After my nap and a quick swim, I tied my wet hair back with a hair band, pulled on my shorts over my bathing suit, and put on my tennis shoes.
I walked around my parents’ lake property. Not far from the property line between their land and Connie Ream’s vacation home was the chapel, the price my father had paid to get Mother to move out of town. He’d grudgingly gone along with her plan to build the chapel, but only if she put the small wooden building a good ways from the house, where he wouldn’t have to see the large cross balanced atop the pointed roof every time he looked out the windows.
I’d only been in the chapel once, right after Mother and Daddy moved out to the lake a year ago. Inside there was room for two people. On the left was a bench with a purple velvet pillow and on the right a portable piano. Two stained-glass windows the size of record albums provided muted natural lighting. On the altar were candles and a two-foot-high brass crucifix that Mother had bought on a church trip to Mexico several years ago.
I didn’t really understand my mother’s religion-what motivated her, what she got out of it, or why the chapel meant so much to her. Jane and Buck were just as devoted to the church as she was. Daddy and I were the odd ones out. He went to church for political reasons, but had confided to me over the years that he didn’t buy a lot of what organized religion had to offer. I’d quit attending services the first week of my freshman year at college.
I left the chapel and was about to head back to the dock when the sunlight glancing off the glass windows at Connie Ream’s place caught my eye. I’d heard from the Coffee Club, a primary source of town gossip, that the Washington Star reporter Ben Gainey had rented the Ream house during his stay in Tallagumsa.
I walked through the woods up a steep incline toward the modern A-frame. A light blue boxy BMW with Washington, D.C., plates was parked in the driveway. I leaned my head to the side and squeezed the water from my dripping ponytail, then knocked. No one answered. I peered inside, saw no one, and began to walk away when I heard a man calling out, “Hello. Hello there.”
Ben Gainey approached from the direction of the lake, wearing a navy-and-yellow swimsuit, a bath towel draped around his shoulders. Drops of water fell from his hair onto the towel.
“Hi,” I said, walking toward him with my hand extended. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m-”
“LuAnn Hagerdorn Garrett,” he interrupted as we shook hands. “Newly returned to town, with husband and three children, to take over the Tallagumsa Steak House.”
“I guess you do remember.”
‘Junior has talked a lot about you. He thinks I should interview you.”
“Great. I’ve been enjoying one of my last days off before I take over the Steak House, and I thought I’d say hello. My parents’ house is right over there.” I pointed in that direction. “Past the chapel.”
“I was wondering about that chapel.” He looked toward the cross. “Your parents must be very religious.”
“Mother is,” I explained.
“Would you like to come in?” he asked. He briskly rubbed his hair with the towel and gave me a warm, friendly smile.
“Sure, for a minute. Thanks.”
The main door of the Ream house opened into a large room with a cathedral ceiling. The kitchen was separated from the dining room-living room area only by a section of base cabinets. Several ceiling fans hung down from extended poles.
“Make yourself at home,” Ben said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked down the hallway.
I sat at a round butcher-block table covered with piles of papers, a portable tape recorder, and at least fifteen steno pads. On the floor next to the table was an open portable file drawer, with files and papers stuffed inside.
Ben returned with his hair combed and wearing Docksider shoes, a green polo shirt, and white shorts. He was very preppy looking, cute but not my type at all. I could imagine him as a boy on the family sloop, sailing into the bay as the sun set. Buck wasn’t totally wrong: Something about Ben Gainey reminded me too of Robert Redford.
“What is all this?” I asked, gesturing toward his papers.
“A mess,” he said. “Let me get you something to drink.” He sneezed twice.
“Bless you,” I said.
“Allergies,” he explained. “Bad allergies. How’s coffee sound? Is that all right?”
“Perfect,” I said, yawning. “After swimming and then napping, I’m a little out of it.”
Ben pulled a bag of coffee beans out of the freezer, ground them, and started the pot.
“All that mess on the table is my life now, actually,” he said. “The book I’m writing-or trying to write. My future.”
“Sounds serious,” I said.
“I’m feeling a little overwhelmed right now. I’m behind where I thought I would be, and the whole project is harder than I ever imagined. Makes me wonder whether I should have just stayed home with my wife and the security of my reporter’s job.”
I smiled sympathetically. “It’s scary taking chances, doing something new.”
“And you? Aren’t you nervous about taking over the Steak House?” he asked. He sat on the counter facing me across the room while he waited for the coffee to brew. “That’s a tough job, I know. My parents were in the restaurant business, and the Steak House 1s a big operation.”
“I worked at the Steak House all through high school and summers in college, and the Bledsoes have given me a crash course the last weeks. I’m really lucky that one good friend is the hostess and another is the chef. Both of them have been at the restaurant a long time.” I looked up at him. “If they weren’t at the Steak House, I’d probably be more scared. As it is, I’m looking forward to my new life. Do you really wish you hadn’t started your book?”
“No. I’m glad I’m writing it, but every now and then, I wonder if I made the right decision.” He sneezed again.
“Bless you, again,” I said. “I guess you know Junior says you’re the best writer he’s ever known, and that your book will change the way the country sees the South.”
Ben looked down, embarrassed by what I’d said. “Junior’s the charter member of a very small fan club. But I do hope to give readers a different view of this part of the country, show them what makes the South tick now, how life has changed for blacks and whites. Our new president is from the South. That was something people said could never happen.”
“Only people in the North said that,” I pointed out, laughing.
“True. There’s a lot about the region that’s not understood.” He slowly swung his legs back and forth over the counter edge as we talked.
“I heard you’re not including anything about the days of the civil rights movement in your book. I don’t want to tell you what to write, but how can you possibly do a book about the South without something about that time period? And here in Tallagumsa, especially? How can you ignore the murders?” I tried to sound lighthearted, to disguise the powerful emotions I still felt about the murders of Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson, but my voice was shaking.
I looked away from him, out the wall of glass. It was a quiet day on the lake, only a few fishermen and one water skier.
“Junior told me you worked hard on getting that memorial built for Johnson and Turnbow. Look, I can’t leave the civil rights movement out completely, but that’s not my focus. Books on the movement have been done and done well. What’s interesting to me is what brings you back here, a woman who obviously feels very strongly about the murders and civil rights. You, Junior, Barbara Cox-all came back. Why? Your husband, Eddie, doesn’t seem a likely candidate for Tallagurnsa life either, from what I’ve heard and from looking at his cartoons. I think the South today is something worth writing about.”
He turned around, hopped off the counter, and poured two cups of coffee. “Sugar or cream?”
“No, thanks. Do you mind if I turn on the fan?” I pointed to the nearest ceiling fan, the one above the living-room couch near where I sat.
“Be
my guest. It gets hot over there next to the glass about this time of day. The switch is behind the floor lamp, on the wall.”
I turned the fan knob. “I think it’s morally wrong to ignore what happened,” I said, trying a different tack.
Ben pushed some papers on the table out of the way and placed the cups of coffee there. He sat down and rummaged in his cardboard file drawer. “A few years ago I did some detective work on the murders and I got some unilluminating documents from the FBI.” He pulled out a thin file and lay it across his knees. “During the seventy-six presidential campaign, I wrote a series of articles on the civil rights movement. I was shocked at how many unsolved murders there still were in the Deep South. That’s when Junior was at the Department of Justice. We talked about what had happened in Tallagurnsa, and I made a Freedom of Information Act request to the FBI to get whatever they had on the murders. Here’s what I got on Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson.” He pointed at the file, then rubbed his red, watering eyes.
“So you are interested! Good!”
“I’m really not. I could spend my life pursuing unsolved murders.”
“And why not?” I asked. “Seems a worthy enough occupation to me.” I tried the coffee. Too hot.
“But it’s old news. I think most people involved are dead, and I know the rest don’t give a damn.”
“That’s not true. Fifteen years isn’t that long a time. Whoever did it is probably still around here, living a normal life, pretending to be a regular person. And I give a damn.”
“This is going to sound strange coming from a reporter, LuAnn, but I’m sick of digging up dirt on people. That was my life in D.C. At least for a little while, I’d like to look at the positive side, the good things people are capable of” He looked at me as he sipped his coffee. His dark brown eyes were flecked with gold. “If I can survive these allergies,” he added, sniffing.
“See no evil, right?” I covered my eyes with my hands.
“Give a guy a break. That’s not what I’m saying. I know the issue is there, but I don’t have to write about every issue in the world.”
“What did you get from that-what kind of information request did you make?”
“Freedom of Information Act. FOIA, people call the statute. Here, you want to see what we got?” He handed me the file.
I flipped through the papers inside. They were on FBI stationery. On each page words and in some cases full sentences had been blacked out. “What is all this?” I asked, pointing.
“That’s called redacting. It’s what the government does when it’s unwilling to reveal information supposedly for some legitimate reason. Usually it’s just to protect someone, typically the government, from embarrassment.”
The whole file consisted of four short memoranda. Fascinated by this opportunity for a glimpse of the inside workings of the FBI, I read them.
MEMO
To: Carl Best, Chief, Atlanta Field Office
From: Special Agent Dorr
Re: Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson
Date: August 28, 1963
I have confirmed that ------------- in the murders. Thus I expect a speedy resolution of the matter. Hopefully, the State of Alabama will bring indictments here. Perhaps they will be able to get convictions with ------------- If the State refuses to go forward, however, as often occurs in these cases, this would definitely be a good candidate for federal civil rights charges.
MEMO
To: Carl Best, Chief, Atlanta Field Office
From: Special Agent Dorr
Re: Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson
Date: August 30, 1963
Agent Moon and I will attempt to interview ------------- and other possible witnesses. As always in this kind of case, if we can secure even one cooperative witness we will be lucky, particularly here where, according to -------------
Tallagumsa, Alabama, the town outside of which the killings occurred. For what it’s worth, there is a rumor around town that -------------
MEMO
To: Carl Best, Chief, Atlanta Field Office
From: Special Agent Dorr
Re: Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson
Date: September 5, 1963
As you know, it appears that the shells found at the scene of the crime came from the -------------
As I mentioned over the phone, ------------- After spending a few days in town, we’ve discovered that ------------- This was not a complete surprise. We had some reason to believe that ------------- In a similar Mississippi case -------------
MEMO (marked URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL)
To: David Metzger, Assistant to the Director
From: Carl Best, Chief, Atlanta Field Office
Re: Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson
Date: September 7, 1963
We recommend strongly that the Bureau --------------------------
Without our involvement, they will not bring a case. As you pointed out, ------------- Not only is our best evidence gone, but any trial might ------------- civil rights cases in the Deep South.
A few more interviews have been scheduled, just to tie up loose ends. One is with -------------
“They can just delete anything they don’t like?” I asked, shaking my head. “That’s outrageous.”
“Yep,” Ben said. “You get used to seeing documents like this in my line of work. The paper appealed, as a matter of course, but we’ll never see anything else, I bet. We rarely do.”
“Who did you appeal to?”
“I think the first appeal is to someone in the Justice Department.”
“Reading about the murders is strange,” I said. “When it happened I was twelve. I didn’t even know the FBI was in town. No one ever told me. You know, these aren’t totally useless. You have something to work with here.”
Ben put the documents back in the file. “This is my work now,” he said, waving his arm across the papers on the table. “And I have a lot of it. In fact, I’m spending the rest of today and the weekend summarizing the interviews I did in Charleston and Nashville. Then I’ll get to you and the rest of your town. Would you like a sandwich or yogurt or something? I’m getting hungry.”
“Thanks, but I already ate.” I looked at my watch. “I told Jolene, our babysitter, I’d give her a break after lunch, so I’d better get going.”
“You seem pretty relaxed for someone who has three little children,” he said.
“Jolene is better than Mary Poppins, that’s why. Do you have children?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“I’d bore you with pictures, but I left my purse in the car over at my parents’.” “Next week you should stop by the Steak House and visit. I’ll show you a picture of the kids then. You should also come for the good food and to talk to people. Everyone who’s anyone in town is there at least once most days,” I bragged.
“So I’ve heard. In fact, I’m meeting your father there on Monday morning. See you then.” He extended his hand and smiled. “And good luck, though it doesn’t sound like you’re going to need it. In fact, maybe you could send a little my way.” He turned to go inside.
“My pleasure,” I said, giggling like a school girl. I wondered why I suddenly felt so lighthearted.
At my parents’ dock, I hurriedly took off my shorts and shoes and dove in, unable to resist one more dip in the lake’s cool, calm water.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The twins were two months old the day I began my new career as owner and manager of the Tallagumsa Steak House. Will still wasn’t sleeping through the night and had woken up the night before the big day for a three o’clock feeding. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get back to sleep after that, tossing and turning, excited about work. At six in the morning I left home in the pouring rain. Eddie and the kids were still asleep. Jolene would come a little before nine, when Eddie and Jessie would leave, Jessie for morning summer camp and Eddie for the college.
At the Steak House, I parked my car in a space in front and unlocked the double glass d
oors into the foyer. Inside, I closed my umbrella and shook it out, then turned the bolt back to lock the door for the few minutes remaining until we opened.
I said good morning to the portraits of Mimi and Howard Bledsoe that hung above the stairway to the second-floor dining rooms. The pictures, dedicated on the Bledsoes’ last official day at the restaurant, were their son’s idea. I hadn’t had the heart to say no, even though they were ghastly. The background for Howard’s was a pale wispy blue, for Mimi’s a pale green. The artist had given the Bledsoes a strangely angelic look, as if they were already dead, not just retired.
Two waitresses were setting up for the breakfast rush in the front dining room. Like all the waitresses, they were dressed in identical mustard-colored uniforms, and their first names were embroidered in black above their left breast pockets: “Cleo” and “Doris.”
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning, hon,” Cleo responded.
Cleo was over sixty and had worked at the Steak House since the year she turned thirty, when her husband had died in a tractor accident, leaving her with six children to support. Doris was in her thirties and had worked at the restaurant twelve years.
“Ready for your big debut, Sugar?” Cleo asked, approaching me and kissing my cheek.
The smell of the hair spray that permitted Cleo’s hair to defy gravity made my stomach chum. Maybe I did have stage fright after all.
“I guess,” I said. “I hope.”
“You’ll do fine,” Doris said, popping her gum.
I knew I didn’t have to ask her to get rid of the gum when we opened at six-thirty. I was lucky to have a full staff of qualified and committed waitresses.
“You think business will be slow with this downpour?” I asked.
“There’s no tellin’,” Cleo replied.
I went into the coat room halfway down the hallway and opened the small storage door next to the cigarette machine. I took out four black rubber mats and carried them two at a time to the foyer, where I covered the floor with them. With the heavy rain, the foyer would soon be home to a messy, dangerous puddle.
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