We walked about four blocks to her house. The lady really had a lot of real estate.
Mary Elizabeth greeted us like old friends and invited us into her home. We sat in the parlor. She had an African American maid whose name might have been Sugar since that was what Mary called her. Sugar served us sweet ice tea and some peanut butter cookies.
Mary had apparently forgotten that I was the one who was investigating her past.
“Sugar made these cookies. Aren’t they simply delicious?” Mary Elizabeth said.
“Simply,” I said. Rosey nodded as he chewed voraciously.
“I thought your work was finished here,” Mary said to me.
Perhaps she had not forgotten after all.
“Not quite. Have you had anymore pieces from your past?” I said.
“Oh, nothing more, just the …. I don’t think I should be talking to you about this. My cousin Roscoe, you know Roscoe, our sheriff, he doesn’t want me talking about those bad memories. He says it’s not good for my disposition.”
“Your disposition?”
“Yes, you know, my moods. He says I should think of pleasant things and not try to recall the painful stuff.”
“Has it been painful for you?”
“Why, yes. Yes, it has. In fact, back in April when it came on me, I was having trouble going to sleep at night. I had to have the doctor give me some sleeping pills. He was so kind to do that. And it truly did help. Sleeping pills are wonderful things, you know.”
“Indeed. You told me that you thought that the family nanny had killed your brother.”
“Well, I may have said that, but, you know, I can’t be for sure. And, to tell you the truth, I really do not want to think that of her. I loved her dearly and she loved us. I know she loved my brother and I cannot imagine why she would want to kill him.”
“Tell me again why you suspected her.”
“Well, that’s hard to say exactly, but it has to do with those memories, those images of the shoes, you know, from underneath the bed. I saw feet coming and going from my place on the floor. I was hiding under the bed and I saw different sets of feet come into my brother’s nursery. I should say shoes, not feet. I just remember her shoes. She wore black, high-top tennis shoes. I remember them because she seldom tied them all the way up. That used to worry me some and I asked her why she didn’t lace the shoes all the way. I was worried that she might trip and fall down. She told me it was purely for comfort,...that she liked to have her feet comfortable since she was on them so much of the time tending her babies. That’s what she called us, her babies. In fact, I think those were the very words she used to use.”
“You saw her tennis shoes come into the nursery.”
“Yes, all the time. And on the day that my baby brother died, I saw those tennis shoes come into the room several times. She was always fussing over him for this, that, and the other. You know how nannies can be. I guess it was because I saw her tennis shoes so many times that afternoon that I just thought she was the one who did something to my baby brother.”
“But you saw other shoes come into the nursery,” I said, leading her along.
“Oh my yes. On that day, lots of shoes. But I didn’t recognize all of them. I did recognize my mother’s shoes. They came in twice.”
“Twice. You can remember you saw your mother’s shoes come into the nursery two times? It was more than seventy years ago.”
“Sure, I remember that. Just like it was yesterday. My brother was crying because it was dark outside. He didn’t like the dark. My mother came into the room to calm him down some.”
“Why didn’t the nanny check on him?”
“She was probably still cleaning up the supper dishes. She had lots of chores to do for us. She was a good cook and she cleaned house and took care of my brother and me and all sorts of other jobs.”
“And the name of the nanny?”
“Oh, the nanny was Rosemary Jenkins. I think I remember telling you that when we were in Maybelline’s place. Did you know that Azalea is Rosemary’s granddaughter? Azalea Jenkins, imagine that. Same family and name. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Who’s Azalea?”
“I am,” Sugar stood in the doorway to the parlor. She did a little curtsy and bowed her head. “I’m Azalea Jenkins. Mrs. Carpenter just calls me Sugar ‘cause she thinks I’m so sweet.”
A young, attractive black woman stood in front of me. It was impossible for me to ascertain her age, but I would have guessed late twenties. Her poise in the situation contributed to my estimation. She had salt and pepper hair and stood about five feet, five inches and wore a flowered apron as if coming straight out of the kitchen from cooking.
“Why you are sweet, my dear. Sweet just like your grandmother was. That’s why I call you Sugar. Lord, that lady meant so much to us. I still miss her.”
“I assume that Mrs. Jenkins is deceased?” I said.
“I think so,” Mary said looking in the direction of Azalea for affirmation.
Azalea’s eyes moved from me to Rosey, then back again to me. Without saying a word, she shrugged. She arched her shoulders in a gesture of indifference as if she didn’t know whether or not her grandmother was still alive. Or didn’t want to say. She shrugged and walked out of the doorway into some other part of that huge home on Bridge Street. I think she was avoiding the question.
“I don’t think she likes to talk about her grandmother. Must be still painful for her to lose her, you know,” Mary said, as if defending Azalea’s reticence.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rosey and I drove to Elizabeth City and spent the night in a motel there. It was close enough for us to escape from Riley Corners and still be able to drive back and forth while trying to avoid Sheriff Tanner and his tentacles. It was the closest city that might allow us a hint of privacy, a place to stay, and the necessary subterfuge.
I took the position that short interviews were best with people whenever trying to help them recall incidents from the past. If it happened to be the remote past, as in this case, the interview was much like chipping away at a big rock. Work a little today, collect some pieces, and then allow the rock to rest a bit. Go back again and chip some more another day. Sometimes the chipping and sorting through the pieces that fell help to dislodge more memories. It took time. Methodical, I was.
Next morning was Sunday. We drove back to Riley Corners to attend the Riley Corners Baptist Church. We had an idea that our presence would likely raise an eyebrow or two, but Rosey made up his mind about going. He said it was research. I figured it had more to do with him reconnecting to his past life in Pitt County where his Uncle Joe forced him to attend the black Baptist church there.
“Even if we are ushered out of town ceremoniously?” I said.
“Tar and feathers is a dying art form. You know what Mark Twain once said about that, don’t you. ‘If it weren’t for the honor of the thing, he’d just as soon walk.’”
“If Roscoe and his boys are Baptists, then we might want to leave during the invitational hymn.”
“Or the final prayer when everyone but the choir is supposed to have their eyes closed,” Rosey said.
“I’ll keep my eyes open, thank you. I suggest you do the same. And for the record, I think this is a mistake,” I said.
“Wouldn’t be your first one.”
It was 10:45 when we arrived at the church. The parking lot was full so we had to park on the street. We sat on the back pew. Tall African-American male sitting beside a tall white woman. Don’t forget my red hair. Nothing like standing out in a crowd. If the village didn’t know us before, they certainly knew us now. All eyes shifted upon us as we entered and sat down. Together. Side by side. So much for anonymity.
It was a good service. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t been in a Baptist church in several months. Could have been my upbringing came back to me. Could have been every time Reverend Josh Ainsley said something significant that Rosey nudged me with his elbow. Could have be
en the fact that most of the people stopped staring at us as if we were a couple of cigar store Indians out of place on that pew during the worship. Hard to say what it was exactly, but the sum of it was quite refreshing. I can tell you that I’ve had worse experiences inside of a church.
Josh Ainsley is a good preacher, even if he doesn’t have much courage to take a stand against powerful people. We all have our weaknesses. The music was tolerable. The First Baptist Church of Clancyville, Virginia had a good choir during my formative years. Our church had many faults back then, but one of them was not the choir and the overall singing. The Riley Corners church could have used some musical recruits.
We didn’t feel compelled to leave before the final chime, so we left when the rest of the crowd was pouring out. We shook hands with the Reverend Ainsley as is the culture of most of the churches in the South, but we decided against standing and talking with him for fear that he might be in danger by being seen with us. I thanked him for the sermon and we headed for the truck.
The staring commenced again. Some of the little groups were whispering as well. Imagine that.
En route to our vehicle, a woman whose voice and carriage belied her age approached me as I was about to climb inside the truck. Belied in the sense that there was no way one might guess her years. She was well dressed and obviously a woman of some stature because of her posture if not for her impeccable makeup. She seemed fearless in approaching such renegades in an open area where so many eyes could see. She offered a pleasant smile to us.
“May I speak to you a moment?” she said as she moved quickly and purposefully to my side of the truck.
“Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?”
“You’re the ones doing the investigating of Colby Johnson’s death years back?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How’s that going?”
“Slowly. Not too many people around here are keen on helping us.”
“Well, I don’t necessarily want to help you either, digging up all that junk from the past. Tends to bring out the worst of human nature, don’t you think?”
“If it was murder, then there is no time constraint on solving a murder.”
“Point taken. If it was murder. But here’s the thing. Azalea Jenkins works for me three days a week. I share her with Mary Carpenter. Azalea wanted me to tell you that her grandmother is still alive.”
“She could have told me that last night,” I said.
“Not likely. She doesn’t want that fact public knowledge. You couldn’t take a chance by telling you at Mary Carpenter’s. If there are people who want you to stop checking on this incident from the past and leave it be, then you could imagine what those same people might do if they found out Rosemary Jenkins was still alive. What I’m telling you is on the QT.”
“Rosemary Jenkins live around here?”
“No, she doesn’t. She lives in Elizabeth City with her daughter,” she said and handed me a folded piece of paper. “You take that and use it for good, okay?”
“Thank you for the information,” I said a little surprised.
“It’s from Azalea, not me. She wanted you to know and she trusted me to tell you. She also trusts you not to allow this to come out unnecessarily.”
“Did you know that Rosemary Jenkins was still alive?” I said.
“Of course I knew it. Nothing gets around me, child. I just mind my own business and keep my mouth shut. At least for the most part. Once in a while, like this, I get to be a messenger and do some possible good. And a word to the wise for you. Don’t dilly-dally on this piece of information. Rosemary Jenkins is 99 years old. She won’t live forever. Good luck,” she said and walked away without waiting for any reply.
“You didn’t give me your name,” I called out after her.
“No, I didn’t it. Probably safer for both us if I don’t. Might shock you anyhow. You don’t need to know who I am, just follow the lead,” she turned and left.
“Did you hear all of that?” I said climbing inside the cab.
“Enough. What’s on the paper?”
I opened it and read.
“Address and phone number for Rosemary Jenkins.”
“Elizabeth City.”
“Convenient for us, I’d say.”
“It’s about time we had some fortune turn in our direction.”
“Maybe our luck is changing,” I said.
“Naw, it’s the church thing.”
“What church thing?”
“Going to church. Doing the right thing.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said.
“I was raised to think that way. Hard to get it out of your system.”
“You saying we would not have discovered this fact if we had not gone to church?”
“Ah, ha, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Rosey said. “Can I get a witness?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A beautiful African-American woman opened the door a minute or so after I knocked. Her hair was creamy white and shoulder length. She was wearing a brown and green apron over a flower-print dress that stopped at her knees. The apron had the same flower design as the one that Sugar had worn the other night when we first met. Despite the differences in the floral designs, the apron and dress didn’t fight each other. The glasses she was wearing made her appear strong as well as intelligent. Perhaps glasses would do that for me as well. Maybe one day. I don’t really need the lenses, but the two virtues could help on occasion. Her smile was extremely pleasant. Disarming, to say the least.
“May I help you?” she said.
“I’m Clancy Evans and this is Roosevelt Washington. We’re looking for Rosemary Jenkins.”
“May I ask for what reason?”
“We would like to speak with her about some history,” I said.
“Do you have some specific history in mind?”
“Yes, we do. I was told that she was the nanny for a Johnson family back in the thirties. She was working for them when the child Colby Johnson died. We are investigating that death and we would like to speak with her about what she remembers.”
“Aren’t you a little late in that investigation?” she asked.
“Never to late to solve a murder.”
“So, you think the baby Colby Johnson was murdered?”
“Let’s just say I have some suspicions.”
“Well, I’ve been expecting you,” she said and smiled. “Come in.”
She opened the door wider and gestured for us to enter. I was beginning to think that her interrogation was going to leave me out in the cold and that Sugar had misled us.
“My daughter Azalea told me about you and thought that you might show up. I had to be certain that you were who she said I should expect. One can’t be too careful.”
“Why is that?”
“Most of the people in Riley Corners do not know that my mother is still alive. We tried to leave a cold trail so that no one could trace us.”
I was surprised with her words. She must have noted some reaction in my eyes.
“I’m an attorney here in Elizabeth City. Criminal lawyer. I work with a firm that specializes in criminal cases. I know a thing or two about hiding out.”
“Why do you feel the need to protect your mother this way?”
“She’s a black woman who knows too much.”
“You’re not talking about common knowledge here.”
“No. We’re talking specific knowledge about what happened in that family, or, at least, what did not happen.”
“May we speak with her?” I asked.
“This is her nap time, but let me see if she is awake,” she said and left us sitting on her sofa admiring her manicured house.
The home did not speak of extravagant wealth, but it did show good taste. There was a Monet print on the wall behind the couch. It was one of those flower garden scenes. The book cases were full of classic, hard bound works that one might want to read if one were not out chasing leads, suspects, and villains
. There was one book case standing about five feet high sandwiched between two windows directly across from where we were sitting. Above the book case was a Renoir print of a little blond girl holding a watering can. I had one like it in my bedroom as a child. My father bought it for me when I was born, or so I was informed later. It offered me some comfort, then and now. In addition to the books, the shelves were laden with knickknacks, a few trophies, angels, and some actual flowers, both potted and cut. The closeness of the rooms and the décor offered the feeling of security. It also suggested a strong emphasis on education. I figured that Rosey would be impressed.
“Looks like you,” Rosey said as he nodded towards the Renoir print.
“My father thought so, except for the hair.”
“Beg your pardon?” Rosey said.
Rosemary’s daughter returned to the living room before I could explain.
“Forgive my manners. I did not introduce myself, but since you came here to see my mother, my name didn’t really matter all that much to you.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“I’m Bergamot Jenkins. My friends call me B.C. My mother loved flowers, hence the name.”
“Bergamot is an unusual flower, a wild variety.”
“Well, Clancy Evans, you already know much about me. My mother believed in the meanings of names. She must have seen something in her baby to call forth that unusual name.”
“Were you teased in school?”
“No. I was smart enough to go by Clover in the early years. Then just before high school, I started using the initials BC, and it stuck. It also helps in the legal profession to have the name B.C. Jenkins. In the beginning clients didn’t know I was a woman until they met me. Now after years of hard work and a good reputation, most of the people around Elizabeth City know B.C. Jenkins.”
Mercy Killing: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 2) Page 10