by Ann B. Ross
Roberta looked up, blinking. “Who?”
“Connie Clayborn,” LuAnne said. “It was in the paper, Roberta.”
“I think they wanted to know what we thought of her,” Sue said in her calm way. “Particularly if anybody had any hard feelings toward her.”
“Well,” LuAnne said, “I certainly had no hard feelings toward her.”
I couldn’t hold my tongue. “Why, LuAnne, you were beside yourself because she’d trapped you into signing up for that Run for Rehab, or whatever it was.”
“Well, Julia, it was you who said Connie would get what was coming to her sooner or later.”
“I most certainly did not!” I said. “How could you say such a thing? Did you tell that to Detective Ellis?”
“I had to tell the truth. When he asked me if anybody’d been mad at Connie for telling us all her wonderful plans for Abbotsville, what else could I do?”
“Ladies,” Sue said, putting down her angel, “let’s stop for a while and have some coffee. It’s decaf.”
I struggled to keep my composure. I had known full well that LuAnne would tell everything she knew and a few things she only thought she knew. Still, it was shocking to learn that she had repeated my words to Detective Ellis, except I didn’t think I’d said those exact words. At least to her.
Callie said, “That detective asked me the same thing—who was mad at her and if anybody had been upset at Connie’s coffee, and I told him the truth, too. I told him we’d all been upset, but, LuAnne, I didn’t quote anybody directly. You need to be careful about that.”
I could’ve hugged Callie.
“Well, what I think,” Sue said, “is that they’re looking into her background, and talking to anybody who’d known her. We just happened to be part of that.”
“I think you’re right, Sue,” I said. “And that brings up a lot of possibilities. We don’t know who all she knew before she moved here. With all the places they’d lived, who knows how many unsavory people she’d come across? Somebody could’ve been tracking her or following her till they found her. We just don’t know anything about her or her husband.”
Roberta had been listening to the various opinions, looking from one to the other of us. She said, “Maybe they were in the drug trade.”
“Roberta!” we all cried.
“Well,” she said, immediately on the defensive, “I heard their house was full of unopened boxes and crates and cartons. Does anybody know what was in them?”
“Furniture,” I said. “At least that’s what Connie told me.” But I couldn’t help but wonder—had that been true? If they’d brought something back from, say, Switzerland that shouldn’t have been brought, could it have also brought big-time trouble, too?
“Well, see, Julia,” LuAnne said, “you had more contact with her than any of us. No wonder the detective was so interested in you. So don’t blame me if he asked about you.”
“LuAnne,” Callie said, rolling her eyes, “even my three-year-old knows not to tell on people. You know good and well that Julia did not kill Connie, so why you have to blab everything you know is beyond me.”
“Well,” LuAnne said, taking immediate umbrage, “I certainly didn’t say Julia had anything to do with it. I just don’t like being questioned by the police like a common criminal.”
“Sheriff’s deputy,” Roberta corrected.
“Oh, quit being so picky,” LuAnne snapped. “Police, sheriff, deputy, what’s the difference? I just think that none of us would be involved at all if Julia hadn’t gone out there by herself and found her body.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I wish I hadn’t.”
“Then why did you?”
Well, there it was, the one question I couldn’t truthfully answer. I bit my lip, very nearly on the verge of telling about Emma Sue’s extreme reaction to Connie’s plans, the pastor’s unusual request of me, and my intense desire to speak up for my friend while justifiably giving Connie a piece of my mind.
I thought better of it and clamped down on the urge to let it all out.
“She invited me,” I replied, calmly enough. “That was the reason I went. I made a social call at her invitation, and, LuAnne, I would appreciate it if you would not quote me to Detective Ellis again. Or to anybody else.”
Roberta said, “If Coleman was on duty and working on this, he’d probably have it all figured out by now.”
Several pairs of eyes began rolling, but nobody responded to her. I mean, what could you say?
“When’s the funeral?” Callie asked. “Anybody know?”
“Whose funeral?” Roberta asked.
“Connie Clayborn’s, Roberta!” Callie said. “Who do you think we’re talking about?”
“That’s a good question,” Sue said, responding to Callie. “There’s not been an obituary in the paper yet, but it should tell us a lot about her when it gets in. You know, where she’s from, who her family is, where she went to school, and so on.”
“Vassar,” I said. “That’s all I know, and I only know that because she asked me if I went there.”
“Well, see, Julia,” LuAnne said, “that shows you knew her better than any of us.”
“No, it doesn’t, because she asked Mildred the same thing, and I don’t hear you accusing her. And, LuAnne, I’m getting tired of all the implications you’ve been making.”
Roberta said, “I think you mean insinuations.”
“No, I don’t,” I snapped. “I want her to stop implying that I had something to do with it.”
Quite calmly, Callie said, “It’s impolite to correct your elders, Roberta.” Which should’ve made me feel better, but didn’t.
Sue jumped up and grabbed the coffeepot. “More coffee? Have some cookies. Anybody?”
Roberta, her mind lost in some dreamworld, held out her cup. “I just hope Coleman has a good thermos. I worry about him not being warm enough.”
• • •
We all left at about the same time, cranking cars and driving off on our separate ways. LuAnne had me so uptight, my jaws were aching from keeping them clamped together. I didn’t know why I put up with her. She just had no discretion whatsoever, and the more she talked, the worse it got. And when anybody called her on it, she immediately got defensive and dug herself into a deeper hole.
One of these days, I told myself, I’ll be able to explain everything, and I hope LuAnne will be ashamed of herself for doubting me.
I turned onto Summit Avenue, a straight thoroughfare lined with bare-branched pear trees that ran for eight or so blocks, crossed Polk, and kept on going. Although it wasn’t late, about ten-thirty or so, mine was the only car on the street. I could see almost all the way to my house on the corner of Polk and Summit. The streetlamps cast cones of light down to the pavement, and way ahead of me, a lone, lanky-legged runner flitted in and out of the darkness between them.
Oh, Lord, I thought, and slowed the car. Although I was too far away to see the face, I had no trouble recognizing the long, skinny legs making the same loping strides I’d seen the night before.
Not wanting to pass so that he’d know I was out on a lonely street by myself, I acted on a self-protective impulse and took a right toward busy Main Street. My plan was to drive up and down it a few times—teenagers did it all the time—until the runner was long past my house and I could get inside unaccosted.
But this was Abbotsville, and Main Street was almost as deserted as Summit, so I took another right and headed away from town on MLK Boulevard.
I’d been thinking of talking to Coleman anyway, and this could be just the time to do it.
Chapter 25
Lit by tall sodium streetlights, MLK Boulevard was almost as light as day, giving me an immediate feeling of safety—no shadows for a dark figure to slip through. Up ahead, I saw Coleman’s patrol car parked alone on the side, so I carefully
guided my car onto the shoulder and stopped behind it.
The long blast of a horn froze me in my seat as a car with arms waving out the windows to Coleman whizzed past. Leaning over to look up out the passenger window, I saw him sitting in his lawn chair under the three long-armed spotlights at the top of the sign. He was alone, and nobody was on the path with money in hand to drop in his bucket.
As I got out of the car, Coleman stood up and waved. There was too much traffic noise for me to attempt calling out to him, so I walked over to the railing and looked down the slanted bank to the path. In between passing cars, I vaguely heard Coleman calling my name. I didn’t respond, just swung one leg over the rail, straddled it, then pulled the other leg over until I was at the top of the bank, where I saw that some thoughtful soul had dug five steps leading to the bottom.
The steps didn’t keep me from sliding part of the way down, but, holding on to my pocketbook, I made it in one piece and walked over to the sign, where the racket from a generator almost blocked the noise from the street. I looked up to see Coleman, fully winterized in padded coat and pants, and a watch cap on his head, leaning over the edge of the platform.
“Hey, Miss Julia, what brings you here? Is everything all right?”
“No, everything’s not all right. I need to talk to you, Coleman, so either come down here or I’m coming up there.”
“Hey, Coleman! Hey, you idjit, don’t you know it’s wintertime?”
We both looked toward the street as the rude words were yelled from a speeding pickup. And from another one right behind it, a head leaned out a window with more yelling.
“Hey, you needin’ a womern up there?”
Coleman said, “Come on around to the back of the sign, Miss Julia.” He motioned the way, and I stumbled through weeds to the side away from the boulevard, where it was dark.
Coleman lowered a ladder, then pushed on it to stanch it firmly in the ground. “Think you can crawl up here? Just come halfway and I’ll grab you.” He lay full length on the platform, his top half hanging down the ladder, waiting for me.
The platform wasn’t anywhere near as high off the ground as the dome of the courthouse, and I’d climbed that. So, placing my pocketbook over my shoulder, I clasped both sides of the ladder, put one foot after the other on the rungs, and felt Coleman’s steadying hands clasp my arms and pull me over the edge. I was up.
“Scoot over here,” Coleman said as a big truck’s air horn blasted the air. He lifted the flap of his tent and grinned at me. “Crawl in where it’s warm.”
And it was. In fact, the inside of the tent was insulated with a down-filled lining—walls and floor. A small heater, fed by the generator, purred on one side. Roberta, if I had a mind to tell her, would be reassured as to Coleman’s comfort.
“Sit a little way back from the flap,” Coleman said, “and nobody’ll know you’re here. If it gets out that there’s a way up, I’ll have half the town camping out with me. Use the bedroll to wrap up in if you get cold.” He moved his lawn chair over to the open flap and sat down, ready to listen or talk or whatever I’d made that perilous journey to do.
“What’s going on, Miss Julia?”
“Well, it’s like this: Sam’s in Raleigh so I can’t talk to him, and Binkie doesn’t want to hear what I have to say, and Detective Ellis does want to hear, but I can’t tell him. And my friends are asking too many questions, which means they’re wondering about me, and Pastor Ledbetter left town and who knows when he’ll be back, and that strange runner keeps showing up around my house, and I keep thinking about finding Connie dead on the floor, and I want to know when something’s going to be done so I can sleep at night.”
“Okay, that’s a good start,” Coleman said, and scooted his chair closer to the open flap. He leaned over, his arms on his thighs, looking in at me as I sat with my limbs curled up in his little warm tent. “What can I do to help?”
“Well, Coleman,” I went on, “I know you’re officially on the other side of this, being a sheriff’s deputy and all, but I need to know what kind of spot I’m in. And I know you’re off duty and not part of the investigation, but you must know something, and I want to know just how much Detective Ellis and Lieutenant Peavey suspect me. And who else are they looking at and who all are they investigating, because there’re all kinds of possibilities that are more worthy of suspicion than I am.
“Because, Coleman, I did not do it.”
“That’s pretty much confirmed,” Coleman said, as my heart leaped in my breast. “The autopsy report came back today, and you can thank the gatekeeper for keeping a time sheet on who came and went—just visitors, though. Not the residents.” He stopped and looked down at his hands. Then he lifted his head. “But I do have to caution you, Miss Julia, because time of death—anybody’s death—is hard to pinpoint. It’s an estimate, at best, but from the amount of rigor, lividity, the state of the cornea, the body temperature, and the stomach contents, it looks like Ms. Clayborn had been dead an hour or more before you got there.”
“Oh, my word,” I said, limp with relief, even though I could’ve done without all the details. Then a rush of outrage surged through me. “Why hasn’t somebody told me? I’ve been left hanging out to dry, worried sick about being falsely accused, and all this while they knew I couldn’t have done it.”
“All this while,” Coleman said with a smile, “has just been since late this afternoon when the report came in. But you’re right, they probably won’t tell you—mainly because you’re the only one they know was there. And there’s some question that you could’ve gotten in earlier without being seen. But they’ll put you on the back burner for a while and turn the investigation in another direction.”
“I ought to sue them for loss of sleep,” I grumbled, then latched on to what he’d said. “And how in the world could I have gotten in earlier without being seen? That gatekeeper was right there all day scribbling in his little book, wasn’t he?”
Coleman nodded. “As far as I know. But realize that I’ve been off duty for a couple of days, so I’m not up on the evidence they have.”
“Well,” I said, discouraged now that Coleman didn’t have all the answers. “Sam said the autopsy would determine how she died. Did it?”
Coleman’s mouth twisted with irony. “Our favorite cause of death: blunt force trauma. Which could mean anything. A blow of some kind. Whatever weapon was used fractured the skull and cut the scalp near the temple. And there was a large bruise on the forehead. The cut on the scalp bled a lot. . . .”
“I noticed.”
“Death was caused by the blow across the temple, so the question is: what kind of weapon would be sharp enough to cut the scalp and heavy enough to depress the skull? Or were there two weapons? Or two assailants? Identifying and finding the weapon or weapons is where the investigation is focused now.”
“Well, I hope they look that house over good—it’s huge and full of boxes and crates and who-knows-what-else. And what about the woods around it? There’re a million places on those undeveloped lots to throw something or to bury something.”
Coleman smiled. “They’re looking, and they’ve called in the big dogs, too. The SBI is sending a forensic team to double-check us.”
Hearing that the State Bureau of Investigation would be on the job made me feel better. Of course it might mean that I’d be interviewed again, but if they had proof—even though the exact time of Connie’s death was iffy—that I could not have committed that crime, then I might enjoy it. Or at least not mind it so much.
“Now tell me about that runner you mentioned,” Coleman said.
So I told him how Stan Clayborn had shown up at my house the other night wanting to know what Connie’s last words were. “He was adamantly convinced that she had said something to me before she died, Coleman. I kept telling him that she was in no condition to say anything when I found her. But, see, I’ve been
thinking about that, and it seems to me that he either thinks that I was the last one to see her alive because I killed her, or maybe he did it, and he’s afraid she was still alive enough when I found her to tell on him.
“And twice now I’ve seen a man running by my house late at night. It’s been too dark for me to see his face, but the rest of him looks an awful lot like Connie’s husband—tall and skinny. Of course, I could be wrong. I’ve never seen her husband with his pants off. His long pants, I mean.”
“So you’re not sure it was him?”
“No, not really. It could’ve been anybody of that particular build, but I’ve never seen anybody running past my house at that time of night before. Then again,” I said, and paused to consider what I’d said, “I’ve never had reason to look out the window at ten-thirty or eleven o’clock at night, so for all I know, it’s a common running route for people who work all day.”
“Okay,” Coleman said, “that’s something to look into. The Clayborn house is still a crime scene, so the husband may be staying somewhere close to you. Running past your house could just be a convenient way to go.”
“That’s true, I guess. But, see, when he came to my house, he mentioned that he was a runner, so that’s why—besides looking like Mr. Clayborn—I thought it was him.”
“Did you tell Detective Ellis about this?”
“No, he didn’t ask. I just answered his questions as briefly as I could. To tell the truth, I was so nervous that I didn’t even think about adding anything extra.”
“All right,” Coleman said, “I’ll let him know. Now tell me about Larry Ledbetter. What’s he got to do with this?”
