Roots of Murder Page 6

  “Thom’s not here,” Nell retorted, angry at him for using Thom’s putative views to bolster his, and angry at herself for the grief and anger that slipped in a moment of banal banter.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lambert said, “and I’m sorry for your …”

  Nell abruptly cut him off. “We haven’t been introduced,” she said to the woman.

  “How do you do?” she said, offering Nell her hand. “I’m Desiree Hunter, the voice of reality in the Dupree campaign, which is why I’ve been silent.” Her hand was also dry, and her handshake firm for a woman. She seemed to sense that this was not the time to offer condolences to the recent widow. “I must also confess to being one of the strongest voices urging Aaron to run. Off the record, I’ve reached my quota of being able to say ‘Mayor’ Pickings. Another four years is far beyond my capacity.”

  “Too bad that’s off the record,” Nell said. “It’s the best quote I’ve heard so far today.”

  “We’ll have coffee after the election and I’ll tell you what I really think.”

  Nell smiled at her.

  Her introduction led to the introduction of all the staff. Nell listened politely as Dolan explained the running of the paper to Aaron Dupree, who was either genuinely interested or doing an excellent job of pretending. He was even clearly trying to remember the names of all the staff who weren’t present: Alessandra Charles, who did the ad sales and worked mostly from home; Harry who did the fishing and boating columns; Stan, who did the movie reviews; the various stringers from along the coast; even the interns from the local college.

  Carrie was hovering near, her eyes on Aaron. This was a candidate she would be happy to cover.

  Desiree Hunter took papers from a portfolio she was carrying. “Here’s the usual stuff,” she said as she handed them to Nell. “Background, goals Aaron would like to accomplish if he’s elected, a few perfectly posed pictures. The schedule for upcoming events.”

  “So do you think he’s going to have an uphill battle to defeat Hubert?” Nell asked softly.

  “I think Aaron’s the best man for the job. I think the people of Pelican Bay are smart enough to realize that.” Something in her voice made Nell realize she was more than just someone hired to do the job. A girlfriend? There was an unexpected partisan pride.

  Dolan had finished his explanation and Carrie was saying, “I’m the reporter covering these elections, Aaron, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

  “We’re doing the Angela show on Channel Four,” Lambert interjected. “Gotta get moving.”

  Aaron made it a point to shake Nell’s hand again. Desiree smiled at her and waved as they left.

  The second the door closed behind them, Carrie turned to Nell and said, “Why don’t I follow the new candidate?”

  “I don’t think they’ll like you hanging around the Angela show,” Nell answered as she perused the schedule that Desiree Hunter had given her. Carrie read over her shoulder.

  “Can’t I do him at the middle school? He’s easy on the eyes,” Carrie said, her finger stabbing a point on the paper.

  “No, I think I’ll do that,” Nell answered.

  “Oh, I see.” The young woman managed an honest-to-goodness pout. “Keep the handsome ones for yourself,” she muttered.

  “Carrie!” Jacko cut in. “Out of line, girlfriend. She just broke up with her boyfriend and she’s taking it out on every one,” he added.

  Nell was tempted to spit back that she had just been widowed, not merely finished with another in a long line of boyfriends. Instead she said, “I’m going to the school because that’s Lizzie’s class. It gives me a chance to see my daughter.”

  Carrie had no reply for that. Instead she busied herself at her desk.

  Nell retreated to her office. Carrie had occasionally pouted with Thom, but he was always able to cajole her into doing things, even covering the odious sewage and water board meetings. I would have seen this coming, had I thought I needed to look for it, Nell mused. Whether through instinct or calculation, the young woman realized she had an advantage. With Thom gone, the paper was shorthanded. Right now the Pelican Bay Crier—and Nell—needed Carrie. As long as she managed the basics, decent coverage of things like Hubert’s photo op, she would help keep things going.

  Nell looked at her watch. The bike shop should be open by now.

  A voice that sounded enough like Kate Ryan’s answered, so Nell plunged ahead with her question. “Any guess how old those bones might be?” There was a moment of silence, so Nell thought perhaps a few more details might be needed. “This is Nell McGraw from the Crier.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been out in the woods digging bones with so many women it’s hard to remember.” Definitely Kate. “My very rusty and not-well-educated guess is somewhere from thirty to seventy years old. There are tests they can do that will get it closer. I know that’s probably not much of a help right now.”

  “It’ll keep us out of the Civil War archives.”

  “We can safely eliminate that. It wasn’t a minie ball that made the bullet hole.”

  “Is it possible to identify the gun?” Nell asked.

  “To tell the difference between a musket and an AK-47? Sure. But unless a bullet is still rattling around in the skull, we may not get much closer than that.”

  “Okay, not to hold you to it, but to give us a starting point, if you were going to guess how old these bones were, what would you say?”

  “Definitely don’t hold me to it, and if I’m way wrong, I don’t want to hear it. I’d say about forty to fifty years. I’m guessing that more from the tree than the bones. That tree was mature, probably around fifty years.”

  “Any way of telling the race or ethnicity?”

  “Yes. That’s not too hard, actually.”

  “Any guess about Jane Bone?”

  Kate was silent for a moment. “Would it help?”

  “It might.”

  “It’s hard to know without doing accurate measures and comparing them against the standard scales.”

  “I won’t hold you to it,” Nell reaffirmed.

  “African-American on Jane. Couldn’t see enough of the other one to guess.”

  “So Jane Bone might be an African-American woman who was killed about fifty years ago?”

  “Might be. Don’t hold—”

  “—you to it.” Nell’s reply overlapped her. “You realize what this might mean?”

  “Another thing: she was probably young, maybe twenties. She would be an old woman now, but she could still be alive today.”

  “Whoever did this wanted those bodies hidden. Maybe better to have left them buried for another fifty years, until we’re beyond guilt and blame.”

  “How do we get beyond guilt and blame if we leave the bodies buried and hidden? Even justice late is better than none,” Kate answered.

  “You’re right, of course. I should be thinking of this as a newspaper woman—it’s a great story.” Nell was also thinking of the rock this morning. Even on calm days, the Crier got its share of what she and Thom had called the loony tunes letters. Reigniting a racial conflagration might bring more than just letters. But I’m putting the cart way before the horse, Nell reminded herself. Kate could be wrong; or even if she was right, it could end up being a lovers’ quarrel, the husband/lover killing his wife/girlfriend and her lover.

  “I did talk to Sheriff Hickson this morning. I’m going to lead him and his men out there as soon as the rain lets up,” Kate told her.

  Nell could think of no other or better description for Sheriff Hickson than Good Ole Boy to the max, complete with beer belly and drawl. He was a big man, tall, towering even, made bigger by the weight that he’d put on over the years; his sparse gray hair, only a few stands left of the black it had once been, was slicked back in perfect order and usually hidden under a hat. His face, tanned and rough from
years in the sun, was turning jowly, skin pulled by gravity and too many beers in smoky bars. He’d been sheriff in Tchula County for the last fifteen years and wasn’t even opposed in the upcoming election. He wouldn’t have been her first choice, but there seemed to be no first, second, or third choices in law enforcement, only the portly sheriff and the lethargic police chief. Nell did a quick calculation; Sheriff Hickson was in his early sixties, which would have made him about Lizzie’s age fifty years ago. Young enough to be safe?

  “Did you tell him about the bullet hole and chain?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d better mention it.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Did he seem guilty?” Kate asked, catching Nell’s meaning. “No, more harried and stressed. He seemed relieved I’d already snagged a forensic expert to come take a look. I thought of that, too,” Kate added. “Anyone old enough to be a killer when those people were killed becomes a suspect. Particularly someone who grew up here and knows the woods.”

  “I guess any murder you run into makes you paranoid. But it’s not like you or I have any evidence. We just stumbled over old bones.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. Call me if I can do anything else for you,” Kate said, and then to someone in the bike store, “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

  “Thanks, Kate, I will.” Nell hung up.

  She did paperwork for a while, noticing Jacko had gone downstairs and Carrie had slipped out, although without a camera. There would be no pictures of Hubert Pickings with mashed potatoes dribbled down his tie on the front page.

  Lacking that, Nell thought about just what to put on the front page, debating whether or not to mention the bones or to wait until a later issue. Of course, Aaron Dupree’s announcement would be the lead. Then she decided to engage in what Thom had called her “shit-stirring reporting.” There were a few hours before Candidate Dupree did his political stumping at Lizzie’s school; Nell grabbed her umbrella and headed back to her car to drive out to the county courthouse.

  The city limits, where the courthouse was located, marked the edge of what was now considered old Pelican Bay. Since the county jail was housed with the courts, this area had never become upscale and was mostly a polyglot of businesses, from lawyers to antique shops. But the location was central and the parking was easy, and, despite the jail, the presence of the sheriff’s office there kept crime low.

  Alberta Bonier was used to Nell and her diving into various records stored in the courthouse. Nell had to admit that she was much happier in a musty basement pouring over old records than doing the meet-and-greet thing.

  The land now belonged to the state park, but who had owned it fifty years ago? After some searching, Nell finally found the records relating to that piece of property. In 1985, Hubert Horace Pickings had donated it to the park. Over twenty years before, his father Hubert Horatio Pickings had bought the property from Elbert Woodling. Looking at the deed of transfer, Nell was struck by the signatures. Hubert Senior’s resembled his son’s egotistical flourish. But Elbert Woodling hadn’t signed it; his name had a shaky X next to it and a note in what looked like a woman’s handwriting, neat and even: “This mark serves as Elbert’s agreement to the sale.” Elbert sold his property for three thousand dollars. Even for fifty years ago, that seemed low. Nell again compared the property listed on the deed with the tract in the state park. Only part of it was the land that Hubert Pickings, the elder, had bought from Elbert Woodling. Nell put the paper down and tried to remember what was on the other side of the park.

  When that didn’t work, she tried another tack. Hubert had money; how did his family get that money?

  That was it, Nell remembered; and another reason she didn’t like Hubert Pickings. The land they’d kept had become one of the most polluted spots in Tchula County. There had been a paper mill and cardboard factory, built on the Tchula River. In the early sixties? It had been torn down shortly after she’d moved here with Thom, the year she was pregnant with Lizzie. The owners had gone bankrupt and left a foul, ugly edifice and the mess it made in the river. Pickings had played dumb, claiming he’d just leased the land and had no idea they were making such a mess.

  Nell smiled grimly. It’s so nice when fate hands you the right facts at the right time. Shit-stirring reporting, indeed. A mashed potato tie couldn’t compete with this. The bones would lead to the property and the property would lead to a rehash of the pollution scandal. And the scandal would lead to an announcement that there was a viable alternative to voting for Hubert Pickings.

  She looked at her watch. Time to head for Lizzie’s school. Nell glanced again at the deed. Elbert. The unnamed clerk had called him Elbert, not Mr. Woodling. Maybe they knew each other; this would have been such a small town back then. Or maybe he was black and she was white and a white woman would refer to a black man by his first name, even in something as formal as a property transfer. Nell wished she had more time to compare the sale price to other prices from the time.

  The rain was still ensuring that no political picnics would take place today and perhaps not tomorrow. Nell wondered about the old bones still in the woods. At least one skeleton was safe and dry in the morgue.

  Pulling up to the high school, Nell decided to pretend she didn’t realize the spaces close to the covered walkway were reserved for teachers. An older man, long past retirement age, was stationed at the door. However, he didn’t apprehend Nell for her nefarious parking, merely nodded his head in greeting.

  She headed for the auditorium. Halfway there, a swirl of students engulfed her and out of it a voice cried, “Mom? What are you doing here?”

  Nell turned, sighted her daughter, and veered to her. “I’m here to cover Aaron Dupree’s campaign.” They continued walking with the flow. Lizzie, to Nell’s astonishment, didn’t seem perturbed to be seen with her mother. Or maybe I’m overreacting, Nell thought. She was also relieved to notice that, despite her gentle and not-so-gentle hints about dress and hair, Lizzie wasn’t even in the running in the outlandish competition.

  “Want to ask Candidate Dupree a question for me?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Lizzie replied. “As long as it’s not too out.”

  Nell considered, for a brief moment, a question about race relations in Pelican Bay, but that was too freighted a question to pass on to her daughter. “Ask whether he plans to involve youth in his administration, and if so, how.”

  That seemed to pass the “too out” test, as Lizzie said, “Okay, that’s a good question.”

  “Where do the boring adults sit?” Nell asked her daughter as they entered.

  “In the front, with Mr. Simmons,” Lizzie answered, accompanied with her usual eye roll. Nell had to agree with her, not that she said that. Nell’s experience of Mr. Simmons was that he was slow, even ponderous, in making decisions; could only see numbers, not how things affected people; and was far too easily swayed by whichever faction make the most noise. “But you can sit with us, if you want,” Lizzie added.

  Nell said, “You sure you want to be seen with your aged mother?”

  “Ah, Mom, you’re not that old. You’re not a boring adult yet. You don’t need to sit with them.” Lizzie led the way to where her friends were sitting.

  Nell wondered if that was how Lizzie really felt, or just an artifact from the previous evening of no motherly interference in choosing pizza toppings. I’m not being fair to her, Nell thought, assuming she’s going to be an annoying adolescent. To the friends Nell didn’t know, Lizzie introduced her as, “This is my mom. She’s covering this for the Pelican Bay Crier.” Lizzie seemed almost proud.

  Nell was reassured to note most of Lizzie’s friends were not the most fashion-forward of the middle school; the most shocking thing she could see was a pierced eyebrow. She decided to not worry about what she couldn’t see.

  As with most assemblies, it took a while for people to settle
down; the process little-aided by Mr. Simmons reedy pleading of “Okay, children, find your seats.”

  It began with what Nell considered the usual drone: announcements, the trite clichés about how this was the best school in the world with the best middle school football team in the South, the slide into religion with a moment of “Let us pray” without actually adding “to Jesus,” although that was clearly the intent. Then Mr. Simmons, demonstrating his mathematical ability and little else, did a long introduction, winding past civic duty and the importance of voting, not noting the irony in extolling voting to teenagers three to five years from the privilege.

  Aaron Dupree sat slightly behind him, his face a calm mask even though he had to know Mr. Simmons was putting his audience to sleep. At least by the time these students could indeed vote, they might have forgotten this particular campaign stop.

  Nell looked from his carefully controlled mask to the audience. Segregation might have ended years ago, but integration was still just a word. For the most part, the black students and the white students sat apart.

  Nell noted with chagrin that although Lizzie’s friends sitting around them included several Asian girls and one either Hispanic or Arabic, no blacks sat with them. Maybe I’m making too much of this, one random seating in one assembly, Nell thought. Or maybe it’s something I haven’t looked hard enough at, leaving the patterns and assumptions neatly in place.

  When she’d first moved to Pelican Bay, she was married to Thom and so had fallen into his social milieu. She realized it was mostly white, with a few acquaintances of other races. Had she passed that on to her daughter, that unquestioning acceptance? Her thoughts were interrupted by weak applause. Mr. Simmons had finally finished his introduction.

  Aaron Dupree was polite, but he quickly grabbed the microphone from Mr. Simmons. He also had the sense not to stay planted behind the lectern, but instead moved about the stage, using all the space the microphone cord allowed.

  Nell had to admit he was a polished performer. He started off with a joke, followed with a brief and uplifting riff on his vision for Pelican Bay, then moved to the importance of education, following with how important young people were and ending with his sincere belief that Pelican Bay had the best football team. The applause after his speech was much less tepid than for Mr. Simmons’.