I wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers again and placed them back on the table, folded in front of me. As I sat there listening to the questions, the smoke curled above Dawson and Keller’s heads from Dawson’s cigarette. Then the swinging pendulum caught my attention inside the large grandfather clock on the wall behind Keller and Dawson.
“Do you work on the Kingsley farm?” Dawson asked.
“I haven’t in a while. I only worked there because Junior asked me to when Flo needed extra help during apple season.”
“Did you work on shares?” Keller asked.
“No, but Junior did. Florence just paid me for a day’s work.”
“How much did she pay you?”
“Fifty-five cents a day.”
“Did she pay you at the end of the day?”
“Yes: she wanted to settle at the end of each day.”
I didn’t understand why Keller was asking all these questions that didn’t have to do with the murder.This could go on for hours.
“How often did you see Miss Kingsley at her home?”
“When I worked for her and when I had the time, I’d stop by to see if she needed any help.”
“When was the last time you saw Miss Kingsley alive?” Dawson asked and set his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, sending a wavy stream of smoke into the haze.
My mouth was starting to feel dry, and the smoke began to sting my eyes. I started to cough a little.
Dawson glanced over his shoulder at Taton. “Can you get him some water?”
Taton nodded, stepped out the door, and returned a minute later with a glass of water and set it down in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said and took a needed sip. The cold water soothed my scratchy throat.
“I think it was the Saturday before she died, on my way home from the farm. I saw her outside working, as she always did.” My voice faded as I began to remember all the times I would drive by Flo’s farm and see her working. I’d wave, and she’d wave back at me. I took a deep breath and tried to keep my wits about me.
“Did you ever have any words with Miss Kingsley?” Keller asked.
“No, she was a good woman. I never had any reason to have words with her.”
Keller nodded, then he placed his eyes intently on mine. “On Monday, the sixteenth of October, the day on which we think Miss Kingsley was murdered: you didn’t see her that day?”
Finally, I realized the reason for his line of questioning. Joseph’s words started to make sense. Keller was reading my behavior, and I was sure that Dawson was too. Keller was asking me a lot of questions that I would have no reason to lie about. Then he could watch my reaction to the ones that mattered.
“I wasn’t home on Monday; I left for the farm early that morning and stayed the night.”
“Do you normally stay at your Uncle’s during the week?” Dawson asked.
“No, I don’t like to leave my mother home alone. But my uncle had a couple of cows that were calving, so he asked me to stay.”
“Do you know of anyone who has had trouble with Miss Kingsley’s farm dealings?” Keller asked.
“No, not that I know of or heard about.”
Keller wrote on his notepad and flipped the page. He seemed to be reading and then flipped the page again. He looked up at me.
“Was Miss Kingsley a hot-tempered person?”
“I’d say she was quick to tell you what was on her mind.”
“Quick tempered?” Dawson asked as he squished his cigarette into the ashtray, leaving the tips of his fingers covered in ashes.
I nodded. “Yes, sir, quick, but it wouldn’t amount to anything. She would laugh about it a few minutes later.”
“Do you think she was a person who, if some stranger came in, would flare up and try to push them off the premises?” Keller asked as he held the end of his pencil near his bottom lip.
“I think so.”
“She wouldn’t be afraid?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“There has been some talk about a man seen around there that day. It was reported that he was carrying a trunk and was trying to sell some items. He wore a long black overcoat and had shaggy hair and whiskers.”
“I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“Do you know of anyone who answers to that description?”
“No, I don’t.”
This was all news to me.
“In recent days, have you noticed any strange tramps going down the road?”
“Once in a while, I see a tramp, or a Negro, or a foreigner.”
“Did you ever see a stranger on the Kingsley farm?”
“No, sir.”
Keller looked down at his notepad and started writing. The ticking of the stenographer’s keys had stopped as Keller continued to write. I glanced over at Dawson. His eyes were on me, and I wondered what he was thinking. I took a deep breath and swallowed.
“Did you know Elvin Kingsley, Florence Kingsley’s older brother?” Keller asked.
“No, I never heard her mention him.”
“During your acquaintance with Miss Kingsley, did you ever hear her say anything in regards to her brother Willard, who lived with her?”
“Everything was Willard with her, she’d say.”
“By that, they got along well together?” Dawson asked.
I nodded. “Yes, she was always talking about how Willard said so and so, and whatever Willard said was good with her.”
“Did you and Willard ever have any words?” Keller asked.
“No, never.”
“Did you ever hear Walter or Willard speak about ownership of the property?”
“No, sir.”
“From your relationship with Walter and Willard, and Miss Florence Kingsley, did you ever see or hear of any trouble between them?”
“The times when they drank—she didn’t like that at all.”
“Have you known of any occasion, recently, that Walter or Willard had been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t. I guess if one of them got bent everybody would know it. They always show up at the store or someone’s house. But I haven’t seen either of them do that in a while.”
“Do you know Anton Mitchell?” Keller asked.
Keller’s question sent a flash of heat over my skin.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you known him?”
“All my life.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with this crime?”
“I don’t think so…” I sat there quietly for a minute. “Honestly, I can’t see him committing murder.”
Keller looked up from his notepad. His inquisitive eyes rested on my face, which began to flush. “Do you know if he had any words with her?”
“No, I’m not sure. But Iknow he was angry at her for squealing on him about his cider making.”
“There has been a great many people that have mentioned him in connection with this crime, for various reasons. What’s his reputation in the neighborhood there?”
“It ain’t good, not a very good reputation at all. I don’t know him to have many friends.”
“Did you ever have any words or trouble with him?
“No.”
“Why doesn’t he have a good reputation?”
“He has a foul mouth.”
“You mean profanity, or talking about people?”
“Yes, both. Always talking about his neighbors, and he doesn’t use good language—quick to start an argument with people.”
“Do you think there is a kind of general feeling among the residents of Linden about Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“Are they afraid of him?”
“I don’t think they areafraidof him. I don’t know why they would be. No, I never heard anyone say they were afraid of him.”
“Do you think Walter or Willard had anything to do with this crime?”
“Florence’s twin brothers?”
“Yes: do you think they were involved?
”
“No, they thought too much of their sister.”
“The general opinion of the neighbors seems to be rather mixed. Some think Willard did it, and some think Mitchell did it. Is it your opinion that a stranger did it?”
“I don’t know. I have a hard time believing anyone in Linden would commit such a crime. But at the same time, I don’t know what any stranger would gain from killing her. The word is, nothing was stolen from her house—so that’s my answer, I just don’t know.”
“When did you first hear of Miss Kingsley’s death?”
“Tuesday evening, on my way home from the farm. When I saw all the cars and police cars, I stopped to see what happened.”
“What was Junior’s relationship with Miss Kingsley?”
“He worked for her for years, picking apples and threshing hay.”
“Did he ever have words with Miss Kingsley?”
“None that I know of. He thought a lot of her.”
“If he thought so much of her, why wasn’t he at the service?” Detective Dawson asked with intensity in his light aqua eyes.
“I was surprised that he didn’t go, and I was a little angry about it. So after I got home from work I went over to see him to find out why he wasn’t there. He told me that he doesn’t like funerals and so he just doesn’t go to them. My thought was, no one likes funerals, and it was a poor excuse for not going. But that’s just how he is.”
“So by him not attending, do you think he was involved with this crime?” Dawson’s eyes were directly on me.
“No, not at all, because I know Junior. He didn’t do it.”
“It is the general opinion among the neighbors that Gordon Kessler, Junior, was not involved with this crime,” Keller said.
“I know he wasn’t.”So why did you ask? I held my tongue.
Dawson turned to Keller. “Do you have any more questions?”
“No,” Keller replied.
“Mr. Reynolds,,that will be all. Thank you,” Dawson said.
I walked out of the office. A car horn sounded off as I exited out the set of double wooden doors. The light gray limestone courthouse was surrounded by Main Street, Ellicott Street, and Court Street that made a triangle. I stood at the edge of the steps and took a deep breath, enjoying the cool air on my sweaty skin. I watched the automobiles traveling east and west down Main Street and appreciated my relief of finally being out of Keller’s office. It was then that I noticed Joseph walking up the Main Street sidewalk, carrying his briefcase.
Joseph saw me standing at the top of steps. He waved as he ascended up the steps. “Fritz, I’m glad I ran into you.”
“I’m glad that I ran into you, too.” I gestured to the large wooden doors behind me. “I was just interviewed by Keller and Dawson. They know Junior wasn’t involved.”
“Yeah, it took some time to rule him out, but they seem confident that he was not involved in the murder.”
“I’ve been telling you that all along. But you seemed to think that I was lying to you,” I said, with a touch of resentment in my voice.
“No, I just think you know more than you’re telling us,” he said casually.
I stared into his dark brown eyes. “I don’t… I don’t know any more than I’m telling you or Keller. But I do know squealing can get you killed in Linden,” I said in a steady voice. I wasn’t sure if he realized it, but the world was a very dangerous place.
Joseph tightened his lips and gave me a slight nod. “I know,” he said quietly.
“I’m just glad that Junior’s been cleared.”
“I understand. He’s Valerie’s brother.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been thinking… this murder has not been solved yet, and I worry about both of you living out there.”
“Didn’t my mother tell you? My father had shotguns.”
“Yes, she told me, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Why?”
“Let me ask you this: do you think it would be hard to grab a gun out of your mother’s hand if someone was attacking her?”
“Well, now that you say it like that… I don’t know.”
“Fear can paralyze you. Just because you know how to use a gun doesn’t mean that in any given situation you’ll be able to fight back or pull the trigger. I’m not confident that your mother could shoot anyone.”
“I’m so used to shooting a gun, I never thought about her not shooting if she—”
“I think you’re smart to have the guns nearby, but I can’t see your mother using a gun, at least not with any confidence.”
“You’re probably right; she’d be too nervous. Gosh, Florence was murdered the night I stayed at my uncle’s house.” I shook my head with a somber gratefulness.
“I know, I thought about that too.”
An uncomfortable silence held its place between us as I imagined my mother standing at the top of our stairs, holding a gun at someone. The trigger sticking and—I wouldn’t allow my mind to complete the scene. “Well, I better head back to the farm. Uncle John is probably wondering where I am.”
“Your mother called earlier and asked me over for supper. I’ll probably be there around five-thirty or six.”
“All right, I’ll see you tonight. I probably won’t be there until closer to seven.”
Joseph stepped toward the wooden doors.
“Do you think there will be an arrest soon?” I asked apprehensively.
“I can’t say. That’s the reason for the John Doe proceeding.”
“What about the three Negroes?”
“They were arrested on vagrancy charges and let out last Friday. They didn’t have anything to do with Miss Kingsley’s murder. They only picked them up because they didn’t belong in the area.”
“I was just wondering because Dawson probably has more experience with these types of cases.”
“Just understand that Keller isn’t questioning strangers in this proceeding; he is questioning your neighbors about your neighbors.” Joseph’s eyes held mine for a moment. I understood what his eyes were saying: it wasn’t a vagrant who stepped off the train—it was someone I knew. Then he pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it briefly, and shoved it back into his front pocket. “I better head inside. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“All right, I’ll see you tonight.” I waved and ran down the steps. It was then that I noticed a shorter, burly man, probably in his forties, wearing a black fedora hat and a long dark grey coat, heading toward me.
“Hello,” I nodded.
“Hello.” The man stopped. “Young man, can I ask you a question?”
He was jittery and fast speaking, but I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess.”
“My name is Frank Henderson.” He extended his hand and I shook it briskly. “I am a reporter for theBatavia Daily News.”
“I’m Fritz, Fritz Reynolds. It’s nice—”
“Would you happen to be here for the John Doe Proceedings?”
“Yes,” I replied nervously. “I just met with District Attorney Keller about ten minutes ago.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why were you questioned?”
“I used to work for Florence Kingsley.”
“I see… So who do you think murdered her?” He asked as he swiftly pulled out a notepad and pencil from his coat pocket and waited for my answer.
“I don’t know.”
“I always ask… I have to ask. If you want answers, you have to ask.”
“Well, I don’t have anything to tell. I just told Keller and Dawson what I knew, which ain’t much.”
“You must’ve been one of the last witnesses to be questioned, because I called District Attorney Keller five minutes ago to ask him if he was going to be giving a formal statement to the press regarding the John Doe Proceedings, and he told me to be at his office at five o’clock.”
I pulled out my pocket watch: 4:35. “It looks like you’re early.”
“I’m always early. You’ll want
to buy a copy of the four o’clockDaily tomorrow. Keller’s statement will be in there.”
“I’ll be sure to pick it up,” I said hesitantly. I turned and headed toward my car.
“So far, it’s been a fearful mystery; maybe tomorrow we’ll know a lot more.” Frank lit his cigar and ran up the courthouse steps.
As I approached my car, I looked back at the courthouse doors as they closed behind Frank Henderson.
Shaking my head unconvinced, I grasped my pocket watch.Twenty-three hours from now ought to be interesting.
Fifteen
The next evening after work, I drove around the bend and past Florence’s empty farm. My mind drifted back to the last time Flo waved to me. It was the last time I saw her alive. For a moment it was as if nothing had really changed: the juicy apples hanging in the orchard, the threshing of hay out in the field, and the ripened pumpkins waiting to be pies lying across the field. There was a stillness to the time I spent there, like a painting with brush strokes of laughter, hard work, and red apples floating among the dark green, rustling leaves. As I glanced back at the farm, it was gray. So I tucked the painting away on a shelf inside my mind.
I pulled my pocket watch out of my trousers. 6:12. I needed to read the four o’clock paper to see what Frank Henderson had to report. I hope Martha has one left.I pulled my car into our driveway, ran to the door, and turned the door handle.Locked! “Mom? Mom!” I called out as I knocked on the glass. “The door!”
“I’m coming!” She rushed into the kitchen and placed the skeleton key into the keyhole, jiggled it, and then opened the door. “Did you forget your key?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” I stepped through the door and could smell the turkey soup, then noticed three apple pies sitting on the counter. “Do you have the newspaper?”
“No, I never made it to the store today. I’ve been busy cooking all day. I made soup for supper and baked three apple pies—one for us and the other two for Martha and Helen.”
“All right, I’m going to head down to the store, maybe there’s one left. Keller’s statement is supposed to be in there today.”
“That’s right: I remember Joseph saying that. Well, if you’re going to run down there, take the two pies with you.” She walked over to the kitchen counter and handed them to me. “Just put them on the seat next to you and don’t drive too fast.”
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