Carter shrugged. "Maybe not. Maybe they don't know."
"Carter! Everyone in this diner knows who we are. How would it be possible, in this small town, to keep a secret like that?"
Carter nodded. "I see your point. I just think it's coincidental. That's all."
Right then our food arrived, and we got down to the more serious business of eating some of the best food I'd ever had anywhere.
. . .
Later that evening, we were lying in bed. My head was on Carter's chest and we had been talking about not much of anything when Carter suddenly said, "Wait!"
I lifted up my head and looked at him. "Wait for what?"
"Nick Smith isn't the younger brother. His family is from Tallahassee. I just remembered something John said about that. That's why there was all those folks from Florida at the party the other night."
"So, do you think there really is a younger Smith brother?"
"Yeah. And I think he's the only one left."
"So, he owns the mill?"
"Maybe. We really need to talk to Tom Kincaid. He'd know all about this."
"No, sir. He's pissed at us, remember?"
"Oh, right."
"Who else would know all about this?"
. . .
Once we got to the neighborhood, we drove around the block a few times to make sure we weren't being followed. Who would be following us wasn't clear, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
After it was obvious that no one was following a beat-up old pick-up after midnight, we turned down the street and killed the lights. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the dark and then slowly drove forward until we came to the house. I turned into the driveway and turned off the ignition.
We got out of the truck and quietly closed the doors. Carter led the way to the back of the house. I could see that there was a light on upstairs. Carter looked around and found the spare key where it had been kept for twenty years, underneath the flowerpot on the top step of the back steps. He quietly opened the screen door latch with his pocket knife and then unlocked the back door. We walked in as softly as we could. He motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table, which I did, and then he walked into the front parlor while I waited.
I could hear the squeak of the stairs as he slowly walked up them. Suddenly, I heard a voice ask, "Who's there? I've got a gun!"
Carter replied, in a low voice, "It's me, Mama."
. . .
After we had drawn all the curtains in the front parlor, Mrs. Jones leaned over to turn on one lamp. She stood up and got a good look at me. When she did, she started laughing.
I smirked and said, "I take it you don't like this new look?"
She laughed and kept laughing. She put out her hand apologetically and shook her head. She got control and then looked at me, and it started all over again. I just stood there grinning and twirling my beard with my fingers. Finally, she sat down on the bottom of the stairs, wiped both her eyes, and took a deep breath. "Oh my! I haven't laughed like that in a month of Sundays."
Carter walked in from the kitchen with three bottles of Coke and asked, "What's so funny?"
Mrs. Jones got one look at him and doubled over again while we both joined in.
. . .
We didn't have to explain much since Nick Smith had gotten word to her through John about what we were up to.
"And it was a good thing, too. If I hadn't known what y'all was doin', I don't know what I would've thought when I saw in the paper that Nick was missin'."
She looked over at me. "What about your daddy? What's he gonna think?"
I sighed deeply and Carter replied, "That's too long a story for tonight, Mama."
She nodded. "I suppose your Mrs. Wilson hasn't set her sights on him yet?"
I'm sure my eyes popped in alarm since that thought had never crossed my mind. "That would be a battle royale." I looked at Carter who was shaking his head and looking just as bewildered by the notion as I was.
"So, why did you boys get me out of bed at 1 a.m.?"
Carter started. "We were wondering about the Smith brothers. Are any of them still alive?"
Mrs. Jones put her hand to her mouth and thought. "Now, let's see. We buried Jonas Smith back in '42. He was the oldest. The next one to go was Cotton Smith. He just died this year."
"Isn't there a third Smith brother? The younger one? The one whose mother died in childbirth?"
While she was thinking, I said, "Remember what I told you about leading questions?"
He sheepishly grinned at me and quietly said, "Yes, Boss."
Mrs. Jones looked up at both of us when he said that. We both blushed. She looked down again.
She shook her head and seemed lost in the past. "Well, of course, there is. I just hadn't thought about him in ages."
Carter asked, "What happened when Cotton Smith passed? Who took over the mill?" I looked at him again, and he winked at me.
"Y'all stop that! You're distractin' me." She stood up and walked over to a roll-top desk that stood next to the upright piano. She opened a drawer and pulled out an official-looking document.
Holding the document in her hands, Mrs. Jones returned to the sofa, sat down, and turned to Carter. "Willie Smith is feeble. He's in a home in Augusta, I believe it is. Has the mind of a five year-old, or so they say."
I looked at the document in her hands. I had a suspicion I knew what it was and, if it was true, everything about this case was about to get upended.
"Carter. No one knows about this, not even Velma." She looked at me and then back to Carter. "So, unless it's necessary, you can't tell no one. Understand?" Carter nodded.
She looked at me. I said, "Sure."
"OK." She took a deep breath. "I own the mill."
That was it.
. . .
We sat there in silence while Carter digested this news. His first question was, "How?"
"Cards."
I looked up. "Cards?"
"Yes, sir. Cards." Turning to look at me, she said, "You see, Wilson Jones was a gamblin' man. And he liked himself a good game of poker. Just like the sheriff."
Surprise, surprise.
"So, one night back in May, they was all down there at The Well playin' cards in the back room."
"Who was there, Mama?"
"Your daddy, the sheriff, Judge Mackey, and Cotton Smith. They was drinkin' and smokin' cigars and started playin' for high stakes. Well, according to your daddy, he was dealt three Aces in the hole. He tossed in two and drew the other Ace. So he starts to thinkin' what he could bet since he knew he had the only winning hand. Nothin' beats four Aces." I had a feeling she was repeating this story exactly the way he'd said it over and over again.
"So, he puts down his cards and takes out a receipt from his pocket and signs over the deed to this house on the back of it." She took a deep breath and got a little flush. "That sumbitch signed over the deed to this house to the bearer." She took another breath, regained her composure, and continued. "He pushes all his chips in and throws that in the pot and begins to taunt the other men at the table to match it or fold. Well, the sheriff, he ain't no fool, so he folds. Judge Mackey takes a look at the note and says, 'This'll hold up in my court,' and folds. That leaves Cotton Smith."
I started shaking my head.
"Now, don't get ahead of me, Nick."
I nodded and sat still.
"So, Wilson Jones is sittin' there probably lookin' like the cat that caught the mouse and hopin' no one sees the tail hangin' from his mouth. I can see him right now with that grin he'd get..." She stopped in reverie for a moment. One tear rolled down her left cheek. She wiped it away.
"Anyways, he's sittin' there and just countin' the pile that's already been bet in his head and, all of a sudden, Cotton Smith pushes all in and gets himself a piece of paper and writes somethin' on it. He tosses it on the pile, turns over his cards, and says, 'Read 'em and weep, my boy.'"
I couldn't stand it. "What did he have?"
"Four
Queens."
. . .
So, yes, Mrs. Jones owned the Smith Bros. Paper Mill. This was a real turn of events.
"Here's the thing, Carter. I'm gonna sign this over to you. Now that your daddy is gone, I don't want it."
Carter looked at his mother and two big tears rolled down his face. "I don't want it. What would I do with a paper mill?"
Mrs. Jones, whose face was getting a little wet, turned to me and said, "You take it. I'm sure Carter owes you for room and board."
That touched me deeply. But, I shook my head, feeling my eyes get watery, and said, "I already have my own ill-gotten gains to deal with."
For some reason, that made us all laugh.
. . .
In the end, the two of them decided to give the mill to Uncle Leroy. Mrs. Jones put her hand on my arm and said, "And, by the way, Nick. I have more money than I know what to do with. I suspect Mrs. Wilson must have thought otherwise."
Carter didn't know that, back in June, I had asked Marnie to wire his mother five hundred dollars a month. He looked at me with a confused expression.
I said, "I'll explain it later."
We sat there in silence as the late night turned into early morning. Finally, Mrs. Jones stood up and said, "I think I need something to eat. You boys want some scrambled eggs?"
I stood up to help and she said, "Y'all stay in here. Don't have curtains in the kitchen." She looked at us both and started giggling as she walked away.
Once I sat down, Carter turned to me. "Were you sendin' money to my mama without tellin' me about it?"
I nodded quietly. I couldn't tell if he was angry, or not.
He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. When he leaned back, he whispered, "That was the sweetest thing and don't ever do that again. You told me we was good as married."
I put up my hands in protest. "We are."
"Then shouldn't I be involved in how we spend our money?"
There was something deeply satisfying about that question. I sat there for a moment, loving Carter Jones like I never had, and felt another emotion arise out of all that had happened. I began to cry. I wasn't sad. I was relieved. I was greatly relieved.
. . .
After we'd eaten, I asked, "So, did either Jonas or Cotton Smith have any children?"
Mrs. Jones nodded and stifled a yawn. "Jonas had two sons. Both died in the war. One was at Guam, right there with my oldest son, Bobby, and the other was in Italy. But, Cotton Smith had one son. And he's still around. I think he works at the mill, in fact."
I didn't know if it was the hour or the huge waves of emotion, but suddenly I felt confused.
"So, how did this work? Your husband owned the mill and no one knew anything about it?"
"Well, they agreed that Wilson didn't have the experience to run it. So, Cotton and a couple of his managers--" She stopped and put her hand over her mouth. "Oh my." She stood up and began to walk around the room. "Oh my, my, my."
Carter stood up and asked, "What is it, Mama?"
"Maybe one them did it?"
I said, "Could be. But I'm wondering about this son. The son who lost his inheritance in a poker game to Wilson Jones."
They both turned and looked at me.
"Well, that would make more sense, wouldn't it?" asked Mrs. Jones.
The two of them sat back down. I asked, "What's the son's name?"
"Henry."
"What does he look like?"
"Nothing like Cotton Smith. He's actually Cotton's stepson. His mother was Cotton's second wife. His first wife, Lulamae, died in '36. They didn't have any children. Cotton married Kathryn in..." She thought about it for a moment.
Carter asked, "Wait, Mama. Henry? Kathryn? Cotton married Kathryn Johnson?"
She nodded. "And it was in '42."
"I knew he looked familiar," said Carter. "He was in the same class as Henry and me. Only he was called Hank then and Henry was just Henry."
"Who?" I asked.
"Hoss."
Mrs. Jones nodded. "That's him. I always thought it was a silly nickname because he hates horses."
Carter looked at me, and we both nodded.
I said, "So, now we know who and we know why."
"You think Hoss did this?" asked Mrs. Jones.
I nodded. "Ronnie Thompson was pretty sure Hoss was in the shed with Mr. Jones right before it happened."
Mrs. Jones looked at me sideways. "Ronnie Thompson? That shiftless nigger?"
I sat up straight and looked at Carter. He said, "Mama. You ever meet Mr. Thompson?"
She looked affronted. "Mister?"
"Yes, Mama. Mr. Thompson. You ever meet him?"
"No, can't say I have."
"Then all you know about him is what Daddy told you, right?"
She shifted in her seat. "I suppose so."
"And you ever know of any colored man that he ever liked?"
She thought for a moment and finally said, "No."
I said, "I've met Mr. Thompson, and he's smart and is probably wasted working on the saw. He really should be a foreman."
Mrs. Jones put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Nick. You just don't know how things work around here."
I nodded. I was getting angry. "You're right." I stopped talking before I said something I would regret.
Carter said, "The point is that Nick believes Mr. Thompson, Mama. It must have been Hank... I mean, Hoss."
Still fuming, I added, "I walked over and took a look at that shed today."
Mrs. Jones put out her hand to stop me. "I know I made you angry, Nick. But, remember, I saw what they put in that casket."
I nodded and we sat in silence for a while.
Chapter 21
Albany, Ga.
Friday, August 7, 1953
An hour or so before dawn
It was a little before 5 when we finally headed back to the Whispering Pines Inn. As we drove, Carter scooted over and sat close to me. He began to nuzzle my neck with his thick beard. I managed to somehow drive at the same time.
The last few hours had been very emotional for everyone. I didn't want to go back to work and, in fact, couldn't see a good reason to do so.
When we pulled into the motel, the sky was beginning to lighten up a bit. We piled into my room and collapsed on the bed.
The next thing I knew, there was someone knocking on the door. A woman's voice asked, "Mr. Parnell?"
I jumped up, still dressed from the night before, and opened the door. Fortunately, it revealed the little table and not the bed.
"Yeah?"
"You gonna need a change of sheets or towels today?"
I looked at her and she looked at me. It was our waitress from Miz Jen's. Damn, this was a small town.
I put my finger over my lips and then said, "No, thanks."
She looked at me for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders. I mouthed "Thank you." She smiled sweetly and said, loudly, "Now don't sleep all day, Mr. Parnell."
I replied, "I'll try," and closed the door.
"Who was it?"
"The maid. Who also moonlights at Miz Jen's as a waitress."
Carter jumped up, in a panic. "What?"
"It's fine. She recognized me and played along. I don't think it'll be a problem."
"Good. What time is it?"
I looked at my watch. "We've both been fired. It's 10:15."
Carter laughed. "That's twice in one year for me!"
"You never did tell me what name you used. Mine was Robert Parnell."
"Oh, I get it. From your father. Parnell Robert Williams. Wouldn't he be surprised to know how his name has been defiled."
I laughed. "I said I was from Aberdeen, Washington. I knew a sailor who was from there and had been a lumberjack before enlisting."
"Terry Bell."
"Where'd you get that?"
"Jerry suggested it when he was trimming my beard before we left. Terry Bell. Belle Terre. Get it?"
. . .
We decided it was time to head
back to Belle Terre. Carter went back to his room while I quickly cleaned up and then loaded up my stuff in the back of the truck. Once I was squared away, I went to the office to hand in my key.
The same man who'd checked me in on Monday was there. He asked, "Didn't work out?"
"No."
"Better luck next time."
I nodded. As I turned to leave, the man asked, "You see the paper this morning?"
I was beginning not to like that question. But, I stopped and said, "No."
"Seems like the sheriff's been arrested."
I turned around.
"Really?"
He showed me the front page.
. . .
I went over to Carter's room and knocked on the door. He opened it cautiously and let me in. He was putting on his shirt. The air in the room was damp from the shower.
"The sheriff's been arrested by the Georgia State Patrol."
Carter's eyes widened. "What for?"
"Misuse of office, embezzlement, things like that."
"Not murder?"
I shook my head. "Not according to the paper."
"Who's running the show now?"
"All the deputies have been suspended. Albany city police will be covering what they can and the Georgia State Patrol deputized some nearby police officers that could be spared."
"Cleaning house."
I nodded. "Now it's time for us to do our part."
Carter leaned down and kissed me.
. . .
Our first stop, instead of going directly to Belle Terre, was Tom Kincaid's office. When we walked in, he took one look and started laughing just like Mrs. Jones had, although not for as long.
When he'd dried his eyes, he abruptly stood up. "Hey! Y'all are on my shit list!"
I smiled.
"Don't you smile at me, you little shit. I warned you about private investigatin' without a license."
"Well, what's to worry about now that the sheriff's been arrested?" I asked.
"Oh, so you think a judge's arrest warrant just gets canceled like magic? Is that the way they do things in the land of fruits and nuts?"
Carter stepped in front of me. "Cool it, Tom."
The attorney sat down and straightened his collar and tie. "Sorry about that. But you're putting me at risk just being in here. I should be calling you in."
I nodded and said, "I'm sorry about that, Tom. But we know who killed Wilson Jones."
The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4) Page 17
