Roots of Murder (16 page)

“Precisely,” Nell said. “And you did a great job with the source at the morgue. I got a lot of it from Ellen, but having more than one source is a very good thing—it allows
cross-checking
and it also covers our tracks better.”

“You really think that's so necessary for this? They were murdered, but it had to be decades ago.”

“Hatred strong enough to do this doesn't easily go away. I'd rather be safe.” Nell paused a moment for the implications to sink in, then told Jacko, “Now get to these pictures. We've got a paper to put out.”

Jacko saluted, grabbed the
print-outs
, and headed back to his desk.

Nell pulled up the story to reread, see if she wanted to add anything. She looked at the screen for a moment, then decided to check her email. Sometimes it was a way to avoid work, but occasionally a break from staring at the screen gave her brain time to do its subconscious sorting. Amid the usual junk email was a reply from Marcus Fletcher.

“Good, brave story. You tell it straight without losing the weight of it,” he wrote. “I've taken the liberty of doing a little editing. Attached is my version. Respectfully yours, Marcus.”

Nell opened his attachment. Had she more time, she would have waited. Editing is a tricky business and she had known many disappointing editors in her career. She didn't want Marcus Fletcher to be one. His praise mattered to her. In the past, all she needed was Thom telling her it was a good story. His admiration—and judgment—cancelled out everything else. Nell realized she needed those strokes; they told her she was going in the right direction and would find her path. Now she felt lost in a way she never had before. Until she'd met Thom, she'd always been the one to go it alone. Now she was alone again and she couldn't seem to remember how she'd done it before. Thom had been her equal in many ways; he meant his compliments because he also didn't withhold criticism, but even his red marks weren't there to cut her down but to push her to do better, to go a little further than she thought she could.

With a harsh shake of her head, Nell told herself she had to get a paper out. The last few issues had been mostly filler, stories taken from the wire or minor pieces, drifting ink. Dolan and Jacko had cobbled them together, doing the best they could; she was only floating in the background. This would be the first real paper with Nell in charge.

She started reading his edits. There weren't many; two typos, a query about an unclear point. A suggested rearrangement of sentences and an idea for a better opening line. He was right; every single one of them made it a better, tighter story. Nell felt a quickening, like she was again finding her path. He hadn't disappointed her and she trusted his instincts enough to believe his praise. She started to write Marcus a thank you, but didn't. He'd see the story tomorrow; somehow she knew that would be enough. She made his changes and saved the file, then read over one last time what would appear on tomorrow's front page.

A recent storm took the life of a tree, uprooting it and disturbing the ground it had stood on for several decades. Not an uncommon occurrence in an area known for hurricanes and sudden rumbling thunderstorms. But this tree, half a mile along a rarely used trail in the state park, had secrets hidden in its roots. The disturbed ground and a hiker passing by finally brought an unmarked grave into the open. The hiker, experienced in anthropology, knew enough to recognize the bones as human.

Forensic experts, taking over from the hiker's quick survey, have excavated the location. What they have found is even more disturbing than the mere sight of a human skeleton. Three bodies were piled into one grave and indications are that all three were murdered. According to several sources, two of the bodies were female, one
African-American
, one white; the third body was an
African-American
male. All were young adults, in either their late teens or early twenties. From the condition of the skeletons and coins found in the grave that were likely in the victim's clothing, experts guess that this lonely grave has remained undisturbed for close to fifty years.

The land now belongs to the state park. It was donated in 1985 by Hubert Horace Pickings, Pelican Bay's current mayor. The mayor's family held the property for over twenty years before turning it over to the state. Once part of a vast tract of woods and farmland, today it is divided into the parkland, which is left to its natural state, and land on the Tchula River that was the location of the paper mill that closed in 1992.

The sheriff's department is handling the investigation and said that as of yet they are unable to answer questions as to whether these murders could be tied to the civil rights violence during the 1960s. The inquiry is ongoing and authorities are seeking any information about the identity of the bodies or about the murders.

Nell gathered the rest of the stories. Carrie, as she suspected, didn't turn in anything related to a story she might have worked on during the morning. Dolan did get Ina Claire's cooking column into reasonable shape.

“The reason I do the business side is because I can't write,” he had gruffly said as he handed it to Nell.

“No, the reason you do the business side is that you write well, you just manage better,” she replied. He rewarded her with his
brush-off
wave of the hands and the slight pink in his face that told her he appreciated the compliment.

For the next few hours the office had a purposeful hum. Pam was starting to do more of the graphic design and she and Nell had a running dialogue as they sized things into the proper format. Ina Claire did a deli run for lunch, giving precise instructions on sandwich preparation, which resulted in something better than the usual tired roast beef or ham and cheese.

Dolan, as business manager, didn't have many direct duties in getting the paper to press but was usually around. Today he seemed more around than normal. First Nell just thought of the cliché—he like a father expecting a baby—but as she watched him help Ina Claire distribute the lunch sandwiches, she realized it would be more apt to call him a father who is watching his son put a car back together for the first time. Will it start, will it run? Nell amended her metaphor further: like a father watching his daughter put the car back together. Dolan had started out with Thom's father, and in some ways his life was more invested in the paper than hers was.

They made the deadline, with little to spare. Kane Printing knew that the Crier was going to arrive around three on Thursday afternoon. Nell let Jacko and Dolan have the honors of delivering the words and images that would turn into tomorrow's newspaper. They could send it electronically, but there was a relief in the ritual of getting in a car and going, as if the paper deserved the effort and movement.

Nell didn't retreat to her office, instead hung out in the newsroom with Pam and Ina Claire, content to simply sit and let Ina Claire give Pam cooking tips, or actually sandwich tips: special mustards, a variety of lettuces, Brie instead of cheddar.

Nell suddenly glanced at her watch. “Damn. School's out.”

Just as she remembered her responsibilities, the phone rang and Pam picked it up.

“Hi, Lizzie, she left a minute ago,” Pam said into the receiver. Nell quickly retrieved her purse while Pam continued. “We just put the paper to bed; she managed a bathroom break and headed out the door.”

Nell's actions matched Pam's words, albeit a little off on timing.

Press day was always hectic, and Nell had been the one who usually pulled it all together. If either of them had to go on a kid errand, it was Thom more often than not. As she braked for a light turning red, Nell felt an abrupt heaviness at all the little changes, the details, routines that worked before and would no longer, all the small places that would have to change and would add up to huge changes. Time to throw out the jar of sweet pickles in the refrigerator; only Thom liked them. She felt a pang at taking one minor thing off the grocery list.

The light changed and she drove on. As she came to a stop sign, a red truck slipped through the intersection, honoring the octagonal sign with the barest of slowing. Nell watched as it drove in the direction of the school.

Her stop probably wasn't perfectly legal. As fast as she dared, she drove to where Josh and Lizzie were to be waiting. To her relief, the truck didn't turn into the schoolyard but kept on going.

“Sorry I'm late,” Nell called as she pulled in beside her waiting children. Josh had his bike with him. As she got out to help stow it in the trunk, she added, “It was hectic getting the paper out and I couldn't get away sooner.”

“That's okay. I got to tell half the football team that, yeah, my little brother knows better than to pick on me,” Lizzie said.

“You did not,” Josh rejoined, his beloved bike secure. “You just used me as a show and tell to flirt with them. Hey, I get the front, I'm the injured one,” he said as they both converged at the car door.

“You can spread out in the back seat. I've got seniority.”

“Accident of birth,” Josh replied, but let Lizzie have the front seat.

Nell was glad to see them in their usual sparring match, teetering on the edge between affection and annoyance. She usually let them go unless things ended up too much on the annoyance side. As Josh got in, she watched him in the rearview mirror. Location made the scrape on his chin the most noticeable, but there was a bruise behind it, and Nell could also see part of the abrasion and bruises on the hurt arm.

“Do you want to go back to the office with me or to your grandmother's?” Nell asked.

“It's afternoon, can't we go home?” Lizzie whined.

“Did I mention that as an option?” Nell returned.

“I need to do some stuff on the computer,” she argued.

“We have computers at the paper. You can use one of them,” Nell answered, deliberately playing the dumb mother. She knew Lizzie wanted to be on the computer to check her email and chat with friends, not do the research she was implying she had to do.

“Can you drop me by the bike shop? The front tire is all messed up and I'd like to look at it before I go riding,” Josh said.

Nell did another parent translation: he was going to look at Kate looking at it. “That adds another option,” she said. “Paper, grandmother, or bike shop.” Kate had offered, after all.

“What would I do at the paper?” Lizzie groused.

“Work on the computer, like you said you needed to. Or there's always cleaning the bathrooms.”

“I guess I'll go to the bike shop.”

“Yeah, the bathrooms there can be cleaned, too,” Josh piped up from the back seat.

That decision made, although she suspected there would be little bathroom cleaning involved, Nell headed for the bike shop.

Halfway there, a red truck passed her. Nell almost slammed on the brakes until she noticed the writing on the side identifying it as Flanagan's Plumbing, and she recognized Mr. Flanagan and his wife riding in it. They usually took out a small ad in every paper.

They're getting to me when I'm spooked by
half-the
-
size-of
-
a-gnome
Mr. Flanagan and his even shorter wife, Nell thought as she let the truck pull away. How do I make this go away? If I ask the DA to go easy on J.J, then I have to worry that next time, he'll swerve into Josh or Lizzie. Or take me out and leave them with no parents. But how long do I have to watch for red trucks? As long as J.J. is in prison? Maybe just long enough for Tanya to find another boyfriend and the Jones brothers to get used to doing the work their brother used to do? She hoped the alcohol had robbed them of long memories.

The rest of the ride to the bike store was truckless, red or otherwise.

Lizzie was content to let Josh wrestle his bike out of the trunk, but Nell felt she had to help even if her son seemed not to want help, especially not from an old lady like his mother. “I've got it,” he said as he tried again to lift it out, the wheel having been shifted so that it no longer caught in the trunk hinges. Nell kept a discreet hand on the back tire, guiding its protruding gears away from the finish of her car.

Josh wheeled his bike into the shop.

“Hey,” Kate called out, “the brave bike warrior. What's the damage?”

“How'd you know?” Josh asked.

“Your mom and I were out digging bones in the woods when the call came. I couldn't avoid knowing,” she said, as if to say it's no one's fault you were deprived of telling the tale.

“I think the front wheel is pretty messed up,” Josh said.

“Hi, Kate,” Nell greeted her. “Do you know my daughter … ?”

“Hey, Kate.” Lizzie cut her off with an easy familiarity.

My children live lives that I'm not part of, Nell thought. Obviously Lizzie had met Kate long enough ago to be able to call her Kate instead of Ms. Ryan, which would have been the standard way Nell and Thom had trained her. But Nell didn't know when or how. That was another adjustment you made as a parent, from being in every part of your child's life to letting them go.

“Kate, how much would you hate me if I left the kids to your tender mercies and did some more paperwork at the office?” Nell asked her.

“Not at all. Lizzie can man the counter—she's cute enough to bring the boys in—and Josh and I can check out his bike. If it's after six, I'll take them to my house and we can all have fun pulling weeds out of my garden.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate that,” Nell said.

“So would my garden,” Kate answered as she moved from behind the counter to let Lizzie in. Kate waved goodbye, but Josh was too focused on his bike and Lizzie on watching for boys to pay attention to their mother leaving. Kate had been very kind, not only in looking after the kids but in how generous she was about it, especially in offering to keep them after the store closed. And in a way that didn't sound like babysitting.