He stood and walked back into the kitchen. On the counter was the dishtowel where his mama had been wiping the dishes.
She’s not coming back.
There would be no one to wash the dishes, or cook the supper, or even yell at him for the stupid things he did. She was gone, and in a few days or weeks the house too would be gone. They’d put a padlock on the door and tell him to go find another place to sleep. George drained the last bit of whiskey then refilled the glass.
It’s not fair. Mister big shot with money taking advantage of poor folks.
As he thought it through, he came to the conclusion Franklin Wilkes was responsible for everything. The lost job, the lack of money and now his mama’s death.
A man like that don’t deserve to live.
Years earlier his mama had a gun. George remembered it. The first time he’d seen it he wondered why she had a gun, and she told him it was for protection in case his daddy came back. His daddy never did come back, but chances were she still had the gun. George finished his drink and poured another one. He gulped a swig then headed for his mama’s bedroom.
If she still had the gun, that’s where it would be.
One by one he rummaged through the drawers, tossing aside bloomers, baggy brassieres and flannel nightgowns. Nothing. No gun. No bullets. He searched under the mattress, beneath the bed and in every corner of the small closet, but still nothing. Not even some loose change he could use.
After nearly an hour of searching, he flopped down on the bed and gave the iron footboard a kick. That’s when he heard it: metal hitting metal. He bolted up and looked at the bed again. That’s when he noticed the blue string tied around the center post of the headboard. Sliding his finger beneath the string, he pulled.
Up came a black drawstring bag; in it he found a Smith and Wesson .38 and a box of bullets. He took six bullets from the box, slid them into the chamber one by one and then headed back to the kitchen to finish his drink.
Leaving the glass on the counter, he headed out the door. The only thing he took with him was the loaded Smith and Wesson.
Revenge
Franklin Wilkes normally left the office at six o’clock but on Friday, February 21st, he worked late. Reginald Parris, one of his few remaining clients, had passed away two weeks earlier, and his widow requested a recap of what was in the investment portfolio. They’d been loyal clients and stuck with him even through the madness so Franklin couldn’t very well refuse, especially since Washington’s birthday made this a long three-day weekend.
At four-thirty he called Laura and told her he’d be working late.
“Don’t wait supper,” he said. “It could be eight or eight-thirty.”
He promised to call when he was ready to leave the office.
* * *
George Feldman took no chances. At five o’clock sharp he was standing across the street from the Morgenstern building. The front exit was the only way in or out so sooner or later Franklin Wilkes would come through the door, and then George would have his revenge. This time he was not going to accept a few paltry dollar bills. He wanted what was coming to him and would take nothing less.
Between five-thirty and six o’clock a rush of employees poured from the building. George stood carefully scanning the crowd. His eyes moved from face to face as he watched for Franklin. At six-thirty a delivery truck pulled up in front of the building and blocked his line of vision. It was only for a few seconds, no longer. George stepped to the right and continued watching, confident it had not been long enough for him to miss the man he was waiting for.
By seven he began to wonder if Wilkes had somehow slipped out in the crowd of people and gone undetected. The longer he stood there the angrier George became. He paced back and forth picking at the loose thread hanging from his pocket and thinking about Franklin with his fancy car, tailored suit and red tie. He pictured the house a man like Franklin would live in; a mansion probably, with columns flanking the front entrance.
For sure Franklin Wilkes doesn’t have no foreclosure notice tacked to his door.
Every new thought was like an icepick chipping its way into George’s brain.
At seven-thirty the lights in the lobby of the Morgenstern building grew dim, and it became more difficult to see. He waited another fifteen minutes, but only one man came from the building. The fellow was wearing a hat and walking fast with his head ducked down. Before George could catch sight of his face, the man disappeared around the corner.
George hesitated a moment then followed after him. Crossing the boulevard, he hurried along the street and turned where the man had turned. There was no one in sight. Picking up the pace, George moved to the end of the block and looked both ways. Nothing. No man. No car.
“Sum a’ bitch,” he grumbled then headed back toward the boulevard.
He was reasonably certain the man he’d seen wasn’t Franklin. At least that’s what George told himself.
Too short.
Returning to the same spot he resumed his waiting and watching, but before ten minutes had passed George lost his patience. He looked up at the windows of the building. Except for a scattered few, they were all darkened. Once again he’d been played for a fool. It was what he should have expected.
The likelihood was Wilkes had slipped out in the middle of the crowd. While George was standing there with his guts tied up in knots and the wind blowing cold against his neck, Franklin Wilkes was probably at home sitting at the dinner table and joking it up and laughing. No doubt he was bragging to his wife about how he’d given poor stupid Feldman the slip.
George felt the prickle of anger crawling across his skin, and something rose up in his throat. Bile, bitter and sour as week-old milk. He heard the sound of his mama’s voice in his ears.
Don’t just stand there looking stupid! Do something!
With long deliberate strides he crossed the street, grabbed the handle of the glass door and yanked. The door didn’t budge. He tried another door and then another. Locked, all of them. There had to be another way. If Franklin Wilkes had left the office, he was probably at home. Maybe if he knew where Wilkes lived…
As he stood trying to remember if there’d ever been mention of an address, George heard the click of high heels crossing the marble-floored lobby. He stepped back into the shadows and waited. Seconds later a young woman hurried out and turned onto Broad Street. As the door swung back, George grabbed it seconds before it clicked shut.
Once inside the building he knew where he was going. Using the back staircase, he walked two flights to the third floor. At the end of the hallway was the Sampson Investment office with its shiny brass lettering on the door.
Okay, Sampson, now let’s see how strong you are.
The front door was locked. George looked around and, seeing no one, took out his pocketknife, slid the blade in and pushed the latch open. The moment he stepped inside he spotted the light coming from Franklin’s office. That door was standing open, and he could hear movement inside the office. Still careful not to make a sound he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the gun and started inching his way down the hallway.
Focusing on the account ledger in front of him, Franklin was unaware of anything until Feldman’s shadow fell across his desk. He lifted his head and froze when he saw George standing there with a gun pointed at his chest.
“Wait—”
George pulled the trigger. The first shot hit just below Franklin’s collarbone, and he dropped back into the chair. Franklin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I ain’t nearly as stupid as you thought,” George said with a vengeful sneer.
He pumped another five shots into Franklin’s chest then slid the empty gun into his pocket and walked out as if nothing had happened.
The only other people in the building that night were Abraham, a porter who emptied wastebaskets and mopped floors, and Margery Kramer who was working on the fourth floor at Brentwood Accounting. Margery heard the sound but guessed it to be a car backfiri
ng. She listened for a few moments, and when there were no other sounds of disturbance she went back to typing. As was his routine, Abraham had started on the first floor and worked his way up through the building. He was on the seventh floor when it happened and heard nothing.
* * *
Laura expected Franklin to call. He’d said maybe eight or eight-thirty. By nine-thirty she still hadn’t heard from him, so she called his office. The telephone rang and rang, but there was no answer.
Perhaps he’s stepped out to use the men’s room. She waited ten minutes then called again. Still no answer.
Even during the worst days of the market crash, Franklin had not been this late and not told her. And now with business down to barely a trickle, he’d been coming home earlier than usual. Laura dialed the number again and again. After nearly a dozen calls, she telephoned her parents.
By then it was after ten-thirty, and when Emory answered she could hear the sleepiness in his voice.
“I’m sorry to wake you, Daddy,” she said, “but I’m worried about Franklin.”
After explaining the situation, she asked if he’d drive down and check the office.
“Could be Franklin’s busy and doesn’t want to take time for telephone calls,” Emory said, “but I’ll go make sure.”
“Cross over Wilmont and drive down Broad Street just in case he was on his way home and had a flat tire or car trouble,” she said. “But if he’s still working, tell him to call me right away because I’m worried.”
“Okay,” Emory replied.
As soon as he hung up, he changed from his pajamas into a pair of slacks then pulled on a jacket and headed off. The Morgenstern building was a twenty-minute walk, but the drive took less than five minutes and this time of night there was little traffic.
As Laura had suggested, Emory drove along Broad Street. When he saw no sign of Franklin’s car, he parked in front of the building. Opening the door with the spare key left with him for safekeeping, he climbed the stairs to the third floor.
It struck him as strange to see the front door of Sampson Investments standing wide open. Emory stepped inside, listened for a moment then called out, “Anyone here?”
When there was no answer, he called out again. Still no answer. He spotted the light coming from Franklin’s office and headed toward it. Franklin was slumped in his chair, his chin dropped down on his bloody chest and his arms hanging limp.
Emory jerked back with a gasp. He whirled around looking side to side and behind him. Nothing was disturbed. The office was exactly as it would have been any other day. It seemed apparent that whoever did this was no longer there. With his heart pounding against his chest, he cautiously moved toward Franklin and felt for a pulse. There was none.
“Dear God,” Emory said through a moan as his eyes filled with tears.
The thought of Laura still waiting flashed through his mind, and for a moment it felt as though every drop of blood in his body had suddenly turned icy cold. With a heart that was carrying the weight of the world, he lifted the telephone receiver.
“Number, please?” the operator said.
“Get the police,” he said sorrowfully. “A man’s been murdered.”
As he waited for the police to arrive, Emory stood there in the stark silence remembering Franklin as the young man who’d come to him asking for Laura’s hand in marriage. They’d known each other for what, five, maybe six years? Yet they were close as father and son.
A stream of tears rolled down Emory’s face, and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. He had more than himself to think about. His grief was nothing compared to what Laura would feel. And Christine; poor little Christine.
Standing guard over the body of a man he not only respected but had come to love, Emory swore a vow.
“I won’t rest until I find the person who did this,” he said solemnly. “And for as long as I live, I will care for your family just as you would have.”
His promise seemed so small in a time of such great grief, but it was all he had to give.
A Widow’s Tears
Two uniformed officers arrived eight minutes after Emory made the call.
“Did you touch or move anything?” the older one asked.
“Only the telephone.”
Emory explained that Franklin Wilkes was his son-in-law, and he’d come to check on him because his daughter had been calling the office and became worried when Franklin didn’t answer the telephone.
“I keep a set of spare keys in case of an emergency, so I unlocked the downstairs door and came up. When I got here the office door was standing open, and I found Franklin…”
A lump of sadness welled in his throat, and his eyes again filled with tears.
“Laura doesn’t know…I have to go tell her.”
“Before you leave, we have a few more questions.”
The older officer asked the questions while the younger one called for a crime scene investigator.
“You said Mister Wilkes’s wife had been calling the office; do you know what time she made the first call?” he asked.
Emory gave a puzzled looking shrug. “I’m not sure. Sometime after eight, I guess. It was ten-thirty when she called me.”
“Mister Wilkes and your daughter, were they were having some kind of marital problems? Money, maybe? Infidelity?”
Emory pinched his brows into a sorrowful knot and shook his head.
“Not at all,” he said. “It was just the opposite. Franklin was a good provider, and they were very happy.” A sigh with the weight of a boulder rolled up from his chest. “I never saw two people more in love with one another.”
“What about Mister Wilkes’s working routine? Was it customary for him to be here in the office this late in the evening?”
“Last fall maybe, but not recently. He’s been coming home earlier than usual.”
One question followed another, and Emory assured the officer there was not the chance of a snowball in hell Laura had anything to do with Franklin’s death.
“Anyone who’s ever seen them together knows…”
His words drifted off; there simply was no way of explaining a relationship that was beyond perfect.
The officer switched his train of questioning.
“What about enemies?” he asked. “Did Mister Wilkes have any enemies?”
“He had problems with a few people who lost money in the market, but I doubt that would be enough.”
“You never know what can set a person off. Sometimes one little thing that you’d never give a second thought…” The officer didn’t finish the sentence and moved on to other questions.
After nearly a half hour of repeating that he knew nothing, Emory gave the officers Franklin’s home address and said he had to go tell Laura.
“Please don’t come to the house until I’ve had time to tell her,” he said then started toward the door.
As he stepped out into the night air, Emory felt the tremendous weight of what he had to do. He wanted—no, needed—Rose by his side. On the way to Laura’s house he stopped at his own.
“At a time like this, our baby is going to want her mama to be with her,” he said.
What he didn’t say was breaking Laura’s heart was something he couldn’t face alone. He would be strong enough to deliver the news, but Rose had to be there to wipe away the tears that followed.
She pulled a coat over her nightgown and climbed into the car.
When they arrived at the Wilkes house, Emory knocked at the door.
Franklin never knocked; he used his key. Wary of strangers at this time of night, Laura called out, “Who is it?”
“Mama and Daddy,” Emory answered.
She recognized his voice and yanked the door open. Seeing her mother standing there in a nightgown, Laura knew something was wrong.
“Franklin,” she said in a voice that trembled. “Has something happened to Franklin?”
Emory nodded and pulled her into his arms.
�
�I’m sorry.”
Pushing the tears back, he explained that Franklin had been shot.
The reality of death wears a thousand different disguises. Even when the ugliness of it is staring you in the face, you believe it to be something else: bad luck, misfortune, a serious accident, but not death. Only when it grabs hold of you with its bony hand do you see the truth of what it is and realize it has come to take someone you love.
Despite the grim look on her daddy’s face, Laura clung to a tiny grain of hope.
“Is he in the hospital?” she asked fearfully.
Emory shook his head. “There was nothing anyone could do; he was gone when I got there.”
Laura felt the bony hand clawing at her heart.
“No,” she said, her tears coming fast as she shook her head hard. “No…”
Her knees gave way, and as she started to fall Emory held on to her. He helped her into the living room and sat beside her on the sofa.
“This can’t possibly be happening,” she said through her sobs. “Not to Franklin. Maybe you were at the wrong office. Franklin’s there, he’s working late, he’ll be home—”
Emory wrapped his arm around her trembling shoulders.
“I wish I were wrong,” he said. “But it was Franklin. I saw him.”
Laura dropped her head into his lap and cried with huge shuddering sobs.
“Why?” she asked through a moan. “Why?”
Emory had no answer. He and Rose sat there whispering words of sympathy and tenderly rubbing small circles across her back, trying to comfort her as they did when she was a baby.
While little Christine slept, the three of them remained huddled together on the sofa. Laura stayed in the center, and on each side were the pillars who would hold her up and give her enough strength to get through the night and the terrible, terrible days that were to follow. The long night stretched into morning, and when the sun began to streak the horizon Laura knew her life and Christine’s life would be forever changed.
Beyond the Carousel Page 7
