There Follows a Mist
by
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"I suppose you’re here to question me again?" Ed sighed heavily. "Yes, ma’am, and I am sure sorry to have to do it after you’ve been through so much." "I guess it can’t be helped. I know you have your duty." "Thank you for your attitude, Mrs. Jones." He did appreciate it, and he did wish he could let the poor soul alone. Well, maybe, after this talk he wouldn’t have to bother her anymore, or anybody, about old Sam Jones. "Now that... things have settled down... sort of back to normal, would you just tell me in your own way what happened, Mrs. Jones? Anything at all you might have thought of that may help us decide what actually did happen to your husband." "I thought he drowned." Ed lit a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and stalled, thinking. He decided not to say whether Sam had or had not, so he ignored her statement. "What we need to try to determine is where it happened... that he fell in or was thrown..." "You don’t have any evidence?" Ed wondered which one of them was trying hardest to get information. He decided to answer her. "No, ma’am. We have no idea at all. You see, the rain erased all clues there may have been and, unless you can help us, we don’t have anything to go on. Just tell me again everything you remember about... Well, anything you remember." Martha breathed deeply and began. She had told it so much she halfway believed it herself. The whole thing; she went over it. When she had finished, the sheriff said gently, "Did the boys find the money they were so sure was buried out here on the place?" Martha’s heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it, but she answered, with a half-hearted laugh, "No, and they were mighty upset over it. They are convinced he had some, somewhere." She pondered a few minutes, gently rocking the swing with one foot, and decided to tell him. "They found where it had been buried, out by the well." He might find that out from some of them, and it would never do for the sheriff to think she was hiding something. "Would you show me where?" She nodded, and without a word led him to the spot, and he examined the hole, with the broken glass. "How did they come to look here?" "They had these detector things; see-- the jar lid." She laughed again mirthlessly and waved her arm in a wide arc, "See... the holes they have scratched up all over? They went over the place with a fine tooth comb; in the house, too. "You think this might mean he was robbed? That he had the money on him?" He was watching her closely, eyes narrowed. "There’s no telling how long ago this... how long it was since he moved it from here. Or where he put it... or in fact, if there was more than a few dollars. It’s just all a mystery to me, Sheriff." They returned to the porch, seated themselves as before. He would have to be very careful, very gentle, not frighten her off now that she was beginning to relax, to open up a little. He cleared his throat, "Could you tell me now, Mrs. Jones, about any enemies Sam had... going way back... try to remember all you can." Martha smiled grimly, "Well, to make it plain, Mr. ...er?" "Jackson," he smiled back at her. Easy now, Ed, old boy; easy, and she might tell him her life story, just what he wanted.
"Mr. Jackson. Yes, I guess Sam had enemies. Not to speak ill of the dead, God rest his soul..." She almost choked, and had to have a little time to compose herself. Ed felt a real sympathy for her; she was a good woman, and Sam... everybody knew if there was such a place as Hell that old Sam Jones’ soul was not at rest!
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About the Book
The historic covered bridge in the shadow of Atlanta, Georgia had been the site of Civil war battles, secret meetings, and stolen kisses. But not until the body of Sam Jones washed up there on that stormy night on the mid-1960’s had there been such mystery surrounding the bridge. The question wasn’t "Who would kill Sam?" but "Who wouldn’t?" The reader is introduced to a host of intriguing characters, all of whom has reason to despise, and perhaps murder, Sam. Through the pitiful life of his widow, Martha Douglas Jones, the resounding and heartbreaking theme of the novel is borne out: our lives are the product of choices we make in a single moment of time. Will Martha manage to escape the grim sentence of her life with Sam, or will he continue to bring her misery, even in death?
About the Author
A true Daughter of the South, Dixie Norton was born in rural Tennessee in the early 1920’s. Her mother was a teacher, poet, writer, composer, and one of the first female newspaper editors. Mrs. Norton eloped at sixteen with her sweetheart and raised three daughters and a son in the foothills of north Georgia, writing about life in the brief periods of quiet she could find while living life. She was the quintessential homemaker of the "June Cleaver" era. After studying creative writing at Emory University in Atlanta, she began a novel about a Southern family living in the historic Concord Covered Bridge area of Georgia during the Sixties. For years, even while some of her work was read in newspapers, her "great American novel" lay fallow. When she joined a local writer’s guild, her passion for creative writing was reawakened. She began composing a column for the Covington News, her local paper, and at last her novel was pulled from the cedar chest and polished. With the publishing of There Follows a Mist, Mrs. Norton’s greatest work of fiction will at last be harvested by fortunate readers. Mrs. Norton now resides in a small farming community in Georgia with her granddaughter and great-grandchildren. The love of language bestowed on her by her mother and her own keen observations of human character have allowed her to write with striking poignancy and insight.