Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  “That’s a surprise, but maybe a good beginning. We’ll hope so. Bill says precipitation’s on the way tomorrow. Are you going to need an umbrella or a snow shovel? We’ll be back in a moment to let you know.”

  I sat down. I’d like to have felt good about what I’d done, to feel that I’d helped bring a mother and daughter together. If I were honest with myself, though, I’d have to admit that Rosie Layne had taken my meddling and made a courageous decision. And Jacqueline had been forgiving and mature enough to accept her. I had stirred things up more than I had done anything productive.

  My phone rang. Stick had heard the news: “I hate to say it, but you were right, babe, at least about Rosie. But who murdered Hazel?” I told him I’d taken a new vow of meddling abstinence.

  The call-waiting beeped. Mark: “Did you know this? Why didn’t you let me know? What a story!” I refused to comment.

  Another beep. MaryNell. “Did you hear? Did you know they were going to do that?”

  Minutes later Randy called. He hadn’t made the call he had promised after the show at the Bluebird, and I had decided he wasn’t going to. But here he was. We discussed the news and made plans to have dinner in a couple of weeks. On a Monday, because he rarely played gigs on Monday nights.

  Doug didn’t get in touch. A half hour or so later, unsurprisingly, Detective Davis called. “Campbell. I guess you saw the news?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why do I think you had something to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you always think of trouble when you think of me?”

  “Not always.”

  “Well, maybe I did have something to do with it.”

  “I thought so.”

  I told him about the call from Rosie Layne and my visit with her. “I felt like a jerk,” I ended.

  “Why do you think she went public?” he asked.

  “She probably thought I’d tell the papers, so she’d be better off telling the story first.”

  “Maybe. Or if you could figure it out, other people would, too. Maybe, just maybe, she figured it was time.”

  “I hope so.” There was a long pause. “Your daughter seems very nice. She’s lovely.”

  “Thanks. I’m proud of her. She looks like her mother, though, thank goodness.”

  Another pause. “I don’t know any un-awkward way to say this. Where is her mother?”

  “Franklin.”

  “And you have custody? That’s a little unusual.”

  “No. Joint custody. Her mother remarried a while back and moved to Franklin.” Franklin was a small town in the next county to the south. “Julie didn’t want to change schools, and I wanted her to live with me. But she spends a lot of time with her mother, too.”

  Where was I supposed to go from there? We talked for a few more minutes. I even called him Sam instead of Detective Davis. I hung up feeling oddly comforted.

  * * *

  The cold front stalled over Missouri and western Kentucky, so the bad weather held off. A gray cloud settled over the city, though, thick and ominous, not allowing us to forget what was just beyond that ridge of high pressure. My head hurt. I felt as if the clouds were a weight on my neck.

  I tried to behave. I didn’t like people yelling at me, and I still felt badly about Rosie Layne. The result of my meddling may have been a good thing, a family finding each other, but it was still meddling. It wasn’t my place. And I was still a little jumpy when I came home alone after dark.

  I went to another ball game with MaryNell, but this time there was no grinning police officer across the floor or at the other end of the bleachers or at the concession stand. I went home even more depressed, even though McGavock had beaten Hunters Lane.

  Work that week involved a flurry of families making Christmas and New Year’s travel plans. Every year I get at least a dozen calls from people who want bargain trips during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. As if nobody’s ever thought of traveling then. That, of course, is one of the busiest times for travel. Everybody has Christmas and New Year’s off—or at least some days around that time. All schools are out. Lots of manufacturers shut down for the week. College kids go home for Christmas; many families visit grandparents or vice versa. And pilots want time off, too.

  Then, just when most of the space is sold, and hotels are booked solid for New Year’s, bowl teams are announced. Every year around the first of December I’m scrambling to find airfare for UT fans to Phoenix or New Orleans or for Ole Miss fans to Atlanta.

  So when, in the fall, somebody calls and wants me to find a bargain trip to somewhere not too crowded for the week between Christmas and New Year’s, it takes all the courtesy and salesmanship I can muster not to say, “Stay home. No lines. No annoying strangers making noise in the room next door. No hours in uncomfortable chairs in any airport somewhere because your flight’s been delayed by weather in Chicago or Detroit. Stay home!”

  Instead, I start making calls, aware that it’s useless but compelled to be able to say honestly that I tried. I call the wholesalers; I call the hotels directly; sometimes I beg. I look for alternate cities to fly into. I recheck the charters. I stay home.

  Even through the preholiday work craze, I couldn’t stop thinking about Hazel Miller. Hazel’s life seemed so pathetic, such a waste of the vibrant, electric personality Gordy Adams had described. But for someone to end that life, to decide Hazel had no worth as a human being because of his—or her—own selfish purposes made me angry.

  I started thinking again about who had what to gain. George Lewis had a job to lose and nothing to gain—unless he was working for someone else. He was inside the house, trusted. Who had more access to Hazel and her drugs? On the other hand, I didn’t think Lewis would have used a drug that Hazel wasn’t taking. It would have been too easy for him to have saved some pills from her prescribed stash. He probably picked up her prescriptions for her.

  I knew the least about Jacqueline. As an anesthesiologist, she knew drugs and the limits of the human body. She, however, had a successful medical specialty practice and didn’t have any visible vices or extravagances. Jacqueline was contained and controlled. Was that mature and secure, or was it a cover for resentment of an adoptive mother who had been emotionally absent? And what about her son, Jay? He was a loose cannon, a volatile explosive just waiting to be set off. And he wanted money to finance the career that would justify his identity.

  I could not imagine what motive Franklin Polk might have, but he certainly wanted to be sure the sleeping dogs were allowed to lie undisturbed and to keep all the skeletons where he had hung them, neat and quiet in the backs of their mothballed closets. He was Jake’s lawyer, and he made me curious.

  I went back to my new friend Shana at the courthouse, but found no more information. No documents had been filed regarding Hazel’s will. Maybe it was too soon, or maybe it was because of the murder investigation. Surely she’d had a will.

  One night I went shopping with MaryNell, trying to get a start on Christmas. I bought a book on the World War II generation for Mr. Morgan and a construction set for one of my nephews. I kept noticing ties that would bring out the blue in the detective’s eyes.

  By Wednesday, I had been as good as I could stand. I decided to call George Lewis. I couldn’t see what harm a few more questions could do.

  “I really don’t see the point of our discussing this,” he said.

  “There probably isn’t any point,” I agreed. “I’m just curious. Who was Hazel’s attorney?”

  Lewis named a well-known, established Nashville lawyer.

  “Not Franklin Polk?”

  “No. I know he was Jake’s lawyer, but Hazel hated him. Maybe it was the way Jake’s will was drawn up so she couldn’t sell anything. She really didn’t have a lot of money. I don’t know. I just know something had happened before I knew her. Hazel had to be around Polk some. People associated him with Jake, and he was usually at any tribute kind of thing, but Hazel couldn’t stan
d the man.”

  I called the office where Polk was still nominally a partner. His was the first of a long string of distinguished names, but I knew he no longer practiced. I pretended to be a reporter and asked if Mr. Polk were the attorney of record for Hazel Miller. The receptionist politely declined to give any information about who might or might not be clients of the firm.

  I called my buddy Mark at The Tennessean, but he didn’t know any more than I did. “I don’t know what the bad blood was between Hazel and Polk,” Mark said. “Polk drew up Jake’s will that only let Hazel have a lifetime use of income from the estate. That would probably have been enough. Maybe his involvement with the adoption. Hazel had to know that Polk had known who Jacqueline was—and who her birth mother was—all along. Think how hard it must have been for Hazel, raising a daughter who was living evidence of Jake’s unfaithfulness.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Campbell.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is beginning to look too dangerous for you. I think it may be time for you to give this up.”

  Not Mark, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning started badly. I spilled coffee on my favorite sweater trying to juggle too many things getting out of the car at the office. I called Kenneth Elliott and amazingly found him in for the first time since I’d started researching the art museum in St. Louis.

  “Hi, Kenneth.”

  “Campbell, hello.” He sounded wary.

  “What do you know about Franklin Polk?” I don’t even know where that came from. I hadn’t intended to ask. Franklin Polk was just nagging at my subconscious.

  A pause. “Nothing. I’ve met him. I’ve probably sold his wife a painting or two. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. I don’t know. About that museum in St. Louis…” I began.

  “I can’t talk right now,” he said. “Just don’t do anything. I’ll be in touch.”

  I gave up. He didn’t want to bother with advising me on whether my senior citizens would enjoy visiting a museum in another city. They weren’t likely ever to be clients of his. Neither was I, not a profitable client, at least. I’d just have to go ahead and make the decision myself.

  The invoice printer went down. I wanted to go home and crawl back into bed. Then I remembered something a friend had told me while he was in AA. “Every day has twenty-four hours,” he’d said. “If your day starts heading downhill, you can start over whenever you want. Live one day at a time, and whenever you decide, you can have a new day.” I needed a new day.

  I called the tech service, and they promised to have a technician on-site within two hours. I worked on the itinerary for the senior group trip until I felt satisfied with it and put the file away to review the next day. I helped a twenty-something plan a honeymoon that would make his bride the envy of her friends. I called Mark again at The Tennessean to see if he knew exactly what prescriptions Hazel had been taking and the name of the unexpected drug they’d found in her system. He didn’t, but said he would ask around even though he really thought I should take his advice.

  Stick called. “Hey, babe, I just got a weird call from Gordy Adams. He wanted me to warn you—”

  “Gordy Adams? What have I done to him?”

  “Nothing. He just likes you. He doesn’t know you very well, of course.”

  “Thanks, Stick. I may have to start my day over again.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. It’s just been … Never mind. What did Gordy say?”

  “He said he had heard, and he wouldn’t say where he’d heard this, that you were stirring things up. He said some not entirely pleasant people said you needed to learn to leave things alone that didn’t concern you and that it didn’t seem to be idle conversation.”

  Then Franklin Polk called.

  “Campbell Hale.” It was more a command than a greeting.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Miss Hale, you’ve been asking questions about my client’s unfortunate death. Hazel Miller.”

  “Your client?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Miller and I have been—” There was a pause. “—friends for many years. I have often assisted her as I did my dear friend Jake.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Jacqueline, Jay, and, of course, Miss Layne are all very distressed by the … events of the past few weeks. I know you would not wish to make things more difficult for them—or for your friend, Mr. Elliott—than they are already.”

  “Just what are you trying to say, Mr. Polk?”

  “Miss Hale, you’re a businesswoman. You know how … counterproductive it can be to make people angry unnecessarily. A lot of people in this town respect Jake Miller’s memory and cared for his widow. They wouldn’t want to see this become more … messy than it already is. Mr. Elliott, for example, Kenneth, could be hurt irreparably if his reputation were damaged by this. This is, after all, a very small town in many ways.”

  I was beginning to think that Mr. Polk’s pauses communicated more than the words between them.

  “Are you saying you represent Kenneth Elliott?”

  “No, not at all. I’m just trying to appeal to your common sense.”

  “What is it you want from me, Mr. Polk?”

  “I can be a very helpful person, Miss Hale. I think you would find that our being friends would be very … helpful to your career and your future. And, of course, there’s your friend, Mr. Elliott, Douglas. A very intelligent young man, very promising.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do, Miss Hale. You’re very intelligent yourself. Just think about it. I can be a very good friend, or, well, just be … wise, Miss Hale.”

  I was speechless.

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll be in touch again, Miss Hale. Good-bye.”

  “Mr. Polk.” I had nothing to lose.

  “Yes, Miss Hale?”

  “Just what did you and Jake Miller talk about the night he died? Was he telling you to arrange for Jackie to be taken care of? Was he about to leave Hazel for Rosie Layne? Was he firing you?”

  He hung up.

  Now my head was really hurting. I didn’t want to start this day over; I just wanted it to end. I thought about calling Doug. I hadn’t talked to him—or heard from him—lately, but I didn’t want to listen to him tell me what was wrong with me. He’d hear about it soon enough, I was sure.

  * * *

  When I got home and opened my mail, my day got worse. Someone had put a lien on my house. A lien on my house! I couldn’t absorb it. I sat down and made myself start over. The letter came from one of the 150 or so lawyers in Franklin Polk’s firm. The company that had come out to fix my air-conditioning last summer hadn’t finished the job, so I hadn’t paid them. They’d sent a bill; I’d written a letter. We’d talked. They’d said they really couldn’t know if it was fixed until hot weather, so we were in a truce. So suddenly, for a $120 bill that I didn’t think I should pay and nobody from the company seemed too upset about last week, there was a lien on my house! A lien placed by Franklin Polk’s law firm! The letter said I would have to pay the amount in full plus a $150 legal fee to have it removed.

  It was too late to call anybody today to find out what was going on. I picked up the phone to call Doug but hung up before I finished dialing. It was too late for him to do anything about it either. I’d wait until the morning and handle as much as I could myself before I talked to Doug.

  I spent most of the next day straightening out the situation. The air-conditioning company’s billing office hadn’t known how it’d happened. They did occasionally file liens on homes for unpaid bills, but not unless the bill was a lot higher and a lot older than mine. Maxine confirmed the letter was from the law firm that represented the company. When I called, the attorney who had signed the letter said he got my information in a stack of other liens to be filed. He’d processed the liens. It was all pretty routine. He said he could only clear the lien
when I paid. Maxine promised she’d get it straightened out, but she warned me that sometimes it could take weeks before a lien was removed. She apologized.

  I couldn’t prove it, but I knew Franklin Polk was behind it. I felt violated, targeted, powerless. And that made me mad.

  * * *

  For years I’ve had season tickets to TPAC’s Broadway series. On play nights three friends and I meet for dinner before the performance. Pam is a friend from high school and a surgical nurse; the others, Betty and Melinda, work with Pam at Good Samaritan Hospital.

  It was Friday night, a month since the last play, and we were meeting at South Street on Nineteenth just off Broadway before a revival of Annie at the Performing Arts Center. We ordered an asparagus and Monterey Jack Diver Dilla appetizer and started catching up. Pam asked if Doug was on or off these days, and I had to say off. She had started the master gardener course at Ellington Agricultural Center, and I offered my yard for her required volunteer community-service hours. “Just ask any of my neighbors. They’d all tell you what a service it would be to the community if someone would do something with my yard.”

  Conversation was difficult over the noise, but the food was tasty. South Street is an unpretentious beach restaurant landlocked in the middle of Nashville. The bar and narrow front room are open to the street in decent weather, drafty in winter, but the fireplace helps. The tiny back room is cramped and dim. Bright, whimsical murals disguise the cracks in the walls. The crab cakes are the best within five hundred miles, and you never know what the blue-plate special is going to be. The chef gets creative.

  Betty and Melinda had not heard about my involvement with Hazel Miller’s murder. I filled them in. “So you’ve probably talked to the murderer.” Betty shivered. “Who done it, do you think?”

  “No idea. Well, that’s not true; too many ideas.”

  “Dr. Miller’s really been stressed,” Melinda offered.