Part 8 (1/2)
”When was the last time you were at the Carlisle place?”
He retrieved his iPhone, punched some more b.u.t.tons, and said, ”Two weeks ago. I went out there with Luther. We checked a couple of low places for a lake. Waterfront is where the money is in development. We found a couple of potential places, did some soil samples, then we left.”
”Did you see anything unusual?”
”Tallest stand of cotton I've ever seen for this time of year, and an empty house that's going to have to be bulldozed.”
”Why?” I asked. ”The Carlisle House is historic. Surely someone would want to live there.” I hadn't been there in years, but I remembered it as a beautiful, raised plantation house with a curved, double set of steps used for many a Zinnia High School annual photograph.
”Historic, haunted, and out of style. Folks want gla.s.s, more width and less height, and modern conveniences. Those old houses, heck, by the time you repair the central air and heat, the electrical systems, the plumbing, it's just easier to raze them and start from scratch. Cheaper, too.”
My opinions weren't important, so I tamped them down. I kept a calm face and listened to a man who had no sense of history. ”Where are you from, Mr. Janks?”
”Call me Jimmy. We're an old Mobile family. Born under an azalea bush and all of that.” He waved it away with disdain.
Child of privilege, a notch above the ”ent.i.tled” generation. ”How'd you end up in the Delta?”
”Made some friends in college. Toke Lambert, Haney Thompson.” His grin was boyish. ”Those guys know how to party. Anyway, I came up here to dove hunt with them on some of their family land, and I realized this area was perfect to develop.”
I knew the men. Sons of Buddy Clubbers, who'd inherited their land and never struggled a day to claim it or work it.
”When you were at the Carlisle place, you didn't see anything out of the ordinary?”
”Nice stand of cotton. Nothing else.”
Janks wasn't a farmer, so he wouldn't appreciate the extraordinary maturity of the cotton. ”And you didn't feel sick?”
He laughed. ”I don't have time to feel sick. I've got irons in the fire.”
”There's some thought that the illness that struck down Oscar Richmond and the others came from the Carlisle place.”
He leaned back in his chair. ”That's a troubling idea.”
”Would it affect your plans for the land?”
”I don't think so. I mean, the development we've mapped out will take at least a year to initiate. At least three to finish. By then, all of this will be cleared up.”
”Has anyone else shown an interest in the land?”
”Not to my knowledge, but Luther would be the one to ask about that. When you do, tell him he'd better not be plotting a double-cross.” He laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes.
”Thank you for your time, Mr. Janks.”
”Not a problem. Ms. Delaney, this area is growing. Like it or not, the human animal demands forward progress. We're like sharks. If we aren't swimming forward, we'll die. Keep in mind, I'm not as bad as some developers.”
”I'll take that into consideration.” I walked out. Janks might not be worse than others, but the end result was still the death of a way of life and a land I loved.
When I settled into the driver's seat, the car was hot and I was overcome with a lethargy that made me want to close my eyes and rest a moment.
I knew what was happening--I was trying to hide from the events unfolding around me. Illness, development, worry for my friends. The hot sun and the smell of clean leather were lulling. If I could just close my eyes for fifteen minutes . . .
A car horn tooted beside me. Cece sat behind the wheel of her s.e.xy new hybrid. Her window went down, and she signaled for me to do the same. ”Taking up martial arts?” she asked.
”Interviewing Jimmy Janks.”
His office door opened, and Janks walked out and around the building to the side.
”Is that Janks?” Cece asked.
I recognized the predatory tone in her voice and reconsidered Janks. He was tall, well built, and good-looking in a deliberate kind of way. Not someone I would normally think of as fitting Cece's taste, but what did I know?
”That's him.” In a moment he drove around the building in a big Tahoe with ”Janks Development” written on its side.
”He might be an interesting subject for a profile in the paper,” Cece said. ”I'll find out what his plans are really all about.”
”Just an excuse for you to find out about him.” I wasn't fooled by Cece's sudden journalistic ambitions.
”One of the perks of my job, dahling.”
Cece made me smile, and that was certainly welcome. ”Where are you headed?” I asked.
”Back to the newspaper. I saw your car and wanted to be sure you were okay. It looked like you'd fallen asleep behind the wheel.”
”Resting my eyes. Mind if I join you at the paper?”
”Not at all. Research?”
She knew me too well. ”I want to dig up the story of the Carlisles.”
”I'll help.” She backed up and took off, and I followed. For a hybrid, her little car had pep.
The newspaper office was contained bedlam. Most Delta papers had been bought by large chains, but the Zinnia Dispatch was still locally owned. The news stories focused squarely on Sunflower County, with minimal regional and national copy coming off the wire. With all the emphasis on local reporting, the paper, through the decades, was an invaluable source of history.
While Cece busied herself setting up an interview with Jimmy Janks, I went to the stacks and began pulling newspapers. I had a general idea of when Mrs. Carlisle died, based on Erin's age and my years in high school.
I found the front-page story without difficulty, then sat down on a stool to read.
Lana Carlisle, the former Lana Entrekin, of West Point, Mississippi, was considered one of the state's outstanding beauties. West Point isn't part of the Delta but is situated in the northeast part of the state in what's known as the Black Prairie, another area with exceptional soil. The prairie lent itself to ranching more than cotton. Lana served the region well, capturing the t.i.tle of Miss Mississippi during a time of strife for the nation and the South.
Though she didn't win the t.i.tle of Miss America, Lana had been first runner-up. In 1974, she put beauty pageants and the possibility of becoming a concert pianist behind her to marry Gregory Carlisle. The wedding, which united the powerful Carlisle family with talent and beauty, was big society news.
I leafed through page after page of fetes, soirees, showers, luncheons, shopping trips to New Orleans and Memphis, menus, details on dress designs and lace, and charming moments of a ”royal” courts.h.i.+p. Reading the stories, I thought of the fairy tale wedding of Princess Diana and Prince Charles. In 1974 Mississippi, this was as close to the Cinderella story as one could get--Delta royalty finding a princess.
After the wedding, which made headlines in Memphis and Atlanta, Lana settled into the Carlisle estate.
Had she found the lull of farming in a flat, fertile landscape boring, or had her roots. .h.i.t the black soil called ”gumbo” and taken a firm grip?