by J. Paul Drew
“Oof. But at least she wasn’t shot.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Never mind. When did it happen?”
“Lateish. Between nine and eleven.”
Not so good for Booker.
“But more like nine, they think. Because someone tried to call her at nine-thirty and got a busy. It turned out the phone was off the hook, which was the way her roommate found it when she returned the next morning.”
Better for Booker— he’d been with us at nine.
“The police think your buddy did it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bev and Isami reported the burglary, of course. The cops think the burglar came back.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He didn’t get Beverly’s jewelry. As a matter of fact, so far as the cops know, he got nothing of Bev’s; she certainly didn’t report the loss of a priceless manuscript. They figure he’d just hit Isami’s room and something scared him away before he could get to Bev’s. So he came back the next night. She surprised him by being there, and he gave her the good-bye look.”
“That’s the theory, is it?”
“Not bad if you ask me. Who’s going to believe in a neurotic burglar getting back at daddy dear?”
“Tell me something, Deb— was she sexually assaulted?”
“Apparently not. Just strangled and knocked around.”
“Thanks, darlin’. Let me know when I can return the favor.”
“Sure will, hon. Glad to do it.”
Good old Deb. She’d done me so many favors I’d lost count— even lent me money— and never asked for a thing in return. She talked tough— as befitted a tough newshen— but if anyone ever had a heart of gold, it was Debbie Hofer, and I would gladly have married her if she’d have had me. Which she would not.
She’d made that perfectly clear. And Sardis wouldn’t even live with me.
Very well then. I would have to depend on one of the world’s great humorists for company. I opened a bottle of Glen Ellen Proprietor’s Reserve Red, my current favorite jug wine, and picked up my new copy of Huck Finn. After all, I’d started it the night before— why not finish? But after a while I had a brainstorm and got on the phone again. “Isami Nakamura? This is Ben McGonagil of the Examiner. I’m doing an obituary on your roommate, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
“Actually, I was just on my way out. I’m staying somewhere else for a while and just stopped by to pick up some clothes.”
“Oh. Then maybe you could tell me who else to call— her parents, perhaps?”
“Mr. and Mrs. George Alexander. In Hillsborough. But I’m confused about something, Mr. McGonagil— why didn’t you ask me about this earlier. When you interviewed me about the murder?”
“One thing at a time, I always say.”
Interesting that she’d talked to McGonagil. He was a star. If he was on the yarn, that meant the Ex was going to do it up big. I called Hillsborough, already assuming a post-McGonagil identity: “Hello. Blick of the Progress.”
George Alexander couldn’t keep the distaste out of his voice: “Any relation to Blick the homicide inspector?”
“Oh, him. Heavens, no. Very common name where I come from.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Blick?”
“I’m writing an obituary on your daughter and I wonder if I could ask you a little about her?”
“Plenty of reporters already have. Why not you?”
“How old was she, sir?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Excuse me. Did you say twenty-four?”
“Thirty-four.”
“How long had she been flying?”
“Ten years. Quit graduate school to see the world. Guess she liked it. Never went back.”
“Where was she studying?”
“University of Michigan. History. She got her B.A. at Bryn Mawr. Also in history.”
“I guess you get so you can anticipate what a person’s going to ask next.”
“She’s survived by her mother and me and one brother.”
“You’ve been very helpful, sir. Thanks very much.”
I hung up, rather regretting that it’s impolite to ask a bereaved parent if his daughter had a criminal record, but nonetheless feeling it had been a most profitable phone call. Beverly Alexander was no trifling bit of fluff. Or if she was, she was at least a well educated one of a certain age. Obviously she was a bit underemployed, but maybe there was a reason for it. Maybe she was an alcoholic or a druggie. Or just lazy. At any rate, a more complicated woman than I’d expected. On impulse, I dialed her dad a second time: “Mr. Alexander? Blick again. I might do a larger story about Beverly, and I’m trying to find out what she was like as a person. I wonder— do you know who her favorite author was?”
“Albert Camus.”
“I mean— actually— her favorite American author.”
“Mr. Blick, are you sure you’re not related to that homicide fellow?”
Crusty old buzzard; no wonder his daughter wanted to fly away. I went back to Huck, Jim, and Glen Ellen— better company altogether.
But I was irritated at the way McGonagil and Blick had gotten to people before I had. True, they’d learned about Beverly’s death before I had— because it was part of their jobs— but I’d had that odd sort of forgetful moment when there were still bits of the job to be done. If I were going to be worth the big bucks Booker was paying me, I’d better look sharp. The next day I was standing at the library door when it opened.
The lovely Linda was looking fresh as the morning itself, yet once again endearingly smeary-eyed. She flushed when she saw me— another plus. “Ah. Paul Mcdonald.”
“Linda, I want to ask you a weird thing.”
“Splendid.”
“The lost part of Huck Finn— what if it wasn’t lost after all?”
“I thought we covered that— we’d want it badly.”
“No, no— let me rephrase. Are there any stories about it? I mean, like Clemens gave it to his daughter for safekeeping and she sold it to an unknown buyer. Or maybe it’s in someone’s very private collection; a particular person’s even. The sort of thing everyone knows, but no one can prove— like the rumors about stolen artworks.”
“You mean folklore. Like ghost stories or UFO sightings.”
“Exactly.”
“There was a sighting once. But only one that I know of— there’s not a complex mythology or anything.”
“Who made the sighting?”
“As a matter of fact, I can tell you exactly who, because I took the phone call. It was—” she squinched up her eyes— “back in ’78, maybe? No, ’77. Or maybe it was the fall before. No, it was winter. I remember because—”
“Ten years ago more or less?”
“About that. If you’ll just give me a minute—”
“That’s okay.” I hoped she’d take the hint and get on with it. “Who was it?”
She squinched up again— her makeup was looking worse every second. “Edwin… Apple. No, Lemon. Edwin Lemon.”
“Is he someone you know?”
“Oh, gosh no, he just called up and said, ‘This is A-id-win Limmon fromm Foo-all-ton Miss’ippi.’”
“Foolton?”
“Fulton, I think.”
“And what did he say?”
“Come to think of it, he asked me the same kinds of questions you did the other day— was the whereabouts of the manuscript known? What part was missing? And like that. Then he said he thought he had the rest of it.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, he did. Just like that. Only time it’s ever happened. He said he’d bring it in right away for us to look at.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “That’s the last we heard of him.”
“You didn’t try to follow up on it?’
“I figured he was a nut.”
“Do you have a U.S. map around here?”
“I could probably
find one. Why?”
“I want to look up Foo-all-ton.”
Fifteen minutes later I was on the phone to Booker, who was railing. “Get your ass on a plane. What do you think— I’m a piker? I want the job done and I want it done right. Go anywhere you want, I don’t care what it costs. And go now! I’m nervous about this shit.”
“Well, actually, I could get a plane to Memphis in an hour and a half.”
“Do it.”
“To tell you the truth, the Visa folks are still mad.” (When they closed my account for nonpayment, I cut my card into little pieces, smeared it with cat food, and sent it back. I kept trying to tell them I’d since grown up, but they saw through me.)
“Come by and I’ll give you an advance.”
I dashed home, threw some things in a bag, and was just locking the door when I remembered the manuscript. I’d planned to take it to the nearest bank as soon as it opened. There was no time now. Should I take it with me? No. Way too much margin for error. I’d have to get Sardis to take it to a bank. But there wasn’t even time to go up and speak to her. Oh, well— I had to ask her to feed Spot as well; I could call from the airport. I stuck the key under the mat and hit the road.
What with dropping by Booker’s, I walked on the plane with about thirty seconds to spare. So I didn’t call till we touched down in Memphis and by then the ungrateful wench had stepped out on some selfish errand of her own. Too bad she’d have to hear my newly acquired accent secondhand. “This is your Huckleberry free-and,” I told her machine, “calling from Mimphis, on my way to Foo-all-ton, Miss’ippi. I’m trackin’ down the provenance of a l’il ol’ manuscript.” Sardis herself was from Mississippi and I knew she’d be pleased I’d learned her language.
CHAPTER 5
Fulton was just out of Tupelo, birthplace of a great American hero, and such a thriving metropolis I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find Elvis Presley Park to pay my respects. But that was one thing I vowed to do before I left town.
First I found the Natchez Trace Inn, checked in, and pored over the phone book for awhile. There weren’t any Edwin Lemons, but there were five others. Two never heard of Edwin, the third was out, and the fourth thought Edwin might be related to her husband’s third cousin once removed, Veerelle Lemon, over in Ballardsville. Veerelle was the fifth. Her voice was listless. “Edwin? Edwin hasn’t lived here in ten years. Since ’77, I b’leeve. Or was ’78 the year he left? I declare, I can hardly remember any more.”
If, in sizzling Itawamba County, anyone’s blood has ever run cold, mine did at that moment. “He was your husband?”
“My son. Best boy there ever was too. Wadn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.”
“And where is he now?”
“Haven’t heard from him in ten years, just about.”
“Mrs. Lemon, I’m a private investigator from California. I wonder if I could see you for a few minutes?”
“You know somethin’ about Edwin?”
“Maybe. I’m trying to find out, anyway.”
“I wish you’d come on over, then. First thing in the mornin’, you hear?”
Going to Ballardsville was like going back in time, almost to Huck and Tom’s day. There were no sidewalks and no street lights. The roads were paved and there were plenty of cars on them, and tractors in the fields, but you could tune that part out. The farmhouses had wide front porches with swings on them. Some had ponds that had really been dug to be stocked with catfish, but that looked like good swimming holes. Sharecroppers’ children played barefoot, brown legs covered with red dust.
Instead of one of the charming old ones, Veerelle’s house was a low-ceilinged and badly built modern one. She’d apparently furnished it with the hand-me-downs of a dozen Lemon families whose taste ran to early American, with plenty of Naugahyde recliners thrown in. Somewhere in the family tree were a knitter of afghans and a crocheter of antimacassars.
As for Veerelle, she was as nice a lady as you’d ever want to meet. Primly permed salt-and-pepper hair, pleasant summer dress, bucket of beans in lap. (“You don’t mind if I string my beans for supper, do you?”) She seemed very much like someone’s mother.
“I can’t tell you who my client is,” I began, “but I’ve been asked to look into a matter that may concern your son.”
Her eyes brimmed. “You’re not gon’ tell me there’s a chance he might be alive?” They overflowed.
“I’m sorry to upset you, ma’am. But, honestly, I haven’t any idea. I was given his name at a university library where he’d made some inquiries.”
“A library? Why, Edwin worked in a library. Over at Itawamba Junior College.”
“He was a college librarian?”
“Sure was. Ole Miss graduate, but he came home to work. Built me this house, too, after his daddy died. ’Course, he lived over in Fulton himself. In a tiny little place.”
“Was he married?”
“No. Always said wives were too expensive. Didn’t like to spend money— except on me. Didn’t want a thing for himself, but couldn’t do enough for his mama.”
“He doesn’t sound the sort who wouldn’t get in touch for ten years.”
“Well, he wasn’t.”
“You sound pretty much as if you’ve given up hope.” Now that she apparently felt I hadn’t brought her any false hope, she had herself under control. “I’ve known for a long time that Edwin’s dead.”
“How’s that, Mrs. Lemon?”
“I just know it. I know it in my heart. If he were safe, he’d have found some way to let me know.”
“I wonder if you could tell me how he happened to leave.”
“Don’t know whether I should or not. Still don’t know what you’re here for.”
“I think something happened ten years ago that concerns my client, and also concerned your son. I may be able to find out what happened to him.”
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You think he was involved in something that— how shall I put this? Something that—” Something criminal, I meant, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it to poor, innocent-seeming Veerelle in her awful little brick house that she probably considered the finest in the neighborhood.
“Edwin had a side to him that I don’t like to think about sometimes.”
“Mrs. Lemon, I don’t mean to pry, but it could be very helpful if you could tell me what you mean by that.”
She snapped the bean she was working on with two loud cracks that let me know it was standing in for my right arm. “Not going to. But I’ve made up my mind to tell you how he left. Maybe I do want to know what happened to him. Maybe—” She was losing control again. “Just maybe—” She got up without a word, left the room, and returned clutching a tissue. She sat down, put her bowl of beans carefully on an end table, and gave me her full attention. “Edwin came over one day and said, ‘Come for a ride in my new car.’ Law, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Edwin never bought anything for himself. His car was ten years old, and he swore there was plenty of life left in it. Mind you, he bought me a new car, but that’s the way Edwin was. Didn’t ever treat himself to anything. But that day, he came ridin’ over in a pretty little bright-yellow Datsun. I made some remark about the color and he said, ‘Why, Mama, that’s Lemon yellow.’
“He took me for a ride and we came in together and had some coffee and he said, ‘Mama, I’m takin’ a little vacation.’ Well, I wadn’t sure I heard right because here it was October— and Edwin a school librarian. I said, ‘Edwin, what on earth are you talkin’ about?’ And he said he was takin’ a one-month leave of absence. Said, ‘Wanda Kimbrough’s gon’ fill in for me. She was glad to get the work and they’ll prob’ly be glad to get her.’ Well, can you imagine how that made me feel? I said, ‘Son, you talk like you’re not comin’ back.’ He said, ‘I’ll be back. I’ll be back for sure and when I do I just might have a little surprise for you. I just might be about to come into some money.’ And the next day he left in that Lemon-yell
ow Datsun.”
“He didn’t say any more about the money?”
“Didn’t matter how hard I tried to make him, he wouldn’t say a word. Just kept sayin’ he wadn’t sure yet and he didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He did.” She set her lips in a thin hard line. “San Francisco.”
“Was that all he told you? He didn’t mention anything about a book? Or a manuscript maybe?”
Suddenly, for the first time in the interview, she smiled. “Why, no. Was he workin’ on a book? Was that it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Edwin wrote a book! So that’s what this was all about. And I see now why he left so suddenly— I bet he’d sent it off to someone who was gon’ publish it.”
“Ma’am, could I ask you something? I just have a hunch and I want to try it out on you. I’m wondering— who was Edwin’s favorite author?”
“Favorite author?” She looked confused. “Wait! I know. That nigra man.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know.” She pulled a worn paperback from a nearby bookcase and turned the cover towards me: Giovanni’s Room. “Oh. James Baldwin.”
“Is that who you thought it’d be?”
I shook my head. “I thought it might be Faulkner.”
She smiled for the second time: “We don’t think much of him around here.”
“I thought I might talk to some of Edwin’s friends while I’m in town.”
“I’d start with Wanda Kimbrough if I were you. She’s still workin’ over there.”
Meaning still the librarian at Itawamba Junior College, where she’d gone to fill in for a month ten years ago. I wondered momentarily if the job was good enough to kill for.
If it was, though, I couldn’t see Wanda as a suspect, maybe just because I didn’t want to. She was big and friendly, which I liked; and she would say anything that came into her head, which I find the most compelling of human attributes.
“Tell me something,” she started out. “Is your client gay?”
“I gather Edwin was.”
