But what now?
An idea rose from deep in my past. The favorite refuge of a worried or restless little girl. It couldn't hurt, and I might uncover something useful.
And for a few hours, at least I would be anonymous and inaccessible.
Following toast and Frosted Flakes, I drove to the Marianna Black Public Library, a one-story redbrick box at the corner of Everett and Academy. Cardboard skeletons flanked the entrance, each with a book held in its hands.
A tall, spindly black man displaying several gold teeth occupied a counter at the main entrance. An older woman worked beside him, securing a chain of orange pumpkins above their heads. Both turned when I entered.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning.” The man showed a mile of precious metal. His lilac-haired companion eyed me suspiciously.
“I'd like to look at back issues of the local paper.” I smiled disarmingly.
“The
“Yes.”
“How far back?”
“Do you have material from the thirties and forties?”
Her frown deepened. “The collection begins in 1895. It was the
“Microfilm will be fine.”
Mr. Librarian began opening and stacking books. I noticed that his nails were buffed, his clothes immaculate.
“The viewer is in the overflow room, beside the genealogy section. You may only have one box at a time.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Librarian opened one of two metal cabinets behind the counter and withdrew a small gray box. “I'd better explain the machine.”
“Please, you mustn't bother. I'll be fine. I'm familiar with micro-film viewers.”
I read her expression as she handed me the microfilm. A civilian loose in the stacks. It was her worst nightmare.
Settling at the machine, I checked the box's label:
An image of Primrose flashed into my mind, and tears blurred my vision.
Stop. No grieving.
But why was I here? What was my objective? Did I have one, or was I merely hiding out?
No. I had a goal.
I was still convinced that the courtyard property lay at the center of my problems, and wanted to learn more about who had been associated with it. Arthur had told me he'd sold his land to one Prentice Dashwood. But beyond that, and the names on McMahon's fax, I was unsure what I was looking for.
In truth, I held little hope of finding anything helpful but had run out of ideas. And I had to do something about the charges against me. I couldn't return to Charlotte until my car was repaired, and I was barred from any other form of inquiry. What the hell. History should teach something.
A poster had decorated Pete's office during his stint in uniform, guiding words embraced by JAG attorneys uncommitted to the military system:
If the maxim was good enough for officer-lawyers of the United States Marine Corps, it seemed good enough for me. I'd look for everything.
I inserted the film and wound it through the viewer. The machine was a hand-crank model, probably manufactured before the Wright brothers went flying at Kitty Hawk. Text and pictures swam in and out of focus. Within minutes I felt a headache begin to organize.
I flicked through spool after spool, making trip after trip to the front desk. By the late 1940s, Mrs. Librarian relented and allowed me a half dozen boxes at a time.
I skimmed over charity events, car washes, church socials, and local dramas. The crime was mostly petty, involving traffic offenses, drunk and disorderly, missing property, and vandalism. Births, deaths, and weddings were announced, garage and barn sales advertised.
The war had claimed a large number from Swain County. From '42 to '45 the pages were filled with their names and photos. Each death was a feature story.
Some citizens did manage to die in their beds. In December of 1943, the passing of Henry Arlen Preston was front-page news. Preston had been a lifelong resident of Swain County, an attorney, a judge, and part-time journalist. His career was recounted in radiant detail, the highlights being a term in Raleigh as a state senator, and the publication of a two-volume work on the birds of western North Carolina. Preston died at the age of eighty- nine, leaving behind a widow, four children, fourteen grandchildren, and twenty-three great-grandchildren.
The week following Preston's death, the
