by J. L. Salter
Local pundits speculated that those who effected Smith’s gallows escape are likely relatives from his own Mississippi environs. The explosion itself, about 200 yards from the scaffold, did little damage and served primarily as a diversionary tactic, the sheriff testified.
The sheriff took the precaution of alerting his counterparts along the river south of here but none have yet telegraphed any evidence that Smith, who cheated the hangman a scant four days ago, has survived the treacherous currents down-river. No one espouses any doubt that Smith’s almost certain drowning was his justified fate, thus ending this murderer’s curious escapade.
Beth waited until Steve left for lunch before she phoned Jeff back. “Wow! So the story really is true.” She dabbed tears in her eyes.
“Would’ve found it a lot sooner if I’d had the correct date. But notice the name differences. Jones turns out to be Smith... Blank turns out to be Slate.”
“And the story’s names play off their real names—Smith and Jones... and Blank Slate.”
“Good point, Beth. Also notice that Brown is not mentioned at all. Which is logical since his involvement was known only by those insiders who discussed the hanging on the riverboat.”
“And look how much longer the timeframe was in the newspaper account—instead of just a few days, it actually dragged out for at least a couple of months.”
“Which is plenty of time for Smith’s relatives to gather, if indeed they were among his helpers.”
Beth frowned at her desk phone. “But if we take the Jones manuscript at face value, his escape was engineered by Mr. Brown, who left him the first batch of cash.”
“And later, presumably much more... in the bequest to Jones.” Jeff paused briefly to speak to someone in the library. “But it’s entirely possible that Brown helped get to the word to relatives of Smith... since he obviously didn’t want an innocent man to hang for his crime.”
“Yeah, I could see that. Wealthy man has lots of resources.” Beth checked the wall clock above her desk... she still had to eat her sandwich. “Anything else stand out?”
“Two things. Notice the theatre where Blank…actually Slate…was murdered is called Cherokee—which, in the manuscript, is the name of the boat.”
Beth quickly re-read that portion of her copy. “Okay... what’s the other thing?”
“Sheriff’s name. In the newspaper’s version, it’s Harry King who tries to execute the criminal and then goes looking for him. Not Matthew Vernon. And Vernon is not mentioned at all in the paper.”
“So who’s Mister Vernon?”
“No way to know. But, remember... nobody in the manuscript had a full name except the sheriff.”
“And that name is wrong.” Beth squinted at the dim copy until her eyelids were barely open. “Is this reinforcement for your theory that the hanging tale is just a context to hide some clues?”
“Yep.”
“But what clues? And what do they mean?” She pulled out her sandwich with one hand and started to nibble. “Switching the sheriff’s identity... and only the sheriff has a full name. Why?”
“No idea.” Jeff sighed into his library phone. “Wish Lynette Harte was still alive and we could ask her.”
“You believe Lynette even knew?”
“Gut instinct... I think she did. But I doubt she had any stake in it.”
“Don’t follow you, Jeff.”
“Imagine if somebody told you something about a murder, many years before, involving people you didn’t even know. Would you feel you had a stake in that information?”
“Well, no... not if I didn’t know them. You know—cold case... strangers.”
“Um... hold on.” Jeff was gone for a moment and then came back. “I was going to say that even if you didn’t feel obligated to do anything about it, you’d probably still hang on to the information... just in case it ever came up again.”
“But how, or when, would something like that ever come up? The county court and Hickman law enforcement folks were completely satisfied.” Beth took small enough sandwich bites that she could continue talking. “Though I guess the victim’s family—the Slates—might want the actual murderer to be identified.”
“Well, I can think of another bunch that might not let it rest— the family of the convicted man: Smith or Jones... depending on which version.”
“Why would they care? Their ancestor got rich for his troubles... and, according to the manuscript, he lived for many years.”
“Beth, think about it. In the newspaper version, everything’s wrapped up—case closed. But the manuscript points to bribery, payoffs, abetting a convicted criminal... even if he was innocent. Plus deathbed confessions...”
“So if any of that manuscript stuff is true, then other people knew... and could easily have told somebody.”
“My money’s on Brown’s lawyer—and his own deathbed confession: ‘I abetted my client who was a murderer and I arranged the payoffs’.”
“Nobody would admit that, Jeff.”
“Maybe the lawyer got religion and wanted to make amends before he faced St. Peter.” Jeff’s voice had become quieter than even the library required. “Well, I guess we’ll never know what Lynette—or somebody—was hiding in that tale.”
“If anything.”
“I wish we could contact some of the descendants... I mean folks of the men in the newspaper version: uh, Smith, Slate, and King.”
Beth took a few more nibbles of her sandwich. “Well, if the sheriff—the one in the article—is correct, the innocent convict Smith died in the river and likely left no descendants.”
“True, but the victim was about fifty in 1889. If Slate had any kids, they could’ve been approximately twenty-five or so. So Slate’s grandchildren—if any—could have been born in about 1890.” Jeff’s math skills carried him through. “If so, they could have been in their mid-sixties at the time of Lynette’s diary in 1955.”
“The diary! Maybe that diary has some clues. Have you finished studying it yet?”
“No, I haven’t.” Jeff sounded quite perturbed. “I stopped my whole life, practically, just to find you this newspaper story and try to figure out what the heck it all means.”
“Sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean it that way.” Sometimes librarians are a bit touchy.
Chapter Thirty
Afternoon
Mutt arranged some newly-acquired dumpster merchandise in the pale blue delivery van as Sallie, still strung-out from the night before, watched nearby. Their Friday and Saturday rummage sale on the beach would begin the next day. It had never been particularly lucrative, but those sales generated enough revenue to pay basic bills, buy gasoline for their weekly route, and left over enough cash to stay high most of the other days. It’s not like they’d have a savings account or mortgage... or a kid.
Since splitting from Ricks, they’d moved frequently. It went with the territory. A landlord would get bent if they were a few months behind in their rent or somebody else in the complex might complain about the smells coming from their unit. It was always something. Many times they’d been locked out and their sparse belongings confiscated. What could they do? File a lawsuit?
But their current place was ideal. An older neighborhood right near the ocean, it was established in the 1920s, before the beaches were ruined and traffic along the coast became impossible. This particular locality was run down with a combination of small beach shacks and a few large, two story houses. None were in good repair and all would someday be bulldozed to make room for another strip of condos.
The stand-alone unit Mutt and Sallie currently occupied was once a nice beach cottage. It was Mutt’s intention to hang on to this dwelling and not tick off their landlord. A long gravel drive connected their unit and about a dozen other houses to the beach, about a quarter-mile from their door.
The early afternoon sun was warm and his exertion had already caused a sweat.
When Sallie spotted a stranger approaching, she grabbed Mutt’s arm. “W
ho’s that?”
Mutt shrugged. “Just a walker... exercising. Why?”
“He’s not dressed for walking.”
The man with the stocky build had leather shoes, slacks, shirt and tie, and a dark sports jacket slung over one of his thick shoulders.
Mutt nodded. She was right. Not a walker. “Maybe his car stalled on the beach.”
“I think he came here on purpose.”
Mutt took another look. The stranger was still a hundred feet away. “Probably an investor. They’re always coming in here to look over this part of the beachfront.”
“No, he’s here to see... us.”
“We haven’t done anything.”
“Think he’s a cop?” Sallie’s dilated eyes opened wide.
“No problem if he is. I’m not carrying. Are you?”
She shook her head worriedly.
“If you’re gonna freak, just go inside. Get the stuff ready if you have to flush in a hurry. I’ll finish up out here and after this guy goes on by, you come back out.”
“What if he stops?”
“Then I’ll find out what he wants. You stay inside and just be ready to flush everything.” Mutt’s jaw clinched when he was nervous. “Probably just an investor.”
“I bet he wants your crazy buddy. That’s probably why Ricks left town so quick.”
Mutt shrugged. “We don’t have anything to do with Ricks anymore.” He looked back at the man, approaching steadily. “Get on inside.”
Sallie hurried off, looking over her shoulder the entire way. It certainly was not discreet.
In a moment, the sturdy man arrived and stood with the sun directly behind his head.
When Mutt glanced up, the light hurt his eyes. “Gas station’s up the beach half a mile... if you’re broke down.” He nodded northward.
The stranger slowly shook his head sideways. “I have a different kind of problem.”
Somehow that sounded like bad news.
“You the one they call Mutt?”
He nodded slowly. “I was born Melvin, but Mutt suits me better.” Mutt squinted into the sun. “Who are you?”
The stranger did not answer with a name, but got to his purpose quickly. “I’m not a cop... I’m an investigator. I don’t care about your drugs.” He looked toward the house. “My interest is quite specific.” He nodded toward the array of merchandise not yet loaded into the van.
“So what do you care about, dude? Second-hand souvenirs?”
The visitor smiled grimly. “I want to find a small overnight suitcase, maybe fifty or sixty years old.” He pulled a note pad from his pocket and flipped to the page he wanted. “Covered in fabric, trimmed with leather, with two sets of stripes on top. Would’ve been around the middle of 2006 that you handled it.”
Mutt was silent for a moment. “Dude, that’s pretty specific. What makes you think I ever handled it?”
“You did.”
This is no typical investigator. “Don’t recall a particular piece like that, but if we did, it probably sold at our weekend gig on the beach... with the other stuff.”
“Don’t think so, Melvin. Your buddy said sometimes you traded away choice pieces before you lugged the rest of it to the beach.”
“Ricks?” So that’s how he knows. Mutt shrugged. “Might’ve. Don’t remember. That’s a lotta years ago, dude.”
The investigator jutted his broad chin toward the direction of Sallie, inside their cottage. “Maybe she remembers.”
Mutt paused. “Look, dude. We traded some luggage pieces here and there, but we sold most of it. This is my livelihood. Every week for, eight... nine years. I can’t remember everything we collected or how we got rid of it.”
“You probably make a few hundred bucks each weekend selling this junk.” The stranger looked down the gravel road toward the beach. “How about I equal that and help sharpen your memory about what was inside that little suitcase from five years ago?”
It was tempting, but something told Mutt this investigator was major trouble. Shane was his friend, even though they rarely did business anymore. “Like I said, we sold most of it. Lots of years. Could’ve been lots of suitcases... all kinds of sizes.”
The visitor glared and rubbed one thumbnail against the knuckle of his other thumb. “That was my best offer, Melvin. They become less... desirable each time I ask the question.” He glanced again toward the house. Sallie’s face briefly appeared around the faded front door frame. “Now, what was in the little suitcase... and who has it?”
“Look... maybe I’ll remember later, after I get out of the sun for a minute. Let me think about it and you come down to the beach sometime Saturday morning.” Mutt pointed in that direction. “Maybe I’ll remember by then.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you’ll even be in this county on Saturday. I want the information now, Melvin. And I think your skinny girlfriend will tell me exactly what I need to know about those contents.”
The balance had shifted. “Hey... okay, dude. Okay. Don’t get all postal on me. Yeah, maybe I remember some of it... and you don’t need to bother that girl. She doesn’t know where she was last month.”
A sinister gleam covered the traveler’s face.
Mutt moved where the sun was no longer shining in his eyes and told the disturbing inquisitor what he recalled about that overnighter’s contents. Everything was fairly general, but it was all he knew.
“And where is it now?”
This investigator had probably already gotten Shane’s name from Ricks, so this was likely a test to see if Mutt was telling the truth. “Shane Holder. Lives here in Long Beach.” Mutt sighed. “But I haven’t seen him in a couple years.”
“Address...”
Ricks probably hadn’t known Shane’s current address. “Don’t recall where.” Mutt shook his head. “Plus, he might’ve moved.”
“Your girlfriend will know... right before her accident.”
“Okay. Okay, dude.” He provided Shane’s address on Pine Avenue in Bixby Heights.
“If this doesn’t check out, I’m coming back to discuss that blonde’s accident.” The stranger looked toward the cottage again. “Understand, Melvin?”
Mutt just nodded slowly. He watched the ominous man walk back the way he’d come. Even in the hot sun, Mutt had a chill.
****
Shane had cruised every street in the bad neighborhood on his first two days in town. Plus, he’d stopped at every cheap motel, dirty bar, and crummy little convenience store he could find. All of the previous day was spent knocking on doors and flashing the photo of Ricks standing with Mutt and Sallie in front of their garbage-filled van. Nobody had admitted seeing him except one older woman who thought a man like that left the corner gas station as she was entering to buy cigarettes Tuesday evening. Shane had consulted the clerk on duty Wednesday morning, but she was not the same employee who’d been there the previous night.
Shane returned to the run down bar he’d visited when he first hit town. Corner of Mill Street and Highway 231. Fortunately, Cratchit was present.
When Shane stopped briefly at the badly stained bar to flash the snapshot again, Murphy just shook his head slowly. Not sure if the barkeep would tell me.
But Cratchit, in the corner looking thirsty, seemed like a perpetually promising snitch. With two freshly opened beers, Shane headed for the dark corner and placed both bottles on the small pitted table. He moved his chair so it faced the entrance and then slid a bottle toward the eager old man.
“Just in time, too,” said Cratchit, licking his lips. “My throat was so dry I couldn’t call Murphy over to give me a refill.”
Shane held up the photo once more. “He ever show up again in the past two days?”
Cratchit grinned. “Wanna know why ya ain’t foun’ that Nevady fellar yet?” He wanted more money.
Shane pulled out a bill and placed it on the grungy table slightly out of the old man’s reach. “Suppose you tell me.”
“He knows
yer lookin’. Been movin’ aroun’ a lot.”
As Shane slid five dollars across the table, the bill briefly bogged down in pronounced moisture rings from someone’s recent drinks. “How does he know I’m looking?”
Cratchit carefully folded the bill and held it tightly. “Cuz I tole him.”
Shane was slightly surprised that it surprised him. He should have known anybody wanting information would gravitate to the same characters who sit in one place all day and watch everybody else. “How’d he find you?”
“Murphy sent ‘im over. He knows I run a bit short this time a month...”
Creep. Shane felt like strangling the old geezer, but resisted that impulse... for the moment. Cratchit might be useful later on. He narrowly eyed the grizzled informant. “Okay, what did Ricks ask? Besides if anybody was looking for him.”
“Wanted me to describe... you.” Cratchit rubbed his thumb pad against two fingers. “Ten bucks worth.”
Shane eyed him coldly. “What description did you give him?”
Slight hesitation. “Hard baked biker that wouldn’t take no crud from nobody.”
That was accurate, as far as it went. “Okay. Now, suppose you tell me about Ricks moving around.”
Cratchit pointed toward Shane’s wallet.
“After.”
“Big problems ‘round here wit’ empty houses. City won’t foreclose on ‘em anymore ‘cause of lawsuits. So they bulldoze down th’ ones that’re fire hazards an’ board up th’ rest.”
“Any board they nail up... can be pulled back down.”
The old man nodded and pointed again to Shane’s wallet.
Shane pulled out another five, but held on to it.
“Your boy wuz in a cheap motel down on 231 ‘til he foun’ out you wuz in town lookin’.”
“Which you told him.”
“His money spends like anybody’s else.”
“So how many abandoned houses do they have around here? On the west side of this highway?”
