by Steve Brewer
Otis came from Clarksdale, Mississippi. He had discovered early that he had a gift. At nine, he was soloist in his gospel choir and, by the time he was in his late teens, he had a popular, late-night radio show where he played ‘race’ records and occasionally sang a song or two, accompanying himself on the guitar. His show ended at two in the morning when the station went off the air. After that Otis and some friends used the production room as a recording studio. Otis sent some of the tapes to a Memphis-based record label and eventually signed a recording contract and got a manager by the name of Bill Herron.
Otis’s first record, ‘Lookin’ for Ruby’ was on the R&B charts for twenty-two weeks, peaking at #16. It also crossed over to the pop charts hitting #39. His second record, ‘Don’t Let Me Go’ soared to #2 R&B, crossing over to become a #12 pop hit. Otis looked to be on his way to the top. But, as Otis was quick to point out, things ain’t always what they appear to be.
Over the next couple of years, what Otis considered a great deal of money passed through his hands on its way to buying cars, whiskey, and women. Money problems followed, as they tend to, and Otis was soon in need of another hit if he was going to maintain his lifestyle. But his next two records stiffed and his manager dumped him and stiffed him on a fair amount of royalties. Forced out of the spotlight, Otis started drinking and soon ran afoul of the law. But all of that was a long time ago and Otis chose not to dwell on it.
Still, Otis was thinking back on that night in Memphis when, suddenly, there was a commotion out in the main room. He heard a table overturn, plates and flatware crashing onto linoleum. Otis craned his head out the service window just as Estella yelled, “somebody better call a amalance!” It sounded more like a threat than a plea for help. Otis watched Estella charge out the door with the small cast iron skillet she kept behind the cash register. She was quick for her size.
Otis shook his head as several customers gave chase. Otis just went back to his deep fryer. No point in letting the swimps burn. Besides, he knew better than to go outside and tempt fate. It always happened like this. Somebody would try to skip out on their tab, Estella would chase ‘em down, several customers would pull Estella off the customer before she did too much damage with her little skillet. She’d get the money she was owed and they’d all go back inside laughing while Estella carried on about how that fool was lucky they pulled her off before she got a good swing at him.
Tonight, Estella had a man pinned against his car. She had the skillet raised over her head when a young black man and an older white guy in a cowboy hat caught up with them. The cowboy hat restrained Estella while the young black man kept the gin drinker from going anywhere. Estella was hollering, “Lemme go! He’s stealin’ from me and he’s got it comin’!” The cowboy hat was snickering. He told Estella to calm down. “Calm down nothin’! This nigga’s gonna find out what it means to—”
“Hey, Estella,” a man called out from behind the crowd. “How you doin’?” The man asked it like he was passing her on the sidewalk on a Sunday afternoon. The crowd parted as a tall man in a tuxedo walked to the center of attention. Franklin Peavy was a white man, but a dark one. With his chestnut complexion and his black-dyed-hair done up in a militant bouffant style, Franklin looked like the demon child of Conway Twitty and Johnny Mathis.
Estella knew who it was before she saw him. “I’m good Mr. Peavy, how’re you?
“I’m fine, Estella.” Franklin reached up and removed his clip-on bow tie.
“You sure looking fine,” she said. “Where you been all dressed up, another one of them awards ceremonies?”
“Yeah, the Big Pick Awards were tonight. One of my clients was nominated. Didn’t win though.”
“Thass too bad,” Estella said. “Maybe next time.”
“That’s right, there’s always next time,” Franklin said. “So. What’s going on here?”
Estella struggled against the man holding her. “This fool tried to run out on his bill,” she said, nodding at the fool in question.
The gin drinker shook his head, wide-eyed as a stereotype. “I was fixin’ to get my wallet out of my ride,” he said, gesturing at the old Chrysler. “I was gonna pay.”
Estella pulled away from the cowboy hat and lunged at the gin drinker. “You lyin’!” She landed her skillet against the man’s ribs. Everybody heard the cracking sound. The cowboy hat, struggled to keep from laughing as he grabbed Estella and pulled her back.
“Estella, you’re gonna end up like Otis, you’re not careful,” Franklin said.
“We’s both justified.” Estella couldn’t have looked any angrier.
“Court might not see it that way.” Franklin reached over and pulled a wallet from the gin drinker’s pocket. Both of them feigned surprise. “What’s this?” He handed the wallet to Estella.
“You got no business reachin’ in my pocket! You got a damn search warren or somethin’? I’ll have you rested for civil rights vilations.”
Franklin Peavy smiled at the man. It wasn’t a friendly smile. Franklin’s bright white teeth stood out like little square Klansman in the context of his nut brown face. “Got any witnesses?”
“Everbody here’s a witness,” the man insisted.
Franklin looked around at the crowd. “Anybody see what happened?”
“I didn’t see nothing,” the young black man testified.
“I saw this man run off without paying his bill,” the cowboy hat added.
“He attacked Miss Estella, but she defended herself real good,” a woman in the back of the crowd said.
“This a frame up!” The gin drinker pointed a greasy finger at Franklin Peavy.
“That’s gonna be hard to prove in Nashville-Davidson County,” Franklin said, leaning close to the man. “I should know, I’m a lawyer.”
“He’s a good one too,” Estella said.
This was true, as far as it went. But Franklin Peavy was actually a partner in a well known artist management firm, so his practice was confined almost exclusively to music industry contracts. He hadn’t been in a criminal court since handling that matter for Estella’s husband a few decades ago. But there was no need to explain any of that to the gin drinker, so Franklin just turned to Estella and asked if she got the money she was owed.
“Sho’ did, and a good tip too.” Estella handed the wallet back to Franklin who stuck it back in the gin drinker’s pocket. Franklin took the skillet from Estella then put his arm around her shoulder and led her back toward the club. “Estella, I think I need a plate of your shrimp and a little bit of personality.”
“What kind you want, Mr. Peavy?
“Scotch’ll be fine.”
13.
Two days after seeing Eddie in Biloxi, Jimmy dropped by the radio station where Megan worked. While she finished her shift, he sat in the news room reading stories as they came over the AP wire. The twenty-four year-old daughter of Delta businessman Henry Teasdale was found dead in her home in Quitman County, one story opened. At first, it caught Jimmy’s eye because of the tender age of the deceased. The name ‘Teasdale’ didn’t mean anything to him but he was curious about the death since most twenty-four year-olds found dead in their homes have died of something more interesting than old age. Jimmy was disappointed to find the cause of death was still under investigation but he continued reading until he got to the part that said, she was the wife of popular local entertainer, Eddie Long.
“Oh my God.” Jimmy felt an empty, sinking sensation. He read the story again. It was awful. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if Megan died. It was sickening. But then something odd happened. The sick, sinking feeling was replaced by something more pleasant, which bothered Jimmy somewhat. Yes, he felt bad about what had happened, but what could he do? It wasn’t his fault. It was a tragedy, sure, but the fact remained that Tammy’s death was a blessing in disguise if you happened to be writing Tammy’s husband’s biography.
Jimmy waited until Megan finished her shift before telling her what happened. She took t
he news with slack-jawed shock. They debated whether they should attend the funeral. Megan wanted to go, she said, to see Eddie and to offer condolences. Jimmy argued they’d be strangers intruding on a private family event since he knew Eddie primarily on a professional basis. In the end it was a moot point as Megan had a shift change at the radio station and couldn’t have attended even if she wanted. The day of the funeral came and went. Megan sent flowers and a card. Jimmy called and conveyed his condolences.
14.
The next week Jimmy started work on a magazine article he’d been hired to write. He also started to worry about his relationship with Megan. There was something about the way she had looked at Eddie that night in Biloxi that left Jimmy feeling insecure. He wanted to talk to someone about his feelings so he turned to the King and asked his advice.
Elvis sneered at Jimmy as if to say he never had any problems with women. Elvis was wearing his white high-collared Eisenhower jacket, all spangled with sequins and glitter. His guitar strap was a bandoleer draped across his chest. His right hand pulled the microphone close. His dark eyes smoldered and stared straight into Jimmy’s. Elvis would be this way forever, or at least as long as Jimmy kept the little plastic statue glued atop his computer monitor. It was a little piece of kitsch he’d bought at Graceland while doing research for a magazine article. He brought a little atmosphere to Jimmy’s office but he didn’t have any solutions for Jimmy’s problems.
Perhaps it was just that Megan had been captivated by Eddie’s performance that night. God knows he was good looking. And standing on stage in the spotlight with that beautiful guitar and that damn smile of his, well, Jimmy couldn’t compete with that. It made him wonder suddenly if he really had a chance with Megan. Writers weren’t sexy the way musicians were, especially unknown writers. No one wants to watch a writer perform his craft, since it pretty much looks like typing. But girls do like a handsome man with a guitar. For that matter, they seem to like any sort of man with one. Even Keith Richards has groupies for Christ’s sake.
Jimmy sneered back at Elvis. Maybe he wasn’t giving Megan the sort of attention she deserved. That was probably it. It was a simple problem with a simple solution. He made a note to take Megan flowers the next time he saw her. With that, he returned his attention to the article he was writing. It was a piece on the Mississippi Delta Fried Catfish Blues Festival. He’d finished a first draft, about fifteen hundred words. Now all he had to do was cut a third of it. He stared at the screen for ten minutes but he couldn’t concentrate. Dammit. He had the distinct feeling, an instinct really, that the problem with Megan wasn’t going to be solved with flowers. He started to wonder if Megan was thinking about him or Eddie. He started to replay the Biloxi scene in his head. Was she being polite to Eddie because he had just finished a show or was it more than that?
The next thing he knew he was dialing her work number. He got voice mail and thought about hanging up, but then he made the mistake of saying, “Hi, it’s me.” Then he froze, couldn’t think of what to say. Try to sound relaxed, he thought, like none of this matters, like you could take her or leave her. “Uh, you know I’ve been wondering if you. . .” Jimmy stopped. He couldn’t believe it. He’d almost asked if she’d been thinking about Eddie. “Uh, this is going to sound weird, and maybe I shouldn’t leave this, but I was wondering, the other night at the casino, was it just me or, I guess what I’m asking is if you’re more interested in, well, oh, hell I never should have started this. Forget you heard this. Is there a button to erase this shit? Uh, call me.” He hung up. He felt like an idiot.
15.
When the toxicology reports came back, the sheriff called Henry Teasdale and Eddie. He asked them to come down to the jail. They sat in the sheriff’s office. Eddie looked like he was still in shock. He had the dazed countenance of a lottery winner who didn’t think he deserved to win. He responded to questions with nods and shrugs and an occasional “yeah” or “I don’t think so.” Henry short-stopped most of the questions, thinking there was no reason for his cuckold son-in-law to go through more than he already had. But there were some questions Eddie had to answer, like whether he knew Tammy was having an affair.
Eddie looked up, wounded and confused. “No, sir. I didn’t.” His voice was small and distant. He still couldn’t believe things had ended the way they had.
“Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but we know for a fact she was. In fact, she’d been with someone the day she died.” He looked down at his hands folded on his desk. “Now if we knew who she was seein’, we could compel a blood test and that might help us clear some things up, but if you don’t know who it was. . . “
Eddie shook his head slowly. “I didn’t know.” He continued staring straight ahead, remaining expressionless even as the sheriff explained that Tammy had died of poisoning and that she’d been shot after she was already dead. Eddie didn’t react other than to blink a few times. The sheriff turned to Henry and asked if he had anything to add to his previous story. Henry shook his head, ashamed of what all he’d done.
“All right, Henry, I understand,” the sheriff said. “Here’s what I think happened based on the facts I got. You stop me if I get something wrong.” Henry just looked at the floor and nodded. “You went looking for Tammy, just like you said. When you got to the house you found she’d killed herself with the poison and you found the note. You couldn’t stand the thought of your family’s reputation suffering further, so you took the gun, made it look like a murder, and then you got rid of the evidence, including the note. Is that pretty much it?”
Henry nodded even though it wasn’t the truth. It was close enough and he just wanted this to be over with. He said he was sorry.
All of this was news to Eddie. Up until now, he thought the intruder story was the truth. He thought someone had shot her. He didn’t know anything about the affair or a suicide note or that his father-in-law had tampered with evidence in the hopes of protecting the family name, or that Tammy had really died from the poison. It was such an incredible set of facts Eddie didn’t know what to think, so he just remained silent.
“My guess,” the sheriff said, “and it’s just a guess, you understand, but my guess is that Tammy was feeling guilty about the affair she’d been having. Since Eddie was out of town, this fella had come over and they’d. . . well, you know. . . and afterwards, after this fella left, the guilt just got to her and she took the poison.” He paused a moment. “I’ve seen it before.”
Henry looked up, squinting as if he had a new theory. “Maybe this fella she’d been seein’, maybe he’s the one who poisoned her and then made the note.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Well, Henry, I suppose the suicide note — if that’s what it was — it mighta been intended to mislead investigators but since we don’t have it we can’t say for sure, can we?” He looked Henry in the eyes. “Do you have it? It might help us answer some questions.”
Henry shifted in his seat and looked out the window. “It’s gone.”
“Okay.” The sheriff was patient, like he was involved in a negotiation with a child. “I guess I expected that.” The sheriff steepled his fingers and looked from Henry to Eddie. “If it helps any, the medical examiner said she died real quick.” Eddie looked up at the sheriff, but didn’t speak. “Now I considered some other possibilities but they just ain’t flush with the facts.”
“Like what?” Henry asked.
“Well, like you said, it’s possible her lover gave her the poison and then shot her. But why would he shoot her if she was dead already, which she was?”
“Unless he thought the poison hadn’t killed her.”
“Well yeah, but that still leaves me wondering about the letters cut out of the magazine. Why would she write a note? Did it say ‘depressed,’ Henry?” Henry nodded, confirming the note’s existence. “‘Course I suppose it’s possible there was something more sordid going on, like if she was having some sort of affair with two men or a man and another woman, but if w
e go down that path, well, that’s a can of worms I don’t wanna open,” the sheriff said. “About all I know for sure is that poison was in her before the bullet was and, according to the medical examiner, if she took this poison, she wouldn’a been able to shoot herself. Of course somebody coulda slipped her the poison but there’d be no reason to shoot her afterwards.” The sheriff held his hands up. “I can’t make sense outta this except for the way I said.”
“I could see that,” Henry said.
“I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, Henry, but I’m gonna write it up as a suicide.”
“Well, now, wait a second.”
“I’ve got to, Henry. I’m real sorry, but without further evidence, I don’t have a better choice. We got no third party fingerprints, otherwise we might be able to find out who she was seein’ and then we might be able to compel a blood sample, but without that note or the gun—” The sheriff tilted his head slightly. “You don’t have the gun, do you Henry?”
Henry shook his head again. “It’s gone too.”
The sheriff let out a long breath. “Without that, I’m stuck,” the sheriff said. “It’s either a suicide or I have to open up a murder investigation that I already know don’t go anywhere. And then I’d have to drag you into it for tampering with evidence and such, and I don’t wanna do that, Henry. I think this other’s the best way.” He stood and walked Eddie and Henry to the door.
“I understand,” Henry said. “I’m sorry I did what I did, but. . .”
“I know, and I can’t say as I blame you.” The sheriff put his hand on the door knob, then stopped and looked at Henry. “Unless you got anything to add, I’m closing the case.”
Henry shook his head.
“All right then,” the sheriff said. He opened the door.
