When Did We Lose Harriet?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I stood there watching two sparrows flutter around after something in the pine straw. I wasn’t really noticing them, I was thinking. Something William said reminded me of something else. Church chimes startled me back into this world. Eight o’clock. Not too early to call Carter. I wanted to talk to him as soon as possible.

  Before I could even get to the phone, the police called Glenna. “Mrs. Crane? We found your husband’s Buick. You’ll need to come identify it and have it towed.”

  “I’ll go,” I offered.

  Glenna shook her head. “I may have to sign papers or something. Just let me call Jake to tell him why we’ll be late.”

  “At least let me do that.” I hurried to the phone before she could object. I’ve had fifty-five years’ experience in telling Jake just what I want him to know. “Hey, Jake. We’re going to be a little late this morning. We need to get the car checked first.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” he demanded.

  “We’re not sure. Seems to be missing a bit. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” I hung up with the comfortable conscience of one who has told the exact truth.

  The Buick sat forlornly in the police lot. It was scratched up and missing four wheels, a radio, and a tape deck. I was devastated.

  Glenna was more philosophical. “It’s just a car, Clara. After nearly losing Jake, it scarcely matters. We’ll have our mechanic just put tires on it for now. Jake can worry about the radio and the paint when he’s up and about.”

  Not if I had anything to say about that.

  I made Glenna leave me at the Buick dealer to wait for wheels to be put on, and I spent most of the morning there. While waiting for them to balance the tires, I finally reached Carter to explain the idea I’d had when William left.

  “It’s worth a check, I guess,” he agreed dubiously, “but we’re very thorough about things like that.”

  “Just check it out,” I pleaded.

  It felt good to be driving the Buick again. I do like a powerful car.

  I headed straight to the teen center, hoping to find Kateisha.

  In the lounge, I called her to a private corner and held up the disks. “Harriet’s aunt found these and sent them back to you.”

  Kateisha grabbed them eagerly. “All right! I sure thought I could kiss these good-bye. Dré was gonna kill me.”

  “Now you can kiss them hello. I don’t guess you’ve heard from Harriet, have you?”

  She pressed her full lips together. “I tol’ you before. I ain’t studyin’ Harriet. It ain’t no skin off me if she wants to split. Now I gotta go. Dré’s gonna wanna see these CDs.” Before I could blink twice, she was gone.

  In the hall, Lewis saw me leaving. “Hey, Mac! I’ve gotten permission to visit Ricky Dodd in jail. Want to go with me?”

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?” I was dying to go myself, but couldn’t see one earthly reason why Lewis Henly should.

  He shrugged. “It’s my job, remember? I help teens with problems. Ricky certainly qualifies. Want to come?”

  I hesitated only an instant. “Sure. Shall I drive? Jake’s car is back in circulation.”

  “Is his air conditioner also circulating? If so, I accept with pleasure.”

  On the way over, being what Joe Riddley calls nosy and what I call interested in other people, I tried to sound Lewis out about Josheba. All he’d say was that she seemed to have a good mind. It hadn’t been her mind he’d been moony-eyed over the night before, but I dropped the subject. Interest in other people can only take you so far before you do get nosy.

  I’ll edit our visit with Ricky a bit, in case you find cussing as boring as I do.

  To see that Ricky was furious was not hard. To see that he was also scared wasn’t too hard, either, although he was trying hard to hide it. “What you want?” he growled suspiciously as Lewis and I met him at the barrier.

  Lewis spoke softly. “Just checking up on you, Rick. How’re they treatin’ you?”

  “It ain’t the Ritz, but I been here before.” Ricky flicked back his hair.

  “I wondered if there’s anything I could do to help.”

  Ricky sneered. “Can you get me out? Harriet said you’re a lawyer.”

  “Not in Alabama. Sorry. Didn’t the court give you somebody?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if he’s any good.”

  Lewis looked at him intently. “Makes it hard on a lawyer if the client is guilty. Did you kill that woman?”

  “No!” Ricky slammed the table with one fist.

  “Calm down,” a guard warned.

  “What were you doing there, then?” Lewis asked. Ricky looked at me. “She’s okay,” Lewis told him. “What were you doing up there, man?”

  Sullen but goaded, Ricky talked in short bursts. “Some dame called yesterday. Said she was Harriet’s old lady. I told her I ain’t seen Harriet for months. She said that’s okay. She knew where Harriet was.”

  “She knew where Harriet was?” I echoed. “Did she say where?”

  “Nanh. Just said she wanted to talk to me about something.” His eyes darted like a lizard’s toward the guard and back.

  “What…” I began, but Lewis’s fingers dug into the small of my back. I was so startled, I shut up.

  Ricky was still talking. “…told me to come up to her place about two. I said I’d have to get a bus. She said okay. That was all.” Ricky became very interested in picking at a scab on the back of his hand.

  Lewis prodded him. “What happened then?”

  Ricky’s muscular shoulders rose in a shrug. “Nothin’. I went to the house and knocked. Nobody answered. The front door was open, just a little, so I went in. Then,” he swallowed hard, his shell cracking just a little, “I saw her. She was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling with…I saw…a hole in her head.” He swiped his forearm across his mouth and stopped, as if reliving the moment. His eyes swung wildly from side to side as they must have at the time. “Then I heard somebody outside, coming up the walk. Man, I just split, out the back. I don’t know how the fuzz found out, but they come later, looking for me. They think I killed her. I didn’t. I swear it!”

  “They found your gun,” I reminded him.

  He glared at me. “I ain’t seen it for a couple of months. Harriet took it.”

  “Harriet could back you up, man,” Lewis pointed out. “If you know where she is—”

  “I told you, I ain’t seen her in weeks.”

  While they were talking, I finally realized what the “something” Ricky went to talk about might be: drugs. I also had a dreadful thought about what might have happened to Harriet. “Ricky, did Harriet ever sell or buy drugs?”

  “Nanh. Harriet hates drugs. She don’t even like cigarettes. And if you so much as mention drugs—ooee!”

  “Harriet hates drugs,” Lewis agreed emphatically. “Now, Rick, I’m making you an offer. You’re in serious trouble here, man, and it’s not the first time. I can’t represent you in court, but when you get out, if you decide you want to go straight and get some help, give me a call. I’m in the book. You know my last name?”

  Ricky’s lip curled derisively. “Lew-is Hen-ly,” he said in a singsong. “Harriet says it five times an hour. She may be sweet on you, man, but I ain’t no nigger lover. I may need help, but I don’t need yours.”

  He stomped past the guard back into his temporary home.

  On the way back to the club, I was so embarrassed I didn’t know what to say. Lewis, too, seemed to be glad to ride in silence. I dropped him off and drove to the hospital beneath huge gray thunderheads that exactly matched my mood. Occasional green lightning cracked the sky as I would have liked to crack Ricky Dodd’s head.

  Tuesday evening, I stayed with Jake while Glenna went to a women’s circle meeting. As I was fixing to leave, a tremendous jag of lightning split the sky. Less than a minute later, a sheet of rain lashed the window. “Will you be all right?” Jake asked, his eyes anxious.

  “I don’t melt,” I assu
red him, “and I got a parking space near the door.”

  “Parking space?” He raised one eyebrow. “I thought Glenna dropped you off.”

  “Gotta run,” I told him, giving him a swift kiss.

  I was halfway through the door when he roared, “Clara, if you’re driving my car—”

  “Don’t have another attack, Jake. I can’t spend all summer over here.”

  Long before I reached the car, I was soaked to the skin. The rain was unexpectedly cold, and my teeth chattered as I unlocked the Buick and dropped soggily into the seat. My hair wilted down one side of my face. “You look a mess,” I informed my reflection.

  I drove home slowly, steaming in the hot car but too wet to want the air conditioner on. The rain bucketed down. I had to concentrate so hard on driving that at first I didn’t notice the lights behind me. Then, although they followed me as far as Fairview Avenue, I wasn’t worried. I figured somebody else from South Hull District or Old Cloverdale had been at the hospital until visiting hours were over, too. The lights were awfully bright, though, and in a flicker of lightning I saw the hood of a pickup.

  “Get off my bumper, buster.” I muttered as I turned left onto Glenna’s street. When the truck followed, I slowed a little and pulled over, hoping it would pass. Instead, it pulled in behind me coming so fast I put on the gas and spurted ahead, afraid I’d get hit. The truck hugged my bumper, its lights bright in my mirrors.

  I put on as much speed as I dared, but it stuck like a burr. I passed Glenna’s house and kept going, turning at the next block. It did, too. At the corner was a stop sign I dared not ignore. The other driver pulled into the left lane beside me, swerved to slam my left fender, reversed, and roared away. I got one quick glimpse of a red door and hair that gleamed almost white in the night.

  I was trembling so hard I knew I shouldn’t drive quite yet. I was wondering whether I should switch off the engine for a minute, when I heard a roar, raised startled eyes to my rearview mirror, and saw the same brilliant lights bearing down on me again. The truck banged my back bumper with a jarring impact that skidded me into the intersection and buried my nose in Jake’s airbag as the engine died.

  Would I suffocate first, or be hit by another car? To my relief, the airbag suddenly went limp. I could see that I was still the only vehicle on the wet, shiny road.

  Thank God! Also thank God, the engine started at once. Driving with the airbag was awkward. My left headlight was out. When the car moved, it made a strange grinding noise. I, however, was past being particular. I headed home.

  Glenna must have brought some women home from her circle. A Honda like Josheba’s sat in front of the house, behind a gray car I did not recognize. I thought about not going in as awful as I looked, but that attack had been deliberate. What if whoever it was knew who I was—and where I was staying? What if he came looking for me again?

  I squished toward the house, tears of rage mingling with rain. As I sloshed into the living room, three pairs of startled eyes met mine.

  “What on earth, Mac?” Josheba gasped.

  Glenna headed for the kitchen. “Get out of those wet clothes. I’ll get hot coffee.”

  It was the third person I was happiest to see. “Oh, Carter, I’m so glad you’re here. I think somebody just tried to kill me!”

  Twenty-Two

  Speak up for those who cannot speak

  for themselves, for the rights of all

  who are destitute. Proverbs 31:8

  Carter was immediately official. “Could you identify the perpetrator, Miss MacLaren?”

  I shook my head. “A red pickup, blonde driver.” I described what had happened.

  “Man or woman?”

  For the life of me, I didn’t know. “I just saw hair. That looked light and long.”

  “Did you get a license number?”

  “Heavens no! It all happened too fast.”

  He looked at me gloomily. “Had you heard that Ricky Dodd was released tonight? Somebody came down and paid his bail.”

  I was both astonished and suddenly chilled. “You reckon Ricky tried to kill me?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d watch my step for a few days. He found out you’re the one put the finger on him for being up at Myrna Lawson’s murder site, and he’s not a happy camper.”

  Josheba had another question. “Who does Ricky know with enough money for bail? He doesn’t look like he has a penny, and I wouldn’t credit him with a friend in the world.”

  Carter shook his head. “Somebody who wished to remain anonymous. It was arranged through a bondsman who doesn’t reveal his sources. Whoever it was, though, must think they can keep Ricky under surveillance until his case comes up. They put up a hefty amount.”

  “Either wanted to keep him under surveillance or had a use for him,” Josheba pointed out. “Mac, you be extra careful. You hear me?”

  “It’s too late to worry about that. Jake’s going to kill me anyway. His car is wrecked.”

  Glenna came back with coffee in time to hear my last words. “Don’t fuss, honey. He doesn’t need to know a thing about it. Well take the Buick to a body shop first thing in the morning and leave it until it’s as good as new. Now drink this. It’s got lots of sugar in it for shock. Then go change your clothes.”

  Suddenly I realized how wet and chilled I was. “How about if I take it with me while I change?” As I stood up, I thought to ask Josheba, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to bring some leftover lasagna. I thought you all could nibble on it between hospital visits.”

  “That was real sweet of you.” My teeth chattered so hard I couldn’t say another thing.

  I stripped down to my birthday suit, rubbed myself with a towel, and put on my pajamas and robe. This was twice in one day I’d be entertaining a man in my pajamas, but I was too worn out to care. Besides, I had something important to ask Carter as soon as I got back to the living room. “Did you have any luck with what I asked you to check on?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s one reason I came by tonight—besides wanting to check on Jake, of course. I found the one you meant.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and consulted it. From the look of it, it was a copy of a police report. “She was positively identified as Inez Foster, seventeen, by her mother and stepfather, Ada and Paul Baker. She had been missing three years.”

  I explained to the others, “This morning, William informed me that identifying a dead body isn’t like looking at a photograph. That made me think about something a teenager said last night, about a missing girl whose mother recognized her picture in the paper. I just wondered if it could have been Harriet, instead.”

  “No, ma’am,” Carter shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “When was she found?” I pestered him.

  He put his finger on something on the sheet. “At five P.M. on Monday, June tenth.”

  “This past June?” I felt a big hand clutch my stomach and give it a squeeze. From Josheba’s expression, she felt the same. What happened to me less than an hour ago went plumb out of my head.

  “Do you have her description?” Josheba asked, her voice unsteady.

  Carter nodded, and used one finger to mark the place. “Adolescent female. Five-one. Brown hair. One hundred and fifteen pounds. Wearing black jeans, black sandals, and black T-shirt. No sign of sexual violation. Found under bush by woman walking her dog.”

  Josheba’s gaze flew to mine. “That could have been Harriet. She always wore black.”

  “When do they think she got killed?” I asked, nearly breaking my neck trying to read that sheet for myself.

  Maddeningly, Carter pulled it closer to his nose, scanning for the answer. I couldn’t see a thing. “She didn’t get killed, Miss MacLaren,” he said, in that insufferable tone polite young men use when correcting older women. “There were no signs of foul play, but there were signs of vomiting and diarrhea on her clothes, like she’d had flu or eaten something that didn’t agree with her. No poison,
though.”

  “Well, when do they think she died, then?”

  He shrugged and read verbatim. “Indications for time of death uncertain. Estimated lying there since Friday. Mowers covered the area Thursday, June sixth, and saw nothing.”

  Nobody said a word for a few minutes. Whoever the child was, she deserved better than to wind up under a bush. I felt like an empty bucket somebody had just filled with sorrow. “Carter, if that child was Harriet Lawson instead of that Inez whatever, how could we prove or disprove it?”

  “Her mother came down to the morgue and identified her, ma’am. You can’t get clearer than that.”

  That was a whammy. A mother ought to know. Still, Raye’s granddaughter said she’d been gone for several years. And if she’d been under the bush for several days—

  “Where did you get the picture you put in the paper?” I asked.

  He paused. “Well?” I pressed him.

  “She’d laid there too long to take a picture, so they had an artist make a drawing. It was a picture of the drawing we put in the paper.” He wriggled uncomfortably. I knew what he was thinking. It was one thing to discuss bodies down at the station, quite another to describe grisly details with three ladies. I’d been around police officers too long to be squeamish, however.

  “And her mother just identified her from the picture?”

  “No, ma’am. She came down and identified the actual remains.”

  “But how much could she see, really? Was there enough to make a true identification? And did you do dental records, things like that?”

  “She hadn’t had any dental work, but her mother was sure.” His face wore what my mother called a balky look.