To Secrets & Sweet Tea

By Jane W Rankin

Sarah and Nick Heart were married in the formal gardens of his centuries-old historic property, and their new life together is everything Sarah had dreamed of. Adding to the fun are the occasional visits from the Rowdy Girls, a band of friends devoted to each other and their horses.

This eclectic sisterhood of six were planning a Friday ni

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winfree Oaks Publishing
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330234608

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Hedgecomb’s Mill

June 1916

Hedgecomb’s Mill had been a Hadley Falls landmark since before the American Revolution. Occupying one full page in the state’s history textbooks, it had a strategic location along the river, where the mill was the battleground of several conflicts. The mill produced premium flour and coarsely ground cornmeal, but became best known for the century-old mystery surrounding a tragic house fire, and the last time anyone had laid eyes on Birdie Hedgecomb.

In the early hours of June 6, 1916, the two-story clapboard house, which rested about fifty yards from the mill and a little ways back from the riverbank, suspiciously burned to the ground. At the time it was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Clayton E. Hedgecomb and their four children, stair-step in age. As the cinders relinquished their final glow, the authorities carefully raked through the charred remains looking for any piece or part of Mrs. Birdie Hedgecomb’s body. The rest of the family had survived, while there was absolutely no trace of her.

When questioned by the police, Clayton offered the theory that perhaps Birdie had lit the match herself and ran out the back door. He added that she had been quite troubled since the death of their youngest daughter Polly just months earlier.

The four brick chimneys and most of the matching foundation were the only things left standing. They served as the outer boundaries for a fourteen-foot-high square pile of rubble.

After several days searching, Clayton, his hands blackened with soot and worn raw from digging, stood in the shade of a towering aromatic magnolia, mopped his brow, and announced, No more! She’s gone and we will leave everything the way it is to serve as a memorial to your beloved mother. He took the hand of his youngest child and the remaining three followed along, climbing into the back of their black Ford Model T pickup truck. With a deep sigh from Clayton, and tears flowing from his children’s eyes as they mourned their mother, they disappeared down River Road veiled in a swirling cloud of summer dust, leaving behind the only life they had ever known.

Mr. Hedgecomb and his gaggle relocated to a house on Burch Street in Hadley Falls. Records reflect that after about a year’s time, and having no leads, the officer in charge of the case marked the box containing what little information there was concerning Birdie as unsolved and filed it alphabetically on a cobwebbed shelf in the catacombs of the Hadley Falls Police Department on Front Street.

Over the next handful of years, three or four weekend fishermen claimed to have seen Birdie just downstream, on the far side of the river. The HFPD did its due diligence, and along with two of Nate Dobbs’ bloodhounds, checked out any and all leads, but there was no evidence of anyone having ever lived within a three-mile radius of that area. Each time there was an alleged sighting, those investigations were put in bold print on the front page of The Hadley Falls Herald, reigniting the fire of gossip that kept the county talking for years—well, actually, even still.

As time passed, supposition had taken a complete 180-degree twist and all town talk shifted in the direction of Clayton. There was not so much as a shred of evidence of wrongdoing, but his behavior reflected guilt in the minds of the town’s citizens. Clayton, a warm and friendly man, had gone from being a deacon of the Presbyterian church and a city councilman to a total recluse. His children did little more than go to school and come directly home. The once prominent Hedgecomb name had drifted beneath a very dark cloud of skepticism.

Clayton never returned to that beautiful piece of property and assigned the day-to-day running of the gristmill to his cousin, but he did not give him the deed. Hedgecomb’s Mill remained operational until the late 1950s. Following Clayton’s death, his will deeded the mill to the town of Hadley Falls. The city aldermen saw no profit in doing anything with the structure, though, so it remained unwanted and unoccupied—that is, until four decades later, when Elizabeth and Ian Peters decided to make it their home.

It took nearly two years to transform the interior of the mill into a habitable, handsome home without comprising the exterior, which included a charming footbridge above the spillway from the working water wheel to their front door. While the construction crew hammered their way through that Herculean undertaking of up-fitting the mill, a waste removal company, complete with backhoe, carried off what remained of the charred pile of debris that was once a home so they could make an outdoor patio on the land.

Archived photos showed that the four chimneys stood two on either side of the house and about ten yards apart, while the walls continued out from there creating four right angles. The second story roof peaked in between and just below the highest point of the four chimneys. Interior photos showed a massive center hall stretching from front to back, and all windows had an identical twin on the other side of the house. This was cross ventilation at its best for the sweltering heat and humidity of Southern summers. Throughout it all, those four brick towers were still standing sentry over the property and sections of the foundation bricks outlined the space.

With Elizabeth’s keen eye for design, she and the landscape architect created a lovely detached patio using the footprint from the former house. The four fireplaces became seasonal planters and the support system for the overhead strings of snowball shaped lights that zigzagged their way across the patio. The remains of the brick foundation were transformed into an eighteen-inch-high decorative wall defining the perimeter. Elizabeth searched far and wide to find matching pavers to create a stunning, herringbone patterned floor. An outdoor, fully equipped, roofed-in kitchen filled the void in the foundation closest to the mill, and a peaceful water feature traveled outside along the opposite wall to a semi-shaded pond with brilliant orange koi.

During this period of reconstruction, Elizabeth Peters, the petite member of our horse-loving sorority, also took on the task of scrapbooking the history of the mill. Her over-the-top efforts resulted in a fascinating chronicle of everything she could find that had any attachment to the Hedgecombs and that piece of property.

CHAPTER ONE

June 2016

The Rowdy Girls had been together for over twenty years, and our sisterhood of six had weathered many a storm and celebrated miles of accomplishments. We were devout horsewomen, and our love of the ride had held us together for over two decades now.

Rose, our member from the other side of the Atlantic, had fallen in love with and married Gus, a Scotsman whose farm sat squarely on forty acres in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. It was wonderfully surprising that we saw our favorite Brit more than we thought we would when she first moved from Hadley Falls. But between horse shows and meeting up for weekend trips to Moss Creek Farm, our girls’ getaway camp, it wasn’t too bad being short one regular member. Rose often came down for special Rowdy Girl dinners and such as well, but it was still a crack in the plaster of our sisterhood.

Margaret owned Maggie’s Alley, a bookstore in the heart of Historic Downtown, and Jennifer was the restauranteur of River’s Bend, which served brunch and lunch and was located just four additional blocks down Front Street. Betsy lived a few miles outside of Hadley Falls, and, along with her husband Frank, owned their own farm.

Four years ago, in January, Nick and I began to plan our wedding in the gardens of Long Leaf Farm, an amazing piece of property that became my home. Living in the country with my horse in the closest pasture was a dream realized.

Nick and I, my two adult daughters, and their spouses had truly galvanized into a strong family dynamic. Emma and Scott had transferred from Providence to nearby Durham, but due to job restraints, their visits could never be consistent. Sidney’s presence was much more frequent. Having ridden horses since she was five years old, she came at least twice a month to take advantage of our farm and horses. Her husband Jacob was our large-animal veterinarian, and, oddly enough, Long Leaf Farm usually fell around lunchtime on his schedule, which perhaps had something to do with the fact that he loved my cooking. Truth be told, it made me very happy to add another plate to the table.

Occasionally the Rowdy Girls would have a sleepover at our farm. Those visits were sometimes the best of all. We could all cook and clean up after ourselves, and no one wanted anything from me. You know as well as I do that when your kids say they just dropped by to visit, one way or another, it’s going to cost you something, be it sleepless nights from their revelation you never knew about or a cash bailout due to some sort of disaster.

We had a Rowdy-Girls-only weekend planned. Everyone would trailer their horses to our farm, about thirty minutes east from Hadley Falls, have dinner, spend the night, and enjoy a riding clinic with our onsite, tough-as-nails trainer the following Saturday morning.

Nick was away for a real estate deal in Pennsylvania, so except for our barn manager, Coy, and Dexter Bentley, our handsome instructor, we had the farm to ourselves. As the hostess, I was responsible for the entrée while everyone else supplied the side items, wine, and dessert.

Elizabeth brought four bottles of wine, a mixed green salad, and her scrapbook.

What’s this? Betsy asked, placing her scrumptious potato casserole on the counter.

Elizabeth smiled while gently stroking the soft leather. It’s the scrapbook history of our mill, and I had forgotten all about it. But yesterday’s morning news reminded me that this year is the century mark for the Hedgecomb’s Mill mystery, so I decided to dig it out of the cabinet. What an interesting read—especially the piece concerning the fire. I thought we might have fun looking at it.

Poor Birdie, Rose sighed with a slight drop of her head.

True, I said, but I always loved teaching Folklore Week at school. My students could paint or draw anything of their choice from the multitude of books and magazine articles documenting sightings and such, from Murphy to Manteo. Since I’ve retired, I don’t know if the school system still offers that celebration, but I can’t imagine that would have been eliminated from the curriculum.

Elizabeth turned to the pages concerning that piece of the mill’s history.

Jennifer said, "Just the other day during lunch, four women who work for The Hadley Falls Herald were talking about the anniversary. Apparently, there’s going to be a five-day special centennial review concerning that unsolved mystery on the front page of the Entertainment section."

It is curious, isn’t it? Margaret said. Every year at this time, my bookstore sells out of the little guidebook with pictures and maps that Lucinda put together for her annual ghost walk tour. I’m guessing she’s going to do that again this year?

I’m sure, Elizabeth answered, but it may no longer include her grand finale, Hedgecomb’s Mill. Last year, they trampled through our flower beds, wrecked the lawn, and left trash everywhere. I had a chat with our local Haint Hostess, and she promised to be more careful, but my husband’s standing firm on his ‘no way in hell’ response to her request.

Betsy shook her head. That’s too bad. The ghost of Birdie Hedgecomb is the draw card for her tour. Lucinda must be devastated. Sarah, you should offer Long Leaf Farm as an alternative. Gladys would be thrilled to be on parade.

Funny! I said in jest. Lucinda would have to write a whole new guide for my very own ghost. But Gladys doesn’t appreciate crowds, and our upstairs apparition is very territorial. Not to mention that Nick, the nonbeliever, would have a conniption! But I do think that story is fascinating; I’m sure Clayton Hedgecomb knew exactly what happened to his dearly departed wife.

Well, Agatha, what do you think happened? Margaret laughed, using their pet name for my crime-solving persona.

I carefully transferred the pieces of chicken cordon bleu to the serving platter. "Elementary—Clayton killed her, but without a body, the authorities just couldn’t prove it. He stashed her body somewhere close by, went back to the house, and lit the match. And how convenient that the fire started in the kitchen nearly eight hours after they had finished dinner.

Once it began to burn in the very back of the house, he collected his children, and they all ran out the front door. There was so much commotion, the four kids said they didn’t notice their mother was missing until they were all outside. When the police arrived, Clayton gave an Academy Award-winning performance, and it was assumed that she was trapped in the house or maybe ran away.

Jennifer straightened her posture. Wow—what an imagination! That could be your next book. Now, dinner’s getting cold—let’s eat.

Hmm . . . I said with a chuckle, "perhaps Murder at Hedgecomb’s Mill."

Taking her seat at the dining room table, Rose quipped, Well, the Rowdy Girls need a great deal more presence in this new book. We barely occupied a cameo in the last one.

I agree, Jennifer said, pulling out her chair. But I love my imaginary character.

Me too, Margaret said, laughing, and imaginary is right. The character loosely based on me seems to never age while I, on the other hand, am falling apart. Next week I have an appointment with the ophthalmologist for new readers, and the dentist for my first crown, sadly not the bedazzled kind.

I challenged her comment. "You are not falling apart, and I promise to give y’all more presence. From a Distance was a reflective story—starting with how Ben and Grace met in their early twenties. Therefore, the Rowdy Girls couldn’t have made their debut until later in the book."

Far later, Rose said, perhaps the last what, eight chapters? But we forgive you. Now Jennifer’s right—let’s eat.

We couldn’t help but conjure up notions as to what really did happen to Birdie. We knew that five years after the fire, Clayton moved his family to a small town west of Atlanta. He explained to anyone who asked that since the low-hanging fog of his assumed guilt apparently had no possibility of lifting, he and his family needed a new start.

I guess we’ll never know, Margaret said. Everyone who might have known anything has surely passed away by now.

I need to share something, but you must all swear never to breathe a word. The quiver in Elizabeth’s voice was equal to that of a tuning fork. We all raised our right hands. It scares me to even think about it, but I’ve heard Birdie screaming every now and again.

What? Jennifer squeaked.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. Yes. Maybe a dozen times over the years we’ve lived there.

Perhaps it was a bird—a peacock or a night owl? They screech, Rose suggested.

Relaxing her shoulders, Elizabeth said, Well yes they do, but this truly sounds like a woman crying out.

Holy cats! I said. We began to clear the table and walked into the kitchen. I’d told them my plan was to eat dessert on the patio. Just out of curiosity, do you know about what time it is when you’ve heard her scream?

Elizabeth took a sip of wine. I do, because it brings me out of a dead sleep. It’s always been right around two in the morning, and the recorded time of the fire was forty-five minutes later. See? She pointed to one of the articles in her scrapbook.

What’d I tell you? I said. Good old brother Clayton killed his bride, stashed her body somewhere, and then set their house ablaze—all of which took around forty-five minutes. But I’ve always wondered where he put her.

If your notion is correct—why do you suppose he killed her? Betsy asked.

Jennifer offered a feasible possibility. The answer to that is almost always money, or someone on the side.

From the police reports, there was no evidence of money being a factor, Elizabeth said, resting the dirty dishes on the kitchen counter. She had life insurance, but not an exorbitant amount.

I pulled out the bottom rack of the dishwasher. Well, that leaves another man, and if her cry wakes you up, she must be near the mill.

Oh, thanks a lot Sarah! What a comforting thought—I’ll sleep better now. Elizabeth glared at me.

Not to worry. Like our Gladys, she means you no harm; she’s just waiting for you to find her, I said with conviction. But seriously, our ghost is much more active when I’m alone in the house. Nick laughs when I share the details of my apparitional encounters, but there’s absolutely no question in my mind concerning her existence. To be perfectly honest, every now and again I even ask her why she’s still hanging around. I’m certain one day it will all be clear—I sense that I’m supposed to find something.

Betsy chuckled. Or be institutionalized, but don’t worry, we’ll come visit you. Sarah, sometimes your cosmic thinking is staggering. Although I must credit you with finding the Mountain Rose necklace.

That’s right, Jennifer agreed, nodding.

I placed the last dinner plate in line with the others and closed the dishwasher door. True, but that necklace belonged to Olivia Cromwell’s mother, whose box of stuff just happened to be in my attic. No, this is about something that once belonged to, or maybe happened to Gladys.

On that note, can we all sleep in the barn tonight? Margaret asked, hanging the damp dishtowel over the edge of the sink. I would prefer to not have Gladys standing over my bed and breathing on me.

I laughed. Don’t be ridiculous; Gladys is very kind. Besides, this house might have a ghost, but the barn has mice, and you’re as horrified of them as I am!

CHAPTER TWO

Following dinner clean up and with bowls of fresh berries and vanilla ice cream in hand, we relocated to the patio. Our conversation transitioned to summer horse camp at Moss Creek Farm in the rolling hills of Virginia. Susan Tillman, owner/trainer extraordinaire, sent us a group text concerning our now ninth-year, third-week-in-June, better-than-chocolate adult summer equestrian getaway.

Three years ago, Margaret and I relocated our two aging horses to Long Leaf Farm. Louie had developed a front right leg issue and needed an easier life, and my treasured Rascal was also showing his age. They died almost two years ago and just six weeks apart. We still couldn’t talk about the boys with dry eyes, but it was getting a touch easier.

Along the way, Margaret had fallen in love with Nick’s horse, Chance, and my husband agreed to lease that beautiful gray gelding to her. Buddy was my new mount, and we had been together for about four years now. Betsy’s farm had a lovely six-stall barn that was home to her horse, Charlie, and a burro named Roosevelt. Elizabeth and Jennifer boarded their horses at a small picture-postcard farmette just outside of Hadley Falls, trailered their mounts together, and were always late for everything. Rose was nervous about pulling a loaded trailer, and her usual go-to transport guy was unavailable, so Betsy offered to drive to Bellomy Farm in Virginia and collect Rose and her horse for the week. Before Rose moved away, we’d all traveled caravan-style together, another tiny crack in the plaster of our sisterhood, but we adjusted.

A week after our girls’ weekend we were headed to camp.

Monday morning, with Margaret at the wheel, we pulled into the parking area of St. Andrews Episcopal Church just on the outskirts of Hadley Falls. Once settled in our traditional meeting place, we opened the trailer windows to allow Buddy and Chance a bit of fresh air and a few carrots.

While waiting for our two tardy friends, Margaret said, Change can be refreshing.

I love that you can find the silver lining of most any dark cloud, I said, with lilt to my voice. I wish I had that gift. I feel us slipping apart.

Margaret nodded. I agree that things have definitely shifted, but we’re still together—slightly fractured, but together.

You’re right—oh, here they come, I said.

After hugs and hellos, we were back on the highway, and our conversation turned to happier things. How hard Susan would work us and the notion of whether she’d dial it back a bit this year. We weren’t getting any younger, and perhaps just a little less difficulty would be good.

You know, if we say a word to Susan about our aging and cutting back, she’ll just make it harder, I said, rolling my eyes.

Margaret nodded. True. Now tell me about your next book tour. When does it start? Are Betsy and I invited to come along again?

I raised my eyebrows at the notion of leaving them out. You know the two of you are always invited to come along. Vera called me yesterday—it’s scheduled for the middle of August, and you’ll love this one. It’s seven cities, and two have more than one site, but the best part is that they are all on the West Coast. I’ve always wanted to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway in a convertible. It’s so romantic, or hair-raising, or both in the movies—I’ll probably have a flat tire!

Margaret couldn’t stop laughing. You’re beyond ridiculous! But I agree—that drive would be extraordinary.

If you can manage those dates, we can both tie scarves around our heads and wear big round Jackie O sunglasses. We’ll be absolutely divine!

Margaret held her chin up high. Yes, we will! I’ll check with Bill and we can nail down dates when we get home. Where does it start and stop? Is Betsy lined up for any part of it?

"Yes, she asked for the first three stops. Remember her twin sister lives in Hawaii? So she’ll fly to Maui for a visit after the signings. We land in Los Angles on August 2, and that metropolitan area is so huge it’s divided into three separate events—thank God for cab drivers. I could never handle all that traffic.

After those three days, hopefully Agnes Anne can man the bookstore so you can fly in. We’ll head north traveling up US 101. I’m particularly excited about the two days in Carmel-by-the-Sea. There’s an annual writer’s festival, and I don’t know how, but my publisher got me on their roster. From there, we continue up the coast for two more stops before San Francisco—San Simeon and Big Sur, which are also ‘events’ as opposed to bookstores. I hope you can do that piece with me?

Sitting up tall behind the steering wheel, Margaret smiled. I can’t think of anything on my calendar that would prevent it.

"When we get to San Francisco, you and I can tour around in the morning, then after lunch, I’ll take you to the airport. Remind me later to write down the dates so you can match all of that to flight times.

Nick’s coming in the next morning and will meet me at the Saint Francis Hotel. The book talk is somewhere close by, but I can’t remember where. Anyway, moving on up through the Napa Valley, there is one in Calistoga, which until now I’d never heard of. I’m very excited about staying at the Solage. It sounds amazing, and there is a wine/artist/writer festival. If we have time, Nick and I will check out their five-star regenerative mud bath and spa.

Margaret smiled. It sounds wonderful, and for horsewomen to pay to be covered in mud is poetic, don’t you think?

It is—we’re always filthy by the end of the day! Perhaps that’s why we look so young. I laughed, certain that it was possible.

That’s right we do, but apparently spa mud will take you to a new level of gorgeous!

At $250 per person, I expect a phenomenal transformation! Anyway, the last stop is Seattle. I have two book talks/signings, and Nick has a business thing, then we’re off to British Columbia for a long weekend. We’ll fly home the following Monday.

Margaret dropped her shoulders. I’m exhausted just hearing about it. And speaking of exhausted—we’re almost at Moss Creek.

Running my fingers through my hair, I rearranged my ponytail. I really do enjoy the book tours. I’m so grateful for my readers and the talks allow me the opportunity to thank them in person. But I’m also very happy to unpack my suitcase and sleep in my own bed again. Oh look, Susan’s had her house painted sage green—how pretty against the stone.

I wonder if she also painted the guest house? I loved that gray, Margaret said.

Betsy and Rose pulled into the barn’s parking area about ten minutes after the four of us arrived and it was Game on! for the sisterhood. Popping her head out of the barn office door, Susan greeted us with a hearty hello and said that we were to be ready to go in forty minutes. Last one in the ring rides extra laps! she shouted.

Like dried leaves in an autumn breeze, we scattered in every direction to put our horses in their stalls, unload tack, and organize their hay and grain. Taking turns using the one and only restroom, we were soon ready to go. With five minutes to spare, Deacon, Susan’s handsome-as-ever barn manager, opened the double metal gates to the indoor arena. Mounted on our spotless horses, the Rowdy Girls walked in two rows of three and stopped in the center of the ring.

I love a team effort, Susan applauded. Now spread out and walk two laps in both directions—Sarah, you lead off.

Moving past Betsy, I whispered, Why, Lord, why am I always first?

Because you’re just that special, she snickered.

We moved out to the walls of the indoor ring.

Looking over my shoulder, I noticed Deacon walking to the center of the ring. Before long, two additional jumps had been placed, creating a diagonal line. One of the jumps was very different from all the others. Instead of the traditional brush or flower boxes at the base of the jump, there were two plastic half sections of a look-a-like whiskey barrel lying on the footing in the middle of the jump. With a ground pole on either side and one dark pole in jump cups above, it was very different in every way.

After the usual forty minutes of groundwork, Susan told us to return to the center of the ring. Now you’ll start at two feet and work your way up in fence height. Everyone will only jump one line at a time. After we finish the pairs, you’ll ride the entire course. Sarah, we’re going to switch things up and start on the diagonal line. Make a hunter’s circle, then canter down the long side and take the two jumps coming home. Remember to go long—don’t cut the corners when you make the turn.

Determined to succeed, I trotted past Betsy, asked my horse for the canter using my outside leg, and Buddy stepped right up to the next gait. Our first jump was perfect, but I could tell he was unsure about the barrel hurdle. With as much lower leg as I had, I squeezed, asking him to move on up. We cleared the jump, but it wasn’t pretty.

Now Sarah, why do you think that happened? Susan asked.

Because he was worried about that jump, I answered. It looks weird—from this angle it looks like a body. Plus, he’s a vodka drinker, I said, laughing, and plastic or not, he knows whiskey is stored in barrels.

With a tone of total sarcasm, Susan asked, Did your horse tell you that?

Yes, he absolutely did. We were nearly sideways over that jump. Let me let him smell it, and he’ll jump right over next trip. After a quick walk to the perplexing obstacle, Buddy snorted and blew out, then softened his head.

The remaining five horses also questioned the whiskey barrels. No one fell off, but no one cleared the jump correctly the first time. By the end of the jumping piece of our lesson, it had become old hat, and all was well.

Before excusing us for the day, Susan said, This was a great lesson. You all rode well, but you also learned something very valuable. You need to put as many unusual, odd, and unknown items in front of your horse as possible. When you go to a competition, there will always be something different. Maybe the standards, or the polls, or even a plastic whiskey barrel, and you don’t get a ‘do over’ to jump the jump. Wait until you see what tomorrow brings. She winked and clapped her hands together.

We all made a disapproving face, but Susan just shook her head. "Camp is supposed to make better riders of all of you. It’s not just five days to run away from home. Dinner’s at seven thirty and Deacon is grilling ribs. You will need to be in the kitchen by six. Betsy, he has insisted that you please make