by Ron Levitsky
“Like what?”
McCrae hesitated, looking down at the Bible. “Lots a’ things. I want you and Mr. Rosen t’help Sister Claire. But I’m also askin’ you t’keep in mind that our church—yours ’n’ mine—is doin’ the Lord’s work. That always comes first. Things sometimes can get twisted around, if folks don’t remember what the Good Book says straight out. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Jesse didn’t understand but grew afraid. He’d never seen Reverend McCrae like this. Staring at the other man, Jesse suddenly thought of his mother, the way she sometimes looked at him when he was young and, in her mind, still filled with “potential.” When she tried to coax him along the “right path.” It was a look that had always angered him. Seeing it on McCrae’s face, Jesse remembered something else that had angered him.
“Bathsheba. Your cousin’s putting her face on the poster with a rattlesnake. He’s planning to hang it all over town. Is that what you mean about things getting twisted around?”
McCrae’s face darkened. “That’s one such thing. When Popper showed me that paper, I tore it t’pieces. The very idea of showin’ Sheba off like she was some carnival freak. What does that say about the rest of the church?”
“I knew you’d feel that way. I told your cousin he wouldn’t get away with something like that.”
“Popper don’t know when t’quit sometimes. He means well. That idea of puttin’ a service on television is all right. It’ll help spread the Lord’s Word. Glad t’know you was lookin’ out for Sheba. If you don’t mind my sayin’, I do believe you’re a little sweet on her.”
Jesse gripped his Bible, which felt slippery between his hands.
“That’s all right, boy. I want you t’know, if you decide to court Sheba proper, you have my blessin’. ’Bout time she settled down with a good man. I’d be right proud to have you as a son.”
His knuckles whitened around the holy book. Was he dreaming? It was all coming so fast. After all these years alone, in a matter of days to have a church, a new family, even a wife. Would she marry him? She had to love him, after those two times in the field. Thinking what they’d done, he felt his cheeks burning and looked away.
Rosen stood in the doorway, the Federal Express envelope tucked under his arm. He sat beside McCrae in the other rocking chair.
“Good morning,” Jesse said. “Can I get you something—a cup of tea?”
Rosen shook his head and put the letter on his lap. His face looked a little better than yesterday evening. The swelling had gone down, but his hair was disheveled, and his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. How long had he been standing in the doorway? Had he heard how little Jesse had said in defense of their friendship?
Yawning, Rosen massaged his temples. “Good morning.”
“What happened to you?” McCrae asked.
“Don’t you preach about the sins of the big city? Well, as they say in church, I’m here to testify, Brothers. By any chance, were you in Nashville yesterday?”
“Why, yes. I went in with Cousin Popper. Wanted t’make sure he changed that order for the posters advertisin’ the church meetin’.”
“You two were together the whole time?”
“He went on to see them television people. I had some other business ’n’ some old friends t’see. We met later in the afternoon and come home five or thereabouts. Why you askin’?”
“Did you actually see those friends?”
“Well, some was at home, and some . . . Why you askin’ all these questions. What happened yesterday?”
Rosen leaned back in his chair and, barely blinking, continued to stare at the other man. That stare, as well as the forceful cadence of his questions, reminded Jesse of a courtroom cross-examination. The Reverend shifted in his chair like a witness answering questions he’d rather not.
McCrae asked, “You gonna tell me what happened?”
“No. The incident involves my client and therefore must remain confidential. You want to help clear her of the charges, don’t you?”
“Help Sister Claire? Course.”
“What do you know about her?”
“I know she’s a fine, upstandin’ woman who would’t hurt a fly, much less her husband.”
“I mean about her background.”
“She’s from Nashville. Don’t know nothin’ else, ’cept she was troubled in spirit, and the Lord sent her to us.”
“Sent her how—UPS or Federal Express?”
Jesse said, “You’ve got no right to talk like that.”
McCrae shook his head. “Brother, you best get used t’the mockery of unbelievers, even from them you thought was friends.” To Rosen, “She joined our congregation in Nashville. My cousin introduced us.”
“Popper?”
“That’s right. He was managin’ some group in Nashville. Claire got to know the band members, like Brother Lemuel. He joined us ’bout the same time.”
“What about Hec Perry?”
“Don’t know the man. Popper just brung her to church one evenin’, ’n’ the next time she come on her own. First few times she’d sit real quiet ’n’ just watch, kinda like a squirrel. Then she joined in the singing’ ’n’ prayin’. One evenin’, a sign come on her. ‘I would ye speak in tongues rather than prophesizin’, for greater than prophesizin’ is he that speaks with tongues.’ That’s the great gift Sister Claire has.”
“How close were she and Lemuel Banks?”
“We’re all brothers ’n’ sisters in the Lord’s church.”
“Were they lovers?”
McCrae’s mouth dropped, his head cocking slightly. Then he set his jaw and gripped the arms of his chair as if about to stand. Rosen pointed a corner of the Federal Express envelope, like a gun, at the other man, keeping him in his seat.
“This letter contains a report from a forensics lab in D.C. Last Thursday morning I visited Claire Hobbes and took a quick look inside her bedroom. The bed was mussed, and on one of the pillows I found a black hair. I sent it to be analyzed.” He tapped the envelope. “I wasn’t really sure what the lab would find. I only knew that Claire is a blonde, not a brunette.”
“Her husband?” Jesse blurted.
“Ben Hobbes had gray hair cut short. According to the lab results, whoever was in bed with Claire is an African-American. To my knowledge, the only black man that close to Claire was Lemuel Banks. What can you tell me about their relationship, Reverend McCrae?”
The other man no longer paid attention to Rosen. Eyes widening, he fixed his gaze, past Jesse, through the window somewhere far beyond the campus. His head began to shake slowly, denying a truth that only he knew. What was it? Something bad grew palpable in the air; reaching out, Jesse could almost touch it.
Hands trembling on the arms of the rocker, McCrae stood and walked from the room.
Jesse started to go after him.
Rosen shook his head. “Let him go. I don’t think Reverend McCrae will tell us what’s bothering him, but the look on his face said enough. Yes, the look on his face.” Rosen’s brow furrowed.
“What are you saying, that Lemuel Banks was Claire’s lover? That maybe he helped kill her husband?”
Rosen remained deep in thought. After a minute he replied, “I don’t know yet what Banks’s involvement was. If he did kill Ben Hobbes, then his own death must be connected to the first murder. The act of an accomplice, or maybe one of Ben’s relatives seeking revenge. Still, I wonder. Did you see the way McCrae looked?”
“If Lem was Claire’s lover, that would only strengthen the D.A.’s case against her.”
“We mustn’t look at things that way. We’ve got to find whatever is the truth.”
“Whether or not it helps her?”
Rosen smiled. “You’re talking like a lawyer. And I thought you got religion.”
Chapter Nineteen
tuesday afternoon
As the sky darkened, the Porsche’s wipers flicked occasional droplets big as mosquitos. The drizzle and Miles Davis p
laying “’Round Midnight” on the radio put Rosen in a blue mood. He was surprised, because nearing the truth always exhilarated him, and he felt as close to the truth as to the field the car was passing. The field where Lemuel Banks had been murdered.
If Banks had been Claire’s lover, there was a connection between his murder and that of Ben Hobbes; solving one would solve the other. And so Rosen was looking for Danny, who, having been in the cornfield, must’ve witnessed Banks’s death. For all of Danny’s bravado, he was an overgrown puppy. With a little pushing, he’d tell whatever he knew, and Rosen was ready to push as hard as necessary.
That’s why he hadn’t let Jesse come along. He wouldn’t confide in a man who could no longer be trusted to do his job, who’d only get in the way. Jesse’s newfound religion was like a drug—no telling what he’d do under its power. Certainly, his friend cared far less about the case than about his church and Bathsheba. That was all right; Rosen was used to being alone.
Passing the field, he turned into the long winding driveway of Hobbes Furniture. The mist had floated a gray veil over the factory, nearly dissolving its solid outline. Rosen parked and, dodging several forklifts that loomed through the fog like a pack of wolves, hurried through the building’s open doorway. Shaking the water from his sports coat, he glanced at his watch—12:47. The men were back from lunch and, beneath the humming exhaust fans, stood quietly at their stations. Too quiet. One carpenter kept dropping his hammer and nails, while several others occasionally glanced toward the back of the room.
Rosen walked toward the cafeteria, hoping that Danny was still eating lunch. Halfway through the work area, he saw why the men were so nervous.
Wearing a gray three-piece suit, Simon Hobbes stood at one of the stations, pointing to a half-finished cabinet while speaking to three equally well dressed Japanese businessmen. The tallest, with silver hair and glasses, asked an occasional question as his younger colleague scribbled frantically on a clipboard. The third man, wandering with a meter stick around the work area’s perimeter, took careful measurements.
Behind them a young carpenter leaned against the wall; his hand played nervously with the brim of his baseball cap. Ruth Hobbes stood beside him, her arm around his shoulder. She wore a sweatshirt and jeans, her thick black hair rippling down her back. She waved at Rosen and whispered something to her husband. Face growing red, Simon grabbed her arm, said a few words and, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, turned back to the Japanese.
Ruth hurried toward Rosen.
“Hello, Nate. Nice to see you again.”
“Did your husband tell you to give me the bum’s rush?”
“Course not, but he is right busy.”
“So he’s still planning to sell the company to the Japanese?”
For a moment her jaw set; then her face softened and she nodded.
“How can he?”
“You can tell this don’t sit none too well with the men. That young feller standing behind Simon—his granddaddy was at Iwo Jima. How do you think he feels? I know it’ll be hard, but don’t expect me to talk against my own husband.”
Rosen shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Now that Claire’s pregnant, Ben’s will gives her half ownership in the company. Simon can’t sell without her approval. You’re not saying that she’s agreed to the sale?”
“Lord, no, Simon won’t even talk to her, let alone discuss business.”
“Then how does he expect to do this?”
“You don’t know the Hobbes family too well—how pigheaded the men can get. As my daddy used to say, Simon’s ass has been workin’ buttonholes over this.”
“He doesn’t believe she’s pregnant?”
Ruth shrugged. “If she is, he don’t believe the baby belongs to Ben. Besides, he’s sure his brother made another will, cutting Claire and her church out. He’s called Mr. Garnet a half-dozen times and turned the offices here inside out looking for that piece a’ paper. He’s sure it’ll turn up. Course, them Japanese won’t wait forever. Still, Simon’s sure he’ll be able to sell, like he knows something’ll turn his way.”
Rosen remembered Claire walking from Aadams’s office, the folded papers in her purse. Were those papers a copy of Ben Hobbes’s second will and, if so, had there been more than one copy in Aadams’s possession?
“Ruth, do you know where your husband was yesterday around lunchtime?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to check his calendar.”
“Was he in Nashville?”
She thought for a moment. “Why, yes, he was. He drove to the airport to pick up them three Japanese. Left the house for Nashville mid-morning and, I believe, picked them up around three in the afternoon.”
“What was he doing in town before going to the airport?”
“Business, I guess. There’s a rib place downtown he likes to eat at. Why’re you asking me these questions about Simon?”
“I was in Nashville yesterday and thought I saw him.”
“Coulda been. Is that why you come out here, to tell Simon you mighta’ seen him yesterday?” Before he could answer, she added, “Don’t tell me no tales.”
“All right. Last time I was here, you said that Danny usually comes in from the cornfield for lunch. I need to see him.”
“Danny’s a good boy. Maybe he’s a little stubborn but, like I said, that’s the way all Hobbes men is. I swear he wouldn’t hurt nobody.” She stared at him hard. “You really think my boy’s mixed up in these murders?”
Ruth Hobbes was the most decent person Rosen had met in Earlyville, and the last one he wanted to hurt. But he had to find the truth. No one else would do it.
“Yes, Danny’s involved. Maybe he didn’t kill anybody, but he knows who murdered Lemuel Banks. He was there when Banks was shot. I’ve got to talk to him.”
“I don’t know.”
“If I’m right, Danny’s witnessed a murder. The killer knows that. How long before he decides it isn’t safe to let your son live?”
“Lord—all right. I don’t know if he come in for lunch today. We best go see.”
Rosen followed her to the cafeteria. The long trestle tables were empty, and the serving tables had been cleared.
Ruth called to the kitchen, “Jenny! My boy Danny come eat here today?”
A scarecrow-thin woman appeared in the doorway. “No, ma’am, and we fried up that catfish just the way he likes it. Peach cobbler, too. I ain’t seen Danny at all today.”
Turning to Rosen, Ruth crossed her arms. “I don’t like this. You’re getting me scared.”
“It’s probably nothing. Maybe he just didn’t want to get wet crossing the field.”
“I don’t like this. What’re you planning to do?”
“I’ve got to find Danny. I’ll try the cornfield first.”
“I’m going with you.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“He’s my boy, so don’t say another word. We’d best go through the kitchen—quickest way out. Besides, I don’t want Simon seeing us. No telling what he’d do if he thought the boy was in trouble.”
Jenny, the cook, was washing dishes in a large sink. “Miss Ruth, it’s still rainin’. If you all are goin’ outside, best get in that old closet ’n’ fetch a couple raincoats. I believe you’ll find some boots as well.”
The closet near the back door was filled with all sorts of work clothes. They each found a navy blue slicker as well as a pair of rubber boots with buckles, the kind Rosen wore as a boy during Chicago’s snowy winters. Pinning up her hair, Ruth pulled the hood over her head. While he was buckling his boots, she took a key chain from her pocket and disappeared into the closet’s shadows. A minute later she returned, carrying a rifle and a box of shells.
“We keep a few squirrel guns locked back there in a cabinet. Ben liked to hunt the fields early in the morning. Sometimes I’d go with him. When I was a girl, my brothers used to take me, till I started outshootin’ ’em. This here’s my rifle.” Loading it, she added,
“If somebody is after my boy, I’ll be ready.”
Rosen thought about the murder weapon found in the cornfield. “Are any rifles missing?”
“No. You want one?”
He shook his head. “If there’s trouble, I’m sure you’ll shoot straight enough for both of us.”
“That’s the Lord’s truth.” She carefully slid the rifle under her slicker. “Let’s go.”
They walked through the back door, past four large Dumpsters, then stepped from blacktop onto the field’s matted grass. The drizzle continued, making the ground springy underfoot. Rosen liked the feel of his galoshes clumping on the grass. He remembered, as a boy, walking home from cheder through a blizzard, his mother anxiously waiting at the door and unsnapping the boot buckles because his own hands were too cold. Then his father putting down the holy book and lifting him onto his lap, warming Rosen’s hands between his own. He asked about school, about the beauty of the snow God had made, and he listened to his son’s words.
In the distance to his right, Rosen saw the great ridge merging with the horizon, the mist blurring the line between them, so that heaven and earth seemed to be as one. He smiled. Heaven and earth were to be as one when the Messiah came, and justice would truly reign upon the earth. Finally there would be no liars or murderers or victims who needed defending, and he could rest. Maybe then his father would talk to him and, once again, listen. Even a miracle such as that could occur when the Messiah came.
Ruth had walked ahead of him. He couldn’t see her face, shadowed by the hood, but sensed her uneasiness in the way she moved. She reached the gate to the cornfield, not far from where Lemuel Banks had been murdered. Rosen wondered what her son really was—a liar, murderer, or victim.