Signs Follow on the Chesapeake

By H. Rogers Clark

While Arlo Hamilton helplessly proclaims his innocence on Death Row, his family is systematically murdered. Bill Grogan, an African American detective appointed by the Governor, searches through an underworld of voodoo and snake handlers to find the true killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thesaurus Ink
• Release date: Mar 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311397560

H. Rogers Clark

H. Rogers Clark does not exist. The name is a pseudonym. The author lived in Manhattan and worked at 60 Wall Street during the writing of this novel. A true Wall Street insider, he was a Director at a major financial services firm headquartered in New York City. His other works include AROUSAL JAG and SIGNS FOLLOW ON THE CHESAPEAKE.

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Signs Follow on the Chesapeake

By H. Rogers Clark

Published by Thesaurus Ink at Smashwords.

Copyright 2014 © by Thesaurus Ink. All rights reserved.

First Edition, March 2014

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, incidents, actions and places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or deceased, is coincidental. All fictitious characters are consenting adults.

Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

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Book I: In the Shade of the House

The whole world will be consumed by the fire of my jealous rage, saith the Lord.

Zephaniah 3:8

CHAPTER 1

In the shade of the house, Ma Frances sat, growing angrier with each passing car. All day, the BMWs, Mercedes, and Cadillacs drove past her little shack. They looked at her, at her white hair and dark black skin, at the wrinkles circling her face, and surely they judged her. But she wondered if they knew.

Of course, they saw the dusty, blue window shutters, the goats tied to the tree, and the chickens pecking at the sandy grass. Perhaps they even noticed the white flag flying on the lightning rod above the shack. But did they know? Did the outsiders know?

Ma Frances only wondered about the outsiders. The county folk knew what she did, but in the Northampton County of Virginia they do not mention such things. A lot of outsiders were coming in today, in their fancy cars, with their fancy lives, for the wedding of Emma Clark and S. Thadeus Hart. It was the social event of the season for this section of the Chesapeake Bay, the Old Virginia peninsula, which juts down like a solitary pointed finger, connected at the top to Maryland, but mostly cut-off from the world.

But Ma Frances was not invited to the wedding. She had worked for Mrs. Clark, Emma’s mother, for over thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of service, rising up to head maid of the household, seeing Emma born and watching her grow, but not invited to her wedding.

Captain Pollard, Frances’ husband, sat beside her in silence, rocking his chair back and forth, as the sun beat down on his black skin. He knew. He knew all those thoughts circling his wife’s head, as he had always known. He was beyond her in years.

Just let it be, he said.

At least they’re not driving the big Jeeps, she said. Them military things.

Hummers, Captain Pollard said.

Ma Frances nodded. And then, in a moment sent from the spirits beyond her, four gigantic Hummers tore down the dirt road, kicking up as much dust as possible and sending it toward her porch.

Must be Mr. Thad’s fraternity brothers, Captain Pollard said with a laugh.

No. That’s the Governor, Ma Frances said.

But now she knew what she had to do. She had seen the sign and knew enough to follow it. She stormed inside to put on her Sunday best. She was going to the wedding, even if it meant her job.

A half-hour later, Ma Frances stomped down the gravel road, a path she had traveled thousands of times over her life, but never as angry as today. She passed her neighbors, most of them sitting outside shading themselves from the heat under their trees, but she never raised her head or waved.

The fancy cars rolled by her, kicking up dust which she tried her best to side-step. But she failed. So when she finally came to the gates marking the Clark House, she was covered in road-dirt. One more step, however, and she would be on pavement.

The Clark House sat at the end of the road, on the bay itself. One of the ironies of life on Northampton was that the water properties, which were the expensive trophy properties of the county, always sat at the end of an unpaved road dotted with landlocked poor shacks.

The Clark House was no different. It was marked by two large gates, which opened into a paved road and a perfectly manicured lawn. Today, that lawn disgusted Ma Frances. She lived with the crabgrass all her life, as did everyone on this street, except the Clarks. And she knew what they paid for it. What they paid so today would be perfect. Perfect lawn. Perfect gardens. Perfect guests. Perfect waterfront property. No Ma Frances.

She stormed past the valets around the side of the house, toward the backyard, where the wedding was in full swing. She was so furious, she did not see Mrs. Clark talking with a few of the guests. But Mrs. Clark saw her.

Frances, Mrs. Clark said. Where have you been?

Ma Frances stopped dead in her tracks.

We’ve been worried sick. Are you okay, Mrs. Clark said.

I, uhm, yes Ma’am, was all Frances could muster.

Well, did something happen? We’ve been looking all over for you, Mrs. Clark said. Emma’s been dying to see you.

Uhm, Captain Pollard had a fall, Frances said. But he’s fine now.

Well come on around back, Mrs. Clark said. Emma’s been waiting.

As Mrs. Clark led her around back, Frances caught her breath and regained her composure and felt like a fool for not realizing she was invited. But then, a shred of doubt crept into her mind.

Bill Grogan was there too, albeit grudgingly. He was assigned to the Governor’s security detail. He knew these were fluff assignments, but that did not bother him too much. Grogan knew the fluff would help him advance in his career.

What bothered him was that his girlfriend, Jen Web, was also at the wedding with the Governor’s team. Jen was from Northhampton County, and the Governor loved local knowledge, so she was shifted onto his detail for this trip. It did not bother Grogan that he was breaking the no interoffice dating rule. He was not telling anyone. What bothered him was the inevitable wedding discussion.

For weeks leading up to the wedding, and for what he was sure would be weeks after the wedding, Jen pestered Grogan with wedding talk.

When are we going to get married, she said, and then devolved into a series of where, when, how, what, when and when?

Grogan dodged the questions, but knew he would have to face them soon enough. He knew all the talk was her way of trying to get him to come to terms with it. But she was white and he was black and that mattered. It mattered to him, or at least he used it as his excuse in his mind.

So Grogan tried to put that out of his mind as he scanned the crowd. He thought about taking out an old boat, going into the middle of the bay, and fishing alone for a few hours. He longed for that, to be alone in the bay, but forced himself to refocus on the job. He scanned the crowd, and almost laughed out loud when he saw what was going on behind the bar.

A waiter was sneaking drinks. Arlo Hamilton, the lone white servant at the wedding, sweat in his rented tuxedo as he tugged at the constricting collar and shot whiskey.

Arlo had known Emma all his life, but you could not say they were friends. The Hamiltons had been in Northampton County longer than the Clarks, though they were no better off for it. The Clark family got their start from a land grant for service during the Revolutionary War.

The Hamiltons were on the wrong side of that war. Not that people held that against them, but sometimes when you start life on the wrong side it is hard to get to the land of milk and honey.

The Hamilton’s were poor, and spent their days working the crab boats or the fields or for the rich folks in the big houses on the water. And Arlo was much more comfortable hanging out with his friend TC, Ma Frances’ son, than Emma.

So he persevered, serving the guests of the Clarks. He needed the paycheck and appreciated the free drinks, even though Clarks might not have appreciated giving them to him.

I ain’t believing they didn’t invite Ma, TC said, breaking Arlo out of his thoughts. That just ain’t right.

Arlo nodded and they went silently about their work, restocking the bar, serving drinks, and deferring their eyes when any guests stumbled over.

They made an interesting duo in these parts, Arlo and TC. Arlo was a scrawny, straggly, malnourished, white kid. TC was a coal-black, hulking beast of a young man. But no one paid much attention to them. Who does really pay attention to the poor, after all? That is, until TC started dating Arlo’s sister, Ebeth.

But there would be no talk of that ugliness today. Today, they were working for their paycheck, which made them invisible to everyone but Grogan, who continued to scan the crowd.

I see you, ignorin’ me, an old man said behind him. I don’t appreciate it.

In truth, Grogan had seen the old man and was ignoring him. But the old man’s voice immediately sent a twinge of anger up his spine, forcing Grogan to clinch his fist.

Hello Pa, Grogan said, turning to see the old man, in a rented tuxedo, bussing a table.

I ain’t causing no trouble, the old man said. I wanna keep this job. But I ain’t your Pa. You gonna ignore me, you gonna get it. No need to pretend no more.

Nothing Grogan’s Pa did surprised Grogan, not when he came home drunk and violent, not when he asked for money, not when he disappeared for eighteen years.

I figured that out, Grogan said, lying, clinching his fist harder, digging his fingernails into his palm.

Well you was always a smartie, the old man said. Guess lookin’ at that face everyday, color of your skin, told you that.

I got to get back to work, Grogan said, turning, fighting the urge to hit the old man.

Bye Irish, the old man said with a sarcastic laugh.

Grogan slowly peeled his fingers out of his palm as he pretended to scan the crowd. He wanted to jump out of his skin, strangle the old man and be done with it, once and for all. He knew he did not look like his Pa, but he didn’t like to hear it, because he always heard it as a kid, until he left Hampton Roads.

Grogan took a few deep breaths to steady himself, but then his investigator’s mind took over. His Pa was detached growing up, but they all were. His Pa was not around that much, just like his neighbors’ fathers. His Pa whipped him, sometimes more than he deserved, but never for nothing. Grogan hated the old man for disappearing, but that was normal too.

But the color of his skin was different. Grogan’s parents were both coal black, but Grogan was, at best, a brown. Grogan had light brown features, a few freckles even. No, Grogan did not look much like them, and so the anger was rising in him.

He pumped his fist, uncontrollably.

Get out of your head, Grogan muttered to himself. Focus on the job at hand. Deal with it later. Don’t blow it. Irish?

Grogan took three deep breaths and then three more. He forced himself to release his fist, and scanned the crowd again. He needed to find one person to focus on.

The groom, Thad, stood surrounded by his friends, family and his beautiful wife, Emma. Thad met Emma at the University of Virginia, when he was a freshman and she a sophomore. They dated for two years in college. The first day of Emma’s senior year, under her favorite statue of Thomas Jefferson, Thad proposed.

Ironically, it was the same statue where Thad was inducted into the University’s secret society, The Seven, which ruffled some members’ feathers. Thad did not care. Emma did not know and, though there was some trouble in the beginning, the Clark family finally accepted him, despite the fact that he was not from Northampton County.

Thad was a fifth-generation West Virginian, the traitor state in the War of Northern Aggression, which did not sit well with the Clarks or the other folks from