Each Shining Hour

by Jeff High

  “Thanks for stopping by, John. Glad to hear about the bandstand.”

  “I’m thinking I might start making a habit of dropping in. Watching you two is better than cable.”

  “Yeah, laugh it up. From now on there’ll be a cover charge.”

  Within seconds, he was in his Mercedes and gone.

  I walked to my ancient Corolla to drive over to the clinic for a private meeting with Lida Wilkins. When she had stopped me on the way out from breakfast earlier that morning, she had wanted to know if I could discreetly see her around noon. As I fumbled through my pockets for the keys, I had no idea that this next hour would add another layer of intrigue to the infamous murder mystery.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lida Wilkins

  The bright midday sunlight was deceptive, offering an illusory promise of warmth against the cold air. As I started the Corolla, I reached into the inner pocket of my coat for my sunglasses. They were Dolce & Gabbana, one of my few claims to pretentiousness from my Buckhead days. I arrived at the clinic and drove around back to park. Lida was already waiting in her car.

  In her late fifties, Lida Wilkins was trim and energetic with an infectious smile and a quick wit. I doubt she had ever been described as beautiful, but with her shining blue eyes that squinted whenever she laughed, her strawberry red hair, and her freckled face and arms, she had a tomboy prettiness about her. Underneath was a savvy business mind and a self-made woman who had started with nothing but now owned the Depot Diner and the Society Hill Bed and Breakfast. And while she was an astute entrepreneur, she was known for her tender devotion to family, church, and community. She was an uncanny combination of the saintly and the practical.

  She approached me as I exited my car.

  “Well, hey, Dr. Bradford. You’re looking awfully stylish in those D and G’s.” There was a definite country twang in Lida’s buoyant voice.

  “Lida, aren’t you just the fashion marm? I didn’t know you had such a cultivated eye for style.”

  “Fortunately the turnip truck I rode in on had a copy of Vogue in the back.”

  I laughed. “Well, I always figured you for a quick study. Come on. Let’s go in the back here.”

  I unlocked the clinic door and showed Lida to my office. I carried the autopsy file in with me, thinking there was little else it could tell me, and tossed it on my desk before sinking into my chair. Lida took a seat in one of the leather wingbacks across from me. We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, during which I couldn’t help but notice that her smile seemed to slip into an expression that was pale with worry. It was time to ask questions.

  “So, Lida. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  She exhaled a deep breath and looked down at the floor, signaling that her next words were likely ones she had repeated in her head. She spoke in a succinct, self-effacing tone.

  “Doc, I think I’m falling apart.”

  I nodded, careful to maintain a calm concern. “Okay. Can you give me some details?”

  “I feel anxious all the time. I’m eating my body weight in Tums, and lately I’ve been having some weird chest pains. And, well, there’s something else. But we’ll get to that in a minute.”

  “All right. Let’s start with the stress. Any unusual events going on in your life?”

  “Not much beyond the normal insanity. The diner and the B and B keep me hopping. My bonus baby, Leslie, just turned eighteen and is graduating from high school in the spring. So I still have a teenager at home.”

  “Well, that alone would explain the heavy need for antacids.”

  Lida’s smile returned. She crinkled her nose and nodded. “Another one of my girls is getting married in July and Lindsey, my oldest, is expecting her first baby in August. They live over in Jackson.”

  “Sounds like you have enough stress for you and the next two people. So, tell me about these chest pains. When do you have them?”

  “Mostly when I’m sitting still, like driving in the car, or when I’m watching TV, just, you know, thinking about things.”

  “What happens to the pain on exertion?”

  “It goes away.”

  “Hmm. That’s certainly atypical. Still, it may be a good idea for you to go over to Regional Medical and get a stress test.”

  “Doc, my whole life is a stress test.”

  “Lida, do you do any kind of regular cardio workout?”

  “Only if you count running behind as exercise.”

  “You drink alcohol?”

  “Glass of wine from time to time.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Not unless I’m on fire.”

  I smiled and nodded. We talked for several minutes, discussing the frequency and severity of her chest pains and a range of other symptoms, none of which threw up any immediate red flags. I endeavored to assimilate the list of concerns she presented with, but could draw few conclusions. Ultimately, she pressed me.

  “So, Doctor. What do you make of all this?”

  “Lida, it’s difficult to pinpoint anything without doing a physical exam, getting your vitals, and probably running some blood tests. Some of this could also be menopause related. At first brush, your chest pain doesn’t appear to be cardiac in nature, but perhaps some kind of referred pain—that is, something originating elsewhere but manifesting in your chest. It might simply be caused by stress and anxiety. Still, we need to rule out cardiac.”

  She exhaled and nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Lida studied me. She spoke in a confidential tone, wanting me to level with her.

  “Doc, you’re a sweetheart and I know you’re being diplomatic. But I’m a pretty tough little country girl. Tell me what your gut says.”

  I smiled and leaned back in my chair, rested my hands on the back of my head, and reflected for a moment.

  “My gut impression, Lida, is that you’re overworked, stressed-out, and just spread too thin. There’s more going on in your life than there is of you to go around.”

  She laughed. “Is there a pill for that?”

  “Yes and no. The best thing to do is make some lifestyle changes.”

  “You’re not talking about putting me on one of those diets where all you eat is spinach and flavored dirt, are you?”

  I laughed. “Lifestyle changes involve more than diet, although clearly you’re not overeating, Lida. You’re the size of a Smurf. But all that acid reflux could stem from the types of food you’re choosing. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s what the chest pain is all about.”

  She nodded and exhaled deeply. “Well, I know we need to check it further, but generally speaking, it’s a real relief to think that it’s likely not a cardiac issue. I’ll call Monday and set up an appointment, although I have to admit, I don’t relish the idea of being poked and prodded.”

  “We’ll try to keep the poking and prodding down to a minimum and focus on your heart. My job is to make sure you don’t see that white light everyone talks about.”

  Lida nodded. “Thanks, Doc. Thanks for meeting with me like this.”

  I paused and looked at her curiously. “Lida, earlier you mentioned there was something else, some other concern. Did we miss that?”

  She slumped back into her chair. “Oh, yeah, that.”

  I sat quietly, allowing her to fill in the silence.

  “When all this chest pain started up, I was concerned it might have something to do with my past.”

  “As in . . .”

  “Cocaine.”

  “Cocaine? Did you say cocaine?”

  I sat for a moment, stunned. Then, spontaneously, I rose and rounded the desk, taking a seat in the leather chair beside her. Resting my arms on my knees, I spoke in an intimate whisper.

  “Lida Wilkins, how does a salt-of-the-earth, solid-citizen Sunday school te
acher such as yourself ever get involved with cocaine?”

  “It was a long time ago. I’m not even sure it’s necessary to talk about it.”

  I leaned back in the chair. “Lida, you do know that anything you tell me is protected under doctor-patient confidentiality laws.”

  “So if you ever breathed a word of this, I could have you publicly flogged and maybe even kick you a few times for good measure?”

  “Not only that, the law says I’d have to pretend to enjoy it.”

  She grinned, crinkling her nose again. “Fair enough.” After pausing a short moment, she proceeded. “So, here’s the story. My dad was a deputy sheriff and my mom was an exceptionally strict Baptist. They were good people, but let’s just say my home life was pretty rigid. That’s why I ran off when I was sixteen.”

  “You ran off? Where’d you go?”

  “Woodstock.”

  I could not hide my astonishment. “Woodstock! Really? As in the famous week of sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”

  “Yep, I hitchhiked to the Catskills and was there at Woodstock for the three days of music, love, and peace, but mostly love. I was kind of a wild child. Anyway, I met some people and followed them back to Greenwich Village. In those days I smoked a lot of grass and along the way I did a little cocaine, the snorting kind. I worked in a French restaurant. That’s where I learned to cook, really cook. Before I left New York, I had worked in French, Italian, even Moroccan places.”

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “To rehab.”

  “Oh, wow.” It was a lame response, but I was still amazed, unable to do little more than listen gawk-eyed to Lida’s incredible description of her past.

  “Yeah, I got myself dry-cleaned.”

  “Is that when you came back to Watervalley?”

  “No, I spent a couple of years in a commune called the Farm. It’s about fifty miles away over in Summertown, Tennessee. It was actually a good place for me. A lot of caring people.”

  “So what happened?”

  She shrugged. “At the risk of sounding corny, I found my faith again. I moved back to Watervalley when I was twenty-four. Met Charlie, we got married, the rest is history.”

  “That’s quite a story.”

  “So, I read somewhere that cocaine can cause heart damage. You think that’s the case here?”

  I grimaced. “It’s possible, but I tend to think that any damage it might have done would have manifested itself long before now. Still, we can get all that checked out.”

  Lida absorbed this news for a few moments. Then, resolved, she looked over at me with her warm, girlish smile and patted my hand. “Thanks again, Luke, for meeting with me. I just wanted to discuss this privately.”

  “No worries. You can pay me in cheeseburgers. Although don’t tell Sunflower.”

  “Yeah. You two were quite the curiosity this morning. Want to divulge any secrets about that conversation, Doc?”

  “Ahh. The same old Sunflower. She has a few ideas about some community health initiatives she wants me to endorse. I told her we’d talk about it. She’s such an odd duck. What was she like when she was younger?”

  “Her name is Heidi, even though she’s always gone by Sunflower. Anyway, she is about six or seven years older than me, although, darn her hide, she sure doesn’t look it. And let me tell you, when she was a teenager, she was a looker. In those days, the school was all in one building, K through twelve. I was probably a fifth or sixth grader when she was a senior and I remember we all thought she was beautiful with her long blond hair and her peasant tops. She’d walk down the hall and it was like the parting of the Red Sea.”

  “Did she cheerlead or play sports?”

  “Oh heavens, no. Sunflower has always had a nonconformist, antiestablishment way about her. Don’t know where that came from, but that’s always been her. She married some guy from California and they tried to farm for a while. But they split up after a few years. Rumor’s been that she was never able to have children, and that played in the mix. Anyway, she lives out there on her dad’s place with her chickens, and goats, and three thousand cats and dogs. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grows a little reefer. Gotta be some reason why she seems so peaceful all the time. Maybe I should go see her about my anxiety.”

  “Sure. Let me know how that works out for you.”

  Lida grinned at me, scrunching her nose in a way that made me feel we shared a clever and comic intimacy. I adored her. For all her country charm and inviting appeal, she just didn’t take herself seriously.

  She rose from the chair and was about to leave when her glance fell on the folder on my desk. With an expression of genuine curiosity, she reached for it.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s an autopsy report from the forties. I was cleaning out some old files and came across it. Something about a murdered German. You know anything about it?”

  “Yeah. Actually, I know a lot about it.”

  “Really, how so?”

  “From my dad.”

  I tilted my head toward her, gesturing for her to continue.

  “Remember I mentioned my dad was a deputy sheriff? He was the first one to arrive on the scene that night of the murders.”

  “Wow. Would it be possible to talk to him?”

  Lida grinned. “Not unless you’re clairvoyant. Daddy passed away in the early nineties.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Anyway, my maiden name was Sanderson. My dad’s name was Frank. He joined the army in 1941, signed up the Monday after Pearl Harbor. He was shot in the knee in North Africa, so he was discharged. He could still walk, but with a limp. Because of his military training, he got hired on as a deputy. So, he was on duty that night and answered the call about someone hearing a gunshot. He said there was a lot of blood, a pretty nasty affair.”

  “Well, I have to admit, since I came across the autopsy report, I’ve been fascinated by the whole business. I was wanting to go to the county archives to look at the police records, but I understand they were all burned up in the jail fire of 1964.”

  Lida spoke cautiously. “Yeah, well, that may not be completely accurate.”

  “How so?”

  “My dad was obsessed by this case. No one ever really figured out what happened, so he kept digging into it over the years. He even bought a metal detector and spent countless hours between the bandstand and the place where Oscar Fox died, looking for the missing gun. I don’t think he was supposed to, but I’m pretty sure he made a copy of all the paperwork so he could study it at home.”

  “What would be the problem with him continuing to look into it?”

  “Daddy once told me that the two murders were ruled to be voluntary manslaughter. He explained that in Tennessee the statute of limitations on that crime is five years. It wasn’t just a cold case—it was a dead case. So I always got the impression his boss didn’t want him wasting any time on it. That’s why Dad made copies and brought them home.”

  “But why? What about the case interested him?”

  “Daddy used to say there was a lot more to the story than people realized. But all I know is that Oscar Fox must have been a bad hombre. The story has always been that he cut that guy to shreds. Anyway, If I’m not mistaken, those old files are in a box somewhere up in my attic.”

  I made no attempt to hide my excitement. “Do you think you could find the time to dig that out and let me take a look at it?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “That’d be great. I would really appreciate it.”

  “Give me a few days. It’s up there somewhere, but it may take some unearthing.”

  “Just call me. I’ll be glad to come get it.”

  I thanked her, walked her to the back door, and watched her leave. Returning to my office, I was nagged by a burning question. If the mysterious Germa
n had an autopsy report, then there should be an autopsy report for Oscar Fox as well.

  I spent an hour thumbing through all the files from the 1940s but found nothing. The conspicuous absence of his autopsy file along with Lida’s comment by her father that there was “a lot more to the story than people realized” deepened my consuming curiosity.

  I pushed the file drawer shut and rested my arm atop the ancient wooden cabinet. I half wished the old walls could talk, and offer some insight into the missing chapters. But there was not a whisper. The only voices to be heard were the ones in my head telling me that something about the Oscar Fox murder story felt terribly wrong.

  I closed up and drove home. Tomorrow was the 5K race, and Christine.

  CHAPTER 14

  The 5K

  The first invitations of daylight found me lost to the waking world, dreaming in a deep and forgotten sleep. Within the delicate chill of my upstairs room, I was snugly buried under my down comforter. The orange sun thinly crested the frozen rim of the far eastern hills, and inch by inch, the fresh new light reached across the bedroom floor, washing over my headboard, forcing my eyes open.

  It was Saturday morning and the air was crisp, lively, charged with muted excitement. I placed my feet on the floor and stretched, extending my arms grandly overhead, squeezing out the stiffness of the previous night. I was consumed with a subtle and warming delight, an anticipation of what the day might bring—a day spent with Christine.

  I had been unwilling to admit it even to myself, but ever since my conversation with her on Christmas Eve when she told me to give her a call sometime, my world had been infused with an unvoiced enchantment. In the quiet minutes of the day, Christine would drift divinely into my imagination, captivating me. I felt I was on the approaching side of a grand journey, aware that larger forces were carrying me toward a future ripe with possibility. In truth, I barely knew her, and sought to dismiss these idle daydreams.

  But it seemed the spell was cast.

  I slipped down the back stairs that led to the kitchen for some toast and coffee, fed Rhett, and returned to suit up in my sweats and running shoes. Grabbing my keys, I stepped onto the front porch. Despite the brilliant morning sunlight, a light frost covered the ground. The cold was tolerable, but still strong enough to leach through my clothes. I had thought about driving but chose instead to walk the eight blocks to Courthouse Square, hoping to warm up my stiff muscles. Besides, my beaten-up, dirty, and dented old Corolla sat frozen and pathetic looking, as if the whole point of the thing was to get a laugh.