a third.

“He isn’t home,” Mom said.

“Try the key,” I said.

But as Mom grasped the doorknob, the door opened. The house had not been locked.

“Reverend Hughes!” I called, stepping inside. “Darcy Campbell and Flora Tucker here.”

My voice echoed through the rooms. The kitchen looked bare and unused. I suspected Trace ate most of his meals at Dilly’s.

We searched through all the downstairs then climbed to the second floor.

“Trace, are you here?” I yelled, not wanting to embarrass him, or us, by walking in on him if he was in the bathroom or taking a nap.

The upstairs rooms were warm, as if the air conditioner had not been running on this summer day. And although Mom and I knocked on every door, opened them, and looked through the rooms, we found no trace of the pastor of the First Baptist Church of Levi.

In his bedroom, Trace’s guitar hung on a stand he had screwed into the wall. Several sheets of manuscript paper lay on his desk. I looked them over. Songs! If Trace was writing a book, as Pat said, it was a book which included some of his original music.

“I don’t think he has taken a suitcase or packed any clothes.” Mom’s voice was muffled inside the master bedroom closet.

“No, it looks as if he just walked out and left his guitar behind,” I said. “He’s so fond of that guitar, seems to me he wouldn’t have left it behind. I didn’t see his motorcycle outside, but let’s check the garage as we leave.”

“And lock the house,” Mom said. “We sure don’t want some vagrant or whoever murdered poor Walter to walk in and make himself at home.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, propped my elbows on my knees, and rested my chin on my hands.

“Mom, what do we do?” I moaned. “Should I give this guitar pick to Grant? Should I tell him that Trace Hughes is not at home and it doesn’t look as if he has been here all day? I just can’t believe he would disappear like this without leaving word for anybody.”

Mom sat down beside me. “I’m sure there is a good, sound reason he isn’t here. Maybe he was called away because of an emergency back home in Georgia. We mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

Sighing, I stood up. The room was growing dark, and for the first time in my life, the late afternoon shadows in my childhood home seemed menacing.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Maybe after supper, we’ll think of what we should do.”

“When we’re hungry or worried or don’t feel well, we don’t make good decisions. Let’s eat supper and pray about it.

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