Roots of Murder Read online

  I’m going to have to start wearing a bracelet with WWTD—What Would Thom Do—on it, Nell thought. Okay, she quickly told herself, for a small town like Pelican Bay, a long-lost relative coming to town could be a reasonable story.

  “When did you get this news?” As she asked the question, Nell grabbed a notepad and took enough notes to look like she was taking this seriously. She went through the list: who was his cousin, where did his cousin live, why had she looked up the family, and what made her decide to donate an entire car? She was tempted to ask if it came with snake-catching equipment.

  Nell dutifully wrote down his answers and promised that she would be outside the courthouse, with camera, at precisely noon.

  Then she decided that this shouldn’t be a one-sided visit. “Any thoughts about the bones found in the woods?”

  He paused for a moment, then answered. “Damn fool hunter.”

  “Two damn fools?” Nell asked. “One with chains on the wrists?”

  The sheriff gave her a sharp look. “Where’d you get that?”

  “From the ground. I went out with Kate Ryan the day she found the bones.”

  “Don’t put nothin’ like that in the paper,” he lectured her.

  “Why not?” Nell guessed it was the usual police thing—keep details out only the killer knew—but she still wanted to hear it from Sheriff Hickson.

  “You want to panic the town? All we need is rumors of chained killin’ in the woods.”

  “Do you really think Pelican Bay will fall into a frenzy at the idea of two murders that happened decades ago?” Nell shot back at him.

  “You still don’t need to go puttin’ it in the paper,” he insisted.

  “For how long?”

  “How long what?”

  “How long do I keep it out of the paper?” Nell repeated. “Do you really think that no one else is going to pick up this story?”

  “Look, I know it’s sad and too bad ’bout whatever happened to them, but those people are history. We’ll dig ’em up only to then bury them again.”

  “Even if they were murdered?” Nell answered.

  “Miz McGraw, be real. They been in that ground long enough for a big tree to grow over ’em. What evidence we gonna find? And even if we find something, what are the chances whoever did it isn’t also already in the ground?”

  “If that’s the case, then what’s the harm with telling the story?”

  The sheriff let out a long sigh. Nell gathered he didn’t appreciate logical women. He sighed again before answering. “Okay, Miz McGraw, you can write your story, but you might just give us enough time to make sure nothing comes out of the ground that’s gonna bite us in the butt.”

  Nell didn’t let on that she was still debating whether to hold the story for next week’s paper. It might depend on what else was discovered. And if the sheriff thought that she was genteel enough to be thrown off by the word “butt,” he was much mistaken. Nell had learned to curse at a Catholic girls’ school and there was nothing like a plaid polyester skirt and a nun with a ruler to expand the vocabulary. “I’ll think about it. I plan to be there when the forensic anthropologist continues the dig. With camera ready, just in case there is any butt-biting.”

  The sheriff didn’t see any humor in her comment. He shook his head and said, “Just don’t forget the story about my long-lost cousin.” With that he turned to go.

  Nell decided he wasn’t going to get off so easily. “Oh, Sheriff? Tanya Jones called Mrs. Thomas, Sr. and ‘suggested’ the Jones boys aren’t happy about their brother being in jail. And if that didn’t change, they might do something about it.”

  The sheriff turned back to face her. “They threatened Mrs. Thomas?”

  “Used her as a messenger. The threat was aimed at me.”

  He seemed to be mulling this over, as if a threat to Mrs. Thomas was serious but Nell had fallen into the “looking to be bitten in the butt” category. “Tanya say just what they planned?” he finally asked.

  “No, the opposite, she didn’t know what they might do. And she wouldn’t want to be me.”

  The sheriff mulled this additional information for a moment, then said, “You gonna go after Junior, aren’t you?”

  “Are you saying that I should capitulate to his brothers’ threats?”

  “No, ma’am.” The sheriff had enough sense to recognize the undertone of fury in Nell’s voice, even if he didn’t seem sure what capitulate meant. “Not at all. Just that … Junior’s been in the hoosegow now for ’bout a month. Tanya’s gonna be struggling to take care of those kids.”

  “Perhaps there’s where the Brothers Jones could do something constructive,” Nell said coldly. “Assist with raising their nephews and nieces while Junior pays his debt to society.”

  “Now, Miz McGraw, I ain’t sayin’ that Junior don’t deserve what he gets … ”

  Nell cut in. “Good. I’d hate to have the Sheriff of Tchula County say that a drunk driver with two previous arrests doesn’t deserve to go to jail after he finally kills someone.”

  “But I am sayin’ a little mercy might go a long way. Seems that Junior has finally learned his lesson and …”

  He said something more but Nell didn’t hear it, a blind fury coursing through her. “Fuck your mercy!” she suddenly shouted at him. “Your wife, your child. If they were the ones left dead on the roadside, how much mercy would you have? Don’t you goddamn ask me to have mercy! Junior will get out of jail someday. Thom will still be in his grave.”

  “Now, Miz McGraw,” the sheriff said. “I understand that you’re upset.”

  “Don’t you dare patronize me. I am not ‘upset.’ I’m fucking furious!”

  “Now, Miz McGraw,” he tried again.

  She cut him off. “Junior had two previous arrests to learn his lesson. I doubt he has learned much more than he doesn’t like being in jail.”

  The sheriff sighed again. He didn’t like emotional women either, particularly ones whose emotion was anger instead of something more feminine. “It’s not that you and I disagree. If it was my wife … jail would be too good for him. But the Jones boys, well, Junior learned his drinking from them and it worries me what they might do. You got two kids.”

  “Are you telling me that the law enforcement of Tchula County and Pelican Bay is helpless before the Jones brothers?” Even the sheriff couldn’t miss the sarcasm in Nell’s voice.

  “No, Miz McGraw, not at all. But, well, Whiz ain’t the most active police chief we’ve had, and even if he was, we’re just lawmen, not guardian angels. Arrestin’ them after the fact might not be much of a help.”

  “Isn’t there a law against making threats?”

  “Yes, ma’am, there is. But it’s Tanya making a claim they threatened and Miz Thomas is the only witness. They deny it, Tanya ain’t exactly gonna be a friendly witness.”

  “So they get away with it?” Nell demanded heatedly, angry at both him and the fact that what he was saying made sense. “And someone threw a rock in the door this morning, with a threatening note. I suppose they get away with that, too?”

  “Did they do it? Yeah, who else. Can I prove it enough to do more than put them in jail for a few hours? I doubt it. Those boys are snakes and you don’t want riled snakes.”

  “Nor do you,” Nell acerbically added.

  “I got a jail full of ’em,” he reminded her. “I’ll talk to those boys out on the porch, so all the neighbors hear. Tell ’em they won’t like jail and that’s where they’ll end up if anything happens to you. That’s the best I can do.”

  Nell suddenly felt exhausted, the anger gone, emptiness where it had been. She just wanted him out of her office. “Then I’ll have to settle for the best you can do.”

  “You call both me and Whiz if they try anything.” With that, the sheriff escaped.

  Her office door had
been open the whole time, so Nell knew, unless her staff had deliberately blocked up their ears, they heard everything. At least now they know I can say “fuck,” Nell thought. It was as close as she could get to a positive thought.

  six

  “You don’t have to dump me with Grandmom. I’m going over to Susan’s for homework,” Lizzie informed Nell when she said she had to go out after supper. Nell considered asking if Susan—and more importantly, Susan’s mother—actually knew of Lizzie’s impending arrival. But the convenience of it overwhelmed her morals. She just nodded in agreement.

  “Kate’s doing inventory at the bike shop this evening. I told her if it was okay with you, I’d come by and help.” Josh wasn’t a good enough soldier to face Mrs. Thomas, Sr. alone.

  Nell again warred with her morals. Kate being the source of a good story compelled her to ask, “Do you think Kate needs your help?”

  “It’s counting and piling. I’ve helped her before.”

  That was close enough for Nell’s conscience. “I’ll pick you up after my meeting. So be prepared to turn into pumpkins at around nine.”

  That got the usual protest from Lizzie that they would be only halfway done, and the usual response from Nell that perhaps they should do homework first and gossip second. Nell quelled further protest by suggesting Lizzie might find it more conducive to study at her grandmother’s.

  After supper, she hustled them into the car and dropped Josh at the bike shop. She stayed long enough to give Kate at least a millisecond to protest. Kate just waved and Nell drove on to Lizzie’s destination.

  With her children safely deposited, Nell glanced at the address for Marcus Fletcher’s talk.

  It was a poor section of town. Nell noticed several houses that looked abandoned. Others were kept up, but the cars were older models, the lawn only what grew in the small space between the porch and sidewalk. She took another turn onto a street that some yesteryear had been a strip of stores and businesses. The shape of the building told their history: the door cut into the corner, the wide windows for merchandise, now with curtains on the inside and steel bars on the outside. Only two businesses seemed to still be viable, one a small grocery store on the corner garishly festooned with signs for cigarettes and beer. The other place was named Don’s Hideout. It had similar beer and cigarette signs and the dim interior suggested a bar. In the middle of the block was what might have once been a municipal building, perhaps a school in the days of segregation or some other remnant of separate but not equal. Its door was open and the lights inside welcoming compared to the gaudy store and murky bar. There were enough men in suits standing outside to tell Nell this was the place. Something about political rallies was all the same, from the smell of frying chicken to the cooing babies offered as props to the men and, increasingly, women in suits with hands outstretched.

  Nell found parking on the store-side of the street, then walked back across to the hall. One of the men standing out front asked as she approached, “Ma’am, may I help you?”

  It was then Nell realized she was the only white woman. When she was young and had worked in Chicago and Fort Wayne, she’d preferred the multicultural neighborhood she lived in to the white suburb her brothers suggested for her. Then she’d moved here, and found that multiculturalism didn’t extend to even decent bagels. It’s easy to forget how separate things are, Nell chastised herself, when you’re the one separated into the good neighborhood.

  “This is where Marcus Fletcher is speaking?” she asked the man. She didn’t sense hostility, just mild puzzlement.

  “Yes, ma’am, this is. We don’t usually get much of a crowd for these speeches now. It doesn’t count if it’s not on television.” He turned slightly so that the light spilling from the doorway illuminated his features. He was an older man, something his erect carriage hadn’t hinted at without the light to show the gray in his hair and the lines on his face.

  “I’m Nell McGraw, with the Pelican Bay Crier. I’m of the contrary view that if it’s not in the paper, it’s not real.” Nell offered him her hand.

  His hand was firm and warm, with enough pressure to let her know he was still a vigorous man. “Welcome, Mrs. McGraw, to our gathering. We’re pleased to have you here.”

  “I hope you’ll still be pleased after I give the candidate the usual merciless media grilling,” Nell answered. “The tough questions like what’s he going to do about alligators in the sewer. And improving the school system, the tax structure.”

  “A daunting list, madam. I do hope you don’t ask our candidate any tough foreign policy questions. He should have been boning up on his overseas capitols last night but went to his granddaughter’s birthday party instead.”

  “But the people of Pelican Bay have a right to know where he stands on the situation in Uzbekistan. Surely you’re not suggesting that I go easy on him on such a burning question?”

  “Being a former member of the press corps myself, not to mention the candidate’s press secretary, I would never suggest that you compromise your standards.”

  Life has unexpected graces, Nell thought. Here on this run-

  down street, with a man she didn’t know, she had fallen into an easy and enlivening banter. But into that grace came the blade. She and Thom used to banter with this same easy flow. Nell faltered and didn’t answer.

  The silence stretched until he said, “My wife and I used to talk like that. She’s been gone ten years and I still miss her terribly.” Quietly he added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Is it so obvious?” Nell answered, her voice hoarse.

  “No, not at all. I read the paper.”

  She hadn’t written the story; she didn’t even know who did. Jacko, she guessed. But of course Thom’s death—murder, really—had been front page. Pictures of him growing up in Pelican Bay, leading to the discreet shot of the mother and widow, both in black. Nell remembered vaguely thinking it was a good photo—and a wrenching one for her. They were photographed from the back, a nimbus of sun breaking through the clouds of the day, Josh and Lizzie bracketed between the older silver-haired woman and the younger chestnut-haired one, with the sweep of the cemetery receding into rows of tombstones that finally blurred into the horizon.

  Nell took a long breath and let it out before speaking. “Thank you. It’s … hard.”

  His only answer was to reach out and squeeze her hand.

  “Mr. Fletcher is very lucky to have you as his press secretary.” She gave his hand an extra press of thanks, then let go as other people moved by them to enter the hall.

  “But I’m not so lucky. Mr. Fletcher just works me to death.”

  “Ah, so I should ask Mr. Fletcher his views on labor laws?”

  “Best be careful, young lady; you know how politicians are. Once he gets started, you may be here all night.”

  “Care to become my ‘high administration source who insists on anonymity’?”

  “Are you asking that I become disloyal to my chosen political star?”

  “No, of course not, but the threat of another Deep Throat may be all that keeps our elected officials honest.”

  Another clump of people entered the hall, leaving them the only ones still outside, save for two men by the bar. A glance at them suggested that they were doing a drug deal, the quick change of something in the hands. He noticed it too and motioned her inside.

  The hall was sparsely furnished, with mismatched metal folding chairs, a small stage made of a few two-by-fours and plywood painted black. The walls either were institutional beige or a white that had faded over the years.

  The man she had been talking to was clearly well known; other people came to claim his attention. He excused himself and added that he hoped she would enjoy the show.

  Nell glanced around the room. She recognized a few other people: Harold Reed, the assistant DA who was rumored to be the legal brains behind the elect
ed DA Buddy Guy’s enviable conviction rate; Tamacia … Nell couldn’t pull up her last name, but she worked over in City Hall, one of the secretaries the mayor ignored and Nell had learned to cultivate.

  Harold nodded slightly at her; he was with two other men Nell recognized as lawyers. She didn’t know Harold very well, only from a few carefully scripted press conferences, the ones Buddy Guy didn’t see enough political capitol in to handle himself.

  Tamacia waved her over. “Nell, what are you doing here?” Tamacia was open and friendly and hadn’t yet learned the finer points of political caution. Unlike the gentleman at the door, she saw no need to hide her surprise that the white editor of the local newspaper was at their event. “How’d you even find this place?”

  “An old newspaper trick. Can’t cover a story unless you can get to it, so they taught us to read maps.”

  “You’re here to report on this?” Tamacia’s tone was friendly, but underneath was a thread of suspicion.

  “Who’s going to be the next mayor of Pelican Bay may not be the lead in the New York Times, but it’s a rather important story here.”

  “You’re really going to report on what Marcus has to say?”

  Nell answered, “If I can give a few column inches to Everett Evens and his ‘wish I was in the land of cotton’ campaign, it certainly seems I should give some to Mr. Fletcher.”

  Tamacia hooted and then said, “Don’t tell Hubert I’m here. He’ll think I’m plotting a slave rebellion.”

  “Reporters never reveal their sources, and you’re one of my best in City Hall,” Nell told her. “Has the mayor heard about the new candidate?”

  “The phones were blazing today. Haven’t seen Mr. Mayor sweating so much since that day the air conditioning went out in August.” Then, in a lower tone, she added, “He can’t bribe or blackmail Aaron Dupree, so my chances for a new boss look good.”