Mercy Killing: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 2)

by Graves,M. Glenn

  “And you never told anyone what happened?”

  “No, child. Just my daughter here. But not all that I just told you. Do you know what they would have done to me if I had told someone what went down that day? Why they would have turned the tables, blamed me, and then the whole town would have lynched me before sundown. I was their nigger maid, the nanny, and worth nothing more than a scapegoat, just like in the Holy Bible, a stupid goat that they would have covered with their blood sins and set loose in the wilderness.”

  Interesting metaphor. There was no question in my mind that if it came down to her word against theirs, she would lose. She would have lost more than just the argument.

  “I suppose that I will have to take some guilt to my grave, you know, not tellin’ and all. But since I have outlived them all, all except little Mary, I figured, what good would it do to come forward to smear their names after they were dead. That didn’t seem to be no justice to me, more like revenge for the way they treated me that day. My best revenge was to outlive them.”

  “Why do you think Beth Anne did it?” I asked. I figured that if anyone had a viable theory on this sordid affair it would likely be Rosemary Jenkins.

  “Goodness gracious, child, I have thought about that many times during my long life. I suppose the easiest thing to consider is that Beth Anne was mad as a hatter, that she lost her mind for a brief time and murdered her son. You remember that line from Hamlet when he said that the time was out of joint? Well, I kinda’ think that for those moments in her life, her time was out of joint. I don’t know, but I have always suspected that it had something to do with Mr. Johnson.”

  “If it had something to do with him, then why didn’t she kill him instead of the baby?”

  “I think if he had been sleeping in that crib or that room, then I think she would’ve killed him instead of Colby, she would have suffocated him. I think that there was a lot of fear of that man inside her. Like I told you, he abused her something awful. He caused her great pain in so many ways besides beating her. I think maybe she decided that killin’ his boy-child was one way to give back some of the pain he had given.”

  “Sounds like you believe she was crazy as a fruit-fly while at the same time she knew what she was doing.”

  “I believe they call that ambivalence. Is that the word?” Rosemary asked with a smile.

  “That would be one word for what she did.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  There’s no statute of limitations on murder, as you know,” Sheriff Tanner said to me.

  “There is if the prime suspect is already dead,” I said.

  “Point, but still, she should have come forward.”

  “And you would have believed a 99 year old black woman who worked as a maid and nanny to a rich, white, well-respected family in Riley Corners, who happened to be part of your own family.”

  “Okay, okay. I get the point. I suppose there is no question in your mind that she is telling the truth about this.”

  “Her story fits with other bits and pieces I’ve gathered. It even fits with the little tidbits that Mary Carpenter has been telling us. It also works with the info we found in Cranebottom’s wall safe. Still, I am a detective with an abundance of skepticism, even when I believe someone to be telling me their truth.”

  “Are you going to tell Mary what you know?”

  “Likely, yes. When? Well, I am holding onto that for the moment. There is another matter regarding Mary and, if I am correct, it could have an impact directly on you and your family,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think Mary killed her son, Robby, in 1949. I think she killed him the same exact way that her mother killed Colby. I think she watched her mother do it, and somehow she was seduced by the act.”

  “Seduced to copy the manner that you believe my great aunt used in murdering her own child?”

  “That’s the way it appears,” I said.

  “You have no substantive evidence to prove that, do you?” Tanner said.

  “No.”

  “But you think it?”

  “Tell me what you think,” I said and then laid out the unbelievable coincidences just like I had for Rogers hours earlier. Manner of murder, full moon, suffocation, same house, same room, same bed, and same mysterious death. Tanner listened quietly but intently while he stared at the ceiling with his eyes closed. Paradoxical posture.

  “Could be just coincidences?” he said to me when I finished my plot. He had finished directing his non-gaze towards the heavens. His eyes were open and fixed on me.

  “Not my nature to go with coincidences, especially in a murder investigation.”

  “Without proof, evidentiary proof, you couldn’t make a case for it,” he said, and he was correct.

  “What if she confesses?”

  “You would tell her about her mother killing Colby as a way to entice the confession?” Roscoe said.

  “That might be the fastest way to a confession,” I said.

  “But if you are wrong, you could destroy her. She would be devastated to hear your theory of what she may have done to her own child after burying in her subconscious the truth about her brother’s demise. You would leave me with a relative that’s truly off the deep end, no confession, and I look like the town idiot for allowing you to proceed with this...theory.”

  “Many folk in your good town already think that Mary is off the deep end,” I said, but I knew that he was correct and that what I was suggesting was a bad idea no matter how you felt about what may or may not have happened to Mary’s own son.

  We engaged in unsolicited silence for a few minutes while our collective minds were churning possibilities. I knew that my friend Roosevelt Washington, who had yet to speak since we began this session with Tanner, had ideas of his own regarding this situation. For whatever reason, he had been unwilling to come forth with them.

  “And another thing,” Roscoe Tanner said, interrupting the silence which was anything but golden at that moment, “my cousin Mary is 83 years old. Say we get a confession. We’re going to send her to prison for life, or give her the death penalty for a sixty-one year old murder?”

  “To quote someone near and dear, there is no statute of limitations on murder,” I said smiling. Tanner did not reciprocate my smile.

  “I suppose the real question,” Tanner said finally, “is can we find justice in this situation.”

  “Ah, the real question, Mr. Sheriff,” Rosey said as he stood, motioned for me to follow him, and we exited the presence of the sheriff.

  The next morning we were enjoying coffee and biscuits with B.C. and her mother. Rosemary had canned some homemade strawberry jam, which was absolutely delicious with B.C.’s biscuits. The coffee was a perfect fit with our fare.

  “What’s the next step?” B.C. asked, breaking into the chomping sound which emanated from all four participants at the breakfast.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “I thought detectives always had the next step planned out and ready to go.”

  “Only in novels, movies, or television shows. There’s no script to follow here. In reality, we investigators stumble around in the dark for weeks at a time just waiting for a clue to jump out and grab us. That next step you refer to is usually ambiguous, uncertain, and filled with a goodly amount of supposition. Honestly, the life of a private detective is rather boring.”

  “Ahem,” Rosey cleared his throat. “I must say here that the life of Clancy Evans is hardly ever boring, at least not the cases we have worked together. There is always someone shooting at us or trying to do us in with other methods of mayhem.”

  “Don’t believe a word he says. I go from one interview to another. Pillar to post. Stem to stern. I ask questions. I stir the pot. I get people upset and they talk. Sometimes they talk just to get rid of me. Occasionally, they get upset enough to stop talking to me and start reacting in other ways. But for the most part, it’s rather boring. At least until I stumble o
nto some truth, and then, well, doors open here and there. But it’s a slow go,” I said.

  “Do you have some options as to where to go or to whom you should aggravate next?” B.C. said.

  “I think I will go visit John Boxley.”

  Rosey raised his eyebrows, which for him was a gesture of complete surprise. The man was a master of understatement.

  “You have further questions regarding what he knows about his grandfather?” B.C. said.

  “No. I have questions for him along another line.”

  “Oh,” B.C. said. “Would you care for another biscuit?” she said and passed the plate of hot biscuits to Rosey. He took two and handed me the plate. I decided to abstain since I had already indulged in two oversized buttermilk delights with that wonderful strawberry treat sandwiched between the soft layers. Temptation thwarted this time.

  “Your strawberry jam from last summer’s crop is quite the delicacy,” I said to Rosemary.

  “Oh, I’ve been making strawberry jam for years, honey. Make it in my sleep. Glad you like it.”

  “Better than just good,” Rosey said. “Thank you for sharing this with us.”

  “We’ll probably be leaving in a day or so,” I said to the ladies.

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. It has been a real treat for us to have you as our guests.”

  “Rosemary, you have been considerable help in this investigation. Thanks for being willing to tell us what you recall. Thanks for trusting us.”

  “Did you talk with Roscoe Tanner?” Rosemary asked.

  “We did.”

  “Did he have a recommendation as to how to proceed?” B.C. said.

  “Not so much. He simply didn’t want Mary to be harmed by my theory of the crimes.”

  “Crimes?” Rosemary said.

  I explained what I believed happened to both Beth Anne as well as what Mary Carpenter may have done in a similar way years later.

  “I think your theory begs the question as to whether you have uncovered the unmitigated truth,” B.C. said.

  “Point taken. But with your mother’s memory of the events, the data we found from the doctor, and then some scattered hearsay evidence from some reliable sources, I’d say we have a whole lot of circumstantial evidence that points to the manner in which things happened. It seems that Mrs. Beth Anne Johnson murdered her son. However, having said that, we cannot prove any of it. Nothing would hold up in your courtroom.”

  “If I were her defense attorney, I would shred your case without breaking a sweat,” B.C. said.

  “And your mother’s testimony?” I said.

  “Damaging, but, well, she’s 99, dubious memory at times, and you are asking her to recall events that took place more than seventy years ago. I think any defense attorney should be able to raise a reasonable doubt with the jury. That is, any attorney worth her salt,” she said.

  “You would do that to your mother?” I said.

  “If Mary Carpenter were my client, yes, but I can assure you that Mary would never hire me or our firm to represent her. My mother can rest easy on that front.”

  “I’d rest easy even if you were the opposing lawyer. You think I’m scared of you, daughter of mine. Ha. I’d chew you up and spit you out before breakfast,” Rosemary said and laughed heartily. That would be a duel I would pay to see.

  “Rosemary, I want to ask you about that other infant’s death?” I said.

  “I wondered when you might head in that direction,” Rosemary said.

  “I don’t like to pursue two cases at once. One at a time is hard enough.”

  “I can only imagine, my dear...only imagine. So what is your question?”

  “You were around when little Robby died?” I said.

  “I think it was my day off. Yes, now that I recall, I was off. Always regretted that. I might have made a difference if I had been there. All I remember is that Robby’s death happened in a similar fashion to that of little Colby. It was hard on Mary. I do know that. I don’t know that she ever got over it.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  En route to Morning Glory Nursing Care Facility, we stopped off at Maybelline’s on a whim I had.

  “It’s too early for lunch,” Rosey said.

  “Not going to eat. Need to talk with Maybelline.”

  “Adding to your vast recipe collection?”

  “Funny man. She might have some pertinent information.”

  “What do you think she knows about all this?”

  “We may both be surprised together.”

  “I think Sam and I will wait in the car. You can surprise me when you come back.”

  Sam put a paw on Rosey’s shoulder to signal a need to walk, so while I was heading towards the back entrance of Maybelline’s, Rosey and Sam headed off in the opposite direction for some exercise and relief.

  I knocked on the back door and waited. One of the waitresses opened the door. Maria was printed on her name tag. I asked to see Maybelline and she let me inside. I stood in the back part of the kitchen. It smelled heavenly.

  “Clancy Evans, right?” Maybelline said as she approached me smiling.

  “Bingo. Good memory.”

  “I remember all my good customers. You’re with that hulk of a man, Roosevelt Washington. You know that’s a sexy name,” she said chewing her gum as if she were excited about it. The gum, not the sexy name.

  “Don’t tell him that. I have enough trouble with his ego as it is.”

  “Mum’s the word. Just between us gals. How can I help you?”

  “One of those none-of-my-business questions,” I began.

  “Ask. I can always refuse.”

  “You can. I want to know if you own this place by yourself.”

  “You interested in buying me out?”

  “No. Not my cup of tea.”

  “Oh, you want a piece of the action,” Maybelline said as she pursued her fishing expedition.

  “Not even a smidgen,” I said.

  “Then why are you askin’ me this?”

  “I’m a detective. I detect.”

  “Oh, you mean you’re just plain nosey,” Maybelline said.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t usually talk about my business with strangers, but since you’re such a good customer and all, and a straightforward woman, the answer is no, I have a partner.”

  “Would you tell me who your partner is?”

  “He prefers to remain silent,” she said.

  “If I guess who your partner is, would you offer me some affirmation that indicates I have landed well?”

  “You’re a crazy detective, you know that?”

  “I have my moments.”

  She motioned with her right hand towards the door. My first thought was that she was throwing me out for my insolence at asking such a thing. I headed towards the exit and she followed me outside and we stood on the steps.

  “Okay, guess away, but I doubt if you can guess correctly if I gave you three guesses, which I am not giving, by the way. One guess. All the marbles. I’m too busy here to play games even with a wily detective. Hey, let’s make this interesting. If you guess right, I will feed you and that robust man who sides with you a meal of your choice. I’ll even throw in a cheeseburger for the dog. On the house, if you get it right.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “I haven’t told you what you have to do for me yet, when you get it wrong.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “Fifty dollars. You give me fifty dollars free and clear. No food exchange, no drinks, just cash. Meals versus money. Does that still sound fair?”

  “Rings about right. Your partner is John Boxley,” I said.

  Maybelline stopped chewing her gum. Her mouth was agape. I could see her wad of gum. She was miles beyond surprised.

  “Damn. You want the usual Rueben and Club deal?” Maybelline said as she re-entered the back door. I could hear the gum smacking sound even with her back to me. That must have been some fine gum
she had.

  I returned to the truck. Sam and Rosey were waiting. Their walk and Sam’s business concluded.

  “You fellows have a good walk?”

  “Delightful. You learn anything from Maybelline?”

  “Yeah. The three of us get free sandwiches next time around.”

  Sam wagged his tail in anticipation. I was fairly certain that it was the word sandwiches and not free that made him express his future pleasure.

  “Must’ve been that Clancy charm on full throttle,” Rosey said.

  “Naw, just won a guessing game. Now let’s go see John Boxley.”

  “What more could you want to know from him?”

  “How he knew Big Mike’s real name,” I said.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I called Roscoe and told him my suspicions and told him where to look. I also told him to call me back as soon as he found anything informative.

  Sam, Rosey, and I drove across town to the nursing facility.

  The door to Boxley’s room was ajar. We could hear him talking to someone. We waited for a few seconds, listening for the other person’s voice. It was a one way conversation. Unless he was talking to himself, Boxley was on the phone with someone.

  The monologue from Boxley sounded harsh and demanding, so we decided not to intrude upon his privacy. We waited and listened.

  “Listen to me, you slug head, I don’t want any delays. You get that shipment outta the building tonight.”