Bootlegger’s Daughter

by Margaret Maron

  “For one thing, I talked to his friend in Raleigh who swears Denn didn’t leave his place till a quarter past nine. Say thirty-five minutes to get to the theater, you’re talking what? Nine-fifty, almost ten?”

  Dwight doodled a clock face on the yellow legal pad in front of him. “It was nearly twenty-four hours before you found the body. The ME said everything was ‘consistent’ with nine P.M. being when he died, but fifty minutes more or less don’t make an alibi.”

  He sat back, clicking and unclicking his ballpoint pen.

  “Denn’s friend also helped him unload the truck,” I said, “and can swear categorically that there was no shotgun in it.”

  Before Dwight could say the obvious, I beat him to it. “Yeah, yeah, I know. He could have stashed it anywhere between here and Raleigh.”

  Dwight grinned. “Now you’re starting to sound sensible. One drawback though: nobody at the Pot Shot ever saw a shotgun out there. Just the rifle.”

  He took his foot off the table and the chair came down with a bang. “I guess I’ll just get his statement first and see what happens. You going to sit in and advise him?”

  “If I can’t get Ambrose to come over.”

  “Is that a smart thing to do?”

  “Somebody has to.”

  “Yeah, but should it ought to be you?”

  “Probably not,” I sighed. “Is that all?”

  “I reckon. For now anyhow.”

  On the way out of the room, I remembered something and shut the door before I even had it open good.

  “What?” he asked.

  He’s a lot taller than me, so I had to reach up to pull him down to my level. It wasn’t mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or anything like that, but it was still a damn good kiss.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” he said and stepped back, breathing heavily.

  I laughed and fluttered my eyelashes outrageously. He was just Dwight again, only more so. “Well, you wanted to know, didn’t you?”

  He was still looking dazed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Naah,” he grinned. “I think that’ll just about get it.”

  Using the theater phone, I tried one last time to make Ambrose Daughtridge come over and sit in on the interrogation, but even after I told him that Dwight probably wouldn’t book Denn, he still declined.

  “I am not now and never have been Mr. McCloy’s attorney,” he said. “I may’ve drawn up his will as a favor to Michael Vickery, but I do not consider him my client.”

  Ambrose Daughtridge is silver haired and soft spoken and looks like he should be cataloguing rare books in a university library somewhere. Unlike a lot of us who are ham actors at heart, Ambrose avoids courtroom appearances when he can, prefers civil cases to criminal, and never defends anything more serious than a misdemeanor if he can help it, even though his courtroom skills are quite adequate.

  “I hope you won’t take this wrong, Deborah,” said Ambrose, misinterpreting my silence. “It’s not that I’m prejudiced against homosexuals or anything. I always got along just fine with Michael.”

  “Because he didn’t flaunt it and Denn’s more obvious?” I asked caustically.

  “Because he was a gentleman,” came the soft reply. “Now I do appreciate your courtesy in calling me and your concern for the proprieties, so let me assure you, for the record, that there is nothing in my former dealings with Mr. McCloy that would preclude your representing him, if you and he so choose.”

  What could I say except, “Thank you, Ambrose”?

  Actually, as I walked back down the hall to tell Denn I’d look after his interests tonight if he still wanted me to, it occurred to me that I’d heard something else in that telephone conversation. Ambrose is always a perfect gentleman even when he’s casting aspersions on a witness’s testimony, but there’d been a conciliatory note in his voice. A definite attempt not to alienate me.

  Well!

  The first sign that maybe I didn’t need to start drafting a concession letter to Luther Parker quite yet.

  The interrogation went smoothly and quickly. Dwight set his tape recorder on the table in the green room, Denn answered all his questions calmly without breaking down again, and I had to interrupt and object to the phrasing of a question only two or three times.

  When Dwight got to the specifics of Friday night, Denn said, “You have to understand where I’m coming from, okay? Every time the Whitehead woman is mentioned, Michael freaks. So I know that if Deborah and Gayle Whitehead stir things up, Michael will start having nightmares again, right? So I think to myself that the best way to stop Deborah is to give her something else to worry about. If she’s busy shoring up her campaign, she doesn’t have time to bother Michael, okay? I couldn’t think of any other way to stop her, so I cranked out those letters.”

  He rubbed the back of his thin neck and gave me a sheepish smile. “If I hadn’t left Michael, I had this letter from Jesse I was going to doctor up. But I’m so angry Friday night that I decided nightmares serve him right, and now I’m sorry for the hard time I’ve given you, okay? This is a good place to meet. I’ll confess. Do the sackcloth and ashes bit. Give you a pitcher- the prototype for a new line that I’ll never get to produce since I’m leaving, maybe even going back to New York for a while.”

  The rest I’d already heard: how he got to the theater around ten, how he found Michael dead, how he panicked and fled. He added nothing new to the telling.

  When he’d finished, Dwight clicked off the tape recorder and sat looking at Denn a long moment. It was like a big brown Saint Bernard looking at a high-strung miniature poodle. Luckily for Denn, Dwight was no homophobe.

  “Okay,” he said at last, “I’m not arresting you tonight, but you don’t leave the county without checking with the sheriff’s department. I’ll have somebody transcribe this and maybe you’ll come in and sign it, say tomorrow afternoon?”

  I started to shake my head silently, but before I could explain why, we heard a car horn. Deputy Jamison, who’d sat silently through the interrogation, went out to see who it was and returned a few moments later with one of the last people I expected to see that night. Dwight immediately stood up, and even though I’d heard Denn poke fun at Southern manners, he too was on his feet as Jack Jamison ushered in Michael Vickery’s sister Faith, the Hollywood something or other.

  She was the middle of the three Vickery children and had the same good looks. Like her mother her back was straight and her voice was cool as she addressed us after introductions had been made.

  “I’ve come on behalf of my mother. Mr. Daughtridge told her you were here, Major Bryant. Is Mr. McCloy under arrest?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She turned to Denn, who stood there small and gaunt in the unforgiving overhead light.

  “Mother wanted you to know that Michael’s wake is tonight. At Aldcroft’s. The visitation hours are from seven till nine if you wish to come?”

  Denn nodded, for once inarticulate.

  If there were rules of etiquette to cover a situation like this, I’d never read them; but trust Evelyn Dancy Vickery to do the correct thing. I could admire that and yet at the same time it seemed so unfair that Denn, who had loved Michael and had shared Michael’s life, now had to wait on the sidelines until he was invited to participate in the rituals of Michael’s death.

  “The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon. At Sweetwater,” Faith Vickery concluded. “Mother hopes you will sit with the family at tomorrow’s services?”

  Denn had been frozen into immobility, but as Michael’s sister finished speaking, he went to her, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. A theatrical gesture, yet this time it seemed totally appropriate.

  Faith squeezed his hand and for just an instant, her eyes seemed to tear. “I am sorry,” she said quietly and then turned and left.

  22 lying eyes

  Denn McCloy had played the aging punk for so long that it really surprised m
e when he emerged from his bedroom. He couldn’t do anything about the buzz cut on such short notice, but otherwise he might have been one of the middle-aged VPs over at First Federal: neat gray suit, white shirt, conservative tie, the works. He picked up on my surprise and shrugged. “Church and Christmas dinner with his parents. Michael was pretty conventional about some things.”

  I had come back to the barn with Denn because he wanted to go to the funeral home, but he didn’t want to walk in alone. Even though it was stretching the attorney-client relationship, the whole situation was so bizarrely awkward that I couldn’t help sympathizing. Dwight just shook his head when he heard me agree to go, but what else could I do?

  There was a powder room at the top of the stairs. “Make yourself at home,” Denn had said, so while he changed clothes in his bedroom, I’d taken a quick tour around the converted loft and decided to freshen my makeup in the master bathroom- Michael’s evidently-where the light was better. Despite the long day, my slacks and silk cardigan still looked fresh. A skirt would have been more appropriate, but at least I wasn’t wearing jeans.

  Lily followed me in, flopped down on a towel that had been thrown on the floor, laid her muzzle on the cool tiles, and let out such a long sigh that I knelt and talked baby talk to her a minute. You always wonder how much they sense.

  This was the first time I’d been upstairs at the Pot Shot, and I admit I was impressed with the quiet good taste and tidiness that permeated the whole apartment, especially Michael Vickery’s bedroom, which was on the opposite side of the loft from Denn’s quarters. In spite of the luxurious sand-colored carpet, the heavy handwoven beige coverlet on the king-sized bed, the expensive chests of blond oak, there was an austere feel to the room.

  “Almost like a monk’s cloistered cell,” said the preacher approvingly.

  “Yeah, if the monk had a Dancy trust fund,” jeered the pragmatist. “You don’t find these fabrics or those custom-built chests in a thrift shop. And look at those wall hangings. Like medieval tapestries!”

  “Exactly. I knew Michael was religious, but not that he was so devout.”

  “May I point out that you don’t have to be devout to hang works of art on your wall?”

  “But look how they’re arranged-almost like an altar in a Gothic chapel. And I don’t care what you think, that’s certainly a cross.”

  Pragmatist and preacher dissolved into pure curiosity as I righted the heavy ceramic cross that had fallen over on the chest top and looked closer at the wall hangings. There were two, approximately two feet wide by three and a half feet long; and each hung from its own heavy oak dowel that rested on inconspicuous oak pegs. Not strictly medieval now that I took another look. More a Pre-Raphaelite flavor to the figures woven into the scenes. The one on the left was a familiar-looking Madonna with long flowing brown hair, her luminous brown eyes fixed on the curly-haired infant in her lap. On the right was the woman taken in adultery, with the Christ figure pointing to a white stone in the foreground.

  “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.”

  Surely an odd choice of subjects?

  Between the two was an empty space about four feet wide, and I realized it held a third pair of pegs positioned slightly higher on the wall. One peg was snapped off flush. And there was the third dowel itself, wedged between the back edge of the chest and the wall. Was that what had knocked over the cross?

  Dwight’s people had searched here, but they wouldn’t have disturbed things more than necessary and they would have left all as they found it. Certainly they wouldn’t have thrown a towel on the bathroom floor, nor dirtied the sink. Amid such disciplined tidiness, these anomalies leaped out at me.

  I could almost see it happening: Michael had returned from the creek, seen that his truck was gone, questioned Cathy King, who was on her way home, and learned about Denn’s phone call to me. Cathy told Dwight that she’d left Michael loading one of the racks with greenware; and from the condition of the workshop, one of the other potters thought he must have put in at least an hour’s work.

  After that, for some reason, he’d suddenly rushed upstairs, into the bathroom to wash the clay dust from his face and hands, then back here where he’d yanked down the middle panel in such a hurry that he’d broken one of the pegs and knocked over the cross.

  And then what? Driven over to the theater with it? Why? And where was it now?

  No sooner had Lily and I returned to the living room than Denn entered, properly dressed for a funeral. There was a lost look in his eyes when he mentioned Michael’s strong streak of conventionality, but I was too wired to be his comforter at that moment.

  “Tell me, Denn, what was the middle tapestry in Michael’s bedroom?”

  His head jerked up and his eyes blazed. “What the fuck were you doing in there?”

  I stepped back involuntarily and he rushed past me toward Michael’s room.

  “And how’d you get in?” he cried. “Pick the goddamned lock?”

  “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to like that?” I shouted and strode after him with matching anger. He was on his knees in the hall, examining the lock on the door, and I saw immediately that it was a heavy-duty Yale lock, not the usual flimsy thing found on interior doors but one that required a key both to lock and unlock it. For some reason, the open door caused Denn to break down again and once more I was disarmed.

  “It’s always locked,” he wept. “Always. No one’s allowed in when Michael’s not here. No one!”

  “Not even you?” Surprised dissipated the rest of my anger.

  “We each needed private space,” he said defensively as he pulled out a white handkerchief and blew his nose. “Michael didn’t go into my room uninvited either.”

  Didn’t go/no one’s allowed. Where was Denn’s choice in the matter? I filed it in the back of my head.

  “Dwight had a search warrant,” I said, “but that lock doesn’t look forced. You sure Michael wouldn’t have left it open when he rushed out?”

  I told him about the crumpled towel, the dirty sink, and then the missing panel.

  Denn stood as if dazed and uncomprehending.

  “Why would he take it down?” I prodded. “What was the scene?”

  “Scene?” he asked stupidly, staring at the empty wall a long moment. Then he sighed and shrugged his shoulder. “It wasn’t a scene. Just symbols of the Holy Ghost. You know-a white dove. Lilies. That sort of thing.”

  “We have to call Dwight,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “If it wasn’t in the Volvo when I found Michael, that might mean he either gave it to someone or his killer took it. Either way, it could be important.”

  We both looked at our watches.

  “It’s eight o’clock,” Denn said plaintively.

  He was right. Too soon for Dwight to have gotten back to Dobbs and getting too late if we wanted to have much time at the funeral home.

  “I’ll call him from Aldcroft’s,” I said.

  As we passed back through the living room, Denn suddenly darted over to the open shelves that lined the stairwell and landing. Samples of the Pot Shot’s products were displayed on lighted glass shelves like works of art.

  “Here,” said Denn and presented me with a pitcher that had such subtle tones in the glazes that the colors seemed to glow with jewel-like intensity. I hated to think what it would cost in that expensive Atlanta store, but it felt good in my hands, with a nice balance and a well-designed lip. Just looking at it, I was positive this was one pitcher that would never let liquids drip or slop when I poured.

  “It’s not much compensation,” said Denn, “but I really am sorry if I’ve damaged your campaign.”

  “Sorry enough to let Linsey Thomas run a statement from you in the next Ledger?” I asked.

  “I-yeah, okay. I guess I owe you that, too.”

  Downstairs, he found a box, swathed the pitcher with tissues, and set it on the backseat of my little sports car. Lily watched w
ith resignation as we drove off and left her sitting in the dooryard again.

  Aldcrofts have been burying the dead of Cotton Grove and Colleton County from this location on Front Street for more than a hundred years; and with two Aldcroft sons recently graduated from mortuary school, it looked as if they were going to continue on into the twenty-first century.

  When the first Aldcroft’s burned down around 1910, they had replaced it with a stately white mansion reminiscent of Tara; and though the interior’s been remodeled and modernized over the years, the exterior remains firmly antebellum. Across the front was a wide veranda graced by huge columns with Corinthian capitals. Inside were wide halls and three spacious viewing rooms furnished with comfortable sofas and soft chairs. Tall, gilt-framed mirrors on the wall reflected the subdued pink light cast by lamps with pale rose-colored glass shades.

  The wide parking lot was so jammed when we arrived that I had to park on the street a half block away. Even though it was a quarter past eight, there was still a line of people that extended from the front door, across the veranda, and halfway down the broad front steps.

  “Oh God!” moaned Denn as we drew near. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Yes, you can,” I soothed. “These are your friends, too.”

  Taking his arm, we walked across the veranda and those who recognized Denn stepped back to let us pass up the shallow steps and into the crowded hall. It was just a little unnerving the way a point of silence preceded us, while a cone of low buzzing followed in our wake.

  “Natural human solicitude,” whispered the preacher.

  The pragmatist was too busy responding to solemn smiles and sober handshakes and trying to get a handle on the mood to remark on natural human gossips.

  At most visitations, the recently deceased is the natural focal point. As a rule, collateral members of the family-cousins, nieces and nephews, or aunts and uncles-form a sort of receiving line on the right, just inside the doorway. You’ve come to pay your respects, so you’re passed along the line till you arrive at the open coffin, where there is a moment of silence, a moment to gaze with good remembrances (often), or hungry curiosity (always), upon that still face forever silent till the trump of judgment calls it from the grave.