The Ming and I Read Online Free Page A

of Bailey’s and licked his lips appreciatively. “First let me tell you about a real body.”
    “Do tell.” Because of his line of work, Greg has some fascinating stories.
    “I just saw the lab report on the Troyan woman. You were right, Abigail. She was hit by a blue vehicle.”
    I sat up quickly and almost knocked the glass out of Greg’s hand. “A van?”
    He chuckled. “I can’t tell that from just the paint. I’m not Columbo. But I can tell you a little bit about Ms. Troyan.”
    “Please do.” You might think that my interest was macabre, but just you wait until a body comes hurtling through your window. Then you’ll whistle a different tune.
    “For starters, her full name was June Gibbons Troyan. She was originally from Indiana, but lived in Lake City, Florida, until two years ago. Moved here shortly after the death of her husband. Mr. Troyan died of natural causes. Some kind of heart trouble.”
    I had heard the story before—similar stories really, but all pretty much interchangeable. Couple moves to Florida, lives there for several years, and then one of them—usually the husband—dies. What then is the survivor supposed to do? Move back north after burning all her bridges, or hang on in a community of transplants, where memories of her loved one linger? In a surprising number of cases the survivor decides to relocate elsewhere in the South, usually in the Carolinas. Perhaps our slower pace reminds them of the good old days, but I like to think they find a sense of community here that helps them through their grief.
    “Anything else?”
    “Ms. Troyan was no spring chicken.”
    I was not especially surprised. I had not taken a close look at June Troyan while she was alive, and as for after—Well, going through plate glass does nothing for one’s complexion.
    “How old?”
    “Seventy-eight.”
    “Is that all you have?”
    He laughed. “Is this an interrogation?”
    “Just curious, dear.”
    “Well, she was volunteering part-time as a docent at Roselawn Plantation. You know, giving guided tours and that kind of thing.”
    I swung my legs off Greg’s lap. This was the most interesting piece of information, one that needed to be considered in a normal sitting position.
    Roselawn is an antebellum plantation that is just a Yankee hoot and a Rebel holler from Rock Hill. Inthe days before the Civil War—Mama and her generation call it The War Between the States—Roselawn was one of the premier cotton-producing plantations in the state. It supported hundreds of slaves—rather, they supported it.
    The plantation house, which still stands, is atypical of upcountry plantation houses in that its style is Greek Revival, with a Tuscan portico and cast iron balustraded decks. It would be more at home in Natchez, Mississippi, than in York County, South Carolina. The mansion escaped the ravages of Sherman’s army in The War of Northern Aggression (as my friend Wynnell calls it) only because it occupies a narrow spit of land on a hairpin turn in the Catawba River. The Yankees simply did not know it was there.
    James L. Rose VI, a widower and the last descendant of the original owners, died only last year. According to the newspapers, the entire estate was sold off to pay back taxes. Farmers bought most of the fertile river bottom land, and the house ended up in the hands of a private historical group that calls itself the Upstate Preservation Foundation.
    I was pretty sure Mama knew at least one person on the foundation, since Mama knows everyone of any consequence in Rock Hill. And I mean that humbly. Through no effort of my own I am well connected, and am usually privy to all the important gossip. But it was news to me that Roselawn Plantation was now open to the public and had, in fact, docents.
    “How long did Ms. Troyan work there?” I asked.
    Greg took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “I knew you were going to ask tough questions. Let’s see—just three weeks.