When Blood Cries

by M. Glenn Graves

  “You need anything?” I said.

  “Some tears.”

  “They’ll come.”

  “I doubt it,” she said and I could tell that she meant it.

  On the day of Spud Carver’s funeral, we received word that Cain Gosnell had been transferred to Central Prison in Wake County, North Carolina.

  The funeral took place at Piney Ridge Community Church and was remarkably similar to Nadine Carver’s. There was one notable, glaring exception. No one said anything about Spud Carver being either a saint or a pillar of the church. Truth was Spud was a member in name only. Starnes told me that she couldn’t remember a time when he ever attended church, to say nothing of doing anything that the religious folk ever did. How and why he joined was still a mystery to her. No doubt Nadine, the saintly wife and mother, took that information to her grave.

  I could tell that the singular preacher who led the occasion struggled to say something in regards to Spud’s passing. He mostly read Scripture and told us that we were all going to hell if we didn’t believe in Jesus Christ. He even hinted that some of us might not make it even with that confession of faith. I thought that was a bit over the top; but then, I’m no theologian when it comes to biblical interpretation. What I do know about the Bible could easily be stated in a page or two. Maybe less. Mainly it came from those oftentimes arduous Sunday school classes, my mother’s lectures, several of my daddy’s insights when it came to comparing Jesus to the law, and the few wonderful expressions I had retained from Sarah Jones who worked for my parents and who became a close friend of my mother’s.

  Despite the preacher’s gloom and doom message to the congregants, the music sung and played was remarkably sanguine and almost uplifting. It suggested to me that the person responsible for the music had not consulted with the preacher of record. Their lack of communication was my gain on that occasion.

  The church was only partially full that day. Nadine Carver’s sister, Natalie Bradshaw Jenkins, was in attendance along with her daughter, Lucinda Bradshaw. Both were decked out in their finest.

  The sun was shining on this abnormally warm February day. It was well after four o’clock and the temperatures were still up around fifty. Half of the church crowd had left after the preacher had droned us into hell, so the crowd that ultimately gathered around the grave for the interment was on the heavy side of light. I don’t think it mattered to Starnes Carver. Her demeanor was flat, unemotional, and appeared to be tired. Death has a way of exhausting the best of us.

  Spud’s grave was next to Nadine’s on top of the small mountain behind their home. The mound of dirt that covered Nadine’s rough casket still had the aura of freshness about it. The hole which they were about to fill with Spud’s rough casket and some dirt was angled wrong in reference to Nadine’s burial site. It was crooked. Wonder if that was intentional. Seemed to me to be a fitting metaphor for the two people interred there, husband and wife, saint and rascal, straight and crooked, bound together by the wonders of love. Love finds a way.

  Starnes’ Aunt Natalie and her daughter, Lucinda, were part of the few mourners who held on and remained steadfast in the wake of the reverend’s inferno. After only thirty minutes of oratory that set the Old Testament prophets back several hundred years, the minister mercifully stopped praying and expounding the virtues of regeneration. I humored myself for the last segment of his meandering by recounting the reasons why I had stopped going to church. I was on number forty-seven when he finally stopped talking altogether. Mercy.

  Starnes moved to the preacher after he had finished and handed him an envelope. I assumed she was paying him not to talk anymore. Natalie and Lucinda were moving down the hill from this farewell scene. I nudged Starnes and gestured toward the two women walking down the hillside.

  I could not miss the opportunity to speak with Lucinda. Since I was having difficulty conjuring a reason to return to Unicoi County and investigate her, I decided that a polite word of comfort might provoke some reaction.

  Lucinda was standing with her mother and Starnes when I returned from speaking to the pianist of the day and thanking her for the music. My compliment was intentional. Small blessings for me in my discomfort on behalf of my friend Starnes. It was the only part of the whole ordeal that offered any real relief at such a time. My opinion, of course.

  “Aunt Natalie, this is a friend of mine. Luci, you remember Clancy,” Starnes said by way of introduction.

  Natalie nodded but said nothing.

  “Of course I remember Clancy. How good to see you again,” Lucinda said. Her voice was entirely too polite. Strained and controlled.

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said to Lucinda.

  “My loss?” she responded. She seemed lost in my words. “Spud was no kin of mine.”

  It was not the PC thing to say on that occasion despite the fact that it was true. It sounded harsh and grated on the frayed nerves already prevalent with the funeral ambience still around.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “I meant the loss of Betty Jo Gentry.”

  I couldn’t help myself. It was a zap of note.

  Lucinda’s face turned the aura of ash, but handled the surprise word of comfort from me quite well. I had a strong impression she wanted to cuss me out thoroughly, completely, with lots of colorful nouns and spicy adjectives. She held her tongue. Wow.

  “Oh, yes. She was a dear friend.”

  “I can only imagine,” I said. “Is that the necklace she bought you?”

  Her ashen shade was lighter now, but she still held her composure quite well. She automatically touched the necklace resting just above the neckline of her dress.

  “I don’t think so,” she said hesitantly at first. “We were friends, but did not buy each other such expensive gifts.” She emphasized the word expensive for affect.

  Her attempt to save face likely fooled everyone but me. I caught something in her words which hinted that there was a secret beyond the lesbian relationship.

  “I see,” I said. “Well, I am sorry you lost such a close friend.”

  My emphasis on the word close did not go unnoticed by Lucinda. Her eyes glared while she smiled at me and nodded ever so politely.

  “Thank you both for coming,” Starnes said.

  She moved off and encouraged me to join her by gently gouging my side as she ushered me towards the house. There wasn’t going to be a feast at the Carver home on this occasion. Spud was the last of his family except for Starnes. She decided that she did not want a big gathering to wine and dine and mourn his passing. She told the church traditionalists that there was to be no food extravagance per usual.

  “What were you doing back there?” she asked once we were alone.

  “What I do best.”

  “Agitating my family?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of provoking suspects high on the short list.”

  “And what do you hope to gain by pissing off my cousin?”

  “A provocation.”

  “Just that?”

  “Well, if I sufficiently provoke her, she will likely do something stupid and then we can follow the trail of her stupidity.”

  “So in your thinking, there is reason behind your anti-social behavior.”

  “Most of the time. I could confess and say not always.”

  “Quite so,” Starnes said. “I just wish you’d be more selective in choosing your times.”

  “Didn’t mean to offend you,” I said.

  “Oh, hell, Clancy. You didn’t offend me. I’m just a little on edge today. Helluva thing to bury my father on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Maybe for you, but I would guess that your mother would have deemed it fitting.”

  “Maybe. I can’t help but see the irony in it myself. Daddy goes away permanently this time, leaving me alone during the season of love. How’s that for timing?”

  I let her words fall without comment. I figured her mood would pass in time. She’s a tough woman, but some things are hard to chew.


  Chapter Thirty

  I waited a few days before I drove over the mountains to Tennessee. Sam was with me. I knew how much he enjoyed traveling, and the beauty of the mountains between McAdams County and Unicoi County was devastating to those who had eyes to see. Sam seemed to take it all in. Starnes had work to do in her Madison office. Just me and the dog.

  Bypassing Erwin, I headed to Johnson City. The mall was my destination.

  Sam waited in the Jeep while I headed straight to the Jeffers Jewelry Palace where I had seen Betty Jo and Lucinda ogling the merchandise together a few weeks back. When I entered, the bubbly clerk who had talked with me on my prior visit approached me with the gusto that would shame a sailor returning home to his girlfriend after a long cruise.

  “Can I help you, Sweetie?” she said showing me a mouth full of white.

  “I had to come back and see you after my friend Betty Jo died,” I said.

  “Oh, my goodness. Wasn’t that just the most horrible thing ever? I mean, who on earth would want to kill such a sweetie pie as that? I just don’t know about this world. So sad.”

  “Sad indeed. I was just wondering if I could buy a nice piece for Luci. I know she is suffering so much over this.”

  The expression on the clerk’s face changed immediately. She pulled me aside away from the other clerk working the counter with her. We headed to one of the openings in the store away from the other clerk’s ear.

  “Listen, I love to make a sale as much as the next person. But I’ve got to tell you that I don’t think your friend is mourning the loss of her girlfriend that much,” she said nodding the whole time.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Well, she just came in here the other day and sold back a piece that I had sold about a month ago. Sold it back to me with the guarantee and everything. Since it had been less than thirty days, that’s our policy you know, if you buy something and don’t like it and bring it back in less than thirty days, then we’ll refund the entire amount to you. Except wedding rings made to order. You understand. Well … she brought it back.”

  “Something she had purchased?”

  “Well, that’s what I thought. She didn’t have the receipt, mind you. But, I recognized the piece right off. It was definitely one of ours. I secretly wanted to buy it myself, but it was too pricey. Know what I mean? Anyhow, she brought it back and I gave her the money. Since she and Betty Jo had been such good customers and all.”

  “She provide any reason for not having the receipt?”

  “Well, she wasn’t the one who bought it.”

  “She brought back a piece of jewelry that belonged to Betty Jo Gentry?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. It was a piece that Betty Jo had bought herself just a few weeks ago, and here she comes bringing it back to sell.”

  “Can you prove it belong to Betty Jo?”

  Miss Bubbly smiled at me and rolled her eyes.

  “You know I can. You’re just testing me, aren’t you?” she grinned and punched my shoulder like we were long-time buds.

  “Wanted to be sure you still kept good records,” I said.

  “Come over here and I’ll show you.”

  She took me to the cash register, opened it, took out the key, unlocked the drawer under the register, put the key back, and removed the log book from the drawer. Her ritual was intact.

  I watched her run her index finger down the column until she came to the date, the person, the item in question, and the amount refunded.

  “She did it just two days ago. Came in here in a hurry and look a little frazzled, if you ask me. Said she hated to part with it, but it just wasn’t what she wanted. Called it a wardrobe thing.”

  Sam was waiting anxiously in the Jeep when I returned. We walked around a grassy area nearby, giving him some exercise and relief. It seemed warmer in Tennessee. After a few minutes of frolicking in the sunshine and grass, he and I were ready to head back to Starnes’ place. I wanted to show her my discovery. Miss Bubbly had photocopied her log book for me after I confessed that I was a private detective checking into the murder of Betty Jo Gentry. She was duly wowed by my disclosure, so I permitted her to drool metaphorically a little while before she actually made the copies for me. One does what one can to get the job done.

  Starnes was not overly mystified with my findings.

  “It’s kind of thin,” she said.

  “But it does prove that I rattled her cage.”

  “Most likely, but I still don’t think it puts a gun in her hand. Betty Jo could have given her the necklace.”

  “I think that’s something to find out. But if Miss Bubbly in the jewelry store is correct, then Betty Jo bought the necklace for herself. It was not intended as a gift for Lucinda. It’s worth finding out.”

  “I am almost afraid to ask this, but how do you intend to discover that tidbit?”

  “Betty Jo has teenage daughters, like cousin Lucinda. One of them is a high school student. The other is probably in middle school. I’m hoping to find them.”

  “Betty Jo was divorced. Maybe the daughters live with the estranged daddy.”

  “When I first met her at the ice cream store, she informed me that her daughters and Lucinda’s girls were close friends. We’ll find BJ’s girls.”

  “You think the local law is going to help you after that other thing with the handgun?”

  “My stock is low, for sure. I have other resources for checking,” I said.

  “Well, you check your other resources, and then let me know before you head back in that direction. I want to go with you, if for no other reason than to keep you out of trouble.”

  “I live for trouble.”

  “Yeah. The reason I’m going along.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The medical examiner’s report on Betty Jo Gentry came back on Friday. It came in a large envelope along with the ballistics report from a lab in Raleigh. I was wondering how the two reports found each other in the same envelope since the medical examiner worked out of Asheville. Bureaucracies have a way of merging at times that is almost eerie.

  Starnes was reading one of the two reports when I came in with two coffees and some pastries from a shop in Madison. I recognized the seal on the papers in her hand besides being able to read the return address on the upside down envelope lying casually on her desk.

  “Any connections?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Well,” I said as I set down her coffee and removed her pastry from my coat pocket and placed it on the desk. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Not sure I want you to know this,” Starnes said.

  “So keep me in the dark. I’ll find out some how. You know I have my ways.”

  “Ballistics says that the slugs match the ones that killed Abel Gosnell.”

  “No kidding. Means the same gun did in Abel and Betty Jo.”

  “9mm Luger. Matching slugs. Matching deaths.”

  “And Betty Jo died of a gunshot wound to the right temple, correct?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Any other wounds on her body?”

  “Some bruising around her wrists. Probably indicates she was tied up for a while.”

  “What about the time of death?”

  “ME reported it to be a tough call because the body was in the water a few hours. Estimates it to be around February 1 or 2. I would imagine it is nearly impossible to pinpoint as to an hour.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Yeah, one more thing.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Something neither of us figured.”

  “I’m here with bated breath in between the delights of my sweet roll.”

  “She was pregnant.”

  When you investigate homicides, one of the more difficult things, after you have narrowed the field of selected suspects, is finding a motive for the murder. Motives are never clear cut except when there is revenge or jealousy, fits of
anger, or killing during another type of criminal activity like robbery. Even then motives are not always pure and clean cut. Sometimes the motives are skewed and blended and sort of mixed up together with all kinds of feelings. They are more often than not difficult to isolate. The feeling was slowly engulfing me that this was becoming one of those cases in which the motives were severely convoluted. Maybe even a tad confused.

  There was one other thing that Starnes and I had not spoken of, probably did not want to speak of, and certainly neither of us wanted to entertain the notion. We now had a single murder weapon involved in two killings and the idea of a serial killer was a step away from being spoken. There was this singular slight problem with that serial killer notion. Cain Gosnell was found guilty in a courtroom of killing his brother Abel and was waiting on his death sentence to be carried out. If either of us had spoken of this idea of a single killer for both Abel and Betty Jo, we would have been laughed to scorn. Still, I knew she was thinking it as I was.

  While I had no clear evidence that Lucinda killed Betty Jo, and perhaps even killed Abel, I suspected that she was the one. I rattled her sufficiently so that she sold the necklace that had belonged to Betty Jo. That was stupid on her part. Maybe I could shake her some more and get her to do more stupid things. Enough stupid actions and we would have her up to her lovely neck in guilt. Or just plain stupidity. It could go either way.

  I needed the weapon in her hand.

  It was Sunday morning. Starnes and I were finishing our breakfast of toast and coffee. Sam had dined splendidly as well and was now roaming the hills around the Carver house sniffing and searching for something only he knew. The clouds were breaking up and the sun was determined to shine through the cover to make for another glorious day. The wind was blowing from the southeast providing that nip in the air which is so prevalent in the mountains when March rolls in. It was the time of year when hope is rampant after the brutal winters. This winter had been rather kind to us except for all the death.

  “I’m going to church,” Starnes said as if the announcement would trigger some cataclysmic shifting of the plates which lay miles beneath us.