Chapter 1  

High above Benford County, the sky was October clear, a deep and endless blue. A lone turkey vulture, its ebony wings spread wide, floated above a patchwork of subdued colors—the black of tilled soil contrasting with the dusky gold of dry cornfields edged with the leaves of fiery red sumac.   

The bird drifted southward, over the town of Hawkinston, the heart of the county. The afternoon sun reflected off the dome of the courthouse, lighting the tops of trees dressed for the season. Around the square were rows of shops and businesses that had endured for generations— brickfronted, wood-trimmed, their windows reflecting passing vehicles and people going about their daily business.  

The old hardware store with its sun-faded sign, the bank with its columned façade, and, on the corner, the newest business—a tattoo parlor beneath a young lawyer’s office—signified stability with an edge of progress.  

A small group of giggling teenage girls in sparkling dance costumes left the movie theater, where they had been practicing on stage for their fall recital, and headed toward the ice cream shop.   

A sheriff’s car turned onto Main Street and pulled into a parking spot beside the courthouse. A deputy got out and stretched, the autumn sunlight reflecting on his silver badge. He settled his weapons belt, grabbed his computer from the car, and headed inside to file his reports.   

Across the street from the courthouse, a painted sign identified the Rolling Scone Café. A bell over the door chimed softly as a customer holding a fragrant carry-out bag headed back to his office.  

Hungry, the vulture wheeled once more, then turned toward the river bluffs.  

Mid-afternoon was a quiet time in the Rolling Scone. Lunch was over, and the students had yet to arrive to wake up the vintage jukebox. A thin shaft of sunlight fell across the old-fashioned cash register and the baked goods in the glass display case below it. The café’s owner added plump, pumpkin-spiced donuts to the display trays, their fragrance infusing the air with a tangible welcome to customers.   

A woman sat alone at a table, reading a book, and nursing a cup of coffee.  

Leni Spencer, the small town’s newspaper reporter, was settled in the red vinyl booth that served as her satellite office. She squinted in concentration as she scrolled through the emails on her laptop, then her face relaxed into a broad smile. “Martine! Ancestry DNA has nailed me again!”  

Martine Malveaux set the empty baking sheet aside. “What does Ancestry know about you that we haven’t figured out?”  

Martine, a native of New Orleans, relocated to Missouri after Hurricane Katrina, stayed, and opened a café. The locals, charmed by her warm New Orleans personality and first-rate pastries, quickly adopted the Rolling Scone as a gathering place for townsfolk of all ages.   

Martine was a few years older than Leni. Their friendship deepened with the shared anguish of a mutual friend’s brutal death last summer. “Are your dead people talking to you?”  

Leni laughed. “They’re not saying much, but AncestryDNA says my curiosity comes from my father’s genes. And my mom is responsible for my clumsy attempts at dancing.”   

“Really? You believe an algorithm knows you better than you do?”  

Leni’s forehead furrowed slightly as she tapped her lips with her forefinger and gazed at a spot above Martine’s head. “Well, consider this: my dad loved to dance. Mom went along, but she wasn’t really into it. You’ve seen my two left feet in action.” Grinning, she raised her arms in the air and did a little shimmy.   

“My dad was so often at the library that he became a volunteer and ended up on the library board. That’s weapons-grade curiosity, if you ask me.”  

Her interest piqued, Martine slid into the booth across from Leni. “What else does it say?”  

Leni focused on the screen. “My hair color is dark, and my eyes are brown. It says I have good hand-eye coordination.” She laughed. “It also says I don’t like cilantro. You have to admit it’s pretty much on target.”  

Martine chuckled. “I swear, robots are taking over the world sooner than I predicted.”  

The woman with the book had been listening to their exchange. She looked up, pushed her coffee cup to one side, and called out, “I hear you, sister. Robots and cell phones will be the death of us yet.” She waved the book in the air. “More people need to read books and talk to each other.”  

Leni and Martine looked at each other, surprised by the woman’s outburst.  

“I hear you, Naomi,” Martine said. “And Leni here wishes more people would read the newspaper.”  

Naomi went back to reading her book, ignoring the coffee that was now stone cold.  

The door chime sounded. A slender Black woman wearing a brightly colored Kente cloth tunic over neat jeans hesitated inside the door as she slid her oversized sunglasses into her purse. Her shiny ebony curls spilled over her shoulders in relaxed, full waves, framing her face like a halo.  

Martine slipped out of the booth and shifted smoothly into hostess mode. “Elizabeth, it's good to see you! Coffee and a scone or a pumpkin spice donut?”   

Elizabeth Banks smiled. “The donut sounds good. Make it a café au lait.”  

Leni waved hello. “Hey, girl! Join me. I’ve been meaning to call your mother.”  

Elizabeth moved with a grace that Leni envied. No doubt her DNA would prove outstanding dancing skills. “How are you doing, Leni?”   

“I’m grand, Elizabeth. How’s your mother?”   

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “She worries me,” she said. “She’s a woman on a mission.”  

“The cemetery?”  

“Yes, Momma’s worried that the land around it is ripe for development. She’s afraid it will end up next to a strip mall.”  

“Wasn’t she trying to get it protected as a historic site?”  

Elizabeth let out a deep sigh. “She’s getting the run-around. The fact that Caleb Lewis—a Black man—bought that land ought to be enough to qualify it. Back then we couldn’t own land. We weren’t even citizens.” She leaned across the table to emphasize her point. “Shoot, girl. A judge had to declare him a citizen so he could own land and register a deed.” She took off her scarf and settled back in the booth. “You’d think that would be historic enough.”  

“What’s the hang-up?”  

“I don’t know. Momma’s been fussing about the committee needing some kind of information.”

She shrugged out of her coat and let it fall behind her. “I’ve been kind of busy.”  

Leni closed her laptop. “That’s mostly vacant land out there, isn’t it?”   

“Mostly abandoned, not good for farming. Oliver Banks has the only working farm near the cemetery,” Elizabeth said. “It’s never done very well, but his father keeps him afloat.”  

“Banks—relative?”  

“Cousin on my father’s side. Momma wants to clean up the cemetery, which might help the committee accept it as a historic site. Right now, it’s a mess.”  

Martine brought Elizabeth’s café au lait and donut to the booth. “How’s your momma doing? I saw her at Walmart yesterday. She looked tired.”  

“She’s organizing a cleanup at the cemetery. She convinced some Texas cousins to come help, but I’m afraid it will be more than they can handle, even with local family pitching in.”   

Elizabeth turned back to Leni. “I was hoping I’d find you here. Can you write something about the cleanup day and the need for volunteers? It’s time we ask for help.”  

As the sole full-time reporter on The Hawkinston News, Leni covered everything from quilt raffles to agricultural trends to the police blotter. She was born in Hawkinston, graduated from the local college, and lived in the family home she inherited after her parents’ deaths. She deeply loved her hometown and was eager to help Muriel Banks preserve the family cemetery, a significant part of the town’s history.  

“Of course,” Leni said. “When?”  

“A week from Saturday.”  

“It would be good to have a photo with the story.” She checked the time on her phone. “The deadline for this week’s paper is eight o’clock tonight. I can go out there this afternoon. Can you come with me?”  

Elizabeth’s face brightened. “Of course!”   

“First, I have to head over to the campus for a story I’m working on. Can I pick you up in an hour or so?”  

“Perfect. Wear sturdy shoes. It’s rough walking out there.”  

~ • ~ • ~  

What will Leni and Elizabeth find at the cemetery that will lead them on a journey to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and take them back through twisted genealogy to a time before the Civil War? What will they learn from a Native American elder in Virginia that could upend local politics and shatter the tranquility of their small town in Missouri?   

The Past Is Not at Rest (395 pages. US$30.99) is a 6x9 paperback, formatted for easier reading, that includes guided questions for discussion.  

Kindle edition (US$3.99)   Both are  available at Amazon.com.  

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