The doors opened wide, and Estelle pushed her mother’s wheelchair into the room and parked her across from Deena.
“Hello Mrs. Fitzhugh. I’m Deena Sharpe.”
“How do you do, my dear. This is my daughter Estelle.” Poor Estelle seemed out of breath, most likely from helping her mother get ready for the visit. She was about Deena’s age, but seemed older. She nodded and sat in a straight-back chair at the end of the rosewood coffee table.
“You have a lovely home,” Deena said politely. “I brought you a small gift.”
“My, what a sweet gesture.” Mrs. Fitzhugh opened the package and admired the piece of pottery. “Such a pretty vase,” she said and handed it to Estelle who carried it out of the room. “Would you care for some tea?”
A glass of iced tea sounded perfect. “I’d love some.”
Mrs. Fitzhugh pulled out a small silver bell that was hiding somewhere under the layers of fabric beneath her crocheted shawl. The maid returned promptly with a full silver tea service. Hot tea? Just what I need, Deena thought.
“I’ll mind it.” The maid left the room just as Estelle tiptoed back in and took her seat. Mrs. Fitzhugh proceeded to go through the ritual of tea service, from cream to lemon to sugar cubes. She seemed to be enjoying herself. When she finally finished, she picked up her cup and blew on it. “So you taught at the high school, is that right?”
“Yes,” Deena said, surprised by the comment.
“Too bad you lost your job. That poor Haskett girl. Such a shame.”
Deena was at a loss for words. She sat holding her teacup mid-air, steam opening the pores on her face.
“And your husband is a financial advisor. Such a handsome man. Reminds me of Jonathan Baker who used to raise horses down the road.”
Deena offered a weak smile. What nerve this old bag has!
“Now, what can I do for you, dear?” Mrs. Fitzhugh held her cup and saucer and tilted her head like a queen granting an audience to one of her lowly subjects.
“Well,” Deena said, still feeling caught off guard. “I wanted to see if you know a woman I am looking for.”
Her hostess smiled, saying, “I know everyone, dear.” Then she placed the dainty china cup to her lips.
“This woman hasn’t lived in Maycroft for years.”
“As I said, I know everyone.”
“Then I guess you know Donna Morrison.”
With that, Earl Grey spewed from the old woman’s mouth, spraying a shower of tea all over her and the table.
“Mother!” Estelle cried. She grabbed the tea towels and began wildly blotting the doilies around her mother’s neck and chest.
“Stop that! Stop!” Mrs. Fitzhugh yelled, slapping away her daughter’s hands as if swatting flies.
Deena calmly took a drink from her cup to hide her uncontrollable grin. I hope the wicked witch doesn’t melt, she thought.
“I’m afraid you will have to leave,” Estelle said. Deena put down her cup and stood.
“No! Sit!” Mrs. Fitzhugh ordered. Deena sat, awaiting her next order.
“Stop that!” she yelled again at Estelle who had moved on to wiping up the tray and table. “Remove this tray!” Estelle began to pick it up. “Not you, the maid!” She rang the bell furiously, and the maid rushed in. “Take this tray and take her with you!” Estelle and the maid left the parlor and closed the doors behind them.
Mrs. Fitzhugh took several deep breaths to regain her composure. Her jaw was set as she looked sternly at Deena. “How do you know Donna Morrison?”
“I don’t. I just know who she is. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Why? What on earth would you want from that harlot?” She wrung her hands in her lap.
“I am looking into the death of my uncle.”
“Matthew Meade,” she said.
“Yes. Did you know him?”
Mrs. Fitzhugh gave her a stern look and did not answer.
“Donna Morrison was with Matthew on the night he disappeared. I would like to talk to her to see if she can offer any insight as to what was happening with Matthew and the company where they both worked.” Deena shifted in her chair, waiting for Mrs. Fitzhugh to respond.
“Donna Morrison is what we used to call a floosy. She was gold digger looking for a sugar daddy. She found one in my brother.”
Deena cringed, remembering the warning she had gotten from Sandra.
“He had big plans, political aspirations, but he put all that in jeopardy when he took up with that woman. He was married, you see, and had a son. He would sneak around to see her while his poor wife took care of the house and that baby.” Her eyes began to glisten; she was caught up in her memories.
“Something eventually got to him. Maybe it was guilt…maybe it was just the liquor. He started drinking heavily and was fired. That was the end of his political career. They moved to Houston to be near his wife’s family, but it only got worse. The best thing that ever happened to him was when he drove off a ravine one night and was killed.”
So cold hearted, Deena thought. “Did his wife know about the affair?”
“Of course. Women can sense these things, you know. But she stayed with him. After he died, she married herself a real nice fellow and had two more children.”
Afraid to get too personal, Deena decided to ask anyway. “So do you blame your brother or Donna for his downfall?”
Mrs. Fitzhugh hesitated. “Both.”
They sat in awkward silence for a long moment. Deena was not sure what to do or say.
“I understand why you would want to talk her. I’ll give you the information I have.” She picked up the bell and rang it again. Estelle opened the door tentatively. “Please get me my book.”
Deena picked up her purse and fumbled around for pen and paper. Estelle returned with a thick, black leather-bound book. She handed it to her mother and walked over to stand by one of the room’s heavily-draped windows. At first, Deena thought she had brought in the family bible. In a way, though, it was. The book contained Mrs. Fitzhugh’s years of contacts, each entry neatly written in her own handwriting.
“Here is the latest information I have. Her married name is McCaig. Must have married an Irishman.” She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something foul. “What did you say your name was again?” She looked at her guest suspiciously.
“Deena Sharpe.”
“Sharpe. Oh yes, a good English name,” she said and relaxed. “Her address is 1289 Riley Road in Ft. Worth. That should help you locate her.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Fitzhugh.” Deena picked up her purse and stood.
“I enjoyed your visit very much, Mrs. Sharpe. You are welcome to return anytime.”
Deena nodded and performed a half curtsy (for some unknown reason) and followed Estelle to the door.
“Be careful when you talk to Donna Morrison,” Estelle whispered as she opened the front door. “Mother once told me she tried to blackmail my Uncle Glenn. She might try to get money out of you, too.”
*
Parking in front of the Fitzhugh Public Library, Deena noted the irony. She hoped to find a current Ft. Worth telephone directory. The girl at the counter was a former student, another one whose name Deena could not remember.
“Hi, Mrs. Sharpe. How’s it going?”
Deena used her fall-back greeting. “Hey you!” The extra dash of enthusiasm always helped. “I’m good. How have you been?”
“I’m going back to UT in the fall.”
“That’s great. So, I was wondering if you all would have a copy of the Ft. Worth phone directory.”
“Sure, we have it online. I’ll show you.” They walked over to the small computer station and the girl got Deena started.
“McCaig,” Deena said as she typed the name into the search bar. She looked for a listing on Riley Road. Bingo! There it was. Michael McCaig. She wrote down the phone number and closed the program. As she walked back towards the counter, her eyes were drawn like magnets to the fiction section. B
ut she pictured the stack of mysteries on her night table that she had put off reading and decided against perusing the shelves. Before she knew it, she bumped into a tall pedestal, nearly knocking a marble bust to the floor. She grabbed it and set it upright, carefully stepping back to make sure it was steady. The gold nameplate screamed at her to be more careful. It read: Carolyn E. Fitzhugh. Great, she thought. Now she’s stalking me.
She passed the counter on her way out. “Thank you. Good to see you.” The older I get, the more students I have named ‘You.’
Anxious to call Donna, she sat in the car and dialed the number on her cell phone. Two rings, three, four…“Hello,” a woman said.
Suddenly, Deena realized she had not thought about what she would say. She would have to wing it. “Is this Donna Morrison? I mean McCaig?”
“Yes to both,” the woman said. “Who is this? If you’re selling something, I’m not buying.”
“No, no. My name is Deena Sharpe. Matthew Meade was my uncle.” She waited, hoping the other woman would speak first. She didn’t. “Did you used to work at Barnes Medical Supply?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Matthew Meade.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that his body was identified a few months ago?”
“Yes, I read about it in the paper. I suppose you want to ask me about the night he disappeared.”
“Yes.” Deena held her breath and crossed her toes. Don’t make me beg, she thought.
“You say he was your uncle?”
“That’s right. Now that we know he was murdered, I am trying to find out everything I can about his disappearance.”
“I told the cops, investigators, everybody who asked me, what happened that night.” She paused. “I’ll make you a deal. You can have one hour and ask me all the questions you want. But after that, I never want to hear from you again.”
“That sounds fair. You name the time and place.”
“It needs to be in public.” She thought for a moment and said, “How about tomorrow night. There’s a place in the Stockyards called Jerry’s. I’ll be there with my husband at nine o’clock.”
“Perfect,” Deena said, scribbling down the details.
“I’m only doing this for one reason. You’re his kin, and kin means a lot to me.” She hung up.
Donna did not sound like the cheating blackmailer she had expected. Obviously, a lot can change in forty years, she thought. Maybe she can help fill in some of the pieces of this puzzle before it’s too late.
A strong wind blew dark clouds across the sky. Large drops of water turned to mud on the windshield. The temperature dropped. Seering heat became suffocating humidity. Deena pulled into the garage just as the sprinkle turned into a shower. Her cell phone rang inside her purse, but she let it go as she hurried into the house. Although they were desperate for rain, this was the kind of storm that brings with it a foreboding feeling. Deena shivered even though she was far from cold.
After setting her purse on the kitchen counter, she pulled out her phone and looked at the number for the missed call. She expected it to be Gary, but it was an unfamiliar number. The caller left a voice mail. It was Leon Galt. He wanted her to come to the hospital to discuss an important matter, saying it had to be now or never.
Chapter Fourteen
“We’ve got to go,” Deena said to Gary as soon as he entered the house.
“What? Where?”
Deena grabbed her bag and headed to the door. “To the hospital to talk to Leon Galt.”
“Now? What about dinner?”
“We can eat afterward. Please?”
Gary trailed after her and they got in the car. “What’s so important this time?”
“He says he has a proposition for us. He is being discharged tomorrow morning, so it has to be today.”
Gary turned on his wipers and the defroster to clear the fog from his windshield. “Frankly, I am ready for this whole thing to be over. You are no closer to having an answer than you were a month ago. I’m ready to use a big hammer on this guy, legally speaking, and be done with him.”
“I totally agree. No more playing games. He either tells us what he knows or we call his publisher and threaten a lawsuit. Even if we can’t disprove what he says, no publisher wants to be sued.”
They drove to the Perry County Hospital, just on the outskirts of Bingham. Deena talked about her visits to the thrift store and to Mrs. Fitzhugh. Gary was jealous that she got a look at the inside of the legendary house. She told him about her scheduled meeting with Donna Morrison.
“Tomorrow? I have out-of-town clients coming in tomorrow. Jeff and I have to take them to dinner. In fact, I was hoping you would go.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to push it by calling her back.”
“No, you probably shouldn’t. I am not letting you go by yourself, though. Either Russell goes with you, or I’ll make an excuse to Jeff.”
“I’m sure Russell can go.” She knew what her husband was thinking even before he said it. “Don’t worry. We’ll be good.”
“There’s supposed to be more rain tomorrow night. I don’t want you driving back that late in a storm. Promise me you’ll get a hotel room in Ft. Worth and come home in the morning.”
“But that—”
“Promise.”
“Okay.”
When they pulled up to the hospital, Deena opened her new umbrella and they walked quickly to the front door.
“Follow me,” she said, leading the way to the elevator and then the room. The door was propped open.
Leon Galt was fully dressed and seated in a chair across from the hospital bed. “Please sit down,” he said, motioning to a green vinyl sofa. Deena looked around and noticed the untouched plate she had brought on Sunday. “Can I offer you anything? Water or maybe a cookie?”
Gary started to speak, and Deena smacked his foot with hers.
“No thanks,” Gary said.
“No doubt you are anxious to hear what I have to offer. I’m ready to lay all my cards on the table. No more games.”
“That would be refreshing,” Deena said. She sat back and crossed her arms.
He had a notepad in his lap and began rifling through the pages, keeping his bandaged hand slightly elevated. “Matthew Meade was a top marksman in the army. He served under MacArthur and then Ridgeway in Korea. He performed special assignments. After he was discharged, his reputation followed him. He was one of three men considered to be the best shooters the military had ever seen. One of the men died in a house fire in 1960. That left your uncle and another man who moved to Brazil in 1961.
“When a certain foreign group with communist ties decided to eliminate the president, they were led to people familiar with Oswald. He was a loose cannon, though, and they didn’t trust him to get the job done. I have several telegrams exchanged between two operatives arranging for a shooter. Both mention MSM, your uncle. I have an affidavit signed by one of these men stating he met with your uncle in May of 1963 offering him a deal. Meade refused to cooperate, which they found unacceptable.” He paused and asked, “Do you have any questions so far?”
“I assume you have these documents if we needed to see them,” Deena said.
“Of course. Now, I admit, the next part is a little speculative. According to my source, they continued to apply pressure to Meade. They threatened to harm his parents. Apparently, he gave in.”
“Apparently?” Gary asked.
“That’s when my source says he was pulled to work on another job. However, if you compare the description of your uncle to eyewitness reports of the man behind the fence on the grassy knoll, they’re a good match. Obviously, they wouldn’t keep him around after that, so they shot him and dumped his body on that old farm.”
Deena’s nose itched, a sure sign she was not convinced. “What do you think happened between the time he disappeared and November 22?”
“They would have kept him in a safe location, working out
the details of the plan.”
Deena and Gary sat in silence, processing the information. “I have a question,” Deena said at last. “If Matthew was such a good shot, why wasn’t Kennedy hit from the front or side?”
“Again, this is speculation. I think he realized that Oswald had done the job and shot high. Either that or he lost his nerve and missed on purpose. Both scenarios, however, explain why witnesses heard more shots than were found to have hit the president.”
“This foreign group you mentioned, are you going to tell us who that is?” Deena asked.
“No. If the book isn’t released, I need to keep that information concealed for now—for safety reasons.” “Aunt Lucy said you asked her about people with Russian names.”
“One name actually, Zoyenka. It was a code word. You might find it mentioned in your uncle’s papers. It would prove they made contact with him. I don’t suppose you have seen it anywhere?”
“No,” Deena said. “In your book, did you call him a willing participant or what?”
“I describe his role just as I told it to you. I even call it speculation.”
Deena and Gary eyed each other. “What do you think?” Gary asked.
“To be honest, it sounds reasonable but thin.”
Fumbling with the pad of paper, Galt pulled out a typed document and handed it to Gary. “I am hoping this offer will close some of the holes you see in the story. I am offering you $10,000 to spend in any way you like if you get Cora Meade to sign this release form, waiving all rights to legal action in connection with this book.”
“You’re kidding!” Deena exclaimed. “You are bribing us?”
“Not a bribe—a fee for services rendered. I can have a check cut as soon as you get me a notarized signature. As far as the money goes, you can keep it, give it to charity, or give your aunt a really nice funeral—someday, that is.”
“Mr. Galt, I’m afraid you have misjudged us. We have no intention of making money off the death of my uncle.” Boiling inside, Deena tried to remain calm.
Sharpe Shooter (Cozy Suburbs Mystery Series Book 1) Page 13
