Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots Read Online Free PDF Page B

place produce?” asked a man in the rear.
    “The presses generated from three to five hundred gallons of juice per hour. The crystallized sugar was put into hogsheads, or barrels, holding up to sixteen hundred pounds each. Did you know a railroad once ran through here? It’s all overgrown now, of course. Take a few minutes and look around, then we’ll move on.”
    Spying Rochelle on her fiancé’s tail, Marla hastened to join him. “Isn’t this amazing?” Marla said, taking his arm in a proprietary gesture. They ducked under the arch to proceed outside. ‘Think how many slaves must have lived and died here. It was hard work, and I’ll bet they operated this place around the clock except for religious holidays.”
    Vail flashed a grin at her, stopping by a rusted wheel that lay on the ground under the shade of a live oak. “I would think you’d be more interested in that romantic story of two lovers. Are these woods spooked at night, do you imagine?”
    “Alyssa is a good ghost, remember?”
    “Not if she’s restless and unhappy. No one really knows how she died. Were her bones found after the fire? Was there any evidence of trauma?”
    “This isn’t a modern forensics case.”
    “I hear folks have seen moving lights out here at night,” said the man who’d asked the question about sugar production. He’d come up behind them, his face florid in the sunshine. “Must be the wraiths of those dead slaves, eh?” He chuckled as though chills running up his spine provided a rush.
    In broad daylight, Marla found it difficult to imagine haunted happenings, at least until they got farther from the crowd. They strolled past an assortment of relics including gear mechanisms from one of the rolling sugar presses, iron kettles, pistons, and enormous vats. She had to keep an eagle eye on her footing because the foundation rose and fell unevenly to different levels, and there were hidden corners with walled arches and unexpected drops.
    “Look at that,” she said to Vail. Set into a crumbling wall was an outdoor oven still fitted with some sort of metallic drum. Holding on to Vail’s arm, she stepped onto a sandy plateau to get a closer view. A smoky scent drifted their way. Creeping roots and Spanish moss from overhanging trees encroached upon the ancient stones, but the wind carried more than a whiff of the past. The air whispered, and if she strained her ears, Marla could almost hear the slaves grunting while they fought heat and hunger during their labors.
    A quiet crowd, absorbing the history, followed the guide about a quarter of a mile through the woods to a section holding slave quarters, where a few tabby cabins still stood. These were essentially one-room dwellings with a chimney at one end and open windows that had been covered by long-rotted shutters. Now they stood vacant, a testament to the past, jungle vines reaching through the openings like beckoning fingers.
    “So, Detective,” said Rochelle, sidling up to them, “do you, like, go around dusting for fingerprints and searching for clues? I mean, let’s say someone gets bumped off. What’s the first thing you do?”
    Marla grimaced. Would Dalton be accosted by curious relatives all weekend? Intending to rescue him, she got sidetracked by Joan prattling on about her daughter’s math prowess and other mundane topics. Too bad Joan’s husband hadn’t been able to come, Marla thought.
    “Will you start a family of your own, now that you’re getting married again?” Joan said to Marla in a sly tone, along with a covert glance.
    “I doubt it,” Marla replied with a cynical twist to her lips. “I already work sixty hours a week in my salon. Even if I had spare time, I’d rather advance my career instead of being stuck at home changing diapers.”
    “Oh yeah? Doing what?”
    “I could become an educator, a platform artist, expand into spa services, or work for one of the major hair-care product companies. Those are only some of the