Close to the Broken Hearted (18 page)

“I was born in Satsuma.”

“Okay, close enough.
You
should be in here.” She pushed the volume she had out back onto the shelf and pulled out another one, this time opening it to the T section. “Oh, this is good,” she said. “Teal is a much less common name than Fowler. Let's see. Oh, this is probably you right here, three from the top. There's only one Abraham on the list.” Beside my name (if it really was me) were some reference numbers.

“What do those mean?” I asked.

“They tell us what book to go to next to get the real information from. These books are just sort of gigantic indexes.”

“Wow,” Dewey said.

She turned to the wall of shelves behind her and started studying the spines of those books. “Nope, not on this one.” Then she walked around to the other side. Me and Dewey just stayed where we were beside the small table where the index book still lay opened to the T section.

“Found it!” she called out through the wall of books. She came around carrying a large binder with a blue cover. “Okay, according to this,” she said, once more referring to the index, “your information is on page 125-A3.”

She plopped the binder open on the table and began tossing pages, slowing as she got close to the right one. She ended up going a couple too far and had to turn back two. “Here we are: Abraham Teal. Let's see if this is you. Is your birthday March twenty-sixth, 1976?”

Suddenly, I got excited. “Yes! That
is
me! What else does it say?”

“Your momma's name is Leah Marie Fowler. Your pa's name is William Robert Teal. Your grandma on your ma's side is Josephine Adeline Fowler.” She looked at me. “There, see? Now you know.”

“I guess my sister was named after her. My sister is called Caroline Josephine.”

“You're probably right! Your grandpa on your ma's side as you know is Joseph Fowler, no middle name. Your grandma on your pa's side is Sara Lynn Teal, and your grandpa on your pa's side is Jeremiah Teal, no middle name.”

Wow, did I ever feel important. I knew information about my family that my mother didn't even know yet. For once, it was
me
knowing stuff instead of everyone else.

“Does it say anythin' else? Does it talk 'bout what they did or anythin'?” Dewey asked.

“No, I'm afraid there isn't a lot of genealogy information kept.”

“Can I write to Mobile for more, like my mom did?”

She frowned. “They don't keep much either. You'll probably get even less than we have. In fact, we've got more than most towns simply on account of Alvin bein' so small.”

I frowned. This wasn't what I wanted to hear.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“That's okay.” I examined my shoes.

Then she snapped her fingers. I looked up and she was beaming. “You know what you need?” And before I could answer she told me. “You need a historian. And I think I know
just
the person.”

She walked quickly back to her desk and I followed behind her with Dewey on my tail, feeling the excitement rise like a trumpet blast in my chest. I wasn't certain what a historian was, but it sure sounded important. I supposed a historian was an expert on history. That made sense.

“I have a friend down in Chickasaw,” she said, “who has been researching the genealogy of Alabama for years, but she especially knows
this
area. Let me give her a call for you.”

I smiled. “Thanks!”

She dialed a number and waited for her friend to answer. Finally, she did.

“Hi, Dixie,” the clerk said. “It's Mary Sue here. Yes, I know. Too long. Oh, you know. Yeah, still in Alvin. Still at the records office. Yeah . . .” I thought they were going to keep on chitchatting for days until finally Mary Sue, the apparent name of the clerk, interrupted. “Listen, Dixie, this is actually a business call of sorts. I have a young boy in my office. His mother is the detective of Alvin. Mmm-hmm. Anyway, he's trying to research his family history, and I showed him what we had, which was barely nothin', an' then I thought of you.”

There was a long pause before Mary Sue spoke again. “Yes, he was born in Satsuma. I have some information about his daddy. He's passed away.” She sort of whispered the words
passed away
as though saying them the same volume as the rest might have offended me. “Yes, I can give you the date of his birth and of his death.”

She relayed all the pertinent information, including my grandparents and everything else, getting all of it from the book she'd pulled out. Then she asked me for my address, so I told it to her. “All right, I'll tell him to look forward to it. Thank you very much, Dixie. And I hope to see you soon.”

She hung up the phone. “My, my, that woman can talk your ear off.”

“Is she gettin' me information 'bout my family?” I asked with a big grin I couldn't hold back.

“She certainly is. She said to give her a couple days to compile it and then she'd put it in the mail for you. Her name is Dixie Spinner. You can watch for her package in your mailbox.” Then she leaned over and whispered, “And you may want to write her a quick thank-you card after you get everything. She'd like that.”

I thought that was a good idea, too.

I looked at Dewey. “This is great. I'm gonna finally learn 'bout my family.”

“If there's anything to find out, she'll be the one to know 'bout it,” Miss Mary Sue said. “And I can't guarantee she'll find any more information than we have here, but sometimes you get
real
lucky and she'll dig you up things like family crests and stuff like that.”

“What's a family crest?” I asked.

“It's an insignia your family used way back to designate them from other families. It would appear on shields and flags and things.”

That sounded pretty neat. I hoped I would get a copy of my family crest.

“Oh,” she said, “and she won't find any real facts other than names, birthdays, cause of death, and that type of stuff 'bout anyone unless that person did something extraordinary or unusual. For instance, she told me she once dug up family history for this one feller who found out one of his grandfathers from way back was once wanted for seven train robberies. He turned out to be mighty proud of that.”

I thought that sounded like a strange thing to be proud of. I wondered if maybe the “feller” she was talking about was Preacher Eli.

I thanked her again, a little concerned about my mother's reaction to the mail coming from this Miss Dixie in Chickasaw being delivered straight to my house. I wondered if this was something my mother would mind me doing. Oh, well, I'd have to make sure I was the one who checked the mail throughout the coming weeks.

“I think she was overanxious to help us on account of she knew your mother worked for the police,” Dewey said on our way out.

“You know, it is possible she's just nice,” I said.

“It's possible, I guess. But I think my theory's more likely.”

O
ver the following days, thoughts about the Brown and Carson land dispute circled inside Leah's head like hungry vultures over a cattle carcass. Likely, Leah thought, it was all spawned by what Abe had said at the records office.
“Wouldn't Miss Sylvie own it? I thought kids got whatever their folks had when their folks died.”
At the time, Leah had told Abe that Sylvie couldn't have afforded the ranch, but was that so true? The ranch could've stayed in her name and been run without her. Besides, even if the ranch had been sold as part of Tom Carson's estate, the difference in value between what he originally paid for it in 1963 and what it was worth at the time of his death was well over a hundred thousand dollars. Even if it went for a rock-bottom price at auction, there would still be a substantial amount of equity left for Sylvie, one would think.

Leah received the financial statements and tax information she'd requested for Tom Carson. They arrived together at the station just as Leah was leaving for the day and she brought them home with her. Sitting on the sofa in the living room, she eagerly went through them, trying to discover the reason why Sylvie hadn't appeared to have gotten anything from the deal.

She examined Tom Carson's bank information first. There was a lot to it. It covered nine years of his life, and told an interesting story. That nine-thousand-dollar initial investment he had made slowly went wrong for some reason, and it was all laid out before Leah in black and white. Tom had taken out a line of credit with the Alvin First National Bank against the ranch almost immediately following the death of his son. At first, the line of credit only used a third of the equity he held in his ranch, but as time went by, he increased the amount of the LOC at higher and higher rates. The only thing that kept him afloat was the fact that the market grew as fast, if not faster, than the rate of his expanding line of credit.

One thing was for certain, though. Tom Carson got in way over his head financially due to
something
very early on. And even when the value of his ranch started to reach upward of a hundred thousand dollars, so did what he owed on it. Not only that, but according to the tax sheets Leah had requested, many years the ranch ran at a loss. That didn't help his situation one bit. But the losses in no way compensated for the amount of money actually being spent. Wherever that money went, there was no record of it.

It made no sense. From what she knew about the Carsons, they didn't go on lavish vacations or anything like that.

“What were you doin' with all your money, Tom?” Leah asked, continuing from page to page.

Because of the booming market, Tom was able to get away with defaulting payments on his LOC. Compound interest simply kept piling up higher and higher. It never got to the point where the bank threatened to foreclose, but if things hadn't turned around soon, Leah could tell that point was coming fast.

By the time of his death in 1980, Tom Carson owed the bank just under eighty-eight thousand dollars, an amount he could never pay back. Tom Carson must've known this—a fact that struck a nerve with Leah.
Could this have contributed to his suicide?

There was indication that the bank called in the line of credit upon Tom Carson's death, which probably preceded the auctioning off of the property. Leah remembered quite distinctly that no will had turned up after his death, so an auction of the property was the most likely outcome. Still, even if the ranch
were
sold at auction, there was a good chance it would've gone for enough money to pay the bank debt and still have some left over as a nest egg for Sylvie. But Leah had no records of the land being sold. All she really had was the property survey map with the words
Owner: Unlisted,
and the original deed with Tom Carson's name on it in her daddy's police folder.

Could it be possible that the bank
hadn't
auctioned the ranch and that Sylvie Carson's name was the one that belonged on that title? Maybe all she needed to do to claim ownership was fill out some forms or make a court appearance.

The market had continued to boom since 1981, and Leah suspected the appraised value of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars they showed at the public records office was probably now at least double that. Surely, with the ranch not running and Tom Carson not spending his money on whatever it was he had been spending it on, there would be value in that ranch today. Maybe a
lot
of value.

The one thing that niggled at the back of her brain was the date on the survey map. It had been updated March 2, 1981, a date that, in Leah's eyes, seemed entirely too coincidental. It was fewer than four months after the “supposed” suicidal death of Tom Carson.

When had she started putting the word “supposed” in front of suicide with quotation marks around it when it came to Tom Carson? Leah wasn't sure. She knew these sorts of thoughts were exactly the kind Ethan Montgomery had warned her against having. He'd be mighty upset to learn she was doing such a thing now. Leah decided to wait for the title search she'd sent away to Mobile for before she decided how she would refer to Tom Carson's death to herself.

All of this also had Leah thinking about Sylvie Carson's present state of mind and whether or not her delusions were quite as delusional as people thought. Maybe she really was in danger. Maybe she always had been. If that land had even fifty thousand dollars in equity and Sylvie was the one entitled to it, her life suddenly did have reason to be threatened. A very good reason, in fact. In Leah's experience, money was always a good motive for any criminal act.

After an hour or so of being unable to set her worried mind at ease, Leah decided to go pay Sylvie an unscheduled visit. This would likely alarm the girl, as she wasn't used to the police showing up without her calling them first. On the other hand, maybe it would help ease her fears, knowing that Leah really did care about her and wasn't just coming because of her irrational phone calls.

This time Leah was going for selfish reasons: to clear her own mind. She had some questions she wanted to ask Sylvie, although she wasn't quite sure how to bring them up. There was a very good chance they were the types of questions that might set Sylvie off—questions about the past. Leah always avoided treading where memories lay when it came to Sylvie.

But today Leah was going to take Sylvie on a little trip down memory lane. Not because she wanted to, but because the detective inside her
had
to.

It was the first day of rain Alvin had seen in almost three weeks and even though it wasn't a hard rain, it came with a strong wind that made the raindrops fall at a slant. Grabbing her Crimson Tide sweatshirt, Leah pulled the hood up over her head and ran to her car, doing her best not to get soaked along the way. She drove through the bleak streets to Sylvie's house, trying to piece together how she would phrase her questions. It was important she did it right.

Above her, the sky was the color of asphalt and the clouds hung low and heavy. The rain started coming down harder as she turned up Old Mill Road, splattering off the hood of her car and the street. It was a miserable day.

By the time Leah pulled into Sylvie's, the dirt driveway had become a layer of mud. Leah's shoes became caked with it as she jogged to the front porch, her clothes getting drenched along the way. The raindrops were heavy and the wind hadn't let up. Her blond bangs hung limp in front of her face. She tucked them up out of the way.

Rapping on the door, she called out, “Sylvie! Sylvie, it's Detective Teal! Alvin Police!”

Nobody answered.

She knocked again, louder. She called out again, louder.

Still no answer.

Her heart sank. Where would Sylvie be on a day like today? Around the yard, rain bounced and drizzled off everything in sight. If Sylvie was out with the baby and caught in all this it would be terrible. She didn't own a car. She would be on foot.

Leah tried knocking again, as hard as she could. This time she nearly screamed her name out. “Sylvie! It's Detective Teal! Open up!”

At last, she heard the dead bolts shoot, the chain slide. The door opened two inches. The blue eye of Sylvie Carson, usually wild and crazy, appeared welcoming and warm.

“Hey,” Leah said, slightly out of breath from hollering. “It's me. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

Sylvie nodded through the crack. The door closed, the chain slid, the door opened, and Leah entered.

The house was warm and felt good. A sweet smell hung in the air. Sylvie had been cooking. “Are those cookies?” Leah asked, taking an exaggerated whiff.

Sylvie frowned. “A pie. It didn't turn out. Pecan. I make terrible pecan pie. I accidentally only put in a quarter the amount of sugar the recipe called for.”

“Sure smells good.”

Leah started taking off her shoes. “Leave 'em on,” Sylvie said. “They're fine.”

“No they're not,” Leah said. “They're full of mud from your driveway.” Finishing taking them off, she followed Sylvie into the living room. “Where's the baby?” Leah asked.

“In my room,” Sylvie said. “Asleep. All she does is sleep.”

“Be careful what you wish for. Things could be worse.”

“I dunno. Sometimes I think she sleeps too much.”

“It's healthy for her. It means she's growing . . .” A fruit fly buzzed around Leah's face. She clapped her hands at it, trying to squash it. “. . . And content.”

“So
why
are you here?” Sylvie asked. Then she said timidly, “Sorry, that came out wrong. I don't mind you dropping by, I was just wonderin', is all.”

“I need to ask you some questions. Can we sit somewhere?” Sylvie nodded. “The kitchen? There's more light.” Leah had to agree. The living room with its single yellow lamp looked particularly gloomy on this rainy afternoon.

They both sat at the kitchen table. “Are you sure that pie didn't turn out?” Leah asked. “It sure smells good.”

“Oh, I'm sure. It's in my garbage.”

Two more fruit flies buzzed around Leah. She killed them with one try. “You have a fruit fly problem, I see.”

“Probably the pie.”

“When did you make it?”

“An hour ago. Wasn't even cooled 'fore I threw it in the trash.”

“Then I doubt it's the source of your fruit flies.” The shotgun still hadn't moved from its place by the door. Four more fruit flies flew across the table.

Leah stood. “Where are they comin' from?” She checked the garbage under the sink. Sure enough, there was the pecan pie, not looking half bad. A little charred, but if it only had a quarter the sugar in it, it probably didn't taste near on as good as it looked. But there were no fruit flies around it. “It ain't the pie.”

She checked the rest of the kitchen. “There's some here around the sink, but most seem to be comin' from your vents.”

“Where do these vents go?” Sylvie asked.

“Outside.” Leah opened the back door. The day had grown darker than ever. Her hand automatically went to the light switch. The outside light didn't come on. “I thought you was gonna replace this bulb.”

“I did,” Sylvie said, suddenly alarmed. “I replaced it a week ago.”

“Well, it ain't workin' now.” Leah tried the switch four or five times.

“It should be.”

Standing up on her tippy-toes, Leah's fingertips touched the bottom of the bulb and slowly screwed it into the socket. After about two turns, it came right on. “It wasn't screwed in.” Hesitantly, she looked at Sylvie.

Sylvie's eyes were wide. “I screwed it in. Believe me. I screwed it in all the way. Somebody unscrewed it!”

“I believe you.”

“No you don't.”

“Actually, I do.”

Sylvie fell quiet. “Who would unscrew my lightbulb?”

“I don't know.” A swarm of fruit flies were gathered around the back porch. “I also have no idea where these flies are comin' from, but you have a ton of 'em.”

Obviously shaken up because of the bulb, Sylvie said, “Why don't you forget about the flies for now and come sit down and ask me whatever you want to ask me?”

“Okay.”

Taking one last look at the bulb, Leah locked the door and turned off the light. She returned to her chair.

“Would you like a coffee?” Sylvie asked.

“No, I'm fine.”

A moment went by while Leah gathered her thoughts. “Well . . . ?” Sylvie asked.

“I don't know how to ask you these questions without potentially bringing up bad memories for you.”

Sylvie looked at her. “Don't worry about my memories. They're always there and they're always bad.”

“How do you deal with that?”

“I just
have
to. If not for me, then for the baby. Go ahead. Please? Especially if you think it will help figure out who's been in my backyard.”

Leah took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Okay. Here goes then. I need you to talk to me 'bout your pa. What do you remember 'bout him?”

The fingers of Sylvie's left hand began rubbing the fingers of her right. “You mean in general?”

“To start, sure.”

“He was a good man. He made sure we had food and stuff. He loved my ma.”

“What 'bout you? Did he love you?”

Something flashed in Sylvie's eyes. “Of course! What kind of question is that?”

“I'm only askin' cuz you left yourself out just now when you answered. And Caleb? He loved Caleb of course, too?”

Leah watched Sylvie's reaction and thought mentioning Caleb so early on may have been a bad idea. She thought Sylvie was about to break down, but somehow she managed to hold it together after a bit. “He took Caleb's death the worst. I think he would've rather seen anyone else go but his little boy.” Her eyes refused to meet Leah's gaze.