Each Shining Hour

by Jeff High

  Christine spoke first. “This is strange. Why did Sanderson include this photo? It has nothing to do with the murder.”

  I’d been thinking the same question. “I don’t know. Apparently he thought it did.”

  “Maybe it just got in this file by mistake.”

  “Hmmm, doesn’t seem likely.” I read on through the details of the newspaper clipping. “It says here that Chairman Cavanaugh was not pictured. Wasn’t he your grandfather?”

  “Yeah, Sam Cavanaugh, my mom’s dad.”

  “He was chairman in 1945? How old was he?”

  Christine thought for a moment. “I know he was born in 1900, so he would have been midforties.”

  “Seriously, 1900?”

  “Yeah, we used to hear stories that he was Watervalley’s most eligible bachelor. He was always a trim, fit, handsome man. He married my grandmother when he was in his early fifties and she was barely twenty-nine. Kind of scandalous at the time, but I think the community got over it. Anyway, they stayed married till he passed away in ’seventy-nine, a number of years before I was born. Grandmother Cavanaugh died in 1999.”

  “John Harris told me that Raymond Simmons was president of the bank.”

  “My grandfather Cavanaugh retired somewhere in the early sixties and stayed on as chairman emeritus till his death. Simmons took over running everything around that time. I don’t think they ever got along that well.”

  I set this folder aside and began thumbing through the file labeled “Oscar Fox.” Frank Sanderson had detailed a timeline of Oscar Fox’s life. Yellowed photocopies of deeds, land transfers, and newspaper clippings, all with handwritten notes scribbled at the bottom or on attached note cards, had been methodically arranged in chronological order. The document also included a list of benevolences and community charities in which Oscar was involved. At the end were several pages of handwritten notes, including a notation that Oscar traveled out of town often. It was the final page that caught my attention.

  Written in print were the following items, each with a dash in front of them.

  —All transactions paid in cash

  —No driver’s license

  —No voter card

  —No draft card or enlistment status

  —No previous medical records

  —No known previous address in North Carolina

  —No North Carolina birth certificate

  I looked wide-eyed at Christine. “No wonder Frank Sanderson was so curious about Oscar Fox. He apparently had significant wealth and yet no documented history prior to coming to Watervalley.”

  “Okay, Bradford. This just got really interesting.”

  “Didn’t it, though? I’ve talked with a lot of people about Oscar Fox. Nobody has mentioned these details. For some reason Frank Sanderson kept this to himself.”

  Christine exhaled deeply. “Well, whoever Oscar Fox was, he had a lot of secrets and left a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “You know what else? Everything we have read here about Oscar Fox and everything that your grandmother said portrays him as a class A good guy, not a vicious murderer.”

  “That’s true. But those pictures were pretty grisly.”

  “Something’s not right.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I wish I could find Oscar’s autopsy report.”

  We proceeded to sift through all the files again to see if by chance the report had been misfiled or become stuck to another document. But after thirty minutes of searching, we had nothing. It simply wasn’t there.

  We had been poring over file documents for a couple of hours and weariness was setting in. I glanced at my watch.

  “Wow. It’s working on midnight.”

  “Really? Hey, stay there. I’ve got a little surprise. I left it in the car. I’ll be right back.”

  Christine grabbed her coat and exited, pulling the door shut behind her. I stared at the stack of papers heaped in front of me, trying to understand all that we had read.

  I grabbed the last unexplored item, Frank Sanderson’s spiral-bound notebook. It contained mostly random names and dates, summaries of meetings, and details from interviews. Half of the notebook was blank. I skipped ahead to the last entry.

  The word written at the top of the page caught my attention: “Autopsy.” What followed were the notes from a meeting with Elise Fox, dated June 3, 1962, a full eighteen years after the murder.

  The narrative was scribbled in his rough cursive hand.

  “E. Fox finally agreed to meet. I asked her about her husband’s suit. She stated that Dr. Hinson had given the suit to her after the autopsy. It was covered in dried blood and she threw it away immediately. Dr. Hinson had told her that Oscar had been shot in the hip and that the bullet had nicked his renal artery. I asked if she remembered a bullet hole in the coat. She said she recalled seeing a hole in the back right side. She assumed the coat had been twisted around him in the struggle. I asked her if she had seen the shirt. She had not. Dr. Hinson had discarded it. I told Elise that I never saw Oscar’s body up close. The sheriff and Dr. Hinson had loaded his corpse into the back of Dr. Hinson’s pickup truck and taken it to the clinic for autopsy. I also told Elise that it was Sheriff Lewis who had instructed me to go get her and take her to the clinic and stay there with her. The sheriff handled the murder scene at the bandstand. 6/3/62.”

  I read the document again. Questions poured through my head. Why was there no bullet hole in the front of Oscar’s coat? Why would Frank Sanderson tell Elise that he never saw Oscar’s body up close? And why was he interviewing her again after all those years? Something here was definitely wrong.

  Christine returned carrying a pie with an unlit sparkler in the center. I rose swiftly and hurried toward her, my voice full of excitement.

  “Nice! You made a pie. What kind is it?”

  “After that shellacking in basketball, I’m going to say humble.”

  “It looks great. But can I ask you to do something first?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to read this.”

  She read through the words.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It means that Oscar Fox was shot in the back. It means he killed the guy in self-defense, not the other way around. Think about it. The guy’s throat was cut. There’s no way he could pull a gun and shoot Oscar after that. Oscar was walking away from the guy and was shot in the back. After that, Oscar came back at him and took him out with the knife.”

  “But all my life Oscar has been known as the one who initiated the attack. Even the police report we just read states that.”

  “I don’t understand it either. But the absence of Oscar’s autopsy report sure makes that whole business look suspicious. For some reason, someone wanted to frame Oscar Fox as the bad guy.”

  As soon as I spoke these words, the clock on the tack room wall bonged midnight. We stood silently until the final chime. Christine looked up at me.

  “Valentine’s Day is almost over and I think I’m tired of playing Nancy Drew for one night.” She reached for my hand and looked at me. In her gaze was a subtle request. No further clue was needed.

  I tossed the notebook on the floor and pulled her toward me, slipping my arms around her. She drew her body delightfully against me. The embrace was effortless, natural.

  Christine whispered softly, “Happy Valentine’s.”

  “Yes. Happy Valentine’s.”

  After a long, intoxicating kiss, Christine buried her face against my chest. It was a moment in heaven.

  Then her whole body stiffened and she pushed me lightly from her. “Luke, I think you’re going to want to see this.”

  She bent down and picked up the spiral notebook. When I had tossed it to the floor, it had randomly opened to the very last page next to the cardboard bac
king. In bold ink, three names were written in the corners of a large triangle: Haslem Hinson, Crawford Lewis, and Randall Simmons. In the middle of the triangle was a single word followed by a question mark.

  Diamonds.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Calm Before

  I flipped back through the pages of the notebook, scanning to see if there was any other mention of these three men or of diamonds, but there was nothing.

  “I don’t know what to make of this,” I said.

  Christine shrugged. “There’s always been a rumor that diamonds were tied up in the Oscar Fox story.”

  “But these three men . . . the way he’s written their names sure points to a conspiracy.” I placed the notebook back on the table. “Okay, look,” I said. “Here’s what we know. After seeing the inside of the old bakery, it’s pretty clear that a lot of money was spent renovating it. And based on what your grandmother said about him loaning funds to her father, Oscar seemed to have a lot of cash. But I get the impression that it was not money that his wife, Elise, knew about. Secondly, from the scant evidence and from Elise’s testimony, it appears that Oscar acted in self-defense. But for some reason this has been twisted around. The dead German’s briefcase, ID, and the gun were never found. We have three elements here: money, a body, and a crime scene. That means that any kind of cover-up of the truth would have to involve a banker, a doctor, and a sheriff. For some reason, Frank smelled some kind of conspiracy and thought these three men were in cahoots.”

  “Why wouldn’t he let this be known?”

  “Crawford Lewis was his boss, probably his friend too. Maybe he didn’t feel like he had enough to support a conspiracy and start pointing fingers.”

  Christine sighed deeply. “I’m at a loss. There’s just not much to go on.”

  I nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. But I hate not being able to figure it out.”

  We were both exhausted, drained by the late hour and the evening’s revelations. Despite our unspoken delight in each other’s company and the wanton intimacy of moments earlier, we both knew it was time to go home.

  I drove us back to Christine’s house, where I walked her to the door and held her in the numbing cold.

  “Call me,” she said.

  I nodded and headed home.

  * * *

  The cold days of February continued, providing no further revelation regarding the odd findings in the old file box. One morning at the diner I pulled Lida aside to ask if she had ever read the contents of the box or remembered anything her father might have said about it. Her response was a simple no.

  “I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, but Daddy and I were never close. The whole running-away-to-Woodstock thing wasn’t ever completely forgotten.”

  For now, it seemed, the Oscar Fox story had once again reached a dead end, leaving me with more questions and conjecture than before.

  Ann continued to be a wonder at the clinic, demonstrating an incredible capacity for connecting with the variety of patients who came under our care. As well, she proved to have a substantial depth of clinical knowledge, making my job of assessments all the easier. She and Sunflower had developed a plan to schedule some community seminars on diabetes, prevention of cardiovascular disease, and, yes, proper exercise and diet. Ann had cleverly developed panels of community leaders to help promote these efforts. Admittedly, the two of them had brilliantly executed the program and attendance was overwhelming.

  I also began to notice that Ann had a rather marked curiosity about two people and often mentioned them in conversation: John Harris and Oscar Fox. Ordinarily, I would have thought nothing of this. John, despite his crusty nature, was in fact a handsome, wealthy, and eligible bachelor. As well, my own fascination with Oscar Fox could easily invoke some polite inquiries just to make conversation.

  Even still, conversations about both men created a certain stilted stiffness in her countenance, as if she desired to hide the depth of her interest. It puzzled me, but not enough to prompt me to ask her openly. We all had private concerns and the constant inquiries and teasing from the staff about my dating life made me sensitive to her desire to leave some topics alone.

  On the last day of February, John came by the clinic in the early afternoon, walking on air. He had become a regular fixture in town, appearing at the diner or down at city hall on a regular basis. He entered my office with a large roll of blueprints tucked under his arm.

  “Hey, Professor Harris,” I greeted him. “Whatcha got there?”

  John was beaming. “Take a look at this.”

  He unrolled the large sheets onto my desk. Before me were the details of a majestic bandstand.

  “Hey, this is impressive. So, what’s the scoop?”

  “It’s all been approved. We’re going to partially rebuild and partially renovate the old bandstand. This is what it will look like . . . somewhat smaller than the original but still with a lot of classic details.”

  “Well, good deal. When does construction start?”

  “Monday.”

  “Seriously? That soon?”

  “Yep. Since it’s being done with my money, the city agreed to provide the permits and inspections but let me oversee the work. The weather is fair enough, and I’ve had a work crew ready to go.”

  John flashed an irrepressible ear-to-ear smile. I had never seen him so happy. Then, as if on cue, Ann came in carrying some patient files. Normally she would feign some level of surprise that John was here. Apparently, she had moved past this. She spoke indifferently.

  “Hello, Dr. Harris. Who let you off your leash?”

  John cut his eyes at me with a wry grin. “Ah, Nurse Patterson. By all means, call me John. I mean, we’re not old friends, but at least we’re old enemies. Besides, today is a grand day. It’s almost a delight to see even you . . . almost, that is.”

  “You know, John, I’m tired, which means I don’t have the energy to pretend I like you.”

  John chuckled. “Well, that’s not fair at all. You don’t know me well enough to know you don’t like me.”

  “Let’s just say it’s a working theory.”

  “I have a better idea. Go out with me. Then at least you can be certain you don’t like me.”

  Ann was thrown off-balance by this offer. She hesitated. I could see John’s eyes tighten. He was a clever old fox. Her pause had told him everything. He already had his answer. To use a crude analogy, the hook was set. Now he simply had to be patient and slowly wind the reel. Ann gathered herself and did her best to pretend indifference.

  “Gee, let’s think about this. You’re rude, insulting, and self-consumed. I can’t imagine why I’m not jumping at the chance.”

  “I know, I know. You’re just a mere mortal and I’m sure the thought of a date with me is a little overwhelming. But do it anyway. Go out with me.”

  Ann studied him for another moment. John’s euphoria had increased the full weight of his good looks and surprising charm. She nodded cautiously.

  “Okay, but only on the condition that you spend lots of money on me, continuously compliment me, and let me talk about myself all evening.”

  John shrugged. “Works for me.”

  “I’m only agreeing to the idea of a date in principle. I need time to mull it over, you know, think through all the downsides.”

  “Sure. Pick you up at the B and B at seven?”

  “Make it seven thirty.” By now Ann had a delightful, mischievous grin firmly in place. There was a crackling electricity between them: sly, furtive, expectant. I now realized that both of them had been casting their nets, and admittedly, I wasn’t sure who had caught whom. Ann turned to me with a raised eyebrow, discreetly signaling a suppressed delight. With that, she turned and departed. All the while John, as had become his habit, was admiring her backside.

  “Jeez. That was a pretty thick dis
play of hormones,” I said.

  “Yeah, seems to be my lucky day.”

  “Well, Casanova, spare me any further details about how lucky your day gets, if you catch my drift.”

  John laughed. “Yeah, I understand. Anyway, it’s been a good day on another front too.”

  “How so?”

  “Because of another piece of business I’ve been discussing with Walt.”

  “And what would you and our good mayor be talking about?”

  “Randall Simmons. After that stunt he almost pulled in January regarding the bakery, I intend to make good on my promise.”

  “Which is?”

  “To can his ass. Walt and I have been privately talking with several of the board members and I think they will go along with a no-confidence vote at the stockholders’ meeting in a couple of months.”

  “That’s pretty strong medicine.”

  “Yeah, and I plan on being the pharmacist.”

  I nodded, noting his determined stance on the matter, and had nothing to add to this announcement.

  “Well, John, enjoy your evening. And remember, whatever happens between you and Ann . . . I don’t want to know about it.”

  John’s gaze sharpened on me. “Speaking of which, how are things going with my niece?”

  “Wow. What part of the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy are you failing to understand here?”

  “Oh, get over yourself, sawbones. I’m just looking for the headlines.”

  “Fair enough. I guess the answer would be good. We seem to be enjoying each other’s company.” This was, of course, a major understatement.

  “Well, watch yourself. Like I said before, that one will have you crying like a little girl.”

  I laughed and brushed him off. “Yeah, so noted.”

  John soon departed. My work was done, but I sat in my office for quite some time staring out my windows at the blustery day. Tomorrow would be the first of March and more things than just the season were getting ready to change.