Nobody Knows

Inc.

Ellis and I surveyed the bleak cemetery,

each harboring our own thoughts. I don’t know how long we stood there breathing in the silence. Then, I heard the voice—so clear, so distinct, that I startled and almost fell back. Did my companion hear it, too? I darted a look at him. He stood with eyes closed, evidently completely lost in his own reverie. I held my breath and listened with all my senses on alert. The voice wavered this time, as though trailing away, but its repeated message was identical to the one I had first heard at the overseer’s cottage when the candlestick went missing. I had thought, then, that I heard red apple, which made no sense. Now I understood. Jared Chapel, the voice warned. Yes, its tone was severe. Demanding. Jared Chapel.

I touched Ellis’s arm. It’s here, Ellis. I know it is. And when he blinked uncomprehendingly, I added, You wondered if Jared Chapel offers anything in your search for your ancestry. It’s here—there’s something here. I feel it and I…I know it.

He blinked again, several times, a serious expression on his face. You know because….

Sometimes the past speaks to me. I can’t explain it, but I have to trust the voice that tells me things.

He rubbed his chin. You know…this is odd. Really odd.

I raised my eyebrows in a silent question and he continued. Because I thought I heard something. I definitely felt…felt a presence I can’t explain. Someone trying to get my attention. Someone very, very seriously trying to make me understand. He shook his head. Understand what? I confess, I’m baffled.

It’s a sign, I said.

Praise for Susan Coryell

"Enthusiasts of history and the paranormal, or simply fans of great writing overall, could do no better than to get a hold of Susan Coryell’s latest novels: BENEATH THE STONES, and A RED, RED ROSE. These extraordinary and closely knit stories follow the fortunes of families in a valley community in southwestern Virginia. The time is modern day, but the scope of history reaches back to the years of slavery and the times of the Civil War. The scene is bucolic ‘forests and back roads and foothills’ and Coryell brings her own sense of such places to bear, as threads of history and glimpses of character are brought to light."

~Mark Anderson, Reference Librarian

Nobody Knows

by

Susan Coryell

Overhome Trilogy, Book 3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Nobody Knows

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Susan Coryell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Fantasy Edition, 2016

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1050-3

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1051-0

Overhome Trilogy, Book 3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For my Ohana,

with love and appreciation

Acknowledgments

I owe thanks to many individuals who helped this book evolve in areas beyond my ken.

Olympic equestrian Rick Caldwell offered valuable advice on the grooming of a champion hunter-jumper rider.

Rebecca Felch, an active vet tech, helped me funnel many of her experiences into the actions of vet tech Bryce Parker in NOBODY KNOWS.

Julie Taylor invited me for an afternoon of ghost-busting where I gathered hands-on knowledge of that extraordinary occupation.

Jack Phillips and Karen DeBord, who run their own airport B&B, were generous with their explanations of everything from flying the planes to cooking the breakfasts.

As always, animal communicator Karen Wrigley added her other-worldly insight into my characters and their dilemmas. Beta readers Terry Moscowitz and Shelly Foster were gracious with their suggestions and notations.

Finally, I offer a huge thank you to my daughter, Heidi Coryell Williams, a writer in her own right with a sense of all things literary, who is always willing to read, critique, and advise at every stage of my writing.

For Ned, my ever-patient husband, who encourages me to live and breathe my books while I am composing—I can only say, Thanks for understanding.

Chapter 1

I noticed him immediately. Sliding into a seat in the back row, the man leveled his dark gaze directly at me. His handsome, chiseled features and mocha skin continued to draw my attention, even as dozens of others made their way to chairs and sat quietly, awaiting my speech. Though I recognized some of the folks who had come to my book signing, the enigmatic fellow in the back row was a complete stranger. I must say, he did not look like one of the usual fans of my historical romances, namely, local women. I found myself returning his steady, intent look as I launched into my book talk.

He stayed until the last book had been signed, the last chit-chat completed. Except for the Friends of the Library who scurried around like gerbils putting the room back in order, the stranger and I were left alone. He stood beside me at the podium, tall, rod-straight and when he spoke his voice was deep. Mellow.

Ashby Overton, the author. He handed over my latest book. I’ve read all of your novels. I must say, I appreciate the depth of your research and the accuracy of your historical backgrounds. Would you honor me with your signature?

Certainly, Mr…

My name is Ellis O. Grady.

My pleasure, Mr. O’Grady. I took the outstretched book and opened to the fly page. Before I began to write I asked, Could you please spell your last name? I always check on spelling before I inscribe a book.

He handed me a business card. As you see, my last name is Grady. The O is an initial. People often make that mistake.

I glanced at his card: Ellis O. Grady, PhD—Professor of Sociology…

Mr…Dr. Grady. Oh, I understand. The O stands for…?

Overton. He cleared his throat. A family name. Ellis Overton Grady. You see, Miss Overton, I think we may be related.

For a moment I was speechless. Well, Dr. Grady. That’s certainly interesting. I mean—unforeseen, for sure—but, nonetheless….

Unexpectedly, he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rich chortle. "Shocking is the word I believe you’re looking for."

Actually, that research you noted on my part? Perhaps you might be shocked yourself to know that my research has turned up a bit on race-mixing—especially during slavery times.

His intelligent black eyes glowed. Yes. I’ve learned that myself. He stood thoughtfully silent for a moment. Oral tradition suggests my great-great-great grandfather was an Overton from a Virginia estate where my direct ancestor was a slave. My family has carried the name ever since. He paused. And I recently came across some fascinating information regarding my ancestry which might provide solid evidence of that Overton connection. I would hope you…and your family would be as interested in the information as I am.

So, you’ve come here to look further into your Overton roots?

Could we make an appointment? To talk? I want to know more about the Overton family, and ultimately, details as to my relationship. If there is one.

Though everything about Dr. Grady seemed real, on the up-and-up, I hesitated a moment before responding. Maybe not a good idea to agree to meet a stranger, even in a public place. On the other hand, I did not want to miss an opportunity to learn more about the Overton family—my family.

Why don’t you come to dinner. At Overhome. My uncle, Hal Reynolds, is a historian. I’ll invite him and my Aunt Monica. My parents, too, if you don’t mind. We’d all be interested in hearing what you’ve found.

He nodded. Very gracious of you, Miss Overton.

Call me Ashby. How about this coming Friday night? That will give me time to corral everyone. Will that delay you too long in our parts?

Not at all. I plan to spend most of the summer here in Virginia. I’m doing some writing—the old ‘publish or perish’ for professors, you know. I’m staying at an extended B & B nearby. My wife will remain in Chicago; she’s teaching a summer course at the university.

We’ll expect you at Overhome, then. Around six? Friday night.

He shook my hand. Thank you, Ashby. I will be there. I look forward to sharing my findings with you.

Gathering my notes and my books, I slung my bag over my shoulder. See you then, Dr. Grady. I reached to shake his hand.

Call me Ellis. Please.

Ellis O. Grady moved away with long, lanky strides; my thoughts whirled: Slaves in the family? Oh boy. Once again, we dig into Overhome’s long, conflicted history, looking for family secrets hidden under centuries of Southern life, love and strife. I’d been there before.

A chill crept down my spine. As if plucked by an unseen hand, one of my books fell to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, I noticed a line on the page it opened to: Sometimes even the most fiercely guarded secrets are destined to be revealed.

I shivered. A warning? A promise? Can we ever let our dead lie in peace?

****

As I made my way to the barn and my faithful dappled gray, Sasha, I paused to take in the panorama of Overhome Estate, which I had inherited ten years ago when my Uncle Hunter died. Built before the Revolutionary War, renovated and reconstructed several times, the manor house had been home to Overtons ever since. Now, well over two hundred years old, the estate still stood proud—a testament to the endurance of Virginia history. White clapboards highlighted by black-shuttered windows and a slate roof boasting four chimneys presented a stately presence, while the house settled its wings onto the green bosom of lawn. Situated high on a ridge, the venerable structure held sway over extensive grounds, including a barn, guest house, riding rings and a stone wall built by slaves before the Civil War. Meandering in graceful curves, the wall led eventually to a maze of boxwoods opening onto a chalk-white gazebo, where, five years ago, Luke Murley and I had sealed our wedding vows.

The fact that Overhome Estate was a vibrant, thriving horse farm in our modern, technological age always impressed me. The fact that I lived in this idyllic, historical setting with every loved one in my family within walking distance made my life a dream fulfilled.

Sasha greeted me with his usual welcoming whinny. I stroked his soft neck, murmuring endearments. I know I’ve spent way too much time on my writing, Sasha. I want to make it up to you—all those lost riding hours when I was chained to my computer. My horse snorted his approval.

I led Sasha outside and onto the narrow trail that ran over the back of our property, leading directly to the overseer’s cottage, the official name bestowed by the Historical Society on an ancient outbuilding we’d discovered five years ago.

I approached the overseer’s cottage with, as always, an appreciation of its background. Built in the 1700’s, the limestone house loomed, settled and sedentary. Once dilapidated and covered with kudzu, the structure now stood solid, restored by funding from the Historical Society, still looking every bit its age with scrubbed walls, recessed windows, a metal roof and stone chimney. It was open to the public for tours and my mother, Helen Overton, and my Aunt Monica served as docents there.

The family and I had dealt with strenuous spectral opposition from the moment we’d discovered the ancient dwelling. Though we dealt successfully with our opposition, much unresolved spirit unrest evidently still lingered in the overseer’s cottage. The pre-Civil War overseer who lived there had held a cruel command of slaves, wielding his whip unmercifully. Yes, slavery was long gone, but its hateful legacy surely continued to fester in the spirits inhabiting the overseer’s cottage. Now, the old dwelling was the highlight of the Historical Society’s Ghost Escape tour each Halloween. However, the spirits who dwelled within did not always wait for formal tours to express themselves.

Today, Sasha’s skittish behavior told me that, once again, turmoil boiled deep in the very foundations of the cottage. The air crackled with tension. It was not something I dismissed lightly. Sensing spirit hostility, I wondered if there was a connection with Dr. Grady’s revelation about possible family connections. Slave ancestry was just the sort of thing to stir up the dead of Overhome Estate.

Patting and soothing my twitchy horse, I tied him loosely to the hitching post, then, opened the door to a narrow hall. The rustic overseer’s cottage had been refurbished with a combination of genuine antiques and some high-level reproductions provided by the Historical Society. The entrance fed into a large, restored room, where whitewashed walls flanked rough wooden floor planks. A chunky stone fireplace labored its way from the base to the ceiling, and squared-off wooden furniture stood as if it had not moved in a century and a half.

Ashby! How nice to have a visit. Mom wore a long dress draped over a hoop and her hair was pinned back beneath a white linen bandanna. Her heart-shaped face lifted in a sweet smile that worked its way up to her eyes. She greeted me with a hug. Taking a break from your writing?

I removed my riding helmet and hung it on a wooden peg. You and Sasha both seem pleased with an Ashby sighting. I laughed. I couldn’t wait to tell you who I met at my signing this morning.

Just then my Aunt Monica appeared, dressed in a long cotton calico-print dress, apron and neck scarf, ready to assist Mom as a cottage hostess. What a treat! A daylight visit from our reclusive author. My aunt gave me a warm smile. I always compared Monica to a Greek goddess with her sleek, dark hair, alabaster skin and stately bearing. She managed to appear elegant, even in the rustic period outfit. Both Aunt Monica and my mother had become deeply involved with the local Historical Society since the cottage had been listed on the National Registry of Historic Sites.

My mother turned to Monica. Ashby met an interesting attendee at her signing. So, tell both of us, Ashby. Whom did you meet? What’s so special about her?

I chuckled. That’s the first unusual thing, Mom—Monica. My Person of Interest is a male.

A male who likes romance novels enough to come to your signing? Monica appeared skeptical.

"Historical romance novels. He said he appreciates my research."

Okay, my mother tapped her foot as if impatient. There must be more. Give us the rest of the story, Ashby.

Wait! Monica raised her expressive eyebrows. He wants a movie option! Right? Your romances would be dynamite on the big screen.

I wagged my head and flapped my fingers in front of me. No, no! Let me finish. See, his name is Ellis O. Grady. Dr. Grady, a sociology professor. African American.

My mother and aunt both cocked their heads as if to say…So?

The O in his name is an initial for a family name. I paused to see if they got it but they both remained stone-faced. The O stands for Overton. Dr. Grady thinks he is related to us.

My mother recovered first. "Oh, my. That is something to think on, now isn’t it."

Monica gave a little shrug. I must say, it doesn’t surprise me. Hal has often spoken about how the plantation masters exploited the slave women who labored there. Why would Overhome be an exception?

Of course, my uncle, Hal Reynolds, Monica’s husband, would have knowledge of race-mixing. Hal was a history professor and museum curator. The man was a walking compendium of Southern lore.

I’ve invited Dr. Grady for dinner Friday night. He says he has recently unearthed some information linking his ancestry with ours. I considered the two most important women in my life, weighing my words. Mariana is working on a nice menu. I hope you both can be there and bring your men along, too. I think Dr. Grady may have a story we can all relate to.

I suppose you don’t really know at this point…. Mom trailed off.

We’ll gather the family around our ancestral dining table where we’ll all have the same chance to…to… I searched for the right words.

Continue the saga? Mom’s expressive face lit up once again. I never cease to be amazed at what the past continues to reveal at Overhome.

Looks like you’ve had a good dose of the Historical Society, Mom, I laughed. I guess Friday night we’ll find out. I turned to leave. Now, Sasha and I are planning to spend the rest of the day on the riding trail.

As I grabbed my riding helmet, Monica spoke in a dismayed voice. Helen—where is…what happened to…? My aunt’s eyes darted around the entryway and she turned a full circle. She began rummaging around the artifacts atop the oak chest and small tables placed around the walls, opening drawers and looking behind the furniture. The pewter candlestick. It’s always right here on the chest. She tapped her slim fingers on the now empty space.

Mom pulled back in surprise. My goodness, Monica. I hadn’t noticed, what with everything going on this morning. That school tour and then the Ladies of the Lake showing up unannounced…all in the space of a few hours. She appeared distracted. I can’t remember if the candlestick was there before the last tour or not.

My mother and aunt stared at one another in puzzled silence. They were extremely careful, fastidious to a point about keeping order in the historic cottage. Sometimes articles were misplaced, but I don’t think I ever heard of one going missing for any length of time. I’m going to do a thorough search of the other rooms, Monica said. Wouldn’t you know the candlestick is a genuine antique.

The short candle holder? The one with those little images dancing around the edge? I pointed to the chest where I remembered it rested. Didn’t Hal’s museum determine it was, like, one of a kind or something? Hand-made?

That’s the one, all right. Mom gave me a gentle push. Oh, go take your ride, Ashby. You deserve it. Monica and I will figure this out. She glanced at the oak chest. It’s certainly a mystery to me.

One step from the door I heard a buzzing in my inner ear. Hairs on the back of my neck bristled and I froze as a cold chill traveled straight down my spine. Then, a voice: "Apple. the sound barely registered. Red apple." Perhaps not the exact words, blurred as they were, but something akin to that: red apple. Though the effects lasted only seconds, and neither Monica nor my mother had detected my startled demeanor, I knew this was not to be shaken off. It had something to do with the missing candlestick, no doubt; I had the feeling Mom and Monica could search all day without finding the relic. It had not been filched by a mischievous schoolboy or misplaced by another worker. The message made no sense, yet I suspected the source, and I knew what it likely meant. Some intangible entity had removed the object—tried to convey its message to me, knowing I would search it out.

****

I lay, propped up comfortably in our four-poster as I waited for Luke’s return from his weekly night class at Tech. Despite