by Ann B. Ross
Mr. Pickens let that lie for a few minutes as he concentrated on his driving. Then he said, “Interesting, though, don’t you think, that the Sullins woman brought up Cassie’s husband. We had the same thought, remember?”
“Yes, and he was the only one who showed any anger about it. But I couldn’t tell if he was mad at the thief for stealing Cassie’s information or at Sam for gathering it or at her for letting Sam have an interview. Or for serving a bad meatloaf.”
Mr. Pickens laughed—just a little, but more than he’d been doing. “Ah, well,” he said, “at least we’ve done the footwork. Now I need to do some thinking. And I’m hoping that one of them, after doing some thinking of their own, will give me a call. I left a card with everybody, and of course they all know you and Sam. Any kind of call from one of them might give us a break, so if you get one, be sure and set up a meeting. Anywhere, anytime.”
“That reminds me. I should give Cassie a call and invite her to lunch. If she’ll come over to the house or if she wants to meet downtown, do you want to be there?”
“Let me think about it. She might open up to you when she wouldn’t if I’m there. Just let me know if she agrees, but better not count on her husband letting her do anything.”
“Lord, Mr. Pickens, wouldn’t you hate to live with a man like that?”
He turned his black eyes on me, laughing again. “I don’t believe I’ll ever have to make that decision.”
“Oh, you. You know what I mean. I just feel for her having to put up with such a domineering and oppressive man. That’s no way to live in my opinion.”
I bit my lip then, thinking that I’d lived most of my life with a man of similar disposition. Wesley Lloyd Springer, though, had never been rude or disagreeable when there was an audience around, I could give him that. He’d saved his scathing words and marching orders for the times when we were alone.
Deliberately closing my mind to such thoughts, I said, “Well, what do we do next?”
Mr. Pickens cocked an eyebrow at me. “Am I invited to dinner tonight?”
“Of course you are. Lillian’s fixing creamed corn, fresh from the field. Or rather from a local produce stand.”
“Okay, then why don’t we sit around afterward and see if we can figure out where we are and where we go from here?” Before I could answer, he thought of something else. “Unless you think we’d disturb anybody.”
“If you mean Hazel Marie, no, we won’t. The doctor’s letting her get up a little today. But she’s not supposed to do anything strenuous, and he specifically told her not to get all upset over anything. Which,” I said with a baleful glance at him, “she’s been doing a lot of here lately.”
After a second of silence, he mumbled, “Maybe I better not come over.”
That wasn’t the response I wanted, so I had to think fast. “No, you come right on. Doctor Hargrove’s known for being overly cautious, and besides, there’s no reason you’d upset her, is there? I mean, the two of you have broken up and, as far as I’m concerned, that ought to be that. I’ll let her know that you’re coming for Sam’s sake and not in any way to bother her. Besides that, she wants Latisha to come visit—for the entertainment value, you know. And that child will keep Hazel Marie’s mind off any disturbing influence you might have. Not that I think you would,” I hurriedly added, “but still.”
“Okay,” he said, as if he wasn’t sure about it, “for Sam’s sake, then.”
Chapter 30
Mr. Pickens walked in that evening bearing a huge box of Godiva chocolates. He must’ve driven to Asheville after he dropped me off, for there wasn’t a place in Abbotsville that carried such expensive candy. A Whitman’s Sampler was about the best the town had to offer.
He handed the fancy box to me, saying, “Hazel Marie might like this. I don’t know if she’s well enough for candy, but . . .” He shrugged with a deprecating smile as if he knew it wasn’t much of an appeasement under the circumstances.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Pickens,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“Well, if she doesn’t,” he said, somewhat sadly, I thought, “maybe the rest of you will.”
“We all will, I assure you. I would suggest that you take it in to her since she’s up for a while, but she’s pleasantly occupied right now. I’d hate to stir up anything, which, I’m sorry to say, your appearance might do. Lloyd and Latisha are with her. And Sam, too. They’re putting a jigsaw puzzle of the Washington Monument together, and so far it’s slow going. I’ll tell you, Mr. Pickens, it has stretched my imagination to come up with ideas to entertain her. You’d be amazed at how little there is to do that doesn’t involve physical activity or emotional stress.”
Sam came out then to welcome him, shaking his hand as if they hadn’t spent the last few days together. I left them in the living room and walked back to see how Hazel Marie was getting along. After a moment of indecision, I left the box of chocolates on the chest in the hall. I’d give it to her later when Lloyd wasn’t around to witness whatever her response would be. Besides, nobody should be eating candy so close to dinnertime.
Hazel Marie and the two children were sitting around a card table in the bedroom. She was still in her gown and robe, which seemed to imply that she didn’t intend to show up in the dining room. Just as well, I thought, for Mr. Pickens needed to keep his mind on Sam’s problem tonight. Still, I hated for an opportunity to effect a reconciliation to pass by.
I walked over and stood between Hazel Marie and Lloyd, one hand on each of their shoulders. Looking down at the table where about a thousand pieces of puzzle were spread out, I said, “How is it coming?”
Not well, I could’ve answered myself, for they had only one corner and part of the top of the puzzle put together.
Hazel Marie looked up and smiled, indicating to me that she was enjoying the children’s company and that her stress level was on an even keel.
Lloyd said, “Hey, Miss Julia,” then watched Latisha as she tried to force two pieces together. “If they won’t go easily, Latisha, then they don’t fit.”
“Well,” Latisha said, discarding one piece and rummaging around for another. “I don’t know how them puzzle people ’spect us to put this thing together. They’s so much of this blue sky, you can’t tell one from another.”
“Let’s leave it for now,” I said. “You need to get your hands washed for dinner.”
Latisha, her little head covered in rows of plaits with colored beads on the ends, looked up. “I’m gonna eat in here with Miss Hazel Marie. She said I could, ’cause I never eat in no bedroom before.”
“That’s fine. You’ll be good company for her. Lloyd, do you want to eat in here, too?”
He glanced at his mother, seemed to hesitate, then said, “I guess I’ll come to the table. I wouldn’t want J.D. to think we don’t want to see him. It might hurt his feelings.”
I felt Hazel Marie stiffen under my hand, but she gave no other sign of distress. “It’s all right, Lloyd,” she said. “You run along. We’ll work on the puzzle after dinner.”
When the children left to wash their hands, I ventured a suggestion. “If you feel well enough, Hazel Marie, there’s still time for you to dress and come to the table, too. I mean,” I quickly said as she turned away, “you don’t have to, just if you feel like it. To be hospitable, if nothing else.”
“I don’t feel that good,” she said. “I wish he’d just leave and never come back. When he’s in the house, I start feeling all edgy and upset. Quivery, like I’m going to throw up.”
“Well, we certainly don’t want to start that again. You just stay in here and enjoy your dinner. But I will tell you that we’ll be going over the little we have on Sam’s problem afterwards, so Mr. Pickens will be staying later than usual. You might want to close your door.”
“It gets too hot,” she mumbled, and I marveled at the fact that even though she didn’t want to see him, she was making sure she could hear him.
I patted her shoulder and turned to leave. “I’ll ask Sam to check the vents in here tomorrow.”
After dinner, Sam, Mr. Pickens, and I adjourned to the living room where both men brought out folders and opened briefcases. I heard Lillian finish up in the kitchen, then walk to Hazel Marie’s room to collect Latisha.
Before we could get started, Latisha appeared in the doorway. “Great-Granny say for me to say good night, an’ thank you for supper, an’ can I come back tomorrow?”
“Why, of course you may,” I told her. “And we thank you for being such good company for Hazel Marie. Did she eat a good dinner?”
“No’m, she jus’ pick at it a little bit, but Lloyd, he tell her he gonna hand-feed her, she don’t do better.”
“I’ll give her a snack a little later on,” I said. “She probably didn’t need a heavy meal anyway.”
“Well, I tell you what she do need,” Latisha said, as firm and confident as a medical practitioner. “She prob’bly need some of that choc’late candy I seen settin’ in yonder.”
We couldn’t help but laugh, knowing who really needed it. Mr. Pickens said, “Latisha, I think you’re right. Why don’t you take the box and give it to her. Tell her it’s for everybody and you need some to take home with you.”
Latisha’s eyes lit up. Before she left, she turned back and said, “If you the one that brung it, I sure do thank you. I been cravin’ some choc’late candy this whole day.”
I followed Latisha out into the hall, watched as she carefully took the box and carried it in to Hazel Marie. Thinking that Hazel Marie would be more receptive of the gift if I wasn’t there, I lingered outside the door.
“Look!” I heard Latisha say. “That big, ole black-eyed man brung us all some candy. He say for us to open it right up.”
“Law, chile,” Lillian said. “That candy’s for Miss Hazel Marie. Come on now, we got to get home.”
“Oh, wait, Lillian,” Hazel Marie said. “Let’s all have some. Lloyd, you open it and pass it around.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that I’d been afraid she’d throw it across the room, out the window, or in the trash when she learned who it was from. The children certainly had a calming effect on her, and I determined to have Latisha over again not only tomorrow but for as many more days afterward as possible.
Then Lloyd said, “Mama, there’s a card here. From J.D., I guess.”
There was silence, while I held my breath. Then Hazel Marie, sounding as if she were gritting her teeth, said, “Put it on the dresser, honey. I’ll look at it later.”
Going back to the living room, I thought that the gift-giving-and-receiving had gone better than I’d feared. And all because the children had been around. If they hadn’t, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d come flying out and thrown the Godiva box straight at Mr. Pickens. I’d have to tell him that Lloyd and Latisha most likely saved him from suffering great bodily harm.
By the time I got to the living room, Mr. Pickens had drawn up a chair to the coffee table where there were papers and notes spread out. Sam was on the sofa jotting down more notes on a yellow legal pad.
Excited at the prospect of uncovering the mystery of the missing files, I took a seat beside Sam, then looked from him to Mr. Pickens. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve found.”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” Mr. Pickens said, tapping his paper with a pen. “But let’s see where we are. We got nothing from the four people we went to see, less than nothing, in fact, because they closed right down on us. I’m convinced, though, that something has to tie them together.”
“I am, too,” Sam said. “But I’ve looked and looked and I can’t find a thing. I’ve checked arrest dates and court dates up one side and down the other, and none of them were ever arrested at the same time or arraigned at the same time. They didn’t live near each other, and there’s no indication they ran around together. I’ve about reached a dead end.”
Mr. Pickens leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, moving into his deep thinking mode. “Okay, but we’re agreed that something connects them, right?” His black eyes settled back on Sam. “You didn’t find anybody else during that time who got the same special treatment as these four? Five, I mean?”
“Not a one,” Sam said, shaking his head. “That’s what caught my attention in the first place. Everybody else arrested during those years got exactly what you’d expect, given the charges against them. No question about that. These are the only ones who slipped through, time after time.”
“Okay, hold onto that for a minute,” Mr. Pickens said, turning his pen around and making a note. “Tell me again about the sheriff and the judge.”
“Well, like I said,” Sam said, “Al Hamilton was the sheriff back then for twenty years or more, and that covered the time we’re interested in. I knew him, and it’s hard to believe he’d let these people squeak by, especially since all of them, except the Weaver woman, were repeat offenders. Now, Al wouldn’t qualify as the greatest sheriff around, but he was a big law and order man, which is why he kept getting reelected.” Sam shook his head, unable to figure out the problem. “I just can’t see him flagrantly flaunting the law for people who had no pull that I can see. If anything, putting them away for a stretch would’ve been to his advantage. Of course,” Sam went on, “you never know about people.”
“All right,” Mr. Pickens said, turning his pen around and making a note. “Let’s think about the judge. Tell me about him.”
“District Court Judge Robert Eugene Baine,” Sam said with a long sigh. “He was a piece of work. Ran his courtroom like it was his own little kingdom. But a lot of judges did that—up until 1968, that is. That year, the legislature set sentencing guidelines that clamped down on the free-wheeling judges we had then.” Sam smiled, a look of nostalgia crossing his face. “I was just starting out in the early sixties, and I’ll tell you, when we walked into a courtroom, we never knew what a judge would do.”
“All right,” Mr. Pickens said again. “Let me be sure of this. The cases involving these five people, they all happened before 1968? And they were arrested while Sheriff What’s-His-Name was in office and they all appeared before Judge Baine?”
Sam nodded. “Sheriff Hamilton, right. And those that got as far as a courtroom, yes, they all appeared before Baine. But, remember, some of the arrests never got to the courtroom. That’s why it’s hard to pin on one or the other. It would have to’ve been both of them, and that’s hard to imagine, given their personalities. So maybe I’m seeing problems where there aren’t any. The cases could just be anomalies, even though there’re five of them, and it kept happening over and over.” Sam sat back, resting his pad on his knee. He ran his pen down the list. “But something or somebody has to tie them together—Cassie Wooten, Teddy Tillman, Ilona Weaver, and Rosemary Sullins.”
And Rafe Feldman, I thought.
Mr. Pickens leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, one foot crossed over the other. “Okay, let me add a kicker, here. I spent some time today going through the Index of Deeds at the courthouse, looking through the entire decade of the sixties. I found one thing of interest—a deed registered in 1969 by which a certain Amelda Capps Tillman sold a small tract of land to Albert H. Hamilton. The survey indicated that it was a little less than an acre, bordering a river. She got three hundred dollars for it, which I guess for the times would’ve been about right.”
“Well, that is interesting,” Sam said. “Amelda Tillman, that would be Bob and Ted’s mother, all right. Where in the county was it?”
“Place called River Bend.”
“Huh,” Sam said, concentrating hard. “That area was nothing but wilds in sixty-nine, away in the southwest corner of the county and barely accessible except by the river. Too bad she didn’t wait a few years. It really built up later on.”
I thought back to that time several years into my marriage to Wesley Lloyd Springer and couldn’t recall knowing either the sheriff or Amelda Tillman, mu
ch less any kind of land deal between them. Still too busy trying to adjust to Wesley Lloyd’s requirements, I guess.
“The thing is,” Mr. Pickens said, “the timing is suggestive. If the judge, for whatever reason, had been letting Ted slip through the cracks for several years, then lost his discretionary powers, Mrs. Tillman may have had to look elsewhere. What I’m saying is that one thing happened in sixty-eight and the other right soon afterward in sixty-nine. Does that tell us anything?”
Mr. Pickens scratched his head with the blunt end of his pen, and Sam looked lost in thought. Finally, Sam said, “Looks like it tells us that both the judge and the sheriff were involved.”
“Maybe,” I said, adding my opinion for the first time, “but sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, as somebody said. Because why would the sheriff want a piece of land so far off the beaten track that the only way to get to it was by boat?”
Chapter 31
“Here’s what we do, then,” Mr. Pickens said, not deigning to answer the question I’d posed. “Let’s look at both of them, find out everything we can about the judge and the sheriff, and see what pops up.” He stared at Sam for a minute, thinking. Then he went on. “Would the judge have had any influence over the sheriff?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam said, a flash of hope passing across his face. “Politics could’ve been behind it all. Judge Baine had political ties everywhere. Nobody got elected to anything without his backing. And, believe me, he had his way until people got their fill of it and turned him out of office. But that was way down the line. He was on the bench for close to thirty years.”
Mr. Pickens said, “All the more reason to think he’s our man. If he could do as he pleased on the bench, plus having some kind of hold over the sheriff, then he was in the catbird seat.”
