by Brown, Dick
“Are you a relative?”
“No, just a good friend. We’ve worked together for several years. When she didn’t come in today I was concerned and came to check on her.”
“Do you know if she is taking any medications?”
“She has heart trouble.”
While Ann was being interviewed by the lead attendant, his partner finished his examination. He approached Ann with his stethoscope still around his neck and interrupted the interview. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. Your friend is deceased. Does she have any living relatives, someone we can contact?”
The blood drained from Ann’s head. She retreated to the kitchen chair before she lost her balance. “I guess I’m the only one close to her. She has a sister in a nursing home in Boone. Senile, doesn’t . . . didn’t always recognize Marie.”
“It appears your friend has been dead for some time.”
Ann twitched, her muscles sending spasms through her whole body. “I’m sorry, I’ll be okay. Just give me a minute. It’s just such a shock.” She wrapped her arms around her body as tightly as she could to stop the tremors.
The attendants waited patiently until Ann had regained control.
“I think you need to see this.” She nodded toward the suicide note in the typewriter.
“Yes, ma’am, this changes things. May I use the phone? We have to report suicides to the police.”
“Yes, of course. Can you tell what caused her death from your examination?”
“No ma’am, that will have to be determined by the coroner’s office. We’ll deliver the body to the city morgue for the autopsy. Now, I really need to call the police. Excuse me.”
Ann cringed at the thought of Marie being cut open like a cow at the slaughter house. Why would she do this? This wasn’t like her.
Chapter 46
“But Thaddeus Banks did not abandon his namesake town. He felt a fatherly responsibility for his workers.”
Death by suicide
“Hello,” said a voice from elsewhere in the house, “I’m Officer John Cartier.”
Ann called him into the kitchen where he formally introduced himself and took Ann’s name.
I just need to ask you a few questions when you’re ready,” he said.
Ann wiped the tears from her eyes and turned her head away from the men to blow her nose quietly into her soggy handkerchief. She took a slow deep breath before turning back to face the policeman. “I’ll try to answer your questions if I can.”
While Ann was collecting herself, one of the EMS attendants brought an empty medicine bottle to Officer Cartier.
Cartier took the bottle and, while examining it, asked, “How well do you know Mrs. Short?”
“We’ve worked together for ten years.”
“Was she in good health?”
“She smoked too much and had a heart condition,” Ann said. “She often told me she knew her cigarette habit was going to put her in the ground. But she refused to go to a doctor about her cough, knowing that he would tell her to stop smoking. Never once did she give any hint of taking her own life. She wouldn’t be deprived of one of the few pleasures she had left. It was a welcomed challenge to cheat death and enjoy smoking as long as possible.”
“Is this the medication she was taking?” He handed Ann the bottle.
A figure in a dark trench coat and small brimmed hat barged into the already crowded kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?” the man screamed, directing his wrath at the police officer. “You’re contaminating my evidence!” He pulled out his handkerchief and took the bottle from Ann.
“This is a suicide, Detective Connell. What are you doing here?” one of the ambulance attendant asked.
“Who determined this was a suicide, Officer Cartier?”
“I think the note in the typewriter is pretty self-explanatory, Detective, wouldn’t you say?” the attendant said.
“Well, you know we have to check these unexplained death cases out to be sure there’s no question of how the victim died,” Connell said in a defensive tone. “You should know better than to touch anything on the scene until it’s been thoroughly investigated. If you want to play detective, take the exam. Until then, you’re excused, Officer. Go write up your report and leave the investigation to me, okay?”
The two men shot angry stares at each other. It was the classic competition over jurisdiction rights between uniforms and detectives. On his way out, Patrolman Cartier turned to Detective Connell and said sarcastically, “One of these days, Connell, you’re going to regret your big mouth.”
While the two policemen sparred over the evidence, Ann caught a glimpse of the ambulance attendants taking Marie’s body from the TV room past the kitchen door. Ann lowered her eyes and tried to make sense of what was going on. Detective Connell’s gruff manner so offended her she didn’t want to be left alone with him.
“I’m sorry about that,” the detective said. “Now, what is your name and what is your relationship to the deceased?”
Ann was numb after a twenty minute, intensive grilling by Detective Connell.
“This looks like a clear-cut case of suicide,” Connell said. “Thank you for your help, ma’am. I have everything I need. Oh, and, uh, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in a softer voice. “There’ll be an autopsy. If you like, I’ll notify you of the results.”
Ann could hardly speak above a whisper. “Thank you, Detective.” After he left, she searched through Marie’s old roll top desk in the den and found her will mixed in with some other papers. It laid out her funeral arrangements and where she was to be buried.
Sitting alone in the kitchen, Ann read the will she had insisted Marie prepare. She felt a heavy weight settle on her shoulders. Marie had designated her power of attorney. What would she do about Marie’s sister in the nursing home? She decided to wait until the will was probated before telling Melissa about Marie’s death. There was no rush, and Melissa probably wouldn’t remember she had a sister named Marie.
Chapter 47
“He provided a generous retirement for those eligible and made jobs available for the other workers in the new diesel repair center in Atlanta.”
Back to work
Ann locked the door behind her as she left Marie’s house. How sad, she thought, to die alone.
She took the long drive around Silas Creek Parkway to get back to the office to help clear her mind. Her steps were short, and her feet felt like lead weights trudging up to the tin box that was once her security. She went to the warehouse door and called Ronnie and Joey into the front office. Ann broke the sad news of Marie’s suicide and questioned them about Marie’s last days.
“Was there any change in her behavior after Jerry’s death?”
“No there wasn’t,” Ronnie spoke up first. “And if you expect any tears from me, forget it. She was always a pain in the butt and never had a good word to say to me. Sorry, that’s just how I feel. I guess that leaves you in charge of the office now. Fine. It’ll be an improvement, if you ask me.”
“She wasn’t the most pleasant person to work with, but I’m sorry to hear of her death.” Joey broke his silence and was more cordial toward the major source of his heartburn than Ronnie. “I’ll speak to Mr. Johnson and get instructions as to what he wants to do about her replacement. I’ll inform you of his wishes as soon as I get a reply.”
“Thank you, Joey. I appreciate your help. Would you also inform the rest of the warehouse crew about Marie?”
“I’ll be happy to, Mrs. Blackmon.”
That was the longest conversation she’d ever had with Joey. She was pleasantly surprised but suspicious of his sympathetic attitude. Marie had taunted him since day one when he came down from New York to oversee the business operations. There were times during their arguments she feared for Marie’s s
afety. Anger flashed in his eyes, his jaw twitched, but he never lost control. Now he seemed calmer and friendlier than she’d ever seen him. Joey had never addressed her by her married name before. If he spoke around Ann at all, it was never directed toward her.
Ronnie and Joey left Ann alone with her thoughts in the shrouded silence of the office. She called her mother and wept into the phone, explaining how she found Marie.
“Ann, why don’t you come home? You’re in no condition to work today,” Alice pleaded.
“There’s too much work to be done. Marie had let stuff pile up while I was off. I need to clear off her desk and get the books caught up. I’ll be home for supper.”
“All right,” Alice said, “but take your time and don’t push yourself.”
Dabbing her red, tear-drenched eyes, Ann hung up. It seemed crying was all she’d done for weeks. She was tired of the feeling.
She stood up and shouted out orders to herself.
“Okay, Ann, pull yourself together and get busy. You have the work of two people to do until Sam decides if he’ll hire someone to take Marie’s place.”
Self-consciously, she glanced around to make sure she was still alone. A deep breath pushed her hesitation aside. Ann approached Marie’s desk as though she were trespassing on her friend’s property. She picked up loose papers to organize them for filing in one stack; unopened mail went in another stack. Last week’s time sheets not entered in the ledger lay scattered about. She would bring her own books up to date before she tackled Marie’s neglected time sheets. The rest was mostly busy work Marie shuffled to give the appearance she was working.
Three days later
Leaning back in her chair, Ann tried to process what had happened since she returned to work. If this was a bad dream, she was ready to wake up. A distant ringing slipped into her consciousness. Louder and louder, the ringing snapped Ann awake. Ann picked up the phone, her mind not quite clear yet.
“Is this Mrs. Blackmon? Hello? Mrs. Blackmon, this is Detective Connell.”
“Yes, Detective, this is Mrs. Blackmon,” Ann replied, sounding distant.
“Mrs. Blackmon, the ME report on Mrs. Short came back today. It confirmed our suspicion that she died of an overdose of her prescription medicine. She committed suicide, Mrs. Blackmon. I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”
“Does that mean the case is closed? No investigation, just like that?”
“There’s nothing to investigate. Guilt over your husband’s death was more than she could handle. She didn’t have much longer to live anyway, according to the report.”
Ann’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to sound cruel, but she was already dying of lung cancer that had spread all over her body. It was just a matter of time. Maybe it was better this way, especially for you, being her power of attorney and all. Sometimes these things drag out for a—”
“Thank you, Detective. I feel so much better now.” Ann slammed the phone down. “The nerve of that jerk,” Ann fumed. “He has the sensitivity of a scorpion.”
She wasn’t well, Ann thought to herself, but cancer? She never mentioned going to the doctor. No! Marie wouldn’t commit suicide even if she knew she had cancer.
She paced around her desk, unable to get over the detective’s cruel detachment about her friend. Out of sheer defiant anger, she opened Marie’s desk drawer, pulled out a cigarette from her pack of Winston’s, and lit it. Smoke curled up the length of the cigarette and drifted into her nose and eyes, stinging them.
More deep drags.
Her irritated lungs spit the burning smoke back up and out her nose, triggering a coughing spasm she hadn’t experienced since she had whooping cough as a child. She jammed the cigarette in the ashtray on Marie’s desk and ground it into dust. After she coughed out all the smoke in her lungs, Ann ceremoniously raised the ashtray over her head and smashed it to pieces in the trashcan. She was seething and not satisfied with Detective Connell’s refusal to investigate further. Marie wouldn’t commit suicide—there had to be another reason for her death.
She pulled the suicide note out of her purse. Detective Connell had given it back to her since Marie’s death was ruled a suicide. She read it over again for umpteenth time. These weren’t Marie’s words. She would have been more caring and used more loving expressions in speaking of the children. Ann stopped reading and clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she said. The note’s lower case ‘o’ had an open break at the bottom of the letter. She checked the spare typewriter and the spreadsheet machine. They weren’t damaged nor was hers. Marie’s typewriter at home was perfect—it was old but had no damaged lower case ‘o’ key.
She dumped everything out of her pocket book onto Marie’s desk. Sorting through her car keys, house keys, checkbook, and makeup compact, she found Detective Connell’s card he’d left with her. It took two tries to get the number dialed correctly she was in such a hurry.
“Detective Connell speaking, how can I help you?”
“This is Ann Blackmon again. I’m sorry about hanging up on you. The cancer was a big shock. Nobody knew she was sick. But I have some information I think you should have concerning Marie Short’s death.”
“I’m listening.”
“The lower case ‘o’ on Marie’s typewriter isn’t damaged like the ‘o’ on her suicide note. Her home typewriter isn’t damaged. I’ve checked the typewriters in this office and they aren’t damaged either.”
“What is your point, Mrs. Blackmon?”
“My point is she didn’t type that letter, Detective.”
“She could have typed it at the library, anywhere. If she didn’t, then who did? Mrs. Blackmon, I understand you’re upset. But look at the facts: She was dying of cancer and took the easy way out. Being alone, she made it easier on everyone. She died of a prescription overdose. It happens all the time. Please save yourself some grief and get on with your life. You were a good friend to her. Let that be enough.”
“But, Detective, how could she know she had cancer? Marie never went to the doctor.”
“Again, I’m sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t change anything. The case is closed.”
Too furious to respond to Connell, Ann hung up on him again. The only typewriter she hadn’t checked was Joey’s. Could Joey have typed the note and left it in her typewriter to make it look like suicide? Their relationship was volatile, but why would he want Marie dead? If Detective Connell wouldn’t investigate, then she would do it herself.
Chapter 48
“Bankstowne did not roll up its sidewalks or quit. It rolled up its sleeves and went to work to make sure the proud tradition of Bankstowne lived on.”
Spring 1966
Seventy-five degree breezes brought new life to Winston-Salem. A grove of fruitless pear trees formed a canopy of white around the sterile tin box of S & T Distributing Company. Pink dogwoods thrived nestled beneath in the shade of the mature trees. Throughout the city blankets of flowers, tall ones, short ones, hues of red, blue and yellow formed a montage of color unequaled by any artist’s brush. Winter’s death was gone, chased away by the fragrance-laden burst of spring.
Ann seldom spent much time in the warehouse while Jerry was alive. They talked and made plans for the future while he waited for the box cars to be loaded. Then he was gone. Hanging off the side of the lead car, he signaled to the mainline train that arrived to take the precious cargo to its destination in New York.
“What a relief to breathe in the sweet scent of the new season,” Ann chirped to Ronnie. “Isn’t this weather beautiful?”
“Yeah, for now. In a few weeks it’ll be too hot to breathe in here with all the dust flying around.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a pessimist.”
“Easy for you to say. You
ain’t got to be out here in it all day.”
This was the life she had come to accept, at least for now. Unsure what her future would be, Ann quietly planned how she would change the monotony of her lot in this new life. The dock doors creaked, slowly disappearing into the overhead. As soon as they were up, forklifts darted around like water bugs on a pond, loading box cars with Sam’s cash crop of contraband cigarettes.
“You had best stay out of the way,” Ronnie said on his way out to the loading platform. He took his job seriously, making sure the operators were careful not to burst any of the boxes open. Joey was harsh with him and the crew, docking their pay when cartons were damaged.
“I’ll be fine. don’t worry about me.” Ronnie was already beyond the range of her soft voice, barking orders of his crew.
Ann wanted to snoop around. In all the years she’d worked there, she’d never been inside the office tucked away in the far corner of the warehouse. It was Joey’s domain and no one was allowed inside—not even Ronnie. She was sure it would be locked while Joey was in Washington on business with Sam.
There must be a way to get in there, she thought, dodging forklifts as she worked her way toward Joey’s office. Tightly closed Venetian blinds hid his office from view in addition to burglar bars that protected the only window.
Ann tried the door handle. As she suspected, the door was locked. Above the door handle was a deadbolt lock. There was no other entrance.
Frustrated, Ann headed back to the front office. She’d put off clearing out Marie’s desk long enough. It would be a good time to do that dreaded chore while things were slow in the office.