A Murder In Passing

by Mark de Castrique

  “Pneumonia?”

  “Probably.” Captain’s eyes glistened. “The old man’s friend, we call it. They say it takes you away without pain. There’s a breath, and then never another.”

  I patted his leg. “The Mayor might surprise us.”

  “Oh, he’s done that already. A hundred and five. The things that man’s seen.”

  Captain sounded like he was part of the Facebook generation compared to the Mayor.

  “Well, we all go in our time,” he said. “But not a day passes I don’t think of the young men lost under my command. And wonder why their time was so early.”

  I didn’t say anything. We sat in the sunlight a few moments. The water gurgled through the filter of the pond’s pump. The brightly colored koi glided in and out of the shadows cast by the lily pads. It was a good day to be alive.

  “What’s on your mind?” he said at last.

  “Do you know someone named Lucille Montgomery?”

  “Sure. Nice lady. Did her daughter get in touch?”

  I stared at Captain with surprise. “How’d you know?”

  “I’m the one who told her about you. Marsha didn’t waste any time.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. She came to have lunch with Lucille. We’d all gone to church together. The ecumenical service in the auditorium.”

  “You’d met her before?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lucille’s been here about five years. Marsha’s good to visit. She works for Lang Paper Manufacturing. I think she’s in sales. Lucille says her daughter travels some, but she’s usually home on the weekends.”

  Captain’s description of Marsha’s job matched the professional appearance of the woman.

  “How did my name come up?”

  “She caught me at the dessert table. She said she needed some background check run at work but didn’t want to use their normal channels. She said it was a sensitive internal investigation. I thought she was probably talking about some sort of suspected embezzlement.”

  “She didn’t say it was personal?”

  Captain shook his head. “No. She said her mother told her I’d been involved with some investigators from Asheville. She thought hiring someone from out of town might be better.”

  “Where’s the paper plant?”

  “On the outskirts of Brevard.”

  Brevard was about twenty-five miles from Asheville and paper mills had once been a strong component of its manufacturing base. Many had closed as outsourcing and environmental laws had affected profitability.

  “She asked me not to say anything about it because it could reflect badly on the company.” He looked at me curiously. “So if it’s about her job, why do you want to talk to Lucille?”

  “That’s a good question. Maybe we should leave it at that.”

  He grinned. “The private in private eye. Okay. What else do you want to know?”

  “How can I meet her?”

  “Easy. I’ll introduce you.” He checked his watch. “She should be in her apartment.”

  “Thanks.” I stood and waited for Captain to man his walker. “You think I could see Harry?”

  “While you’re with Lucille, I’ll speak to Bertha. The Mayor doesn’t have any kin so I think they’ll be flexible. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

  I followed Captain down one of the long corridors to the end. He stopped in front of a door with a brass plaque reading “Montgomery.” Beneath it hung cutout wooden block letters of alternating red and white forming the phrase, “Enter with a Happy Heart.”

  “Lucille’s got a trek to the dining hall,” I said.

  “Yeah, but she’s spry. And she saves money.”

  “How?”

  “The farther units aren’t as expensive. In this place, a great location means you’re close to the food.” Captain chuckled. “Amazing how your priorities change as you get older. You just wait.” He rapped lightly on the door. “Lucille’s hearing is sharp. So’s her mind. You won’t have any trouble questioning her.”

  The soft pad of footsteps sounded from within. Then a reedy voice called, “Just a minute.”

  A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal a petite African-American woman leaning against a lacquered black cane. The wrinkles in her face crinkled deeper as she smiled with delight to see Captain. Then her expression became quizzical as her bright eyes focused on me. Marsha Montgomery said her mother was eighty-five, but Lucille looked ten years younger. Her dark skin held a natural beauty that still shone through.

  “Well, what did you bring me, Captain? Can I keep him?”

  “This is Sam Blackman, and I’m afraid he’s spoken for.”

  If my name meant anything, she didn’t react. Instead she shook her head with exaggerated slowness. “Aren’t they all. Except you, of course. The one who always gets away.”

  “No. They just keep throwing me back.”

  Lucille’s smile broadened. “Your ladies have so many fishing lines dangling in front of you I’m surprised you can walk without tripping over them.”

  “The secret is to avoid the hooks.”

  “And you’re very adept at that. So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Captain looked at me. “Sam wants to talk with you a few minutes, if you have the time.”

  “Time’s all I’ve got. Come in. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

  “Not for me,” Captain said. “I can’t stay.”

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Lucille’s face. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” Captain dropped his voice. “The Mayor went to critical care this morning. I need to check on him.”

  Lucille bit her lower lip. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. It wasn’t an exclamation but a prayer.

  “Yes,” Captain said. “I think he’s just wearing out.” He waved his arm to usher me past him. “You two have a good talk and I’ll keep you posted.”

  I stepped into Lucille Montgomery’s apartment and she closed the door behind us.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. I won’t take but a few minutes.”

  She gestured to a floral upholstered sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll stay here with my knitting.” She picked up needles and a skein of dark blue yarn.

  I looked around the room. The furniture was traditional and simple: the sofa, her rocker, and a velvet armchair. An old picture tube television sat on an oak credenza along the side wall facing her chair. A framed picture of a young Marsha in cap and gown stood to the right of the TV and a black-and-white photograph of a man in a dark suit was in a matching frame on the left. He was a white man and the composition suggested the photographer had been a professional. The soft background appeared to be a studio canvas and the three-quarter profile was one of those contrived, pensive poses where the subject peers off-camera thinking deep thoughts. He must be Marsha’s father, the man forbidden by North Carolina law to marry Lucille.

  I studied the elderly woman as she sat and placed her knitting in her lap. She wore a light blue dress with white trim collar. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. She’d dressed for lunch, although not so formally that my grandmother would have called them “Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes.

  She started slowly rocking. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  She stopped rocking. “Oh?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Your daughter Marsha came to see me this morning.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “She asked me to investigate a theft. She said someone had stolen a picture of you taken by Doris Ulmann.”

  Lucille Montgomery stared at me like I’d spoken in Japanese. “But that was nearly eighty years ago.”

  “Not the theft.”

  “No. That was later. 1967. But I don’t know that it
was stolen. It could have been lost.” Her eyes drifted to the photograph of the man by the television.

  “Why would Marsha tell me it was stolen?”

  “I don’t know. She was only a five-year-old child. She liked it. I might have said something like that at the time.”

  I looked at the man’s picture. “Around the time Marsha’s father disappeared?”

  I turned back to Lucille in time to see her face harden.

  “That’s our personal business, Mr. Blackman.”

  “Yes, µa’am. That’s why I’m here. I told your daughter we would consider her case, but I haven’t agreed to accept it. You were the property owner and if you’re not interested, then there’s nothing for us to investigate.”

  “There’s nothing to investigate,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “And the rifle?”

  Again, she looked confused. “What rifle?”

  “The one left by Marsha’s father. The deer rifle that was taken with the photograph.”

  “No. She’s mistaken. I never touched the thing, but it’s somewhere in the house.”

  I thought for a moment. Marsha had fabricated her own story without taking her mother into her confidence. There was only one reason for that.

  “Miss Montgomery, did Marsha mention the discovery made Saturday on the property once belonging to the Kingdom of the Happy Land?”

  “No.” Her answer was barely a whisper.

  “I made it and the story was in all the newspapers yesterday. I found the skeleton of a man hidden in a hollow log.”

  Lucille took a sharp breath. Her eyes fluttered and then rolled back in her head.

  I leaped from the sofa and caught her as she toppled from her chair.

  Chapter Six

  “What the hell were you doing in her apartment?” Marsha Montgomery glared at me and made no attempt to hide her anger.

  Captain and I sat in a small waiting room outside Golden Oaks’ critical care wing. Marsha stood in the door, blocking any exit. Tears lined her cheeks and her hands trembled.

  I stood. “We were having an honest conversation. Something you didn’t give me in our office.”

  Marsha looked at Captain. “Would you excuse us a moment?”

  Captain gripped the handles of his walker and pulled himself up. “Yes. But I’m the one who introduced Sam to your mother and you’re the one who asked me about Sam. The fact that he was with her might have saved her life.”

  Marsha said nothing. She let Captain pass and then stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  “I never said you could see her.”

  “You never said I couldn’t. And I’m not working for you.” I pointed to the chair opposite me. “We can talk or I can tell the doctor the substance of the conversation I had with your mother.”

  She hesitated, weighing her options. When she sat, I knew she desired to control whatever information I had.

  “Why do you think I wasn’t honest?” she asked.

  “Your mother told me the rifle wasn’t stolen.”

  “My mother is eighty-five and her memory isn’t what it once was. I remember that photograph and rifle disappeared at the same time. The missing picture really upset her. She couldn’t care less about the gun and she’s obviously forgotten about it.”

  “Uh huh. She was forty and you were only five and she doesn’t remember correctly?”

  “My father drilled it into me not to touch that gun. What else can I tell you? The rifle was gone.”

  “Your mother fainted when I told her about the skeleton.”

  Marsha covered her mouth with her hand. For a second, I was afraid she would pass out.

  When she spoke, the words came in a breathy rush. “You just blurted it out?”

  I noticed she didn’t ask what skeleton. “Why not? What could it possibly mean to her?”

  “You know damn well what it means.”

  “I think I do. Your mother’s a smart woman. She remembers quite well the events of 1967 and I think she fears the skeleton is your father. She wasn’t shocked because a body was discovered, she was shocked because someone she loved is dead. She held out hope all these years that he went somewhere to make a new life and spare you and her the bigotry of the times.”

  Marsha Montgomery’s lips trembled and she blinked back tears.

  “You’re a smart woman too,” I said. “But you’re afraid your mother might be guilty. That’s the first thought that crossed your mind when you read the newspaper story. And you overreacted. Coming to see Nakayla and me must have seemed like a good way to establish the story of the stolen gun in case the log victim had been killed by a rifle bullet. Neither Nakayla nor I swallowed the coincidence of the timing. Not only how you suddenly felt compelled to track down this photograph but also your emphasis on the Kingdom of the Happy Land.”

  Marsha wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Okay. I was stupid. But that doesn’t mean what I said isn’t true. If that skeleton is my father, then, I tell you, the two are linked. You say you don’t like coincidences, Mr. Blackman. Well, neither do I. You find who stole the picture and you’ll find who killed my father.”

  “And the rifle?”

  “Let me worry about that.” She leaned forward. “Will you help us?”

  “No more lies?”

  “No more lies.”

  “I’ll still need to talk to your mother.”

  “When she’s feeling better.”

  “Marsha, as far as I know, there’s been no positive identification of those remains. Your father might not be involved in this at all.”

  “Then I still want to find him. I don’t have any children. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have my mother. I’d like to know what happened to him.” Her moist eyes searched my face. There was no trace of duplicity on hers.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay. But I’m giving you some advice.”

  “What?”

  “Go to the police. Tell them you read the story in the newspaper. Tell them when your father disappeared.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do it. They’ll want to speak to my mother.”

  “Of course they will.”

  “I won’t put her through that. It’s too painful. My father still has relatives here.”

  “Then you do have family.”

  “No. There’s been a code of silence. My mother wanted it that way. It was an understanding. We’ve led separate lives.”

  “So, you’re still trapped in the sixties.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I don’t need to be accepted by some white bigots to have meaning in my life.”

  I raised my palms in mock surrender. “Fine. But your father wasn’t a bigot. Now you’re letting someone else’s prejudice determine your actions. What would he think?”

  “He would think what was best for my mother.”

  “Then maybe we should let her have her say.” I stood. “See how she’s doing. I’ve got a friend to visit in critical care. I’ll find you before I leave.” I walked out.

  Captain sat in a plastic chair in a general waiting area across from the nurses’ station. I waved him to keep his seat and slid in one beside him.

  “Is Marsha okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s normally very sweet. She must be upset about her mother.”

  “That’s understandable. She’s calmed down. Any word on Harry?”

  Captain glanced at the nurses’ station where a woman sat entering data through a computer keyboard. “Bertha says he’s not taking any food. They’re running an IV drip, but if they give him too much, then fluid collects in his chest. He’s between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Any pain?”

  “He’s not complaining. But then the Mayor never does.”

  “Did you speak wit
h him?”

  Captain nodded. “For a few minutes. I didn’t want to tire him.” He looked back to the nurses’ station. “Bertha, okay if Sam checks on the Mayor?”

  The middle-age woman turned from her screen. “Just him?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied me a second. “All right. Don’t push it if he seems overtaxed. He’s in the third room on the left.”

  Captain grabbed his walker and we stood. “I’m going to give the girls an update on his condition,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for Lucille.”

  “I will.”

  “Then let’s move out.”

  We saluted and I paused to watch him waltz his walker down the hall like a dance partner.

  “God broke the mold after making Captain,” Bertha said.

  “And that’s too bad. The world could use a few more like him.”

  “And the Mayor.”

  “Yes, the Mayor,” I agreed.

  Harry Young, aka the Mayor, lay on his back in the dimly lit room. The gentle hiss of oxygen and his shallow breaths were the only sounds. His pale skin was nearly translucent and his bony shoulders looked like they might pierce through the thin layer of flesh. His eyes were closed. The hospital bed was slightly raised at the head so that Harry’s jaw dropped open. Worn yellow teeth seemed large in the receding gums.

  The white sheet had pulled away at the bottom, revealing the scarred stump of the right leg. Over ninety years ago, Harry lost his foot and half his shin to the steel claws of a bear trap.

  I became aware of the snug fit of my prosthesis, an engineering marvel compared to the crude wooden one Harry wore as a boy. One hundred and five. The changes he witnessed. Despite his handicap, he lived to the fullest and taught me to do the same.

  I stepped closer and smoothed the rumpled sheet over the atrophied limb. He flinched at the brush of the starched fabric and his eyes opened.

  For a second, Harry struggled to focus and I thought he might drift back to sleep. But his gaze locked on my face and the slack jaw tightened into the hint of a smile.

  “Sam.” He exhaled the single syllable.