A Murder In Passing (6 page)

“This is Sam Blackman, and I'm afraid he's spoken for.”

If my name meant anything, she didn't react. Instead she shook her head with exaggerated slowness. “Aren't they all. Except you, of course. The one who always gets away.”

“No. They just keep throwing me back.”

Lucille's smile broadened. “Your ladies have so many fishing lines dangling in front of you I'm surprised you can walk without tripping over them.”

“The secret is to avoid the hooks.”

“And you're very adept at that. So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

Captain looked at me. “Sam wants to talk with you a few minutes, if you have the time.”

“Time's all I've got. Come in. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“Not for me,” Captain said. “I can't stay.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Lucille's face. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Captain dropped his voice. “The Mayor went to critical care this morning. I need to check on him.”

Lucille bit her lower lip. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. It wasn't an exclamation but a prayer.

“Yes,” Captain said. “I think he's just wearing out.” He waved his arm to usher me past him. “You two have a good talk and I'll keep you posted.”

I stepped into Lucille Montgomery's apartment and she closed the door behind us.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“I'm fine. I won't take but a few minutes.”

She gestured to a floral upholstered sofa. “Have a seat. I'll stay here with my knitting.” She picked up needles and a skein of dark blue yarn.

I looked around the room. The furniture was traditional and simple: the sofa, her rocker, and a velvet armchair. An old picture tube television sat on an oak credenza along the side wall facing her chair. A framed picture of a young Marsha in cap and gown stood to the right of the TV and a black-and-white photograph of a man in a dark suit was in a matching frame on the left. He was a white man and the composition suggested the photographer had been a professional. The soft background appeared to be a studio canvas and the three-quarter profile was one of those contrived, pensive poses where the subject peers off-camera thinking deep thoughts. He must be Marsha's father, the man forbidden by North Carolina law to marry Lucille.

I studied the elderly woman as she sat and placed her knitting in her lap. She wore a light blue dress with white trim collar. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. She'd dressed for lunch, although not so formally that my grandmother would have called them “Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes.

She started slowly rocking. “How can I help you?”

“I'm a private investigator.”

She stopped rocking. “Oh?”

“Yes, Ma'am. Your daughter Marsha came to see me this morning.”

“Whatever for?”

“She asked me to investigate a theft. She said someone had stolen a picture of you taken by Doris Ulmann.”

Lucille Montgomery stared at me like I'd spoken in Japanese. “But that was nearly eighty years ago.”

“Not the theft.”

“No. That was later. 1967. But I don't know that it was stolen. It could have been lost.” Her eyes drifted to the photograph of the man by the television.

“Why would Marsha tell me it was stolen?”

“I don't know. She was only a five-year-old child. She liked it. I might have said something like that at the time.”

I looked at the man's picture. “Around the time Marsha's father disappeared?”

I turned back to Lucille in time to see her face harden.

“That's our personal business, Mr. Blackman.”

“Yes, µa'am. That's why I'm here. I told your daughter we would consider her case, but I haven't agreed to accept it. You were the property owner and if you're not interested, then there's nothing for us to investigate.”

“There's nothing to investigate,” she said through clenched teeth.

“And the rifle?”

Again, she looked confused. “What rifle?”

“The one left by Marsha's father. The deer rifle that was taken with the photograph.”

“No. She's mistaken. I never touched the thing, but it's somewhere in the house.”

I thought for a moment. Marsha had fabricated her own story without taking her mother into her confidence. There was only one reason for that.

“Miss Montgomery, did Marsha mention the discovery made Saturday on the property once belonging to the Kingdom of the Happy Land?”

“No.” Her answer was barely a whisper.

“I made it and the story was in all the newspapers yesterday. I found the skeleton of a man hidden in a hollow log.”

Lucille took a sharp breath. Her eyes fluttered and then rolled back in her head.

I leaped from the sofa and caught her as she toppled from her chair.

Chapter Six

“What the hell were you doing in her apartment?” Marsha Montgomery glared at me and made no attempt to hide her anger.

Captain and I sat in a small waiting room outside Golden Oaks' critical care wing. Marsha stood in the door, blocking any exit. Tears lined her cheeks and her hands trembled.

I stood. “We were having an honest conversation. Something you didn't give me in our office.”

Marsha looked at Captain. “Would you excuse us a moment?”

Captain gripped the handles of his walker and pulled himself up. “Yes. But I'm the one who introduced Sam to your mother and you're the one who asked me about Sam. The fact that he was with her might have saved her life.”

Marsha said nothing. She let Captain pass and then stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“I never said you could see her.”

“You never said I couldn't. And I'm not working for you.” I pointed to the chair opposite me. “We can talk or I can tell the doctor the substance of the conversation I had with your mother.”

She hesitated, weighing her options. When she sat, I knew she desired to control whatever information I had.

“Why do you think I wasn't honest?” she asked.

“Your mother told me the rifle wasn't stolen.”

“My mother is eighty-five and her memory isn't what it once was. I remember that photograph and rifle disappeared at the same time. The missing picture really upset her. She couldn't care less about the gun and she's obviously forgotten about it.”

“Uh huh. She was forty and you were only five and she doesn't remember correctly?”

“My father drilled it into me not to touch that gun. What else can I tell you? The rifle was gone.”

“Your mother fainted when I told her about the skeleton.”

Marsha covered her mouth with her hand. For a second, I was afraid she would pass out.

When she spoke, the words came in a breathy rush. “You just blurted it out?”

I noticed she didn't ask what skeleton. “Why not? What could it possibly mean to her?”

“You know damn well what it means.”

“I think I do. Your mother's a smart woman. She remembers quite well the events of 1967 and I think she fears the skeleton is your father. She wasn't shocked because a body was discovered, she was shocked because someone she loved is dead. She held out hope all these years that he went somewhere to make a new life and spare you and her the bigotry of the times.”

Marsha Montgomery's lips trembled and she blinked back tears.

“You're a smart woman too,” I said. “But you're afraid your mother might be guilty. That's the first thought that crossed your mind when you read the newspaper story. And you overreacted. Coming to see Nakayla and me must have seemed like a good way to establish the story of the stolen gun in case the log victim had been killed by a rifle bullet. Neither Nakayla nor I swallowed the coincidence of the timing. Not only how you suddenly felt compelled to track down this photograph but also your emphasis on the Kingdom of the Happy Land.”

Marsha wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Okay. I was stupid. But that doesn't mean what I said isn't true. If that skeleton is my father, then, I tell you, the two are linked. You say you don't like coincidences, Mr. Blackman. Well, neither do I. You find who stole the picture and you'll find who killed my father.”

“And the rifle?”

“Let me worry about that.” She leaned forward. “Will you help us?”

“No more lies?”

“No more lies.”

“I'll still need to talk to your mother.”

“When she's feeling better.”

“Marsha, as far as I know, there's been no positive identification of those remains. Your father might not be involved in this at all.”

“Then I still want to find him. I don't have any children. I don't know how much longer I'll have my mother. I'd like to know what happened to him.” Her moist eyes searched my face. There was no trace of duplicity on hers.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. But I'm giving you some advice.”

“What?”

“Go to the police. Tell them you read the story in the newspaper. Tell them when your father disappeared.”

She shook her head. “I can't do it. They'll want to speak to my mother.”

“Of course they will.”

“I won't put her through that. It's too painful. My father still has relatives here.”

“Then you do have family.”

“No. There's been a code of silence. My mother wanted it that way. It was an understanding. We've led separate lives.”

“So, you're still trapped in the sixties.”

Her eyes flashed. “I don't need to be accepted by some white bigots to have meaning in my life.”

I raised my palms in mock surrender. “Fine. But your father wasn't a bigot. Now you're letting someone else's prejudice determine your actions. What would he think?”

“He would think what was best for my mother.”

“Then maybe we should let her have her say.” I stood. “See how she's doing. I've got a friend to visit in critical care. I'll find you before I leave.” I walked out.

Captain sat in a plastic chair in a general waiting area across from the nurses' station. I waved him to keep his seat and slid in one beside him.

“Is Marsha okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She's normally very sweet. She must be upset about her mother.”

“That's understandable. She's calmed down. Any word on Harry?”

Captain glanced at the nurses' station where a woman sat entering data through a computer keyboard. “Bertha says he's not taking any food. They're running an IV drip, but if they give him too much, then fluid collects in his chest. He's between a rock and a hard place.”

“Any pain?”

“He's not complaining. But then the Mayor never does.”

“Did you speak with him?”

Captain nodded. “For a few minutes. I didn't want to tire him.” He looked back to the nurses' station. “Bertha, okay if Sam checks on the Mayor?”

The middle-age woman turned from her screen. “Just him?”

“Yes.”

She studied me a second. “All right. Don't push it if he seems overtaxed. He's in the third room on the left.”

Captain grabbed his walker and we stood. “I'm going to give the girls an update on his condition,” he said. “Let me know if there's anything I can do for Lucille.”

“I will.”

“Then let's move out.”

We saluted and I paused to watch him waltz his walker down the hall like a dance partner.

“God broke the mold after making Captain,” Bertha said.

“And that's too bad. The world could use a few more like him.”

“And the Mayor.”

“Yes, the Mayor,” I agreed.

Harry Young, aka the Mayor, lay on his back in the dimly lit room. The gentle hiss of oxygen and his shallow breaths were the only sounds. His pale skin was nearly translucent and his bony shoulders looked like they might pierce through the thin layer of flesh. His eyes were closed. The hospital bed was slightly raised at the head so that Harry's jaw dropped open. Worn yellow teeth seemed large in the receding gums.

The white sheet had pulled away at the bottom, revealing the scarred stump of the right leg. Over ninety years ago, Harry lost his foot and half his shin to the steel claws of a bear trap.

I became aware of the snug fit of my prosthesis, an engineering marvel compared to the crude wooden one Harry wore as a boy. One hundred and five. The changes he witnessed. Despite his handicap, he lived to the fullest and taught me to do the same.

I stepped closer and smoothed the rumpled sheet over the atrophied limb. He flinched at the brush of the starched fabric and his eyes opened.

For a second, Harry struggled to focus and I thought he might drift back to sleep. But his gaze locked on my face and the slack jaw tightened into the hint of a smile.

“Sam.” He exhaled the single syllable.

“Hello, Harry. How you feeling?”

He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth and across his dry lips. “Plumb tuckered out,” he whispered.

“Don't try to talk. I just dropped in to sit a while.” I looked at the IV tube hanging from the pole beside the bed. “I should have brought some white lightning for this bag. That would get you up and out of here.”

His smile grew a little broader. Then his eyes looked beyond me. “It's okay. I'm ready.”

What do you say to a man who's a hundred and five and dying? I pulled a chair from the corner and sat beside him. “I know you're ready.” I wrapped my hand around his thin wrist just above where the IV was securely taped in place. “I'm feeling sorry for me. Who am I going to split a pair of shoes with?”

He turned his head and stared at me. There was no mirth in his eyes and I was afraid I'd offended him.

“You gave me a great gift, Sam.”

“What's that?”

“My dad.” He stifled a sob as his eyes teared.

The lump formed quickly in my throat and I could only nod. In the course of finding the killer of Nakayla's sister, we discovered the fate of Harry's father and ended a mystery that had haunted the old man since 1919.

“There's nothing anyone has done that means more.”

I said nothing. Just sat holding onto someone who had been over seventy when I was born, but whose presence would always be with me.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You're welcome. Tell your dad I look forward to meeting him.”

Harry placed his other hand on mine. We stayed like that for a few moments till his breath returned to the shallow rhythm and I knew he was asleep. I slipped free, quietly moved the chair against the wall and left him to travel to a place of no tears, no pain, and no return.

I told the nurse that Harry was sleeping comfortably and asked if she knew where I could find Marsha Montgomery. She directed me to a room at the other end of the hall.

Lucille rested in a reclining chair, still wearing her blue dress. Marsha sat on the edge of the bed next to her. I rapped lightly on the door frame. Both women looked up. Lucille smiled. Marsha frowned.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay, Miss Montgomery.”

Lucille waved me in. “They say it was probably my blood pressure medicine. I took my pills late today and then had a big lunch.”

I didn't contradict her as to the timing of her swoon. “I'm glad you're feeling better. Maybe we can continue our conversation some other time.”

A look passed between mother and daughter.

Marsha rose from the bed. “Mr. Blackman, I can talk a few minutes now. I suggest we go back to the waiting room. The nurse wants Mother to rest about thirty minutes before checking her blood pressure again.”

“All right.” I nodded to her mother. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Montgomery.”

Marsha and I walked in silence. The waiting room was empty. I closed the door.

“Can we start over?” she asked.

“Sure.” I sat in the nearest chair.

Instead of sitting opposite me, Marsha chose the chair beside me. “I'm sorry if I misrepresented my intentions. You were right. I read the story and I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I was afraid my mother had killed my father. I wanted to create some other explanation.”

“And take the rifle out of the picture.”

She nodded.

“What happened to it?”

“I don't know. It hasn't been in the house for years.”

I didn't believe her, but I let the statement go unchallenged. I wasn't prosecuting a case and it was none of my business.

“Why would you think your mother was capable of killing your father?” I asked.

“Anger. I thought he refused to marry her.”

“But interracial marriage wasn't legal.”

“The summer of 1967 was the year of the big change. Loving versus Virginia.”

“Sorry. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“On June 12th, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that prohibiting interracial couples from marrying was unconstitutional. The case they reviewed involved an interracial couple named Loving. Ironic, isn't it? With that decision, the laws imposed by the states of the old Confederacy were swept away along with any legal barrier to my parents living as husband and wife.”

“And any excuse for your father not to marry your mother.”

“Yes. About a month later, my father disappeared. Mother told me changing the law didn't change people's attitudes.”

“She's right about that. Even forty-five years later.”

Although Asheville is a liberal town, Nakayla and I sensed the undercurrent of disapproval from some who viewed our relationship as an abomination. How do you argue with people who claim to speak for God? People who feel compelled to force their personal moral code upon others because they're threatened by anything different. We weren't so far removed from 1967. In fact, North Carolina had just gone through a contentious vote on a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, same-sex unions, and even the legal rights of same-sex couples. The amendment passed with overwhelming support. And the irony was the proponents of this draconian exclusion came as much from the black community as the white.

“Was your mother that angry?”

“No. But I was. Angry and hurt that my father abandoned us. I projected those feelings onto my mother.”

“And now you believe her?”

“Yes. I did what I should have done as soon as I read about the skeleton. I asked her. She swears she knows nothing about it and was shocked when you told her.”

“And the potential marriage?”

Marsha looked away. “She changed her story. Now she says she was the one who refused to get married. Just because they could didn't mean there wouldn't be reprisals. She was afraid.”