Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Course it’s all right. Now, we’d better get going. After you, Nate.”

  It was a five-minute drive to Ben Hobbes’s lawyer, whose office was located two blocks past the First Baptist Church.

  As they passed the church, Rosen said, “It was a beautiful service. I’m sorry Reverend McCrae wasn’t allowed to speak.”

  Claire bit her lip, then shrugged.

  “The funeral itself went well,” Rosen continued. “I can’t believe all the food that was served afterward. What a spread.”

  “It was nice of Ruth to offer her home. She’s right handy in the kitchen. Course, lot of folks helped her out. You can see how popular Ben was.”

  “You did some cooking, right? The fried chicken?”

  “Uh-huh. I used to waitress some in Nashville. Old woman named Ethel taught me how to cook. I tell you, people came a long way for her chicken.”

  Rosen grimaced. “Ruth made me eat some of that cracklin’ bread.”

  “Mmm, wasn’t that a bit of heaven.”

  “Bread soaked in hardened pig fat? That and the salted ham, deep-fried chicken, and fried pies. I’d love to be a cardiologist in this town. I’d give out coupons offering two-for-one bypass specials.”

  “You didn’t like the food?”

  “Actually, that was the best fried chicken I’ve ever had. Jesse’s going to take me into Nashville and show me the sights. I’d sure like some more. What’s the name of the restaurant where you used to work?”

  “Patty’s Place. Over near the river on—” She stopped suddenly. “I don’t think it’s there no more.”

  “Too bad. Ham, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, cracklin’ bread—the unhealthiest food in the world, yet everyone around here seems to live to a ripe old age. Quite a paradox. Must be due to small-town clean living. Following the Good Book, the Ten Commandments and all. Like what Reverend McCrae teaches in your church. He must be a great spiritual leader.”

  For a moment she looked out the window, then suddenly turned toward him. “I ain’t been perfect. I know that better ’n’ anybody. Reverend McCrae’s church is God’s church—that I truly believe, but it’s a hard faith to rest on. I can only try. Nate, I do try.” Her eyes began to glisten.

  The gates of a woman’s tears. Rosen looked at the road straight ahead. “At last Friday’s service Ben said that the church was doing something evil to you. What was he talking about?”

  She sniffled. “Don’t know. He . . . he just didn’t like the church. That’s all there was to it. Park right there. The lawyer’s a few doors down.”

  A block before the courthouse, Rosen pulled into a space in front of the Country Inn. A wizened old man sat on a bench, under the restaurant’s window, reading a newspaper and spurting tobacco juice into a spittoon.

  “Mornin’,” he said, showing a mouth half filled with amber-colored teeth. “Grits is awful smooth this mornin’. Ol’ Beverly’s cookin’. She got a right nice touch with them grits.”

  “Thanks. We’re not eating just yet.”

  “Suit yourself.” The old man spat a wad the size of a small mouse. “They got meat loaf for lunch. That’s what I’m waitin’ for.”

  “Be sure to save us a seat.”

  Rosen and Claire walked a half block farther. She stopped in front of a small two-story office building, white frame with emerald-colored awnings over each of the four windows. Next to the door two metal nameplates read: joshua perry, d.d.s. and harland garnet, attorney-at-law.

  “Mr. Garnet’s on the second floor,” Claire said.

  Entering a small reception area, they were greeted by a tall woman of about fifty who had what lingerie ads described as a “full figure.” She came around the desk and put her arm around Claire.

  “We’re so sorry about your husband. You let us know if there’s anything we can do.” She held out her hand. “You must be Mr. Rosen. I’m Harland’s wife and secretary, Angela. Can I get either of you coffee or tea—no? You’d better go right in, the others are already here.”

  The inner office was quite large, with built-in bookcases lining the walls, a massive oak desk, a couch, and four rocking chairs. Rosen recognized Hobbes craftsmanship in all the furniture. Simon Hobbes, his wife, and son sat on the couch. Ruth held her husband’s hand tightly, as much a restraint as a sign of affection. Reverend Taylor and another man, older and even thinner, sat in two of the rockers. Near the door stood Popper Johnston, wearing a seersucker suit with a string tie and cowboy boots.

  Harland Garnet stood from behind his desk and nodded. Balding, with a salt-and-pepper mustache, he looked a few years older than his wife and several inches shorter, with the trim body of a runner. He gestured for Rosen and Claire to take the two empty rockers.

  “Now that you all are here, we can begin.” Garnet spoke with a rich Southern drawl. “I must apologize for moving this along, but I’m due in court at eleven. Let me introduce everyone—Simon Hobbes, his wife, Ruth, and their son, Danny, Reverend Henry Taylor of the First Baptist Church of Earlyville, President Gilbert Shelby of Central Tennessee College, Mrs. Claire Hobbes and her attorney, Nathan Rosen. Back against the wall is Mr. James Johnston, representing the Holiness Church of Earlyville. Sure we can’t get you a chair, Mr. Johnston?”

  “I’m fine,” Popper said, waving his hand.

  Simon grumbled, “Don’t know why he’s here. Should be just family.”

  Garnet put on a pair of reading glasses. “You’re all here representing either yourselves or institutions as beneficiaries of Ben Hobbes’s will. I invited Reverend McCrae, but he preferred not to come and sent Mr. Johnston in his place. I’d like to read the will in its entirety. It’s fairly short and to-the-point, Ben insisting that I take down his words exactly as he said them. This document has been duly witnessed and notarized. Of course, my wife, Angela, has made copies for all of you.”

  Garnet was right. Dictated by a simple and direct man, Ben Hobbes’s will took about five minutes to read. Rosen was surprised to learn how wealthy the deceased had been. The college was endowed with a Chair of Furniture Arts in honor of Hobbes’s father. The First Baptist Church received one of his investment portfolios, worth a little over $150,000. Danny Hobbes received $50,000 with the promise of another $50,000 after marriage and the birth of his first child. Certain personal family mementos, like his father’s gold watch and great-grandfather’s set of tools, went to Simon. Reverend McCrae’s Holiness Church received the deed to the house in which they conducted their services, as well as a gift of $10,000. Everything else, the bulk of his estate, which included his home and a one-half interest in the Hobbes Furniture Company, went to “. . . my beloved wife, Claire, who’s brought more happiness to me since we’ve been married than I’ve had in all the rest of my life put together.”

  The attorney began reading the final clause. If Ben Hobbes were to die childless, then his half of the business could be bought back from Claire by Simon, at three-quarters of its fair market value, “. . . in order to keep the company under the family name.”

  Looking up, Garnet said, “Of course, we can only estimate how much the company is worth. An audit will have to be made within the next few weeks. Now, the other part of the final clause reads as follows.”

  “What the hell!” Simon shouted, struggling to his feet while tearing free of his wife’s grip. “This ain’t none of what Ben wanted! You know that, Harland! You know he wanted to cut her and them snake people out completely! He told us he talked to you! What the hell’s going on!”

  “Calm down, Simon.”

  “If this is some damn lawyer trick a’ yours . . .!”

  “I said, calm down before I put you back in that sofa.” The veins in the back of Garnet’s neck grew taut, and his face reddened. “You’ve got no call saying something like that. After all the years our people go back.”

  Ruth said, “He didn’t mean nothing, Harland.”

  She pulled her husband’s hand until, grimacing, he sat beside her. At the opposite end
of the couch, Danny leaned as far away from his father as possible.

  Garnet nodded curtly. “It is true that a week ago, Ben told me he was thinking about changing his will. He mentioned cutting out Reverend McCrae’s Holiness Church as beneficiary, but he said nothing about altering any provisions regarding his wife. As far as I know, he never wrote another will. I certainly didn’t draw one up, and I’ve been doing all his legal business for almost twenty-five years.”

  Ruth repeated, “Simon didn’t mean nothing. You go on and finish.”

  Garnet read the remainder of the final clause. If, at his death, Ben Hobbes was a father or Claire was pregnant, then his half of the furniture factory remained in her hands, “. . . the purpose being to continue the family business for the child or children of Ben Hobbes.”

  The attorney looked up, taking off his glasses. “You all know what that means?” He stared at Simon.

  “Don’t mean a damn thing,” Simon retorted. “Ben and her never had no children.”

  Garnet shook his head. “That hasn’t been determined yet—not quite determined, if you know what I’m saying.” To Claire, “You do know what I’m saying?”

  “I think so,” she replied.

  “Normally this’d be nobody’s business but yours, but because of the way in which the last clause is phrased, we’re going to have to know if . . . well, if you’re with child.”

  Simon gave a hard laugh. “My brother was almost seventy. Of all the fool—”

  “I believe I am,” Claire said.

  The room grew quiet. Rosen watched Simon’s jaw drop but was more interested in the reaction of Danny Hobbes, sitting beside his father. The young man’s eyes grew wide as he stared at Claire, then slowly drew a hand through his hair. His long, thick black hair.

  Garnet asked, “What do you mean, you ‘believe’? Have you been to a doctor?”

  “No, not yet. But I missed . . .” She blushed violently and almost whispered, “There’s ways a woman can tell.”

  “We’ll need to have your doctor run some tests immediately. Is that all right with you?”

  She nodded. “Dr. Butterworth . . . he’s just around the corner.”

  “That ain’t all right with me!” Simon shouted. “I don’t know what kind of trick she’s trying to pull, but the business belonged to my brother and me! With him dead, it’s mine to do with as I please!” He was back on his feet. “I’ve got a deal on the line!”

  His wife stood beside him. “Simon, that’s enough. We best be going. Ain’t nothing more for Harland to say. Good-bye, everybody.”

  Simon tried to push her hand away. “But I ain’t—”

  “Oh yes you are.” Steering her husband through the doorway, she added, “Come along, Danny.”

  The young man stood awkwardly, his gaze moving from Claire down to his shoes. Hands in his back pockets, Danny followed his parents from the room.

  Garnet waited a minute, as if to be sure the Hobbeses weren’t returning, then said, “I think our business is concluded. Reverend Taylor, Mr. Shelby, and Mr. Johnston—I have a few papers here for you to sign.”

  As the three men approached the desk, Rosen whispered to Claire, “Let’s get out of here.”

  They slipped out the door, nodding to Mrs. Garnet as they left the waiting room.

  It was only when Rosen was driving from town that he noticed how flushed Claire was. She slumped against the car door, her eyes closed and her breathing labored. He was about to say something but hesitated, watching her from the corner of his eye. Was this an act for his benefit? Gradually she opened her eyes and dabbed the perspiration from her forehead. Turning the corner, he parked near the alley leading to Claire’s garage.

  Across the street and a half block down, an old brown Granada faced them. The man with the broken nose sat inside reading a magazine. He peeked over the pages occasionally, then resumed his reading.

  Rosen nodded toward the car. “Do you know who that is?”

  “I don’t think so. Can’t see him too well, though.”

  “He’s got Davidson County license plates. Where’s that?”

  “Right close. Nashville’s in Davidson County.”

  “Nashville—that’s where you’re from, right?”

  Ignoring his question, she led him down the alley. “Might as well go in through the garage.”

  After she unlocked the garage door, Rosen rolled it back. Her Corvette and Ben’s pickup truck rested side by side. Near the door to the kitchen was Ben’s worktable. A pair of work gloves, a tape measure, and two sheets of sandpaper lay piled together at the nearest corner of the table.

  “Your husband’s things?”

  “He must’ve brought them home to make my shelving. I still haven’t taken that wood out from the kitchen. Maybe you could do it for me. Take those gloves so’s you won’t get no slivers.”

  “All right.” As Rosen took the gloves he noticed a dark circle and a small dribble stain that had dried beside it. “What’s this?” When Claire shook her head, he examined the stain more carefully. Then they went inside into the narrow utility room.

  From the kitchen came a scraping sound followed by the banging of drawers and cabinets, as if someone were conducting a search. Gently pushing Claire behind him, Rosen opened the kitchen door slightly.

  An old woman, not much over five feet, stood on a chair and peered into a cabinet above the sink. Below her, the wood plank leaned against the counter. Rosen had never seen anyone her age wearing a tank top, blue jeans and sandals. Her hair, the color of frost, was still thick enough to be bunched into a tight bun. Opening the door wider, he and Claire walked into the kitchen.

  The old woman glanced at them while continuing her search. “Hello, Claire. Gentleman with you that lawyer friend of Jesse Compton’s?”

  “Yes, Miss Celia. Anything I can help you with?”

  “Well, you know we made it to the funeral yesterday—lovely words by Reverend Taylor, but we missed the burial. Bea and I had to take Abigail to the hospital for some more tests. The way they’ve been sticking her, I’m surprised she has any veins left.”

  “I hope she’s feeling better.”

  “I believe so, dear. She’s beginning to get around. Says if the city won’t give her back the crossing guard job, she’ll sue them for age discrimination. Bea knows all about those kinds of lawsuits from her civil rights days. Maybe this young fella will take the case. How about it, Mr. . . . Rosen, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “If your sister’s anything like you, I’d guess the city would be happy to settle out of court.”

  The old woman hopped down from the chair. “Your tongue’s oily as a lawyer’s all right. Not that I minded the compliment. I’m Celia Duncan. My sisters and I live next door. The Hobbeses and Duncans been neighbors for years.”

  “Why are you here now?”

  She held her hands straight out, fists clenched. “Put the cuffs on, Copper, you caught me red-handed. I was looking for a box of low-salt oatmeal I lent Ben last week. When I cook it nice and lumpy, it’s one of the few things Abigail can chew without any teeth.”

  Claire said, “It’s over on this shelf above the refrigerator. Let me get it. Nate, would you please take care of this here wood?”

  “Sure. Don’t leave just yet, Miss Celia. I’d like a word with you.

  Putting on the gloves, he carried the wood into the garage, sliding it under the worktable. Again he noticed the dried stain in the corner and, taking out a penknife, scraped a few bits into another fold of his handkerchief. Something else for the lab in D.C. to check. Leaving the gloves on the worktable, he returned to the kitchen.

  The two women sat at the table while a pot of coffee percolated on the stove. Rosen took the chair between them.

  The older woman said, “I’ve got some tasty leftover pork chops at home. It’s cruel leaving them in the house for Abigail’s gums to drool over. Why don’t I cook you both some lunch?”

  Rosen shook his head. “Th
ank you, but I’m meeting Jesse Compton for lunch.”

  “Besides,” Claire added, “Nate doesn’t much favor pork. He’s Jewish. You know, like that Mrs. Shapiro who gave all her money to an orphanage.”

  “Lord, child. I know what a Jew is. I used to read Allen Ginsberg on my radio station. Besides, people have that all wrong about Judith Shapiro. What she said was, better her rotten children were orphans than depend on her for any money. She left them her entire estate anyway.”

  Rosen said, “If we can return to the night of Ben’s death. Miss Celia, could you clarify a discrepancy between your testimony and Claire’s? It’s regarding the time Claire arrived home on the night of her husband’s murder.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “According to the district attorney’s records, you stated that Claire came home at nine-fifteen and her husband about a half hour later.”

  “That’s right.”

  Claire said, “I believe I got here closer to ten. Ben was home before me. His truck was in the garage. I heard him in his room, I swear I did.”

  Rosen asked, “Miss Celia, how are you so sure about the time and sequence of events?”

  The old woman rested her hand on Claire’s arm. “I don’t want to cause you any more grief, dear girl, but I know what I know. I was sitting on the front porch, listening to the radio, and saw you coming down Jackson, then turn at the corner heading for the alley. That was about fifteen minutes after I’d given Abigail her nine o’clock medication.”

  Claire got up for a moment to pour the coffee.

  Rosen said, “Excuse me, Miss Celia, but isn’t that distance too far for you to see the driver?”

  “I didn’t have to see the driver. I know Claire’s car—that snappy Corvette—well enough.”

  “But you didn’t actually see the driver.”

  The old woman clicked her tongue. “Young man, I know what I know. Later, Bea and I were sitting in the kitchen. About a quarter to ten, we heard Ben’s truck. Claire, you know what a terrible racket that muffler of his makes.”