Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  I swallowed. “Cavanaugh. Star Cavanaugh. And yes, O’Connell was my married name. After the divorce, I took my mother’s maiden name, started completely over. Gran is the only relative I had left, so it made sense. Being married to a crooked lawyer with dirt on about half of the major players in town is not a great place to be if you’re in law enforcement. I’m not exactly proud of having Tony O’Connell as a part of my past.” I stood straighter. “But everything else I’ve told you is the absolute truth. Right down to what happened today.”

  He glared at me a few more moments, then nodded, as if confirming something to himself. “I called a PI I know in Nashville. He told me you were probably Star Cavanaugh. Said you were building your business word of mouth instead of hanging out a shingle.”

  I shrugged. “With the kind of work I do—cold cases—it’s not always a good idea to be too high profile. And I’ve worked hard to clean the internet of any trace of Star O’Connell. But Tony is a stench that’s harder to shed than a skunk’s spray.”

  “And the internet is forever.”

  “So what now? Are you going to arrest me?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “I should. But I am going to have you tested for gunshot residue. Unless they find some immediate evidence connecting you to Roscoe’s death….” His eyes narrowed. “Did you touch him or the car?”

  I replayed those last moments in my head. Again. “Possibly the front fender.” I wiped more tears away. “I was pretty stunned when I saw him, and my first thought was that I’d be next. That’s when the other shots hit.”

  “That’s why you can’t stop crying.”

  “What?” I scowled at him.

  “Fear. Anger. Grief.” He stood a little straighter. “They all have the tendency to force tears from us. Especially when they hit us unexpectedly. You’ll grieve more for Roscoe later. Right now, you’re more angry and afraid.”

  “I’m more numb.”

  “You’re in more denial than feeling numb. Otherwise you wouldn’t be crying. I’m glad you don’t have a gun, because you would have fired back, which really would have messed things up.”

  “I don’t usually go around firing at things I can’t see. I’m not that insane.”

  “No, but in this state of mind, if you knew who was behind this, you’d probably leave here and go kill them.” He paused. “Did he tell you who killed her?”

  “No. But he was going to.”

  “But they don’t know that. And I’m not convinced those last shots were just to keep you pinned down so they could get away. You need to be prepared that they may try again.”

  It was my turn to glare. My brows came together, and I crossed my arms so tightly that I hurt a rib. But he was right. Anger about this ran bone deep. “I’m definitely aware. Any suggestions about getting in front of this? You know all the players.”

  The glare was finally gone from his face. “Go home. Start by having a sit-down with Doc. Tell him all of it. Everything. He’s a good man, the heart of this town. You’ll know right away what the primary reactions are going to be.”

  “Good idea, and I need to apologize to him. What about you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “We will keep an eye on you, but you can’t be in this part of the investigation into Roscoe’s death.”

  “I know. I’m a witness, if not a suspect.”

  “And I haven’t ruled you out. I do have to do that first.”

  “Please don’t forget the skin I do have in the game.”

  “Not likely. But you have to stay out of this … and away from me.”

  My chest tightened. It made sense. I knew that. Didn’t mean I liked it. “I know. It would taint everything.”

  “Or worse. Now, let’s get your hands swabbed. I’ll have one of the officers take you home. I’ll get Belle back to you as soon as we clear her. Just don’t leave Pineville.”

  “Are you kidding? My feet are glued here until they toss me out.”

  “Or I have to put you in jail.”

  It wasn’t a joke. Mike might not have been glaring any longer, but the tight skin around his eyes told me he seriously considered that as a possibility. He liked me, maybe even more than liked me. But he was first and foremost the head law enforcement officer of the town. And because of me, he had to find Roscoe’s daughter, Imajean, and deliver one of the worst messages a cop ever had to.

  The officer—not Dean Sowers, unfortunately—got me home about the same time that Doc closed the drugstore. I caught him before he went in to supper and asked if he could join me under the awning afterward. I had something I needed to tell him.

  I did feel a little regret that I deceived a man who had been so open and welcoming to me, who had introduced me to so many of the people in Pineville who had become important to my investigation, including Mike and Miss Doris. He’d accepted my cover story of trying to start over after an abusive marriage—sticking close to the truth is always a good basis for a cover—even though I knew he couldn’t have found much in a background check. In some ways it was like betraying my grandfather, and I hoped he’d understand why I had taken the steps I had.

  Dusk had settled long before he emerged from the house. Dew brought a pleasant coolness to the evening, and a soft air stirred the hedges and shrubs full of lightning bugs. I waited, going over in my head a dozen times the words I wanted to say. Doc brought a beer with him, settling into the lawn chair with a deep exhale and solemn expression. Before I could say anything, he asked, “Is this about Roscoe?”

  I tried not to be astonished. I don’t think I succeeded. Whatever words I’d rehearsed vanished.

  He took a swallow of the beer. “Don’t be so surprised, Star. That you had called 911 made it around the square before Mike could get in his car.”

  “The small-town grapevine.”

  He nodded, then cleared his throat. “And before you start, I should probably tell you that I know you aren’t Star O’Connell.” He stopped and pointed at me with the bottle. “Or at least, you aren’t Star O’Connell any longer.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you had run a background check on me. There’s not much to find on Star O’Connell.”

  “Yep. Before I even called you back from the application. It made me curious, this woman with a new name applying for a teenager’s job, moving to a small town from a big city. When I found out you were a PI, the curiosity level shot through the roof.”

  “So you didn’t think I was just trying to get away from the aftermath of a bad marriage, to find solace in a small Southern town?”

  He chuckled. “No. That only happens in cable TV movies.”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  “I wanted to see how it played out. You had something going on. But you did a good job, made some friends. I figured you’d tell me sooner or later.” He paused and contemplated the label on the beer bottle. “I didn’t realize you’d get one of my favorite people in this town killed.”

  The tears sprang to my eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are. So … tell me what this is all about.”

  I did. Starting in 1954.

  He just listened at first. I took a breath shortly after Bobby Doe was delivered to the children’s home, and Doc spoke up. “That would have been during my dad’s time at the pharmacy. Are you sure that was the last time she was seen?”

  “As far as my father could figure out. Obviously her killer—or killers—found her later. But the missing hours are a puzzle. Roscoe found her the next day.”

  He nodded. “I remember that. I was in high school. My folks talked about it. Pretty much everyone did. Big news, a stranger getting killed like that. The Klan almost lynched Roscoe and his father over it. Ebenezer was a good man, would never have been caught up in something like that. But the Klan was ruthless at that time. Didn’t take much to push them into slaughtering a black man. The Pine Grove Baptist preacher put a stop to it. What was his name?” He looked up at his roof, staring more than sixty years into the past. “Can
’t remember. Go on.”

  I continued, through my father connecting with Roscoe in Vietnam and his eventual arrival in Pineville and death in 1984. Doc didn’t interrupt again, but he nodded at all the right places. I touched on my own history with the cases, my mother’s death, and the general obsession of my family with the death of Esther Spire. Daisy Doe. When I finished, he remained silent a long time, staring into the darkness of the big hedge. Then with a lurch that startled me, he straightened in the chair and set the bottle on the table between us.

  “Your father’s murder shook up things around here for a while. The other man … what was his name?”

  “Alex Trawler. He’d worked with my father in some fashion. I found where he’d been with the government. Not sure how, but my father seemed to hire him for something else. Not sure what.”

  “No idea what else he did for a living?”

  I scowled. Odd question. “No.”

  “I did the autopsy on both men.”

  “I know. The reports are in my files.”

  “Of course. Public record.” He shook his head. “The way they were killed … JoeLee Wilkes … he wanted me—” He stopped.

  “Doc?”

  He faced me, his cheeks reddening. The skin around his eyes tightened to a shiny white. “Do you have any idea what kind of wounds you’re about to rip wide open in this town? Do you know how dangerous this is?”

  “It got my father killed. And Roscoe.”

  He jerked from the chair and paced back and forth in front of me. “Oh, it goes way beyond a few murders.”

  That was a phrase I never expected to hear from a kindly old pharmacist. “A few murders?”

  He stopped, towering over me. “Yes. A few. More than a few. You have no clue how deep this goes. Neither does Michael Luinetti. He hasn’t been here long enough to know the nasty reach all the tendrils have. You’re about to root into the very heart of power in this town. Political. Financial. And anything that threatens the established power structure is dangerous.”

  “Will you help me?”

  He stopped, then scrubbed his face hard with his hands. “I’ll … try. There are some things I will not talk about. You can ask. I won’t say. I can’t say.” He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and took a deep calming breath. Then another. He relaxed and opened his eyes, but he focused on the kitchen window. A single light revealed Maude washing the last of the dinner dishes. “There are some things I just can’t risk.” He paused, then looked to me, his voice quiet. “You need to talk to Imajean and Maybelle Carver. Start with them.”

  “Maybelle? …” Her name wasn’t in any of my files.

  “William’s wife. Widow. William was Roscoe’s brother.”

  Another name not in my files.

  He started pacing again. “After William died, Maybelle took the kids and moved in with William and Roscoe’s aunt and her husband. Seemed odd since Ebenezer still worked the farm, but they were pretty terrified. The uncle was a preacher in Birmingham. They are probably still down there. Her oldest kid would be about Imajean’s age. Um … something biblical … Joshua … Jesus … no, Jeshua!” He grinned suddenly, pleased at the memory, then the grin vanished, and he dropped back in the chair and snagged the bottle. He took a long swig, draining it.

  He looked at the back of his house. Inside, Maude moved around, tidying up the kitchen. “Keep Maude out of this. Can you?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You ever survive a direct hit from a tornado?”

  “No. But I’ve seen the aftermath.”

  He nodded. “You are about to walk directly into the core of one. Remember that storms have no minds, no intentions, no feelings. They only grind up whatever happens to be in their path. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll be the one to survive it.”

  With that, he stalked back to the house. Through the window, I watched him pull Maude into a tight hug and kiss her fiercely.

  My cell phone buzzed, the first of many calls that would go on until almost midnight. Vic Beason was the first, wanting a comment for the paper. I told him I wouldn’t comment until Mike’s investigation concluded. A long silence followed, then Vic said quietly, “Star, I’m not talking about Roscoe Carver’s murder. I’m talking Daisy Doe. And Star’s real name—Cavanaugh. There’s a picture circulating on social media, a shot of you working on that grave. I’ll text it to you. You’d better get in front of this before the information that leaks out gets all messed up. Call me when you want to make a statement.”

  I stared at the phone. A shot of you working on that grave. My eyes burned, and every muscle in my body tensed as the text tone sounded. I opened the picture. There I stood, placing flowers on the headstone of Daisy Doe. In the foreground of the picture, Roscoe picked his way among the graves toward me. The whole town knew his connection to Daisy Doe. What was mine?

  My head spun as I studied the photo closer. The rear of Roscoe’s car stuck into the frame from the left. This photo had been taken by the shooter. Or someone with the shooter.

  Doc was right. Whatever control I thought I had on my presence here had all been an illusion. The debris was about to start flying.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Pineville, Alabama, 1983

  ROSCOE SAT BEHIND his desk in the small office at the rear of the appliance store. He fidgeted with his favorite fountain pen, pulling the top on and off, twirling it between his fingers. He craved a Camel so badly he could have bitten into a pack and swallowed half of it whole. Definitely the wrong time to quit smoking.

  He should have known it was all too good to be true. William had been right. Keep your head down. Focus on the business. And Roscoe had. For several years, he’d worked long, hard hours to become one of the most successful businessmen on the square. Not just a successful black businessman. Against all odds and expectations, the white folks had accepted him on the square. He ate at the drugstore, right up front with the other square business owners. In the early days, Miss Doris Rankin had adopted him, had him fix all the appliances in that big house on Maple. It was the approval he needed, and other customers followed, some of the richest in town. The store thrived. Good money. They’d moved out of the rental house on the farm and bought their own place, which had thrilled Juanita. She was happier than she’d been in a long time.

  But good money attracts attention—and not always the right kind. Roscoe replayed today’s visit from Abner Patton over and over in his head.

  “It’s simple, Roscoe. Every Friday, my boy will drop by. You give him all your tens and twenties, and he’ll replace them with new ones, plus two hundred dollars extra. You take the deposit over to the bank, use them for change, whatever. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But, sir, I don’t use the bank here. I use the one over in Carterton.”

  “You’ll need to back off that. Slowly. You can make deposits there for now. Just open an account here. Start small. Do things slowly.”

  “But I don’t see—”

  “It’s time you came on board, Roscoe. Like everyone else. Your brother … he’s protected you long enough.” The old man stood up, looking around. “This is a real nice store, ain’t it, Roscoe? You’ve worked hard. People like you. All kinds of people like you. But they’ve started to wonder why you’re not with us. What makes you special?” He looked at Roscoe. “I’d hate to see all the progress you people have made go bad.” He tapped the edge of Roscoe’s desk. “I’d hate to see your brother get caught up in something bad.” He examined Roscoe’s face carefully, then nodded. “I thought so. My boy’ll be here Friday at noon.”

  Roscoe didn’t have to ask what the old man meant by all that. Loss of customers. Rejection. Suppliers drying up. Fire. All of it. Abner Patton’s power ran all the way to Montgomery and beyond. No one stood up to him. And William. William would always be vulnerable to the old man’s whims.

  The pen shattered in Roscoe’s hand, spreading ink all over his palm and desk. A shard of the plastic embedded in one finger. Rosc
oe yanked it out, then opened a drawer on the right side of his desk and pulled out a towel. He wiped up ink and blood, then pressed tightly on the puncture. The ink made the wound burn like a match flame had been held to it.

  His eyes watered. God almighty, why? he prayed. Show me what to do now. How had he let this trap close around them when he wasn’t looking? Had he really thought William could keep this at bay forever?

  Roscoe pulled the towel away from his hand. The bleeding had stopped. The ink had dried. Not too bad. But he needed advice. Not from Juanita. Not from anyone else on the square. They apparently had gone along with this scheme. When had William told him things were changing? Back in 1974?

  No. Roscoe needed sound advice. A lawyer. He needed a lawyer. But where would he find—

  He started to drop the towel back into the drawer when he noticed an ancient newspaper clipping in the bottom, one he’d once carried in his wallet. The curly-haired boy whose mother had been murdered.

  Roscoe smiled slowly. “Thank you, Lord.” He opened the middle drawer and pulled out his second favorite fountain pen and a notebook.

  Dear Bobby …

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  THE NEXT DAY wasn’t the worst day of my life—Tony O’Connell had the lock on numbers one through seven of that scale—but it definitely fell in at eight. The soda fountain was only open for breakfast on Saturdays, and, as usual, this Saturday brought a packed crowd. But they were quiet and subdued, all staring at me.

  Make that glaring at me.

  Orders were given in clipped voices, and a low buzz of rumors circulated. I had a feeling no tips would be forthcoming. Doc had offered to close the drugstore entirely, but I knew I’d have to face this sooner or later. And at about eight thirty, I had to. I delivered a plate of biscuits to a table of guys from Ed’s hardware store. As I set it down, one of them grabbed my wrist.

  “Why aren’t you in jail?” The question came through clenched teeth.