“What about if he’s the murderer?” I asked.
She gasped and clapped her hands together. “Then my work will be done.”
I shook my head. “Fearless,” I said. She smiled.
She had made me get up at the crack of dawn. I was used to getting up early, but the rooster hadn’t even crowed when we backed out of the driveway.
She was holding onto the lawyer’s business card the whole drive down.
We found Jackson Wyncote, Esq. at his law office, which resembled more of a house. I, of all people, knew about converting residences into businesses. We opened the door and walked in.
“May I help you?” he said. He was sitting at a messy desk. A radio tuned in to a 1960s rock-n-roll station was playing in the background.
We explained to the middle-aged, gray-around-the-edges, bulging-bellied attorney that we were from the Ball Funeral Home & Crematorium. Auntie passed him a card. Then we told him most of what we knew about the passing of Ragland Williamson and the manner of his death.
“And he turned up at your funeral home?” was what he asked when we finished our truncated version of the story.
“Yes. He did.” Auntie Zanne put on her I’m-All-Business persona. She straightened up her back and squared her shoulders, then she pushed her thumb my way. “She’s the medical examiner that performed the autopsy.”
“Oh,” he said and nodded. “I can’t believe it. I heard that he was doing better. Got a new job and everything.”
“He was down there on a job, wasn’t he?” Auntie Zanne asked.
“I don’t know. If he was it wasn’t for me. He hadn’t been my investigator for maybe six months or more. I’d heard he was working for another lawyer. I didn’t know for sure, though, because after the last job he did for me, for the most part, he fell apart. Too upset to work so he quit.”
“What kind of case was it?” Auntie Zanne asked. “I only ask because we believe that perhaps someone here might have followed him there and killed him. Maybe someone from a case he worked on for you.”
“Really?” he said. He looked down and started picking with his nails. “I hope that isn’t true.
“That’s a working theory,” I said.
“Do you know why he was using an alias?” Auntie Zanne asked.
“An alias?” He scrunched up his nose. “I don’t know why he would do that. I’ve never known him to do that,” he muttered. He coughed into his hand. “No, I don’t know. How do you know? I thought you were just the funeral home where he was found.”
“We’re working with the Sabine County Sheriff,” I said. That wasn’t too far off for me. I had told Pogue I’d help him.
“I can’t really talk about cases, you know,” the attorney said.
“Client-attorney privilege?” I asked.
“He was carrying your card in his briefcase,” Auntie Zanne said. “At first we thought it was because he worked for you, but then we wondered why he’d only have one card. Maybe it was something about you?”
“I don’t know why he had the card,” he said. “But I’m sure it wasn’t anything about me. Maybe just one he had left over.”
“And maybe not,” she said. “Anything you can tell us will help.”
I didn’t remember “us” ever concluding on a reason there was only one card, or even discussing it. But it did make sense.
“You know,” he said, “he worked so many cases for me. He also had worked his own PI business, too. If it is someone from a previous case, it could be any of those.”
“Well, what about the case that made him quit?” I said. “Is that information you can’t share either?”
“Maybe not,” he said. “That case is over, and all public record. Although, he couldn’t go with that.”
“This is a murder investigation now,” Auntie Zanne said. “It’s important to give any information you might have.”
“I know,” he said. “So, are you a part of the investigation?”
“The sheriff was called away. We’re following leads.”
Auntie Zanne’s questions were so different than when she questioned Grandview’s maid and the coach. She might actually get some information out of him.
He shook his head. “He was such a nice guy. Good investigator, too.”
“How long had he worked for you?” I asked.
“Oh, about six or seven years.”
“And had you heard from him recently?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “No. I hadn’t.” He studied us for a moment. “I had a case. A murder case. And I had him look for any information to help me defend my client, who swore he had been wrongly accused. And he felt he found he’d found something that would exonerate him.”
“This is the last case he had with you?” I asked.
“Yes. He said he knew for sure that another man did it. But that man disappeared before Ray–we called him Ray–could get enough information even for me to try and build reasonable doubt.”
“So the killer got away?”
Attorney Wyncote shrugged. “Not according to the law. My client was convicted. So in the eyes of the law he was guilty. The one who committed the murder.”
“And that upset Ray?”
“Yeah, it did. Enough that he quit.”
“What was the man’s name that he thought committed the murder?”
He looked from me to Auntie Zanne and back to me. He seemed to contemplate what if anything he should share.
“When did he die?” he asked, evidently deciding against giving us any more information on that case.
“Dr. Wilder needs to pinpoint the exact time of death,” Auntie Zane said and looked him directly in his eyes. “That’s part of why we came to Houston. To find answers.”
“We don’t know how long he’d been in the funeral home,” I added.
“How could you have extra dead bodies?” he said squinting his eyes.
“No. We don’t have extra dead bodies.” Auntie frowned, a sudden bubbling of discontent escaping from her. I knew she was holding back giving him a verbal lashing. She didn’t like innuendos made about her business. “We have an obligation to each body we receive, and to the deceased’s family. We take that obligation very seriously. Each and every deceased is in the best of care when they are with us, and have been for more than fifty years.”
“The body was brought there when we were on vacation,” I said. “But it was discovered the first day we arrived back.”
“But, even with him being uninvited, as it were,” Auntie Zanne said, “we took care of everything. Although we didn’t know who he was at the time.”
Then he raised his head and hiked up an eyebrow. His whole demeanor changed. “Are you here for compensation?”
“No.” Auntie Zanne said, clearly irritated.
“Is that why you embalmed him already? For money?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Because his wife may have wanted something different.”
“We felt we couldn’t wait. The medical examiner,” Auntie pointed to me, “released the body to us. Plus, Mr. Wyncote, our services are the best in East Texas.”
“I’m sure they are,” he said. He let out a sigh. “Has his wife been notified?”
“No.” I swallowed and discreetly crossed my fingers. I hoped that Auntie’s little hissy fit hadn’t made him tight-lipped. “He didn’t have any identification on him, and we only learned his name by running his fingerprints. As we said, we found your business card, so, so far you are the only contact person we have.” I looked at him. “We’d hope you would be willing to give us that information, so we’d have a place to send his body.”
I was learning well from my Auntie Zanne.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I wanted to call Pogue and let him know what we were doing, but I would have had to lock Auntie in the trunk of the car. Sh
e would have been all over me like white on rice if she thought I was sharing what we’d learned so far with him. The only way I’d be able to speak with him was if she wasn’t around.
Jackson Wyncote, Esq. had graciously given us the name and address of Ragland Williamson’s widow. Her name was Kara, and I, in my role of stand-in medical examiner, was going to deliver the news.
I pitched the idea to Auntie that she could be my deputy. She threw that idea right out the window.
“Why would I want to be that?” she screeched. “I embalmed the body. I am the Funeral Director. Must I remind you that that’s a very important role?”
She had me there.
“You’ll have to use more tact and not get upset, though,” I told Auntie as we pulled up to the house. “We were lucky to find her and get her information from that lawyer when we aren’t even the police.” I dipped my head and looked out the corner of my eye. “You know you have to use a little more tact along with your sympathy than you did with the lawyer if we’re going to get any answers from her. She’ll already be upset hearing our news.”
“I don’t need tact when I’m in Roble. All I need is this winning smile,” she pointed to her mouth, “and my wit. People give me what I want.”
“Well, this ain’t Roble,” I said. “And we can’t solve this thing if you let people upset you and then get all snooty with them.”
“What?” she huffed. “I didn’t get snooty with that man.”
“As soon as you thought he was saying something bad about your funeral business you got indignant with him,” I said.
“I think I held my tongue quite well.”
“Do you want to solve this thing?” I asked her.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Then you can’t try to get by on your smile and wit. And you’re going to have to put a leash on that tongue.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
“You don’t have to wait to see. I’m telling you,” I said.
“You just let me do the talking,” she said. “After you give her the bad news. Just hand the baton over to me.”
“I’m afraid your way might not get us anything.” We were sitting in front of the little bungalow that Ragland Williamson had called home. “Don’t say anything about how we paid the expense of burying him.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I didn’t say it before, if you noticed. That man just assumed I did, and that was because he’s a lawyer.”
“What does being a lawyer have to do with anything?”
“You know they are all shysters. He probably thinks everyone is like him.”
“That’s not nice, Auntie.” I opened the car door, and muttered, “But in your case that might be true.”
“I heard that,” she said.
We knocked on Ragland Williamson’s door and it came open so quickly, you would have thought someone inside was expecting us.
That someone was his wife. Kara Williamson was petite with dark hair, and in typical Texan style, it was big. Her nails were painted red and she looked as if she was ready to step out of the door.
“Hello,” Auntie said to the woman.
“May I help y’all?” she said.
“We’re looking for the wife of Ragland Williamson.”
She smiled politely. “That would be me,” she said. “Kara Williamson. But he isn’t here right now.”
“Yes, we know,” she said and put a solemn look on her face. “That’s what we wanted to speak with you about. Could we come in?”
“Uh. Who are you?” she asked. She didn’t seem suspicious, just cautious.
“I’m Dr. Romaine Wilder.” I figured this was my cue to step in. “And this is my aunt, Suzanne Derbinay.”
“Everyone calls me Babet,” Auntie Zanne said, a faint friendly smile on her face. “We’re from the Ball Funeral Home & Crematorium. In Roble.”
Kara raised her eyebrows and straightened her shoulders like she was waiting for the catch.
“Is this about one of his cases?”
I hated to tell her while she was standing at the front door that her husband was dead. But with all her questions, I didn’t think we make it inside if I didn’t deliver the news.
“I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs. Williamson,” I said in my most sincere and reserved voice, “that your husband, Ragland Williams, has died.”
“Ray?” she said breathlessly. She leaned up against the frame of the door. “How could he be dead? He only went out on a job.”
“He was murdered,” Auntie said.
I guessed that was her using tact.
“Would it be okay if we came in?” I asked again.
“Oh,” she said. I could tell she was trying to swallow back her tears. “Where are my manners?” She opened the door wider, a hospitable smile on her lips. Her eyes had lost their spark. “Please. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I said and gave her one of Auntie Zanne’s polite funeral home smiles.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Would ya’ll like something to drink?” Her voice was shaky. “I’ve got water, juice, soda.” She seemed to be rambling. “I was just having a cup of tea.” She pointed to a ceramic mug setting on the coffee table.
I guess she wasn’t on her way out.
“No. We’re fine,” Auntie Zanne said. She went and stood by an armchair that sat across from the couch, but didn’t sit down.
“Now,” Kara said, wringing her trembling hands, “who are you again?”
“I’m a medical doctor,” I said.
“She’s the medical examiner.” Auntie Zanne added to my description although I’d said that when we talked at the door. “She performed the autopsy on your husband.” She put her hand over her chest. “And the city entrusted my funeral home with the care of your husband’s body,” Auntie said.
Kara’s entire body seemed to be trembling, and I could see she was taking quick breaths like she was starting to hyperventilate, but I hadn’t seen any tears. I knew that to many Southern women decorum was important. I thought perhaps she didn’t want to break down in front of us. “Now, you say he’s been buried?” She ran a shaky hand across her forehead. “How could that be?”
“No,” I said and reached out and touched her arm. “He hasn’t been buried.”
Then I saw the tears. Her eyes were misty and she was squinting, it seemed to keep them from falling.
“We wanted to stop by, extend our condolences, and find out what you wanted to do with the remains,” Auntie Zannne said.
“What I want to do?” Kara voice was so low it was almost inaudible.
“Yes,” Auntie Zanne said. “Would you like for us to ship the body here for burial?”
“Oh. Right.” She ran her hand over her face. “I do have to do that, don’t I?” She nodded. “That would be good if you did that,” she said. “I’ll have to find...To get a...”
“It’s alright,” Auntie Zanne said. “We can help you with finding a plot.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This all seems so surreal.”
“We understand,” Auntie Zanne said.
“Now how did you say he died?”
“It appears to be a homicide,” I said. Auntie’s “murder” answer seemed too harsh.
Kara looked toward the door. “Is someone coming here to tell me that? I mean, to explain to me what happened?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Auntie Zanne said. “To help with arrangements and explain as best we can. And,” Auntie looked at her, “to see if you know anything about what happened.”
She looked at me. “I-I don’t know anything.” She looked at Auntie. “How could I know? And we hadn’t really prepared for anything like this.” She lowered her head. “I don’t know what to do about arrangements. I guess we just didn’t think anything like this...” She looked up at us. “Anything li
ke this would happen so soon.”
“We certainly understand,” Auntie said. “One can never adequately prepare for times like this. Especially when the passing is so unexpected.”
Then the woman’s tears came tumbling out. I looked around the room for a box of tissues, but Auntie beat me to it. She had a travel pack in her purse. I always had a box handy in my office, and she knew too to have them close by. It was the first time since we arrived that Kara had really shown any emotion.
“I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t even believe this is happening. That he’s dead, let alone talking funeral arrangements.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s hard to take in all at once.” I put my arm around her.
“Where did it happen?” she said.
“Yellowpine,” I said.
“In Yellowpine,” she said, her words barely audible, and nodded. “I knew nothing good would come from him going there.” She sniffed. “I didn’t want him to go.”
“It was just for business, wasn’t it?” I asked. I knew I should’ve have just let her cry, without starting in with questions, but we needed to know. “He was an investigator for a lawyer, right?”
I didn’t know that for sure. Jackson Wyncote had no idea why Ragland Williamson had gone to Roble, but I needed to get her talking.
“Yes,” she said. “He was there on business.”
“Do you know what kind?” Auntie asked.
We already had the answer to that question. I didn’t want to wear out our welcome before we found out anything new.
“No. It was company business. You know, for the lawyer he worked for. But I knew he couldn’t be that close to her and not try to contact her. I think he thought I didn’t know where she was.”
“Who?”
“His daughter.” She flapped a hand. Her grief seemed to be taking a turn toward anger. “And her mother.” She let out a hiccup with her last word. “To think they saw him last. Maybe even talked to him last. I am his wife.” She covered her face with her hands.
“Did they live in Yellowpine?” Auntie Zanne asked.
“No!” The tears were spilling out now. She wiped her eyes, but the flood was more than one tissue could handle. I wiggled my fingers at Auntie for another one. “They lived in Roble,” she said through her sobs.
Secrets, Lies, and Crawfish Pies Page 19
