by Parrish, PJ
She was gone a long time. When she returned, she was carrying a cup and a large, dark blue book.
“I found our annual,” she said softly, sitting down next to him. “Perhaps it’ll refresh my memory.” She handed him the coffee, which Louis set on an end table.
The annual’s cover was embossed, 1955, Black Pool High School. Ethel opened it and turned the pages to the senior-class photos.
“Oh, I haven’t seen these faces for years.” A small smile came to her lips. “Look at me…how silly I was, my hair in one of those funny poodle do’s.”
“You looked lovely, Mrs. Mulcahey.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “And look, there’s Walter Kelly.”
Louis studied the senior picture of Walter Kelly closely. The eyes were deep and dark, the lips thin and unsmiling. He looked like a prick even then.
“Did Earl graduate with Walter Kelly?” he asked.
“Yes, but they weren’t friends. Walter ran with a different crowd, a wilder crowd. Walter and Max Lillihouse were best friends.”
Ethel pointed to another photo on the opposite page. “That’s Maisey Beth Hill. Now she’s Maisey Kelly, of course, Walter’s wife.”
Louis caught the slight tone of admonishment in her voice. “So that’s Black Pool’s first lady,” he said.
Ethel looked at him. “She was a wild one, that girl was. Pretty as a picture but she…Well, let’s just say, she flaunted herself. And not always—and my apologies for this, but there’s no other way to explain it—on our side of town. She liked to, as we called it, ‘go down the hill.’ That’s what we called the black part of town—‘down the hill.’”
Louis looked at the picture of the pretty brunette.
“Of course, I don’t think Walter ever knew. But us girls did,”
Ethel went on. “Vra sure he found out after they were married, but by then it was too late. He was stuck with her.”
Ethel moved on, her finger moving across the young faces to Max. “That’s Max. He’s sure put on a few pounds since then. Fat as a pig now.”
She flipped back a few pages and pointed to a picture of a pretty blonde. “That’s Grace.”
Louis focused on the portrait of Grace Ketcher. She had a seductive smile, but artlessly so, as if she were oblivious to the power of her beauty. Just like Abby.
“Grace was so lovely,” Ethel said wistfully. “She placed first in the Miss Magnolia Pageant, you know, when she was just sixteen years old. She could’ve had any boy she wanted.”
Louis had to ask. “Then why did she marry Max?”
Ethel sighed. “I really don’t know. She was a year younger than me, and we were friends, but not really close. She was kind of shy, really didn’t date much, even though all the boys had crushes on her.” Ethel paused. “Especially Max. He wrote her notes and stuck them in her locker. He used to go out to her house all the time with the excuse he was there to work on the colonel’s car. Grace couldn’t stand him. I was surprised when they got married. It seemed so sudden.”
Had old Colonel Ketcher held a shotgun to Max’s head? Louis thought back to the Ketcher family book, remembering the dates. No, Abby had been born eight years into the marriage. Louis stared at the picture of Grace in the annual. The contrast between this sweet, ponytailed girl and the sad woman in the wedding picture was unsettling.
Ethel resumed turning the pages of the yearbook, a faraway look on her face.
“Mrs. Mulcahey,” Louis said, “was there a relationship between your husband and Walter Kelly at any time, before or after school?”
“Nothing to speak of.”
“What about Max?”
“Heavens, no,” Ethel said softly. “Max beat Earl up one day over something he said to Grace. Earl hated him.”
Louis had a sudden thought. “What about Sam Dodie? What was he like?”
Ethel’s brows knitted together, then she turned to the first part of the book, to the photographs of the freshman class. ‘There he is,” she said, pointing.
Louis leaned closer and studied the picture. God, he looked like a typical hayseed farmboy. Dark hair parted and slicked to his head, a sprinkle of freckles. He wore a checkered cotton shirt and overalls straps were visible across his shoulders. A far cry from Kelly’s snappy crew cut and cardigan, or Max’s ducktail and dress shirt.
“Sam was a couple years behind us,” Ethel said. “His sister Emily was in our class. She was salutatorian, went to Ole Miss, I think. Sam, well, he wasn’t at all like Emily. He wasn’t too good at school, or much of anything, really. He was the baby of that family.”
Louis took the book from Ethel and studied the small face.
“He was a quiet boy, a hard worker,” Ethel went on dreamily. “I remember once when he was a bag boy at Cecil’s Grocery, my mother left her wallet there and Sam found it and showed up at our house that night to give it back. He walked all the way over, five miles. Wouldn’t even take a tip for his trouble.”
She paused, her eyes distant. “I think Emily was ashamed of him. She didn’t like having him around. And the other boys, the older ones. Max, Walter, Stanley…they used to tease him about his clothes.” She smiled, sadly. “He was the waterboy on the football team the year Max made All-State. They made fun of him behind his back.”
“He dropped out of school, right?” Louis asked.
Ethel nodded. “To marry Margaret Sue Purdy. We all knew they had to get married because she was pregnant. But no one talked about it.” She sighed. “She lost the baby at birth. They never had any more.”
Ethel took the yearbook from Louis and closed it. “I was happy for Sam when he was elected sheriff. It was like…like he finally did something right. His father was pretty hard on him, hard on Emily, too, but she was tougher than Sam and she moved away.” She gave Louis a hopeless kind of look. “I think Sam was a disappointment to his father.”
Louis leaned back on the sofa. His gaze went up to the large framed photograph above the fireplace. It was of Ethel and Earl with their two children, taken when the kids were young teenagers. Earl’s hand rested protectively on Leverette’s shoulder.
“You didn’t drink your coffee. Detective,” Ethel said. “Can I get you a warm cup?”
“No, no thank you,” Louis said with a smile.
Ethel seemed somewhat revived. Louis wondered if the reminiscing had done her some good.
One thing was still nagging him. There still was no strong connection between Earl and Walter Kelly. If they had been together at the lynching, what was the bond?
“Mrs. Mulcahey,” Louis said. “You said that Earl had no relationship with Walter Kelly. Are you sure? Did Earl sell him insurance?” When Ethel shook her head, Louis pressed on. “Maybe some business dealings of some kind?”
“The only business deal I ever knew about was the one Earl had with Max,” Ethel said.
Louis frowned. “Max?”
Ethel nodded. “I remember it clearly because I tried so hard to talk Earl out of it.”
“What was it?”
“Earl sold Max a big piece of land, about thirty acres, I think.” She shook her head. “It had belonged to Earl’s family and they owned it free and clear. It had a beautiful redbrick house on it with this long drive that stretched deep into the woods. Even had a pretty little stream running through it. When Earl’s parents passed on, I thought we’d move out there, but Earl said no. He sold it right after.”
“But why did he sell it?”
“He never said. All I know is that Earl wanted to sell it and Max Lillihouse wanted to buy it.” Ethel frowned slightly at the memory. “Heaven knows, he didn’t need it. He already had the thousands of acres that Grace’s father left them. I guess he wanted it because it butted up to what he already had. Max was always greedy that way.”
Something went off in Louis’s head. “A stream?” he repeated. “Mrs. Mulcahey, was it the same land where the bones were found?”
“The bones?” Ethel’s face clouded over. “You
mean that poor man you found out in the woods?” She seemed to be trying to think. “I don’t know Why, yes, I think so. Just off Road 234.”
Louis’s mind was spinning, trying to put it together. “Did Earl ever tell you why he didn’t want to live on his parents’ land?”
“No. I didn’t ask, either. I really wanted that house. Detective, and I was kinda angry with him about that for a while.” She sighed. “Earl had this place built for me soon after, though. It’s too big, really…”
“Did you have any black workers on the farm?”
“Well, Earl’s father had workers. We all did. But I don’t think I could remember any.”
Nothing fit. None of the pieces were coming together. Louis thought back to his talk with old Buford, trying to remember any details about the missing young man. “Did any of them have a strange hand?” he asked.
Ethel shook her head. “Detective, I don’t really remember.”
“But you remember a black community called Sweetwater?”
“Oh, of course. No one lives there anymore, though. After the fires, everyone moved out. There was some trouble there then. Lots of trouble.”
Louis hesitated. “Mrs. Mulcahey, I have to ask something that may offend you, and please, don’t get angry. When he was young, could your husband have been involved with the Klan?”
Ethel just stared at him for a moment. Then her eyes grew moist. “Detective, my husband was the kindest man you could know, to any color human being.”
She stood up, and went to an adjoining room that looked to be a study or office. She came back and held out a plaque to Louis.
“This was given to Earl in 1980, from Washington Carver Junior College,” she said. “It’s in appreciation for the yearly scholarships he sponsored for underprivileged students.”
Louis took the plaque, stunned. “Washington Carver’s a black college,” he said.
“Yes,” Ethel said. She took the plaque from Louis and, pulling down the sleeve of her robe, she gently rubbed it clean of smudges. Then she hugged it to her chest, looking down at Louis.
“Detective, please,” she said softly. “I loved my husband. And I love Leverette. What does all this have to do with my family?”
Louis looked up at her. “I don’t know, Mrs. Mulcahey. But I promise you, I intend to find out.”
Chapter 16
After leaving Ethel, Louis headed back to town, not sure what his next move was going to be. He had been looking for a connection between Earl and Walt Kelly but had come up short. He hadn’t anticipated the link between Earl and Max. But where was it all leading? One thing was certain. He couldn’t let the medallion be buried with the bones tomorrow. He headed to Wallace-Pickney.
Stan Wallace let him sit a half hour in the foyer before he came out of the office. “I thought you understood my position,” he said crisply.
“I’m here on official police business,” Louis said dryly. “I have to pick up the medallion and the book that were found with the bones.”
“I was told they were to be placed in the casket,” Wallace said.
“The sheriff changed his mind. In a felony case, evidence has to be retained for ninety days before being released.” Louis had made it up, but he was betting that Wallace didn’t know. He was praying, however, that he wouldn’t call Dodie.
“Well, perhaps I should call Sam—”
“Look, Mr. Wallace,” Louis said with an exaggerated sigh, “I have the authority to take what I need.”
“I would like to deal with the sheriff directly, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just call him.”
“I do mind, and I’m asking you to hand those items over, or I may place you under arrest for obstruction.”
Wallace’s eyes narrowed and his thick lids fluttered over little black pupils. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Louis pointed to a group of people in a nearby parlor. “Mr.
Wallace, I am in a hurry. How do you think it would it look to disrupt all those nice people doing their mourning over there when I haul you out of your own funeral home in handcuffs?”
Wallace was quiet. Louis knew he would call Dodie later, but he didn’t care. For better or worse, he had chosen his course and couldn’t go back. He’d deal with Dodie somehow.
Finally, Wallace motioned for Louis to follow him to the back. Without a word, he gave Louis the medallion and the book, still wrapped in plastic, and retreated back to his office.
Outside, Louis paused. So what was his next step? He had to find out somehow if Kelly was the owner of the medallion. But how? He turned the plastic-wrapped medallion over in his hands. Was it even possible to compare the original medallion with the one in the photocopy? Gibbons…he’d call Gibbons. If anyone would know, he would.
He drove to a pay phone and dialed the FBI office in Jackson. Luckily, Gibbons was in. When Louis told him what he needed, the agent told him that the state crime lab in Atlanta was his best bet. “It’s faster than going through our Washington lab, but it’ll still take weeks. It always does,” Gibbons added.
“Damn,” Louis murmured. “I don’t think I have weeks, Mr. Gibbons.” Stan Wallace probably had already called Dodie.
Gibbons hesitated. “Listen,” he said. “Why don’t you overnight the stuff to me, and I’ll see what I can do? I’ve got a buddy in Atlanta who owes me one.”
Louis smiled. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Gibbons, whatever you can do.” Louis thought of the poetry book. “I’d like to send another item, too. The first lab wasn’t able to do much with it.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. It’s an old book. Blood, prints, anything at this point would help, believe me.”
He thanked Gibbons and hung up. On the way to the post office, he fully expected to hear Dodie’s voice come blasting over the radio, but he heard nothing but Junior and Mike’s banter.
As he watched the woman at the post office pack the items into an overnight mail envelope, Louis felt a twinge of trepidation. He was taking a big chance sending the items off. If something happened to them, he’d never solve the case. And technically the medallion and book were evidence, property of the Sheriff’s Department. There would be hell to pay if they were lost in the mail. Hell, there would be anyway, once Dodie found out what he had done. But at least they couldn’t be buried now.
Back in his car, Louis debated his next move. He went back over his conversation with Ethel in his mind, especially her comment about Max and Walt Kelly being friends. Maybe it was time to go back to the library, to the newspaper files. Maybe he could find something pertinent about Kelly, Max…or Earl.
At the library, he stopped at the door of the Local History room. He wanted to make a couple more copies of that medallion picture to replace the one he had sent to Gibbons. He scanned the shelves. Johnson, Jessup, Longwood…no Ketcher. Damn, the book was gone. He stared at the gap between Jessup and Longwood. It occurred to him suddenly that there might also be a Kelly family book; he hadn’t thought to look for one before. But if one existed, it, too, was missing.
Louis left the history room and headed to the microfiche machines in the corner. Issues of the Black Pool Journal went back to 1903. Louis randomly chose the 1975-76 reel. He sat, turning the handle slowly, watching the months creep by, the trivial news of a small town spilling out from the pages.
He stopped on the 1976 election. It was big news, just as his cousin Charles had said. Walter Kelly was the overwhelming favorite for mayor; an editorial predicted he would be a “fine mayor who will see many years as a public servant.” There was also a two-column spread about Kelly’s endorsement of Sam Dodie to be the next sheriff. Louis read it, somewhat circumspectly now, thinking about the freckled kid in Ethel’s annual.
History continued to unveil itself in reverse as Louis continued back through the years. Louis found himself getting sidetracked, lost in the news about civil rights. The articles from the mid-sixties spoke of marches. Freedom Fighters, and “invaders from the No
rth.” There were editorials denouncing the Klan tactics of violence. He read with interest the words of the Black Pool Journal’s editor, written in November 1961:
As citizens, we need to make clear that we do not commend nor condone this practice of vigilantism that seems to have permeated our fair county. The perpetrators of this unwanted and heinous propaganda are less than citizens, less than men. Although we agree that there is a need to maintain our traditions and our way of life, the acts of a few cast dark shadows on the attitudes of many. This piracy of human decency needs to be stopped before it contaminates the entire community. The Black Fool Journal makes a public plea for the guilty to put away their weapons and come forth, as members of the community, and lawfully work with us to ensure the continuance of a segregated Greensboro County.
Louis stared at the screen, a tired feeling washing over him. Now he was beginning to understand what Tinker had meant when he said it was a state of mind. And Dodie was right. People here didn’t think lynching was a real crime. At least, not twenty years ago.
He scrolled back through the years, moving through the fifties now. A photograph of a vaguely familiar face caught his eye and he paused. Jesus, it was Jed Dodie, and he was shaking J. Edgar Hoover’s hand. The story said that Jed Dodie had single-handedly captured a federal fugitive hiding out in the Toccopola Swamp. Louis stared at the photograph, trying to see a resemblance between father and son. There wasn’t much.
Slowly, he moved on. A small headline, tucked in the comer of an inside page, caught his eye. It said: university ordered to ACCEPT NEGRO. The University of Alabama had been ordered by a federal court to readmit a Negro student named Autherine Lucy. She had been suspended earlier, her admission blamed for causing race riots on campus. Upon her return, angry crowds had thrown rocks and eggs at her, and the university had been ordered to provide her with protection.
Louis was numb. All the black-history classes in the world had not prepared him for what he was feeling now. The library was overheated and stuffy. He closed his eyes.
He did not hear Abby when she came up behind him. When she touched his shoulder, he jumped.
