Once he made a wide circle through the woods, he’d ride up to a friend’s house and visit a while, drink a few beers.
After eating the breakfast Beulah had cooked, he opened the pages of the Natchez-Democrat. Though the fundraiser was mentioned, it would be the next day before it was covered and his picture published. The editorial policy required that everyone put down their drinks before the social page photographs were snapped. At least he knew he’d look proper in the paper.
James Luke had important business to take care of today. The telephone message was a nuisance, a distraction. He started to call his Louisiana lawyer, Salvatore Arnone, a bottom feeder with an office in Vidalia and a clientele of mobsters working in the rackets. He was a ham-fisted meat-eater who was never without words or petitions when James Luke needed them, pleadings produced like rounds from a machinegun. Salvatore was a criminal defense attorney with connections to the Cosa Nostra in New Orleans. His reach went as high as Carlos Marcello, the Mafioso, and he was kept on retainer by James Luke and many others. Salvatore was licensed in Louisiana, as well as Mississippi, and he was just a phone call away.
Nothing I do will matter, James Luke thought, unless I say too much. But I won’t paint myself into a corner. If I get the attorney involved too early, it’ll show I’m scared. Trying to hide something. I’ll be okay alone unless the marshal gets out of hand. Okay for now. At least the marshal ain’t too bright no way.
He swallowed the last of his orange juice and went to the bedroom to retrieve his .45 pistol, which was kept in a dresser drawer when he wasn’t carrying it. For safety, every morning he placed the pistol in his aluminum lunch box for his travels and workday activities. He checked the clip and the magazine, and wrapped the Colt in a red and black handkerchief and put it in his lunch box before he left the house.
On Saturday at his little second floor business office on Texas Street in Natchez, the place where he ran his slumlord operation, he called Marshal Brownlow. No one answered. “It would be a damned shame if anyone ever needed the law down there,” he said out loud.
He waited a minute. Then he tried the marshal’s number again, a second number listed, which Beulah had recorded on the yellow slip of paper below the first number. On the third ring, the phone was answered by a woman, the marshal’s wife. She went to get him.
“Hello,” Brownlow said.
“Hello marshal. This is James Luke Cate, your old neighbor. Returning your call.”
“How’s Natchez treating you?”
“Natchez is a beautiful city in a truly historic state.”
“You sound like you work for the Chamber of Commerce.”
“I’m a member in good standing.”
“Great to hear it. You still employed by the Corps of Engineers, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. That would be some mighty fine police work you’ve done checking on me here.”
“You’ve moved up in the world.”
“I suppose you’ve been asking around, have you?”
“A little checking is a good thing.”
“Marshal, how can I help you this morning?”
“I need to see you about some things. Conduct an interview.”
“I don’t suppose you’d mind if I ask why I’m due the honor.”
“A rape, a beating, and a murder. An unsolved case from the 1960s.”
James Luke’s head throbbed for a second as if hit by a brickbat. But he pushed it out of his mind immediately, the pain taken out by his will and deliberateness. His right cheek quivered, but his head did not hurt anymore. “You’ve been thinking some strange thoughts, have you? When do you want to talk?”
“I can drive up to Natchez today. How about meeting me at the Rosalie Hotel this evening?”
“I’m kind of busy this weekend.”
“Meet me in the hotel lobby at five o’clock. I’ll buy you supper, and we can chat.”
“I said I’m all tied up.”
“Mr. Cate, best to see me when I’m in a real cheerful mood like I am right now. Never can tell how long it’ll last. I’ll see you at five in the lobby.” Brownlow hung up the phone.
Ain’t that some shit, James Luke thought, as he dropped the telephone into the cradle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marshal Brownlow sat in a comfortable wingback chair in the Rosalie Hotel lobby. Before he left home, he called the Natchez Chief of Police, letting him know that he needed to investigate an unsolved crime that had occurred in Louisiana and interview one of his citizens. He had never spoken to the chief before, but the call was amicable. He was granted permission to interview James Luke Cate, but if an arrest was needed, he should call the Natchez police station to handle it.
He drank a cup of coffee from the restaurant, coffee taken black with no cream or sugar. His chest still ached at times, the heart attack now almost two months behind him, but he came to believe it was nothing other than anxiety. Earlier he’d checked into a room, took a two-hour nap, and showered. Now he was dressed in a fresh uniform. Since the heart attack, he’d lost fifty pounds, largely from lack of appetite. By the time he returned to work, his old clothes would not fit him, and they were beyond alteration by his wife. New uniforms had to be ordered, as well as a new black leather belt to carry his revolver. The only things that still fit him properly were his hat and cowboy boots. People told him that quitting the cigarettes would cause him to gain weight, but this never happened. He wondered if the weight loss was going to kill him faster than smoking and eating. So far, he had not lit a cigarette since he was struck with the coronary in the Radio Shack parking lot.
When James Luke arrived at the Rosalie, the men shook hands and exchanged awkward pleasantries. The marshal didn’t trust James Luke Cate and it showed by the way his shoulders and hands remained stiff and guarded when they spoke, though he tried to appear nonplussed.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Brownlow asked.
“Yeah, I’ll have one,” James Luke said.
They walked into the restaurant together. The marshal carried a big brief case with his tape recorder inside. A waiter showed them to a table, bringing menus and two porcelain cups and pot of coffee.
The marshal said, “You want something to eat? I hear the veal cutlets are mighty good, and I’d like ’em myself but I can’t eat nothing I want. I had a heart attack a while back. See, nothing that tastes good is good for you. That’s something I’ve learned.”
“No, I don’t want nothing. I’d just as soon eat at home.”
“Suit yourself. Waiter, I’ll have me the tuna salad. He’s just drinking coffee.”
“Food be right out, sir,” the waiter said.
“You don’t mind if I tape this, do you?” The marshal reached for the brief case beside his chair.
James Luke recoiled. “Like hell. If you’re taping this, I’m out the door. I don’t like no recorders. You can talk with my attorney if that’s what you want. I’ll give you his telephone number over in Vidalia.”
“Well, I guess we can do without it today.” The marshal knew he’d probably just blown the interview.
“So, you’ve heard talk of what?” James Luke asked. He acted somewhat disinterested, leaning back in his chair a little, away from the table. He rubbed a speck of dirt from a sleeve with his thumb.
“The murder of Sloan Parnell and the rape and beating of Sara Hardin,” the lawman said. He sipped his coffee, staring intently at James Luke’s face.
“Wasn’t no murder of Sloan Parnell. He ran clear off the road as fast as a five-legged gazelle and flipped his little truck. He was as drunk as a coot. Simple as that. And I got no idea about Sara Hardin. Although I do recall the shame of it, but that was way back in the early 1960s, Marshal.”
“It was November 9, 1964.”
“Why are you here?”
“A person told me you were involved in some kind of sexual relationship with Sara. I have an informant who says there was a love triangle between you, Sara, and Sloan Parnell
. The person claimed you committed the assault and rape of Sara out of spite. Then you set him up, and his death was out of revenge. I have sworn testimony, an affidavit.” Brownlow lied about the veracity of Charity’s words, but police officers weren’t compelled to tell the truth when talking to a suspect.
James Luke looked up at the marshal. “It’s like this all the time. People lie. Some lie day and night. Surely you’ve found this yourself in your line of work.” He appeared cool, as calm as a poker champion.
Brownlow knew this himself. All men are born liars, and in the practical application, some are more brazen liars than others. He remembered one of his favorite verses from the Bible related to police work, Romans 3:4, which said, “Let God be true, but every man a liar.” That verse and one from the Old Testament, Jeremiah 17:9, were his best guidance: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” Indeed, Charity was a known shoplifter, a writer of hot checks, and a compulsive forger. Had her father, the Pentecostal preacher, not come to advocate for her and paid for a local attorney’s defense over the years, she might have gone to the women’s prison at St. Gabriel on the Mississippi River. Her father always managed to get her out of whatever mischief she’d caused.
The marshal gazed at James Luke. “Denial is also a big part of human nature.” He surprised himself with the statement, the handy retort.
“Look, Sara Hardin was a real fine Methodist woman. She used to bake some mighty fine biscuits in the old days and was a simple housewife and my buddy’s old lady. She was well educated for Zion. But pardon me, what damned planet are you on? Have you been hanging out with Timothy Leary and taking hits of acid?” James Luke was mocking the marshal.
Brownlow understood he was wasting his time, the mockery causing him to grit his teeth. James Luke became even more defiant as Brownlow continued to provoke him about his escapades.
“I know your source, Marshal. Your lying-assed witness. I hear Charity LeBlanc has done well for herself, too. I used to be acquainted with her back years ago. I suspect she’s come to you with some kind of cock and bullshit vision. Yeah, I had a pleasurable round with her a time or two. I’ll admit to that. And I’ll tell you it was sweet. But I ain’t raped nobody, and the only white man I’ve ever beat up was in a barroom fight back in 1954. Charity, you know her your own self. I bet she’s got herself saved again. Shit, she’s as crazy as a pail of fishing worms dumped out into the noon sun.”
The marshal wasn’t happy that James Luke guessed his informant, and he sat there trying to figure a way out of the box he’d now gotten himself locked into. “I never said a word about Charity, Jim. You don’t have a clue about my informant.”
“Informant, Marshal Brownlow? I ain’t no dumbass like you’re used to dealing with down in Baxter Parish. I’d call her a lot of names but informant ain’t one of ’em. She came to you talking like she does, stirring the pot, because that’s all she knows how to do. She’s so damned nutty she’d screw an oak limb if it wore a pair of blue jeans and bought her a cold beer, and the next day she’ll get reborn in the spirit, all her sins washed away. Then like magic, she’ll want to do right by her sins. She’s a religious fanatic that ought to be put in the crazy house over in Mandeville where they sent Governor Earl Long, if you ask my opinion.”
“I tend to believe that maybe you and Charity and Sloan and Sara had some kind of extended relationship.” He looked into James Luke’s face to see if he could read any deceit, but the face had gone cold. His eyes showed nothing.
James Luke waved his hand across the table in a nugatory gesture, and said, “No such luck.” Then he crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“I could have you arrested.”
“For what? Charge me with what, man? Screwing a whore and later that same whore got to talking nonsense and telling tall tales? My lawyer’ll get me out of jail before you can break wind. Hell, go on and charge me with killing somebody, but you know good and well what happened that night. Damn, you’ll charge me with beating and raping my old buddy’s wife? A judge’ll cut me lose, and it’ll never go to trial. You’ll embarrass yourself. It would make about as much sense if you charged Tom. Such a righteous and upright man ain’t been found since Job showed up in the Good Book,” James Luke said.
“Rape and assault of a housewife are serious matters to a grand jury,” the marshal continued
“Whose word do you have on it? Sara Hardin ain’t never made no such accusation. On account it never happened. Not with me anyway. And the word you have is unreliable to the point of an insult to the law.”
“Where were you on the day of the rape?”
“That’s ten years ago, partner. I don’t have much memory no more. But I’ll tell you this much, I was sitting at home watching our brand new television set for part of the day, when I wasn’t out looking for my few head of evicted hogs, and maybe I was drinking a little beer away from the watching eyes of my nagging wife who was working at the bank. I tell you one thing, Marshall, never marry a deep water Baptist. They’ll drive you plumb nuts.”
The marshal fought off a grin. “Your second wife says you stole money from her. Her grievance against you has plenty of merit. I called the East Baton Rouge Sheriff, and we’re going to meet next week.” Brownlow lied. He’d never called the High Sheriff, but he had mentioned to Mrs. Lott to find out what she could about the ex-wife and James Luke’s split, and she learned that he’d left her and took most of her assets in the divorce.
“Go see the sheriff in Baton Rouge. Everything was clean as a whistle in our settlement. Now you’re grabbing at some short straws.”
The waiter brought out the marshal’s tuna salad.
“Can I go on back home now?” asked James Luke.
“I reckon. But I’ll be in touch. Where do you live?”
“South Pearl Street,” James Luke said. “Say, while you’re here in Natchez, I hope you take time to visit Miss Nellie Jackson on Rankin Street, because you’re just a little uptight, hoss. It’s a white house with bright red shutters. She’ll make your stay worthwhile, a time to remember. Tell her I sent you, and I’m certain you’ll get a proper discount on the evening. Next time you come to Natchez to see me, go talk to my lawyer or have an arrest warrant in hand, because I’m done talking to you.”
The marshal watched James Luke as he left the hotel restaurant. Then he started eating his tuna salad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tom went to church alone for the Sunday morning service, saying the prayers and singing hymns. It had been a long enough time since Sara and Wesley quit attending services that the parishioners and the pastor had stopped asking where they were on Sundays. The marshal and his wife sat in their pew across the aisle from Tom’s regular place, where the Hardin family used to sit. After Sara stopped going to church, Tom began slipping into the very back pew on the right side closest to the door. Sometimes he left before the benediction was finished, just so he could be the first one out of the parking lot. Sara sat at home reading novels and watching television during the services.
He ate lunch alone, leftover mashed potatoes and fried chicken from the refrigerator. He and Sara said nothing that wasn’t absolutely necessary since the day of the picnic on campus. Sara slept in Wesley’s bed after the blowout when the boy came to get his clothes and ask for the college money.
Tom’s Bible lay near the coffee pot. After he finished eating his dinner, he sat at the kitchen table with his old study Bible, a Thompson Chain-Reference Bible. He hadn’t read it in weeks. He couldn’t remember a period of time in his adult life when he hadn’t at least dipped into the book on a regular basis. Perhaps not since he was a teenager. He had even read books on theology, often those recommended to him by the minister assigned to Little Zion Methodist Church. He’d read Rudolph Otto’s Idea of the Holy, Karl Barth’s Dogmatics in Outline, and some of John Wesley’s journals. As he read the Book of Matthew, he could hear another text echoing in his ears, the Autobiography of
John Woolman, a Quaker author in the 1700s. Tom had read the book at the request of his coworker at the Ponderosa, Harvey Shaffer, a man originally from Pennsylvania who grew up Quaker. The words of Matthew 5:9 lay before him and were underlined: “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.” The Quakers may be the only real peacemakers left in the world, Tom thought. The possibility of his wife sleeping with his old friend and faking amnesia chilled him. Normally, he’d say he wanted the whole truth, but he was unsure now if it was worth the risk in seeking it. He wondered if Sara had talked to the marshal yet, and what would come of it.
He shut the Bible and quit reading, but his mind never left the words of Jesus. What did these words of good news and the Lord have to say about today’s world, a world filled with unfaithfulness, a world where son is against father? This was one more thing to puzzle over, another roomful of darkness and uncertainty to face. And he wished such a crucible on no one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
On Monday morning, the marshal’s secretary Mrs. Lott called Sara Hardin’s office at the college library. Brownlow had put off the call as long as possible, but now he felt as though he had no choice but to do the interview about her rape and beating.
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