This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright ©2014 Michael E. Glasscock III
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First Edition
This novel is dedicated to the memory of Bill Wilson (Bill W.) and Dr. Robert Smith (Dr. Bob), the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous.
“A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.”
—Robert Frost
Chapter 1
Nodding to her coworkers, Shenandoah Coleman wandered across the noisy, smoke-filled city room of the Memphis Express, oblivious to the clatter of typewriters ricocheting off the bare walls and linoleum floor. She stopped at the large open window overlooking the Mississippi River and glanced out at the rising water. She could see a tugboat maneuvering a barge alongside one of the docks between Mud Island and the mainland. The water, muddy from rains in Missouri and Illinois, swirled like chocolate milk behind the tug’s powerful propellers.
Turning toward the clickety-clack of the Associated Press Teletype, Shenandoah noticed an incoming message, tore it off, and took it to her desk.
Nashville, Tennessee, July 14, 1952—Dr. Katherine Marlow, age 32, of Round Rock, Tennessee, is scheduled to go on trial July 21 for the murder of one of her patients, a Mrs. Lillian Johnson, age 32, also of Round Rock.
Dr. Marlow, indicted in March of this year, pleaded not guilty to the charge at her arraignment. Jake Watson, Dr. Marlow’s attorney, was unavailable for comment. The suspect currently resides as an inmate in the Parsons County Jail.—Associated Press
Shenandoah read the two paragraphs three times. She couldn’t believe that Kate Marlow was capable of murder. Shenandoah hadn’t seen either the accused or the victim in fourteen years—not since the year she’d graduated from high school, the same year that she’d moved to Nashville and taken a secretarial job at the National Life and Accident Insurance Company.
When Shenandoah left Round Rock, she planned never to return. As a young girl she had become fascinated by the exploits of Amelia Earhart and her Nashville heroine, Cornelia Fort. Once she arrived in Nashville, every extra penny had gone for flying lessons at a grass strip just outside the city. When the war broke out, she was among the 1,000 applicants who’d made it into the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP) out of 25,000 who’d applied. She’d been stationed in Sweetwater, Texas, so after termination from the service near the end of the war she took a BA in English from the University of Texas in Austin. Upon graduation, she’d become a reporter for the Memphis Express newspaper.
Shenandoah felt ashamed of herself for not keeping up with Kate more regularly, but she was even more shocked that Dr. Marlow could be in such a mess. Shenandoah picked up the phone and dialed the operator. “I’d like to place a call to the sheriff’s office in Round Rock, Tennessee,” she said.
After several rings, a woman answered.
“Sheriff Marlow, please.”
“Old Jeb’s been dead two year now.”
“Dead?”
“Heart attack.”
“Who’s sheriff?”
“Jasper Kingman. Want to talk to him?”
“No, thanks.”
Replacing the receiver, she looked out over the city room and wondered what she should do. She dialed the operator again.
“I’d like to place a person-to-person call to a Mr. Jake Watson in Round Rock, Tennessee.”
Seconds later, the operator said, “I can’t find a listing for a Jake Watson.”
“He’s an attorney, operator. Try the yellow pages.”
“Sure you have the correct name?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no listing for Jake Watson.”
Shenandoah picked up a pencil and started doodling on the Teletype message. What should I do? Forget it? Go home? Lay open all the old wounds? I thought that misery was all behind me.
Shenandoah walked across the city room to the office of her boss, Ned Baker. A year from retirement, the editor was a holdover from the golden age of the press when city editors ran their papers with an iron fist. Balding and overweight, Ned chewed on a Havana from sunup to sundown. Every few minutes he spit brown-streaked saliva into the rusty fruit juice can he kept beside his desk.
Shenandoah tapped lightly on the doorframe as she entered Ned’s office.
“Morning, Shenandoah. What’s my investigative reporter up to?”
She handed Ned the news report. “I know this doctor,” she said. “I’d like to cover the trial.”
“You’re from Round Rock?”
“I’m actually from a place called Beulah Land, about two miles outside of Round Rock.”
“Beulah Land—as in Heaven?”
“Hardly—just squalor. I’ve got a couple of vacation weeks coming. It’ll make a good human interest story.”
“Keep tabs on your expenses, and I’ll try to get the boss to reimburse you. Going to interview Buford Frampton for your book while you’re up there?”
“He is Boss Crump’s man in East Tennessee.” For the past six months, Shenandoah had been planning an exposé of the old-time party boss, E. H. Crump, who was said to vote names from the city’s cemeteries, and she had been gathering information on his political machine in Memphis.
The editor picked up his can, spit into it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He fixed his dark brown eyes on Shenandoah and said, “Remember Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again? His protagonist, George Webber, alienated himself from the people of his hometown. To paraphrase, I’d say that it’s hard to go home again. Things are never as you remember them. The buildings don’t seem as big, the ponds and lakes look smaller, the roads appear narrower, and the people are often not what you remember. You’ll be amazed.”
* * *
Shenandoah parked her new Chevrolet Bel Air at a meter in the Round Rock town square and slipped a nickel into the slot. A little over five-seven, Shenandoah had what the Bard referred to as “a lean and hungry look.” Bell’s palsy at age sixteen had left her with a slight droop of her mouth on the right side that gave her a Mona Lisa smile. Men found that minor flaw, her flaming red hair, her flawless cream complexion, and her gr
een eyes enchanting. A fashion maven, she always looked as if she’d just stepped off a page in Vogue, and on this day she wore a free-flowing swing skirt with a floral pattern and wedge open-toed sandals.
She stood on the hot asphalt for a moment and glanced around the square. Waves of hot air radiated off the pavement, her blouse stuck to her back, and perspiration beaded across her forehead. The stately limestone courthouse looked just as it had on the day she’d left, but the buildings surrounding it appeared to be in worse shape. The whittlers, prune-faced old men, kept their vigil as ever on the courthouse steps, piles of cedar shavings hiding their rough brogans. Two Civil War cannons stood like sentinels on either side of the steps, each with a pyramid of cannon balls stacked beside it. A teenage boy, red-faced and gasping for breath, pedaled up the hill toward her on an old Schwinn Road Master.
Bradshaw’s Drugstore, where Saturdays had once found Shenandoah sweeping the floor and stocking the storeroom, still stood at the bottom of the hill. It was from the door of the storeroom that she used to watch Katherine Marlow and her boyfriend, Army Johnson, share a chocolate sundae.
The lone Esso station remained on the far side of the courthouse. It was there, at sixteen, that she’d bought her first rubber. She’d sneaked into the men’s restroom when she’d decided it was time to lose her virginity. It was a fruitless goal because all the boys were afraid of her. The condom had remained in her wallet, wearing a ring in the leather, until she finally used it with a young second lieutenant in the winter of 1942, when she was taking the training required for the women pilots of the WASP.
The whittlers ignored her as she climbed the stairs and entered the cool interior of the old building. It had been years since Shenandoah had last been there, and she was amused to see that the smooth plaster walls still displayed large photographs of judges, county court clerks, and sheriffs. In the center of the lobby, a marble spiral staircase led to the upper floors that held the courtroom, the jail, and the sheriff’s office. She started up the first flight, knowing that the sheriff would not welcome her visit. Would Kate?
On the third floor, Shenandoah entered an open door and approached a secretary typing on an old Royal typewriter. A woman in her early sixties with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, she wore thick spectacles on the tip of her long nose. When the woman didn’t acknowledge her presence, Shenandoah said, “Hello.”
Looking up, the woman asked, “What?”
“I’d like to see Dr. Kate Marlow.”
“Sheriff’s got to okay it.”
“Jasper in?”
“His office,” his secretary said, pointing to her right.
Shenandoah hesitated for a moment. Dealing with Jasper Kingman was not something she wanted to do. But if she wanted to see Kate Marlow, she had no choice. Just uttering Jasper’s name brought back distasteful, angry thoughts.
* * *
Like all the Coleman clan, Shenandoah went to school barefoot in the autumn and spring, and like her cousins, she always wore ratty, soiled, and wrinkled clothes. Shenandoah’s feet were always filthy and her toenails were always long, with Parsons County clay caked beneath them. Her red hair, which was her pride and joy, was the one thing that she insisted be clean at all times. She washed it daily in a galvanized gallon bucket that she kept in her small bedroom. The lard soap her mother made would not lather, so Shenandoah stole bars of city soap from the girls’ bathroom at school. She wore her hair in one long pigtail that hung down the middle of her back to her waist.
One morning, the school bus was late, and Shenandoah and her cousins stood and waited impatiently next to the lone pump where all the inhabitants of Beulah Land got their water. Some of the boys tossed rocks at passing cars, and the girls giggled when the drivers waved angry fists in response.
When the bus finally arrived some fifteen minutes late, the children scrambled up the steps and took their seats. Shenandoah shuddered when she saw Jasper Kingman sitting on the last bench on the right. The older boy was in the sixth grade and Shenandoah in the fifth. Jasper’s father worked for the city of Round Rock as a garbage collector and drove to work every day about the same time school started. Usually, Jasper rode with his dad. But unfortunately, he occasionally rode the school bus with Shenandoah.
The only seat available was right in front of Jasper. She asked the driver if she could stand, but he wouldn’t let her. Jasper grinned at her as she took her seat. She ignored him and stared straight ahead.
“How’s it going, girl? You ain’t near as dirty this morning as you usually are. What happened? You steal some more soap?” Jasper asked.
Shenandoah ignored him. She carried her books held together with an old belt her mother had found in the city dump. She unbuckled it and took out her arithmetic book.
“Look at you. Studying like you was smart or something. Hell, everybody knows you Coleman folks is as dumb as you is dirty.”
Shenandoah ground her teeth, her jaw muscles flexing rhythmically, but still she said nothing.
Then Jasper made a bad mistake that would change his life forever. He reached over the back of Shenandoah’s seat, grabbed her pigtail, and sliced it off with his pocket knife. Before she could move, he wrapped it around her neck and pulled her head back against the seat.
He laughed and said, “I been meaning to do that for a long time, girl. I just don’t like pigtails. Particularly on a filthy Coleman.”
Shenandoah could feel Jasper’s breath on her neck, and she knew his head was right behind hers. In a move as swift as lightning, she swung her arithmetic book over her head and slammed it into Jasper’s skull with all her might.
“Hey,” he yelled, letting go of the pigtail.
Shenandoah sprang out of her seat and grabbed Jasper by the shirt, pulling him into the aisle. He was so startled he didn’t even resist. She slammed her right knee into his groin, and when he leaned over gasping in pain, she hit him in the nose with her fist. Blood spurted onto her dress and onto Jasper’s shirt. Then she threw him against the back wall of the bus and pounded his head against it. His tongue hung limply out the corner of his mouth, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
Jasper was known as a trouble maker, and Mr. Albright, the driver, had followed the scene in his rearview mirror with some satisfaction. Nonetheless, he slammed on the brakes and ran down the aisle toward the scuffling children. He pulled Shenandoah away from Jasper as the boy fell to the floor, unconscious.
Shenandoah struggled with the bus driver, trying to get free. In her mind, she was just getting started.
“Shenandoah, honey, stop it!” Albright yelled. “You won the damn fight. Back off.”
He let go of her and she picked up her pigtail. Tears streamed down her smooth cheeks as she took her seat.
Jasper regained consciousness moments later. The whole confrontation had taken less than two minutes. He pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and held it under his nose. He didn’t say a word for the remainder of the trip and ignored the open mouthed amazement of the other students on the bus.
* * *
Years later, in the courthouse, Shenandoah found Sherriff Jasper Kingman cleaning a .38 revolver. Six silver cartridges stood like toy soldiers on top of his desk.
The fourteen years since their high school graduation had barely changed Jasper Kingman. His thin sandy hair was receding and his blue eyes had lost some of their fire, but otherwise he looked just as he had when Shenandoah had last seen him. His belly remained as flat as the desktop.
Spying Shenandoah, the sheriff scrambled to his feet and, blushing, said, “Afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?”
A smile broke across Shenandoah’s face, and Jasper Kingman stared at her. “Wait a minute. You look damn familiar. What’s your name?”
Shenandoah extended her hand. “Shenandoah Coleman. I haven’t forgotten you, Jasper.”
The sheriff ignored Shenandoah’s gesture and rammed the cleaning rod down the muzzle of the pistol. “
Got one of your kin back there—been here a while,” he said, a crooked smile growing on his lips.
“Uncle Junior?”
“Yep. Thought we’d seen the last of your sorry ass. What’re you doing dressed up like a big-city whore?”
“You’ve never been to a big city, Jasper. How would you know what a big-city whore looked like, anyway?”
“I’ve been to Nashville and Knoxville, smart-ass.”
“Neither of which is a big city. I’m a reporter for the Memphis Express, up to cover Dr. Kate’s trial.”
“I’ll be damned—an educated Coleman. How’d that happen, Shenandoah?”
“Anyone can get an education if you serve your country. You in the military?”
The sheriff flushed. “Damned blood pressure was too high. Draft board said they needed me here, ‘cause I was a deputy.”
Shenandoah nodded. “Figures.”
“What you want, Shenandoah?”
“To see Dr. Kate.”
Jasper tilted his head back and laughed, his breath coming in short snorts. Placing the pistol and cleaning rod on his desk, the sheriff pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Slipping one into his mouth, he lit it with a worn Zippo. Inhaling deeply, he looked Shenandoah in the eye and said, “What if the lady won’t see you? She ain’t in the best of moods.”
“I’ll chance it.”
“What if I won’t let you?”
“I’ll see Jake Watson and get a court order. It’s up to you, Jasper.” Jasper stared at Shenandoah. He sucked on the cigarette until the tip glowed, then leaned forward and pushed a button on the intercom box. “Margaret, tell Masterson to come here.”
The deputy materialized out of thin air, as if he had been loitering within earshot. Shenandoah didn’t know the man. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, and his brown hair was graying at the temples. A bushy gray mustache hung low over his thin lips, and his rotund features gave him a jolly appearance in spite of the frown on his face.
“Oscar, meet a sober Coleman. Most likely the only one you’ll ever see. Her name’s Shenandoah. Take the smart-ass back to see the doc.”
The Trial of Dr. Kate Page 1
