Deeper Water

by Robert Whitlow

  "Are you sure?"

  She didn't answer but started walking toward the basement. Flip and I followed. I firmly held her arm, and we made it to the bottom of the stairs without mishap. I turned on the bare lightbulbs that illuminated the open area opposite my apartment. Large cardboard boxes were stacked on top of one another. Furniture not in use was covered by white bedsheets. Shelves affixed to two of the walls contained scores of smaller boxes. I wouldn't have known where to begin. Mrs. Fairmont stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared at a lifetime of accumulation.

  "I think I keep the older records over here," she said, moving down a row of the large boxes.

  I followed. Most of the boxes were labeled. We passed dishes, extra china, and souvenirs from travel. Mrs. Fairmont stopped and pointed.

  "Could you lift that one out?" she asked.

  "Yes ma'am." I sprang into action.

  It was marked "Of Interest." I placed the lightweight box at Mrs. Fairmont's feet and removed the top. It was filled with yellowed newspapers.

  "This is it!" I exclaimed.

  "Maybe," she said.

  I reached in and grabbed a newspaper that promptly crumbled in my hands. "Oops," I said.

  "Don't worry. I'd never have seen it again if you hadn't asked me about Ellen's daughter."

  I carefully retrieved what was left and held it up to the light. It was a Savannah paper almost seventy years old. Mrs. Fairmont leaned close to my shoulder.

  "That's from my school days," she said. "My mother probably saved it because it contained news about me and my classmates."

  I stared at the other papers in the box. "Would everything in this box be that old?"

  "At least," she said. "Put it back. I don't want to read it."

  I returned the box to its place. Mrs. Fairmont pointed to another box. This one was labeled "Newsworthy Items." I put it on the floor and removed the top. Inside were stacks of manila folders grown discolored with age.

  "That's Christine's handwriting," Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to the tab on the top folder. "These will be more recent."

  One by one I took the folders from the box. They contained everything from Christmas punch recipes to information about horses.

  "Christine loved to ride jumpers when she was younger. She wasn't afraid of anything."

  I remembered my brief ride in the car with Mrs. Bartlett. I thought she might try to jump the curb in her Mercedes. Toward the bottom of the box, I saw a folder with the name "Lisa' on it and opened it. My eyes fell on the front page of the Savannah paper and a grainy picture of a little girl. I showed it to Mrs. Fairmont. She stared at it for a second.

  "It's Lisa," she said in a sad voice. "That picture brings back a lot of memories. Lisa loved dressing up and sitting in a parlor chair with her feet dangling in the air. Ellen brought her over several times for afternoon tea."

  While Mrs. Fairmont talked, I quickly scanned the article. On a Tuesday afternoon, the ten-year-old girl vanished following a piano lesson. The piano teacher, a woman named Miss Broadmore, was questioned by police and reported that Lisa left the teacher's house at precisely 4:30 p.m. for the five-minute walk home along familiar streets. Lisa never made it. Within an hour the police were notified. Requests for assistance were broadcast on the local radio stations. Anyone seeing her was urged to come forward.

  "It was a sad time," Mrs. Fairmont continued. "The whole city was touched by the Prescotts' loss. I think Christine saved all the articles she could. Most of my news came directly from Ellen."

  There were other articles in the folder. All of them featured the same photograph. Even in a black-and-white image, Lisa fit Moses Jones' description.

  "Do you remember anything else Ellen told you?"

  Mrs. Fairmont shook her head. "There are lots of things jumbled up in my head. Trying to sort them out would be an unhappy way to end the day."

  "Yes ma'am. I understand. Thanks for helping me."

  I assisted Mrs. Fairmont up the stairs to the main floor and then to her bedroom. I examined the picture of Ellen Prescott on the nightstand more closely. Lisa looked a lot like her mother.

  "How old were you and Ellen in that picture?" I asked.

  "About seven or eight. Young enough that a trip to the park with a friend was a special treat."

  I turned to go downstairs. I was anxious to read the rest of the newspaper articles.

  "Tami?" Mrs. Fairmont asked.

  "Yes ma'am."

  "I like having you in the house. It makes me feel safe."

  "Thank you."

  I took the box into my apartment and carefully removed the newspapers. They weren't as brittle as the very old ones. Beginning with the first account of Lisa's disappearance, I read the unfolding story more slowly.

  There wasn't much to tell.

  One day Lisa was a bright, vivacious girl. The next she vanished without a trace. The second article was the longest and featured a map with Lisa's most likely route from Miss Broadmore's house to the Prescott home on East McDonough Street. Close to the Prescott home was the Colonial Park Cemetery.

  Several follow-up articles included quotes from people claiming to have seen Lisa during her walk home. Unfortunately, the claims were inconsistent and would have required Lisa to walk several blocks out of her way instead of following the most direct route. The police chief offered cryptic comments without substance to the newspaper reporters. One fact seemed clear. No one saw the little girl after she neared the cemetery. The police focused their investigation on that area and scoured it for physical evidence. Not a piece of sheet music or bit of clothing was discovered. No ransom note was delivered. The possibility of a kidnapping faded.

  After a week of daily articles, there was a two-day gap followed by a brief update without any new information. A week went by before another article repeated familiar facts with the conclusion that the police suspected "foul play" but had no suspects. Two months later there was a notice on page two of "Memorial Service for Girl Presumed Dead." It was a harsh headline. More than eight hundred people attended the service at a local church. I returned the newspapers to the box. I looked over my notes and decided I hadn't uncovered anything that warranted a nighttime walk to the office.

  And, even though Lisa Prescott's unexplained disappearance occurred decades earlier, I didn't want to go out after dark.

  20

  THE WORLD APPEARED LESS MENACING IN THE MORNING WHEN I went for my run. I modified my route to include Lisa's likely course home from her music teacher's house. It wasn't far. And in a simpler time, when children played outside without constant supervision, the brief walk would probably have been considered good exercise. I did a slow loop around Colonial Park Cemetery. The graveyard had many old headstones and looked like it had been closed for business for many years. It probably hadn't changed much since Lisa Prescott saw it.

  Returning to the house, I was surprised to find Mrs. Fairmont, wearing a green silk robe with flowers embroidered on it, standing in the kitchen. Coffee was filling the pot.

  "Good morning," I said, pouring myself a glass of water from a jug in the refrigerator.

  "Good morning. Did you read the newspaper articles about Lisa?" she asked.

  "Yes ma'am. They never mentioned murder, but there wasn't another explanation."

  "We hoped for a while that it was a kidnapping. Money wouldn't have been a problem."

  "But no ransom note came."

  "Right." Mrs. Fairmont nodded. "You know, the Prescotts had a funeral for Lisa. Ellen didn't want to do it, but her husband and the rest of the family insisted. It was a pathetic affair, no casket, all the unanswered questions. Ellen maintained hope Lisa would return. I grieved when Ellen died, but I also thought at least she was with Lisa again."

  It was a poignant thought. I poured Mrs. Fairmont a cup of coffee. The elderly woman seemed particularly lucid.

  "What can you tell me about the criminal investigation?" I asked.

  "Ellen and her husband met with the p
olice several times, and she told me what was said. The detectives had ideas." Mrs. Fairmont stared across the room.

  "Do you remember?" I asked.

  "There was the blood on the curb at Colonial Park Cemetery. They didn't have all the fancy tests they do now. At first, the police thought it was from an animal hit by a car because they found a dead dog nearby, but later they figured out it was human blood."

  "That wasn't in any of the newspaper articles. Was it Lisa's blood type?"

  "They weren't sure. The tests back then weren't very accurate. Ellen and I went to the curb before rain washed away the stain. Even though she wasn't positive the blood came from Lisa, Ellen stared at the spot for a long time and cried. I didn't know what to say." Mrs. Fairmont looked directly at me. "What would you have told her?"

  "I don't know. I've never lost a close family member. I hope God would give me a special grace for that time. Just loving her was probably the best thing you could do as her friend."

  Mrs. Fairmont placed her coffee cup on the counter. "Do you think God will give me a special grace for the time I'm going through?"

  "That you will get better?"

  She nodded.

  It was a difficult question, and I didn't want to give a casual answer. I believed with my whole heart in divine healing. Some people in our church had been healed of serious diseases; others died.

  "I know God loves you," I said slowly. "Asking for his help is up to you."

  Mrs. Fairmont smiled. "You sound like Gracie, only she puts a lot more feeling behind it. God brought her into my life to help me years ago, and it looks like he's added you for reinforcement."

  "Yes ma'am. I want to help."

  "I know. Run along and get ready for work."

  I turned to leave.

  "And promise you'll tell me as soon as you can why you're interested in Lisa Prescott's disappearance," Mrs. Fairmont said. "That's an old wound, and it's not right to open it up without a reason."

  "Yes ma'am."

  I returned the newspaper clippings to the folder so I could copy them at work. When I came upstairs, I saw the back of Mrs. Fairmont's head above the top of a chair in the den.

  "I'm leaving for work," I said.

  "Christine?" she called out without turning around.

  "No ma'am. It's Tami." I stepped into the older woman's line of sight. "Do you want to call her?"

  Mrs. Fairmont stared intently at me. "No, no. I thought you were Christine. What were we talking about earlier? My brain has gotten fuzzy."

  "I asked you about Lisa Prescott."

  Mrs. Fairmont shook her head with a sad expression on her face. "You know, they never did find her body."

  "Yes ma'am, I know. Don't worry about that today."

  All the way to work, I prayed for Mrs. Fairmont.

  I WENT STRAIGHT TO ZACH'S OFFICE. His door was open, and papers were stacked on his desk. His tie was loosened around his neck. He was taking a sip of coffee when I entered.

  "I didn't know you drank coffee."

  "I'm a backslider," he replied.

  "No, I didn't mean it that way."

  "I'm not offended. I needed a boost since I came in to work a couple of hours ago. Getting a head start on this project for Mr. Appleby is the only way I can create enough time in my schedule for the Moses Jones case this afternoon."

  "Could I go alone?"

  "No." Zach smiled. "You'll do all the talking, but Judge Cannon wouldn't appreciate a law student showing up in his courtroom without a supervising attorney."

  "I did some research about the little girl, but the most interesting information came from Mrs. Fairmont."

  I handed him the initial article and waited for him to read it.

  "What did Mrs. Fairmont say?"

  Zach listened without taking notes while I talked. He took another sip of coffee before he spoke.

  "It's obvious. Moses Jones was hired by a man named Floyd Carpenter to dispose of Lisa Prescott's body and was paid a shiny, silver dollar to do it. He dumped her in the Ogeechee River, and the little girl's face has haunted him ever since."

  Hearing Zach succinctly state my fears made me shudder. "That's awful."

  "Yes, if there's a shred of truth to it."

  "But it makes sense. Why else would Moses say the things he does?"

  "Because he may be in a permanent mental fog. Did you research our obligation to suggest half-baked theories implicating our client in a forty-year-old missing child case to the district attorney while trying to convince her to release him on probation on a trespassing charge?"

  "No."

  "And you don't have to." Zach pushed his chair away from his desk. "Before I began my other work this morning, I spent time praying about the Jones case. Once my head cleared of the misguided curiosity that dominated our interview session with him yesterday, I realized we shouldn't be pretending to be a cold-case investigation team. We're not actors on a TV show. Moses Jones is a real person who trusts us to help him with an immediate problem."

  "But what about Lisa Prescott?"

  "Her disappearance was a tragedy. But why should we try to solve what police officers and detectives close in time to the events couldn't figure out?"

  I took a deep breath to avoid getting angry. "I believe everything happens for a reason," I said deliberately. "It wasn't an accident that I saw the picture of Ellen Prescott on Mrs. Fairmont's nightstand and asked about it. It wasn't a coincidence that Moses mentioned the Prescott girl to me. And this morning, Mrs. Fairmont tells me information known only to the police and Prescott family."

  "So God sovereignly brought all this together?"

  "Maybe."

  "Which still doesn't get you off the hook about making a choice. I've made my choice, and so should you. I think you should focus on what Judge Cannon appointed you to do-represent Moses in the trespassing case."

  I scrunched my eyes together but held my tongue.

  "Make a face if you like," Zach said, "but I'm trying to teach you to be a professional. It's my job. Come back at nine o'clock, and we'll call Maggie Smith."

  He looked down at some papers on his desk. Steaming mad, I left his office and walked down the stairs to the first floor. My shoes clipped against the wooden floor. One choice was easy. My interest in getting to know Zach Mays better on a personal level was gone. Julie was in the library when I arrived.

  "Good morning," Julie announced brightly. "My headache is gone. A bad one can hang around for a couple of days, but I'm feeling super."

  "That's great," I managed.

  "Uh-oh," Julie responded. "It's too early in the day to be depressed. Is the pressure of maintaining two boyfriends getting to you?"

  "Shut up," I said.

  Julie's jaw dropped.

  "I did it," I said softly.

  Tears rushed into my eyes, and I stumbled out of the room.

  Right into the arms of Mr. Carpenter.

  The older lawyer steadied me for a moment, then let go. Julie opened the door, saw Mr. Carpenter, and quickly closed it.

  "What's going on here?" Mr. Carpenter asked.

  I sniffled. "It's been a rough morning," I said.

  "That's obvious. Come to my office."

  "Now?"

  "Yes."

  As I walked down the hall I glanced back and saw the library door close again. My tears receded, but my eyes were still red as we passed the secretary's desk. She didn't pay any attention to me.

  "Sit down," Mr. Carpenter said.

  I sat in a blue leather chair.

  "Answer me directly," the lawyer continued. "Why were you crying in the office hallway at eight thirty in the morning?"

  "It's a combination of things."

  "Tell me every one. As managing partner, I'm responsible for this office and the people who work here. It's better to address problems as soon as they surface instead of letting them fester."

  "I don't want to get Julie in trouble."

  "I appreciate your sentiment, but I don't kno
w what took place. You might be the one in trouble."

  I hadn't considered that possibility. Confessing sin, even if I wasn't the primary guilty party, happened all the time in my family and wasn't a new concept to me.

  "I told her to shut up," I said. "And I'm sorry. I'll apologize as soon as I can."

  Mr. Carpenter tilted his head to the side. "Much worse things than that have been said in our partnership meetings. Why did you tell her to shut up?"

  I realized Mr. Carpenter was going to ferret out every piece of information hidden in my brain, so, in a methodical manner, I told him about Julie's challenge. He listened without interruption.

  "Anything else at the office upset you this morning?" he asked.

  "Yes sir, I'm struggling with the best way to represent Mr. Moses Jones, my client in the misdemeanor criminal case. Zach Mays and I don't agree on the best way to proceed."

  "What did you say was the client's name?"

  "Moses Jones."

  "Tell me about the client."

  "He's an African-American man in his early seventies. He had a prior criminal conviction many years ago, something to do with moonshine whiskey."

  "Been in Savannah a long time?"

  "I think his whole life."

  Mr. Carpenter touched his fingers together in front of his chin. The phone on his desk buzzed. He picked it up.

  "Tell Bob Groves that I'll be there in a couple of minutes. I'm almost finished with Ms. Taylor."

  I waited, not sure whether the next few minutes would be my last on the job. If I left, it would be with a clear conscience. Mr. Carpenter hung up the phone.

  "I've received good reports from several sources about the way you and Ms. Feldman have been working together," the lawyer said. "The incident this morning is an opportunity for growth. Julie is probably scared that you're telling me a boatload of bad things about her. That may be punishment enough for baiting you. When you go back, I expect you to confront her actions in a gracious yet professional manner."

  "Yes sir."

  "I'll meet with her later today." Mr. Carpenter paused. "And keep me posted via weekly memos on the Jones case."

  "Yes sir."

  I left Mr. Carpenter's office. I still had a job. I looked at my watch. It was past time for the phone call to Maggie Smith at the district attorney's office. I turned to go upstairs, then remembered my obligation to Julie. I walked quickly to the library and opened the door. Julie looked up from a casebook.