Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  Mike did his best to maintain a stoic expression, but when I expressed concern over Roscoe’s health, he broke. His eyes widened, and his lips became a thin line.

  I paused. “What is it, Mike?”

  He hesitated. We both knew he shouldn’t share anything with me, and he obviously wrestled with that. Finally, he rolled his shoulders back and sat straighter in the chair. “Do you remember how there wasn’t a lot of blood at the scene? On Roscoe?”

  I scowled, thinking back, going over the scene in my head. The windshield had been shattered. There was the neat, round hole in his chest … neat. No ooze or spatter of any kind. In his sternum, but too high. A sudden dread settled in my chest. Not the relief I should feel at the news, but complete, nauseating dread. My head felt light, dizzy. I braced my hands on the table to steady them. “No …”

  Mike nodded. “We got the preliminary coroner’s report this morning. The bullet didn’t kill him. Roscoe was already dead when he was shot. Heart failure.”

  “So even if we found out who shot him …”

  “It’s not murder. We might charge him with attempted murder, but a good lawyer would have a field day with this.”

  “I don’t suppose you can keep this under wraps?”

  He smirked and pointed at the cameras “We aren’t exactly in this alone. Besides, in this state, coroners’ findings and autopsy reports are public record. We can try for a while, but as soon as it’s filed …”

  “… everyone will know.”

  “And I have two dead bodies and one big mystery.”

  I leaned forward and rested my arms on the table. “You may have more bodies than that. But there’s no statute of limitation on murder in Alabama.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Talk to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Pineville, Alabama, 1983

  ROSCOE LOOKED OVER both sets of his ledgers, annoyed by how much they made him feel like a criminal. Both represented his income from the shop, but one included the money that the organization was laundering through his accounts. The other tracked how much of that money had been exchanged with Alex and Bobby. He knew all too well that Alex was also keeping record of it, but at this point, Roscoe trusted no one, not even his own brother.

  He’d caught William in one too many lies. Lies of omission as well as commission, as his preacher would say. Scripture says a lie is a lie is a lie, no matter the intent behind it. Roscoe hated lies … and liars. He hated that this whole operation had turned him into one as well, just as it had William. His little brother had always been a wild child, defiant, rebellious. But never a liar. Not until this.

  William felt trapped. For a long time, Roscoe had not understood that sentiment. They had people in Birmingham, Nashville, Cleveland, Detroit. They would have helped William, Maybelle, and the kids get a fresh start. Just pick up and go. But no, William had refused.

  Now Roscoe understood. It wasn’t about William and his family. It was everyone he cared about.

  The bell over the front door of the shop sounded, echoing off the metal surfaces of the washers, dryers, and refrigerators in the showroom.

  “I’ll be right with you!” Roscoe closed the ledgers and slid them into a bottom drawer of the desk. He locked it, then pocketed the key as he stood up. And froze.

  The old man stood in the door of his office. Abner himself. “Hello, Roscoe.”

  Roscoe swallowed hard. “Good afternoon, sir.” According to William, Abner was Buck Dickson’s right-hand man and best friend. Of course, Buck Dickson reported only to the devil.

  “We need to talk.” He nodded at Roscoe’s desk chair. “Have a seat.” He glanced around, then pulled another chair close to the desk and sat.

  Roscoe eased back down. The chair creaked as he shifted it toward his visitor. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so, my friend.” The old man leaned back and crossed his arms. His spindly frame seemed to go on forever. Standing, he towered over almost all the men in town, but his lean look made him look frail, especially as he got older. Roscoe, however, knew better. He’d seen Abner lift his bulky older son, Chris, right off his feet.

  “How can I help?”

  The old man’s eyebrows arched. “By following instructions, for starters. I’ve been having a few chats with my wife about you.”

  “Oh?” Such a sentence never boded well for a black man in the South. Roscoe’s blood chilled, and his throat tightened.

  He gave a dismissive sniff. “Oh, nothing like that. You know she’s head teller over at the bank.”

  Roscoe found his voice. “I’ve heard as such.”

  “So she tells me you’ve never opened an account with us.”

  So much for bank privacy. “I just haven’t had the opportunity. The store has been pretty busy lately. And the money is going through the Carterton bank just fine.”

  “That just means you’ve been lucky. Sooner or later one of those tellers will check the wrong bill and alert Isaiah. That would create a situation I don’t want to have to clean up. You understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.” He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on his thighs. “So I can expect Janice to bring me good news soon.”

  “Does your wife know about all your businesses?”

  The old man stiffened. “A husband and wife should not have secrets. But what business of that is yours?”

  “So she knows about the girl with the daisy?”

  Abner’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “You promised me you had forgotten all about that.”

  “Hard to forget something that almost got my daddy lynched.”

  “Ebenezer is a good man. I wouldn’t have let that happened.”

  “Despite what that would have meant for Chris?”

  “It wasn’t—” The old man jerked to his feet and slung the chair away from him so hard it slammed into the wall behind Roscoe. He clenched his fists and leaned over Roscoe, their faces close enough that Roscoe could smell cabbage and ham on the old man’s breath. Spit hit Roscoe’s cheeks with the next sentence.

  “Don’t test me, boy.” He straightened, but fury reddened his cheeks. “I’m the one who makes life pleasant and comfortable for everyone in this town. I’m the one who makes sure nothing gets burned and no one gets lynched. No one’s little daughter gets taken. No one’s wife gets hurt. You understand me? Everyone makes money, and no one gets hurt. We all work together, but I make it happen. Me. Without me, it all falls apart. Don’t ever forget that. And you get that account open. Today.”

  He stalked from the office, but Roscoe didn’t breathe until he heard the bell on the front door. When he did, one word came out on a slow exhale of air.

  “Imajean.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  MIKE WANTED ME to stay in Birmingham for a few days, but he really couldn’t stop me from talking to people in Pineville, as long as I didn’t interfere with his investigation into Roscoe’s shooting or his work to close the books on Dean’s suicide. I knew people would still blame me for both, at least for now. It would take a bit for the autopsy reports to make their way into public knowledge. I especially needed to stay away from Miss Doris, at least temporarily. Mike had mentioned that Charlotte had moved back in with her parents and would probably stay there until Dean’s funeral. Possibly longer. That alone would probably put Miss Doris in an exceptionally foul mood.

  I needed to talk to Doc, but oddly, I didn’t feel ready to discuss his role in this. My gut told me I needed to know more answers to the questions I had before I approached him. While my instinct on cases was not infallible—and in this case, it was certainly clouded—I still trusted it. If it said wait, I’d wait.

  I did stop by the drugstore to officially turn in my resignation. He was alone when I went in. Late afternoon was always a quiet time, and he was in the back, making up a few prescriptions. He looked up when I entered, motioning me on back. “Afternoon, Star. Ho
w can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry about the mess in your back yard.”

  He shrugged. “No worries, girl. Fuel for the feud.”

  I fought a smile. “Jake’s upset.”

  He grinned at me over the top of his reading glasses. “When is he ever not?”

  “Mike said it would be a couple more days. He also said he’d help me with hiring a cleanup crew.”

  Pills rattled as he poured them into a counting tray. “It’s all good.”

  “Including me not coming back to work here at all?”

  He looked over the glasses again, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Star. I’ve already placed another advertisement.”

  “I could probably help in a pinch till you hire someone.”

  He shook his head, his mouth moving silently as he counted pills. I waited until he was finished. He capped the bottle. “That’s a good offer. You were a great server. But seriously, I have it covered.” He dropped the bottle into a bag and pulled the label off the printer, stapling it all together. He dropped it into one of the customer bins, then stepped from behind the counter. He took his glasses off and put them in his pocket. “So. This is not about you filling in, is it?”

  “I think we need to talk. At length. Now is just not a good time.”

  “I figured as much. Sit.” He gestured to one of the soda fountain tables near the back of the store. As usual he sat with his legs stretched out in front of him. “You have carried these three murders as a burden for a long time. Not only as a cop but as a daughter and granddaughter. I know you want to solve them. Just remember that not everyone was involved. Lots of innocent folks could get hurt. Please tread carefully.”

  “I will do my best.”

  The front door opened, and a woman with three children came in. Doc waved at them, then stood. “You’re right. Not a good time. But let me know when you can, and we’ll set a time.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And tell Mike to watch his back.”

  My mouth dropped, but before I could say anything else, he turned and greeted the new arrivals by name. I got up and stumbled outside. I leaned hard against Belle. Was that a threat? Or a warning about a threat?

  I watched Doc through the windows of the drugstore. As always, he was the grandfather helping out the younger generation, recommending an over-the-counter drug. I considered going back in and demanding an explanation, the way I would have as a cop. But unlike a cop, I had no authority, no backing of law enforcement peers. Not even Mike would stand with me if I stepped over the line. And in the back of my head, I knew that was what my father had done. He’d gone straight at it.

  So what next? I walked around Belle and got in. I called Mike to tell him what Doc had said. He accepted it as a given. He was, after all, the top cop in town. But he didn’t seem otherwise too concerned. So be it. I tried not to worry, and I tried to ignore the urge to talk to him at length, just to hear his voice. Instead, I ended the call and reached for the key, then paused as I glanced around the square. There might just be one other place in town where I’d still be welcome.

  I got out, locked Belle, and strolled over to the Pineville Musuem and Historically Archives. I opened the door, the bell over it dinged, and by the time I’d closed it, Claudia Hall was at my side.

  “Oh, Miss Star!” She threw her arms around me and hugged me as tightly as a long-lost grandmother might. “We hoped you would stop by. We are so sorry!”

  I stared at her. “For what?”

  Betsy joined us, wiping her hands on the ever-present bibbed apron. “We were out of town this weekend. We just heard about Roscoe and Dean. Miss Doris was in here telling us all about it.”

  Claudia bobbed her head. “We always go out of town on Decoration Sunday. We can’t stand all that. Too much grief. Too much celebration of grief. Too much greasy food for our constitutions. All that horrid fried chicken and nasty potato salad. And our sisters are Episcopalian, so we go visit them.”

  I wasn’t sure what being Episcopalian had to do with not celebrating Decoration Sunday, but I stored that for later. “But why are you apologizing?”

  Betsy leaned in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Because we had no idea you were Bobby Spire’s daughter.”

  Claudia grabbed my arm. “Come with us.”

  I let them take the lead because, to be honest, I was still stunned and sputtering. “Wait. You … the two of you … know … knew …”

  Betsy patted my other arm as they turned me down the middle aisle. “Oh, darling, we know everything there is to know about Pineville. Including where a lot of the bodies are buried.”

  “Literally,” Claudia proclaimed.

  “We thrive on people thinking we’re the ditsy biddies in the old house off the square,” Betsy said. “They think we’re crazy, so they say anything and everything in front of us.”

  We took a right, then another left.

  “You know, like that movie, What the Deaf-Mute Heard.”

  “The movie was What the Deaf Man Heard, Claudia. Deaf-Mute was the book.”

  “Oh right, by Mr. Gearino.” Claudia looked up at me as we entered a storage room at the back. “Probably out of print by now. It’s old.”

  “Quite implausible as a plot.”

  “But it works pretty well when they think you’re old and crazy.”

  In front of us was a large vault. The thick metal door stood partially ajar, and through the opening I could see a wall lined with safe-deposit boxes. On the front, a small bronze plaque announced that it had been built by the Diebold Safe and Lock Company of Canton, Ohio. One surprise after another.

  “Wait. The dime store had a vault?”

  Claudia let go of me and pushed the vault door farther open. “This wasn’t always a dime store, dear. In the late eighteen hundreds it was a bank. It went bust in the Panic of 1893. Empty for a while, then …” She looked at Betsy.

  “Our grandfather bought the building in 1915. Our family ran it as a general store for a bit, then Elmore’s took it over in the late fifties. Was that for more than twenty years.”

  “Closed a few years ago.”

  “Now, Claudia, 1972 was not ‘a few years ago.’”

  “Right, I forget.”

  Betsy pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up on her nose and peered at me. “The city rented it for a while. Everything was growing like crazy, and the sheriff’s department was running out of room in their old building. So the sheriff’s department used it a while for their archives.”

  Claudia gestured toward the front of the building. “If you look closely, you can see the marks where they boarded up the front display window. The archive clerk said it made her feel too vulnerable to sit where everyone could see her.”

  Betsy snorted. “That woman had more problems than a little paranoia.”

  “Now, Sister. Play nice.”

  “Humph. Anyway, then the big split in the county came. They built a big new building for the sheriff on the other side of the county and a new building for the archives out on the Pell City Highway. The newly formed Pineville PD moved into the courthouse. So this place has been empty ever since. There was talk of turning it into an art gallery, like they did that Woolworth’s up in Asheville, but this is not a town that would support something like that. So … empty.”

  “Sort of empty.”

  Betsy grinned at her sister.

  I looked from one to the other. I could see the crazy-biddies act came naturally to them. “Meaning?” I asked.

  Claudia pointed at the wall of safe-deposit boxes. “Like Betsy said, that clerk had issues. Lazy was one of them. She hated to file stuff, and it would just pile up all over the place. JoeLee would come in and yell about organization, and she’d start shoving stuff into the empty safe-deposit boxes. She decided they made great storage, and she wouldn’t have to deal with filing anything. No one knew. Then JoeLee up and fired her one day, for reasons only known to JoeLee.”

  “Well, you know he had t
hat little piece on the side, and he put her in here.”

  “Sister! Shame on you.”

  “Oh, Claudia, the man was a sleazeball.”

  “True, but we still don’t have to gossip about it. I’m sure he took advantage of her.”

  I could also see why the entire town adored these two. I cleared my throat. “Um, the first clerk?”

  Betsy pointed at me. “Right.”

  Claudia grinned. “When she left, she hid all the box keys. Told them they’d never existed, since the bank had been closed for almost a century and that the boxes were empty anyway.”

  “No one dared tell JoeLee any different—everyone was terrified of him—so when they moved, all that stuff stayed behind. With them splitting up everything between here and there and the archives out on Pell City Highway, no one noticed they didn’t have all that they should have.”

  I felt a touch of excitement in my gut. “Have you found the keys?”

  Their faces fell a bit. Betsy sniffed. “Not exactly.”

  Claudia picked up the tale. “We found her. The fired clerk. She’s in upstate New York somewhere, living with a granddaughter, I think. We’re waiting on a call back.”

  As a cop, I sometimes worked twenty-four to thirty-six hours straight to resolve a case. Every lead was urgent, not to be ignored. But with five people dead as a result of whatever it was I was investigating at this point, I had to pay closer attention to the people I was bringing into the case. And I had become convinced that I was no longer trying to solve only three murders. Whatever had led up to those deaths was starting to expand into something involving most of the town.

  So when Betsy suggested it might raise too much suspicion for us to work throughout the night, I had to agree. They were as eager to dig in as I was, but they left the museum every day at five on the dot—because Miss Snopes, don’t ya know—and people would notice if they burned the midnight oil. I had to trust that boxes that had been secure for more than a hundred years and unopened since the mid-seventies weren’t going anywhere overnight, especially without the keys. Betsy promised to try the clerk again from their home.