by Ralph Zeta
“Who?”
“Paula Jumper.”
“What’s the connection?”
“She was Lowry’s housekeeper.”
“It’s always the housekeeper.”
Sammy shot me a bored look.
“I came across a police incident report. Not easy to find, mind you. But according to the report, Paula Jumper was arrested at the Lowry home in Coral Gables some years back. Accused of stealing jewelry belonging to Mrs. Lowry. The case went nowhere. The charges were later dropped, and the whole thing went away.”
That was interesting. “What else?”
Sammy turned to the dual computer monitors on his desk. “At the time of her arrest, Paula was a live-in maid working at the Lowry home in Coral Gables. That tickled my interest. So I dug deeper into the woman’s background. The deeper I dug, the more interested I got. And guess what?”
“What?” I yawned. So far I wasn’t feeling Sammy’s excitement.
“Paula Jumper was born near Loxahatchee. Birth certificate lists a mother but no father. Her mother had two more children. So I began looking at birth certificates, family ties, and such. And, ding-ding, I got me a winner. None of the birth certificates list a father. And if that don’t pass the smell test, then you’re gonna love this: property records show the house where Paula grew up at one time was owned by Old Man Lowry.”
That got my attention. “She must be one of Bull Lowry’s illegitimate children.”
“That would be my guess.”
“Where is she now?”
“Last known address I found was in Okeechobee town. But that was close to ten years ago. She moved several times since. I haven’t been able to track her down.”
I didn’t know how close a relationship Paula Jumper had with her half brother, or the dirty little secrets she may have gleaned while working at their home, but chances were better than even she just might know enough to fill some of the blanks.
“I spoke to a man at Tenmile Bend who knew the Lowrys,” I said. “Apparently, Bull Lowry got around. If what the man said is true, the old dog may have fathered some twenty kids.”
“You know, J.J.,” Sammy said, regarding me with a semi-incredulous gaze. “I’m good at this racket. About as good as it gets. Would you agree that’s a fair statement?”
“Sure,” I said, having no idea where the conversation was headed.
“Well, despite many understandable rumors to the contrary, I still can’t work a miracle. You need to communicate better. Had I known about Lowry’s illegitimate brood, it would have saved us a lot of time. So next time, if you know something, say something.”
Sammy’s gift for melodrama was alive and well. “It sounded like gossip, so I didn’t give it much credence. I was wrong,” I admitted. “Be that as it may, now we know it wasn’t innuendo. Milton has a whole bunch of unaccounted siblings, all of them rightful heirs to the Lowry fortune. We don’t know who they are. Milton’s lawyer didn’t know either and I bet Gabriela doesn’t know either. I doubt she even cares. But I’m willing to bet Paula Jumper knows each and every one of them. We need to talk to this woman.”
“And so we shall.”
Sammy faced the computer on his desk and began typing. A moment later, he turned away from the monitors and said, “Well, what do ya know?”
Then nothing else.
“What?” I asked.
Silence.
When I could stand it no longer, I said, “If you expect groveling, forget it.”
“Tell me something, J.J.,” he said leaning on his elbows, his onyx eyes on me. “Level with me.”
“When have I not leveled with you?” Not an entirely accurate representation. I felt a pang of guilt. There had been instances where I had knowingly stretched the truth or omitted a detail or two. The reasons for holding back on Sammy varied, but for the most part, it was in an effort to avoid pointless arguments that, in the end, would not have benefited anyone. Sammy is a straight shooter and honest to a fault. His ramrod-straight approach to everything in life sometimes got in the way of results and forced judicious management of what I shared and how.
“Please tell me we’ve got a paying client,” he said ignoring my question. “A live client. One that can write us a check, ’cause if not, we have us a problem.”
Smiling, I took out my cell phone, scrolled through its contents, and found what I was looking for. I typed an email address and hit SEND then put the phone away and waited.
“What?” Sammy looked confused.
I said nothing. His computer beeped.
He glanced at the screen with mild interest and said, “Oh, look here. I got me an email.” He glared at me. “I don’t have time for games, J.J. Unlike you, I work for a living.”
“Open it.”
Not bothering to mask his annoyance, he swiveled back to the screen. His eyebrows rose, and his lips curled upward.
Bingo.
“Well, this is welcome news, chief,”
Sammy said. The shift in tack wasn’t lost on me. I was no longer “J.J.,” a nickname he knew I didn’t especially like. We were back to “chief,” acknowledging the employee-employer divide now that he was assured we had a paying client and the chances he would get paid had improved accordingly.
“So, we working for Mrs. Lowry now?”
“In a way,” I said. “She paid the retainer, but for the record, our client is Lola Appel.” I went on to explain the logic behind Mrs. Lowry’s interest in our services.
“Smart lady.”
I nodded. “You were about to tell me something?”
“Right.” Sammy went back to his computer. “I’ve been digging into Paula Jumper from every angle. A search of her name produced less than four thousand matching records. Now that’s rare. Most searches of common names yield hundreds of thousands of hits, sometimes millions. That got me thinking. So I just entered her name into a specialized database, and lo and behold, I was right. Her name is very unusual. It traces back to the Seminole Tribe.”
I was instantly reminded of something else I had learned during the conversation I had at the Tenmile Bend church the day Lowry went missing. Messed around plenty, let me tell ‘ya. Ask anybody; you’ll hear the same thing. Hell, there’s gotta half a dozen juniors this end of the county alone. And who knows how many skirts ol’ Bull got under — black, Indian, Cuban, Mexican.
“According to tribal records,” Sammy said, ending my reverie, “There is one Paula Rose Jumper. Born 1954 in Okeechobee County. No current home address, but her social security number appears on the tax payroll of a salon in Fort Pierce.”
* * *
Midmorning the following day, Sammy slowed down his SUV then turned into a parking lot.
“This is it,” Sammy said.
The salon was one of maybe two dozen storefronts in a strip mall on the northwestern fringes of the city of Fort Pierce. The sand-colored L-shaped structure was quietly going to seed, along with all its mom-and-pop tenants struggling to stay in business. Half of them were throwing in the towel, with orange GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE signs.
“The nail place” Sammy pointed at a storefront with the overhead sign “Nails R 4 All.” “That’s where she works.” Sammy parked a prudent distance away.
I said, “Let’s go talk to her.”
“Not so fast,” Sammy said. I glanced at him. His weary eyes were directed at the people milling about the storefronts.
“What’s the problem?”
“We can’t go in there. These people don’t much cotton to strangers showing up out of the blue asking questions.” His eyes swept over me, a frown of mild disapproval behind his dark sunglasses. Something about my attire—long-sleeved light blue button-down shirt tucked into dark slacks, and black shoes—wasn’t to his liking.
“What?”
“Forget it.”
“I ask again, what’s the problem?”
“You. You are the problem.”
“What about me?”
“A knuck
le-dragging big-ass white dude dressed like that can’t go in there.”
“You know something I don’t?” I said, and immediately decided to forgo getting into an argument over my choice of clothing. “Because if you do, now would be a good time to share.”
“I do. Something you don’t know about Paula.”
He pulled a pair of compact binoculars from the center console and scoped the salon a hundred yards away. “She has four children. All boys. And in keeping with family tradition, there is no mention of a father in their birth certificates. Three of the four boys are felons. All done hard time. Armed robbery, assault on a police officer, and so on. The oldest appears to have taken the straight and narrow. Released six years ago. Went to trade school. He’s a diesel mechanic now, lives in Oklahoma. Family ties there. Maternal grandmother.”
“What about the rest?”
“Two in the middle are hardened criminals,” Sammy said, putting down the binoculars and taking a file folder from the space between his seat and the console. He read from the file, “The youngest boy has no record. He’s incapacitated. Autistic. Lives with Paula. The other two are currently out on parole.”
“I need to talk to this woman.”
“Easy, tiger.” Sammy turned around and surveyed our surroundings. “Speak of the devil.”
I glanced in the side mirror. A massive black woman tragically clad in tight jeans, untucked denim shirt, and work boots filled the mirror. She seemed headed in our general direction. She had a large canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. Large iridescent sunglasses wrapped her round face.
“Friend of yours?” I asked.
“That’s Shithouse Martha,” Sammy said. “But to you, it’s just Martha. You hear me?”
“She looks hot.”
“Word of advice, J.J. She’s got a short fuse, so don’t even think about getting cute. It don’t take much to piss her off.”
“My kind of woman,” I said.
“She’s one tough lady. Retired correctional officer. Earned that nickname in the maximum-security pen. Use your imagination.”
“Let me guess,” I said as I took in Martha’s growing reflection in the mirror. I could see the gleam of sweat on her forehead. And there was plenty of Martha to take in. Parts of her flexed and heaved from side to side with every step. “She left the job because she wasn’t voted Ms. Congeniality, right?”
“I warn you, J.J. No smart-ass remarks. Don’t even think ’em. I’ve known her a long time. We work well together. Don’t screw that up.”
“Why is she here?”
“Bait and switch. She’s the bait.”
Swell.
The back door suddenly opened.
“Wassup, Raj-man?”
The three-quarter-ton, heavy-duty-suspension SUV rocked from side to side as Martha descended on the seat.
“Nothing much,” Sammy said.
“Who’s this?” she asked after slamming the back door.
“Meet Jason Justice,” Sammy said almost apologetically. “The suit I told you about.”
“Hello, Martha,” I said, turning around in my seat. I flashed one of my best smiles. I wanted to be friends. “Good to meet you.”
“Oh, hell no!”
“I told you,” Sammy said over his shoulder.
“What?” I was confused.
“Look here, Mr. Justice . . . Wait. No way. What kind of a name is Justice anyhow? Stop. Forget that. I don’t matter. You know what? Just quit with the sweet talk. Save it for your country club dickheads. Feel me? Just say ‘hey,’ or ‘’sup?’ That’s it. It’s not like we’re gonna be friends or nothing, feel me?”
“Okay,” I said. Sammy’s barely restrained glee said the expression on my face must have been amusing.
“How you wanna play this?”
“You know Paula, right?” Sammy asked.
“Yeah. She done my nails before. Fine lady.”
Sammy pointed to the right and said, “The Chinese restaurant. Can you talk her into an early lunch—you buying.”
“If by ‘me buyin’,’ you mean you buyin’, don’t see why not.”
“We’ll wait inside.”
“You might be waiting some. Paula, she a busy woman,” she said, and slid out. The car rocked before leveling off again. “Just saying,” she said. She slammed the door.
“What the hell was that?” I asked as I watched Martha and her shadow leave.
“She can go in there and no one will bat an eye. You or me, not a chance. Trust me. It’s better this way.”
“Why is that?”
“I checked the salon’s business permit. It’s issued to a Native American woman. A well-known activist. Very vocal. Not afraid of confrontation. She’s also a Traditionalist. Part Miccosukee, part Black Seminole. Every one of her employees is of Seminole descent or some other Native American heritage. We go in there asking questions about the kin of a tribal member, we’re not gonna get far. That’s where Martha comes in.”
Five minutes later, we entered the all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant. Red and gold Mandarin kitsch, lined with matching leatherette booths, maybe twenty tables, and a counter with a dozen stools. Not large by typical buffet restaurant standards, but in keeping with the neighborhood’s general tone. We found an empty table and ordered hot tea and plate of fried wonton.
About half an hour later, the glass entry doors darkened, and Martha walked in. She was halfway to the table before we saw the middle-aged woman of perhaps a third her mass, who had entered behind her.
At the table, Martha turned to the smaller woman and said, “This here is Sammy.” Sammy offered an engaging non smile. “He’s like a brother. I trust him.”
The woman wore a magenta smock that was jarring against the restaurant’s red color scheme. She gave Martha a questioning glance.
“Chill, woman,” Martha said. “Nothing’s wrong. They ain’t cops. The big white dude, he’s some fancy lawyer. He just wants to talk. But if you don’t wanna, you don’t got to, you hear?”
Paula Jumper regarded me with frank appraisal. Her smooth skin was the color of dark bronze. Random streaks of silver added character to the long dark hair held in place by a colorful headband. Paula had a tubby rather than overweight frame, big bosom, strong arms, strong features. A pin above her breast pocket bore her name. She wore no makeup, and except for the thin gold chain and dime-size gold cross around her neck, she wore no jewelry.
Her dark eyes bored into mine. After a tentative moment, she seemed to have made up her mind.
“I have to go,” Paula said to Martha. She backed away from the table, turning to leave.
“Milton Lowry is dead,” I said.
She stopped moving away. Her dark eyes were filled with surprise.
“He sick,” she said.
“Not sick,” I said. “Murdered.”
She visibly took the hit, then quickly composed herself. “Don’t know nothing ’bout that.”
She turned to leave.
“You are Milton Lowry’s half sister, aren’t you?” I asked.
She was halfway to the door. Bringing up what had to be a sensitive subject was a spur-of-the-moment sort of hail-Mary pass, but I had nothing to lose. She stopped again, regarded me expectantly.
“You worked for the Lowrys in Miami. Lived in their house. His wife accused you of things you didn’t do. Had you arrested. And then you were cut off. The money Milton was sending your family stopped coming, didn’t it?”
She eyed me warily but said nothing.
“I spoke with Milton’s lawyer,” I pressed on. “He—and not Mrs. Lowry—will be responsible for making sure Milton’s wishes are carried through after his death. Believe me. You will soon see the money you were receiving in your mailbox again. I know that money is important to you. If you help me, maybe we can make sure that money gets to you sooner. All I have is a few quick questions. That’s it.”
More hesitation, but it seemed a positive development that Paula didn’t rush off. At least
not yet. I was running out of time. I needed to convince this woman to talk to me here and now. It was likely I wouldn’t get another chance to talk to her privately. I would grovel if I must.
“Please?” I gestured at the empty spot across from me.
She chewed her lower lip. “Junior, he only missin’,” she finally spoke. “He ain’t dead.”
“You know he’s missing?” I asked. I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice.
She shrugged. “One hears things.”
“Two minutes of your time.” I nodded at the empty seat again. “That’s all.”
After another beat of hesitation, she slid into the empty seat.
Paula Jumper had a lean smooth face that gave her a youthful appearance. In her youth, I imagined, with her exotic features and splendid onyx eyes, she must have been quite a sight.
“How you know Junior dead?” she asked. “I don’t hear ‘nuthing ’bout it.”
“Before we get into that, would you like something to eat?” Sammy asked.
It was good thinking on Sammy’s part.
A kind gesture that may help ease her discomfort.
She shook her head. “Can’t stay.”
“I was there when Milton was attacked,” I said.
A sharp look from her. Her eyes turned to slits of mistrust. “You work for the wife?”
“No.” A partial truth. “I’m an attorney.
Milton called me a few days ago. Asked me to meet him at the old farmhouse.” I gave her a brief version of the events as I knew them and told her Lola’s sister, Milton’s good friend, was also missing, that I was representing their interests, and not Gabriela’s.
After a prolonged silence, she said, “Junior’s a good man. Not perfect. But then nobody is. But he didn’t deserve no killing.”
“No one does,” I said.
A beat of silence passed between us.
“We haven’t been able to find Milton’s body,” I said. “And we don’t know where to look.” Her eyes never left mine as I spoke. “Maybe you can help us find him. We want to bring him home.”
“Why ask me?” Her eyes lit up, fire and pride. “I don’t know ‘nuthing. Talk to the witch wife.” She scowled at me.
The African heritage was there, but the high cheekbones, slightly elongated eyes, and narrow bridge of her nose hinted of the Caucasian and Native American blood that also flowed through her veins.
