Rock-a-Bye Bones (24 page)

“It's easy to see how someone would automatically think he might be involved in a criminal act.”

“What would this dude want with a pregnant woman and a baby?” DeWayne asked. “I'm just saying … there's not enough evidence to arrest him.”

“Yet.”

“I'm working on connecting him to Rudy Uxall,” DeWayne said. “Then we'll have probable cause.”

DeWayne had put the composite out on the wire and posted flyers around town. At least a dozen people had called who'd seen Potter or knew him, but none could pinpoint his whereabouts. Like Gertrude and other cockroaches, he had a good hiding place.

As a favor to DeWayne, I took the sketch of Potter and the information about the reward Yancy was offering over to the newspaper. Cece would do a story, and hopefully that would bring more leads to the sheriff's office. I needed a chat with Cece anyway. I found her buried behind mountains of notebooks, newspapers, and a new addition to the clutter of her office—high school annuals.

“You can learn a lot by looking at annuals.” She flipped a Cotton Gin High School annual open to the junior class. “Recognize anyone?”

I sure did. It was the bitchy trio who tormented Pleasant. They were standing behind Tally McNair. To one side was the special honors band and on the other side the dance team. In several more photos, Tally and the girls were involved in projects. They looked buddy-buddy. It wasn't new information, but it confirmed my suspicions that the teacher-student cabal had been in place for a long time.

I filled Cece in on what I'd learned in Nashville. She was discreet and wouldn't publish anything that might harm our chances of finding Pleasant alive.

While I was at the newspaper, I decided to look up the events surrounding the day Pleasant disappeared. If Luther Potter was involved in Pleasant's vanishing act, there might be a robbery or some other illegal act that had happened in the vicinity.

“Can I look at some back issues?” I asked Cece. In the good old days, the newspapers were bound in huge books and it was easy enough to leaf through the back editions. Now, everything was on computer, and while the digital system had some advantages, I missed the smell of paper and ink.

Cece took me to a cubbyhole fitted with a computer and a rickety chair. “This is the morgue now.”

“It's perfect.” I sat down and went to work. My target dates were in the second week of October. I'd cull through the news articles to learn what was happening around the same time Pleasant disappeared. I was hoping for a new lead, some event that might reflect on Pleasant's fate.

The
Zinnia Dispatch
was one of the last family-owned daily papers in the state, and I was surprised at the in-depth coverage as I rolled through the days and stories. I read the newspaper daily, but the weight of all the stories back-to-back reminded me how hard Cece and the other reporters worked. City and county board meetings were covered, weddings, funerals, sports. It was like peeling time backward and drinking in the essence of life in Sunflower County.

As I skimmed headlines and lead paragraphs, I found events that had slipped my mind. I'd forgotten the accidental electrocution of a teen who climbed a power pole trying to illegally hook up to cable. I'd also pushed to the back of my brain the terrible traffic accident that took the lives of two Ole Miss students who'd collided on Highway 8. There were house fires, burglaries, and also some wonderful stories of folks reaching out to help each other.

When the Caledonia Baptist Church was struck by lightning and caught fire, many churches in the county joined together for an old-fashioned church raising. The exterior structure went up in under three weeks because the community worked night and day to help.

Clicking through the pages, I was proud of my town and county. Tragedy happened, as it did everywhere, but Zinnia and the county knew how to pull together when it was necessary. Another example was the fish fry sponsored by the Rotary Club to buy radios for the sheriff's department.

While I'd found plenty of news, there was nothing that might relate to the disappearance of a pregnant teenager. I clicked to the next page and a headline caught my eye.
DEWEY BACKSTRUM KILLED ON HWY. 12
. That was the road near the Three Bs convenience store where Pleasant was last seen.

I read the news story, which was inside rather than on the front page because the accident occurred in Bolivar County. The
Dispatch
focused primarily on Sunflower County news, though it did cover other counties and had a regional page, which is where I found this article, but also why I might have skipped over it when it was first published. Coleman wouldn't have investigated the hit and run, either.

Dewey Backstrum was a fifty-two-year-old farmer whose truck had stopped on the side of the road. He'd been under the hood, working on the engine, when he was struck by a hit-and-run driver.

I checked the date, which matched the day Pleasant disappeared.

I didn't have evidence to link the two events—yet. But my gut told me they were somehow connected.

I scoured the paper for more stories on the hit and run. Two additional articles gave a few more details, but nothing striking. Sheriff Hoss Kincaid said a black pickup had been seen near the vicinity of the accident. Kincaid had pursued a lead to the Riverview Motel, but the truck and driver had checked out.

No leads were forthcoming, and the case went cold.

I researched Dewey Backstrum, who was a longtime resident of Bolivar County, known for good deeds and kindness. He'd operated a forty-acre truck farm most of his adult life. A widower, he'd never had children. There had been no one to fight for justice for him. Sheriff Kincaid, like Coleman, was overwhelmed with other crimes. Once a case went cold, the likelihood of solving it dropped to less than ten percent.

I printed off the story, thanked Cece, and headed to Dahlia House to pick up Sweetie Pie and Pluto. They would be ill-tempered because they'd been home by themselves all day. Spoiled didn't begin to describe them. When they were loaded in the front seat, Sweetie with an old aviator hat to keep her ears warm and goggles to protect her eyes when she stuck her head out the window, we took off for Three Bs and a chat with Frankie.

It was a beautiful autumn day, the earth a dark brown and the sky a deep, cloudless blue. It was a good day for justice, I thought. Driving through the flat vista of the Delta, my thoughts drifted to the upcoming holiday. Thanksgiving would be here before I had time to count to ten. Thank god for Harold and his ability to take over a party, even when it was at Dahlia House. No matter how the holiday happened, I would be surrounded by friends and love.

Where would Pleasant spend Thanksgiving? If I didn't find her, she wouldn't be with her daughter. That was unacceptable. Thanksgiving was
the
family holiday. That baby girl deserved to be with her mother.

I'd chosen to drive along Highway 12, which went past the turnoff to Fodder Gin Road, where Pleasant's family lived. This route made my journey a bit longer, but I was working on a theory. I wanted to pinpoint the spot Dewey had been killed. Far in the distance, little more than a speck on the horizon, was the convenience store where Frankie worked. I slowed to a crawl, using my imagination to play out the death of the farmer.

I could easily visualize his pickup on the side of the road as he tinkered with the engine. A black pickup had come from the east. I didn't know if Dewey had stepped from behind the hood without checking the road or if the pickup had swerved into him for some reason. No one knew. If the driver was found, he'd be charged with homicide, though. He'd left the scene and hadn't reported the accident.

The question I didn't have an answer for involved Pleasant. Had she witnessed the hit-and-run? Had she maybe stopped to help Mr. Backstrum? Where was she when Backstrum was killed? My gut told me she was close. Involved. Was this the motivation behind her disappearance? Had she been in the truck that killed Backstrum? Or maybe she was a witness to the hit-and-run. I knew who to ask, and he was only a short distance away.

Frankie Graham was slumped behind the counter in the Three Bs reading another novel. He greeted me with a wry grin. “You're back. Have you found her?”

“No, I'm afraid not yet.” I held up the drawing of Luther Potter. “Have you seen this guy?”

He took the sketch and studied it. “Yeah. I have.” He met my gaze with a steady one of his own. “I didn't know his name. Did he take Pleasant?” He put a marker in
Go Set a Watchman
and put it aside.

“Why do you ask that?”

“He used to show up here when she was shopping. At first I thought it was just coincidence, but days would pass and I'd never see him. He never did anything. Pleasant would arrive, and he'd be here ten minutes later.”

“Was he stalking her?”

“I can't say for certain. It was odd, though, and she noticed it and confronted him.”

“What did he say?”

“He just laughed at her and made some crude remarks about her pregnancy and how no guy with a sex drive would be interested in her in the condition she was in. He made her feel creepy, though. When he was in the store, she would ask me to walk out to her car to be sure it started. Who is he?”

“His name is Luther Potter. He has a criminal record.” I debated telling him about Potter's attempts to get something for “cramps” for a woman. Frankie cared for Pleasant, though he was adept at hiding his feelings. The implication in Potter's visit to the midwife was clear—that he had a woman relying on him for help. His criminal record did not reveal a man who had a lot of compassion.

“Do you think he took Pleasant?”

“I can't say. He is a person of interest, though. Do you recall what Luther Potter drove?”

“A black truck. I don't remember the details.” Frankie gripped the counter to keep himself under control. “He was crass. He implied things about Pleasant. He said things that made us both believe he would hurt her.” He'd gone completely pale. “If he has her, there's no telling—”

“We don't know that he's involved. What do you remember about the hit-and-run back in October? The farmer who was killed on Highway 12.”

Frankie calmed a bit as he recalled the incident. “Mr. Backstrum was a nice man. He helped everyone in the area. He'd just been in the store before it happened. He'd bought gas for his truck and some sodas to take to the church for ‘the young people to drink.' He did stuff like that all the time, even though he didn't have a lot of money.”

“Did he arrive before or after Pleasant?”

Frankie thought a moment. “Before. But not by much.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Mount Zion Methodist is along Highway 12. I assumed he was taking the sodas to the church on his way home. There was a youth fellowship or something going on, or that's what I gathered. He didn't say that exactly.”

I paid for a pack of gum. “Would Pleasant have been on Highway 12?”

“It's the route she would have taken home, and her car was found there. Only she was gone.” His face drew in. “I should have followed her home, or let her take my truck. It was dark, and she was tired. That rust heap she drove was a POS. And those creeps had been in here pestering her.”

“Those creeps meaning Rudy Uxall and the other two men. But was Luther Potter with them?”

“No. That Potter guy wasn't with them. And Rudy didn't come in. He stayed in the truck, until he realized his friends were bullying Pleasant.”

“Did you ever see Rudy and Potter together?”

“Never. But they could have been engaged for all I know. I'm here working or helping on my dad's farm. I don't have what would be called an active social life.”

“Thanks, Frankie.”

“Did the DNA test come back yet?” he asked. “I stopped by and saw Sheriff Peters and told him I wanted to check. I've been thinking about that baby girl. Look, I lied to you about my relationship with Pleasant. We loved each other. The thing is, I begged her not to have the baby, but she wouldn't listen. The baby, me, we would be millstones around her neck. She could be somebody. She shouldn't have to drag Bolivar County behind her for the rest of her life.” His face was white with emotion. “I didn't want to say I was the father because…” he shrugged. “She can do so much better than me.”

“If you really love her, Frankie, and she loves you, that's a rare and special thing. You'll be the support that keeps her going. You don't want to walk away from Pleasant or your daughter.”

“I never thought I'd want a baby, but you know, it's different when it's your kid.” He choked.

To change the subject, I scrolled on my phone to show him Brook, Amber, and Lucinda. “Tell me about these girls.”

“What's to tell? They rule the social scene at the high school. They were mean to Pleasant, but she ignored them. They were likes flies buzzing around her head; she just brushed them aside.”

“That must have really ticked them off.”

He grinned and looked away for a minute. “Lucinda does hate to be ignored. Yeah, it made her mad, but she didn't have anything Pleasant wanted or needed. None of them did. Amber has money, but who cares. She's empty here.” He tapped his head. “And here.” He patted his heart.

Frankie might be a kid with a passion for reading novels, but he had his head on straight when it came to what was important in a person.

“Are you going to take the baby if it's yours?” I had to ask. Tinkie must be prepared for what was coming at her.

“I want to.” He flipped his hand at the shelves of potato chips, candy bars, canned spaghetti. “I can't support myself on what I make here, but I don't have reliable transportation to get a better job anywhere else. I won't take her unless I can support her.”

“What would you like to do?” At his age, I'd wanted only to be a Broadway star. I'd set my sights high.