That Night at the Palace

by Watson, L. D.

  That night at the Palace

  L.D. Watson

  Reklaw

  Copyright © 2015 Larry D. Watson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests contact the author through the website below.

  www.LDWatson.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com

  That Night at the Palace/ L.D.Watson 1st Edition

  ISBN 978-0-9910278-4-2

  Contents

  Prologue....................................I

  Chapter 1...................................1

  Chapter 2...................................23

  Chapter 3...................................35

  Chapter 4...................................62

  Chapter 5...................................84

  Chapter 6...................................104

  Chapter 7...................................134

  Chapter 8...................................155

  Chapter 9...................................196

  Chapter 10.................................235

  Chapter 11.................................264

  Chapter 12.................................309

  Chapter 13.................................345

  Chapter 14.................................375

  Epilogue....................................405

  Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.

  I Thessalonians 5: 16-18

  Prologue

  ELZA CEMETERY

  ELZA, TEXAS

  1:30 p.m. June 14, 2014

  The line of cars stretched for more than a mile. In fact, as the hearse was pulling into the back of the little cemetery, the last mourners had yet to leave the church parking lot. It was not a long service, but it was by far the most attended the little East Texas town had ever seen. Even more so than when Pastor Anderson died some twenty years before, when Elza was nearly twice its current size. The crowd was so large that a projector and screen and nearly a hundred chairs were set up outside to accommodate the expected overflow. Even then over two hundred people stood while nearly a hundred more sat in their cars and listened.

  Jeana Yates and her grandmother Gemma Crawford Ferrell were two of those who chose to wait out the service in an air-conditioned car. Jeana insisted upon it. Gemma would have easily stood outside, but her ever-attentive granddaughter held firm. Gemma was nearing ninety, and though she showed little signs of slowing down, Jeana simply had to draw the line at letting the old woman stand in the heat, even though they had driven over three hours to be there. They could hear the service, which, quite honestly, was enough for Gemma.

  Because they were already in their car, the two women were among the first to arrive at the little graveyard, and as a result they managed to get a reasonably close parking spot. Jeana was greatly relieved. She knew Gemma well enough to know that when the old woman had her mind set, nothing was going to stop her, and with the crowd at that funeral they could easily have parked hundreds of yards away. As it was, Jeana was terrified of what would happen if the woman stumbled and fell.

  Dozens of people were headed to the little gate as Gemma and Jeana entered. Most of the people made their way toward the portable awning set up over the spot where the pallbearers were offloading the casket. Without warning, the older woman stopped and suddenly headed off to the left with Jeana following behind.

  “Grandmother, the grave is this way,” Jeana said pointing to her right as the elderly woman simply ignored her and hobbled in the opposite direction.

  Gemma, cane in one hand and an oversized purse hanging from the other, made her way past dozens of gravestones as she carefully negotiated a path through the little cemetery. Finally she stopped in front of a marker to the left of a lone pine tree. Further to the left was a large family stone marked Tidwell surrounded by smaller markers with that surname. All alone in the shade of the pine sat a single pink granite stone. There was no epitaph, simply the name:

  JESSE ROSE

  CPL. US Army

  FEB 3, 1922 – JUNE 6, 1944

  The white-haired woman carefully knelt next to the stone and began pulling weeds from the base. Then, to her granddaughter’s surprise, she reached deep into the purse and pulled out a small potted plant and centered it in front of the marker.

  Quietly seated on her knees, Gemma Crawford Ferrell began to softly weep.

  “Grandmother?”

  Unable to control her emotions, the old woman fell from her knees and braced herself against the cold pink stone and began to cry. Jeana knelt next to her grandmother and attempted to comfort the woman, but Gemma waved her away. Gemma needed this time alone.

  For well over an hour Jeana stood a few feet back while her grandmother crouched next to the stone wiping away tears. The massive graveside service finally broke up and throngs of mourners made their way back to their cars, all wanting out of the summer sun.

  While the family of the deceased hugged relatives and friends, one woman fixed her eyes on the elderly lady leaning on a gravestone off in the distance. The woman excused herself from the group and walked up to Gemma as the elderly woman stood up to go.

  “Are you my Aunt Gemma?” the woman asked.

  Jeana stood stunned as she watched her grandmother smile at the woman and nod. Gemma then wiped away another tear and tenderly hugged the woman.

  “Daddy had shoe boxes filled with your letters,” the woman began as the two let loose their embrace. “He often told me that if I’m ever in Dallas that I should go see you and to call you ‘Aunt Gemma.’”

  Gemma smiled, “That’s right.”

  The woman looked down at the pink stone, “That’s him, isn’t it?”

  #

  JACKSONVILLE, TEXAS

  3:35 p.m. June 14, 2014

  Gemma hadn’t spoken a word all the way into Jacksonville. She simply stared out the window lost in her thoughts, or more accurately, lost in her memories. Jeana knew her grandmother well enough not to interrupt. Granted, she had a world of questions rolling through her mind, but she knew that this was not the time to ask.

  “Pull in there,” Gemma stated, pointing at a roadside diner built from an old railroad car.

  “There’s a McDonald’s up ahead, grandmother. You know you like their burgers, and I’m sure they have a cleaner restroom.” Jeana suggested, not liking the look of the place her grandmother pointed out.

  “No. I want to go here,” the older woman demanded in a tone that was more an order than a request.

  Reluctantly, Jeana did as told and parked the Buick SUV in front of the dirty little diner.

  Inside, led by Gemma, they seated themselves in a booth at the far end of the restaurant next to the window. When the waitress came, Jeana ordered coffee and hamburgers for the two of them without consultin
g her grandmother, who simply stared out the window.

  After a lengthy silence the old woman said, “We had dinner here that night, the night of our last date. The night before he was arrested, the night of the murder. We sat at this very booth. Of course it was a lot different then. They changed the name. It was called ‘The J-Ville Diner’ in those days. It was a pretty nice place. At least we thought it was. Of course, there weren’t as many restaurants in those days, and our standards weren’t very high. This was as nice a place as any of us had ever been in at the time. We would drive all the way here to have a burger and then drive back to Elza to catch the movie at the Palace.”

  “You and that man in the grave? Corporal Rose?”

  “Jesse, me, your aunt Jettie, and Cliff. I’ve been trying to think of how to tell you the story. Jettie always sat where you are. Cliff was next to her. She was so pretty then. She was as exasperating as ever,” the woman commented, “but so pretty.”

  “Who was he, grandmother? And who was that woman?”

  “Did you notice Jesse’s stone? It was with the Tidwells. His family moved away right after the trial. They were ashamed. His folks were, well, not the sort to take the humiliation of a murder trial. I heard that they divorced. Jesse was probably the only thing that had been keeping them together. Once he left they probably realized that they didn’t like each other very much.

  I remember seeing his name in the paper listed as one of the local boys killed at Normandy. At the time I just assumed that he was buried over there, but later I heard that the Tidwells had him brought back here. It would make sense. I’m sure he listed them as his next-of-kin.”

  “What happened, grandmother? Who was he?”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Gemma said, with a little moisture forming in her eyes. “Cliff Tidwell’s murder was so awful. Whenever I think of him I’m reminded of the pictures. He was half eaten by an alligator.”

  The woman stopped talking and began to weep.

  “You don’t have to tell me, Grandmother,” Jeana said, sensing the difficulty the woman was having.

  “No, I need to do this,” Gemma explained. “I have to tell someone. I need someone to know what Jesse did. I just don’t know where to begin. I guess it all started that night at the Palace.”

  Chapter 1

  PALACE THEATER

  ELZA, TEXAS

  8:07 p.m. Saturday November 15, 1941

  “I told you we’d be late,” Clifford Tidwell said as the two couples walked along Main Street to the Palace. “I swear, Jesse, you drive like my grandmother.”

  “Your grandma’s never been behind a wheel, and you know it,” Jesse countered.

  “Well, if she drove, she’d drive faster than you. Look the lobby’s empty.”

  Gemma and Jettie looked at one another and giggled as the four walked up to the ticket booth. They had listened to the two boys bicker all the way back from Jacksonville.

  “How much did we miss, Able?” Cliff asked.

  Able McCormack glanced at his timepiece, “Just the news reel so far, Clifford. There’s still a Betty Boop before the movie starts.”

  “See, I told ya. We’ll take two,” Jesse interjected as he slid two quarters to Able.

  “Us too,” Cliff said as he passed a couple of coins.

  “I shouldn’t let you in, Clifford. I don’t recall your mamma paying me for that time I caught you trying to slip in through that air vent.” Able commented, more to the girls than Cliff. “This one somehow managed to climb all the way up to my rooftop and nearly fell straight through to the middle of the concession stand. He’s lucky he didn’t end up in the popcorn machine.”

  Both girls laughed politely. They had heard the story hundreds of times over the years, as had everyone else in Elza. Of course, it had been embellished to some extent. The truth was that Cliff got stuck in an air vent and was in no risk of falling into the concession stand.

  Cliff and Jesse’s childhood antics provided plenty of amusing conversations at the domino hall and under the awning of McMillian’s store. Naturally such yarns tended to grow to the point that they hardly resembled the facts.

  As the boys took their tickets and headed for the door, Cliff remarked, “I swear, Able, do you have to tell that story every time I come here? If I hear it one more time I’m gonna start taking my business to the Plaza down in Sacul.”

  “It’s a full house tonight, kids.” Able commented, ignoring Cliff. “You may have to split up. Have Bobby make some people scooch over.”

  As the four entered the lobby, Bobby Weatherholt greeted them with a big smile and took their ticket. Bobby was well over thirty but wore the usher uniform with the pride of an army general. Tall and thin to the point of being unhealthy, he had worked at the Palace for most of his life, and as far as anyone could tell he had no intention of ever leaving.

  He carefully separated the tickets and handed the stubs back. No one spoke. Bobby, though always smiling, almost never said a word to anyone.

  He then opened the door and led the four into the auditorium. Inside he flipped on his flashlight and pointed it at the floor so as not to bother anyone watching the Betty Boop cartoon. He stopped about four rows down and, again without saying a word, tapped a man on the shoulder and motioned. In a moment seven people had moved to their left two seats, making room for Cliff and Jettie. Bobby then turned to the opposite row. By now everyone had already begun to move over. No one ever challenged Bobby’s authority. This was the part of his job at the Palace that Bobby loved most. During these moments in the darkened theater he was in charge, and he took his responsibility seriously.

  Gemma and Jesse slipped into their seats across the aisle from Cliff and Jettie. This was not the best of arrangements as far as Gemma was concerned. She and Jettie preferred to sit together with the boys on the outside of them. That almost never happened, however. The boys always liked to sit together so they could make jokes at the movie. They were usually quiet, but at least once in every movie Cliff would blurt out something which he and Jesse would find utterly hysterical, drawing angry looks from people all around the room and, of course, embarrassing the girls.

  Sitting across the aisle wasn’t as good as sitting next to her sister, but it kept the boys apart, and that, above all, was the most important task. It occurred to Gemma that she should enlist Bobby’s help with this in the future.

  #

  ALLEY BEHIND THE PLAZA THEATER

  ELZA, TEXAS

  8:40 p.m. Saturday November 15, 1941

  Irwin Stoker parked his 1929 Chevrolet pickup behind the Palace Theater. He had already crashed into a few garbage cans and an old Plymouth parked near the back door. The fifty-two year old farmer stumbled, almost landing on his face as he climbed out of the cab. He parked a little too close to the building and hardly had room to open the cab door. When he managed to compose himself, he reached back into the cab and took a Remington Model-11 sixteen-gauge shotgun from the gun rack in the back window.

  He stumbled a little more as he worked his way between the building and the truck to the back door of the theater. Homemade liquor will cause that. Then he reached down to pull on the steel door. It wasn’t locked. There was no reason to expect it to be. Why would it be locked? Able McCormack had to take out the trash two or three times a night; locking the door would just make the task more difficult. Able was never concerned with people sneaking in without buying a ticket. He sold the tickets, and he knew everyone in town. All he had to do was look around the auditorium. If anyone had come in without buying a ticket, he’d spot the guy right away.

  Occasionally, during the matinee, some boys would try get away with catching The Dead End Kids or an Andy Hardy by slipping in the back. Every time it happened Able would come down the aisle, grab the boys by the ear, and drag them out. There was a story around town that the Tidwell kid had tried to get in through th
e roof. Of course, Able caught him right away.

  Able was a mean cuss. He didn’t stop with dragging kids out of the place. He would leave Doris Broussard in charge while he took the boys all the way home. It didn’t matter to him if they lived way over in Reklaw or as far east as Nacogdoches, Able would make sure the boys’ parents were well aware of the criminal offense their sons had perpetrated. What’s more, he made sure that they knew that no one from that household got to see a picture-show at the Palace until he received a nickel for the ticket the boys failed to purchase. Needless to say, boys rarely tried a second time to get into the Palace without paying full price.

  Of course, it never happened on a Saturday night. And if it did, Elza’s distinguished police chief, Thomas Jefferson Hightower, was there, as he was almost every Saturday night. There were no gangsters in Elza. The biggest crime Jefferson Hightower had dealt with in the past five years was when someone tried to break into McMillian’s General Merchandise store. George Henry McMillian’s cash box was an 1888 model from National Cash Register. The thing easily weighed two hundred pounds, maybe more. Whoever it was didn’t get it as far as the back door before giving up. Old George Henry woke up and looked out the bedroom window next door and saw a car pulling away. He fired his shotgun a couple of times, but about all he accomplished was waking up every dog in town. By the time Chief Hightower showed up, the crooks were long gone, which, no doubt, was what the chief was hoping.

  Irwin was quiet as he slipped in the door. It amused him at how easy it was. He wasn’t concerned with getting caught, of course, he wasn’t there to see a picture-show.

  He was much more cautious now that he was inside. There was a long hallway down the side of the theater that most people didn’t know existed. It was built to be a fire exit, but it served mostly as a storage area and a pathway for Able to take out the trash while the picture-show was going. At the end of the theater nearest the screen was a curtained doorway with an exit sign above. Irwin carefully peeked through the curtain at the audience. It wasn’t hard to go unnoticed. Every eye was fixed on the Gary Cooper picture.