“What a pretty piece.”
She looked around to find Rhonda Pryor admiring her newly acquired Blenko decanter.
“Hi Rhonda. Looking for anything special today?”
“You know, if something speaks to me, I may have to buy it.” She picked up a cloisonné vase to read the price on the bottom and set it back in place. “Lloyd tells me you want to work for the newspaper.”
“I talked to him earlier in the summer about a job.” Deena turned her face and sneezed. “Sorry...dust. I have been busy since then trying to find out information about my uncle’s murder.”
“Murder?” Rhonda repeated. “That’s not a word you hear very often in Maycroft.”
“Do you remember about a month ago when the Dallas paper ran a story and picture of a John Doe who was killed fifty years ago?”
Rhonda remembered the article and nodded. “Oh sure. It was someone from Bingham.”
“That was my uncle. I’m trying to unravel the mystery about what happened to him and how he died.”
“That’s just the kind of story that sells newspapers. Do you mind if I tell Lloyd about it?”
“Not at all. I haven’t written anything yet because there are still so many unanswered questions.”
“Well, good luck with your booth and with your story.”
After Rhonda left, Deena felt a new sense of excitement. She got pen and paper from her kit and wrote a to-do list: call Mark, talk to Collins, research Barnes Medical Supply, call Matthew’s phone list, find Donna Morrison. She put a star next to the last entry. She had a hunch that Donna could prove helpful—if she were still alive, that is.
Chapter 25
When Deena picked up Russell at his house on Saturday morning, he was red as a fire ant. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him as he inched and ouched his way into the passenger seat of her car.
“What happened to you?” she asked, wondering if he would survive their trip over to Dallas.
“I fell asleep in Cliff’s pool.” He pulled down the visor to survey his face.
“You mean the bunker?”
He shook his head and let out a groan. “In the water. It’s too hot out. We’ll have to come up with plan B for the bunker.”
“That sun can be deadly, you know. Be sure to wear sunscreen.” Russell turned his head slowly and gave his little sister a snarky look. “Thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.”
On the drive to downtown Dallas, Deena recounted her visit to Gran’s, including the part about Mark. She wanted to see if Russell found it as suspicious as she did.
“You definitely need to talk to Mark. Maybe that’s how Leon Galt found out about your investigation. I always thought Mark was a little slimy. Always looking out for himself.”
The parking lot next to the Sixth Floor Museum was pickle packed, so Deena circled a few times waiting for someone to leave. She finally found a spot and watched her brother carefully get out of the car. “Are you going to make it?” she asked.
“I survived combat duty. I can survive a little sunburn.”
Walking toward the front entrance, she noticed he was carrying something bulky in the pocket of his shorts. “I can put whatever it is in my handbag if that would help.”
“I got it,” he said, sticking his hand protectively in his pocket. He walked up the steps to the museum entrance and held open the door.
Before entering, Deena looked up at the building. Like most things from childhood, she was struck by how much smaller the building looked than she remembered. Seeing a line of people inside the door, she hurried in to buy tickets.
Waiting in line, Deena thought about that day when she was in her first-grade classroom at Sam Houston Elementary when the principal interrupted Miss Shelton’s lesson on vowels. She remembered his shaky voice over the school’s scratchy P.A. system saying President Kennedy had been killed in Dallas. All the children, Deena included, sat in silence, unaware of the magnitude that simple statement carried.
Miss Shelton turned her back to the class for a long while, then took a tissue and stepped into the hall. When her teacher returned and resumed the lesson, Deena found herself staring at the gray metal speaker hanging in the front corner of the room, blaming it for the queasy feeling in her stomach.
Six years later, the entire seventh grade boarded a yellow school bus to Dallas as part of their Texas history study to see the site where Lee Harvey Oswald had assassinated their beloved president. There was no museum, no admittance into the School Book Depository Building, no white ‘X’ painted outside on Elm Street. That didn’t happen until 1989 when the museum opened. But school children across the state stood in Dealey Plaza to honor their slain president, feeling a mixture of awe and resentment.
Stepping off the elevator onto the sixth floor sent chills through Deena. Like many visitors, she and Russell walked past the first few exhibits and headed straight to the glassed-in area along the opposite wall where curators had meticulously recreated the sniper’s nest. How odd it felt to see boxes of textbooks piled up—boxes just like the ones Deena received when new books arrived in her classroom. She inched her way through the crowd toward the window just to the right of the sniper’s, staring down at the spot on the street that marked where Kennedy was first hit. For a moment, she forgot why she was there. All she could think about was the Kennedys.
She did not need to see the exhibits—detailed displays with enlarged photos of every aspect surrounding that fateful day—because those same images rushed through her head like a movie in fast forward. Jackie in her pink suit, holding roses, greeting the crowd; Jack shaking hands on the tarmac at the airport, pushing his hair off to the side; the Zapruder film—the black car, the crowd waving, the car turning, the shots, the chaos; Walter Cronkite choking back tears, Oswald, Jack Ruby, the riderless horse, the horse-drawn carriage, Jackie’s black veil, John John’s salute...
“It’s all so real,” a voice whispered into her ear. She jumped and let out a shrill cry. She turned to see Leon Galt standing right behind her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” She did not even try to hide her annoyance.
“Are you kidding?” He took a few steps backward and spread out his arms. “This is my home-away-from-home. These are my people. Welcome.”
His smile and manner reminded her of a real estate agent showing a house to a prospective buyer.
“Actually,” he added, “I was standing near the ticket counter when you walked in. I came up here to say hello.”
Russell walked up, recognizing the infamous author. “Are you Noel Future?”
“I am indeed.” They shook hands, and it was obvious her brother was star struck.
“I’m Deena’s brother, Russell Sinclair. Would you mind autographing these books for me and my buddy?” He reached down into his pocket and pulled out two much-read copies of Roswell: Inside the Hanger.
Galt pulled a pen from his shirt pocket as the two men chatted like old friends.
So that’s what he was hiding in his shorts. Deena couldn’t believe it. She gawked at her brother, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to take a picture.
Russell pulled out his cell phone, looked at Deena, and said, “Would you mind taking—” He stopped short when he saw the look on her face. It was a look that said, “Don’t you dare!” He put the phone away and took one step back, like a soldier who had just been dressed down by his commanding officer.
“Not as big a fan as your brother, I take it,” Galt said to Deena. “I’m signing books down the street until noon. I’ll be at Hoffman’s around the corner for lunch after that if you’d both care to join me. I know you probably have more questions. Hopefully, I can answer at least a few of them for you.”
Deena noticed a change in his demeanor. He was less haughty, more humble.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Thanks.”
He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a brochure and handed it to Deena. “R
emember, ‘X’ marks the spot.”
She looked down and realized it was a map of the museum and the surrounding grounds, like the one she got with her ticket. “I already have one.” She looked up just in time to see Galt walking back through the crowd toward the elevator.
Russell stepped in front of her. “I know you’re mad, but I couldn’t help it. I mean, it would be like if you met, umm, Harper Lee. You’d be like, ‘I love your book. I love Atticus. I love Boo Radley.’ Am I right?”
Annoyed that she could never stay mad at her brother, she looked at him and said, “Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch.”
They went back to the first exhibit and spent the next hour wandering through the detailed displays. A miniature recreation of Dealey Plaza, newspaper articles, short films, photographs, the Warren Report—everything one could imagine related to the assassination. There was even a display about conspiracy theories.
“Look,” Russell said, pointing to an article on the wall. “Noel Future wrote this.” Deena read silently, not wanting to admit she was somewhat impressed.
“Let’s go outside.” Russell motioned toward the elevator. “I want to see the grassy knoll.”
When they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, Deena reached in her purse for sunglasses. She was not sure which direction to walk, so she got out the map Galt had given her. “This way,” she said, and they headed toward Elm Street.
They walked along the sidewalk, watching tourists take turns dodging cars to stand on the ‘X’ in the road to have their pictures taken. Several people exercised their right to free speech, proclaiming wrongdoings by the government to anyone who would listen...or not. Some people handed out flyers; others had easels and cardboard signs. One man stood on a crate with the words “Soap Box” stenciled on the side.
“Democracy at its finest,” Russell said. “Reminds me of the Sixties.”
As they walked around, Deena read descriptions from the map. “This is where Abraham Zapruder stood,” she said. “Here is where that young couple lay on the grass to protect their children.”
They walked up the hill to the fence. “Here is where the second gunman supposedly stood.” She looked over the fence into what seemed like an ordinary parking lot filled with ordinary cars. On the broken concrete next to the fence, she saw a faint mark on the ground. “This must be the place,” she said, pointing it out to Russell. She looked back at the map and noticed something unusual. The ‘X’ on the map had been written with an ink pen; it was not pre-printed. ‘X’ marks the spot, she thought, recalling Galt’s words when he gave her the map. She gasped. “Russell! Matthew was the second gunman!”
“And I’m the Easter Bunny,” he laughed.
“No, look.” She showed him the map, pointing at the ink mark. “Leon Galt thinks Matthew was the second gunman on the grassy knoll!”
“That’s insane! That’s crazy, and believe me, I know crazy.”
“What time is it?” she asked, forgetting her brother never wore a watch. She looked down at her own. “Almost 12:30. We need to get to that restaurant before he leaves.” They hurried down the street back toward the museum.
The West End, the area of Dallas where they were, had received much-needed revitalization over the past few years. Deena and Gary had been there several times to dine and browse through the high-end boutiques. She knew right where to find the restaurant.
When they went in, the downtown lunch crowd was out in full force. The dimly lit interior, brightened by neon beer signs and television screens, starkly contrasted the solemn memorial they had just left. Tourists and business people alike gathered to soak in the lively, relaxed atmosphere. Texas country, probably Willie, bounced off the high ceiling and exposed brick walls.
Deena’s mouth watered as the savory aroma of sizzling steaks and spices blasted her senses. She spotted Galt in a back booth. He smiled as they approached. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” he said, waving to the waitress as they sat down across from him. “What would you like?”
“Bud Light for me,” Russell said. “She’ll have iced tea.”
“What, no appetite?” Galt was finishing off the last of his steak and baked potato.
Out of breath and exasperated, Deena couldn’t seem to form a complete sentence. “The second gunman? The grassy knoll? Really?”
Galt folded his napkin and laid it on the table. “I know it seems hard to believe—”
“Hard to believe?” Russell put both of his hands on the table and leaned in. “It’s downright absurd. Now, Mr. Future or Galt or whatever, you know I respect you, I do. But certainly you can understand why we would like to hear some proof before you go off publishing such an extreme allegation? I mean, you show up out of the blue asking questions, you mysteriously find my sister, then you tell us you are going to indict our relative in the biggest crime of the twentieth century? You must be able to understand why we are asking for proof.”
Deena had never been more proud of her brother than she was at that moment. Whether he was sticking up for her, or Matthew, or their family, she didn’t care.
Galt measured his words carefully. “First, let me say that I have sources. Sources who keep me informed.”
Deena finally found her voice. “Mark Lancaster? Did he tell you about me?”
“Yes. Your cousin, Mark. See? No big mystery there.” The waitress set down their drinks and cleared away Galt’s plate. When she left, he continued. “Let me explain how this works,” Galt said as if teaching Conspiracy Theory 101.
Russell cupped his hand over his right ear so he could hear over the crowd and music.
“None of us were actually there. You weren’t. I wasn’t. Therefore, you must construct your theory like you would a tent. Each piece of evidence is a pole. Too few poles, and the tent falls to the ground. Enough poles, and the tent stands sturdy. Even if you lose a pole here or there—maybe one gets a crack—the tent stands up. Your theory stands up. That’s about the best you can do.”
“So, show me your poles,” she said and realized how awkward that sounded. “You know what I mean.”
Galt chuckled. “I can only tell you to look at his service record and his associations.”
“We know about his army career, about the wet work,” Deena said. “But this was some years later. Where’s the connection?”
Galt leaned forward. “He may have left the army, but the skills he learned stayed with him. He had a reputation that many people knew about, including people outside our government.”
“But an assassin?” Deena’s mouth was dry. She took a sip of tea. “He was thirty years old then. Who says he was still a sharpshooter? And, did you know he wore glasses?” Deena thought this piece of information might surprise Galt and put a crack in one of his tent poles.
“Yes. Bifocals. To read. His distance vision was perfect.”
Deena was sure her face revealed that she was unaware of that fact.
“Look,” Galt said, “you’ve got to keep an open mind.”
Deena argued back. “If what you say is true, why would he do it? Money? Blackmail?”
“Or a combination.”
The waitress came by with the check, and Galt handed her his credit card.
“What if he refused?” Deena asked. “Could that be why someone killed him?”
“Sure, but the evidence shows that he didn’t refuse.”
Russell nodded his head slowly. “And they killed him anyway. Just like Oswald.” Russell was drinking Galt’s ridiculous Kool-Aid.
Deena protested. “Do you know what will happen if your book comes out and makes this claim?”
“Yes. Matthew Meade and a few others will become household names.” Galt thanked the waitress and signed the receipt.
Deena glared across the table. “The press will be all over this. Reporters will stalk our family. The hatred and anger—I can’t even imagine.”
“And the money.” Galt rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “I�
��ll make a fortune, and you all can probably get a piece of the pie as well.”
That was the last straw. Where was a stun gun when she need it? She scooted toward Russell, indicating it was time to go. She stood up and looked down defiantly at Galt. “I have a lead, a good lead. If there’s a hound dog’s chance in Hades that it’s true, I’m going to prove it. And when I do, Mr. Galt, your tent is going to come crashing down and take you with it.”
And with that, she and Russell marched toward the exit. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but she thought she heard him say, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter 26
Deena swerved back and forth onto the highway shoulder as she dug around for something in her purse.
“Watch where you’re going! You’re going to get us killed,” Russell said, gripping the front dash with both hands.
She wanted to talk to Gene Collins again as soon as possible, so she left downtown Dallas and headed straight to Bingham.
“Here it is.” She held up the small black address book and handed it to Russell. “We can ask Collins if he knows any of these people. That way we can narrow down who we have to hunt for. Surely someone knows something to back up Henry Wilcox’s story. After all this time, we may find someone who will admit to knowing about the warehouse boys and the murder.”
Russell flipped through the pages, trying to read the small print. “I don’t have my reading glasses, so I can’t see a dadgum thing.”
“It doesn’t really matter because all of the phone numbers are old-style. Each has two letters and four digits. We just need to ask Collins if any of those people worked at Barnes Medical.”
Russell stared out at the road. “How long until we get to Bingham? I’m starving and I need to take some medicine.”
“We can stop and get a burger. There’s a place just a few miles up. It’s not Hoffman’s, but it’ll have to do.” Something caught Deena’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Crap-a-doodle-doo!”
Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set Page 11
