The Secrets of Rosa Lee (28 page)

S
loan McCormick pulled his truck off the paved road and hoped the ground was still frozen enough not to have turned to mud. The day had held to below freezing with a cloudy enough sky to keep the few inches of snow from melting, but he knew West Texas. An hour of sunshine and the road to Luther Oates's place might be impossible to travel.

“What are we looking for, Preacher?”

“I don't know. I think I may be chasing something that is little more than a legend. The story goes that once, when only a few Anglos settled this area, most of the people here were Catholic.”

Sloan laughed. “That's no legend, Micah. That's fact. When Texas belonged to Mexico the only people allowed to settle here were Catholics, or at least they had to claim to be.”

Micah shrugged. “I was thinking about a little later than the revolution. From about the turn of the century until the thirties or so. Legends in Clifton Creek talk of a group of Catholics who broke away from the church. They called themselves the Brotherhood. They believed in suffering for their sins. I don't know what it would have to do with the Altman place, but the time period was when Henry Altman would have been an important man. It's
just a hunch I've had ever since I found out that Rosa Lee had her baby baptized in the Catholic church.”

“It's a lead anyway.” Sloan laughed. “I know how they must have felt back then. I think I've suffered for every sin I've ever enjoyed. My ex-wife made sure of that.”

“You were married?” Micah wanted to change the subject. The parts of the legend he had heard frightened him. Clifton Creek was a calm little town where nothing bad happened. He didn't like the idea that someone might have died in town and no one knew why.

“I married once, about ten years ago. She was a knockout who made me chase her until she caught me. I should have spent some time talking to her before we ended up married. She made my life such hell even the oil field half a world away looked good. I swore I'd never fall for a woman again.”

“And?”

Sloan smiled. “I kept my word, until I stood outside a classroom and watched Dr. Sidney Dickerson lecture. I've never met a woman like her, all brains and caring. She's innocent and irresistible at the same time. I think it will take me a lifetime to figure her out if I can convince her to let me stay around.”

“You fear she might not.”

“I worry about it. She doesn't know how far I'm willing to go to make sure I stay out of the way of her committee vote.” The oilman hesitated only a moment. “I'm willing to step aside. Quit if I have to. My company's already got another man ready to step in and take my place.”

Micah tried not to show his surprise.

Sloan glanced at the preacher. “You ever had love slam into you, Preacher?”

“Once,” he answered.

“Did you do anything about it?”

“Not yet,” Micah said.

Sloan nodded, lost in his own thoughts. “That's the thing, when it hits you hard and fast. You worry that it might not be real, but then, you figure, what if it is real and I let it get away? What if I let my one-in-a-million chance at happiness walk out of my life because I'm too much of a coward to hold on?”

Both men watched the road without talking for a few minutes.

The echo of three rounds being fired reached them. Sloan slowed and rolled the window down a few inches.

“Is someone shooting at us?” Micah leaned forward staring out into open plains. “From where?” The land was flat and endless.

“I'm guessing those were warning shots.” Sloan reached for his shotgun. “You know how to shoot?”

Micah hadn't touched a gun since he'd been in Boy Scouts and fired a .22. “I can fire, but I doubt I could hit anything.”

“That's fine,” Sloan laughed. “We're not planning on killing anything. Just stick that barrel out the window so they'll know we're not scared.”

Micah carefully twisted the rifle until the barrel pointed out the window.

“You don't like guns, do you?” Sloan leaned forward, watching as he continued down the road. “But I need to know, one way or the other, in case this is more trouble than I think. If it came down to life or death, could you fire? Will you cover my back if we drive into harm's way?”

Micah had never been asked such a question. Never even given it any thought. He remembered his mother saying once that thank God there was no longer a draft because she couldn't imagine her son carrying a gun.

Then he recalled the stories he'd heard about the Broth
erhood. Stories about how they'd taken their religion too far and left a man dead after he'd suffered for their sins. Micah told himself he didn't believe it, but was he willing to bet his life on it? “I can fire if I have to.”

Sloan laughed nervously. “We're probably only going to find an old man living on this place who shoots at the crows.”

They bumped across the hard road until they finally saw a windmill to the left. Sloan turned at the first gate. After a half mile, he said, “I'm not even sure we're on the road anymore. I don't have any tracks to follow and the ground is covered.” He paused. “When we get there, let me do the talking. We can't go in asking about some secret society or they'll shoot us for sure.”

Micah nodded. He had no idea how he would bring the subject up anyway. Where could he start? All he had were a few rumors to base his theory on and the fact that everyone in town thought Luther Oates and Henry Altman had been friends seventy years ago.

They drove up to the house and saw three men standing on a long porch that ran the length of the front. One was old and shriveled into his coat like a turtle. Another had to be in his sixties, but stood straight and tall, a big man even without the boots and hat. The third stranger didn't look long out of his teens. All three had guns within reach.

Sloan told Micah to stay put and stepped out of his truck, slow and easy. “Howdy.” He held his hands wide and didn't bother to close the truck door. “I was hoping to have a few words with Luther Oates.”

“You the law?”

“No. I'm just here to ask him a few questions about Henry Altman. His granddaughter asked me to come by.”

The big man shook his head. “Henry Altman didn't have but one daughter and she was an old maid. So, either
you're lying, or you've been lied to, which makes you a fool.”

Sloan raised his hands higher and took another step. “That may be true, I've fallen for lies a few times in my life, but I saw a picture of Rosa Lee Altman and my lady friend is close to a mirror image.”

“Maybe she's a distant cousin or something.”

“Did you know Rosa Lee?” Sloan asked.

“I did.” The big man answered. “But I've nothing to say.”

“Well, her picture was in black-and-white so I couldn't see the color of her eyes, but my friend has light blue. You wouldn't remember what color Rosa Lee's were, would you?”

The older man shifted, but didn't say a word.

Sloan took another step. “Look, I'm not here to cause any trouble. My friend doesn't have a relative in this world and she'd like to know a little about the people she came from.”

The big man in the middle raised his voice as if he thought Sloan must be hard of hearing. “I told you—”

The older man lifted his hand. “It's all right. I'll talk to him. I knew Henry Altman. He was older than me, but I was proud to call him a friend. A finer man never lived.”

Micah left the rifle in the truck and stepped out. “You're Luther Oates, aren't you?”

The old man nodded.

“I'm Reverend Micah Parker.” Micah took a few steps. “We'd like to ask a few questions about Henry Altman.”

“He loved his daughter and she loved him. I'll say that.”

“Did he ever lock her away in that house?” Sloan asked.

The old man shook his head and spoke to Micah. “He loved her and she proved she loved him. That's all I'm planning to say.”

Sloan leaned closer, now standing just off the porch. “Why? What is the secret that circles around that house like a moat? What is it that no one will tell?”

The old man's eyes floated with tears. “It ain't for me to say. But, best I remember, Rosa Lee did have light blue eyes.”

Sloan's gaze met Micah's for a second and Micah knew to be ready as Sloan lowered his voice slightly and asked, “Mr. Oates, did Henry Altman have something he wanted to hide? Maybe an organization he belonged to, or something he did he wouldn't want anyone to know about.”

Luther glared at Sloan, then shook his head and turned. Without another word the old man considered the meeting over.

Sloan started back to the truck. “Well, then, I guess we're wasting your time.”

Micah didn't move, or take his gaze off the old man's back. Sloan was playing him, but Micah guessed Luther would be too smart to fall.

Sloan turned, as if thinking of one last question. “Mr. Oates, how do you feel about the house being demolished?”

Luther glanced over his shoulder. “I say let it fall, there's nothing left but bad memories.”

Micah almost echoed the words from the note,
let the house fall.
He knew the old man couldn't have been strong enough to throw the drill bit, but his son or grandson could have.

Sloan agreed. “I'm guessing it'll be torn down in a few days. We're going through it one more time tonight to look for anything.”

“You won't find nothing,” the kid on the end of the porch mumbled and then seemed embarrassed that he'd said the words aloud.

“Because you've looked,” Sloan said before the boy's father or grandfather could speak.

“Maybe,” the kid said. “There ain't no crime in walking through a vacant house. I didn't do any damage.”

Sloan appeared to agree. “Maybe we'll have better luck,” he mumbled continuing his journey to the truck. “Rosa Lee left us a map, written in a book, as to where she kept secrets hidden.”

Micah knew Sloan was stretching the truth, but didn't mention it as he watched all three men on the porch stiffen.

“We've reason to believe Henry belonged to a secret organization,” Micah said. “We'd like to find out if it's only a legend, or if it could have been fact.”

Finally the old man answered, “If the sheriff were standing here, I'd swear I never heard of such a group. It ain't healthy to mention them.”

Sloan nodded then asked, “Mind telling me why? I'm not from around here.”

The old man looked as if he questioned just how bright Sloan was. Finally, he said, “From what I hear, they were a group of very religious men. It's rumored one of the ceremonies got out of hand one night in the early thirties and men died. After that, the group broke up.”

“You have any idea if Henry Altman belonged to that group?” Micah asked, already seeing the answer in the old man's eyes.

“If he did a thing like that it would weigh heavy on him.” Oates looked tired, a lifetime of tired. “I heard there was a list, a role of the members. If it were found, it could destroy whole families around here.”

Luther Oates took a deep breath. “If this woman friend of yours is kin to Henry Altman, and he was a member of the Brotherhood, maybe it's better she never knows.”

“One last question, Mr. Oates,” Sloan said. “Do you
have any idea why Henry's daughter didn't have a service for her father?”

The old man looked Sloan straight in the eyes. “Maybe she did.”

Sloan thanked Oates and backed to the open door of his pickup. Micah did the same. When they were far enough away from the house to be safe, Sloan punched in a number on his cell.

“Sidney,” he said with a snap. “Have you seen Dr. Eastland's widow yet?”

He listened then added, “Try to get a copy of the death certificate.”

He clicked the phone closed without saying goodbye.

“What is it?” Micah asked as he braced himself for the bumps Sloan took at top speed.

Sloan rubbed his forehead. “I don't know, more a feeling than anything, but I got the idea that maybe Henry didn't die when everyone thinks he did. Luther knows more than he's telling. Maybe there was no funeral in 1950 because Henry didn't die then. You said you found a record listing his death in 1964.”

“But it must have been wrong. Why would a man fake his own death?”

“Maybe he didn't. Maybe Rosa Lee did?”

L
ora Whitman and Sidney Dickerson waited in the tiny front room of Dr. Eastland's widow's home. The room could be called nothing else but a sitting room, just like the ones Sidney had seen in museums. In the fifties, families had tried to revive them, calling them formal living rooms, but their usefulness was gone, thanks probably to telephones. There was no need for guests to arrive and wait until someone was ready to receive them—they could simply call first.

When Mrs. Eastland walked in, or more accurately shuffled in, she looked as if she belonged in sitting-room surroundings. The dress she wore could have been bought thirty or more years ago. “Welcome.” Her smile was framed by a thousand wrinkles. “How may I help you, Dr. Dickerson? I read your articles in the paper so I feel we are already friends.”

She offered her hand to Sidney then turned to Lora. “Hello, child.” Her tiny hand patted Lora's. “You've grown up to be a real lady. I know your parents must be proud. I saw where you graduated from the University of Texas a few years back.”

Lora smiled and thanked her. Mrs. Eastland might be one of the town's oldest residents but her mind was still razor sharp.

“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice, Mrs. Eastland,” Lora said, knowing that Sidney was dying to get to the questions but Mrs. Eastland would expect conversation first.

So, Lora asked about the grandchildren and Mrs. Eastland showed pictures of the great-grandchildren, taking the time to point out the parents of each child. Then Sidney mentioned the committee she chaired and Mrs. Eastland inquired who was on it and how the meetings were going.

Finally, after twenty minutes, she turned to Sidney and asked how she could help.

Sidney reached for her notes and glasses. “First, we'd like to ask if you still have Dr. Eastland's records available, and a copy of Henry Altman's death certificate?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “His office was next door for almost fifty years.” Mrs. Eastland led them down an enclosed passageway leading from her home into her husband's offices.

The office looked exactly as it must have twenty years before. Sidney wasn't surprised.

“The doctor kept detailed files. I was his office manager when we first met and helped out here now and then even after the children came.” She crossed the room to an old filing cabinet. “The records are closed except to family, but I think the committee would qualify. I rented out this office to the new doctors when they first came to Clifton Creek, but last year they finally got a new place. I kept the files of patients who'd passed on. Active files were moved to the new doctor's office.”

Lora glanced at Sidney. The professor was fighting to keep from reaching across the old lady and grabbing the records.

“Here is Rosa Lee's.” Mrs. Eastland pulled out a thin folder. “She was healthy, but given to depression, I think,
for my husband sent medicine to her place every month, but he never talked about it with me. Dr. Eastland prided himself in keeping confidences, but now I guess it no longer matters.” She handed the folder to Sidney. “I'll have to go out to storage for Henry's file. Will you excuse me, please?”

Lora offered to help, but Mrs. Eastland insisted they wait. When she was gone, Sidney opened Rosa Lee's file. An orderly telling of her life spread before them. The doctors changed from time to time, recording all illnesses. The flu, pneumonia, a twisted ankle X-rayed in the sixties, pills for high blood pressure in the eighties, pills for sleeping in the nineties.

“Any record of a child?” Lora whispered.

“No. But 1934 was the year she had pneumonia. It says the doctor left orders for a nurse to check on her twice a week until she recovered. The dates of the house calls are listed with initials beside them.”

Lora leaned close. “M.J.”

“Minnie Jefferson. My grandmother was there. The dates are the months before my mother's birth. But there is no record of Rosa Lee giving birth. Maybe my grandmother just had my mother early but wanted to record her birth in Chicago. We still have no proof.”

Lora didn't answer. She knew neither of them believed that. “We may never know the truth if the doctor didn't record it in his files.”

Sidney shook her head. “I don't know why it matters. They are all dead anyway. If Rosa Lee was my grandmother, she must not have loved my mother or me. She never tried to keep in touch. Maybe the notes someone keeps sending me are right. Maybe the committee should just let the house fall and forget the past. If Rosa Lee had
been my grandmother wouldn't it make sense that she would have kept in touch?”

“I found Henry Altman's file,” Mrs. Eastland said as she moved slowly back into the room. “It's a little dusty I'm afraid. Probably no one has opened it since he died.”

“Do you remember when he died?”

Mrs. Eastland nodded. “I was busy with little ones then, but I remember. My husband had been over at the house several times. He said he'd tried everything to get Henry to go to the hospital, but the old man wouldn't hear of it. They didn't have a funeral, which everyone thought was unusual, but Rosa Lee was so shy. She likely wasn't up to having one.”

Lora nodded as the old lady continued, “Henry died in 1950 and Rosa Lee took over the running of the ranch. Just in time from what I heard. The place was losing money. She had to sell off pieces of it to live and if the old man had been alive he never would have allowed that. They would have lost everything if she hadn't cut back and saved what she could.”

“She must have felt so alone after her father died.” Sidney knew what it was like to lose all relatives.

“Her father had a few good friends. Luther Oates and Earl Hamm, I believe. As long as Rosa Lee was alive, they checked on her now and then.”

Mrs. Eastland turned through the pages of the file to the end. “This is strange,” she said as she pulled out two documents.

“What?”

“Henry Altman has two death certificates.”

“Copies?”

Mrs. Eastland shook her head. “No, one is dated November 1950. The other is October of 1964. There must be some mistake,” Mrs. Eastland whispered. “But I never
knew my husband to be careless. He took pride in always having his files in order.”

Lora looked at the two death certificates. The one in 1950 had been filed and notarized. The one in 1964 had been filled out by the same hand, but not stamped. Her imagination went wild. “Maybe this explains why there was no funeral.”

“Why?” Sidney studied the documents.

“Because, Henry was listed as dead in 1950 but didn't really die until 1964. Maybe he faked his own death.”

“Whatever for?”

Lora shook her head. “I have no idea, but if the doctor and Rosa Lee knew about it, so did others.”

“What if he faked his death and continued to live in the old house?” Sidney guessed.

“But, why?” Mrs. Eastland questioned.

“Insurance money?” Lora guessed.

Mrs. Eastland shook her head. “If Rosa Lee had gotten money, she wouldn't have had to sell land.”

The phone Sloan had given Sidney jingled in her pocket. She answered it, said a few words and hung up.

Sidney was pale as she faced Lora. “You may be right,” she whispered. “Sloan just told me to bring copies of the death certificate. He also has a question about when Henry died.”