“Yes. Just off Hancock.”
“Right,” her mother nodded her head. “Well, one day a couple came in with children. The mother was colored and the father was white, or at least he was a light-skinned man. They had two small children with them and weren’t from around here or they’d never have gone into that soda fountain to eat. They sat down at a booth and began to look over the menus.”
TJ stared at Mama. “What did Freedonia do?”
“She watched from the kitchen, ’cause a window looked out over the store, and her sink was in front of that window, so she saw the whole thing.”
“What happened?”
“The waitress was a white woman, and she walked over to the manager, also white, and asked him what to do. He glanced over at the couple in the booth, frowned, but saw the curious faces of the other customers. He told the waitress to go ahead and take their order and serve them.”
“Really? That shocks me.”
Her mother gestured with her hands, holding them palms up. “I imagine he didn’t want some kind of craziness or things to get out of hand. After the people finished eating, the husband got up and paid the bill at the cash register, and then they all left.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t seem like a big deal, Mama.”
“No, it doesn’t. You’re right. But I’m not done. After they left, the manager walked over, looked around at the white customers to catch their attention, put his arm across the table, and pushed all of the dishes to the floor, breaking most of them into bits with leftover food flying everywhere.”
“Why?”
“He explained that. He said, ‘That’s the last time anyone will eat off them dishes.’ He told the waitress to go get the janitor to clean up the mess.”
“What are you saying, Mama?”
“Well, girl, back then, people were less accepting of a biracial—or mixed—couple than now.” Her mother took another sip of tea and set the cup down carefully. “Theresa Johanna, you might have a hate crime on your hands here.”
After TJ helped her mother vacuum where the cabinet had stood earlier, she drove home, considering whether to check on the kid who was plodding through the cold case files. It could wait till tomorrow, she decided. TJ wondered if her mother was right. Was this disappearance hushed up? Forgotten? A hate crime? Was it because this victim, like TJ, was biracial at a time when people could be violent in their reactions? TJ was determined to find out who this victim was, but this news gave her another angle to consider, and she wouldn’t stop until she could put a name to these bones and, perhaps, yet another name to her killer.
Chapter Six
Later that evening at the Kimball house, TJ slouched, totally relaxed, on the sofa in Grace’s living room, watching the sparks fly up the chimney as the logs shifted slightly in the fireplace. Grace sat across from her, sipping on a glass of Italian moscato.
“I’m shocked that the newspaper editor isn’t over here tonight,” TJ said.
Grace smiled. “Jeff? He isn’t here all the time. Tonight he’s covering a city council meeting. Exciting, huh?”
Sweeney chuckled. “With Mayor Blandford in charge? About as exciting as watching the city crew put up the Christmas decorations on the town square, one bulb at a time. This means I have you all to myself tonight, just like old times.”
“And when has it not been like old times?” Grace asked, a defensive note to her voice.
For a moment, TJ thought about how she might phrase her reply. “Well, Grace, you know I haven’t seen you around much since you’ve been ‘walking out’ with the editor.” She pressed her lips into a tight grin. “Isn’t that what they used to call it when couples were courting back in the bad old days you used to teach me about in your American Lit class?”
“TJ! You remembered.”
“Of course. I remember everything you ever said in that class.”
“Now that’s an exaggeration if I ever heard one.” Grace took another sip of wine and said, “What’s on your mind tonight that you want a Grace-and-TJ-talk in front of the fire? I haven’t seen that battered-up truck in your driveway lately. Is that it?”
TJ sneezed and pulled a tissue out of her pocket. “Sorry. I’m almost over this cold. Probably only another day or two. That’s been reason enough to stay away.” Then, because she couldn’t stall any longer, she added, “Yeah. He’s gone. But you have to admit he lasted longer than most of those guys.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed, disappointment openly on her face. “Why? I thought you really liked this one.”
TJ stared into the fire for a moment, weighing her words. “You know, when I was in high school—in your class, actually—I never had trouble attracting guys. The only problem was, I got tired of their limited vocabulary, lack of intellectual stimulation, and zero ambition. And, to add to that, it seemed like all they wanted was sex, but, at the same time, they ridiculed my brain, my big words, and my goals. Now I just deal with the same little boys who live in bigger bodies, but whose brains are still the size of peas.”
Grace sputtered with laughter, but seeing the stricken look on her friend’s face, she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, TJ. I shouldn’t laugh. Seems to me if you want to find someone you can hold up to your intellectual standards, you may need to stop examining their muscular chests and shoulders, and start thinking more about their brains.”
“Why? You didn’t have to. Jeff Maitlin seems like your intellectual equal. And, he’s in decent shape—for his age.”
“I won’t tell him you added that.”
TJ tapped on the rim of her wine glass, but said nothing.
“I can’t solve your man problem. Sometimes, I’m not even sure you want a man in your life. You’re awfully independent for a woman on the prowl. Besides, you carry handcuffs and a gun. That might scare some guys off. On the other hand—” She paused, smiled wickedly, and sipped her wine. “Now, what’s this new case you’re working on? I’m not aware of any robberies or murders in the area lately.”
“That’s why I thought I’d talk with you. It’s a missing woman. Well, her bones, actually. Found them out where Gil Thomas’s crew is digging the foundations for the shelter at Toliver Park.” TJ explained to her old friend what they knew about the case so far.
“What do you think about it at this point?” Grace asked.
“Maybe a lover’s quarrel? As it turns out, the victim was biracial, and Mama Sweeney thinks it was possibly a hate crime. Of course, I always have the ever popular soldier or sailor home on leave from World War II, suffering from an illness they didn’t even know to call PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Grace drained the rest of her wine. “Maybe you should take them one at a time. Why do you think it might have been a lover’s quarrel?”
“The ticket in her compact was from a popular dance venue back then, and the locket indicated that someone loved her. With most female victims, the husband or lover is the first one we suspect. Haven’t found out whose initials they are, but JL might have had a hand in this murder.”
“Can you find out in a city directory if JL lived in the area at that time?”
“Sure, but it would be a real time drain. I put one of the kids on identifying JL with the receipts from Atwell’s Jewelers, and I need to check with him tomorrow morning. I’m sure that locket is the key to all of this. Only problem is, I’m not sure how it opens the lock.”
“And the ticket was from a place called the Roof Garden?”
“Yeah, a dance venue.” She stood up, picked up her glass and asked, “Want me to go grab the wine bottle in the kitchen, Grace?”
“Sure.”
“So,” the detective continued, and poured more wine into each of their glasses, “one of my theories is that this RL and JL went to the Roof Garden, and they had a lover’s quarrel. Later that night, maybe he shoved her and she hit her head, or maybe he hit her head for her, but no matter which scenario you believe, it ended up in her death. Fearing he’d be caught, he hid the body out in th
e woods, but he never realized it would eventually become the Tolliver Dog Park.”
“Makes sense to me, and it certainly goes right along with your recent thoughts about men.”
“Oh,” the detective said, dismayed, “I hadn’t considered that. Usually, the lover is the first suspect.”
“Why bury the necklace with her? Wouldn’t that help you identify both the victim and the killer?”
TJ thought about that. “Maybe the necklace was under her blouse. We didn’t find clothes since they deteriorated to nothing in the seventy years the woman laid there. But metal lasts a long time, especially silver or gold.”
“Sounds to me like you’re right that the locket will give you a clue to their identities. That would be the place to start, I think.”
“Once I get the names that match the initials on that locket, I’ll be able to check with the kid working on the cold cases. Actually, I should tell him to watch for missing persons cases with a victim whose initials are RL. That would narrow it down. Well, tomorrow morning.”
Grace considered what her friend had said earlier. “What about your mother’s theory? Could this have been a hate crime?”
“I won’t count that out, especially if she appeared to be white, but wasn’t. Maybe her lover found out.”
Grace took a deep breath and thought about the past. “You know, I remember you had quite the difficult time with your own biracial status in high school, as well as in college.”
TJ laughed. “Yeah, on forms that asked for a check in the race box, I’d always check ‘other.’ By the time I met you in high school, I saw myself as ‘other.’ I was poor, smart, from a home with one parent, and had few friends. The boys were all stupid, and the girls were all mean, especially if you were different. That’s why your class was such a haven. I read about women in all ages who felt as I did. Maybe that’s why I empathize with this victim. She got the ‘different’ part.”
“But you live in another century, TJ.”
“True, Grace. I don’t mean to correct you, and I don’t mean to say, ‘you wouldn’t understand.’ ” She moved her legs and crossed one over the other. “You grew up in Indianapolis in a white-bread home with two parents, enough money, and college as inevitable. Then you married Saint Roger. You have no idea how totally different our lives were before we met.”
Grace laughed. TJ always called her husband a saint because of the way Grace talked about his principles. “Saint Roger. Yes, I know.”
“I spent most of my high school days alone, with maybe one girlfriend, and that was occasionally. Oh, the guys sure gave me attention, but we’ve already discussed that. I didn’t fit in anywhere, and college was no different. Unlike the black kids who grew up in large cities, I had never been stopped and frisked for having a backpack.” She paused for a moment and blew out her breath. “However, no matter my age or school, I was always reminded I was different because I wouldn’t play the mean-girl, cruel games, and pick on others who were outcasts. I simply got into a habit of being alone. Listened to Prince, Mӧtley Crüe, Poison, and NWA. It was the late eighties, and I crossed every line in my cultural benchmarks. But alone.”
“Is that why you are so driven when it comes to the identity of this victim? Do you want to see if she suffered as you did?”
TJ looked down at her glass and into the fire. She calmly answered Grace. “I’m sure that’s part of it. If this was a hate crime, I’d like to see her killer pay. But, whether this woman was passing for white or not, she’s still a victim of a crime. I would try to track down her killer no matter what his or her motivation. You know, the killer might have been a woman.”
Grace turned to her friend with a shocked look on her face. “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess you will start with the locket, move on to the cold case files, and, if you can find her identity, you’ll check for relatives. Does that about cover it?”
TJ nodded her head.
“Seems like old times, TJ.”
“Yes, Grace. Always helps me to talk cases out with you. I fear our crime talk days may be coming to an end with the arrival of Mr. Editor.”
“I know you don’t like him.”
“It’s not that, Grace. I don’t know whether you should trust him or not. His background is still a mystery.”
Grace smiled and said, “No matter what happens with Jeff Maitlin, through your men crises or your difficult cases, you will always find me available to be your analyst. Since I’m retired and on a small pension, I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”
Chapter Seven
On a blustery Friday morning, TJ had watched the Veteran’s Day parade, and now she was working in her office, looking back at the coroner’s report and checking her notes on the Tolliver Park Jane Doe. That was what she decided to call the pile of bones they had carefully moved. Her cell phone vibrated, and she ignored it. When it vibrated again, TJ said, “Oh, all right!” and picked it up. It was a text from Jim McGuire, who had sifted through all the boxes of receipts from Atwell’s. The message stated that Jim had found the receipt, was bringing it back to the station, and the name on it was James Lattimore. It was dated September 28, 1943, and Lattimore had purchased a locket like the one found with the bones.
“Hallelujah,” the detective said, and she got up from her desk and walked down to the basement, where Alan Jeffers toiled away in the darkest corner of the building, searching for cold cases from the 1940s. Jeffers was a clerical aide who went to school at night to get his degree in law enforcement. Sweeney figured he had been given a thankless job. The files were in terrible shape since they had been moved to the new building ten years ago, and the older cases had simply been dumped in cabinets. At least TJ now had a name and a possible date to put with a cold case, which might mean Alan would be able to find the file more easily. It was less likely to be in a box by itself, since the investigation would not have had crime scene photos or objects. It was simply a missing person case.
At the bottom of the stairs, TJ peered around. She hadn’t been down here in some time, and she had forgotten how dusty, musty, and dark the basement was. Country music drifted through the air from somewhere, and that meant Alan must be here. Ahead of her were narrow aisles surrounded by shelves that went up to the ceiling. Labeled boxes and files were everywhere, but TJ seemed to remember the older ones were clear at the back.
“Alan?” she yelled. “Can you call out directions so I can find you?”
Suddenly, the music became dramatically quieter. “Yeah. Back here. Is that you, Detective Sweeney?”
“Of course. I’m headed in your direction. Which way would ‘back here’ be?”
“Southeast corner.”
As TJ made her way down a narrow aisle, she noticed the labels on boxes and files, some from the 1990s and others from 2000 on. Following the sound, she found Alan, surrounded by files, papers, and boxes. His face was smudged with ink, and he took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes when she came into view.
“Hi, Detective Sweeney. I’m halfway through 1942. No one with a JL or RL initial yet. It’s really tough to find a specific case because they aren’t filed by crime, but by date, and even so, a lot of the files are mixed up. Impossible. I saw—”
“I think I may be here to save you, Alan.”
His eyes widened, and the relief in his voice was palpable. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been sneezing for two days. Allergic to dust and mold, you know. I’m probably not the ideal person to send down here to the dungeon.”
TJ shook her head. “I had no idea you had those problems, Alan. Sorry about that.”
“But you have new information to help me?”
“It appears the name on the case is Lattimore, and it goes back to September, 1943.”
Alan’s face broke into a huge grin. “Oh, thank goodness.” He turned around and gazed at all of the files piled up in huge towers of paper. “Well, maybe that will help. I noticed that dates seem to be somewhat together. I think I saw several 1943s over there,” and he
pointed to his left where a huge pile of files sat precariously on a bench.
TJ sighed and figured maybe he deserved a break. “Alan, I’ll help. Let’s split that pile up and see what we can find.”
Thirty minutes later, she had the Lattimore file in her hands and had emancipated Alan from the basement, telling him to take the rest of the day off. Maybe the chief wouldn’t notice he was gone. She took the file up to her office and moved everything on her desk into a pile. Opening the folder, TJ sneezed at the dust. At first glance, many of the reports were handwritten by policemen or a detective back then, and much of the writing was illegible. Other reports had been done on a typewriter, and some were copies that had been printed using carbon paper. Lots of smudges there, she thought.
An hour later, TJ knew the essentials, at least from the 1943 point of view, and she sat back in her chair, resting her back and shoulders. Rose Lattimore was the missing woman, and her husband, James Lattimore, had taken her to the Roof Garden the evening of October 2, 1943, for their anniversary. Lots of people had seen them at the dance venue, but Rose didn’t disappear from there.
After returning home that night, Rose Lattimore had taken their poodle, Rascal, for a walk in a park that was about a block from their house. She often did that in the evening, so it wasn’t an exceptional situation. Sometime later—James Lattimore estimated thirty minutes, tops—Rascal came home, trailing his leash, and he scratched on the front door. Lattimore let the animal in, but he wondered where Rose was. He left the house and searched the yard and the route to the park, but didn’t find her. Then he called his sister-in-law to come stay at the house while he searched farther. His daughter was asleep and too young to be left alone.
James and Rose Lattimore had a five-year-old daughter, Louise Alissa Lattimore. Whoa. Wait a minute, TJ thought. The coroner said this person whose bones we found had never been pregnant. Do we have the right family?
She went back and checked through the reports again, but saw nothing to indicate that Louise Alissa Lattimore was an adopted daughter. The detective scratched her head and tried to think of another possibility, but no new theory came to mind.
The Locket: From the Casebook of TJ Sweeney Page 4