The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  He rolled his eyes at me. "Sure. You know what no one else knows. We all know it wasn't Earl Waskom. All around town that's all anybody can talk about."

  "It was Henry Smith."

  "Who?"

  Carter spoke up, "Hoss Smith."

  Tom leaned back in his chair and took out his handkerchief. He wiped his face with and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Are you for real?"

  Carter nodded. "Did you know my mama owns Smith Brothers?"

  Tom looked at me and then back at Carter. "Have you two gone loco?"

  I told him the whole story, with Carter filling in the local angle. When we were done, Tom nodded thoughtfully. "He's the only one who could have done it."

  I nodded but Carter said, "There's one problem."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "While you were talkin', I realized there's a hole in our theory. The truck."

  Now I was confused. "What truck?"

  "The truck that takes the lumberjacks out to the field, takes them lunch, and brings them back at the end of the day. Daddy was killed a little before 3. How did Hoss get there if he didn't take the truck back after lunch? It's a good ten miles each way."

  Tom stood up. "Well, we ain't gonna solve that problem here. Now, y'all scoot. Where are you goin'?"

  I replied, "We're gonna lay low for a while."

  "Where?"

  Carter said, "Nick Smith's place down south."

  "Belle Terre?"

  "Yep."

  "I heard that place is real swank."

  Carter said, "It'll do." That was southern talk for "none of your business." I had picked up on that pretty fast in the last few weeks.

  "I'm billing you for this time. Double since you're both on the lam."

  I laughed and said, "Just deduct it from the retainer."

  "You bet your ass I will."

  . . .

  By the time we sat down to dinner, both of us had been shorn of our beards, thanks to Jerry. However, before we let him cut them off, I asked Nick to take a photograph of us so that everyone in San Francisco could see the proof of our time as lumberjacks. Nick had a professional camera and a darkroom down in the basement of Belle Terre. He promised to send it along as soon as he could develop it.

  After Jerry finished, we both had an awkward tan line that cut across our cheeks. I figured that would clear up in a couple of days. Jerry suggested a touch of something to smooth the color. I declined. As did Carter.

  . . .

  I was cutting into a nice piece of apple pie when I said, "We need to get hold of Red."

  "Who's Red?" asked Jerry.

  Carter smiled and replied, "That's Nick's new boyfriend."

  I ignored this and said, "He works at Smith Brothers. He's a friend of Henrietta's and he's the one who sold her the motorcycle."

  Nick looked up. "What?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. And I suspect that she was just buying us a little insurance. She must have known he was a lumberjack working there when she suggested the plan."

  Nick was thoughtful. "Seems like a good idea to me."

  "Agreed. We need to find him to figure out if he knows whether Hoss went back on the lunch truck."

  Both Jerry and Nick looked at me for an explanation, which I gave them.

  We all sat there for a while. We were outside with pie and coffee, under the stars, enjoying some unseasonably cooler weather. I looked over at Carter and realized I was ready to go home. Maybe we had done as much as we could do. Maybe the district attorney in Albany would have the guts to charge the sheriff and his deputy with Earl Waskom's murder.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, Carter smiled at me and said, "Just a couple more days, son."

  I smiled and nodded.

  Jerry stood up. "Anyone want more pie?"

  . . .

  The next morning we slept in and, being guests, were way too rowdy in the way we were used to being at home. It was almost 11 before we were cleaned up and made it downstairs.

  Jerry was out back, working in the flower beds that surrounded the small patio. While Carter poured some coffee for both us, I walked out the back door and said, "Good morning."

  Jerry shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at me with a mischievous smile on his face. "Based on all the noise y'all were making, I should say it was a good morning."

  "Where's Nick?"

  "He went into Albany to run a couple of errands. When he gets back, we want to take you two down to the beach for the day."

  I shook my head. "I don't know." The truth was that I had no idea what we should do next other than to try to contact Red through Henrietta.

  Carter stepped out through the door and said, "A trip to the beach would be perfect. It would help even out these tan lines." He smiled at me as he said that.

  Jerry stood up and began to gather up his tools. "Well, let's see what Nick finds out in town."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "He called Henrietta this morning and she told him where to find Red."

  Right then we heard a car honking. Jerry said, "That's him now." We all walked around the side of the house to find Nick getting out of his big white Cadillac. And, there was Red, climbing out of the passenger seat, looking at the big house as he did.

  "Red!"

  He looked at me and did a double-take. "Nick!"

  He walked over and gave me a big bear hug. "And Carter!" More hugging.

  Nick said, "Let's all go inside. Red and I have some good news."

  . . .

  Once we were settled in the big sitting room, Nick started off by saying, "I ran into Tom Kincaid downtown this morning. He wanted me to tell you that Jeff Robinson, the new district attorney who was elected last fall, has said he'd going to open up a case against the sheriff and his deputies for the murder of Earl Waskom."

  I nodded in amazement.

  "There's more. He wants to let you know that the D.A. has withdrawn the warrants for you and Carter. On Monday, he wants you both to come in to prepare a report to walk over to the D.A.'s office."

  Carter and I exchanged looks.

  "What happened?" asked Carter.

  "Well, now that the state attorney general is involved in the embezzlement charges against the sheriff, I guess Robinson feels like he can start acting like a real D.A."

  I shrugged. "That's great. I'm glad he's going to be able to do his job now."

  Red nodded and spoke up. "Nick." He pointed at Nick Smith. "This Nick. He told me you were askin' about whether that Hoss went back on the lunch truck on the day Mr. Jones was murdered."

  I nodded. "Did he?"

  "He did. He said he had to go see the doctor about something or other. Is it true that he's Cotton Smith's stepson?"

  Carter and I both nodded.

  "Well, I guess that explains everything, doesn't it?"

  We hadn't told anyone about who really owned the mill, so I wasn't sure what he meant. I asked, "How so?"

  Red answered, "Well, everyone knew that Cotton Smith had been wantin' Mr. Jones to take over the mill someday. After Mr. Smith died and the other two managers took over the runnin' of the mill and kept bringin' Mr. Jones more and more into things, I think we all just assumed that he, Mr. Jones, that is, would take over things eventually."

  Carter asked, "How about Hoss?"

  "Well, sir, that's a good question. After Mr. Smith died, he started tryin' to get on Mr. Jones' good side."

  Carter snorted. "My daddy didn't have a good side."

  Red nodded and continued. "Well, that's as may be and was obvious to the rest of us but Hoss seemed to think he could buddy-buddy up to the man. He'd ask him to go out for a beer, like your daddy was one of the guys. Of course, he didn't take kindly to any of that and made sure Hoss knew it. In hindsight, as they say, it all makes sense. Hoss was getting more and more difficult all the time and makin' trouble, particularly for the colored."

  Carter said, "Well, maybe he'd figured out that was the way to get on Daddy's good side."
>
  "Maybe. But it didn't work out that way. Now that we know Hoss was related, it makes sense that he would have had a fight with your daddy and pushed him... Well... you know what I mean. Your daddy was gettin' on in years and he wasn't the scrapper he'd once been. Hoss is a big man and, well, it wouldn't have been hard."

  I looked around the room and realized that was that. And, I felt let down, somehow.

  . . .

  Red went with us when we all piled into Nick's big white Cadillac and drove down to Panama City Beach for the day. The sand was white and the ocean was emerald green. The sun was warm and the water was almost as warm, which was a surprise since the Pacific was always so cold.

  That night we ate at a little seafood joint by the water and had crab and crawfish. Carter, of course, had a steak, well-done. As we were driving back to Belle Terre into the late night hours, Carter and I were snuggled up together on one side of the car's massive backseat while Red was lightly snoring on the other.

  "What's up with you, Boss?"

  "Why?"

  "You seem kinda down."

  I sighed deeply as I watched the passing headlights of oncoming cars. "This reminds me of Mexico."

  "How's that?"

  "We didn't really solve the case."

  "Solve the case? What does that mean?"

  "You know, like in all the movies and the books. The private dick or the gritty cop chases down the bad guy and figures out what's goin' down and then it's over."

  "Yeah. That's a movie. This is real life." He kissed me softly on my ear.

  "I know. And I should know better. I've had this feeling before. And it ain't worth a plug nickel to give any thought to it. But, still."

  "You wanted to be hoisted on their shoulders and paraded through downtown Albany?"

  "No, Chief. That would be easy. This is what's hard."

  "What?"

  "We'll go into the D.A.'s office on Monday and hand him what we know. We don't have any first-hand knowledge of anything so we won't get to testify."

  Incredulous, Carter asked, "Get to testify?"

  "You know what I mean. We'll just drop our pieces in his lap and then we'll go home." I sighed.

  Carter started laughing.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I guess I never really realized how much you hate to win."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you know why I don't like to play card games with you?"

  "You don't?"

  "No. You always win. And you're always gracious about it."

  "Yeah?"

  "So, do you have any idea how fuckin' annoying that is?"

  "What?"

  "Just one time I'd like to see you win a game of poker or hearts and throw down the cards and do a little victory jig. But you never do. You just win and then ask who wants to play another round. That's why I like playing charades with you. Because then, when your team wins, and it always does, you're so happy for everyone else on the team. You don't say it, but I see you rooting for your teammates and wanting them to do well. You hate to win."

  I thought about it for a moment. "That's the craziest damn fool thing you've ever said, Carter Jones. How many beers did you have?"

  "No, it isn't. And this ain't the beer talkin'. You expect to win and you almost always do. And then, when you can't, like in an unpredictable situation like solving a murder, you get hung up on it. Why? Because you actually do want to win but you hate yourself for wanting to. And, I blame your father and your damn uncle for it. I blame them both."

  I was completely surprised by all of this. I'd never known Carter to be shallow, by any means, but this was a much deeper side of him than he'd ever shown me before.

  "What do my father and uncle have to with it?"

  "Isn't it obvious? Your father wants to win like a lion wants to tear a zebra from limb to limb. Your uncle, on the other hand, won at everything. He even beat Lillie Coit in the game of who could sleep with more firemen and that's a game that it would seem impossible to win. Everything he touched turned to gold. Just like you."

  "Now, wait a minute. I'm not like Uncle Paul."

  "Yes, you are, son. You are."

  "Hold on. First, you said that I hate to win, then you say I love to win, then you blame my father and my uncle, and now, if I'm following you right, you say that I'm too much like them. What the hell are you actually saying?"

  "You've got a gift."

  "Damn it, Carter, will you stop changing the goddam subject?" I was utterly confused but had a very strong suspicion he was right about all of this even if it didn't completely make sense to me.

  "You've got a gift. Everything you touch turns to gold. And, I believe that, deep down, you are terrified of this gift."

  I just shook my head. I knew what he was saying but, then again, I didn't really understand it. He was right. But I wasn't sure what he was right about.

  So, finally, I said the only thing I could say, "Kiss me, you fool." And he did.

  Chapter 22

  27 Sycamore Lane

  Albany, Ga.

  Sunday, August 9, 1953

  Around 6 in the evening

  "Son, I want to show you something."

  I was sitting on one end of a deep leather couch in Uncle Leroy's study. The room smelled of old books and cigars. It reminded me of the library in the house on Nob Hill where I grew up. That place had been my sanctuary until I realized I could find more freedom roaming the streets.

  He'd pulled me aside as everyone went out to sit by the pool before Mattie served us dinner. Carter had looked at me with a face full of curiosity, and I simply shrugged in return.

  Uncle Leroy brought over a scrapbook and placed it in front of me on the coffee table. He lowered himself onto the couch next to me and said, "Go ahead. Open it up."

  I did and was surprised to see that it was newspaper clippings. Most were from the San Francisco papers. The first one was a small article that I hadn't seen before from the San Francisco Call-Bulletin. It was dated November 3, 1948, and was a "day in the life" kind of article. The writer had followed Engine 3 for a day. I vaguely remembered Carter talking about the reporter coming to the firehouse but then he never mentioned it again. Carter's name had been underlined in ink by someone.

  Another of these stalwart fellows is C.W.W. Jones, native of Albany, Ga. Tall, handsome, and quick to smile, the young man told this reporter of the ongoing conflict between his passion to serve the people of this city that has been his home for nine years and the agony of long days and nights away from loved ones. "Hurry up and wait," a phrase familiar to every man who served in the war, is the daily truth of these brave firemen as they stand ready to depart their second home, the firehouse, at the sound of an alarm. Like many of his fellow firemen, Jones served our fair city by staying home and fighting fires in those dark days. Designated as "essential personnel," for fear of Jap bombardment of the west coast, his draft board refused his application to enlist in 1941. Jones had been a fireman for just over two years when the U.S. entered the war.

  I quickly flipped through the book and saw that there had to be at least fifty or more of these clippings. Most were from the last three months. The infamous photograph taken on the night I'd told off George Hearst had its own page. I looked closely at it and realized, for the first time, that Carter had his arm around my shoulder. I remembered how proud he'd looked when he'd kissed me at the bar at the Top of the Mark a few minutes before this picture was taken. He had the same expression on his face in this photo.

  I turned a few pages and saw a photo of the lobby of the Riviera del Pacifico hotel. Nacho and another Baja California state policeman were leading me away in handcuffs. This one was clipped from the San Francisco Examiner and included the gleeful caption, "Notorious Nick Led Away By Mexican Police For Ensenada Love Nest Murder."

  I turned to Uncle Leroy and asked, "Quite a rogue's gallery you got here. Where'd you find all these?"

  "Clipping service."

  I nodded. Someone
, probably in New York or Los Angeles, was charged with going through major newspapers and looking for articles about Carter and me. As I let this sink in, one thought struck me above the rest. I could guaran-dam-tee that there was nothing like this in my father's study. I blinked a couple of times as my eyes were getting wet.

  "I know it'll seem strange to you, but since Velma and me never could have children, we've always felt very protective over John, and Carter, and you. Leastways since we first got wind of you."

  I swallowed hard. I had no idea what to say.

  Uncle Leroy cleared his throat. "But, what I really wanted a chance to talk to you about was this." He reached over and turned the scrapbook to a page he'd bookmarked. The article was from The New York Times and was dated June 26th of this year.

  Finance Wiz or

  Dumb Luck?

  Analysts in New York and London are scratching their heads as they pour over the quarterly filings of one of America's largest managed trusts. Nicholas Williams of San Francisco inherited a fortune in 1943 from Paul Williams, the elder brother of his paternal grandfather. The trust is wholly or partially managed by San Francisco's Bank of America. How much Nicholas Williams is involved in the management of his finances is unknown.

  The elder Williams, however, was well-known to industry insiders for being one of the few to have weathered every financial crisis from the Panic of 1893 through the Great Depression. He first came to the attention of the financial markets in 1893 when he suddenly sold all his shares in Reading Railroad to willing buyers three days before the company entered receivership. Other examples of his acumen include heavy investments in shipbuilding in 1911, which paid off handsomely by 1918, and which he divested in 1919 with a substantial profit before anyone had heard of the Washington Naval Conference. The disarmament treaty hammered out there caused American shipbuilding to go into a decline over several years. Additionally, he notoriously sold short on a number of positions the Friday before Black Tuesday and is rumored to have profited by well over ten million in the process.

  Now finance mavens are turning their steely eyes towards the younger Williams. In 1949, Williams split his trust in half and endowed the Williams Benevolent Foundation. According to insiders, the foundation is completely independent of Williams. He is not a member of the board. However, since this divestiture, the trust is rumored to have tripled in value, having amply weathered the 1949 Recession.