Monument to Murder (25 page)

“You’ll be at Annabel’s gallery this evening?” he asked.

“Oh, God, Mac, I don’t know whether I’m up for any socializing.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Mitzi Cardell I know.”

“It’s just that—”

“Let me make a suggestion. I can invite Bob Brixton to the showing, too. After everyone else has left we can sit down together in Annabel’s office and put this thing to rest.”

“Face him?”

“You’ll have to at some point, Mitzi. This is a good opportunity. I’ll be there to buffer things for you.”

He waited for her response.

“I trust you, Mac,” she said.

•  •  •

His daughter’s call unsettled Ward Cardell. So did a subsequent call from his friend Warren Montgomery, father of the nation’s first lady. Montgomery sounded upset, said it was important that they meet. Cardell had intended to have lunch at home that day and spend the afternoon on the golf course, but Montgomery’s call changed his plans. He left the office at noon and went to the First City Club, one of three private clubs to which he belonged and where he and Montgomery had agreed to meet.

Montgomery, sporting his usual deep tan, carefully arranged silver hair, and wearing one of the dozens of power suits in his closet, got right to the point once they’d chosen a table out of earshot of others. “What’s going on, Ward?” he asked.

“With what?” Cardell said.

“With this private detective, Brixton, trying to open up a can of worms.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“That doesn’t matter. I have my sources. The point is that he’s in Washington snooping around about what happened.”

“I know all about him, Warren.”

“
You
know about him! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cardell glanced around the members-only dining room, leaned closer to Montgomery, and said, “In the first place, Warren, I suggest that you keep your voice down. Second, I saw no reason to bother you with it. I’ve taken care of everything.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that Mr. Brixton will no longer be a problem. I’ve already sent him some warnings, which unfortunately he hasn’t heeded. But I’m assured by—” He now spoke in a barely audible whisper: “I’m assured by the president that steps are being taken to put an end to his troublemaking.”

“You’ve talked to
him
?”

Cardell nodded.

“What does he intend to do to—?”

Cardell shook his head and waved his hand to end that thread of conversation.

Montgomery looked around before saying, “Then he knows what happened. Jeanine must have told him.”

Cardell exhaled in frustration. “Enough,” he said.

Montgomery said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I suggest we have lunch and continue the conversation outside.”

Montgomery accepted that idea and the two men ate in relative silence. They left the exclusive club on Bull Street in downtown Savannah and walked to the nearest of the city’s twenty-four famous squares, Johnson Square, the first one created by the city’s founding father, English soldier and politician James Edward Oglethorpe. Downtown bank employees who’d enjoyed their lunch beneath the square’s trees had returned to work, leaving the square to them.

These two titans of Savannah business sat on a bench. Montgomery, a man seldom at a loss for words, seemed to strain for what to say next. “Ward,” he said, “the ramifications for my daughter are immense.”

Cardell reacted to an itch on his face as though to scratch away the comment.

Montgomery continued. “If word of what happened in that parking lot and the cover-up ever becomes public, it could destroy Jeanine.”

“And Fletcher Jamison’s presidency.”

Montgomery started to elaborate on his thought but Ward stopped him. “I suggest you remember, Warren, that it was Jeanine who stabbed that young punk, not Mitzi.”

“An accident.”

“It doesn’t matter. Jeanine was responsible for his death and I came to her rescue, and to yours.”

“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Montgomery. “But maybe it would have been better if—”

Cardell turned and faced his friend, his face red, his eyes flaring. “Better if
what,
Warren, that I do nothing? No matter what the legal outcome, their lives would have been ruined. You strut around town crowing about how your daughter is the first lady of the land. You go to the White House and sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom. And do you know what, Warren? If I hadn’t acted the way I did, your precious daughter would be married to some jerk and living in a trailer park outside of town.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“But it’s true. I told you at lunch that Brixton is being taken care of. Leave it at that.”

Cardell got up to leave but Montgomery grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Is it true that you arranged for the Watkins girl to be killed when she got out of prison?”

“Whatever gave you
that
idea?”

“Is it true?”

“It doesn’t matter whether it is or not. You know, Warren, you’re spineless for a man who’s achieved the success that you have. There are times when a man has to act to preserve what’s precious to him, his family, his wealth, and his nation. The money you contribute each year to our group says to me that you understand what’s at stake. I sure as hell don’t intend to see my daughter injured by what’s happened, and I also don’t intend to see Fletcher Jamison’s presidency torpedoed. We now have a man in the White House who shares our beliefs, who recognizes that this is a white Christian nation built upon the backs of European immigrants, who stands for what we stand for, small government, adherence to time-honored traditions of marriage and honor, fiscal responsibility, and an end to social welfare programs. I’ll do whatever I can to protect your daughter from scandal because she is part of that administration, but I won’t stand for being second-guessed by the man who benefits from my having taken action.”

Montgomery sat silently.

Cardell resumed his seat on the bench, smiled, and put his arm over Montgomery’s shoulder. “This too shall pass, my friend,” he said. “Relax. The president will handle it on his end and I’ve set steps into motion here in Savannah. Everything will be just fine. Trust me, Warren. You must trust me.”

CHAPTER   39

Flo Combes took Brixton’s call at her shop in the historic district.

“I was getting worried,” she said. “You haven’t called.”

“I got tied up.”

“Sounds kinky.”

“My kinky days are over. I think I might have hit a home run.” He filled her in on his conversation with Mitzi Cardell and the call he’d just received from Mackensie Smith. “Smith has arranged for me to meet with Ms. Cardell tonight at the gallery his wife owns.”

“That’s terrific.”

“Yeah, it is. He’s a great guy. What’s new back there?”

“Cooler today, and rainy. Sounds like you’ll be coming back soon.”

“If things work out tonight the way I hope they will.”

“Have you spent any more time with the ex and your daughters?”

“No. Marylee’s got herself a boyfriend, a lawyer named Miles whose tan puts George Hamilton to shame.”

“And you instantly bonded.”

“I counted my fingers after we shook hands. I’d better get off, sweetheart. I’ll call after I see how tonight goes. Love you.”

His next call was to his office. Cynthia answered.

“Clients beating down the door for my services?” he asked, lightness in his voice.

“Have to use a baseball bat to keep them away. Oh, you’ll love the story in today’s paper. That guy who was running for mayor, Shepard Justin? He’s announced that he’s changed his mind and won’t be a candidate.”

“He give a reason why?”

“Why else? He wants to spend more time with his family.”

“And in motel rooms with somebody
else’s
wife.”

“I feel like such an insider, knowing the real reason he quit the race.”

“Well, keep it to yourself. I’m hoping to wrap things up here in D.C. in a day or two and head back.”

“Good. Your clients are asking when you’ll be available to work on their cases.”

“Great to be wanted. Tell ’em I’ll be back soon.”

Brixton breathed a sigh of relief at knowing that Justin had dropped out of the race. Chances were that whoever ended up with the photos from the motel had provided them to Justin’s opponents, who had put them to good use. Brixton was now off the hook. If the pictures were still floating around, Justin and his attorney would continue to put pressure on him under the assumption that he had copies.
Dropped out to spend more time with his family.
Brixton laughed. Another political hypocrite. Brixton decided that if Justin had admitted that he was dropping out because he’d been caught with his pants down with the wrong woman, he would have encouraged him to stay in the race and voted for him.

He puttered around his hotel room while deciding how to kill the rest of the day. He felt good.

Eunice Watkins didn’t enjoy that feeling of well-being.

Her son, the Reverend Lucas Watkins, came to her house that morning. She was pleased that he’d stopped by; his visits had become less frequent lately. She warmly welcomed him, poured glasses of sweet tea, and carefully cut a fresh lemon pound cake into identical slices, which she served on her fanciest plates.

“How are things at the church?” she asked. “All the bad news on TV and in the paper these days makes me wonder what the good Lord has in store for us.”

“Times are tough,” he replied. “We’re having trouble making ends meet.”

“Like so many people.”

“People don’t go to church as much these days,” he said. “Even those that do don’t have the money to contribute like they used to. Momma, I have to talk to you about something important.”

“Of course, dear.”

He got up off the couch and went to the window, where he stood gathering his thoughts. Turning, he said in his deep baritone voice, “I think we should stop trying to find out what happened to Louise.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You encouraged me to do it. You said that—”

“I know all that,” he said, “and I meant it—at the time. But I’ve been praying a lot for wisdom lately and I now believe that it’s wrong to do what we’re doing.”

“
Wrong?
What could be wrong to want to clear her name?”

He resumed his seat next to her on the couch. “I know, I know,” he said. “We’d agreed that hiring the detective was the right thing to do. But if the detective is successful the only thing that will be accomplished is to drag Louise’s name through the mud again. She’s gone to her maker, Momma. She’s in the benevolent hands of God, who’s forgiven her sins. We should let her rest in peace. It all happened so long ago. She led herself onto her sinful path and paid the consequences. There’s nothing to be gained by opening her life to public scrutiny and scorn.”

His mother started to say something but he pressed forward, facing her and taking her hands into his. “I know that you believed Louise when she said she hadn’t stabbed that man, and that she’d been paid ten thousand dollars to say that she had. But what if she wasn’t telling the truth?”

“You think that your sister would lie about something like that?”

“I don’t know, Momma, and you don’t know it for sure, either. But what if she was telling the truth? You’ve said so often that she went to prison to atone for her sins and to seek a better life. She gave you ten thousand dollars and—”

“She
must
have been telling the truth, son. Where else would she have gotten such a large amount of money?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s important. The point is that what she did led her into prison for four years, a convicted felon, and when she came out she went right back to her former life on the streets.”

Eunice got to her feet, banging her leg into the small coffee table and causing some of the tea to spill. “She did nothing of the kind, Lucas. She worked hard in prison and was no longer a drug addict. She earned her GED and learned accounting. She was murdered on the street because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She came out of prison a good, God-loving girl, and to hear you say such things about her is—” She burst into tears and went to the bathroom.

“I don’t mean to upset you, Momma,” he said when she returned a few minutes later and sat next to him, “but—”

“Well, you have.”

He grabbed her hands even tighter. “Momma,” he said, “you must listen to what I have to say. A man came to the church last night to speak with me.…”

•  •  •

The man to whom Lucas referred had called ahead the day before and asked to meet. When Lucas asked what it was about, the man had said, “It’s about the financial trouble your church is in. I can help.”

He arrived driving a nondescript blue sedan. He wore a brown suit and matching tie. Lucas took note of his face, which was narrow and chiseled; he thought of a rodent.

They met in Lucas’s study in the rectory. The man, who gave his name as Gerald Cosgrove, made small talk at first. He said how much he admired the work that area churches did in helping the poor and in making Savannah a better place in which to live and work. Lucas accepted the compliments, wondering all the while when his visitor would get around to explaining what he’d meant on the phone. He was about to bring up the subject when Cosgrove beat him to it. “I’m here on behalf of a wealthy businessman who wants to help you, and your church, get through the financial crisis you’re facing.”

Lucas’s first thought was to wonder how this stranger knew of the church’s financial business. Yes, its records were open to the public through tax returns and other government sources. But there were additional aspects known only to Lucas, his finance committee, and the bank that held the church’s mortgage.

“I’m aware, Reverend Watkins, that your church is in serious danger of foreclosure.”

It was true. Watkins had fallen seriously behind in the mortgage payments. He had met with the bank’s chief lending officer on a number of occasions in an attempt to forge some sort of accommodation, but his efforts hadn’t been fruitful. At the most recent meeting, which had taken place two weeks earlier—and after assuring Lucas that the last thing the bank wanted to do was to foreclose on a church—the bank officer informed Lucas that the situation had become dire enough for that to happen unless payment was made within thirty days. The bank would have no choice but to take back the property.

“Might I ask a question?” Lucas said to Cosgrove.

“Of course.”

“How do you know about our mortgage situation?”

Cosgrove smiled. “Oh, let’s just say that there are ways to know
everything,
Reverend Watkins. As I mentioned earlier, I represent a wealthy individual who wishes to help you and your congregation.”

“Is he involved with the church?” Watkins asked.

“Not directly. This individual is willing to bring your mortgage up-to-date with the bank. In addition, he stands ready to donate, anonymously of course, a large sum of money to help pay for your future operating expenses.” He waited, head cocked. When a response didn’t come, he added, “One hundred thousand dollars.”

Watkins’s reply wasn’t verbal, but his expression spoke volumes.

Cosgrove smiled again. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said.

“‘Pleased’ doesn’t quite convey my feelings, Mr. Cosgrove. Are there strings attached? There usually are when such generosity is involved.”

“Oh, let’s not call it ‘strings,’ Reverend Watkins. There is, of course, something this benefactor would like in return.”

“Yes?”

“There was an incident many years ago involving your sister, Ms. Louise Watkins.”

Watkins flinched.

“As you know, she met a tragic death at the hands of someone after having spent four years in prison.”

“I am well aware of what happened to Louise,” Watkins said sternly.

“It’s come to the attention of the person I represent that certain individuals are attempting to drag up her name. They claim that she was innocent of the charge that sent her away. I believe that it is your mother, Mrs. Eunice Watkins, who has instigated this. Be that as it may, using your deceased sister in this way is to me, as well as to the generous person I represent, a grave mistake with serious ramifications for certain people.”

“I’m not following you, Mr. Cosgrove.”

“It’s really quite simple, Reverend Watkins. In return for this largesse being offered you and your congregation, all that is being asked is that your mother, and you, put a stop to this travesty involving your deceased sister. Think of it this way, sir. You are a man of God. Your benefactor is also a man of God. Rather than sully your good sister’s name again by probing something that occurred more than twenty years ago, her unfortunate young life and tragic death can truly benefit the very people you so ably serve, your congregation and the community. You and your mother need only to stand by the truth of what happened in that parking lot—that your sister accidentally stabbed the young man who’d tried to take advantage of her, and truthfully admitted to the act. That’s all that’s being asked of you and your lovely mother.”

“Louise told us that—”

Cosgrove held up a hand. “Please, Reverend, don’t complicate this. I’ve laid it out for you as simply as possible. Your sister was guilty of the stabbing and admitted to it. That’s all there is to it. I’m afraid I can’t offer you the luxury of time in considering this magnanimous offer. You have until tomorrow at five. I’ll call for your decision.” He stood, went to the window, and looked out at the church grounds where a group of young black children were engaged in a spirited game of kickball. “It’s a lovely thing you do, Reverend, instilling in children a love of God. It would be a terrible shame to see this church and the ground it stands on taken away from them by the bank, to be turned into another condominium complex, or—” He turned to face the minister. “Or to find itself burned down some night.” He went to the door. “Thank you for your time, sir. It’s been a pleasure. I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.”

•  •  •

Lucas finished relating to his mother the details of Cosgrove’s visit. “Don’t you see?” he said. “Louise’s death can mean something, stand for something worthwhile.”

“The man is blackmailing us,” she responded quietly.

“Call it what you will,” Lucas snapped in a voice too harsh, he knew, to be used on his mother. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this means so much to me. Without this help, the church will go into foreclosure, be shut down, taken away from those who need it most.”

Mrs. Watkins took the tray of sweet tea and cake into the kitchen and methodically put things away. When she’d finished, she returned to the living room, where her son paced.

“Lucas,” she said, “will you be able to sleep at night knowing that you’ve succumbed to this threat by a man you don’t know, who represents another unknown person, people wanting to buy our silence?”

He withheld his anger. “Yes, Momma, I’ll sleep very well. Will you do it?”

“And what is it that I’m supposed to do?”

“Forget about Louise being paid to admit to a crime she didn’t commit. That’s all that’s being asked of you and of me. Louise is gone, Momma. Learning the truth about her won’t bring her back.”