SUV. An older black gentleman waited near it and was talking with Sam.
The stranger removed his hat as she approached. “Miss Winters?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Herbert Perryman. The volunteer at Mount Locust said I’d find you here. Could I have a word with you?”
She glanced at Sam.
“I think you’ll be interested to hear what he has to say, and I’ll be right over there,” Sam said, pointing where she’d just come from.
Emma turned her attention to the older man with a gentle smile. “What do you want to talk about?”
“It’s about the slave cemetery at Mount Locust and the cabins,” he said, his words slow. “I was Corey Chandler’s client.”
She stared at him. Emma had decided there never had been a client. “The one who was trying to stop the project?”
“Yes.” He twisted the hat in his hands.
“Why?”
“When I was young . . . well, even before I was born, things that got done to black folks got covered up by white folks, and . . .” He stopped to take a breath. “I just want to make sure the truth is told about how the slave conditions were here at Mount Locust.”
“You think I’ll slant my findings in favor of the owners of Mount Locust?”
“I did.” He studied her, his rheumy eyes watering. “But after I read about what happened to you and your folks and your brother, I decided you would be fair. I’m here today because I want to apologize for any problems I might have caused you.”
“Thank you, and I promise you, Mr. Perryman, my findings will reflect whatever is here, good or bad.” She stared at the ground for a minute. Perryman. It all fell into place, and Emma lifted her head. “You’re a direct descendant of one of the families buried here.”
He nodded. “My great-great-grandfather.”
She tilted her head. “How would you like to help me on the project?”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. You could help document what we find. How the slaves lived, what they ate, everything.”
“I’d like that mighty fine, Miss Winters. Mighty fine.”
She offered her hand, and he shook it. “I’ll start the project in three weeks. And call me Emma.”
“I’ll be there.”
He turned and slowly walked to his car.
Emma walked back to Sam, who drew her into his arms. “Are you ready for next week?”
She nodded and then lifted her head. His dark brown eyes captured hers. “Are you?”
“Let me think . . . I have the ring, the pastor lined up, and the honeymoon planned. Yeah, I’d say I’m ready, unless you want to elope tonight.”
Her lips quirked in a smile. “As wonderful as that sounds, our parents would kill us.”
“And my sister too.” He checked his watch. “Isn’t that shower she’s throwing for us in half an hour?”
She gasped. “We better hurry.”
Sam opened her door, but before she slid across the seat, Emma turned once more toward Ryan’s grave. She would miss her brother, but she finally had peace.
Come on! It was almost midnight, and the light in Cora Chamberlain’s bedroom blazed like a neon sign.
He ground his teeth as rain poured from the skies, running off his black slicker.
Tornado watches had been issued for the area, and while those were as common as thunderstorms around Natchez in the springtime, he never remembered a June tornado. Still, it’d be his luck for a tornado to hit the town tonight. Especially since nothing else had gone right, starting with the phone call an hour ago from Miss Cora that had him standing in a copse of woods outside her antebellum home.
“You’ll never believe it, but I discovered more journals—three to be exact!” Even at ninety-two, Miss Cora’s reedy voice had not lost its haughty, imperious tone. “I now have proof that my grandfather Chamberlain was innocent of murder. Do you know what this means, Sonny?”
No one called him by his boyhood nickname except the aging spinster. “Of course I do,” he said. “You’ll be able to clear his name.”
“Yes! My father’s greatest wish was to restore his grandfather’s reputation,” she said. “I do wish I knew where I put that first journal. Then I would have the complete set to publish.”
“That was unfortunate, but maybe one day you’ll find it.” Not happening. Not when it was in his possession.
“Well, you’ll never believe who actually killed Zachariah Elliott, but I think I’ll make you wait until tomorrow to find out,” she said.
It wasn’t the identity of the real killer that had him waiting for her bedroom light to go out. He’d always heard that the