Roots of Murder (42 page)

“Michael told me they couldn't take away my property, that we could fight. One last piece of hope he gave me. I had even tried to register to vote, thought the world was going to change. Then Michael was gone and I had to sell the land.

“I'd gone to the courthouse to register, then I went by the tax office to inform Mr. Dunning I was going to protest, gave him an affidavit Michael got a lawyer friend of his to draw up.

“Two nights later there were seven of them on my front lawn, wearing those starched sheets their wives had ironed, burning a cross. Telling me Michael and Ella and Dora were gone.”

“If they were hooded, how could you tell who they were?” Nell asked.

“Ever recognized someone by their voice? The way they walk? Every Negro in Tchula County knew what Sheriff Tremble's voice sounded like, cigarette harsh. Also his deputy, Reese Allen. Recognized Bessmer the undertaker with his big, pale hands. The greasy mechanic's fingernails, with a high voice, was Norbert Jones. And Dupree had a soft cough, always covered his mouth with his hand. Even when he had a hood on.”

“Do you think these were the men who murdered Michael, Dora, and Ella?”

“They knew they were gone and not coming back,” Hattie Jacobs told her. “How else could they know that?”

“Maybe people talked,” Nell suggested.

“Dora and Ella left my house in the morning. They didn't come back that evening. Instead, these men and their burning cross, and the way they told us we could never hope again.”

“The timing is damning,” Nell noted.

“But an old woman like me isn't going to be enough to do much to them,” Hattie said, her voice weary and resigned.

“Your
say-so
alone, probably not. But we've found other evidence.”

Hattie looked at her.

Nell continued. “They took pictures. Men like this also mistreat their daughters, and those daughters, when they grow up, don't hide the family secrets. Right now we just have photos, but no names. I brought one of them with me. It's not something easy to look at, but it would be a great help if you could identify any of the men.”

Hattie slowly nodded her head and Nell took the damning photo from her briefcase. When she first saw it, the old woman stiffened, then hugged herself tightly, looking at the image without touching it. She spent several minutes gazing at the photograph. Then she recited to Nell, “Sheriff Tremble with that shotgun, Norbert Jones right next to Dora, he ran the gas place in town; Albert Dunning with the club, Reese Allen, sheriff's deputy, with the pistol, Bruce—I think his last name was Goodman—bag boy at the grocery, Rick Connor, the high hair in back, he did odd jobs, never held one long, and Barnett, Delwin Barnett, he drove a garbage truck.” She was able to name seven of the ten men there.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs,” Nell said as she put the photo back into her briefcase. “There is no statute of limitations on murder. You may be contacted by the District Attorney's office. Although these photos might be damning enough.”

“A few twilight years of justice. Most of them already in their graves by now.”

Nell couldn't argue. The men in the photo had fifty years of freedom. “What happened after you were forced to sell your land?”

“I had family over here. Came to live with my cousin Bessie till I found a place of my own. Hard with four kids used to the open spaces of a farm. I got work as a maid in a hotel. Some days I'd dream I was back on the farm, then wake up to this city and cleaning other people's trash.” She was silent, then said very softly, “I still occasionally dream I'm back there, wide open green space and the time mine to make my day.”

“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Jacobs,” Nell said. Those feeble words were all she could say.

“Hattie. Just call me Hattie. At least they didn't get away with it forever. Twilight justice is better than none.” After a pause, she said, “Would you like more tea? Mine's gone cold and the day is too chilly for that.” She didn't wait for Nell's reply, but picked up the cups and went back to the kitchen. From there she said, “My son Emmett is going to come by and fix some of these drafty doors, but his wife broke her arm and he's got to do all the chores she used to do.”

“Probably a good thing for him to find out how hard woman work,” Nell answered. “You said you had four children? What happened to them after they left the farm?”

Hattie replied with a question. “You have any children?”

“Yes, two. Lizzie, my daughter, is on the verge of teenage angst and Josh, my son, who's twelve, is still more interested in sharks and searching for shells on the beach than girls.”

“Josh and Lizzie. Family names?” She brought in two steaming cups of tea.

“Elizabeth came from my older sister, Margaret Elizabeth. She … did a lot of raising me. And Josh is just Joshua. My husband Thom was named for his father and he insisted no one else carry that burden,” Nell said quickly, busying herself with her tea.

Hattie caught the past tense. “Was?”

“Was. Thom was killed by a drunk driver,” Nell said. “About a month ago.” She wondered why she added that.

Hattie reached over and took Nell's hand. She held it silently, then softly said, “Daniel, my husband, was killed by a tractor. White boy going too fast. It tipped over, caught Daniel under it. He lingered for about a week.” Again she was silent.

“How did you do it? It's hard enough with two children for me.
But how did you go on?” Nell was no longer a reporter, and her
questions had nothing to do with any story she would write.

“I had to. I just had to,” Hattie answered slowly. “That's how I went on. We had almost made another life when we got the farm taken away.” She paused. “I lost two of them.”

“Your children?” Nell asked, almost a whisper.

“Daniel, named after his father. He wanted to fight, to rip that cross down with his bare hands. Anger caught him just growing into a man. It had no place to go. Left the farm he was going to take over someday to go sleep on piled blankets on the floor of his cousins' room. He started getting into trouble with the law, then more trouble. He's … up at Angola now. Don't know whether to hope I'm still alive when he gets out or hope I'm gone and don't have to hear the gunshot and wonder if it's him—shooting or being shot.”

“What happened to the other child?”

“Daisy looked for love too easy. I was working too much, just not enough to get enough money. She got pregnant at sixteen. Three kids by the time she was twenty. Too many different men. One gave her AIDS. She's been gone fifteen years now.”

Two more lives, Nell thought. Consequences have consequences that travel far. Maybe their fate would have been the same if Hattie Jacobs had kept her property, or it would have been different. Nell tightened the pressure on the woman's hand.

“I am so sorry. There aren't words …”

“Love your children, love them hard and well.” Hattie took a sip of her tea, then, as if the lost Daniel and Daisy were too hard to leave unleavened, she said, “Emmett and Rosa have done well. Both made it through college and now Rosa is going to law school at night. Emmett married a real good woman; they helped raise Daisy's children after she passed, plus two of their own. His wife's a nurse; he works over in the juvenile court, assessing the kids that come through. They're both doing all right.”

All right despite everything, Nell thought. She worried enough about Josh and Lizzie, but they slept in their own beds in their own house. Those comforts only seem small when you have them.

She spent another hour with Hattie, mostly talking of the safe things, what had changed in Pelican Bay and what hadn't, about Josh and his beach rambles. But the edges of the other times cut too many places to avoid them; the beaches were still segregated when Hattie left. Hattie's sons and daughters couldn't have gone to the same school as Thom McGraw, even walked on the same beach.

Nell thanked Hattie for her hospitality. She wanted to thank her for her courage. But she could find no words.

“What happens now?” Hattie asked her.

“I'll talk to Harold Reed, the assistant DA, and tell him what you've told me. He gets to search for these men and bring those still alive to trial. You might talk to a lawyer about bringing a civil suit for your property. I don't know enough about the law, but given everything, you should get at least a decent settlement.”

“Money won't buy my farm back. Or the life I should have had.”

“No, it won't. But it's one less way they get away with it.”

Hattie stood on the porch watching Nell drive away. She stood there until Nell turned a corner and could no longer see the house.

Traffic was heavier on the way out. Nell was glad for the distraction of driving on the packed interstate. She needed a slice of the ordinary to pad her away from all the horrors today had accumulated.

Nell made it back to Pelican Bay a little after five. There was a stack of messages on her desk. She didn't even bother looking through them. She picked up the phone, called Harold Reed, and told him what Hattie Jacobs told her. Harold had updates for her, too. There was black paint on Marcus's car that appeared to be from another vehicle.

As Nell put the phone down, she felt a twinge of relief. Whatever else his sins—and they were many—at least Andre Dupree, confined to a wheelchair and barely able to speak, couldn't be responsible for these current firebombings and murders.

There were two messages from Aaron in the pile on her desk, one asking about lunch today and the second about lunch tomorrow. Nell looked at them. The last thing she wanted to do now was face him. Finding out the truth about his father would be shattering. My choice is either to be a blatant coward or do it myself, Nell thought.

Nell called Carrie to see how much she had. It felt necessary to focus on routine tasks. Carrie had two stories, a rundown of the elections and coverage of the debate. She had a couple of good quotes of Mayor Pickings sputtering about suing the Crier, the reporter who had asked the question, and everyone in the room. Nell told her she needed the stories by ten in the morning and earlier was better. The trip to New Orleans may have been productive as solace for her broken soul, but it had also left her behind.

Still ignoring the telephone messages, she went upstairs to find Jacko. “Pelican Properties. Can you get together everything you found out about them?” Nell wanted to check on if a number of their names were also the names Hattie had revealed. “And Jacko
…
do you want to do the obit for Marcus or should I?”

“I've already worked on one,” he admitted. “It felt like something I needed to do
.”

“Thank you,” Nell said, secretly glad it had helped him work though his sorrow, because doing it would have only made hers worse. “Mention that he worked for the Crier before, covering the desegregation of the beaches but the paper didn't give him a byline because of the attitudes of the times. Don't sugarcoat it to make it look like anything other than the cowardly act it was.”

They stayed late that evening, Jacko working on his stories, Nell on hers, as well as the myriad other details that required her attention. Jacko's computer friend joined them, bringing in a replacement server. At first Nell took him to be about a
sixteen-year
-old boy, but on second look decided he was a she and probably in her twenties. She seemed to know what she was doing, her rates were reasonable, and that was enough for Nell. Josh and Lizzie remained more or less content continuing their computer game. Jacko did a burger run and full stomachs kept them going for a while.

When they were getting ready to leave, he handed her what he had on Pelican Property. Nell started to put it in a desk drawer, but then decided, given how busy everything would be tomorrow—and she was going to have to talk to Aaron soon—to take it with her. She also took the stack of letters from Alma Smyth to Frieda Connor. Then she gathered her children and headed home.

twenty-five

When they got home,
Josh and especially Lizzie seemed to not notice they were later than usual and were determined to get their customary TV and computer time. It took three strong hints to get Josh to turn off the TV. She had to threaten Lizzie with pulling the plug to get her off the computer.

“But, Mom, I had to get this stuff done tonight!”

As Lizzie kept typing, Nell made the unwelcome parental suggestion of getting up early to take care of it.

“Mom!” She didn't even look at Nell as she said it, keeping her eyes on the computer screen.

“Daughter!” Nell replied, then, reaching the end of her patience, she hit the off button on the monitor. That got Lizzie's attention. “I'm getting ready for bed. When I get out of the bathroom I expect the computer to still be off. Understand?”

Lizzie didn't agree, but Nell headed for the bathroom. Another moment and she would be screaming at her daughter, spilling her anger in the wrong direction. Nell still wasn't sure what would be on the front page. Marcus's murder. She wanted more than an ephemeral newspaper to offer him. She was tempted to go with the election and the loss of Marcus and leave the murders and property theft for later. But she knew with the pictures and Hattie's identification, the murders would soon blow open, and these were her stories. They had cost far too much, she wouldn't let someone else have the headlines.

She finished in the bathroom, and Lizzie was still on the computer. Seeing her mother, Lizzie frantically typed a few extra lines as she was standing up. She didn't even bother to properly shut the computer down, just hit the power button.

“I couldn't get to it because we had to stay late at your office,” Lizzie fumed, then ran past Nell and up the stairs to her room.

How many more years do I have to put up with this, Nell wondered. She retreated to her room, although suspicious rustlings told her Lizzie was dawdling through her bedtime routine. But Nell heard no footsteps on the stairs, so at least she wasn't getting back on the computer. She turned on the bedside lamp, deciding she would read a little of her homework before snuggling in.

Pelican Property had been incorporated in 1961, and had dissolved by 1965. For a business, a short time. It fed Nell's suspicion it had been more of a shell than real. Looking over the property transactions, she noticed in late 1963 and the first six months of 1964, Pelican regularly turned the properties over to Andre Dupree. While Pelican made profit on the transactions, it was nothing to retire on, especially for a group of six. When it dissolved, it held only the property near the harbor; the rest had been sold to Dupree. He soon bought half of that, and Nell was betting with a little more title searching, they might find out he eventually got the rest of it.

Nell looked at the list of owners, Bo Tremble, B. Brown, Frixnel Landry, Albert Dunning, Lamont Vincent, and A.J. Smyth. Hattie had named both Tremble and Dunning in the picture, and Whiz had indicated his father was the photographer. That meant that three of the six owners had something to do with the murder of Michael, Dora and Ella. Maybe it was just coincidence, but if A.J. Smyth was Alma Smyth, she seemed out of place among this group of powerful men. If they were the same, that would make it four of six.

Nell untied the string holding together the stack of letters from Alma J. Smyth to Frieda Connor. The first one was dated September 19, 1953. Skimming over it, it seemed mostly a discussion of which boys they were dating and who had the best prospects.

Nell started on the second one when she heard a stealthy footstep. As they were going down the stairs not up them, that significantly limited the suspects. She gave the late night wanderer a minute or so, in case it was a relatively innocent run for a glass of milk. Instead, she heard the distinct beep of a computer being turned on.

Putting the letter aside, Nell got out of bed. As quietly as she could, she moved to the entrance of the living room. The room was dark save for the bluish screen of the computer. Showing no mercy, Nell slipped her hand over the main light switch. The lights blazed on, capturing the culprit.

It was Josh. He blinked several times then said sheepishly, “I couldn't remember how big Great White Sharks get and it was bugging me.”

Lizzie was awake enough to hear voices and she came trotting downstairs.

Nell considered roaring, “get back to bed now,” but decided a compromise might get everyone tucked in more quickly than a battle would. She put on hot water for instant hot chocolate and gave them each exactly ten minutes on the computer.

Twenty-two
minutes later, her children were again heading up the stairs. Nell didn't bother with the letters, but turned out the light and pulled the covers up.

The next morning in the hurried routine of getting her children up and out, Nell almost left all her homework sitting beside the bed.

Nell was relieved to discover Jacko and Pam had done most of the basic layout of the paper yesterday while she was gone. Pam, also, thanks to Jacko's tech friend and an advance on the insurance money, had a nice new computer; no more
file-your
-nails delays while waiting for images to load. “Click the mouse and it's there,” Pam marveled.

Nell was in the middle of looking over Carrie's stories when Sheriff Hickson barged in. Without an invitation, he leaned in her doorway.

“Got a story for you, Miz McGraw.”

Nell almost wanted to scream, “Keep it until next week and get the fuck out of my office.” She just had to think of a more polite way to say it.

“Hostage situation goin' on right now.”

That would be a story for this sleepy town, although his attitude told Nell there was more, or probably less, to this than his words were saying.

“I hope it's a hostage situation on deadline,” Nell said. “I'm in the middle of getting out the paper.”

“One Beauregard Lee is holed up in a house in the middle of town, holding Mrs. Hufflenutter hostage.”

“What's Lee want?” Nell asked, reluctantly grabbing a notepad and camera.

“Not sure yet, no communications have been established. Want to ride with me to the scene?” He was already walking away. She followed.

Nell shot Pam a questioning look. “I'll need you in about an hour,” the young woman told her. Nell grabbed Carrie's story and a red pen; she might get the final edits in while standing around. The sheriff was already halfway out the door and she hustled to follow him. As if knowing she couldn't resist the bait, his cruiser was parked directly in front of the building.

“How serious is the situation?” Nell asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Don't rightly know, just got the word,” he answered as he started his car.

Nell put on her seat belt, noticing the sheriff didn't bother. “How did you find out about it?” She was determined to get a few questions in before they got there.

“Got a call,” was his laconic answer. Then, as if he knew she'd keep asking questions, he put the siren on and they wailed the ten blocks it took them to get there.

It was a residential street of older houses, with trees grown to maturity. The house they stopped in front of was set back from the road, its faded green paint echoed by the green hedges and shrubs of the front lawn, grown to almost
house-height
.

Other cars were there. Nell noticed that despite its being in town and theoretically the jurisdiction of the police, only the sheriff's men were on the scene.

“Okay, you've dragged me here,” Nell said in the silence from the siren. “Want to tell me what it's all about?”

“Got a call. A dangerous situation. Thought it should be covered by the newspaper.”

“Why the sheriff's department and not the town police?” Nell pushed.

“We took the call. Thought it better to come here than wait around.” He opened his door and got out, avoiding further questions.

Nell followed. They were almost directly in front of the house, as were the others milling around. Several neighbors had come out to watch. Clearly the danger level wasn't great; otherwise they would have cleared the block. While she couldn't claim to know every resident in Pelican Bay, the names the sheriff had mentioned didn't sound familiar.

“Please don't hurt him,” a youngish man was saying. “He's only hungry.”

An older woman, with enough of a resemblance to be his mother, had her own take on it. “Shouldn't oughta ever open that cage door. Just shouldn't oughta.”

“What cage door was left open?” Nell asked as she edged closer.

But before she got an answer, the door to the house opened and one of the young deputies ran out carrying a cat. The older woman flung herself at him, grabbing the cat out of the deputy's arms as he came down the steps. She almost threw him off balance, and for a tottering moment it looked like woman, cat, and man might end up rolling in the yard. But the deputy righted himself and the cat was transferred, much as a flour sack would have been. The expression on the cat's face showed it was not brimming over with gratitude to its rescuers.

Nell snapped a picture of the disgruntled cat in the woman's clutches. Turning to the sheriff, she said, “That, I take it, is Mrs. Hufflenutter. You don't by any chance know the correct spelling of the feline's name?”

The sheriff didn't answer.

Nell continued. “And just who, or should I say what, is Beauregard Lee?”

The young man answered, “A bicolored rock python.”

“‘O best beloved.'” Nell couldn't resist.

Seeing Nell as an ally—“ally” seemed to be anyone not openly hostile—he animatedly continued. “He's really a beautiful creature. After I played with him this morning I guess the cage lock hadn't caught, and he got out. Mom found her cat on the top of the bookshelf with Beauie following her every move. She panicked and called the sheriff.”

Hearing her son's version, his mother had to get her own in. “Mrs. Huffie only survived because she's smart enough to climb up. That critter of yours was about to have her and me for lunch!”

“Ma, Beauie is only six feet long; he couldn't even get around you more than once. Worst he could do is crack a rib.”

Those words were not a great comfort to his mother, neither the thought of only a cracked rib nor the implication about the thickness of her waist.

Leaving the family feud to go its way, Nell turned back to the sheriff. He was talking to the brave deputy who had rescued the cat.

“Didn't see the snake, didn't want to,” the young man was saying.

“Just as well. We can probably let the young fella hunt it down,” the sheriff replied.

“You brought me out here to the middle of a Rudyard Kipling story?” Nell demanded. She had a moment of picturing the sheriff's already robust nose being stretched like that of the Elephant's Child. It wasn't a pretty thought.

“Well, we got a mostly happy ending, but even you gotta admit a big snake running around town is a story.”

Nell briefly considered telling him it was only a
medium-size
snake and would therefore be in the second section, but she decided her first crack was enough. Silently, she even conceded he was more or less right. At about any other time, this would have been an interesting story for a small town's local paper.

“Okay, Sheriff, let's get a picture. Do you want to be holding a phone for the more realistic shot, or would you like to be more dramatic and pointing a gun in the direction of the dastardly snake?”

The sheriff reached a compromise pose, holding the radio from his car, with his hand resting on his gun. Nell dutifully took several shots. The next time it could really be a man with a gun and she didn't want to give up her exclusive privileges. Not for something like mere morals and journalistic standards.

His heroic pose captured, the sheriff didn't seem to feel a need to linger in an area with a big snake on the loose. After giving his deputies instructions to shoot if the snake made a break, he escorted Nell back to his cruiser.

Most of the town streets were now one way, so they headed back by a different route.

As the sheriff pulled to a halt at a stop sign, more to answer his radio than to obey the law, Nell noticed they were at the corner with the Jones brothers' gas station.

She sat up when she noticed a big, dark truck in the back bay. Another car was parked across the entrance, as if they wanted to make sure the truck was as hidden as could be.

Nell had to see if the truck had a dent on the front fender.

“Where are you … ?” the sheriff said as she got out of his car.

“A dark truck,” Nell answered as she strode across the street. She wanted a quick look. If it was the truck, by tomorrow all traces of the attack might be gone.

But there was no way to sneak into the garage, and although she was sliding behind the parked car in front of the truck before anyone noticed her, it wasn't lost on the Jones boys that Nell McGraw, with a camera in hand, was investigating their truck.

“Hey! You can't go there!” someone shouted.

“Stop me,” Nell muttered to herself as she rounded the back end of the truck. It was parked front end in, and the passenger side was next to the wall, making it difficult to glimpse the front right fender.

“What do you think you're doing, lady?” one of them shouted.

“Get out of there now!” the other added.

They sounded nervous. The driver's window was open; Nell put her arm in and leaned on the horn. It blared the first few bars of Dixie.

“Goddamn it!” came another shouted curse.

Nell hurried on her circuit of the truck, squeezing in between the wall and the front bumper. It was the only way to get to the fender.

The Jones brothers were coming after her. They were large men with big beer bellies and they couldn't slide around to follow her as Nell edged around the front of the truck to the tight space on the passenger side.