Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Jackson County Visitor Center
Mary Lou
The bell over the door jingled as Burke Scott stepped into the Visitor Center.
Mary Lou stood behind the counter helping a young family plan a weekend.
“If you’ve only got two days, don’t try to see every waterfall in Western North Carolina,” she said. “You’ll spend more time in the truck than outside it.”
The husband laughed. “Probably true.”
“It is true.” Mary Lou handed him a map. “Pick three. Enjoy those. Then come back and see us again.”
The family thanked her and wandered toward a rack of brochures.
Her face brightened. “Well, look what wandered in.”
“Morning, Mary Lou.”
“What brings you here?” She narrowed her eyes. “You finally taking one of my brochures?”
“When have I ever taken a brochure?”
“Never.”
“Exactly.”
“Fair point.” She gathered a stack of maps. “You want coffee?”
“Always.”
“Good answer.”
A few minutes later, she joined him at a small table near the back, carrying two foam cups. Overhead, an aging fluorescent fixture hummed above stacks of trail guides and park maps.
“What?”
Burke wrapped his hands around the coffee. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“About?”
“Anne and Mabel. Their relationship.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s reaching back a ways.”
“Mabel too,” he added quietly.
The smile faded. “What happened?”
“The autopsy came back,” Burke said.
Mary Lou frowned. “The autopsy?”
"On Mabel," Burke said.
"I'm surprised they even did one. I told my daughter, if I go, don't let anybody do one of those on me. Bury me and let me rest." The corner of her mouth twitched, but the smile faded when Burke didn't answer. “What?”
Burke set down his coffee. “She didn’t die from natural causes.”
Mary Lou blinked. “What do you mean?”
Burke waited, but the realization didn’t come.
“Mary Lou...” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I don’t really know how to say this without just saying it.”
Burke wished there were an easier way to say it.
“Mabel was killed.”
For a second nothing happened.
Then the brochures slid from Mary Lou’s lap and scattered across the floor.
“No.” The word came out thin. Her eyes widened. “Mabel?”
Burke nodded.
The color drained from her face. One hand rose to cover her mouth. “Oh my God. But I thought she had a heart attack...”
“So did everyone else.”
Mary Lou lowered her eyes. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter.
“Oh Lord, I can’t believe this, Burke.”
Neither spoke. The silence stretched.
Then Mary Lou shook her head. “First Sara Parker gets taken. Then that SBI agent. Then all the mess with Danny McCall and that poor girl. And now Mabel? What in the world is happening to this town?”
Burke didn’t have an answer. Finally he said, “I need history. About Anne and Mabel.”
Mary Lou let out a breath. “You picked yourself a tangle.”
She smiled faintly. “I went to school with them, you know. Mabel was a year ahead of me. Anne was in my grade.”
“You all grew up together?” Burke’s pen hovered over his notebook.
“K–12 and then some.” A hint of fondness softened her face. “People talk now like they were always at each other’s throats. That’s the story folks like to tell.”
She shook her head. “They fussed some, sure. Sisters do. Anne could get under Mabel’s skin faster than anybody. But let somebody else say a word about one of them, and the other was ready to whip you in the parking lot. They were on the same side. Always.
“They were best friends.”
The answer came without hesitation. “Not just sisters. Best friends. You know how some people spend their whole lives looking for their person? Those two started out with theirs.”
Silence settled between them.
“What changed?” Burke asked.
“Harold Blackwood happened.”
A faint smile touched Mary Lou’s face. “Everybody knew Harold Blackwood only had eyes for Mabel.”
Burke looked up. “Everybody?”
Mary Lou laughed. “Honey, that boy followed her around like a lost puppy. If Mabel was working the concession stand at the fair, Harold suddenly needed three hot dogs.” She shook her head. “Everybody figured sooner or later he’d finally work up the nerve to ask Mabel to go steady.”
"They were inseparable for years after school. Everybody thought it was only a matter of time before Harold and Mabel married."
"Then something changed?” Burke asked.
Mary Lou nodded slowly. "That's when it seemed like Anne suddenly took an interest in Harold."
Mary Lou stared into her coffee. “I don’t know if she meant to. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. But Anne noticed when somebody else was getting the attention.”
The statement hung there.
“I think Anne finally realized Harold wasn’t looking at her.”
“And?” Burke asked.
Mary Lou sighed. “And suddenly Harold Blackwood became very interesting.”
Burke’s pen moved across the page. “You think she went after him because of Mabel?”
Mary Lou shrugged. “I think Anne liked being chosen. And Harold had already chosen.”
“And Harold?” Burke asked.
“I think Harold was young.” She stirred her coffee. “Young and trying to figure out what kind of man he was going to be.”
Burke scribbled that down.
“If they were that close, why did they stop speaking?” he asked.
Mary Lou stared into her cup. “That’s the question, isn’t it? For thirty years folks have been trying to answer it.”
“The easy answer is Harold.”
“And the hard answer?”
“I don’t know if there is one.” She hesitated.
"I think Anne spent her whole life wanting what Mabel had."
"You really believe that?" Burke asked.
Mary Lou nodded. "I don't think she ever set out to destroy anybody. I think she spent her life chasing someone else's happiness instead of building her own."
She looked down into her coffee. "People always want a villain. But sometimes everybody's hurting, and nobody knows how to fix it."
Burke closed his notebook.
He'd spent twenty-five years looking for villains.
Sometimes Mary Lou was right.
“What about Harold?” Burke asked.
“Maybe he was the spark.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he was standing there when the fire started.”
“Did they ever try to make up?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard.
“Oh, I think they wanted to.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because neither one of them could stop talking about the other.” She shook her head. “Thirty years later and they were still at it. Mabel would complain about Anne for twenty minutes, then spend the next ten wondering if she was happy.”
Burke thought about Bennett saying nearly the same thing.
“What about Anne?”
“I only saw her a handful of times after she left,” Mary Lou said. “But every single time somebody mentioned Mabel...”
“What?”
“She always wanted to know.”
Burke closed his notebook. “What about Walter?”
“Oh honey.” A faint smile appeared. “Poor Walter.”
“What about him?”
“That man was sweet on Anne since high school.”
Mary Lou sighed. “Anne used that. Walter was always there. Always helping. Always showing up. But he wasn't Harold.”
“He took it hard when she left?” Burke asked.
“I think so.” Mary Lou nodded. “Walter’s the kind of man who loves quietly.”
Burke looked down at his notes.
Anne.
Mabel.
Harold.
Walter.
Thirty years of history. Thirty years of wounds. And somewhere in the middle of it, a dead woman.
Mary Lou looked at him. “Be careful with Aubrey.”
Burke glanced up. “Why?”
“Because everybody in this town is going to hand her their version of what happened.” Mary Lou folded her hands. “Anne’s version. Mabel’s version. Walter’s version. That poor girl inherited a lot more than a winery.”
Burke rose. “Thank you, Mary Lou.”
She nodded, then looked down at her coffee. “I still can’t believe somebody killed Mabel.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Burke headed for the door.
The bell jingled behind him.
As he stepped onto Main Street, he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had happened to Mabel Blackwood hadn’t started with a will. It had started decades earlier.