Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  “When?”

  He was Boy Scout prepared. “Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at six, and we can drive into Gadsden for dinner. We could do a movie or go to one of the clubs …” He stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  I stood a bit straighter, annoyed at myself. Having a good poker face was a fundamental part of a being a private investigator, and even more so for a cop. I could do it, but it wasn’t one of my natural skills. I had to struggle to maintain it, or my eyebrows twitched, my lips puckered, and my eyes went through more gyrations than an actor in a melodrama.

  I cleared my throat. “Miss Doris has her great-granddaughter this weekend. Carly. I told her I’d babysit so she and the girls could go to a retirement dinner.” There would be a new “girl” at the drugstore table come next Monday.

  Stoicism apparently wasn’t one of his gifts either. The disappointment shone on his face.

  I made a peace offering. “How about Friday?”

  He grimaced. “Work.” As chief, Mike should have been able to keep regular hours, but he filled in when needed. It was a small force.

  I shifted my weight to one foot and held up a finger at two guys motioning for more coffee. “Well, since I suspect Miss Doris is at least a little bit behind this, my guess is that she’d be OK if you helped me take care of Carly. She’s only seven. Her bedtime’s at eight. We could do takeout from Baker’s, maybe watch a DVD.”

  Mike’s eyes narrowed, and his examination of me almost turned official. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “And honestly, I prefer talking on a first date to being entertained.”

  He remained silent a moment, still watching for any sign I was joking. Finally he nodded. “What do you want from Baker’s?”

  He took my order, then I took his. I handed the slip to Rafe, then hit the floor again with the fresh pot of coffee. I filled cups and checked on everyone’s progress, then delivered a plate of brown toast and runny eggs to Roscoe, who nodded his thanks and pointed at his mug for more coffee.

  Most people watch the cup when I pour, in case they need to dodge a bit. Roscoe, however, watched me. As I tilted the pot back upright, he clicked his tongue against the back of his upper teeth. “I know your face. I must know your people. What’s your name?”

  “Star O’Connell.”

  His eyebrows narrowed. “I don’t know any O’Connells around here.”

  “No sir. Most of the ones I know are up in Tennessee.” Plus, it was my married name, no longer in use officially. No need to bring that up. A touch on my arm told me the adjacent table needed coffee. “You let me know if you need anything else.”

  I poured the coffee into the waiting cups and returned to the counter. Rafe had finished Mike’s breakfast and slid the plate to the young chief. Mike grabbed it on the fly and pulled a napkin from the holder near the cash register. I changed out the pots again and filled Mike’s cup. His stare got my attention. “What?”

  “You want to tell me what’s making you jumpy?”

  “I’m not jumpy.”

  “You forgot my silverware.”

  I stopped, looking all around his plate. His hands waited on either side of it, empty. “Sorry,” I muttered, then I dug a rolled napkin from a gray side-work tub under the counter.

  As I placed it in front of him, he closed his fingers around my wrist. “What’s wrong?”

  My breath caught. In all our flirting and banter, Mike had never touched me. The warmth of his hand and the concern in his eyes stopped me in my tracks, even though I knew the answer to his question all too well.

  Roscoe. I’d been waiting and hoping he’d show up for a month. Now I found myself wanting to hold him at bay, not answering the very questions that could open a door and get to the real reason I was here—an investigation. My mouth was as dry as Roscoe’s extra-brown toast, and I kept flashing on two of the crime scene photos waiting up in my room, in a file I’d reviewed yet one more time just last night.

  One, with a faded “1954” penciled on the back, showed a waxen female corpse, posed in the exact same position as the Black Dahlia. Murdered in 1947, the body of the Black Dahlia, Elizabeth Short, had been dumped at the edge of a deserted lot in LA, her arms arched over her head. The body in my photo, with the same hair and frame, had been found at the edge of a cornfield near Pineville. Unlike the Black Dahlia, this one, while still intact, had no real name as far as the public knew, just the nickname. The handwriting on the back of the photo identified her only as “Daisy Doe.”

  According to the records I’d found, “Daisy” was buried in the Pine Grove Baptist Church cemetery, still considered an “unknown” individual. Only she wasn’t truly unknown—not to me, nor to her son, Bobby, who’d returned to Pineville in 1984, looking for her killer. He’d been murdered just as she was, and dumped in the same location. Which explained the second photo in my file.

  A photo of my father’s murder.

  Roscoe was my greatest living source of information about both crimes. Somewhere deep in that mind curious about the local connections of a stranger lay answers that might be dangerous to both of us. Maybe … maybe it was time to step out a bit, get a look at the local files, and not just the ones I had been able to put together from resources on the other side of the country.

  “Star?”

  Mike’s voice pulled me from the past. My cheeks grew warm as I swallowed and turned my hand, squeezing his fingers. His eyes widened at the gesture, and he tightened his grip. Firm and reassuring, and my throat constricted.

  Maybe—just maybe—another door had been opened.

  My voice rasped a bit as I whispered. “Saturday. If you can wait, I’ll tell you everything Saturday.”

  A crease appeared between his brows, his expression now more cop than friend. “So this is more than you being a little nervous this morning.”

  I nodded, then pulled away from him. Folks needed coffee.

  I felt his eyes follow me, the way a street officer would watch a suspect walk away from his cruiser. My stomach tensed, and I took a deep breath. I had to trust someone.

  I just hoped Mike was the wisest choice. And that it didn’t get both of us killed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pineville, Alabama, 1954

  ROSCOE RAN, THE broad leaves of the corn plants slashing at him like airborne needles. He tripped over a clod of dirt, landing hard on his elbows, but he bit back the cry of pain and rolled over onto his back, gulping in air and trying to listen for the pursuit.

  The shouts of the two men chasing him sounded flat, deadened by the tall stalks of corn, but they were no more than thirty yards off to his left. Over them, he could hear the bass of his father’s voice, still confronting the other men crowding the front yard, white-sheeted figures illuminated by the cross they’d lit an hour earlier. Looking up, Roscoe could see the pale light of the flames against the night sky.

  Fear oozed from Roscoe’s skin, an acrid odor that made him glad the men had not brought dogs. His muscles tensed, cramping as his feet dug into the clods, pushing him backward, the seat of his jeans scraping hard in the dirt. Roscoe knew he’d never felt anything this intense, this consuming. The black community in Pineville had always kept to themselves for the most part, and the local KKK had been reluctant to turn on them—too many of the white men under the white sheets had been raised by black housekeepers and maids who could easily recognize voices, shoes, even the expressions in their eyes. Anonymity was a vital element to the Klan.

  So this was the first time Roscoe had seen the sheets, felt the heat of the flaming cross, run with the fear of being killed.

  That woman, he thought bitterly. The KKK thought he’d murdered Daisy Doe.

  Roscoe forced himself to sit still, huddled tight between two thick stalks. The corn closed around him, a shield. If he ran, they’d hear. He caught his breath, his hands clutching the earth beneath him, his thoughts a desperate prayer of salvation. As he listened, they passed him, still too far to the left, then circled back, this
time too far to the right.

  By now, a flashing red light had joined that of the flames. Sheriff JoeLee Wilkes was no friend of blacks. He wasn’t fond of the Klan either, but he was too smart to cross them too hard. Then, as Roscoe listened, he heard the sound of true salvation: the voice of Reverend Billy Mitchell, which boomed out over all other shouts and catcalls. JoeLee had apparently stopped for reinforcements. He wouldn’t stand up to the Klan, but Reverend Billy, the white preacher of the Pine Grove Baptist Church, despised the Klan with every fiber of his being. Everybody knew it, and everybody knew the good reverend could call down the angels of heaven and the brimstone of hell when he got riled up. Nobody crossed Reverend Billy, not even the Klan, not if they valued their eternal souls.

  Roscoe’s fear slipped away as Reverend Billy moved into full-blown preacher mode, calling down the wrath of the Lord on the men. Within seconds, all Roscoe could hear was the pastor and the crackling of fire-ridden wood.

  Still, he remained on the ground, waiting. There he stayed until the flames died, the red light vanished, and Reverend Billy hushed. Finally, his daddy called his name, and Roscoe returned home.

  Daisy Doe’s killer remained a mystery, but Roscoe never again doubted God’s ability to answer the desperate prayers of young boys.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  THAT AFTERNOON, I returned to the studio apartment over the drugstore and took a long, hot shower. Serving for the six-hour morning shift left me grimy, with a thin film of smoky bacon grease on my skin and a scent of stale biscuits and grits in my hair. Sometimes more than the scent of grits clung to the blond locks. Grits, I’d decided some time back, could easily be used in the absence of rubber cement.

  Thoroughly scrubbed, I propped open the ancient windows and sprawled across my bed, letting a brisk spring breeze waft over my damp body. I massaged my scalp again and pulled my wet hair up and back, getting it off my neck and splaying it like a halo around my head.

  This was the quietest, most pleasant moment of my day, and I cherished the silence and cool air. Although the drugstore was on a street corner overlooking the Pineville town square, early afternoon was a time when most folks were huddled away in their offices and plants, or they tooled along on giant tractors on distant fields. Several of the shops on the square closed at one for an hour or so. Sometimes longer, when July and August brought a smothering afternoon heat that made trees limp and hair spray useless. Early April still held a gentle freshness in the wind, which raised a few goose bumps as my skin air dried.

  I stared at the ceiling, counting the water stains and thinking about my mother, especially the art, photos, and letters that had cluttered her tiny apartment, remaining for me to clean out after her death six months ago. I grew up with this eclectic collection, often coming home from dates to find her poring over crumbling cardboard boxes and endless notebooks of memories, tendrils of her still-blond hair escaping her scarf and slicked to her soft, creased cheeks by silent tears.

  By the time I reached my teens, I hated her, hated my father for dying in the way he did, and hated God for the life he’d left us with by raining these murders down on us. So I tried to destroy the evidence. When my mother caught me trying to burn a box, I found myself on a plane for Birmingham, where I lived with Gran and Papa, my mother’s parents, while my mother pulled herself together, stored the boxes, and finished a nursing degree.

  But the boxes never went away, not for her, and—eventually—not for me either. They destroyed my family. They got my father murdered. They had helped destroy my marriage and my faith. They led me to hide my heritage behind my maternal grandparents’ last name. They estranged me from my own mother, and they killed her before she turned sixty.

  But they also made me a cop. They made me a cold case detective. Now I had to finish it. Before they destroyed me completely.

  I slid off the bed and into a pair of shorts and T-shirt. My damp feet made soft padding sounds on the hardwood floor as I headed for the card table that doubled as office and dining room. Old and wobbly but serviceable, it perched under the window next to the bed. The files I had brought with me were in a carry-on bag underneath, and I pulled out the one closest to the front, just as I had almost every day since I’d arrived in Alabama. I’d handled it so often that its edges were soft and foxed, like an over-read book.

  When I’d rekindled this investigation, I’d narrowed Mother’s collection down to one box, but this file was the heart of it, and I went through it daily, even though its contents lived in my head like old friends. I’d also studied Pineville inside and out, poring over history books, online archive sites, and joining social media groups. Once I’d put together as much information as I could from the boxes and the web, I knew the next step meant injecting myself into Pineville.

  And it was the good citizens of Pineville who made it all possible. The Pineville pharmacist, a lanky man in his late seventies who still carried the Taylor name, had been thinking about closing down the century-old soda fountain after the previous waitress retired. The community set up a protest that rattled the windows, and he relented. When my web wanderings turned up the job notice in the Gadsden paper, I called Gran.

  “Timing is everything, Gran.”

  “God’s timing always is, sugar.”

  I sighed and pressed my hands down on the file. God and Gran had this tight-knit relationship that I respected but didn’t quite understand. Not for any lack of trying on her part. Gran belonged to a denomination that took Christ’s instructions on spreading the Word more seriously than most. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God—I did. So much so that I felt betrayed by the way he’d abandoned Daisy Doe and my father … and me. Gran, however, had hopes for her last remaining relative, and I knew I was the frequent topic of her prayers.

  After spending a few days in Birmingham with Gran, I moved to Pineville and took the job at the drugstore. She told me that once I got settled, we’d clean out the Overlander so I could have a more permanent place. Well … as permanent as a silver egg-shaped house on wheels could be.

  Since then, I’d studied the files and continued the research while I got to know the folks of a small town that was almost straight out of Faulkner, quirks and all.

  Starting with Miss Doris. Everyone called her “Miss Doris,” although she’d been married to Mr. George Rankin for more than fifty years. He was the younger man she’d fallen in love with on a dance floor a few years after World War II, and at eighty-four and seventy-seven, they still danced, although they had given up competing in ballrooms all over the world. Their five kids had been born in five different countries. Their friends and the church they attended seemed to have forgiven both the dancing and the rather short time frame between their wedding anniversary and the birthdate of their oldest child, a boy who now was senior pastor at a megachurch in Dallas. I suspected the megachurch connection did a lot to smooth over that unfortunate time shortage.

  Miss Doris had become my gentle gold mine and as big an advocate for God in my life as my grandmother. She’d been in Pineville all her life, save the globetrotting trips, and her memory of the forties and fifties made my remembrances of last week sound awkward and vague. She was also head of the women’s group at Pine Grove Baptist, and her collection of friends, her “girls,” hailed from some of the most historical and society-entrenched families in Pineville. They had owned businesses and run charities and could lay a burn on an errant child or wayward spouse with a scald that would have made the most dominant of Southern matriarchs pleased as punch.

  They loved to talk, each and every one. After all, it wasn’t as if I learned all that about Miss Doris and Mr. George from the internet. But I decided caution should still reign, especially when nosing into a topic that wasn’t likely to come up much over afternoon tea.

  Returning to the bed, I stacked the pillows against the white iron frame, brushed my feet off, and crawled back up, sitting tailor fashion. I took five deep breaths, l
et them out slowly, and snapped open the file.

  My ritual.

  For almost thirty years, Mother had collected every snippet about my father she could find, almost as if it would somehow keep Daddy alive. Until his death in 1984, he’d done the same about his mother, and some of the clippings and notes in those boxes dated back to the fifties.

  But I’d been so young when he died that I barely remembered Daddy. A few stark days stood out—my first day of preschool, times when he carried me on his shoulders, a picnic, my first ride at Disneyland—but mostly I remembered a slight scent that was part tobacco, part cologne, and a fuzzy recollection of a dark-haired man who grinned every time he looked at me.

  That face, however, bore little resemblance to the photos Mama had left behind, and even less to the shots of his crime scene.

  Which was the first photo in my file … and the reason for those deep breaths.

  Two bodies this time, at the edge of the same cornfield where Daisy Doe had been dumped, this time discovered by two farmhands who showed up for work. My father and the investigator he worked with, both resting on their sides, their hands tied behind them with duct tape. Their belts were still around their necks, their faces distorted by strangulation. Standing around them were the law enforcement officers at the time, including aging, rotund Sheriff JoeLee Wilkes, who had closed the case quickly, unsolved and unsolvable. Sloppy procedure stood out even in the still photo, and I could only imagine what limited efforts Wilkes had taken to “solve” the crime. The bodies had been packed up and shipped home the day after the coroner ruled on the cause of death.

  My mother never stopped gathering information about Pineville, and my own research had added mounds of information as well, all in preparation for me to return to this town that had changed our lives forever. I knew this town—at least on the surface. Wilkes had died a few years after my father, the last sheriff to reign alone over Pine County. The area grew rapidly in the late seventies and early eighties, and Pineville had turned municipal, hiring a police chief and a small staff of officers. The sheriff and his office moved to another city, maintaining authority over the rural areas of the county.