He walked toward Harry, his weight resonating on the old floorboards. When he got in front of Harry, his hands that had manhandled Harry before, were peacefully at his sides. He said simply but firmly, “Mister Jacobsen, I’m to drive you back to my boss’s house.”
Harry looked up. “Do I have any choice?”
“He really wants to see you,” said Honch calmly but with a determined look in his eyes.
“All right,” said Harry, standing up.
The fax machine began. Annie read the printout.
“The car is out front,” Honch said.
“Harry, before you leave, you might want to look at this,” said Annie. She handed him the fax.
It was from Peterson, the outspoken Baltimore Sun reporter who had been present at the sheriff’s press conference.
“Dear Harry, I was impressed with you at the news conference we had with that figurehead sheriff. I know your work in New York and figure you’re working hard on the Walker case to get at the truth of what really happened thirty years ago.
I was trying to investigate this case until the problem we had with one of our reporters managed to sidetrack all of us with our credibility. I am sure you as everyone else in the country heard about this guy Joe Dank who turned in stories which were false and caused our paper no end of litigation. As a result my editor refused to discuss any risky stories with me, especially stories with big name banks and property owners involved. I am sure you understand what can happen to a news staff and what has slowed much of my investigative work.
As a result you’re in a better position to investigate the information herein than I am so I’m sending it along. I told you I had something that had always puzzled me about the fire that burned down part of River Sunday in 1968. A couple of years ago a friend of mine had a look at some of the Jake Terment bankruptcy papers in New York. Jake’s father was Henry Terment, a real mover and shaker in your town. My friend found a record dated a few years after the big fire, indicating that the title to that burned cannery property changed hands from Henry Terment, the majority owner, and three minority holders, William Elliott, Everett Tolchester, and Senator Thomas Fair, to sole possession of Missus Homer Kirby. He found no record of the value of the transaction. I asked my friend to look for more information in the records. Unfortunately, when he went back, all those records had been gone through by someone else and anything of value was gone. I was never able to find out what all this meant but my newspaperman’s nose tells me a stink is in that town somewhere and it isn’t the nearby swamp.
Again I apologize for Joe Dank and what he has done to all of us. His perfidy certainly stopped my coming to any conclusion about River Sunday and Walker John’s innocence. Maybe this information will help you to figure out what happened. I understand that most of the people involved are dead now so you’ll have to do some digging for witnesses. Good luck. Peterson.”
Harry folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Come rescue me if I don’t come back in a reasonable time,” he said to Annie, and grinned. He noticed that her normally relaxed face for the first time had a look of apprehension.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I knew Joe Dank,” she said. “Not a good story.”
He looked at her but her eyes would not meet his.
As he got in the car, Harry thought about why Billy had invited him back for an interview. Billy might be worried about what Harry was going to write, what it might do for the New Yorker’s public relations, in other words, what effect a negative article might have on one of his business deals. Harry smiled. Sometimes a newspaperman can cause some pretty big ripples.
After about twenty minutes of fast driving he was again back at the Elliot house, seated across from Billy, but this time with a welcoming drink in his hand. Billy in turn was smiling. The others had left.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” said Billy. A copy of the recent Nanticoke Times was at his feet. “You can understand though that I value my privacy.”
Billy went on, leaning forward. “I wanted to talk to you about something specific. Peggy Tolchester said that you’re working on another article like this one,” he nodded toward the newspaper on the ground, “about my old friend Walker John Douglas.”
“That’s right,” said Harry, eying his host.
“A person like me sometimes has to act first and ask questions later. I hope you’ll forgive me,” said Billy.
“No one got hurt.”
Billy looked out on the cornfields.
“I would have let this go, I mean, any misunderstanding you might have about me and not invited you back except for one thing. After you left I got a call from Charleston Grow.”
“Yes, I know Charleston,” said Harry.
“He told me you did. Charleston wanted my help on a matter. Maybe you might have some insight in this too, especially since you’re kind of an outsider, not involved in the local politics.”
“Go ahead,” said Harry.
“The discovery of Walker John’s boat has opened up a lot of history, as I’m sure you are aware. Charleston said that it’s time to take care of a matter that has been, so to speak, swept under the rug for thirty years.”
Harry sipped his drink and said, “I heard him say one night he knew of something that was an unfinished issue about Walker, something that might affect the town.”
Billy nodded and continued. “When the fire happened, a lot of confusion came over the town of River Sunday. Walker was accused of the crime but he couldn’t be found. Walker had some money in the bank. My father and the other leaders of the town decided to hold his money in escrow until he turned up for trial.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“It was done anyway,” said Billy. “People were angry but that’s no excuse. Dorothy, his mother, who should have got it, didn’t have any recourse. She was told by the bank that it was stolen. Charleston didn’t come into the case until a few weeks after Walker was gone and by then the money was tied up in a special account. Charleston was told to lay off. He tried to get old Dorothy to take the issue to court, get the money.”
“Why didn’t she?” asked Harry.
“Charleston said she’s been afraid, her daughter too, all these years.”
“Afraid of what?”
Billy looked at him. “You don’t understand how things happen in River Sunday, Harry. They were afraid that some of the rougher people in this town might come over in the middle of the night, might take justice or what they thought was justice, into their own hands.”
“Who exactly made these decisions?”
“My father, being from the bank, I’m sure was involved,” said Billy, sipping his drink.
“How much money?”
“Walker had been making some good money, considering that he was just a River Sunday boat mechanic. He had saved up about fifty thousand dollars.”
“The town spent the money?” asked Harry.
“No, they never did,” said Billy. “The money has been building interest for all this time. You can imagine that the fund has a fair amount of money in it now. Fifty thousand dollars with compounded interest for thirty years would be several hundred thousand or more.”
“I guess the town doesn’t want to give it back,” said Harry.
Billy nodded. “Charleston thinks the sister should get it, or the nephew, WeeJay. However, the town has been using that fund as backing for its bond issues. I doubt, and Charleston agrees, that the town will, on its own, give it back.”
“Who knows about this?”
“I’d bet Missus Kirby, who I imagine has told Catch. She knows everything. Cheeks, of course, would know. He’s close to the Kirbys.”
“How can that kind of money remain hidden?”
“It’s classified as a gift to the town, an anonymous gift.”
“I think that if the people of River Sunday knew about this, they would make it right,” Harry said.
“That’s a two edged
sword, Harry. When the money was taken, people might have thought this was justified. Then, a generation later, people might think it unfair.”
Harry smiled.
“What?” asked Billy.
“I was just remembering what someone said to me the other day. He said what happened back then was like a lynching.”
“People won’t want to be reminded of the past,” said Billy.
Harry said, “So Walker John is helping to finance the highways around here even though he’s dead.”
“Yes,” said Billy.
“We could do something in the paper,” said Harry. “An investigative report. Ask some questions.”
“Think about it,” said Billy. “I wanted to talk to you because I thought you should know.”
Harry nodded.
“This boat, you’ve seen it?” asked Billy.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t been near that boat for thirty years,” said Billy.
“You still refer to him as your friend. You were one of the kids that hung around his shop.”
“I sure did. I sanded half the hull,” said Billy. “We all worked hard there. Walker was that way. He would let us come around and he was our friend, a mentor, but he wouldn’t put up with poor workmanship or someone sitting around doing nothing. If you came into the shop, you had to work.”
“No pay, I understand,” said Harry.
“No, no pay. It’s not that Walker couldn’t pay us, it’s that none of us wanted pay. We were doing something we cared about, working on the race boat, and we liked Walker too. A special kind of experience, I guess.“
“Tell me about the shop,” asked Harry, sipping his drink.
“You’ve seen the barn at his place in River Sunday?” asked Billy, standing up and stretching. He looked out at the river as he talked.
“Yes. His nephew showed me around,” said Harry.
“His sister’s kid, WeeJay.” Billy sat down again, more relaxed now. “We weren’t much older than WeeJay when we were helping Walker in that shop.”
“I heard about Walker’s Patrol,” said Harry.
“You know about that?”
“Peggy Tolchester told me the story, how you guys rescued a tanker out in the harbor.”
Harry knew that this man wanted to tell it all now, as if the words Walker’s Patrol had been the secret password. Harry’d seen the look before on interviews. This man was like a pitcher full of water that is about to pour into a too small cup and overflow liquid in a large messy puddle,
“Walker John saved my life. I’ll always owe him,” said Billy.
“How?”
“He and I were out fishing one evening. I was very proud. We were in my boat and let me tell you, to have Walker agree to ride in your boat, well, that was a big deal. Walker knew too and I think he made sure that he’d go out with each of us when he could, not playing any favorites, you know. That was the kind of guy he was. Peggy took him out, she ran him all the way out to the point in the rough water, and Catch, well, he had to show how fast his boat went, and with Senator, all he wanted to do was talk about his woodwork, if you know Senator.”
Harry nodded.
Billy went on, “Yeah, well, we were just kids and Walker knew that and he tried to help us grow up. I had him out with me and we were going fishing near the Nanticoke Bridge. Not a very good place but I had picked it and he went along with my judgment.”
“No fish?” asked Harry.
“No,” said Billy, “We got into something else.”
“What?” Harry said.
Billy said, “I’d heard about them coming in to the rivers. Nobody paid much attention, that’s all.”
“What was it?” asked Harry.
“Doubleheads.”
“What are doubleheads?” Harry said.
Billy leaned forward, using his hands to explain.” They’re like little manta rays, stingrays I guess. Another name for them is skate. We get them around the Eastern Shore in the summer. You see them in the evenings on the rivers.”
“What about them?” said Harry.
“Well, it’s their tail. That’s what can hurt you if you get in the way. Sharp, so it slices right through your flesh.”
Billy continued. “We were trolling along the lee shore and it was getting dark. Picture this now. Me, I’m in the stern of the boat, my twelve footer, sitting back in the corner with my elbow outside the rail and about three inches from the water. My rod is off to the left with the line trailing out behind. Walker is in the middle of the boat, facing me, his line off to his left. We’re doing a trolling speed which means the boat is barely moving. Off to the shore line to my right we’d see the tips of seaweed coming along in the water and the shadows from the shoreline made by the sun down behind the pines. No bugs because we were just far enough out to avoid them. I was talking to Walker, me the teenage nautical engineer, about my ideas for making boats go faster.
“I was just finishing a sentence, my mouth in a smile at my own humor when Walker jumps from his seat, lets his fishing rod go out into the water with a big splash, and then he’s on top of me, not a word spoken and I’m pushed down under him my face full of the sour smell of his sweat.
“’What are you doing?’ I managed to blurt out as I was twisted back on the seat, my arm up thrust against the engine, the boat now turning toward shore. I could hear nothing, the engine was running so close to my head. I felt water being splashed over me and wetting my face and shoulders.
“Then I felt the weight of Walker lifting off of my little body and the bigger man sat back. As he did I felt drops of a warm liquid falling on my face. I saw him holding his left arm, his face contorted in pain, his hand covered, I could see now, with blood.
“‘What happened?’ I said, knowing as I asked that we had run into one of the double heads, knowing that I had caused this disaster to the older man.
“‘He got me,’ Walker said. He spoke in a soft patient voice, a sound that I’ll never forget.
“‘Let me see,’ I offered, knowing that I could do nothing, that he was older, wiser and knew far more than me.
“‘You can speed her up soon’s you get in your line.’
“‘What about yours?’ I said, noticing his rod handle floating off the starboard side in close to shore in some seaweed.
“‘Let her go now, Billy,’ he said. ‘She ain’t going nowhere. I’ll come back and get it.’
“‘We got to get you to River Sunday,’ I said.
“‘Yes, we got to do that,’ Walker said.
“Needless to say, at the hospital they got him fixed up good as new. He took that attack for me. The fish would have cut my neck right open. Would have taken me out. Old smarty pants me, so much a big shot in my little boat. Anyway, Harry, I guess it’s old wisdom that if a man saves your life, he becomes your brother. It felt like that to me. Walker and I were different together after that happened. I felt like I was part of him, part of his life.
“You have to understand,” he said, “how people felt about those women being burned to death. In the days when I was a kid, the government didn’t provide free food. The poor folks would come by their kitchen door and ask for food. I’d ride my bicycle by in the evening and I’d see the line of people out there, maybe ten people, kids, mothers, fathers, old folks. All of them would have a basket and up at the front of the line I’d see one of the sisters working, her white hair in the bun that she’d worn since she was a girl back at the turn of the century and she was leaning over and filling the basket with all kinds of cans of food, cereal, eggs, and smiling too so the people wouldn’t think she was high and mighty. They had a common touch, my mother said. They were the saints of the town. You’d see them out on their porch sometimes, sitting in their rockers, waving their woven fans in the evening heat.”
“’That Walker, your friend, almost killed us off,’ my father told me, the day after the fire. ‘That crazy man should have stuck to his boat building. He tried to kill our town but he di
dn’t succeed. The bank didn’t burn; the bank stopped him.’
Billy looked pensive as he talked about his father. He learned more about his father the day he came home with the news that Walker had brought Mahoney’s antique through the town and was going to restore it. His father motioned him to come and sit in the living room. When they were sitting facing each other, his father looked carefully at his son and asked,
“’Did that Walker fellow say anything about your grandfather?’
“I replied, ‘He was talking about Mahoney, Daddy.’
“Then my father said, a sad look in his face, ‘I don’t expect he would know or care. Your grandfather was on that boat too, son. He was Mahoney’s mechanic.’ Dad went on, ‘Mahoney picked him special, said he had talent, was the best mechanic in River Sunday.’ He stopped and then said slowly, ‘My mother and me went along the shoreline and fished him out, washed up on the lee shore of the harbor, drowned dead by that boat and the fool that he had believed in.’
Billy said, choking up for a moment, “I never saw my father so upset as that time and never after that, just like he remembered and then forgot again. I think sometimes of him as that little boy pulling his heavy and very dead father out of the harbor water.”
Billy caught himself, took back his composure and changed the subject.
“Yes, I do think of him as my friend,” he said. He told Harry that he never thought of Walker as a criminal even though the man had done wrong. He would say to himself that Walker’s death was good, that if he’d been captured by some of the white men who inhabited the rural enclaves near River Sunday, he would have suffered a great deal. These men, Billy feared in these moments of recollection, would take Walker and after torturing him might even anchor him deep into the Chesapeake Bay where he would never be found.
Dorothy, Walker’s mother, was housekeeper at Billy’s home. Even after Walker ran away, she still came and did her work. When Billy was home on vacation, she would remind him, always out of earshot of the older Elliott, that if he got married and had a son, he should remember River Sunday and his childhood.
“‘You bring up your boy to ride the boats,’ she’d say.
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 20
