by Parrish, PJ
“All right, Kincaid, what’s this about some lady in Florida drawing some picture?”
“She’s an artist who can reproduce what she feels is a likeness of a victim based on the skull,” Louis began. “I’ve heard about the technique before, and that it can be very accurate. I thought it was worth a try. Junior disagreed. He thought you’d be upset about the expense.”
The sheriff looked over at his nephew and ran his fingers through his hair. “How much is this gonna cost?”
“They’re supposed to let me know. If necessary, sir, I’ll be happy to partially reimburse the county for any extra expense.”
Dodie shook his head. “Not necessary. Maybe it’s time we got with this state-of-the-art stuff. I’ll allow it. But next time, I expect to be asked before we go sending our dead halfway across the country.”
“But Sheriff,” Junior sputtered, “this is stupid. This is just a dead—”
“Junior, shut up,” Dodie said. He looked back at Louis. “Now look, Kincaid. I told this to Junior here, and I’ll tell it to you. I don’t ever want to hear about my men—of any goddamn rank— going into another jurisdiction and arguing about how we do business. You understand?”
Louis nodded.
“Now get back to work,”
Junior stormed out. Louis heard the outside door shut a few seconds later, relieved that he would not have to deal with Junior today. He would go home and pout, all on county time.
Louis rose slowly from the chair.
“Sheriff, thank you for okaying this. It means a lot to me.”
Dodie looked up. “It seemed like the right thing to do,” he mumbled. “But you run things like this by me from now on, you hear?”
Louis nodded. He turned to leave, spotted something on the floor and picked it up. He set the battered Zippo lighter in front of Dodie. “You were looking for this?”
Dodie picked up the lighter. “How long were you out there listening, Kincaid?” he asked without looking up.
“Long enough.”
Dodie leveled his hard, gray eyes at Louis. “Things ain’t always what they seem to be, Kincaid,” he said. “You remember that and you’ll be okay here.”
Louis started for the door then turned. “Sheriff, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be here. But as long as I am here, you’ll get my best work.”
The two men stared at each other. “Fair enough,” Dodie said finally.
“Didn’t know they even made those things anymore,” Louis said, nodding at the Zippo.
“It belonged to my daddy,” Dodie said.
Louis glanced at the four-by-six-foot Confederate flag over the book shelves to the right. Dodie followed his gaze.
“So did that,” he said. He flipped the Zippo’s top with his thumb, lit the cigar and met Louis’s eyes.
“And I just never saw no reason to take it down,” he said.
Chapter 6
As Louis drove around the bend on County Road 234, the sunset caught his eye and he slowed to take it in. The orange sun glowed, like he imagined a UFO might do, simmering on the horizon. He realized suddenly that he couldn’t remember the last time he had even noticed a sunset. Always too busy, always moving too fast. At least that’s what Frances Lawrence always chided him about. From running fast on the high-school track team to finishing college a semester early. ‘Touis,” she used to say, “one day you’re going to find you rushed right through life.”
Funny she should come to mind right now, he thought, smiling slightly.
He pressed the accelerator and the old white Mustang shot down the road. The Lillihouse home came into view and he slowed as he passed between two white brick pillars that guarded the open iron gate. He cruised up the circular drive and got out of the car, taking in the mansion with one sweep of his eyes.
It was a storybook home, the kind you saw in movies. White brick, fronted by a wide porch with pillars that supported an iron balcony on the second floor. Vines, naked from winter’s chill, climbed the outside of the home.
He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that rippled through him as he stood in the gravel drive, staring up at the proud house. He wasn’t sure if it was the affluence or the power that the house represented that intimidated him. Maybe it was the sense of history that shrouded it. He lifted the elaborate gold knocker, embossed with the Lillihouse name, and tapped it lightly against the door.
He looked out at the expanse of lawn as he waited. The sheriff would ream him a new asshole if he knew he was here bothering old Mrs. Lillihouse. Especially after he had promised to keep Dodie informed of everything he did. But sometimes, he told himself, knocking again, you had to do what you had to do.
It was several more moments before he heard movement on the other side. Someone was peeking out the peephole and he smiled obligingly. When the door did not open, he sighed, pulled out his shield and held it up to the tiny hole. The lock clicked and it swung open.
“Yes, Officer,” said the woman.
She was not young but she was still beautiful. Her honey-colored hair was drawn away from her face and twisted around her head, held by a silver clip. Her long-lashed eyes were the color of a clear Mississippi sky, complemented by a light brush of crimson on her cheeks and lips. Only the lines around her eyes betrayed that she was somewhere past forty.
“Mrs. Lillihouse?” Louis asked.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Louis Kincaid, ma’am. I’m from the Sheriff’s Office and I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you have time.”
She gave him a small frown of puzzlement then stepped back to let him into the foyer. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard marble and a statue of a half-naked Greek god frowned at him from its pedestal in the comer. Grace Lillihouse closed the heavy door softly and led the way to the living room. Glancing up at the chandelier, Louis followed her through an archway into a large room, accepting her offer to sit down. It was a library or sitting room, done in understated pinks and greens, with bookcases recessed into the dark paneled walls. Over in one comer, nestled in a bay window, was a grand piano. He could pick up the faint scent of lemon furniture polish and hickory.
“It’s about the body, ma’am…” he began.
“I assure you, I can be of no help with that.” She slid into a green damask wing chair, the skirt of her satin lounging-robe flowing around her tiny ankles.
“I was hoping you might be able to—well, give us some information perhaps, since the body was found on your land, ma’am.”
“I can offer nothing. Officer. The whole thing was quite a shock.”
Louis waited. But Grace Lillihouse just looked at him blankly, with a slight tilt to her head.
He cleared his throat. “We estimate the body to be about twenty-to-twenty-five years old,” he continued.
“Such a young man…” she said wistfully.
“I meant twenty years in the ground, but he was a young man as well. Probably fifteen-to-twenty.”
Grace folded her hands in her lap and looked into the fireplace. Louis could see the flames reflected in her eyes. She looked like she was going into a trance. “Do you have any idea who it is?” she asked quietly.
“Not yet. Mrs. Lillihouse, were you living here in the early sixties?”
“Yes, but I was only a girl. Officer.”
“But were you living here?”
“Yes, I was born in this house.” Her voice wavered slightly. She continued to stare at the flames.
It struck him that Mrs. Lillihouse was like a porcelain doll; she sat so stiffly he thought her face would crack. He had to get her to relax somehow. He glanced around the room, debating how to continue. He locked eyes with a portrait above the fireplace. It was of a striking man with silver hair and gentle eyes. Louis thought he resembled the actor Jimmy Stewart.
“Handsome man,” Louis said. “Your husband?”
Her eyes moved to the oil painting. “My father,” she replied.
> Louis sensed a bitterness in her voice and decided to drop the subject. He continued to look around. To either side of the fireplace were recessed cherrywood shelves, crowded with books of all sizes and colors. The two green damask wing chairs sat within warming distance of the fire, sharing a round, glossy antique table with a crocheted doily. There was a small crystal lamp and a porcelain figurine of a long-skirted girl with golden curls, arms outstretched as if awaiting a lover. Daintily-printed pink flowered wallpaper added a homey touch to the room, but there was still something empty about it. The house reminded him of a mansion you had to pay money to tour.
His eyes fell on the piano. A slender Baccarat vase sat atop it, holding two white lilies. Maybe if he could get her to talk about herself, she’d relax a little. “That’s a beautiful piano,” he said. “Do you play, Mrs. Lilllihouse?”
Her gaze drifted to the piano and away. “No,” she said.
He suppressed another sigh, his eyes going now to the shelves of books over her head.
She noticed and seemed to emerge from her gloom. “Do you like to read. Officer Kincaid?” she asked.
“Yes, but I never have the time. I’ve hardly opened a book since college, and I’ve been pretty busy since I’ve been here. How about you?”
“Not as much as I would like.” She smiled. “Do you have a favorite author?”
“No, ma’am, not really.”
Grace moved to the bookshelves. He waited politely, wondering if he should keep her talking about books; it seemed to loosen her up a bit. He thought about the poem.
“Do you know anything about poetry, Mrs. Lillihouse?”
“Some. Why do you ask?”
Her back was still to him as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books.
“We found an old book of poetry with the bones.”
Her hands paused at a book. “Really?” She pulled the book and carried it to him, looking more like she was floating rather than walking.
“You might like this one. Have you read it?”
He looked down as she placed the book in his open hands. The Golden Apples by Eudora Welty. He hadn’t read it.
Grace smiled. “You’ll like this,” she said. “I have never read a book that gave a better feel for the texture of Southern life.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to find time to read it.”
“Don’t forget to return it to me.”
“No, ma’am.” He put the book under his arm.
Grace studied him. “You’re not from the South, are you?”
“I was born right here in Black Pool. But I was raised in Michigan.”
“Is it a culture shock for you? I mean, do the blacks here live differently tHan those up north?”
He was surprised by her candor. “People in general live very differently here than ‘up north,’ as you call it. Here, they’re very…” He searched for an appropriate word.
Grace finished his sentence for him. “Traditional.”
“I suppose you could put it that way, ma’am.” He heard his voice, which sounded so strangely formal that he almost smiled. There was something about Grace Lillihouse that forced gracious-ness.
“Mrs. Lillihouse,” Louis began, “do you remember ever hearing anything about a killing or maybe about someone who disappeared from around here, about twenty-five years ago? Talk among the men, maybe a rumor?”
“Of course not,” she whispered. “We didn’t talk about things like that. Things like that happen to other people.”
He let the comment go. “Do you have any idea why someone would have chosen to bury this man on your land?”
Her lips drew into a tight line. Her long robe was iridescent in the flickering light of the fire, and her face took on an amber glow. She looked very young at that moment. Transfixed by her quiet beauty, he found himself staring. There was a gentleness about her that put him both at ease and on edge.
“Officer,” she said, “we have over twenty thousand acres. We could have a hundred bodies buried out there and not know it. Maybe at the time it just seemed like a good place to bury someone.”
“Mrs. Lillihouse, it’s important to me to give this man his just due. I don’t think he was given much of a chance in life, and I think we owe him that.”
She tilted her chin upward and turned to him, about to speak when a door closed loudly in the hall. A voice echoed from the foyer.
“Mother?”
Grace Lillihouse’s beauty paled in comparison to that of the young woman who entered through the archway. Louis got up from his chair.
Bright green eyes dominated her pale, heart-shaped face. Long, silky auburn hair bounced off her shoulders as she tossed her knapsack to the floor. She wore an oversized banana-yellow sweatshirt that slipped casually off a slender shoulder. Black leggings detailed shapely legs.
She moved across the pale pink carpet and greeted her mother with a cool kiss. Louis guessed she must be the daughter Junior had been kidding Larry about. He tried to remember her name, but couldn’t.
She gave him a quick look of curiosity before turning to her mother. “The library was deserted. I was able to get a lot of studying done,” she said, rubbing her neck. She faced Louis and smiled, drawing Grace forward.
“Abby, this is Officer Kincaid. This is my daughter, Abigail, Officer Kincaid. She’s a student at the University of Florida.”
“Louis Kincaid,” he said, offering his first name and his hand. “Christmas break?”
She looked down at his hand and then took it tentatively. She gave him a shy smile. “Yes. And long overdue,” she added. “You’re a policeman?”
“Sheriff’s Office.”
She met his eyes, looking up at him from under wispy bangs. She had a spray of faint freckles across her nose. “What brings you to see Mother?
“He’s asking me some questions, Abigail,” Grace said, “about that poor dead man they found.”
Abby’s smile faded. “You found him down by the swamp. That’s our land. I used to ride through there.”
“The man’s been buried for more than twenty years,” Louis said. He glanced at Grace Lillihouse. “I was asking your mother if she remembered hearing anything that might give us a lead to his identity.”
Abby turned to her mother. “Do you?”
“Of course not. Abby, go put your things away and change your clothes.”
“Mother, I would like to stay and talk to Officer…?”
“Kincaid.”
“I took a criminology class last semester,” she said to Louis. “It was fascinating.”
Grace’s eyes hardened in a silent reprimand. Louis felt a slight tension creep in between mother and daughter. “Abigail, you have things to do upstairs,” Grace said firmly.
Abigail started to protest, but seeing Grace’s expression, she sighed and ambled toward the knapsack. As she hoisted it up, she looked back and gave Louis a small smile. “’Bye,” she said.
Louis watched her hurry up the steps, a faint smile on his face. He guessed she was about nineteen…a very young nineteen. When Abby had disappeared from the top landing, he turned back to Grace.
Her eyes were like rocks and her message was crystal-clear.
Good God, she thought he was hitting on her precious daughter. It was time to go. Hell, he had probably gotten as much as he could out of Grace Lillihouse anyway. He swallowed and let out a deep breath.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lillihouse. If you think of anything, please call me. Anything at all.”
She did not reply and Louis went to the door with the feeling she would be on the phone to Sheriff Dodie before he was out of the drive.
“Officer.”
He turned. Grace stood rigid and her hands were balled into little fists. Suddenly she looked older. “Don’t come here again,” she said.
Grace Lillihouse was a puzzle. But then, Louis had come to think all Southern women were strangely paradoxical. Grace Lillihouse looked so delicate, yet he could sense a steely strength
to her. She was all charm and refinement, but the moment she imagined that he was interested in her daughter, she had turned colder than a stone. Something told him there was more to her coldness than wanting to protect her daughter. Maybe she had something to hide. Maybe she was just slightly nuts. He wasn’t sure. But his instincts about people had always been good, and right now they were telling him that there was something in that big white house that just wasn’t right.
About a quarter mile down the road, he slowed the car to a crawl. He was not far from the place where he and Junior had first left the road to get to the bones. When he reached the spot, he pulled to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. It was quiet, except for the chirping of some birds.
He thought about what Grace Lillihouse had said, that a hundred bodies could be buried out here and no one would know it.
He got out of the car, looking around. The land on the east side of the road ran on for several miles, spotted with farmhouses and pastures. The land on the other side of 234, where the body had been found, was dense woodlands owned by Max Lillihouse.
Twenty thousand acres…a lot of friggin’ land.
He frowned slightly, as the question that had been nagging at him for days pushed to the front of his mind. Why here? Why had the victim been killed in this particular place?
Even today, a black man had little business in this part of the county. Louis knew that the nearest house owned by a black family was miles away in Cotton Town. Twenty years ago, a black man probably had even less reason to be on this road.
It just didn’t make sense.
He suddenly remembered something Grace Lillihouse had said, that maybe, at the time, it just seemed like a good place to bury someone.
Louis looked back in the direction from which he had just driven. He could see the big white house. It was only about a half mile or so away. Walking distance.
So what do you do if you want to kill a man? Drag him out to a familiar spot, a spot you could keep an eye on and protect. A place nobody would likely to be in, except you.
A light went on in the second story of the white house. He knew that he would have to question Max Lillihouse. But for now, the answers he needed weren’t in that mansion. Maybe they were to be found in less obvious places. He got back in the car and started slowly down the road. After a minute or so, he passed a sign, nearly obscured by weeds. He braked and backed up. A faded sign pointed the way down a copper-colored dirt road to Cotton Town.
