When Did We Lose Harriet? (21 page)

“I thought it was closed until one on Sundays,” Josheba objected.

“It is. That’s why they meetin’ then.”

“How will they get in?” I asked.

“Biscuit’s made a key. Said it was the safest place in town at that hour. Mr. Henly’s not an early riser. What’s the matter with you?” she suddenly asked someone behind me.

I turned and saw a young man racing up the cracked walk. “Gotta meet somebody, and I forgot somethin.’” He hurried breathlessly inside, slamming the torn screened door behind him.

“That’s my brother Dré,” Kateisha said with offhand pride.

I had seen him clearly. A little older than Kateisha and far thinner, he wore running shoes and a gold watch that both looked far too expensive to belong to this house. But that wasn’t what made me take a couple of steps after him. It was his face. He was the boy who spoke to me in the library, the day Jake’s car was stolen.

Josheba stood and started purposefully down the walk. “We got to be goin’, Kateisha. See you later.”

Good manners left me no choice but to say a quick good-bye and follow, but as I slammed the car door, I protested, “That boy was one of the ones in the library last week. His friend stole my pocketbook, and probably Jake’s car! I should at least speak to him.”

“I recognized him,” Josheba answered grimly. “Let the police talk to him, Mac. I just want to get the heck out of here.”

I left messages for Carter all afternoon, but he didn’t call back until we were eating. “Sorry, but we’ve been real busy,” he apologized. “I saw that mechanic, though, and he told me what he told you—looks like those two vehicles hit one another. If you want to take Mr. Sykes to court to recover repair costs, I think he’d swear to it.”

Trying to speak softly enough that Jake couldn’t hear, I murmured, “That’s great, but I was calling about something else.”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

“I’ve found the friend of the boy who stole Jake’s car and snatched my purse. At least, they were reading magazines in the library together.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. His name is André, Dré for short. I don’t know his last name. But here’s the address.”

“Wahoo!” A crow of delight floated over the line. I could hear the scratch of Carter’s pen writing it down.

“He may not be there right now,” I cautioned. “He came dashing in saying he’d forgotten something and had to meet somebody somewhere. Kateisha, his sister, may know where he is, but Carter, please—don’t let Kateisha know it was me who turned him in.”

Not until we’d hung up did I remember I hadn’t told him about the Sunday morning meeting. By the time I looked up the number and called back, Carter had already left.

Remove the dross from the silver,
and out comes material for the
silversmith.
Proverbs 25:4

Glenna and Jake slept late Friday morning. I could hear two sets of gentle snores, and pictured them cozily nested—enjoying the comfort of being reunited with a dear and familiar weight on the other side of the bed. I was getting ready for some of that myself.

I tiptoed to the kitchen and made coffee. In the backyard, sunlight again played through the hackberries. They make Jake’s backyard a shady delight on sunny days, but a treacherous place to be in a storm. Glenna once told me that hackberries have no staying power. Just like some people.

I was standing admiring the hackberries and inhaling coffee fumes from my mug when the phone rang. I grabbed it before it could waken the happy sleepers.

“It looks like you were right, Miss MacLaren.” I knew it was Carter, even if he didn’t say so. “That girl was Harriet,
all right. Dee Sykes identified her from the picture, and when we asked about any identifying marks, said she’d broken her arm when she was six. That showed up in the autopsy, but we hadn’t asked about it the first time, since the other family was so sure. We checked with them again, and their daughter never broke hers. As you can well imagine, that’s got things pretty stirred up down here. I knew you’d want to know.”

“I’m glad to know, Carter, even if I’m not
glad.
Know what I mean?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sure do. Also, we picked up the boy you mentioned, and got more than we expected. Remember I told you we’ve had a series of petty break-ins? When we printed him, he’s one of the perpetrators. They’ve been stealing—”

“Old coins!” I finished for him. “I should have known. They were reading up on the subject in the library. Did you get the other one?”

“No, Dré won’t tell us who or where he is. And there’s something else. Something you aren’t going to like. A witness to one of the break-ins got a good look at the getaway car. They’d muddied the tag, but—”

“Oh, no!” I sat down, suddenly weighing a ton. “Jake’s?”

“Afraid so. We’ll need to bring it downtown and go over it. Tell him, will you?”

“You’re asking the condemned woman to sharpen her own guillotine, you know.”

Glenna got to the kitchen before Jake. When I told her what Carter had said, she said, “I think you’re making more of this than you have to. You were doing Jake a favor—”

“Who was doing Jake a favor?” Jake himself stood in the doorway, pink and rumpled from sleep. He tied the belt of his robe a bit tighter and sat down.

Southern women are experts at diversion. “It’s nothing, honey.” Glenna patted his hand. “What kind of cereal do you want? I bought several new ones I think you’ll like.”

Grumpily he looked over the selection she set out. “Grass and hay,” he muttered, pouring himself out a bowlful and digging in. Before he was half done, though, he gave me a sharp look. “Okay. Tell me what this favor is you were doing me.”

“I told you. I took your place at the center.” I poured myself another cup of coffee.

“And?” His face was getting pink.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Glenna told him sharply.

I sighed. “He’s going to find out sometime. It might as well be now. Okay, Jake, it was like this. And if you have another heart attack over it, I’ll never forgive either one of us. Keep that in mind.”

I started backwards: “Your car—

“My car!” He yelped. He turned to Glenna. “Did you let her…I
never
let her drive my car. You know that!”

“Well, I did,” I told him shortly, “and you might as well get used to that fact, because that’s the least of it. Sit there and keep your shirt on until I finish.”

“Where
is
my car?” he demanded. “I want the dad-burned truth.”

I propped my chin with two fists and leaned over so my face was close to his. “You want the truth, brother? Here it is. Your car is at the mechanic’s getting the dents out from when somebody rammed me. That was right after we’d gotten it back and put on new tires from when it got stolen. I’ll get you a new radio and a paint job later. But while it was stolen, it got used in some robberies, so now the police need it a while. They’ll bring it back once they’ve gone over it. Is that enough to put you back in the hospital?”

He glowered at me. I glowered right back. My face felt as red as his looked. Maybe we’d both have heart attacks. They could give us a double room.

“Don’t forget, honey,” Glenna said, laying a hand on his shoulder, “MacLaren got into this mess trying to help
you,
taking your place at the center.”

Jake hitched up his bathrobe and scowled ferociously. “She didn’t have to use my car.”

I’d had about all I was willing to stand. “If that car is more valuable to you than your life, go ahead and have another heart attack and get it over with!”

Jake glared at me, breathing hard, but after a minute he nodded. “Hate to admit it, Clara, but you’re right for once. One of the orderlies told me I could stay calm if I’d just remember two things: don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s mostly all small stuff.” He swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re okay. And the car? Well, it’s just a car.” We all knew how hard that was for him to say.

To give him a minute to regain himself, Glenna said quietly to me, “I forgot to tell you, Clara. I spoke with Wylie Fergusson from the bank when he came to see Jake yesterday. He told me privately that William’s store is barely making it. The bank gave William a loan on June fourth, but if things don’t change, William could lose everything.”

In case you’re wondering why a banker would confide that sort of thing to my sister-in-law, you may not know that when Glenna’s daddy died, he left her half that bank.

Glenna took a sip of coffee and sighed. “Poor Lou Ella.”

“Poor William,” I added. “And poor Dee and Julie. Their nail-polish bills alone would put a lesser man in the poor house.”

Carter came over on his lunch hour. When I had a minute alone with him, I asked, “Carter, could you show me where they found Harriet?”

“Sure, Miss MacLaren, but why on earth do you want to go poking around up there? There won’t be anything there after all this time.”

“I know,” I admitted, “but I don’t think I’ll ever sleep easy until I’ve at least seen it. What I imagine has got to be worse, and if that sounds odd—”

“My daddy says an abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.”

“Is your daddy a psychologist?”

“No, ma’am. He works at the zoo.”

That afternoon I drove Glenna’s Ford past a white gazebo, pulled over the crest of a hill dotted with tombstones, and drove around behind. I parked and got out. It was a beautiful spot, but the mosquitoes had it to themselves. I fanned several away as I looked around.

This, the oldest part of Oakwood Cemetery, covered a large gentle hill with towering cedars dripping moss—which was surprising in itself. Montgomery is generally north of the Spanish moss line. Back in 1817, the cemetery would have been on the outskirts of town. Today it is surrounded by city, yet retains the same sense of separateness and peace. A little one-lane, the only road, winds over the top, is cut into the hill about halfway down at the back, and curves back around the crest toward the gate. Where it had been cut out, the hillside is reinforced with stone walls.

On the back lower side of the hill, my car and I were both hidden from view unless somebody happened to be in the newer cemetery on an adjoining hill. Today, nobody was.

Tombstones only marched halfway downhill on the lower side of the road. Beyond them, grassy lawn rolled toward what looked like a stream with a small bridge across it.

“Hank Williams is buried on top of a hill in the new part of the cemetery,” Carter had told me, “and the police
station is sort of between the two, just beyond the gully. Call me when you leave home. I’ll look out for you and come up when you get there.”

I walked along the road a short way, swatting mosquitoes. Only when I turned to retrace my steps could I see the police station and a smattering of cars, hidden by ivy and kudzu from where I had parked. Carter waved and loped toward me.

“Sure aren’t any living people around,” I commented as he arrived, waving away his own mosquito escort.

“Too hot. Nobody up here at this time of day but us bugs.” Carter pointed down the hill. “She was found in that patch of kudzu.”

Involuntarily, I shivered. The mound of pesky, rapid-growing vine with its large dull leaves was a perfect hiding place. Even if people came to wander among graves, they wouldn’t poke around in kudzu. I once heard James Dickey read a poem about the stuff. Only James Dickey could find meaning in kudzu. He said snakes thrive underneath it, and if I were a snake, I’d crawl under there, too, out of the sun and away from mowers. Somebody must keep this kudzu cut back, though. Unchecked it would have covered the entire cemetery in a month, the city of Montgomery in three, and the state of Alabama in six.

I meandered downhill, feeling soft grass brush the tops of my feet and the sun beat down on my head. At the edge of the gully, I peered in. At the moment the bottom was only a trickle of water and a bed of beautiful sculpted sand. Imagine taking that much trouble with a stream bottom! Then I looked at the gully walls. The watermark was ten feet above the bottom. Beyond the gully was a single railroad track.

“That’s where she lay,” Carter repeated from behind me. He went right up to the kudzu and knelt in the grass. I looked around for a stick in case I needed to defend him from copperheads. “The police and medical examiner checked everything at the time, of course, in case it was
a homicide, but by now there’s nothing left. Not with all the insects and the rain we’ve had this summer.”

“And she had no pocketbook or anything?”

He shook his head. “I checked again. They found a couple of packs of cigarettes underneath her and one in her pocket, but that’s all she had except a couple of dollars.”

“Cigarettes?” I was puzzled. “She didn’t smoke, Carter. Ricky and Lewis said Harriet had a fit if anybody smoked around her.”

He swatted a mosquito. “I’m just telling you what they found. Maybe the cigarettes were there when she lay down, and she felt too bad to move them.”

I felt faintly sick as I looked at Harriet’s last bed. Why wasn’t that child alive to enjoy this wonderful day? “She must have been utterly exhausted to lie down there. Could she have been bitten by a copperhead?”

He smacked a persistent mosquito. “Nope. Copperhead bites are seldom fatal—she’d have been in pain, but she could have gotten to help. And if she hadn’t, she’d have had enough swelling so that forensics would have spotted it right away.”

He stood and brushed grass off his knees. “You’ve been reading too many mystery novels, Miss MacLaren. These days they look for everything. She wasn’t bitten by a snake, poisoned, shot, strangled, or beaten to death. She just got sick and died.”

I stood looking at that mound of kudzu, trying to picture the brown-haired girl with golden eyes feeling weak, staggering downhill, and lying under the vine where it was cool. “She’d have gone across the bridge,” I objected, pointing. “The police station is right over there. If she’d gotten sick she’d have gone there, Carter. She wouldn’t have lain down in a patch of kudzu, for heaven’s sake. You know that as well as I do.”

I turned and laboriously climbed toward my car up a short spur of unpaved road—no more than wheel ruts and big gravel, really—that humped up from the lawn
toward the pavement and made walking easier. That was good, because I couldn’t see very well. Tears blurred my vision.

Carter took my elbow the last few steps. “You had enough?”

“More than enough. I’ll let you solve the murder. All I wanted to do was find the child.” I felt a hundred years old.

He spoke slowly like he was feeling for the right words. “Miss MacLaren, I know how you feel, but you just have to accept something: there wasn’t any murder. There was no evidence whatsoever of foul play. None. We had the wrong girl, sure, so we’ll let the other family know, but after that, the case is closed. I really appreciate your nosing around and finding out who she was, though.” He chuckled. “Jake’s always said you have the instincts of a first-rate bird dog.”

I had to turn away so he couldn’t see my face. “You won’t be talking to people who knew her or anything?”

“It’s a mystery, ma’am, not a homicide. Well, I’d better get back to work. You know, from the station, I couldn’t even see your car. It’s a good thing you went for a little walk.”

I drove home slower than usual. Once again I’d forgotten to tell Carter about Sunday’s early meeting, but I scarcely cared. I didn’t really think Ricky Dodd had killed Myrna, so I didn’t care if Carter found him again or not. What mattered to me was Harriet. I knew in my bones she didn’t just up and die on that hillside. Somebody helped her. And I wouldn’t sleep well until I found out who.

I felt like I ought to go see Eunice again. If I didn’t tell her about Harriet, who would? She might be back at work, of course, but from the way she’d carried on, I didn’t think she’d return until after Myrna was buried.

The crime tape had been removed, and the little green house dozed in the sun. As I approached, Eunice’s
old Persian leaped onto the steps from beneath the porch and sashayed up ahead of me.

Eunice came to the door in saggy blue Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt from the Atlanta Olympics. She seemed delighted to have company. “Hello! Come on in.”

Wisps of hair had escaped from a careless ponytail, which she swiped at as she led the way into the living room. Once again it was as cold as an Arctic afternoon. “Stay a while,” she invited. “Can I get you some tea?”

Today the room was not all white. I sat gingerly on a dark blue chair that had been set where the sofa used to be. Had the sofa been sent out to be recovered, or sent to a dump? I tried not to picture it as I had last seen it, covered with Myrna.

On the coffee table was another spot of color—a bowl of pink and yellow daisies in front of a framed photograph of a mother and child with the same dark hair and tawny eyes. I picked up the picture and looked at it. The child’s chubby features were vaguely familiar. “Myrna, with Harriet?”