Death in Living Gray

by John Clayton

  Jack Senior was trying to get me to fund a plane ticket to Cleveland, since the only person who might have known about it was an eighty-seven-year-old curmudgeon named Richard Clarke who was descended from the black sheep. He refused to talk to anyone unless they brought him a snort of brandy and a cigar, both of which were proscribed by his nurse. Driving to Baltimore was OK, but it cost a lot to fly to Cleveland, so I was holding off. Not refusing completely, since we really needed the information.

  Old Oilhead had brought two pairs of commuters to look at the house, even though the floor wasn’t shored up completely. The female member of one pair was a nut about ghosts and seemed anxious to rent the place because obviously the spirit of the dead soldier had used the tractor sofa to get free. I wasn’t sure I wanted somebody like that living close by, but she seemed pretty normal otherwise. And besides they were willing to move in right away so she could watch for the spirit to manifest as the wall was put back in place.

  Fanny had asked around the Country Club and the upper echelons of Mason County society to no avail. Henry Adams had had about the same result, except that he found out that his church, Ebenezer Baptist, wanted to replace their steeple, which was beginning to collapse after 140 years and several episodes on the receiving end of lightning strikes. Henry convinced Reverend Beckett to let me make a steeple out of tractor parts. Henry did it to help out with my finances, but you couldn’t thank him when he did something like that because he got so gruffy that you felt guilty. So I just accepted that I was the best person in Virginia to do the job and agreed to meet with the Reverend to go over the requirements.

  ***

  “Black African, but not too much so.” The Reverend Beckett, Doctor of Divinity, explained what he wanted for the new steeple.

  Henry Adams tried to interpret. “Like a Gothic cathedral but with an African motif. Only not so obvious that everybody thinks right off: African.”

  Stuart, who had been standing behind the table at which the other three of us were sitting, leaned forward and silently slid two library books toward me. One was on medieval architecture and the other was on African Masks.

  “That’s it exactly,” Reverend Beckett said, pointing to a couple of pages. “A medieval tower that has African gargoyles.”

  “Except that they should be abstract, so as only to give an African impression,” Henry said.

  “Without being preachy about it,” the Reverend added.

  Stuart shook his head up and down in agreement.

  “And you want it to be made out of tractor parts?” I asked.

  “Or whatever metal is available to do the job,” the Reverend said. “Henry says he can get plenty of raw material. It’s just that we need a top level designer to put it all together.”

  I almost fell for the compliment until I saw Henry’s grin. “It’ll cost,” I said. “Maybe a lot,” I added as an afterthought.

  “How much?” the Reverend asked.

  “I—or rather Henry and I—will have to do a detailed plan,” I said.

  “Well, as long as it’s not over a hundred thousand, we can probably swing it,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of new members.” And that I knew to be true. Many of the recently arrived commuters went to Ebenezer because of Reverend Beckett’s low-key marketing and the up-to-date childcare center. I shot a look at Henry, pretending to be thinking it over while I got my tongue back functioning.

  “We’ll have the estimate within a week,” I said as Henry was already up escorting the minister toward the door.

  “Today’s my day to call on the sick,” the Reverend Beckett said, assuming his most beatific smile while sliding gracefully out onto the porch—followed by Stuart with the library books and the same beatific smile. Only in Stuart’s case, it was the only expression he ever displayed. As Henry departed after the others, the last thing I saw was a thumbs-up from his hand, lingering an instant inside the doorway.

  Things were definitely looking better.

  Chapter 4

  He can’t be over one hundred years old. He stole the jewels last year.” I was a little excited, as Sheriff Overhouse, twisting his hat in his hand, tried to explain, “Well, you got one thing right, Miz Abernathy. It was definitely a he, but the only thing is, he had a Minnie ball jammed up against his back ribs.”

  Well even I know that a Minnie ball into the chest is usually fatal. And nobody uses Minnie balls much these days—not even the reenactors.

  Jack Senior had come up from behind and taken my hand. “So it really was a Confederate soldier,” he said.

  “Uncle George Ebenton?” I asked. Everybody in Mason County knew the story.

  “No ma’am. He wouldn’t have traveled far that way. Not from Gettysburg, anyway. Maybe the soldier was wounded in a skirmish when they were fighting over at Chancellorsville and somebody hid him not knowing he was dead.” The sheriff continued to twist his hat and was beginning to huff like he’d just run up the stairs several times.

  “Or they knew he was dead and hid the body from the Yankees for some reason.” Jack said, still holding my hand but leaning forward.

  “That’s the way forensics figures it,” the sheriff said.

  “But why?” I asked.

  Jack Senior looked away as the sheriff answered, “That’s what we don’t know. It looks like the bottom part was sealed off by a shelf about halfway down. Since the lower part was mostly airtight except for a crack into the outside of the chimney, the body didn’t, well,” the sheriff was looking at his feet, “stink too much.” He finally stammered it out in front of a woman.

  The whole thing made sense. The body had been in the lower part of the compartment well before the burglary—maybe for more than 100 years. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized that I’d been putting the brandy bottle back onto the top of a corpse, but I didn’t say anything because then Jack Senior would know that I had been nipping at his good brandy, and he didn’t say anything because that would be admitting that he had hidden the brandy. The sheriff was looking fixedly at his scuffed brown shoes, so I continued for him. “That means that somebody who knew about the compartment dropped the jewels in the top part after the burglary—and never knew there was a body already in there.”

  That’s right, Miz Abernathy,” he said, “and that also means that they didn’t have to be taken during the Confederate Ball. Mr. Pickerill didn’t notice them missing until the day after the party, but he hadn’t opened the safe since he left for the Riviera. That was two months before.”

  That I knew was probably true. They got back the morning of the party because Cassie had wanted to stay in Europe to attend one of those arty little film festivals to see some of her Hollywood friends. And according to the gossip, the jewels she wore to the Confederate Ball had been a present from the gigolo of some rich old baroness. The gossip wasn’t clear on whether the baroness knew about the gift. But that aside, what it meant was that there had been no reason for the Pickerills to open the nightstand which contained the safe before the ball.

  I involuntarily squeezed Jack Senior’s hand. I knew the accusation was coming so I forestalled, “That anonymous tip you got was just malicious gossip.”

  The sheriff straightened up. “And we took it that way then. We just ran all around here to cover all the bases. But…things have changed.” He paused. “Mr. Pickerill says you did some work putting in that big swing in his rec room—like the one down at Jezebel’s.” He looked up suddenly at Jack Senior, did a double take at the clouded face and mumbled loudly—as only he could mumble, “…that is, I mean The River Bend Restaurant…” before continuing, “Mr. Pickerill says you and Mr. Yancy spent a good part of the two months there.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  “So I checked with Mr. Yancy and he said that you were there alone building the swing most of the time with him dropping by once in a while to check on things, like Mr. Pickerill had contracted for him to do. He said you had the free run of the whole house.”

  Damn O
ld Oilhead! I let go of Jack Senior’s hand and turned to look the sheriff in the eye—as well as someone who’s five foot two can face someone who’s six two. “That’s true. That’s what I was contracted to do.”

  “Mr. Pickerill thinks I should take you into custody for stealing his jewels.”

  “Well, if I stole them, where are the others? You’ve searched the house.”

  “Mr. Pickerill thinks you sold them one piece at a time so as not to make a big notice.” He shuffled his feet and twisted the hat again. “Besides, everybody knows about the money trouble you’ve had.”

  Jack Senior made a strangled sound like he wanted to talk to the sheriff good ol’ boy to good ol’ boy. But he never was really one of the boys and they didn’t quite know how to treat him now that he was no longer gentry. So the sheriff kept looking straight at me.

  The best defense, they say, is attack. “And is that what you think, Lou Overhouse?” By now, I had moved up closer and was looking straight up into his Adam’s apple.

  “No ma’am.” By now, his hat had been twisted into a tight little roll, which he was holding as a barrier between us. “It’s just that Mr. Pickerill is gonna call the governor to get the state police to do my job if I don’t catch the perpetrator, and Mr. Pickerill says you’re most likely. So I got to warn you you’re under suspicion.”

  “Miranda rights?” I asked, stepping back so I could look him in the eye again.

  “It ain’t come to that, Miz Abernathy. It’s just that Mr. Pickerill, you know…” he let his voice trail off. And I did know—besides embarrassing the sheriff with the state police, Pickerill could support another candidate in the next election.

  “It could have been anybody,” I said. “We never lock the door. Antique customers come and go as they want. Hell, you’ll have to check on the entire local DAR. Victoria has had them all over for bridge.”

  “Now, now, you just calm down, Miz Abernathy.”

  Jack Senior migrated over to look out the window. I think I scare him when I forget my adopted Southern gentility and get pushy—but I was pissed—and scared.

  “Miz Abernathy, I know you didn’t do it, but you gotta admit it does look suspicious.” The sheriff filled up the conversational void, unrolling his hat and plopping the wrinkled form on his head.

  It seemed clear to me that he didn’t know what he believed, and now I had to find out who did it, to show him, and to protect myself along the way. Jack Senior was escorting him slowly toward the door, trying a little good ol’ boy mumbled reasoning, but I didn’t think it would work. There was too much at stake—for the sheriff and for us. We needed to get the facts, and getting them was going to be up to me—with maybe a little help from whomever I could cajole.

  ***

  The first thing I did after they left was to put a message on Old Oilhead’s answering machine telling him to go straight to Hell. The second was to set up an appointment with Weevil Tuttle at the Dairy and Donut. It had been almost a week and he should have found out something by now.

  ***

  “What do you mean, you didn’t check for single women?” I screamed at Weevil. Since the Confederate soldier was no longer a player in the burglary, looking for a single man didn’t seem too relevant anymore. But a lady traveling salesman inquiring about our houses might have been.

  Weevil squirmed in the front seat of his Sheriff’s Department pickup, because it really wasn’t big enough to absorb a scream effectively. He waited until the echo had died, then said softly, “We was looking for the soldier. We thought that the other perp would be local, so we didn’t check for nobody else. Now that they found out about the soldier, Sheriff Overhouse said we got to go back and check all the records for two months prior to the Ball. We can check for women if you want. Anyway, there was only three single males staying in motels that night. You want the list?” He handed me a sheet of paper before I could answer. “Got a rundown of all the credit cards used at the service stations coming, but the sheriff said we prob’ly wouldn’t get much except to corroborate other information—if we get any. The restaurants were a washout.”

  I folded the list. “Could you go back to check for a woman? Just try the Bill o’ Rights Motel.”

  “Maybe Tuesday.”

  “Why not this afternoon?” I asked, half-pleading.

  “Got to get ready for traffic duty tonight and then I’m going fishing for two days. After that, I can get right on it. Oh, and I didn’t get a response from Richmond on the driver’s license yet. I shore hope it comes soon, because I hate to see Aunt Tillie and Tattie get hornswoggled.”

  “Me too,” I said, deciding it wouldn’t do any good to push a local beyond where he was willing to be pushed. I hopped out of the truck, took a long look at the baseball bat in the gun rack, decided it was probably too big to fit as a best case scenario, and in the worst case, that I’d have to pay the hospital to have it removed. I couldn’t afford it. So I walked with as much composure as I could muster back to my van. Damn!

  ***

  As soon as I’d cooled down enough to see, I unfolded the list. Two men at the Road Rider Inn and one at the Bill o’ Rights Motel. Nothing from the northern part of the county. The Sheriff’s Department must not have made it that far. And there weren’t any addresses. Damn. Maybe they forgot to get them. Or Weevil didn’t bother to transcribe them. I jumped out of the van to ask, but Weevil’s truck was already heading down the road to get ready for traffic duty. The two licenses for the Road Rider were from New Jersey and Virginia.

  The one from the Bill o’ Rights had a Maryland license number and a name: Thomas Craven. In Baltimore, we had a real live relative, Isobel Turner, who might be involved. I could go and try to find Craven’s address from the Bill o’ Rights and see if it was the same as Isobel’s. And the lady Jezebel told me about had the same motel marked on her map. She said she was from Baltimore too. Might as well kill two birds with one stone and get both addresses. The trouble was the Duggetts, owners and proprietors of the motel. I didn’t know them personally, and they had a reputation for being difficult.

  So, not being able to afford a cell phone, I went back to my barn shop to call Fanny for help.

  ***

  No answer. My life’s at stake and no one’s interested. So I left a message. I could ask Jack Senior to do it, but he was probably at Jezebel’s having a free lunch by now. I could ask Victoria if she knew them, but I didn’t feel like dealing with Uncle George Ebenton. I was on my way back to the van, avoiding her, when she called in her mistress-of-the-manor voice from the kitchen door, “Oh, Prudence, it’s your mother, calling from California.”

  Double damn! I talked to her only last Sunday. I was annoyed, but you can’t just refuse to talk to your mother, even if all you do is listen. So I thanked Victoria and said I’d take the call in the barn.

  ***

  “Prudence.” The voice was excited. “Is it your day to call? I forgot whether this is your Sunday or mine.”

  I was about to explain that it was my Sunday to call in two more days since today was Friday. My mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s or any other form of dementia. She’s as healthy as a horse for seventy-odd. She just never pays any attention. But I couldn’t get the words in because she just kept on going, “I’ve been so busy getting a new dress, chartreuse and just the most gorgeous lilacs in pink with nice big green leaves. Do you think it’s too young for me? Well I’ve just got a job next Thursday and Friday, or wait, maybe it’s Friday and Saturday. Remind me to call and find out. Charlie’s Place, that is. That’s where I’m playing “Oldies but Goodies” for the over-forty crowd. Not as much fun as the real oldies, but then most of the people who like that kind of music are dead, and I would be too if I didn’t walk two miles a day and take vitamin C. Did you ever start taking your vitamins? And the job requires that I dress appropriately, so I thought maybe a bright muumuu from the seventies. Or was that the sixties? Anyway it’s a job, even if it’s only for a few weeks, and that social se
curity doesn’t go very far nowadays…”

  I bravely tuned out. Bravely, because my mother would remember just one of the multitudes of things she’d said, and later she’d mention it. If I didn’t remember, she’d pout, not complaining, but repeating it, so I’d understand that I hadn’t been paying her any attention after all she had done for me—which, in fact, wasn’t a lot. She did give me her strawberry blond hair, the freckles, and the overlarge bust. I got my only really good feature, my trim ankles, from my father—but that’s all I hope. He was a revivalist preacher, going from town to town in the Valley of California, sermonizing to the farm workers and anybody else who would pay to hear him. Mother played a little piano that we carried on the back of a pickup truck. The three of us lived in a tiny trailer that was towed behind the truck. But since he wasn’t really making ends meet with the revivals, Dad floated over to Big Sur and started a temple of Min in the late fifties.

  Now this Min was an Egyptian fertility god who is always portrayed with an erect penis. Dad made a bundle parading his flock around the California mountains following a wooden statue of a guy with a hard-on. But Mom didn’t like the whole idea, divorced Dad, and took me to live in LA, where she played piano in an upscale little restaurant and lounge—a living, but not a great one. I was struggling through art school part-time by working full-time at an art gallery for minimum wage, when suddenly one day Dad drove up to Mother’s apartment, signed over his 1958 bright red Cadillac convertible and then went back to Big Sur. I took my friends for one ride around town, sold the car the next day, quit my job, and went to school full-time for two years. After graduation, I got the same job back at the gallery for the same minimum wage that I had been getting before I quit.

  Dad called one day about two months after I graduated and offered me a job as his administrative assistant, but I couldn’t see myself with all those penis worshiping people, so I turned Dad down, eventually married and moved to Virginia—where I became a prime burglary suspect with no help in clearing my name and a mother who was currently wasting my time yakking on the phone. “I told you a thousand times that you wouldn’t live to be fifty if you didn’t take your Vitamin C and you wouldn’t want to die and leave Jack Senior to fend for himself, would you? He’s such a wonderful husband. Not at all like your own father. You should thank your lucky stars. Well, I gotta go take in the muumuu in some places and let it out in others. You know how a mother’s work is never finished.” Click.