The trip back to East Tennessee had created so many mixed feelings. Every time someone mentioned that she was a sober Coleman, she seethed with anger. Yet there were people in Round Rock who had been friends and mentors to her, people she’d abandoned because of the few detractors who’d made her life miserable.
The Washington farm was on the south side of town, just a few miles past Beulah Land. She drove through Round Rock and by her old home. The rusty pump and tarpaper shacks looked just as they on had the day she’d left. Just seeing them now made her stomach burn.
Shenandoah was about a mile from the Washington farm when she spotted the Dodge pickup coming toward her at a fast clip. She pulled her shoulder bag to her and removed the Colt. As the pickup got closer, she let it pass, executed a perfect bootleg turn, and headed after it. “Two can play at this game, asshole,” she said out loud.
The Dodge actually accelerated out of the curve. Damn bastard is trying to get away from me or leading me into an ambush. She pushed the accelerator to the floorboard and watched the speedometer climb to eighty miles an hour. Gradually, she began to gain on the pickup. As they entered a curve, the pickup almost lost control and went into a four-wheel drift. Coming out of the curve, it accelerated again. It must have a hopped up engine.
The pickup leaped ahead, and Shenandoah pushed further on the accelerator. She glanced at the speedometer and was shocked to see that she was hitting ninety miles an hour. Her mouth went dry, and her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. This is nuts. Suddenly, the Dodge braked hard, did some maneuver Shenandoah didn’t understand, and ended up crossways on the blacktop, blocking it completely. Shenandoah hit the brakes, but the Chevy barely shuddered. She stood on the brake pedal and pressed hard. The car began to slow, but she was still moving fast enough to face a stark decision: leave the highway or hit the truck. As she made a fast calculation in her head, the pickup spun around and accelerated away from her, laying rubber on the asphalt.
As the Bel Air continued to slow, Shenandoah could feel her pulse quicken and her breath strain. She felt lightheaded as she guided the car to the shoulder. Once stopped, she lay her forehead on the steering wheel and tried to stop hyperventilating. That does it. I’m going to see Trooper Short.
After several minutes, she felt her head clear and her respirations slow. She slipped the Colt back into her bag and pulled onto the highway again. A mile later, she turned onto a gravel county road, drove for two miles, and then turned in at the Washingtons’ long crushed limestone drive. The big white house with the picket fence looked the same as it had fourteen years ago, except for the gate.
Shenandoah parked the Bel Air in front of the fence. The gate hung precariously from its hinges, and Shenandoah wondered if Persifor was okay. It wasn’t like Persifor to let any piece of equipment go unattended.
She rang the doorbell and waited. Several minutes passed, and she was just about to turn away when the door opened and Frances Washington stepped onto the porch.
“Oh, my goodness, look what the cat dragged in! Shenandoah Coleman, how are you, child?”
The petite woman was in her mid-seventies, and her once coal-black hair, now streaked with silver, was pulled back at the base of her neck in a tight bun. Frameless bifocals sat at the tip of her broad nose, just as they had on the last day Shenandoah had seen her. Barely five feet tall, she had to tilt her head to make eye contact with Shenandoah.
“I hope you don’t mind that I just dropped in, Miss Frances. I was driving by and wanted to see you.”
“Lord, child, I’m so happy to see you. I’ve thought about you so often, and I’m just a mite peeved that you haven’t kept in touch.”
“I’m sorry. I have no excuse except laziness.”
“Well, come in and tell me about yourself.”
Mrs. Washington led Shenandoah into her cluttered living room. The wall-to-wall bookcases still held hundreds of volumes. Novels and biographies lay scattered about on the tables, just as Shenandoah remembered.
Frances sat in her chair and motioned for Shenandoah to take a seat on the couch. “You look wonderful, Shenandoah. May I offer you some iced tea or a glass of water?”
“No, thanks. I’m doing well. I have no complaints. How’s Persifor?”
“He’s fine. He and my grandson are in town. Doesn’t get around quite as well as he’d like to these days, but the man is eighty.”
“I didn’t realize you had a grandson.”
“My daughter and her husband were killed in a car wreck in 1942, and my grandson has lived with us ever since. He’ll be a sophomore at Tennessee Tech in the fall. His name is Joe Stout. He hates it, but we still call him Little Joe. But you were going to tell me about yourself.”
“First, let me say how sorry I am about your daughter. And I want to thank you for introducing me to books. You were the only one who ever encouraged me. It changed my life.”
A smile crossed the old woman’s face, and she said, “Books will do that. What’re you reading now?”
“From Here to Eternity.”
“You in the military?”
“I was with the WASP.”
“So you were a pilot! How wonderful. You were always different, Shenandoah. I’m glad you made it through the war years safely. What kind of job do you have?”
“I’m a reporter for the Memphis Express. I’m here to cover Dr. Kate’s trial, and I’m also writing a book about E. H. Crump’s political machine.”
A look of sheer delight formed on Frances Washington’s face. “Oh, Shenandoah, I’m so proud of you! I knew you could break out of Beulah Land.”
“I’ve learned I can’t deny where I came from. It’s better just to admit it up front. Some people around here still hold it against me, but most take me for what I am.”
“As they should. Just look at the poor Negroes. God only knows when we’ll get rid of this awful segregation. I blame the Republicans for all our postwar troubles.”
Shenandoah laughed and said, “I assume you’re referring to the War of Northern Aggression.”
“True, though I prefer to call it what it was: a war to preserve the union and to abolish slavery.”
“I’ve always been amazed how southerners tend to live in the past. My God, that war’s been over for almost ninety years,” Shenandoah said.
“The South was occupied. That’s the difference. We still find Minié balls on this farm, and a lot of people can remember a great-grandfather who was killed by the Yankees.”
“The only war I want to forget is the last one,” Shenandoah said. She leaned forward. “I’m trying to help my friend Kate Marlow. Tell me how you feel about her.”
“She’s a wonderful doctor,” Frances said. “I don’t think she took Lillian Johnson’s life. I don’t know what happened to the poor woman, but I just can’t believe Dr. Kate had anything to do with it. What do you think?”
“I agree, but there are some bothersome questions.”
“There always are.”
“The trial starts Monday. Are you going?”
“Jake Watson has asked me to be a character witness. I’m sure the place will be packed. Morbid curiosity is a human trait.”
Shenandoah stood and extended her hand. “I have to go now, Miss Frances, and I’m sure you have more important things to do. Please tell Persifor I’m sorry I missed him. He was always good to my father and me.”
“I’ll show you to the door, Shenandoah. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your visit. Please stay in touch, and send me a copy of that book when it’s published.”
* * *
Shenandoah ate supper at the Beacon Restaurant in Cookeville and returned to Round Rock around seven that night to find Hattie Mae and Mr. Applebee sitting in the swing on the front porch. Hattie Mae was fanning herself with a paper fan from Walton’s Funeral Home, and Mr. Applebee was taking deep breaths, his massive tongue hanging out.
“Lord have mercy, Shenandoah, this heat is about to kill us. Poor Mr. Applebee ca
n’t even sleep at night, and when he does, the little dear snores so loud I can’t sleep myself.”
“It’s hot. That’s for sure.” Shenandoah sat on the top step. “I saw Mr. Sloan over at the hardware store today. He’s a nice fellow.”
“He’s one-half of the Golden Boys.”
“I remember. Sheriff Jeb was the other one.”
“That’s right. Abel Sloan and Jeb Marlow—Kate’s uncle, you’ll recall—were up at University of Tennessee and played football on Coach Neyland’s first team. Darn good at it too. That would have been in 1926, when they had an eight and one record. Vanderbilt beat them twenty to three.”
Suddenly, Hattie Mae sat bolt upright and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, Shenandoah, I darn near forgot to tell you! Jake Watson come by here looking for you around five or so. Said he wanted you to come by his house after supper—something about a car and some men. I swear, the old fool talks so fast that sometimes I can’t understand nothing he says.”
Shenandoah looked at her watch. “It’s five after seven. Think it’s too late to go?”
“I reckon not.”
Jake’s house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac at the top of a long hill. It was the only dwelling on the street, surrounded by a dense forest of maples, oaks, and hackberry trees. A blue Victorian with white shutters, it stood three stories with a porch in front and along both sides. White gingerbread trim adorned the top of the porch and each window. The yard, beautifully landscaped, featured a large gazebo to the right of the house.
Shenandoah knocked and soon heard footsteps on a hardwood floor. Jake opened the door and motioned her in. “Glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure Hattie Mae got my message straight.”
“As a matter of fact, she said you wanted to talk to me about a car and some men.”
“God love her, Hattie Mae is a sweet old thing, but she’s not too bright. She looks like she was hit with an ugly stick, as well. How’s living there?”
“Interesting. She’s kind of taken me under her wing. Seems I remind her of her daughter. I’m even warming up to Mr. Applebee.”
“Come back to the library. I’ve got something to show you.” Shenandoah followed Jake down a long hallway past a beautiful spiral staircase that reminded Shenandoah of a scene from Gone with the Wind. They walked into a majestic room with real walnut bookcases, filled to capacity. A walnut ladder on rollers sat in front of the shelves. A large brick fireplace took up one end of the room, and over it hung an oil portrait of a man who resembled Jake. Two regal red leather chairs with matching ottomans faced the fireplace. On the opposite side of the room, a large walnut cabinet that housed a series of loudspeakers sat next to an expensive-looking turntable.
“This is a spectacular room,” Shenandoah said. “I’ve never seen so many books. Are they legal volumes?”
“Heavens, no. The law books stay at the office. This is my collection of novels, histories, and biographies. A good number of them belonged to my father.” Pointing to the portrait, Jake said, “That’s him when he was on the Tennessee Supreme Court. Have a seat, Shenandoah. I want you to hear something.”
Lowering the stylus onto a 33 1/3 record, Jake said, “I was going to have us listen to Carmen, but I just got a new recording of Maria Callas singing Puccini’s Tosca. It was recorded live on September 14 last year in Rio de Janeiro.”
Suddenly, the room filled with the overture to Tosca. Shenandoah felt the bass ranges vibrate her chair. It was the most fantastic sound she had ever heard from a recording.
Jake said, “This is something new. It’s called high fidelity recording, hi-fi for short. I heard it last winter when I was in Chicago.”
The door opened, and a petite woman entered the room carrying a silver tray that held a silver coffeepot, matching cream and sugar containers, and a plate of cookies. The woman looked to be around forty, and had light, milk chocolate skin, fine, sharp features, and extremely short curly hair. She carried herself with a subtle grace. As she set the tray on a table between the chairs, Jake said, “Shenandoah, this is Yolanda, my housekeeper. Yolanda, Shenandoah.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Shenandoah,” Yolanda said.
Shenandoah nodded and said, “Likewise.”
“When I lost my wife a few years back, Yolanda stepped in to take care of the house and cook my meals. I couldn’t get along without her.”
“If you don’t need anything else, Mr. Jake, I’ll be in my room.”
“We’re fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” Turning back to Shenandoah, Jake said, “I thought we’d listen to part of the first act and then talk a little. Help yourself to the coffee.”
Shenandoah picked up the silver pot and poured a china cup full of a very rich, dark coffee. She passed the cup to Jake, poured herself one, and then handed Jake the plate of cookies.
“I hope you like chicory,” Jake said. “I got addicted to the stuff when I was doing some postgraduate work at Tulane.”
“I love chicory. This is a fantastic house. How old is it?”
“My father built it around the turn of the century. I inherited it when he died.”
They relaxed, drank coffee, and listened to Tosca. After twenty minutes or so, Jake turned off the system and walked to the bookcase. He pushed on a book, and that whole section rotated into the wall to reveal a small bar. He turned to Shenandoah and asked, “Brandy, bourbon, scotch—what’s your poison?”
“Jack on the rocks.”
Jake filled a small crystal tumbler with ice and poured it full of Jack Daniels. After handing it to Shenandoah, he poured himself a small amount of Pinch scotch. “I like mine neat.”
Shenandoah asked, “Does Army Johnson keep you supplied?”
Jake laughed. “Army doesn’t deal in quality whisky, but he’ll do a special run to Atlanta for me about once every six months or so.”
Shenandoah took a sip of her Jack Daniels and gave a deep sigh. “I do enjoy Mr. Motlow’s liquor.”
They sat and drank in silence for a few moments, and then Shenandoah said, “You know, Jake, even though I was raised in the South, I find it a puzzling place. Here we sit in a dry county drinking hard liquor. Hattie Mae says Army Johnson makes a good living flaunting the law.”
Jake put his legs up on the ottoman, leaned back in his chair, took a long sip of his drink, and laughed softly. “Can’t legislate morals. We southerners are a bit hypocritical—say one thing and do another. You comfortable, Shenandoah?”
Shenandoah put her feet up as well. “Absolutely. You know I’ve been going to see Kate every morning since I got here.”
“She told me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she had a drinking problem?”
“It’s a well-known secret. I don’t believe it’s ever interfered with her work.”
“I hate to disagree. The fact that she’s had blackout spells and can’t remember where she’s been should tell you something.”
“You’re an expert?”
“I’ve done some research on the subject because of my family. At least she’s got herself off the stuff while she’s in her cell. If she gets through the trial unscathed, I hope she’ll stay off it.”
“It’s my job to get her through the trial. I plan to defend her with everything I’ve got. But there’s a new twist. McArthur Neal had a massive stroke Thursday, and he won’t be able to prosecute the case. Baxter Hargrove talked the state into assigning a special prosecutor to take McArthur’s place. Thelonius P. Flatt is the man’s name. He’s a well-known defense attorney in Nashville—ran for lieutenant governor two or three years ago.”
“Who would you rather go up against: Neal or Flatt?”
“Neal. At least I know him. Flatt’s an unknown quantity.”
“How’re you planning your defense? How’re you going to deal with the fact Kate can’t remember where she was that day?”
“I’m working on it.”
“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought,” Shenandoah said as she sat up straight in the chai
r and faced Jake. “You think Lillian could have killed herself?”
Jake nodded. “I believe that’s what happened,” he said. “I’m not sure how she got the drug and syringe, but somehow she must have.”
“You know that she asked Kate to take her life.”
“That’s what makes me believe that Lillian figured out how to do it herself once Kate told her no.”
“You don’t think Kate would have given her the medicine and syringe?”
“She swears she didn’t. I have to believe her.”
“What if she can’t remember doing it?”
“Just one of the many problems I have to deal with. What can I say? It’s not going to be easy.”
“Well, I’m going to try and figure out how Lillian did it. If I come to any conclusions, I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get. More Jack Daniels?”
“I’m fine. I need to get back to Hattie Mae’s. She doesn’t like me coming in late. Thanks for everything, Jake,” Shenandoah said as she stood and placed her empty glass on the table.
“I always like to share new toys with my friends. Come back after the trial and I’ll play you the first act of Carmen.”
Jake walked her to the front door, and Shenandoah asked, “Where can I find Jimmy Joe Short? I need to get some advice.”
“He’s got a small office in the courthouse. He’s mostly on the highway looking for speeders. Best time to catch him is early in the morning.”
“Thanks. I’m going Monday. This Dodge pickup thing is beginning to make me nervous.”
* * *
Shenandoah walked back to her car and returned to Hattie Mae’s. The landlady and Mr. Applebee were still on the porch. As she climbed the steps, Shenandoah said, “I thought you and Mr. Applebee would be in bed by now. How are you feeling?”
Hattie Mae shifted her considerable bulk in the porch swing and said, “I ain’t pert, but I’m a little better than common. It’s just this darn heat that’s killing us both. We may stay out here all night. How was your friend Mr. Watson?”
“He was fine. I met his housekeeper.”
“Yolanda?” Hattie Mae winked at Shenandoah and gave a little chuckle. “I hear tell she’s a mite more than a housekeeper.”
The Trial of Dr. Kate Page 15
