Authors: Beverly Connor
His wife, Sugar, probably wasn’t a smoker. Nothing about her lips, teeth, or fingers indicated that she had anything to do with cigarettes. She was a thin woman with fine hair, dyed dark brown and pulled up in a large loose bun on top of her head. She had startlingly large blue eyes behind black cat-eye glasses.
Lindsay shook Alfred’s hand and slid in opposite them. “Yes, I’m Lindsay Chamberlain. How did you come by my name?”
“Let’s just say we heard about you.”
“What, exactly, did you hear?”
“That you might be an objective party in a position to help.”
“Objective, yes. I’m not sure about the help part.”
“Just the same, I’d like you to just listen to what I have to say.”
“All right.”
A waitress came over and looked at Lindsay, her pencil poised over her order pad. She said nothing, as though her intentions should be clear.
“I’ll have pancakes, bacon, orange juice,” said Lindsay.
The Tidwells ordered the sunrise special.
“My aunt,” began Tidwell, “was always her own woman. She liked to save things, and she liked to go to flea markets and yard sales.” He shrugged. “It was her money. She earned it. She could spend it like she wanted.”
“What did she do for a living?”
“She was a schoolteacher. Never married. Had only herself to worry about. She lived all her life in the house her and her brother—my daddy—grew up in.”
“What makes you think someone from the archaeology site killed her?”
“I say it, ‘cause it’s true.” He held up a palm. “I know what the doctor says, and the sheriff, and I ain’t saying she didn’t have a heart attack. But that don’t mean somebody couldn’t of brought one on.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“Yes, I do. Sugar does, too, don’t you, Sugar?” Sugar nodded.
“And you think Drew Van Horne is the one who brought on her heart attack?”
“I do.”
“Can you tell me why you think that?”
“Aunt Sue died March 5 in the evening. This Horne woman was with her all morning and afternoon, taking her places.”
“Taking her places?”
“Having my aunt show her old places around here. Says it was some kind of historical research.”
“That’s what she was paying your aunt to do,” said Lindsay.
“I know. But she was old and not in good health. She had no call to keep her out all day. People who saw her told us how tired she looked—plumb worn out, they said.”
“Mr. Tidwell . . .”
“I know, that’s not a whole lot to go on. That’s why no lawyer, except that Mayhew, would take the case. I know we can’t take that to court. But there’s more. It was raining all day and it was cold. Miss Horne got Aunt Sue tired and sick, then brought her back, and while she was sleeping, went through her things, stealing her papers.”
“What’s missing?”
“We don’t know, exactly. Aunt Sue was one for keeping things to herself.”
“How do you know anything was stolen?”
The waitress brought three plates of breakfast. Three sunrise specials—it seems a sunrise special was pancakes, bacon, and orange juice. Lindsay spread the butter on her pancakes and poured maple syrup over them.
“Ellie makes good pancakes,” said Sugar.
“Aunt Sue always said she had valuable papers. Said we’d be surprised at what’d been handed down in the family and what she’d found over the years. She said we was to split everything—me and my sister, Bonnie. Right now, things are up in the air, because Bonnie’s . . . well, Bonnie is Bonnie.” He pounded the table with the flat of his hand. “But Aunt Sue said she had valuable papers in a safe. We found the safe and there was nothing in it.” He gave the table one last slap, punctuating his last statement.
“Mr. Tidwell . . . ,” Lindsay said again.
“I saw some papers once,” said Sugar, leaning forward, whispering. “She showed me a stack of papers. They was all done up in some kind of plastic like. Looked like the kind of clear cover my grandchildren put over their school reports. She wouldn’t let me touch them, even all done up. Didn’t want me seeing what they was.”
“Could you tell what kind of papers they were?”
“Letters, papers. I remember the name Beau something on one of them. They were real hard to read. That was all I could make out. They looked real old and speckled like.”
“And none of these turned up?”
“The safe was cleaned out,” said Sugar. “Was nothing in it.”
“And that’s not all,” said Alfred Tidwell. “About twenty years ago, when Aunt Sue got around better, she used to go all over, looking for finds, as she called her things. Estate sales, old printing companies, and dead newspapers—she liked those. Not just here in Tennessee, but North Carolina, Virginia, and even up the coast once.” Tidwell leaned forward and whispered, “She found a trunk filled with something. Wouldn’t tell none of us what it was, but she was happy. Never showed it to nobody, but she told us it was her best find.”
“You talked to the sheriff. What did he say?”
“Him? Huh. He’s no help,” Alfred said. Sugar started to speak, but he waved her away. “I know he’s just doing his job. I know we got nothing. I’m not a fool. I know he can’t arrest someone for carrying a person around in the wet and cold all day, and I know if I can’t identify what was stole, there ain’t nothing he can do. But there’s got to be something somebody can do.”
“What do you want of me?”
“To find out what happened.”
Sugar finished her orange juice and set the glass down on the table hard. “There’s people that says Miss Mary Susan was crazy. Crazy like a fox. Last year she sold one of those old Barbie dolls for five thousand dollars. Five thousand dollars.” She slapped the table as her husband had. “She did things her way, all right, but she wasn’t crazy.”
“Is there anyone in your family Miss Tidwell might have confided in about what was in the safe? You said you have a sister, Bonnie. Might she know?”
“She don’t know more than me and Sugar.”
“Was an autopsy performed?”
“No. Sugar found her dead at home in bed and called her doctor. He said her heart gave out. Nothing looked wrong. We didn’t find out ’til after she was buried about her being out all day and about her papers being missing.”
“Would you ask the funeral home director to speak with me about her?”
“Sure. Does that mean you’ll help?”
“It means I’ll try to find out what happened.”
The waitress brought the bill and Alfred Tidwell snatched it up. “We asked you here. I’ll pay for it.”
Lindsay left the restaurant and got into her truck. She waited a moment before starting the engine, wondering what she was doing. Why didn’t she just go home? There appeared to be nothing whatsoever that she could do. No one but the Tidwells saw a crime here. They didn’t even know if the woman had valuable papers or not. They certainly wouldn’t be able to describe them well enough to claim them if they turned up in Drew’s possession. Why, she asked herself again, was she doing this?
Because you think it may be linked to what happened to you, and you’re tired of being afraid.
Lindsay started the engine and drove out of the lot onto the highway. She was almost to the turnoff for the cove when a black truck came roaring past on the right side so fast she felt her truck sway from the force of the wind.
Chapter 15
At The Sheriff’s Office
LINDSAY’S TRUCK SKIDDED to a stop and sat across the center line of the narrow paved road. She was shaking so badly it was hard to hold on to the steering wheel. A sudden chill and nausea swept over her. She opened her door and leaned out, feeling like she might lose her breakfast. A car appeared suddenly, braking hard and blowing its horn as it narrowly slid past on the left side. She thought she heard someone yell. She jerked herself back in and put her hands over her face.
“Damn!” She hit the steering wheel with the palms of her hands. She was so tired of the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears, she wanted to scream. Everything was falling apart—her sanity, her courage. Her own emotions had turned against her.
She whipped the Explorer around in a U-turn, running onto the shoulder. When she wrestled the Explorer back onto the road, she headed for Kelley’s Chase. A string of rundown-looking businesses, selling everything from produce to car parts, rocks, and assorted junk, lined the road just outside of town. Kelley’s Chase itself was no more than a courthouse, jail, library, post office, real estate office, and hardware store. Most of the main street buildings had been empty for a long time. She drove all the way through town and past the Romanesque revival–style red-brick courthouse, to the ancient two-story matching brick sheriff’s office where she parked and sat, taking deep slow breaths, willing her heart to slow its beating.
When she finally calmed down and stopped shaking, she looked at herself in the mirror. Convinced that she didn’t look hysterical, she got out and went into the sheriff’s office. The receptionist smiled and asked if she could help.
If only you could
, Lindsay thought to herself.
“I’d like to see Sheriff Ramsey. My name is Lindsay Chamberlain.” Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears. She wondered how she sounded to the receptionist.
The woman wanted to know her business with the sheriff, as if she might not be able to interrupt him. Lindsay wanted to shout at her,
This is a small town. How busy can he be? Do you think this is a social call?
But she paused and spoke calmly. Maybe she couldn’t control how she felt, but she could control her behavior.
“I want to report someone trying to run me off the road.”
“I can take your . . .”
“I’ll see Miss Chamberlain, Marietta.”
Lindsay turned and looked to see Sheriff Ramsey standing in his doorway. He nodded to her. He could have been elected on his looks, she thought. He must have been at least six feet, six inches tall with a thick chest and arms and a square, pock-marked face framing a crooked nose. The voters probably thought he could handle anything that went down in this county. She walked into his office.
“Have a seat.”
Lindsay pulled up a wooden chair in front of his desk. He sat down in a large brown leather chair and leaned back. It’s going to break one of these days, she thought.
“I assume you’re here about Mary Susan Tidwell? Her nephew Alfred called and paved the way for you. I just didn’t expect you this soon. We just got off the phone.”
“The reason I’m here now is to report that someone tried to run me off the road.”
“Oh?”
Lindsay clasped her hands in her lap to hold them still. “I had just left the diner from meeting Alfred Tidwell and his wife when someone in a black Ford pickup tried to run me off the road. It looked like about a ’97, but I’m not sure.”
“Lots of young boys hot-rod along that road. Did they hit your vehicle?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Not much I can do about it, I’m afraid.”
“I understand, and I would agree that it probably was joy riders, except for what happened to me recently.”
Lindsay gave him a brief description of her attempted murder.
“Whoever tried to kill me also came up on my right side and ran me off the road. It was so similar to the last time. This felt like a warning.”
She could feel tears threatening her eyes.
Don’t cry,
she silently commanded herself. She raised her chin a fraction of an inch.
“That’s different.” He picked up the phone. “Marietta, call Martha and Rafe to be on the lookout for a late-model black Ford pickup truck, possibly a 1997, may be driving recklessly.” He paused, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t say? When was that?” He re-cradled the phone. “Seems Elaine and Phil McBride had their black 1997 Ford pickup stolen last night. Martha, one of my deputies, will check it out.”
“Thank you. That would take a lot off my mind.” She relaxed in the chair a little.
Everything can be handled and controlled,
she told herself.
They were probably joy riders.
She smiled at the sheriff. “Did you know Mary Susan Tidwell?”
The sheriff nodded and smiled before he spoke. “When I was little, we thought she was a witch. She always had all kinds of odd things around her place. Odd to little kids, that is. I think she kept us scared so we’d stay out of her yard.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“Died of old age. I know what Alfred thinks. Lord knows him and his sister Bonnie’s been in my office enough explaining it to me. But there’s just no evidence at all anyone tried to hurt her.” The sheriff got up and pulled a file out of the drawer of an old metal filing cabinet and tossed it on the desk in front of Lindsay. “You can look at the file. When Alfred made his complaint, I talked to her doctor, the mortician who handled her body, everybody I could think of. Nobody saw anything suspicious. Her neighbor across the road saw the Van Horne woman drop Miss Susan off and leave immediately. She didn’t even go in, much less leave with valuable papers.”
Lindsay picked up the report and scanned the pages. He was thorough—looked in all the places she would have. No unusual marks on the body, a history of a heart condition, nothing out of the ordinary in the bedroom where she was found.
The sheriff sat back down in his chair. “Maybe this Drew woman did make Miss Susan so tired she died. If she did, it doesn’t sound intentional. It’s not exactly a sure-fire way to go about killing someone. She might’ve had to drive her around all year.”
“What did Drew say they were doing that day?” As Lindsay asked, she came to the page in the file where he had recorded his interview with Drew Van Horne and Claire Burke.
“Miss Susan was showing her where some of the old places are—churches, homesteads—that kind of thing.”
“Claire Burke was with them?”
“No, not with them. After Miss Van Horne saw Miss Susan to her house and left her there, the Burke woman came to visit Miss Susan. She said she knocked on the door and left when no one answered. She never saw her.”
“Did Claire say why she went to see Miss Tidwell?”
“Something to do with a collection of farm tools. As I’m sure you know, Miss Burke is an excitable young woman. She’s accused several people of what she calls ‘looting’ things they’ve found at the old farm place over the years. Seems as though she found out someone sold Miss Susan some rusty farm tools—plow parts, stuff like that—that was supposed to have come from there. Miss Burke wanted a look at them.”