Read Guess Who's Coming to Die? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
Guess Who's Coming to Die? (10 page)
“Yeah, but that was old William Robison Kenan, who made the family fortune. He was Wilma’s great-granddaddy and Willena’s great-great-granddaddy.”
“Is there anything in the family story to make a good human-interest piece to go with the murder? The big boys will descend from Atlanta, New York, and who knows where to cover the murder, but I might get a wire story with a human-interest angle. This thing is going to be big for several days, given who Willena was.”
Did he hope this would be his chance to move on to a bigger paper? He had seemed happy in Hopemore, but maybe he yearned for city life. I would hate to see him leave, but I liked him enough to help him if I could. “You can read all about the Kenans in a book Wilma wrote and printed up a few years back for friends, relations, and the public library, but here’s the gist.
“The first Kenan came to Hopemore around 1820 with three sons and built a cotton gin. They drove around in mule-drawn wagons, buying cotton from farmers; then they ginned out the seeds and sold the cotton to textile mills. Within thirty years they had expanded the business and built gins all over Georgia. I think they had some in Alabama and South Carolina, too. When the war came, Will was still a little boy, but he’s reputed to have said, ‘Oh, boy! All those soldiers are gonna need clothes and bandages. We can sell
lots
of cotton!’ The family claims that was his first flash of brilliance. So while all the other families sent their men to fight, the Kenans sent their men around buying cotton from anybody who could still grow an acre or two. Will apparently rode with his granddaddy, daddy, and uncles on the wagons, and the family swears he drove wagons himself through enemy lines, telling each army that the cotton was going to make their uniforms. It is historical fact that the Kenans sold cotton to factories on both sides of the conflict—which didn’t make them real popular around here for a while. Especially since they did real well while other people were losing everything.”
lots
of cotton!’ The family claims that was his first flash of brilliance. So while all the other families sent their men to fight, the Kenans sent their men around buying cotton from anybody who could still grow an acre or two. Will apparently rode with his granddaddy, daddy, and uncles on the wagons, and the family swears he drove wagons himself through enemy lines, telling each army that the cotton was going to make their uniforms. It is historical fact that the Kenans sold cotton to factories on both sides of the conflict—which didn’t make them real popular around here for a while. Especially since they did real well while other people were losing everything.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “You won’t read that in Wilma’s book.” I resumed in a normal tone. “After the war, though, most farmers swallowed their anger and their pride when the Kenans offered to sell cotton seed cheap and buy the crop at a fair price. Folks were too poor and hungry to quibble. Still, you’ll sometimes hear somebody mutter even now”—I cupped my hands and spoke softly—“ ‘You know their money came from selling
our
cotton to the Yankees.’ ”
our
cotton to the Yankees.’ ”
Slade laughed. He grew up in the South, too. He knew as well as I did that old perceived wrongs still rankle.
“I’d never have guessed that Granddaddy Will lived so long ago. The way Wilma and Willena talk about him, I thought they’d known him.”
“No, but he died only a few years before Wilma was born. He lived to be ninety-seven. And for the Kenans, he was right up there next to God. He was the one who transformed the family from prosperous to filthy rich. When he grew up, he bought out his brothers, uncles, and cousins and consolidated the business into his own hands. He seems to have had a magic touch, too. In the Reconstruction South, he made enormous amounts of money. By the time he was thirty, he had enough to build the old home place where Wilma now lives. Around 1900 he bought a small shipping line. Up until then, Kenans had bought only U.S. cotton and sold only in the United States and England. With that shipping line, Will started buying wherever cotton is grown in the world and shipping—”
“ ‘We cotton to the whole world,’ ” Slade quoted the business motto. He poised his pen. “So make it clear again how he was related to Wilma and Willena?”
“He was Wilma’s great-granddaddy and Willena’s great-great-granddaddy.” I settled back in my chair. We Southerners love to trace a family history, even if it’s not our own. “Will had two sons, Will Junior and Frank. They each had a son, Billy and Robison. They had other children, too, but none of them lived to adulthood except, I think, a sister of Robison’s. When Billy and Robison grew up, they went into business with their daddies and granddaddy. During World War Two there was again a rumor that Kenans sold cotton to both sides of the conflict, but nobody ever proved it. Anyway, after the war — about the time old Will was dying — his sons and grandsons took the company public and it began to grow into the multinational corporation it is today.”
Slade gave me a penetrating look. “You reckon they went public because they didn’t have sons themselves?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but actually, Robison did have a son, John. He was a little older than me, and a talented photographer. He wasn’t the least bit interested in cotton, but he went into the business to please his dad. He left any chance he got, though, to travel to faraway places and take pictures. He photographed several articles for
National Geographic.”
National Geographic.”
Slade was drawing lines. I figured he was working out the generations. He confirmed that when he looked up and asked, “So how did the generations get uneven?”
“Billy didn’t marry until he was forty, and he was heading for fifty before Wilma was born. Meanwhile, Robison had had John when he was thirty, and John had Willena when he was in his midtwenties, so the girls were ten years but a whole generation apart.”
“Did you mention a sister in there somewhere?”
“I think Robison had a sister, but I don’t know what happened to her. Why don’t you try to track her down?” That might keep him too busy to pay any attention to Cindy.
No such luck. He pulled himself to his feet. “Maybe later. First I want to talk to Cindy and at least one more member of the investment club.” He rose and stood jingling the coins in his pocket. “MayBelle Brandison might be good for a quick interview, if I mention Brandison Builders. Would you save me a trip back to my office and remind me who else belongs to the Moneyed Ladies?”
I blushed to realize that nickname was so well-known. “You’d better not call them that. Gusta, Meriwether, Sadie Lowe, Nancy Jensen, and Rachel Ford all belong.”
“Is Rachel that scrawny lawyer with the messy hair?”
“It’s curly and she doesn’t straighten it, if that’s what you mean. I think it’s attractive.”
He snorted. “Looks like she climbed out of bed and discovered her brush had been stolen. And it would be a waste of time talking to her. She’s first cousin to the clam. I tried to interview her right after she came to town, but all she’d talk about was the law center and its work. What I wanted was something personal.” He sketched quotation marks with his fingers. “ ‘International lawyer descends to head small-town Poverty Law Center,’ that sort of thing. Her only response to every question was ‘No comment,’ ‘No comment.’ ” He did a fair job of mimicking Rachel’s New York accent. “Last winter I tried to get the full story behind that big drug case they were involved in, and again, ‘No comment.’ I won’t waste time on her. I’m already past deadline. You sure you don’t have anything else you can tell me?”
“I could tell you Cindy had nothing to do with it, but I doubt you’d print that,” I retorted.
“Have to print what people want to read,” he reminded me.
“Just don’t go putting my name in the first paragraph.”
He laughed. “Read it and weep, Judge.” He gave me a mock salute and slouched out.
I planned to start sending out invoices after he left, but he hadn’t been gone five minutes when I heard a crash in the parking lot, then voices raised and shouting. I slipped my feet into my shoes and dashed out to see what was going on.
Slade stood at the rear fender of his black Lexus waving his arms. Rachel Ford stood at the side of an elderly blue BMW sports car, rubbing the back door and breathing fire.
“Why didn’t you look before you backed?” she demanded as I came down the side steps from our store to the parking lot. I was surprised to see that she had tears in her eyes.
Slade jerked his head toward a white van parked beside him. “I couldn’t see around that van. If you hadn’t come barreling in here like this was a NASCAR track . . .” He slapped his fender with his fist. “Look at that! The taillight is demolished. They’ll probably want to put on a whole new fender. I wouldn’t be surprised if the frame isn’t bent, too.”
“You were clearly at fault,” she replied in an imperious tone. “And my poor baby will have to have a new back door. I need the name of your insurer.”
“The hell you do. I wasn’t at fault! I was barely moving. You were going at least fifty.”
“I couldn’t have been going fifty. I had just turned in and was looking for a parking space.”
I went to join them. “I see you two have met.”
They both stopped shouting, but each put hands on hips and stood glaring at the other, breathing heavily, like some well-choreographed ballet. I sidled around both cars, inspecting the damage.
“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” I reported. “I can give you the name of a good body shop, Rachel. They can take that dent out so you’ll never know you got it. And it looks to me like all you need, Slade, is a new back light.”
They each sullenly inspected the damage again.
“You are both in shock,” I went on. “That’s why you are yelling. It’s scary to hit somebody or get hit. Why don’t you leave both cars here and go down to Myrtle’s for a cup of coffee and some pie while you talk things over?”
Slade looked at me through narrowed eyes. I could tell he thought I was trying to fix him up again, but nothing was farther from my mind. Rachel had too many brains and too few dollars to attract Slade, and with those tempers, putting the two of them together would ensure that sparks were going to fly. I didn’t want Hopemore going up in flames.
Emeralds flashed in Rachel’s ears as she turned her head. I wondered again how she had gotten into the investment club. Were the jewels a sign of hidden wealth, as Joe Riddley suspected, or merely the only thing of value she owned?
The important thing now was to get them out of my parking lot, where they were attracting the wrong kind of attention. I told Slade with a clear conscience, “I thought you all might like to talk about this at civilized decibels. I’m busy, so I can’t invite you into my office, but Myrtle’s isn’t full at this time of day. Go over there to discuss what you want to do.”
Rachel exhaled a puff of frustration. “There’s nothing to discuss. I know where to find him and he knows where to find me. If you’ll give me the name of that body shop, Mac, I’ll see what their estimate is. If it’s not exorbitant, I’ll pay my part of the bill.” Her generosity was canceled by her begrudging tone.
I gave her the name and she tapped it into one of those little handheld gizmos modern women seem to use so much nowadays. You have to be below a certain age to appreciate them. I bought one, but never had four free days to sit down and read the manual.
As she climbed back in her car, Rachel snapped, “You, Mr. Editor, can buy your own taillight. And next time you back up, if you can’t see, then pull out real slow.” With a toss of her head and one last flash of her eyes, she started her engine and drove away.
Slade rubbed his broken light like a mother rubs a scratch on a beloved child’s face. “That woman is a menace, Mac. Can’t we send her back to wherever she came from?”
When the
Statesman
arrived at my desk Wednesday morning, Willena’s murder filled half the front page, and I could cheerfully have throttled Slade. He had managed to unearth head shots of each member of the Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club, had cut them into ovals, and arranged everybody but me at the top of the article like a group of middle-aged debutantes. Willena’s picture was largest and occupied the position of honor, top and center under the headline: “Local Woman Mysteriously Murdered.” My picture was down at the bottom of the article, and the cutline read, “Judge Yarbrough does it again! The newest member of the illustrious Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club found the body of outgoing senior partner Willena Kenan.”
Statesman
arrived at my desk Wednesday morning, Willena’s murder filled half the front page, and I could cheerfully have throttled Slade. He had managed to unearth head shots of each member of the Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club, had cut them into ovals, and arranged everybody but me at the top of the article like a group of middle-aged debutantes. Willena’s picture was largest and occupied the position of honor, top and center under the headline: “Local Woman Mysteriously Murdered.” My picture was down at the bottom of the article, and the cutline read, “Judge Yarbrough does it again! The newest member of the illustrious Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club found the body of outgoing senior partner Willena Kenan.”
If Slade had been in my office, he’d have sizzled from the steam pouring from my nostrils. The volume of steam increased as I read.
Judge MacLaren Yarbrough got a jolt Monday evening when she opened a door at the Hopemore Community Center and found the body of Willena Kenan, outgoing senior partner (president) of the club and one of the heirs to the Kenan Cotton Factors fortune. The method of murder has yet to be determined by autopsy, but in a bizarre twist, a silver corkscrew was twisted into the victim’s throat. “That was one of the most gruesome sights I ever hope to see,” exclaimed Judge Yarbrough, although she has seen many. The judge has been active in the investigation of a number of murders in Hopemore in recent years.The corkscrew was part of a boxed silver bar set presented to Ms. Willena Kenan as the outgoing senior partner of the Magnolia Ladies’ Investment Club (members pictured above). The murder took place at the regular monthly meeting of the club, during a break for refreshments prepared by Ms. Wilma Kenan, cousin of the deceased and her successor as the leader of the club.According to Police Chief Charles Muggins, no arrest has been made, but Cynthia Yarbrough is being questioned in connection with the murder. According to another club member, MayBelle Brandison of Brandison Builders, Cynthia Yarbrough and Willena Kenan frequently clashed in various civic organizations. Their latest dispute took place during the meeting prior to the murder, Ms. Brandison reports, because Willena Kenan, in her role as senior partner, deferred a decision made last month to purchase stock in the insurance company Mr. Yarbrough represents until the matter of conflict of interest could be discussed. Mrs. Yarbrough pointed out that the investment club portfolio includes stocks from businesses connected with other members, “and then stomped out, furious,” said Ms. Brandison. Mrs. Yarbrough’s keys were subsequently discovered under the body of Ms. Kenan.“I am confident we will solve this murder efficiently and speedily,” declares Police Chief Muggins.
Other books
Chasing the Fire (Backdraft, Fully Involved, Flashover) by Kathryn Shay
A Pigeon and a Boy by Meir Shalev
Dying to Forget by Trish Marie Dawson
The Turncoat by Thorland, Donna
Nice Girl by Kate Baum
Relics by Mary Anna Evans
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) by White, Randy Wayne
Year of the Dog by Shelby Hearon
Metaltown by Kristen Simmons
Talking with My Mouth Full by Gail Simmons