“I was thinking of switching things up a bit,” Auntie Zanne said as we walked into one of the covered shelters. “Maybe putting the bands and the dance floor closer to the entrance.” She walked over and whirled around, her arms outstretched. “Here, I think. That’ll make coming through the gates more fun. People will be out of the sun. The music will draw them in. Excitement and relaxation from the first step past the turnstiles.” She turned to me. “What do you think?”
“It’s your production,” I said. “Do it up anyway you want.”
“I feel so much better about getting this done now that I’ve identified our uninvited guest. I don’t have to worry about that anymore,” she said smiling. “Solving mysteries aren’t as hard as Pogue made it out to be, you know? Look how I easily I did it.”
“Auntie,” I said, I paused between words and blew out a breath. I may as well let her know what I’d found out. She was getting too cocky for her own good. “The dead man Josephine Gail found at the funeral home was named Ragland Williamson.”
“How do you know that?” she said, stopping and looking at me.
“I know because I took his fingerprints when I did the autopsy and Pogue ran them.”
“Did he now?” she said and bit her bottom lip. I could tell she was thinking. “So, what? I didn’t figure anything out?”
“Just thought you should know,” I said. “That’s all.”
Her whole demeanor changed. “My, wasn’t that smart of you, Sugarplum. Running his fingerprints.” She sidled up next to me. “What else did you find out?”
“Not smart, Auntie. Taking fingerprints is just routine when you have a John Doe,” I said. “Pogue found out that he was from Houston.” I looked at her. “I’m telling you this because I wanted you to know that he isn’t–wasn’t–the guy that is registered at your friend’s motor lodge. They’re not the same person.”
“Raye Anne.”
“Raye Anne?” I shook my head to process. “Oh yeah. Yes. The guy registered at Raye Anne’s place is named Herman St. John.”
“So?” She turned and walked away from me.
“So that wasn’t your squatter’s name. They’re not the same guy,” I said. She squinted her eyes and ran her hand over her forehead. “I know you know what I’m saying, Auntie. Your universe settling in and righting wrongs,” I made wavy motions with my hands, “by matching up the guy over at the Grandview with your squatter isn’t what happened. And you finding that room with the smell of formaldehyde must have some other meaning.”
“Is there anything else?” She turned and looked at me.
“Nothing I can share with you,” I said in a sing-songy voice. “Now maybe you can just stick with festival business.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
After I gave her my news, Auntie Zanne didn’t have much to say. At least for a little while. She walked in circles under the covered shelter. A slow prance, taking measured steps, swinging her big tapestry purse back and forth, her head down. She looked over at me then slowly sauntered back my way. “I have something to share with you,” she said. “But you have to promise not to tell Pogue. At least not yet.”
“You’re making me nervous,” I said.
She took my arm and walked me out of the covered area and over to a park bench. We sat down and she took my hand, clutching it between the two of hers.
“Remember when we were at the motel?” she said.
“That day will probably be seared into my brain forever.”
“Really?” she said and cocked her head. “Why?”
I shook my head slowly from side to side. “The sad attempt at you playing amateur sleuth. How could I forget?”
“Do you think it was a ‘sad’ attempt?” she asked. “I actually thought I did a good job at finding clues.”
“By forcing Consuela’s description of Mr. St. John’s visitor to match Aunt Julep?”
“Oh,” she said and waved her hand. “That was just my way of finding out if she was being truthful or not.”
I rolled my eyes.
“So do you promise not to tell Pogue?”
“No.”
“Romaine,” she said. She scooted closer to me and batted her little eyes.
“Don’t ‘Romaine’ me,” I said. “Whatever it is you’re getting ready to tell me, Auntie, you should think twice because I can’t promise that I won’t tell Pogue. It might be something that will help his case.”
“Didn’t you just tell me that Pogue’s John Doe is not my motel man?”
“Yeesss.” I drew the word out, speaking slowly.
She clasped my hand a little tighter and pulled it toward her. “So, what could be the harm in you not telling Pogue what I’m going to tell you?”
“Somehow, someway, I just know you’ve done something or are going to tell me something that will have some bearing on Pogue’s case.”
“Some. Some. Some,” she said imitating me. She tugged on my hand. “And some bearing? Is that detective talk?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” she said and slapped my hand. “Whose side are you on anyways?” She pushed my hand away. “I declare.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she didn’t give me a chance. “Just say promise.”
I didn’t move or speak. I stared off past Auntie and started tapping my foot. If it were something I needed to tell Pogue, I’d never find out what it was if I didn’t promise her I wouldn’t tell. I glanced at her and narrowed my eyes.
What did she know?
“Fine,” I said. “I promise.”
Anything to learn what she knew.
“See,” she said. “Was that so hard?”
“Are you going to tell me or what?”
“Yes, I’m going to tell you. Why else would I make you promise?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” she said. “You remember when we smelled formaldehyde in the motel room?”
“I remember you said you smelled it in there.”
She glanced upward. “Okay, when I smelled it,” she said.
“Yes. I remember.”
“And you remember that you asked me why the smell was in there?”
“Mmmhmm,” I said.
“Well, I think that the killer came there to remove any incriminating information. That’s why that smell was in there.”
“Removing information caused the room to smell like formaldehyde?”
“It was on him,” she said and looked at me. “Or her.”
“The smell of formaldehyde was on the killer?”
“Yes, when they came back to remove the information.”
“What kind of information, Auntie?” I asked.
“About who he or she was, and why he or she needed to kill my squatter.”
“Your squatter was not the guy at the motel,” I said. “And can we just go with it being a ‘he?’” I asked. “Just to make things easier?” She closed her eyes then opened them. “Auntie Zanne, have you seen Aunt Julep?”
This was a good a time as any to help Auntie dispel any of her nonsense that Aunt Julep had committed a murder.
“Of course I have,” she said.
“Well then you should know that she isn’t doing well.”
“I know,” she said and made her eyes big. “I’m not blind.”
“Then how could you think that she did anything like murder someone?”
“Maybe she had Mr. Pollack do it with that shotgun, and she took care of the rest.”
“You knew that shotgun belonged to Mr. Pollack?” I asked. “So why did you want me to take a picture of it?”
“You’re not very good at investigating, are you?” she said. “You have to be on the lookout for anything that might have to do with the murder no matter how small or inconsequential it seems at the time.”
There was no arguing with her. And the more I talked to her the more I felt like her accusing Julep Folsom was just a distraction. So I changed the subject.
“How did you arrive at this theory of yours?” I went back to what she’d been trying to tell me. “The idea that the killer came to the hotel room to scrub it of anything that might give him away.”
“Because of this,” she said and pulled a black portfolio out of her purse.
“What is this?” I asked and took the notepad from her.
“I found it in his briefcase.”
“What briefcase?”
“The one that was on the bed in the motel room.”
“The one you knocked over?”
“Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap.
“Does this have something important in it?”
She put a big fish-eating grin on her face and batted her eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, there goes your theory then,” I said, hoping to douse that feeling of self-satisfaction she was coveting. “If you think your killer came into the room, reeking of formaldehyde no less, to get incriminating information, then he wouldn’t have left this.”
“He didn’t see it.” The grin was still there.
“It was on the bed.”
“You’d make a bad detective,” she said. “I found that briefcase under the bed.”
“I saw it on the bed,” I said.
“Did you see it when you first came in?”
“I...” I stopped and thought about it. I tilted my head and let my eyes drift off. “Maybe.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “Really, Romaine. I put it there when you walked out of the room because you were too chicken to watch me canvassing the room. I found it and slung it onto the bed while your back was turned.”
“You know, I’m not going to waste bail money on you, Auntie,” I said. “Because when all your little deeds come to light, I’m sure you’re going to be locked away for a very long time.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Auntie shot me a wicked smile. “I don’t think I did anything wrong,” she said.
“Except for stealing. Mr. St. John will be back to look for his things.”
“Oh, poppycock,” she said.
I looked at what was in her hand. “And why make such a production number out of it? Hiding your actions from me, and now showing me.”
“Well, I didn’t want you to think I was tossing the guy’s room. Being a snoop.”
“Auntie,” I said, holding back a chuckle. She watched too many black and white movies. “Tossing his room? That’s funny and that’s exactly what you were doing.”
“I mean at first...” she said, her voice trailing off. She turned to look at me out the corner of her eye. “I know. I know. I went in there to look. Even called you to come over so you could look with me. And, mind you, I did that because I was nervous about the whole thing.”
“Right,” I said.
“But after I actually found something-”
“The briefcase?”
“Yes,” she said. “And the woodchips. I think that’s a clue, too, you know. I found the nerve to do it. You know, to keep it up.”
“To snoop.” I said.
“Call it whatever you want, but it wasn’t a thing I took lightly.”
“You know I’m not believing any of this, right?” I said.
“Well, it’s true,” she said. “But you must admit, it turned out to be a good thing that I looked.”
She took the portfolio back from me and opened it up.
“What is that stuff?” I asked as she pulled out a pile of papers.
“Evidence.” She handed me a map from the pile. “But not any evidence that helps our cause. Except maybe this.” She pulled the woodchips out of her purse. At some point after she took it, she’d apparently “bagged” it, I guessed to preserve it. It looked like one of the bags from her preparation room.
I tilted my head and looked at her bag of clues. I remembered that my John Doe had woodchips all over his shirt along with pine sap.
“Let me see that,” I said and gestured for her to hand me the bag.
“What do you see?” she said and leaned in.
I blew out a breath. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to share more of what I knew.
“I found woodchips on the decedent’s shirt when I did the autopsy.”
“Oh.” She took in a breath. “My.” She let it out.
I watched her process what I’d just told her.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “Because we are surrounded by woods.” I looked around.
“It might just be something to get excited about,” she said. She stared down at it for a moment, then taking it from me, put it back in her purse. “We’ll just store it away for now. Maybe at some point it might help our cause.”
“What exactly is our cause?” I said.
“Tsk,” she sucked her tongue. “Proving Josephine Gail’s innocence.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“This, though. Right here. Is a big roadblock to us achieving our goal,” she said and pointed to an area on the map that was circled in red.
“What is it?”
“That’s Josephine Gail’s land.”
I poked my finger into the paper. “Right there? All of that?” I ran my finger around the circle. “Why is she living with you?”
“She lives with us because I need her, and she needs me.”
“Why would the guy in the hotel room have a map of Josephine Gail’s land?”
“Because he was here to investigate her land.”
My eyes got big. “How do you know that?”
“I have my ways.”
“What? The East Texas Rumor Mill? It’s not always reliable, you know.”
“My information is reliable.” She reached inside the folder’s pocket and pulled out a business card. “This came from a surveyor.”
“A surveyor?” I looked at her. “Surveyors map land and do boundary disputes.” I shrugged. “This land is already mapped out.” I pointed to the map she had. “So Herman St. John is looking at some kind of boundary issues?”
“Didn’t I just say that?” she said. “And correction, he was here determining boundaries.”
“Because where is he now? Did he leave?”
“In a way,” she said. I could tell she was hiding something.
I flipped over the card. “Whose number is this?” I said. There was a phone number handwritten on the back in black ink.
“I don’t know. But it looks familiar,” Auntie Zanne said. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why I know that number.”
“Why don’t you just call it?” I asked.
“Because if I know that number they may know my voice.”
“If you recognize their voice, just hang up.”
“It’ll come to me,” she said. “I don’t make prank phone calls. Don’t you have any sense of decency?”
“Oh my,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Do I have a sense of decency? I don’t think it’s me we have to worry about.”
“Watch it,” she said.
“Maybe it’s the surveyor’s cell phone,” I said. “Do you know this guy?” I flipped the card back over to the front. “Oh, maybe not because he’s got a cell listed here.”
“Right,” she said. “Like I said, it’ll come to me. And I found this, too.” She pulled out another card.
“Jackson Wyncote, Esq.” I said. “Who is he?”
“I think that he’s the lawyer that Herman St. John worked for.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because,” she said and licked her lips. “Josephine Gail told me he might be.” She started talking fast, spilling out her words in one breath. “She also t
old me that the dead squatter at the funeral home was the same guy who talked to her about her land and told her that there was a dispute.”
“Oh my goodness!” I said and jumped up from my seat. “You have to tell Pogue.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, she yanked me back down to my seat. “And you promised that you wouldn’t.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“Yes, you did,” she said a little grin curling up at the corners of her lips. “And you can’t go back on a promise.”
“You tricked me,” I said.
“Oh, Sugarplum, you’re a grown woman. An educated woman. Surely you just don’t fall for cons by little old women.”
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“But wait,” I said. “The body in the funeral home was Ragland Williamson. We got a positive ID from his fingerprints. How are they the same person?”
“He used an alias,” Auntie said.
“An alias? Is that what you think?”
“How else are you going to explain it then?” she said. “I can’t think of any other way.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“What other reason could there be for the dead body’s fingerprints to come back to someone with a different name?”
I shook my head trying to separate all the thoughts that were swirling around in my head. I didn’t even know what to say.
“Auntie...” I finally got my words together. “That means that Josephine Gail knew when she saw the dead guy at the funeral home who he was.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Why didn’t she tell Pogue then?”
“She was in shock.”
“Shock?” I said.
Then the words “acute stress reaction” rushed into my brain. I remembered Josephine Gail that first day I arrived. Standing out in the rain, soaking wet. She’d shown signs of lethargy. Her eyes had been glazed and she’d been unable to concentrate, even talk.
Acute stress reaction. A psychological shock that occurred in response to a traumatic event. Was her seeing the guy who was trying to take her land dead enough of a trauma to throw her into a mental stress episode?
Secrets, Lies, and Crawfish Pies Page 15
