Roots of Murder (24 page)

Nell immediately answered. “Your services are very welcome, and your conditions, considering the history, are most mild. You are, of course, right about the mayor's race, and from our end we can promise not to take advantage of your presence in the office to gain inside information about your campaign. Can you be at the office on Monday at around nine?” She hit send.

Certainly it had been racist, seen in the light of today, and Nell was ashamed of the Crier's decision to hide the color of a reporter's skin. But it was both easy and hard to judge. In absolutes it was wrong, but for the time and place, just letting a black man be a reporter for the—and there was no other name for it—white paper, the paper of record, was a small step. Or maybe this is just my way of trying to rationalize it all, Nell thought, to lessen the burden of inherited guilt. I wonder if I'll ever have the nerve to ask Marcus what he thinks about it.

She got up from the computer. It was barely eight o'clock; no children for hours. No one to judge her if she poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass and sat out in the backyard to watch the stars.

The first sip was a comforting burn. I need not to care, not to think, Nell told herself. Not to feel. These empty moments let too much in. Nell could handle the
day-by
-day, what to do in the morning, how to fill the afternoon, but staring at the stretch of future was daunting. How do I take care of two fatherless children? Today and tomorrow and next year and the next? Is this the life I want? In this small town? Running Thom's paper? Or is it my paper now?

Two fingers weren't enough. Nell fetched the Scotch bottle from the kitchen and brought it with her. As she poured, she thought, is this the only comfort I have? The blurring of alcohol? Then a jolting thought: is this what J.J. was after?

“No,” Nell said aloud. “There is a goddamn difference. I'm sitting in my backyard, and I'm not getting into a car until I'm
stone-cold
sober.” J.J. might have been running from the confines of a life that would never be bigger than working at his brothers' garage, a grasping wife and kids he'd never planned for. But if his life was small and closing in on him; those were his choices. Maybe he went to the bars to relive the glory days of high school football, or to get away from his wife and squalling kids and slip into a fantasy of another life. But he'd escaped as recklessly as he had lived his life, no heed to the consequences.

Nell put the cap back on the bottle of Scotch. That, in the end, was the difference; she would pay heed to the consequences. She finished what was in her glass, letting the evening blur into cool air and bright points of light in the sky.

Only as the night turned to chill did she get up and go in, carefully washing the glass, putting the Scotch back, moving it behind some of the other liquor bottles. She brushed her teeth, gargled; hid the traces of her lapse.

She was in bed reading when she heard Josh and Lizzie return. Nell poked her head out long enough to make sure they were heading straight to bed. She said little, afraid that her words might slur tellingly. They took her claim of tiredness at face value, and then the lights were out.

Nell slid quietly into the oblivion of sleep.

eleven

Josh and Lizzie were
lively at breakfast, with Josh trying ardently to convince Lizzie that he and his bicycling buddy Joey had seen a bear in the woods.

“It wasn't a bear,” Lizzie said. “It was probably Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.” Her
big-sister
disdain was clearly expressed on her face. “Or the result of eating five hot dogs.”

“I didn't have five hot dogs!” Josh retorted.

“Okay, four and a half.”

“Maybe I had four, but over the whole evening.”

Nell was almost glad that Mrs. Thomas, Sr. would get to referee this fight. Josh was developing the appetite of an adolescent boy and Lizzie was developing the delicacies of an adolescent girl—having potential boyfriends watch her younger brother wolf down food was a social disaster. Clearly she was going to spend the day making Josh understand that big sisters did not take social embarrassment lightly.

Nell put a temporary halt to further retorts by saying, “You need to hurry up. Your grandmother is going to be here any minute.”

“Do we really have to stay the night?” Lizzie wheedled.

“Yes, you do. I don't know how late I'm going to get home tonight, so it's better if you stay.”

“Better for who,” Lizzie muttered.

“Better for whom?” Nell corrected, but made no further answer. “Get packing. Unless you want me to pack for you.”

That threat sent them to their rooms, and after a flurry of activity, Josh and Lizzie had overnight cases in hand just as Mrs. Thomas, Sr. pulled into the driveway.

To forestall her coming in—and seeing the breakfast dishes still on the table—Nell led her reluctant children out the door.

“Good morning, Mother,” she called.

“Good morning, Nell,” Mrs. Thomas answered. She got out of the car to give Josh and Lizzie a hug and to supervise the stowing of luggage. She didn't give Nell a hug, but then she rarely did, only on the necessary occasions when it would have been an obvious slight. Even from the beginning, Thom had seemed aware his mother and his wife would not be close friends. They got along, both too polite to devolve into anything less. Nell had genuinely enjoyed the company of her
father-in
-law, so usually he and she would pair off, and Thom attended to his mother. But those two stalwart buffers, the men in their lives, were gone. As she watched Mrs. Thomas, Sr. instruct Josh on proper trunk shutting—firm but not hard—Nell thought, we can be allies or enemies, something to be looked at in strategic light. They both wanted Josh and Lizzie to be healthy and happy, they both wanted the paper to remain viable and important. The devil is in the details, Nell reminded herself—they just weren't always in agreement about what was healthy and happy or viable and important.

“What time would you like me to come get them tomorrow?” Nell asked.

“We'll go to church, of course, and then I thought it might be nice to do luncheon at Tutweiler's while they're all dressed.”

Nell didn't respond to the gauntlets which that seemingly innocuous reply threw down. She and Thom did not regularly go to church, feeling more comfortable with a tepid Protestantism that reserved church for weddings, funerals, Christmas, and Easter. They had been liberal about religion, letting Josh and Lizzie accompany friends to Catholic and Jewish services. Nor would they have said no to Muslim or Buddhist services, but those had yet to come up. Mrs. Thomas, Sr. and Thom had argued about it. After hearing about the trip to the synagogue, she'd said, “Where do you draw the line? Paganism? Satanic worship?” Thom had given her the usual reply: “There's no harm in them being exposed to a variety of beliefs. They are our children; we get to raise them our way.”

Nell decided it wasn't capitulation to her
mother-in
-law to let her haul her grandchildren off to her church, but an example of their tenet of exploring religions.

Mrs. Thomas, Sr. came from a family with money, something she'd been chary of reminding both her husband and son about. They'd made it clear they would make it on their own—as men should. Tutweiler's was the nicest restaurant in the area, and luncheon there would equal a week's worth of groceries in Nell's budget. Nell tried to take the charitable view: Mrs. Thomas was lonely, wanted a chance to indulge, and taking her grandchildren out presented a perfect opportunity. The uncharitable view was that her
mother-in
-law was using her money to covertly buy them by offering things Nell could never afford.

“Why don't you give me a call after lunch”—she wouldn't say luncheon—“and I'll come by and pick them up?”

“That will be fine,” Mrs. Thomas affirmed; any goodbye was lost in the starting of the engine. Josh and Lizzie waved as she pulled out of the driveway.

Nell headed back to the house, wondering if her children had been savvy enough to pack
church-going
clothes.

She quickly washed the breakfast dishes and wiped down the stove and table, mostly because, if Josh and Lizzie did lack a suitable wardrobe, Mrs. Thomas, Sr. might come by to help them pick out something. Suddenly she wondered if she should feel slighted she hadn't been invited to join them at Tutweiler's. It was only today that she was busy. “Maybe if I volunteered to go to church with them, I might have been invited,” she groused aloud. Then she decided she probably had been left out, but she didn't really want to go to a fancy restaurant with Mrs. Thomas, Sr. and would have a better time sleeping late anyway.

The leisure from the previous night didn't linger. The possibility that Mrs. Thomas, Sr. might reappear for some vital thing Nell had neglected to pack, and the coming events of the day, left her tense. First she would be the sheriff's poodle—as close as she could, anyway, covering his selected story. Then there was the evening. To get the decision over with, Nell retreated to her bedroom to look for something suitable to wear.

They had gone to a few Mardi Gras balls and assorted other
high-social
events, but not often enough for Nell to have amassed a wardrobe of any great note. “Red, blue, or black,” she muttered as she considered her choices. Really, blue or black. The red wouldn't do, not with its plunging neckline. That, and Thom had picked it out. She'd been trying on a demure cream thing and Thom had brought the red dress over to her. When she'd come out of the dressing room, he'd said, “You are absolutely, rivetingly hot in that.” He enjoyed the attention she got wearing that dress even more than she did. Nell had muttered a complaint about the looks her cleavage was getting; Thom had merely grinned and replied, “Let them look at what they can't touch.” Oddly, it had been reaffirming for Nell, quieting the little voice that whispered she was smart, not pretty. Thom, the man she most wanted to be pretty for, thought she was beautiful and was confident enough to display her for other men to envy.

Nell quickly put the red dress at the back of the closet. She couldn't wear it—not for a long time, maybe never again. The black was what she called bland black. It was suitable, but she didn't really like it; one of those hurried decisions, she had needed something
full-length
and had needed it that day. It was sequined and beaded and felt heavy and lumpy when Nell wore it, making her feel heavy and lumpy as well.

She looked at the blue. It was cobalt,
three-quarter
-length, which meant worrying about shoes and hose. This is ridiculous, Nell thought. It's not a date, just a job. Wear the blue, pick up some hose somewhere during the day, rub a rag over the black pumps, and leave it at that.

That decision made, Nell headed to the Crier. The house was too lonely, with too many memories.

As she expected, she was the only one there, but she wanted the quiet, an hour or two of having only herself to pay attention to.

Then it was time to go appease the sheriff. Nell quickly grabbed a camera and notebook in case she needed to pretend to write something down.

When she got to the courthouse, Nell noticed Jacko's car was parked on one of the side streets. He was indeed plowing through musty old records.

The sheriff was already there, in a dress uniform that had been fitted in slimmer days. But he would be fine if he remembered to suck in his stomach for the brief click of the camera. Several of his deputies were there, also in dress uniforms, including his one woman deputy.

Sheriff Hickson greeted her. Nell dutifully introduced herself to the deputies, including getting the correct spelling of their names. She'd just finished when a gleaming silver Bentley turned the corner. Nell took several strides up the courthouse steps to get a shot of both the sheriff and the car. And the female deputy.

The car stopped in front of the assembled group. A uniformed man—white, Nell noted, wondering if it was just happenstance or if the descendant of a plantation owner had made a deliberate choice—immediately jumped out of the driver's seat to open the back door. An elegant woman emerged. There were a few murmurs of confusion, but Nell immediately understood. She had just recharged the camera and would take pictures until the battery wore out. Sheriff Hickson's rich cousin was a black woman.

“Check and mate,” Nell muttered to herself as her camera caught the woman extending her hand to the sheriff.

“How do you do, Sheriff Hickson. I'm Beatrice Carver, your
long-lost
cousin,” the woman said. Nell had to admire her aplomb—and her gumption for both setting up this situation and walking into it.

For a moment, the sheriff looked utterly perplexed. He stole a quick look at Nell, as if to say, get that camera out of here. Nell snapped the shot. Then, in a nuance that the camera couldn't capture, she saw the political creature overcome the redneck good old boy.
Twenty-five
percent of Tchula County was black; Sheriff Hickson smiling and happy to discover a
long-lost
cousin who just happened to be black could improve his support in a group that almost always voted for whoever ran against him.

He extended his hand and gave hers a hearty shake, one he made sure Nell caught on film. “Pleased to meet you, Miz Carver. Any
long-lost
cousin is … uh … well … is welcome here.” Not giving her a chance to speak, he continued. “Now, Miz Carver, I want you to know how much the people of Tchula County 'preciate your generous gesture. Crime's a worry for folks 'round here, and a
brand-new
patrol car will help us do our duty. Now, I'd like to introduce you to some of the men you … the men and women you are aiding in our cause.” With that, he proceeded to introduce Beatrice Carver to each and every deputy, getting a little banter going with each—anything to avoid giving her a chance to point out that a forefather of the sheriff's had raped a foremother of hers.

After Sheriff Hickson ran out of deputies, he hesitated for a moment and Nell quickly made the decision for him, coming over to introduce herself to Beatrice Carver. The sheriff glared at her as she added, “I'd love to interview you about your research and experiences in tracing your family line.”

Beatrice gave Nell a smile that indicated she knew a coconspirator when she saw one. “I would be delighted,” she answered.

“Might have to wait for another time,” Sheriff Hickson cut in. “I want to make sure that Miz Carver gets a chance to see our office, then we got the official presenting of the check. Don't want to rush through the important stuff.”

But Beatrice Carver was the patron and she could change the agenda—or at least hew to her real objective, exposing the tangled racial legacy that had led to her and a Southern sheriff being kin. “The ‘important stuff' isn't so important that it will take more than an hour. It really is just handing you the check”—this to the sheriff. Then, to Nell, “After that, we can have the whole afternoon to talk.”

“Perfect,” Nell agreed, giving Sheriff Hickson a big smile. After all, he was the one who'd insisted she be here.

The “important stuff” took considerably less than an hour, probably closer to five minutes. It mostly consisted of Henry, the chauffeur—Nell noticed an earring in one ear and wondered if he was gay; he certainly did seem to be having a good time tossing all the expected notions on their head—getting an oversized check out of the trunk of the car. Beatrice Carver and Sheriff Hickson, remembering to suck in his stomach, posed holding the check between them long enough for both Nell and one of the deputies to take shots until the sheriff had to breathe again. Then there was the exchange of the real check, and Beatrice waved goodbye to Sheriff Hickson and tucked her arm into Nell's.

“Have you eaten or are you up for lunch?” she asked Nell. She suggested they go to the best restaurant in Pelican Bay.

Nell listed several, but the best was Tutweiler's. Well, at least I get to go, Nell thought. She followed the Bentley in her car. After a few blocks, Nell noticed another car also following. That it made no attempt to hide made her suspect Beatrice had not come with just Henry and his earring to protect her. She was proven right when they pulled into the restaurant parking lot and the second car parked next to the Bentley. Three men who would have looked more appropriate coming out of the Saint's locker room emerged.

“Should we eat here?” one of them asked Beatrice.

“Not unless this kind of food appeals to you,” she replied, clearly knowing the answer.

A few suggestions from Nell headed them to the best beer and burger joint in town, with an agreement to meet later at the Crier office.

As they entered the restaurant, Nell was glad she'd decided to dress in what she called “high professional” instead of her usual khaki slacks and cotton shirt. Her dark charcoal wool pants and cream raw silk shirt should pass the Tutweiler's standard. Beatrice Carver had dressed to match her car—an elegant burgundy suit, her only jewelry a strand of pearls that had the irregularities to prove them hand-
plucked from the sea, and a set of matching earrings.