by Jeff High
Christine spoke with a relaxed ease. “Bradford, you are so in over your head. When we’re done, you’ll be crying like a little girl.”
By now I was laughing, which I was certain riled her all the more.
Christine retrieved a ball from a storage cabinet. The last thirty feet of the barn hallway were paved concrete, making for a somewhat narrow but workable court. She took off her coat, tied back her hair, and put on her game face. Her intensity was incredible. “That’s right, Bradford. Just keep wearing that silly grin. I love it when the opposition starts out overconfident.”
I pursed my lips and studied her for a moment, completely disregarding her taunting words. “You’re really cute when you get like this.”
“I think we need to put a wager on the table, make this interesting.”
“What you got in mind?”
Christine thought for a moment. “If I win, you help Mr. Pilkington milk the cows one afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s a bad call. I was going to take it easy on you. But now, no way.”
“That’s the deal. You started this.”
I snickered and began to take off my coat.
Christine continued. “So, on the slim chance that you win, what’s my poison going to be?”
“Hmm, the first three or four on the list are probably not appropriate, even though, you know, I am a doctor.”
“Switch the dial to adult mode.”
“Boy, you’re no fun. Okay, how about this? What say you cook dinner for me, menu of your choice?”
“That’s incredibly boring. I’d probably do that for you anyway.”
“Yeah, but there’s a catch. You have to wear the outfit of a saucy French chambermaid.”
Christine scowled and shoved the basketball right at my chest. I caught it and cackled at her.
“Bradford, you’re such a guy.”
I dribbled the ball a few times, still laughing. “Guilty as charged.”
“But that’s okay. In twenty-one points you’re going to be a little girl. You ready?”
I bounced the ball back to her. “Ladies first.”
“You’re going to regret that decision.”
I shrugged. “You’re probably right.”
But in reality, I knew she wasn’t.
There had been a time when basketball had been my whole world. But I had moved on. Basketball was a game, and games come to an end. Even still, what I knew and what I could do with a basketball hadn’t changed. It wasn’t that I was smug. I was just sure of the outcome of our game the same way I knew the etiology of over a hundred different diseases, and how to suture a wound, and what to look for on an X-ray. I had devoted my life to acquiring these skills, and there was a time when I had pursued basketball with the same passion. So, yeah, I just knew.
In no time I could easily see why Christine was the stuff of basketball legend in Watervalley lore. She was quick, smart, and skilled. Moreover she was a tough, calculated competitor. I watched as she tried to sniff out my weaknesses, looking for flaws in the way I guarded her, in the way I moved. She took a quick and early lead. In no time she was up eight to three. But I was deliberately keeping my game at a low ebb, waiting. When the score became seventeen to eight, it was time. I anticipated her next move and lightly tapped the ball away from her. She recovered quickly and went on defense. But after a couple of quick moves and a head fake, I dribbled past her and slammed the ball home.
I proceeded to score the next twelve points straight. Most of them were dunks as well. To her credit, somewhere about the eighth or ninth point in a row, Christine began to laugh and abandoned her previous intensity. She playfully shoved me or held on to my belt. I knew she wanted to win, but she had the class of a seasoned player. Instead of getting angry, you sometimes had to realize that the other guy could do things you couldn’t. I should know. I had experienced it plenty of times while playing college basketball.
I made the final bucket to win the game, took a few steps, and bent over, placing my hands on my knees to catch my breath. I had won, but Christine had made me work for it. She gathered the basketball, walked over, and sat on a hay bale, also endeavoring to get her breath. I finally straightened and glanced her way, not at all expecting what I saw.
Christine sat with her head leaning back against the wall, still lightly gasping for air. But she was sweetly, radiantly smiling at me . . . a smile full of welling pride, as if she was gratified to have met her match. Between heaves of breath, I smiled in return, trying to figure what in the world she was thinking.
“Bradford, you’re incredible. Where did you learn to play basketball like that?”
I plopped down beside her. “Prep school in Atlanta, and then four years at Mercer.”
“You played at Mercer? Why didn’t I know this?”
“I don’t know. It’s in the brochure.”
“Oh, stop. What years did you play there?”
“From 2003 through 2006.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Mmm, no.”
“Oh, my gosh. I’ve seen you play!”
“Really? When?”
“In February of 2006. One of my friends at Agnes Scott was dating a guy from Mercer and she invited me to come along and see the game.”
“Do you remember which game?”
“I don’t remember who Mercer was playing, but it was the last home game and they won by one point.”
I knew the game Christine was talking about. I knew it well. It wasn’t just my last home game as a senior; it was a game that had much more meaning for me. I folded my arms, leaned back against the wall, and looked down toward my outstretched legs. My response was subdued.
“Yeah. I know that game. I scored thirty-one points. It was my career high.”
Christine turned toward me, gape-jawed. Then she spontaneously rose from where she was sitting and stood before me, her face frozen in surprise and disbelief.
“I remember you! You put on a show that night. Why haven’t I recognized you?”
“Well, I had a buzz cut, more muscle, and definitely better lungs.”
“Luke Bradford, I cannot believe I saw you play basketball all those years ago and I’m just now figuring it out.”
“Yeah. Shame on you.”
She stared at me quizzically, paralyzed in a moment of astonishment. Finally, she sat down again, gazing straight ahead.
“That’s just wild.”
I responded with a shrug. This didn’t go unnoticed. There was a wounded quality to her voice.
“Well, I think it’s a big deal even if you don’t.”
“No, it’s a good memory.”
“But?”
“But, you know, nothing.”
Christine spoke in a low voice of casual inquiry. “What are you hiding, Bradford?” She paused to bounce the ball a few times. “I bet you were trying to impress a girl.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Humph. I knew it.” Christine nudged me with her shoulder and regarded me with a bemused but wary smile. “Must have been somebody pretty special.”
“Oh, yeah. She was.”
“Okay. I don’t think I’m liking you right now.”
I had been looking down during this entire conversation. I smiled and turned toward her.
“Actually, I’m not being fair. The girl I wanted to impress was Aunt Grace. It was her last time seeing me play. She had just been diagnosed with lung cancer and was going to start chemo the next week. She died that summer.”
Christine’s playfulness vanished. “Luke, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“No, no, no. It’s okay. You had no way of knowing. And like I said, it’s a good memory.”
We sat silently, each absorbing the mix of remembrance and revelation. After a moment, I said, “Besides, looks like ultim
ately I did impress a girl.”
Christine smiled with a slow nod of her head. “Yes. I’d say you did.”
“Kind of makes you have a deeper respect for me, doesn’t it?”
“Well, let’s don’t go crazy here.”
I laughed and looked upward, taking in the details of the barn hallway: the massive poles, the high beams, the hooks and ropes and chains, the heavy wood of the corn bin, the sacks of grain, the smell of the horse-warmed stalls.
“So, you love this old place, huh. Why is that?” I said.
Christine’s voice was warm, reflective. “Because of my dad.”
“Tell me about him.”
As Christine talked about her father, her voice had music in it. I began to realize that this huge, airy barn with its high rafters and dirt-floored hallway had been a sanctuary during Christine’s childhood. Beneath the stalwart beams she had gathered a lifetime of memories, half-captured images of some magic country she had known.
“I probably spent thousands of hours here, shooting basketball, grooming the horses, just being with my dad. We’d talk about farming, and basketball, and life, and, I don’t know, everything, I guess.”
“Hmm, including boys.”
“Especially boys.”
“Any pointers I should make note of?”
“You’re doing okay so far.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“When Daddy died in the accident, it crushed me and it took me a long time to get past it. I thought I had a lot more years with him. I think that’s why I stayed in Atlanta so long. It was just too hard to come here when everywhere I went, everything I saw, reminded me of him.”
She paused and my silence seemed to encourage her.
“But now, since I’ve been back . . . I don’t know. It’s just different. Now I feel closer to him. There’s something reassuring and comfortable about being back here among all the things that are so familiar. Perhaps it’s silly, but even now, his words are with me, alive in the stones of this old barn. I still miss him, but now everything I see that reminds me of him is a good thing, a good memory.”
I reached over to hold her hand and she leaned her head against my shoulder. Her words deeply resonated with me, revealed to me the source of her depth and strength. All her life she had breathed in the familiar air of Watervalley, had lived out her life within the contours of these native fields and unchanging hills. The enduring love and the endearing words of well-known voices had filled her days.
I had no such wellspring of stability from which to draw upon. I had been loved by family but had had to say untimely good-byes to them; they were losses that still haunted my fragile heart and made me step cautiously, keeping my emotions in check.
Christine broke the silence. “He would have liked you, Luke. He would have liked you a lot.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to know him.”
We sat for the longest time, delightfully close to each other, wrapped in warm memories of lost loved ones, ghosts of our past. The silence was sweet, comfortable, enchanting. It seemed our lives were beginning to knit together in unexpected ways.
Eventually, Christine broke the silence. “What are you thinking about? Oh, and it better not be a saucy French chambermaid outfit.”
I laughed as we both stood. “Hmm, so you’re going to welsh on that one, huh?”
Christine lifted an eyebrow and stepped in close to me, while she carefully placed a finger over my lips. There was a flirtatious, bewitching quality to her voice. “Mmm, give it a little time, Bradford. We’ll see.”
I’m quite certain that my gape-jawed expression easily communicated how much her sultry response had thrown me. Christine was a deeply principled, wholesome, no-nonsense gal. I had known this from day one and was fine with it, even admired it. So when she occasionally broke character and spoke in this sensuous, taunting way, it had the immediate effect of turning my brains to tapioca. I had the same sloppy, euphoric look that Rhett got when he heard the scoops of dog food hitting his bowl, only with slightly less drool.
“Well, if I wasn’t thinking about it before, I sure am now.”
Christine rolled her eyes, never losing her sly grin. “Let’s eat some pizza.”
CHAPTER 29
Conspiracy
We moved into the warmth of the tack room. Christine cleaned off a worktable while I grabbed the pizza and retrieved a couple of beers. While we ate, I surveyed the ribbons and trophies lining the shelf above her father’s old desk and discovered a dusty framed photograph of her that was tucked behind a stack of ancient equestrian magazines. She was mounted on Aragon and was completely decked in riding gear, including boots, riding pants, a buttoned coat, and a traditional British skullcap.
“Well, Your Highness. Was this taken before you were off to follow the hounds?”
“Very funny. Put that away. I had no idea it was still hanging around.”
“Nah, I love it. How old are you in this picture?”
“Mmm, sixteen, I think.”
“And why no smile?”
“Braces.”
“You look very regal.”
Christine swallowed a bite of pizza. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the look I was going for.”
I smiled and returned the photograph to her father’s desk.
“Okay, Hardy Boy,” she said. “Let’s have a look at what’s in those old murder files.”
“You sure you’re okay with this? I mean, so far our Valentine’s Day has included a sweaty game of basketball, lukewarm pizza, and now digging into an old murder. I don’t want you dying of dream date overdose.”
“You have an alternative activity in mind?”
“Wow, like that’s not a loaded question. Let’s think, you’re a healthy farm girl. It’s just the two of us in a hay barn. . . . Hmmm?”
Christine smiled and shook her head. “Shut up and get the box, Bradford.”
“Right.”
I laid out the thick manila folders on the table. We began with the one labeled “Crime Scene.”
Inside were photocopies of the original black and whites taken at the bandstand. Even though they were faded and brown, they did little to hide the gruesome nature of the bloody death of the man infamously known as the “murdered German.” Oddly, the man was still in his suit coat and the only visible wound was a huge gash across the left side of his neck. I found a photocopy of his autopsy report, the same one I had found in the clinic filing cabinet. Curiously, it clearly noted stabs to the chest, yet there were no bloodstains visible on the man’s buttoned suit coat. It was a peculiar inconsistency.
We moved on, sifting through the file of the official police report. The findings stated that Oscar had attacked the man, who had shot him in self-defense. Oscar had bled out while trying to run from the crime scene. Oddly, there were no pictures of him. Just as Lida had mentioned to me in weeks past, the report stated that Oscar’s actions were ruled as voluntary manslaughter because there appeared to be no premeditated intent. Crawford Lewis, the sheriff at the time, had signed the document.
There was also a photocopy of the telegram found in the suit lining of the German. I held it up to the light to see it as clearly as possible.
“What does it say, Luke?”
I clumsily tried to articulate the words. “Oscar geglaubt in Watervalley Tennessee pro Postadresse sein. Suchen und erholen.”
“Any idea what that means?”
“Not a clue. After guten Tag I’ve pretty much exhausted my German vocabulary.”
In a matter of seconds, Christine had typed the words into her cell phone. “Looks like it means ‘Oscar believed to be in Watervalley, Tennessee, from postal address. Find and recover.’” She stared at me blankly. “Find and recover what?”
“I don’t know. Oscar, I guess.”
“Hmm, looks like he
didn’t want to go along.”
“No, you’re right. That doesn’t make sense, does it? It probably wasn’t Oscar. And I’ll tell you what else doesn’t make sense. I haven’t found a copy of his autopsy report. There’s not one at the clinic, and I’m not finding one here either.”
“What does that tell you?”
“No idea. But it should be part of the file.” I studied the document a moment longer. “You know, this is odd. This is a Teletype message and not a true telegram.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not like a Western Union telegram. There is no letterhead and no name to which the message was addressed. It looks like it came from a personal Teletype machine. That means that whoever this German fellow was, he was getting these messages directly, not from an agency like Western Union.”
“Who would have one of these?”
“I’m not sure. Businesses, I guess. Private individuals. Spies, maybe.”
Christine shrugged. “Leaves a lot of room for speculation, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
We worked through the balance of the interviews of people who had attended the dance on the night of the murders, including Elise Fox and a farmer by the name of Otto Miller, the man who had reported hearing the gunshot. These revealed nothing beyond what we already knew. As well, the interview with Elise Fox vindicated her, asserting that she knew nothing about the murder victim or the events surrounding the murder.
The file of newspaper clippings included copies of the front page from the local paper, the Village Voice. The accounts were general in nature and simply noted that the police investigation was continuing. Subsequent articles confirmed that the official investigation had been ruled a double homicide and voluntary manslaughter.
Frank Sanderson had also included a newspaper clipping from February 1945, nearly a year after the event. It was a microfiche picture of the clinic doctor, Haslem Hinson, shaking hands with Raymond Simmons, who was listed in the caption as vice president of the Farmers Bank. Hinson had just been installed as the newest bank board member. Right below the picture, a large question mark had been written in red ink.
