Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots Read Online Free PDF

ruins. Rumor says she’s Miss Alyssa, only daughter to Tobias Rutfield. It appears the girl took a fancy to their Irish foreman and met him in secret assignations. The young man, who was madly in love with her, understood her father would never approve a match between them.
    “One day, Rutfield told his daughter that he intended for her to marry a neighboring landowner. In defiance, she rode out to find the Irishman, but there was a miscommunication. She waited for him in the mill, where a fire erupted. When her horse returned to the main house unmounted, her father led a search party. They found the girl’s remains in the storage room, where she must have been wedged in by a barrel. Those things were huge, and if one got dislodged, she could easily have been trapped. Finding her locket nearby was the definitive evidence. The Irishman mourned her deeply and left the plantation soon afterward. Supposedly, her spirit searches for him still.”
    “What a romantic story,” Cynthia exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart.
    Marla’s devious mind ran in other directions. “Did they determine how the fire started? Weren’t there slaves around?”
    “It was a Sunday, when everyone attended religious services. Rutfield’s daughter ducked out from the church right after the sermon.”
    “Maybe the young couple had a disagreement, and the Irishman murdered her. Alyssa’s ghost is trying to let people know that’s what happened,” Marla suggested. “Or she set the fire herself, committing suicide because she wouldn’t be forced into an unwanted marriage.”
    Champagne shrugged. “At least she’s a benevolent entity, even if she is unhappy. The other spirits on the property aren’t as tame, but we’ll get to them later.” She led the group forward. “Be careful where you step, now. That rickety wooden barricade shields an old well, and you wouldn’t want to fall in.” Gesturing, she added, ‘There’s one of the cisterns that captured rainwater. Rutfield used an extensive system of water collection, with pipes leading to a storage facility having a capacity of forty thousand gallons. Part of its brick building still stands north of here.”
    Surprised by the complexity of the ruins, Marla surveyed their surroundings. She’d expected a funnel-like single structure similar to ones she’d seen in pictures of the Caribbean Islands. Evidently, this had been a much larger facility. She gazed at a thirty-foot-high chimney that remained mostly intact. A wide gap in its base looked big enough for a person to explore. Not me, thanks , she thought, envisioning vermin inside.
    “You can see remnants from the mill,” Champagne said, pointing to rusted machinery strewn across the uneven stone foundation. “Processing the sugarcane wasn’t easy. It took twelve to eighteen months to harvest, then the stalks had to be crushed. See that old sugar press?”
    She led them under an archway and into the cool interior of a stone structure. Vast pits, lined with coquina shells, sank into the flooring in a long row. ‘The juice was collected in big vats before being sent to the boiling bench in here. These pits used to hold huge kettles, or copper pans called coppers. They were heated by fires fueled by dry cane stalks. As the juice heated, its water content boiled off, and impurities were skimmed from the top. After the juice boiled down, it was ladled into smaller coppers and finally poured into wooden pans. Sugar crystals formed as it cooled.”
    “What was this bell used for?” Joan asked from outside.
    “The clanging bell called slaves in from the fields.” Champagne paused. “A few unfortunate accidents happened, as they will in any industrial setting: slaves who lost their footing slipped and were crushed, or fell into one of the boiling pits. People have said they’ve heard the bell ring when no one else is about, and not a leaf stirs on the trees.”
    Shudders rippled through the group. “How much sugar could this