A sweet old man who, years earlier, had taken an iron pipe and bashed a man in the head with it…thirty-seven times.
CHAPTER 17
Mr. Cobb was sitting on a spindly legged antique chair under a big landscape painting as I approached him in the second-floor hallway. A deputy stood nearby, close enough to make it obvious that he was keeping an eye on Mr. Cobb, not so close as to be overbearing. When Mr. Cobb saw me coming, an eager, anxious expression appeared on his face.
“What about it?” he asked as he got to his feet. “Is that lieutenant friend of yours gonna let me go home, Miz Dickinson?”
I don’t know where he’d gotten the crazy idea that Farraday was a friend of mine. I mean, only a few minutes earlier downstairs the lieutenant had made it plain that he still considered me a suspect, at least officially, whether he really believed I might have killed Steven Kelley or not.
But I let that go and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cobb. I’m afraid I didn’t do a lick of good. Lieutenant Farraday still says you have to stay here tonight.”
Mr. Cobb shook his head and let out a little groan of despair. “Lord have mercy. That ain’t right. It just ain’t right.”
“It’ll be okay,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’m sure everything will be cleared up by tomorrow—or later on today, however you want to look at it—and then we’ll all be able to go home.”
“You don’t understand. I need to get back tonight. I can’t wait until morning.”
I couldn’t help but frown. The desperate edge I heard in Mr. Cobb’s voice and the frightened look on his face suddenly made me wonder if there might be something to the lieutenant’s suspicions after all. Mr. Cobb wanted out of here mighty bad, there was no doubt about that.
“Whatever it is that’s got you so worried, I’m sure it’ll be all right….” I let my voice trail away. I admit that I was fishing for information, rather than coming right out and asking him what was so important about him needing to leave the plantation.
He sank back onto the fragile-looking chair. “I got somebody waitin’ for me at home,” he said. “There’s liable to be trouble if I don’t get back there until sometime tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well, maybe Lieutenant Farraday will let you use the phone long enough to call your wife and let her know that you won’t be home tonight.”
He shook his head. “It’s not a wife I’m worried about. I’m not married.”
“You could still call.”
“Wouldn’t do any good. She wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m sure if you explained about what’s happened—”
“Wouldn’t do any good, I tell you. She doesn’t speak English.”
“Maybe somebody here could translate for you,” I suggested.
A grunt of humorless laughter came from him. “Only if one o’ these folks speaks Schnauzer.”
Now I understood at last. “You have a dog!”
“That’s right. Sweet little miniature Schnauzer named Betsy Blue. I need to be there to feed her and take her for her walks. If I’m not…” He shook his head. “Well, it’s not gonna be pretty, that’s all I can say. And if she makes a big mess in the apartment, the landlord’s liable to kick me out or tell me I got to get rid o’ Betsy if I want to stay there.”
I saw his problem, but I didn’t have any sort of solution to offer him. After listening to the story Lieutenant Farraday had told me, I knew the lieutenant wasn’t going to let Mr. Cobb leave the plantation because of a dog. Like the rest of us, Cobb was stuck here until Farraday found the murderer.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cobb. I’m afraid you’re just gonna have to hope for the best. Maybe you’ll get home before Betsy causes any problems.”
“I sure hope so. Don’t have a family. That dog’s about all I got.”
“That’s not true. You have a granddaughter.”
Mr. Cobb had been gazing gloomily at the floor. When I said that, though, his head came up in a sharp movement, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at me.
“How do you know I have a granddaughter?” he asked.
I realized my mistake. “You must have mentioned her sometime—”
“I didn’t. It’s true I have a son and a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter, but I wouldn’t have said anything about them because they don’t have anything to do with me.” His face hardened. “You found out some way about what happened, all those years ago, didn’t you?”
I didn’t see any way out of admitting it. “The lieutenant told me some things when I went to talk to him, to see if he’d let you go home.”
“And I’m guessin’ he told you the real reason he said no. He figures since I killed once, I must’ve done it again.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew that Farraday wouldn’t want me to share his theory about how Mr. Cobb could have committed the murder and then tried to make it look as if he didn’t arrive at the plantation until after Steven Kelley’s death.
“That son of a bitch had it comin’. Pardon my French, ma’am, but he surely did.”
“You mean Steven Kelley?”
“I mean Jerome Chantry.”
“The fella you…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
Mr. Cobb didn’t have that problem. “Yeah, the fella I hit with that pipe. He had it comin’. The way he was fightin’ with Shondra, he would’ve hurt her bad for sure, maybe even killed her, if I hadn’t heard the commotion and stopped him.”
“Shondra was the girl who lived in your apartment building?” Lieutenant Farraday hadn’t mentioned the names of either the rapist or the victim.
Mr. Cobb nodded. “That’s right. And Chantry was the piece o’ scum who attacked her and a dozen other girls. Maybe more that never came forward. I’m a Christian, Miz Dickinson, and I believe in forgiveness…but Jerome Chantry didn’t deserve to be forgiven. He deserved just what he got.”
“All thirty-seven times?”
He grimaced, and I regretted saying it. But the words were already out. He nodded and said, “Maybe I got a mite carried away. But let me tell you, he was a big, strong man. I was a lot younger then, but I was older than he was, and not as big. I was afraid he’d get back up again, after I knocked him down. I was afraid he’d get back up and hurt me, and then he’d go after Shondra again, and so while I could, I kept hittin’ him. I never knew it was no thirty-seven times. I didn’t keep count. I just kept hittin’ him until I was sure he wasn’t gonna get back up and hurt anybody else. I didn’t even think about the fact that he was dead.”
Chantry had probably been dead for most of those thirty-seven wallops with the iron pipe, I thought. But Mr. Cobb hadn’t known that. And I could understand the fear he must have felt. He had performed a heroic action by going to the girl’s rescue, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared out of his wits at the same time.
“I told folks at the trial I didn’t mean to kill him,” Mr. Cobb went on. “If I’d stopped to think, I would’ve known what hitting him like that was gonna do…but I didn’t stop to think. I’ll bet most folks wouldn’t at a time like that.”
He was probably right. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d found myself in the same situation. I’d like to think I’d be clear-headed enough not to lose control, but deep down, I don’t know that. I don’t reckon anybody can be really sure what they’ll do until the time comes, if it ever does.
Mr. Cobb heaved a sigh. “But that didn’t mean anything to the folks on the jury. Not enough to keep ’em from convictin’ me, anyway. Didn’t make my boy feel any better about havin’ a jailbird for a father, either. He turned his back on me, wouldn’t even come see me while I was in prison. My wife was dead by then, so didn’t anybody come to see me. My son got married while I was behind bars. I didn’t get to go to the wedding, not that I would’ve been invited anyway. And my first and only grandchild was born before I got out, too, and I missed that.”
“You must’ve seen her since then.”
He shrugged. “A few times when she was
little. But even though I’d been paroled and then pardoned, my son still didn’t want anything to do with me and didn’t want me around his family. He was still ashamed o’ me. Reckon he still is, since he never calls or comes around and won’t return my calls.”
“Why, dad gummit, he should’ve been proud of you! You saved that girl’s life.”
“Yeah, but all he saw was a jailbird who beat a man to death. Never could get that outta his head. Reckon he still can’t, to this day. I haven’t seen or talked to any of them in more’n ten years, Miz Dickinson. So you can see why I said the only family I got is that sweet little dog o’ mine. She doesn’t judge me by the past. Not ever.”
My heart went out to him. His story was tragic. And more than that, it shot holes in Lieutenant Farraday’s theory. If Mr. Cobb hadn’t had any contact with his granddaughter in over a decade, then it didn’t matter if she went to the same college where Steven Kelley had taught. It didn’t matter if Kelley had made advances toward her or if she had just heard rumors about him. Either way, she couldn’t have told her grandfather about it.
At least, according to Mr. Cobb’s story…which Lieutenant Farraday would probably say was uncorroborated, since all anybody had to go on at the moment was what Mr. Cobb said. It was just his word.
That was good enough for me, I decided, but I understood that it wouldn’t be for the law. And even if I went back downstairs and talked to Farraday again, told him everything that Mr. Cobb had just told me, it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Farraday would just shake his head and, as unbending as ever, refuse to let Mr. Cobb leave the plantation.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “If I could fix things, I sure would, Mr. Cobb, but I don’t know of anything else I can do, except hope that things work out for you and Betsy Blue.”
He smiled faintly. “I appreciate that.” Resting his hands on his knees, he got ready to push himself to his feet. “Reckon I’d better figure out where I’m gonna stay tonight, if I can’t go home.”
“I’ve got that worked out already,” I said. “You can double up with Luke. I asked him about it earlier, and he said that would be fine.”
Mr. Cobb nodded. “He seems like a decent young fella. I suppose that would be all right.”
I took his arm and helped him to his feet. “I’ll show you the room.”
We walked down the hall, followed by the deputy, until we reached the door of the room where Luke was staying. I rapped on the door, and when it swung open Luke smiled out at us. He was already in his pajamas.
“Howdy, Mr. Cobb,” he said with a welcoming smile. “Come on in.”
“Thanks, son. I appreciate you bein’ willin’ to put up with an old reprobate like me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Luke assured him. “I put up with Miz D all the time, and I don’t reckon you could possibly be any crankier than…” He saw me frowning at him. “I mean, uh, nicer than…uh…”
“Oh, give it up, Luke,” I said. “Nobody expects a fella to get along that well with his mother-in-law, anyway.”
“But I do,” he protested. “I think you’re great, Miz D. You know that. But you can be a little…I mean, what’s that old sayin’ about sufferin’ fools gladly? Not doing it, I mean. Not suffering. Fools. Gladly.”
“Good night, Luke,” I said, reaching for the door to pull it closed. “Get some rest. You’re babblin’.”
I shut the door.
Quiet had pretty much descended on the plantation by now. Folks were in their rooms, guests from the tour as well as the actors who’d been forced to stay here. I had a feeling that Farraday and his men would be up all night, trying to find the evidence they needed to nail a killer, but everybody else, at least, could get some sleep.
Except for maybe the killer. As I walked back toward the room I’d be sharing with Augusta and Amelia, I wondered if the person who had murdered Steven Kelley was lying in bed wide awake, perhaps even tossing and turning restlessly as he or she remembered what it had felt like to drive the blade of that knife through flesh, deep into Kelley’s chest. Were they recalling the hot spurt of blood, the gasp of pain that must have come from Kelley’s lips, the look of shock and agony in his eyes?
Or did the killer think that Kelley had deserved it, and now whomever it was slept the sleep of the just?
I wondered if Mr. Cobb had ever lost any sleep over the death of Jerome Chantry. I would have been willing to bet that he had, even though he’d said that Chantry had it coming. He didn’t strike me as the sort of man who could take a human life and never have it prey on him. That was just one more reason I was convinced Mr. Cobb hadn’t killed Steven Kelley.
But it wouldn’t be enough for Lieutenant Farraday. Nothing would except evidence. Concrete proof.
And so far there wasn’t any of that, just theories and speculation about Mr. Cobb, Luke, Amelia and Augusta, me, and who knew who else? As far as the lieutenant was concerned, this plantation was just full of suspects.
Maybe things would all be clearer in the morning, I told myself. It seemed to be worth hoping for, anyway.
CHAPTER 18
I thought maybe Augusta and Amelia would be asleep by the time I got back to the room I was now sharing with them, but I should have known better. They were teenagers, which meant it was difficult for them to go to sleep until the wee hours of the morning and well-nigh impossible to rouse them before noon. So they were still wide awake, sitting up in the queen-size bed they’d be sharing tonight.
“What happened with Mr. Cobb?” Augusta asked.
“He’s such a sweet old man,” Amelia said. “I really like him.”
I wondered for a second if she would feel the same way about Mr. Cobb if she knew what he had done a quarter century earlier. I wasn’t going to tell her. It wasn’t any of her business, and I felt bad enough already that I had wound up prying into his tragic background.
“Lieutenant Farraday isn’t going to let him go home,” I told the girls. “He says Mr. Cobb has to stay here tonight like the rest of us.”
“That’s crazy,” Augusta said. “He can’t think Mr. Cobb had anything to do with the murder.”
“He suspected Aunt Delilah and Luke, remember?” Amelia reminded her sister. “Not to mention you and me.”
“He didn’t really think we killed that guy.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“I’d like to know when we could have. We were dancing all evening, remember? My feet even hurt a little.”
“Mine, too.”
“But those Tarleton twins were kinda cute. If they had asked us to go out into the garden—”
Amelia shushed her sister before Augusta could say anything else. I took the opportunity to get a word in edgewise.
“Girls, you’d better go ahead and try to get some sleep. I don’t know when we’ll be going home.”
“They’ll let us go tomorrow,” Augusta said, as if there was no doubt in her mind. “They have to. I only brought enough clothes to stay one night. If we can’t go home I’d have to wear the same outfit more than once.”
I wanted to say Heaven forbid, but I managed not to. I sure as heck wouldn’t want to go back and be a teenager again, but there are times when I wouldn’t mind having some of the simple concerns of youth instead of the problems of adulthood. Not that it’s easy being a kid these days. When you come right down to it, it probably never was.
I went into the bathroom and got into the pair of pajamas I’d brought along, and by the time I came back out the girls had at least settled down and were trying to sleep. I climbed into the other bed and turned off the lamp. As I lay back I was aware of just how tired I was.
But when my head hit the pillow, my eyes were still wide open and my brain was racing a mile a minute.
I suppose it was too much to expect that after everything that had happened, I would drop off to sleep right away. My mind started replaying the entire tour, starting at the Gone With the Wind Movie Museum the day before. The trouble between Elliott Riley
and Gerhard Mueller had indeed been a bad omen, although I never would have dreamed that it would be followed by murder. Maybe another fight between those two troublemakers, but not a fatal stabbing.
Thinking about Riley made me wonder again about all the things that had been stolen during the tour, including my cell phone. Since searching everyone in the ballroom hadn’t turned up any of the missing items, it seemed logical that the thief had hidden them somewhere. That was the only answer that made sense. If Riley was the thief, as Mueller insisted, then where could he have hidden all the things he had lifted?
In the garden, of course.
That had to be the answer. I’d been on the verge of figuring that out earlier, I realized now, but then I’d gotten distracted by some other uproar. There had been plenty of distractions during the evening. But Riley’s answer about why he had been in the garden hadn’t satisfied me. It made a lot more sense that he had gone out there to stash his loot. If not for Kelley’s murder, Riley could have returned to the garden later, after everyone had settled down for the night, and retrieved the stolen items. He could have brought them back to his room, hidden them in his bags, and then walked out the next day with no one being the wiser. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the theory was plausible.
More than plausible. Heck, I was convinced I was right.
The only thing wrong with Riley’s plan was that he had practically tripped over Steven Kelley’s body. Once that happened, all bets were off. The plantation was crawling with sheriff’s deputies, and he couldn’t get back to the garden to get his loot. The smart thing would be to write off the loss of his ill-gotten gains, keep a low profile, and get the heck out of here so he could move on to his next job. I didn’t know if Riley was smart enough to do that, but I suspected that self-preservation was more important to him than anything else, even his loot.
Still, I wondered if I should share my ideas with Farraday. He could have his deputies conduct a thorough search of the garden, and if the stolen items were found, I would know I was right about Riley’s plan.
Frankly My Dear, I'm Dead Page 12