Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  “Is Mrs. Kelly at home?” Louis asked, after introducing himself.

  She nodded and stepped back, letting him enter. He paused on the highly polished hardwood floor. There was a staircase in front of him and several dark-wood doors to his right. The foyer was papered in a dark green-and-maroon colonial print. A circular Persian rug was placed in the center. The maid showed him through the first door, leaving him in a library. The focal point was a huge mahogany desk that sat under the bay window, basking in the meager morning light. The shelves surrounding the room were packed with what looked to be legal and political reference books. The room had a leathery, musty smell. Louis walked to the window. Outside was a white gazebo, peeling and cracked, in what looked to be a neglected rose garden.

  “Officer, how nice of you to visit.”

  He turned. Maisey Kelly was coming into the room slowly, swaying slightly. She was dressed in a lime-green sheath with a colorful scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She wore misty black stockings, but she was barefoot.

  “Mrs. Kelly, you have a lovely home here,” he said.

  “Yes, I do,” Maisey said with a wan smile. She turned and snapped her fingers at the maid. “Wilma! Bring me a drink. And bring Officer Kincaid one, too.”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “Nonsense. You can accept a drink, it won’t hurt you. Be sociable, for chrissakes.”

  Louis watched the maid disappear and then went closer to Maisey, who was leaning over the back of a brown leather chair, arms dangling in front of her.

  “My husband isn’t home. Officer Kincaid.”

  “Actually, it’s you I wanted to see. I would like to ask you a few questions about this.” Louis pulled a copy of the medallion picture from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She looked at it, then back at Louis. “That’s Grade’s wedding.”

  “I’m talking about the chain around your husband’s neck.”

  Maisey straightened and the edges of her lips turned up. “Does Walter know you’re here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t think so,”

  Wilma returned with a tray. She handed Maisey her drink and brought the other to Louis. He accepted reluctantly, looking down at the clear liquid and the bobbing lemon wedge. Wilma left, closing the door behind her.

  “Do you recognize the medallion?” Louis asked.

  “No,” Maisey said quickly. “I don’t much remember that day very well.”

  “Have you ever seen it?”

  Maisey fingered the paper for a moment. “I vaguely recall seeing it, but I’m not sure when. Could have been last year, or ten years ago.”

  Louis should have known he would get nowhere with Maisey Kelly. He reached out for the paper but Maisey pulled it back slowly. “This is about those bones, isn’t it?” she said.

  Louis nodded. Maisey slid into the leather chair, letting her leg dangle over the arm. “That was a long time ago,” she said, sipping her drink and still looking at Grace’s wedding picture.

  “Mrs. Kelly, did you know a Eugene Graham? A young boy who lived in Sweetwater?”

  “Was he black?” Maisey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t have known him.”

  Louis tightened. He couldn’t resist it. “That’s not what I hear.”

  Maisey smiled broadly and for a second, she was pretty again— the puff of black hair, the large, alluring brown eyes, the sexy tilt of her head. But then the face hardened.

  “Walter was right. You are arrogant.”

  “I apologize,” Louis said.

  “Hell, what for? It’s the truth, everyone in this town knows it. But I didn’t know your young man.”

  Louis set his drink down and pulled out the sketch Marsha Burns had sent with the head. He handed it to her.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Please look at it.”

  She took the sketch. “He was a handsome man.”

  “He was only a boy, sixteen.”

  “Well, this boy I would remember. If I had met him.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?” Louis asked.

  Maisey dragged her leg off the arm and stood up, handing Louis back the two papers. “You haven’t touched your drink. Officer.”

  “It’s ten A.M., Mrs. Kelly.”

  “I started at eight. What time do you usually start?”

  Louis sighed. Maisey was about nine cents short of a dime. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “Where are you going? You’ve only asked me two questions.”

  “Do you have something more to tell me?”

  “Depends on what you ask. I am curious—why aren’t you talking to Walter? If anyone could kill someone, my husband could.”

  Louis hesitated, contemplating her words. Ask her something, anything. “Are you saying he committed murder?”

  “I’m saying capable. You should listen to what people say. Officer Kincaid. It’s a good quality in a man.”

  “And also to what they don’t say, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “True, so true.” She came closer and he could smell her perfume. He took a step back and she smiled, sensing his apprehension. He met her eyes. She knew something, and she wanted to tell him.

  “Mrs. Kelly, do you know anything about the bones?”

  Her fingers brushed the front of his jacket but he forced himself to remain still.

  “Officer, back in 1955 you would have been shot for letting me do what I’m doing now,” she said, fingering the zipper of his jacket.

  She knew the year. She knew who Eugene was. Louis took a deep breath, knowing that if he moved away from her now, she would turn on him and close up for good. She was drunk. He had to keep her talking.

  “Is that what happened to Eugene?” he asked softly.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes,” he said, tensing. The answer was coming. The why. She was going to tell him, he could feel it.

  Maisey gave him an odd little smile. “I don’t know. Could be.”

  Louis let out a long breath. Damn it, he didn’t know whether to believe her or not. He moved past her, brushing her shoulder as he did. She stumbled slightly, catching herself against the chair.

  Louis picked up the drink and took a sip to wet his throat. It was only water and he finished it. Damn, it was warm in here.

  He turned back to her and saw that she was staring at him with an empty, rejected look. He averted his eyes.

  “Mrs. Kelly, I never mentioned the date. How did you know that?” he asked.

  “I was told.”

  “By who?”

  She tossed her head, regaining her composure, and walked slowly across the library. “Officer, if I thought you could put Walter away with what I know, I would tell you my whole life story. But you can’t do anything.” She turned quickly, holding up a hand. “Trust me, you can’t. So why should I make the rest of my life more miserable than it’s already been?”

  Louis followed her to the desk. “I’d be interested in knowing anything you know, anything at all. And I think you do know something.”

  “Well, knowledge can be a curse,” she replied.

  “Mrs. Kelly, I have to assume it was your husband who told you something about the lynching of that man.”

  “Assume what you want.” She paused, smiling wanly. “But you apparently know what I was like back then. I was wild and I went with plenty of boys who would tell me just about anything if they thought it would get me into their backseat. Boys, men…they’ll talk about the strangest stuff, if they think it’s gonna impress you.”

  Louis turned away from Maisey. Maybe it wasn’t Kelly. It could be any one of a hundred boys Maisey had slept with. He rubbed his face, trying to think of his next move. Faces went through his mind. Earl? No, Maisey and Earl didn’t fit. Not even then. If it wasn’t Walter…

  Louis turned, taking a long shot. “Mrs. Kelly,” he asked, “was George Harvey one of those boys?”

  She
shrugged. “I was with George once or twice. But he was quiet, never said much of anything. I didn’t really like him much. He was very…selfish. He was a selfish, weird boy, and he never changed.”

  “Mrs. Kelly, George didn’t live here in the fifties. How could you have been with him?”

  “His grandfather lived here. He used to come down every summer,” She was watching Louis carefully. “George and Walter were like this,” she added, holding up two fingers, knitted together.

  Louis sat down, stunned. She was burying her own husband, talking as if she wanted to get rid of him but didn’t know how. He looked up at her suddenly.

  “Mrs. Kelly, do you think your husband had something to do with this?”

  “More wishful thinking than anything. Officer. But I can tell you, if you can show George was there, you can bet your last buck Walter was, too.” She sighed, resting against the desk. “But you can’t prove that, can you? George is dead.”

  Louis shook his head. “No, I can’t prove it.”

  “Look, Officer,” Maisey said, “if you could put Walter in jail, I’d be eternally grateful. But you can’t, because I can’t tell you if he was involved in that lynching or not. And if anyone else knows, believe me, they’ll never say.”

  He studied her. She had sobered some, and her face had taken on a softer, flushed look. He almost felt sorry for her. He thought back to what Ethel had told him. How had the town slut ended up with Walter Kelly, son of a congressman? Had she blackmailed him with the whispered secrets of his friend George Harvey—or some other boy Louis had not even considered yet? If she had, he had the feeling that she had spent the last two decades regretting it.

  “Mrs. Kelly,” Louis said.

  “Yes?”

  “How much did this boy, whoever it was, tell you?”

  “Not much. Just that it happened. A…a black boy was dead.”

  “Did they say who else was there?”

  She shook her head. “George—” She stopped, realizing she had slipped the name. Then she smiled wanly, like it didn’t matter. “George was bragging that it was all his doing. I think he thought it made him look more macho.” Her smile faded. “Or that it got me hot or something.”

  Louis leaned forward. “How did he put it?”

  Maisey sighed loudly. “He had me in the backseat and I was, well, teasing, like I liked to do. He was getting real frustrated and suddenly he just said to me, real tough-like, ‘You know, I killed a nigger.’”

  Her words hung in the stuffy library a long time. Louis looked down at the floor.

  “I let him have sex with me anyway,” she added softly. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Louis stared at the brown carpet for several long seconds. Then he stood up slowly. “Mrs. Kelly, thank you.”

  Maisey looked suddenly old again. “What for?” she said flatly.

  “I don’t know, for being honest. I’ll leave you alone now.”

  “Officer Kincaid…”

  “Yes?” Louis said, turning from the door.

  “Please don’t tell Walter we spoke.”

  Louis drove quickly back to the station, eager to fill in Dodie on what Maisey had told him about George Harvey. The pieces were falling into place and this was coming to an end. He had at least one murderer now, and maybe even a connection to Kelly’s involvement. The motive still wasn’t as clear-cut as he would have liked. But he was willing to bet that Maisey was lying about knowing Eugene Graham, and that Kelly and his friend George, and maybe Earl, killed Eugene because of her. Louis let out a sigh. A stupid girl wiggles her ass around and a young man dies because of it. Eugene Graham’s death wasn’t some grand tragedy of evil. It was just a sad, pathetically common melodrama.

  When he got back to the office, Louis was disappointed to find that Dodie’s door was still locked.

  “Junior, the sheriff didn’t come in yet?” Louis asked.

  Junior looked up from the dispatch desk. “Called and said he wasn’t coming in today. Had to drive his wife to Jackson for her appointment. Some female-plumbing thing. Hey, that package there came for you. I signed for it.”

  Louis saw the FedEx package on his desk. It was from the FBI lab in Washington. Without bothering to take off his jacket, Louis sat down and ripped the package open. Out fell a paper and the necklace and the book, still wrapped in plastic. Louis reached for his glasses and unfolded the report. His heart raced as his eyes hurried down the page until he reached the part about the medallion.

  It didn’t match! Fucking shit, it didn’t match!

  Louis stood up quickly, stunned. Two necklaces, two rare medallions in the same damn town.

  Junior looked over. “You okay, Louis? You look sick,”

  Louis dropped back in the chair, shaking his head. He looked again at the paper. Suddenly, he realized the copy and the original wouldn’t have matched. Not if the dead man was Eugene Graham.

  He threw the paper down and, standing, kicked his chair across the room. It crashed into the file cabinet.

  “What the fuck, Louis!” Junior said.

  Louis couldn’t contain himself. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

  “See what?” Junior asked.

  “Of course it wouldn’t match!” Louis shouted to the walls. “The newspaper said Eugene disappeared in 1955, and the medallion was buried with him. The wedding picture wasn’t even taken until 1956!” Louis ran his hand over his hair. “Damn it, I’m stupid!”

  “Who the hell is Eugene?” Junior asked.

  Louis turned to look at Junior. Suddenly he felt deflated, drained. He had been so sure, even allowing himself to feel a small sense of pride for putting it all together by himself. But he hadn’t done shit! He was right back at the beginning, sitting out on a limb alone. No, he reminded himself, he was not alone this time. Dodie was hanging right out there with him, and Walt Kelly was just waiting for the chance to saw both of them down. Jesus, how was he going to tell Dodie about this?

  He leaned on the desk, head down. “Junior, did the sheriff say when he was going to be back in town?”

  “Late…that’s all he said. Louis, what’s going on? Who’s this Eugene guy?”

  “No one,” Louis muttered. He went over and picked up the chair, returning it to its place. He looked down at the medallion and book lying on the desk. Suppressing a sigh, he stuffed them back into the FedEx envelope along with the report. He felt a gnawing sensation in his stomach and he wasn’t sure if it was from disappointment over the report or dread of facing Dodie. Well, there was nothing to do about it until tomorrow. Right now, he didn’t want to think about it.

  Louis started to the door, the envelope in hand.

  “Where ya goin’?” Junior called out.

  “Probably straight to hell. Junior,” Louis shot back.

  Louis stared at his face in the cloudy mirror. Was there anything more depressing than sitting in a stinking dark bar in the middle of the day? But that was where he had ended up after driving around for a half hour, sitting on a stool at Big AFs, with a half-eaten hamburger and an empty bottle of Bud in front of him.

  Billy Ray came up to him. “Another one?”

  Louis nodded. He took another bite of the greasy burger then pushed it away, his appetite gone. Billy Ray set the fresh beer in front of him and Louis took a big drink. When he lowered the bottle and looked in the mirror, he caught the eyes of a man standing at the pool table behind him. The man quickly pulled down the brim of his cap and turned back to his buddies. A few seconds later, their whispers drifted over to Louis. They were talking about him and Max and the fight outside the station. Louis quickly took another drink. Shit, the whole town probably knew about it—and why it happened. Louis dipped a hand into his pants pocket, searching for a quarter. He would call Abby; he needed to know she was okay. But then he paused. That was an excuse; he just wanted someone to be with, someone who would listen to him. He withdrew his hand.

  A cackle of laughter shot across the bar and Louis
tensed. He saw the three men in the mirror looking at him again. He swiveled around to face them.

  “What are you staring at?” he said in a low voice.

  The men seemed startled by his directness. Then one of them smiled. “Nothing” he said. “Ain’t staring at nothin’ at all.”

  Louis turned back around. He finished the beer in three quick gulps and motioned to Billy Ray.

  “Give me one of those,” he said pointing to the bottle of Remy Martin on the shelf.

  “It’s expensive stuff, man,” Billy Ray said, plopping the bottle down.

  Louis slapped two twenties down. “That cover it?”

  Billy Ray nodded. Louis rose, slipped on his jacket and picked up the bottle of Remy Martin. Tucking it under his arm, he started for the door. He paused and turned to the three men.

  “And a good afternoon to you fine, fine gentlemen,” he said.

  with a sharp click of his heels and a deep bow. He turned abruptly and pushed open the door.

  Louis awoke with a start. He wasn’t sure what had awakened him. A sudden noise somewhere, probably something that came from deep within his restless sleep. He could feel the blood racing through his veins as if he had just woken up from a nightmare he could not remember. The room was dark, a breeze coming from the window. He lay there for several minutes, watching the headlights from below sweep over the walls. Man, his head ached. He looked over at the Remy Martin bottle on the nightstand. It was almost empty.

  Throwing back the quilt, he went to the small refrigerator and pushed aside the remaining two Heinekens. He grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper and held it up against his forehead for a moment. Then he popped it open. The cold liquid felt good going down. The alcohol had left him dehydrated and hungry. He reached for the peanut butter. It was empty.

  The bedside clock was flashing twelve. The power had gone off. He picked up his watch. It was 2:21 a.m. He finished the soda and walked to the window, parting the curtains. The street was dark and silent. It was empty—except for a car that had not been there when he went to bed.

  Shit. The silver Monte Carlo. Max’s car.