by Ang Pompano
I have this theory that people will open up to you if you appeal to them for help. Maybe 99% of folks feel good about being able to assist. “I need a little help in finding Roscoe Hicks and his wife Jill. Would you know where they moved to?”
He put his lips together as if he was going to spit, but he didn’t. “No idea.”
“When did they move?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t rightly say when I realized no one was living there.”
“It’s important that I find the Hicks couple. Did they give you their new address or maybe a phone number?”
“What, are you writing a book? I don’t know nothing.” The old guy shook his rake at me in a gesture that seemed to mean go away, and then he walked into his backyard. My luck that I had to run into one of the 1% who doesn’t give a crap about helping out.
As I started to leave, I heard the front door of Roman’s house open. An elderly little lady came out on the stoop. She was wearing an apron which, from the neck down, had a picture of a curvaceous woman’s bikini clad body imprinted on it. I stifled a smile as I read the words Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful!
“Don’t mind Nate. He acts madder than a wet hen since his stroke.”
“Are you Mrs. Roman?”
“Miss Roman. I’m his sister. I was listening at the window. So, you’re looking for our old neighbors?”
“Do you know where I can locate them?”
“I don’t want to start with Nate. Do you know where Forsyth Park is?”
“I can find it.” If that damned GPS would cooperate, that is.
“I’m taking my constitutional shortly. I’ll meet you by the fountain. You had better leave before Nate has a dying duck fit.”
With that, she scrambled back into the house.
*****
When I got back to the truck there was a folded piece of notebook paper under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side. I checked to see if I was blocking a driveway. Nope. Then I checked the driver’s side front to back to see if someone scratched the truck. Nothing that I could see. I flicked open the sheet and read the block letters.
Some detective you are.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. In fact, besides Nate saying something similar, my own father had said those words to me. But he certainly was not the one who left the note. He was back at The Palms living in his own little world. But who? I didn’t see Nate leave his backyard. Back home, any number of friends would come to mind, here I hardly knew anybody.
I looked toward Nate Roman’s yard. He was standing on his front lawn watching me. I held up the note. He shook his rake at me and walked into the backyard. Asshat. I had too much to do to play games. I balled the note up and threw it on the passenger side where it took up residence on the floor with a bag from a fast food joint. This gumshoe doesn’t litter.
*****
I parked on Drayton Street and found the beautiful white fountain on the north end of the large park. I took one of the many benches that circled the huge water feature which sat in the middle of a circular pool, surrounded by flowers and an iron fence. I admired the classical lady at the top of the main fountain and the eight smaller fountains that stood in the pool, four tritons and four swans. A fine mist carried by the breeze, and the sound, like gentle rain on a pond, had a soothing effect on me. I closed my eyes for a second.
“Nate told me you’re a detective named DeSantis.”
I bolted upright.
“I am.”
Miss Roman wasn’t wearing her apron. Instead, she was dressed in a colorful spandex running outfit. I liked the old lady’s attitude.
Her mouth turned down. “That changes everything. I thought maybe you were a relative of theirs.”
“I’m working for a relative. Jill Hicks’ mother. She’s upset that she hasn’t heard from her daughter.”
“I see.” I could tell she was still trying to decide if I was on the up and up.
“Do you know where they moved to?”
“No. They left in the middle of the night like they were running from something. Then not long after that, I read in the paper that Mrs. Hicks was dead. Her mother doesn’t know?”
Mrs. Hicks was dead. That explained why Estelle hadn’t heard from her daughter. It looked like Estelle’s biggest fear had been realized. Maybe Hicks did kill his wife.
“Are you sure that Mrs. Hicks passed away?”
“Of course. I read the obituary in the paper. At my age, that’s the first section you turn to. There was an accident. The paper had an article about that, too. Her car went into a canal. The poor dear drowned.” Miss Roman choked up. “I liked her. She seemed kind. And she was quiet. You know what I mean? Him, I didn’t care for so much. Too loud and full of himself.”
It was too late to find Jill, but I still wanted to talk to Hicks.
“So, you have no idea of where Mr. Hicks would be now?”
“Like I said, they moved in a hurry. But, Nate must know. He and Roscoe were thick as thieves. Two of a kind, those two.”
“But your brother’s not talking,” I said.
She shook her head. “Why don’t you check the plumbing supply house out on Ogeechee Road? Roscoe works there. When you find him, tell him I’m sorry about poor Jill.” She pushed a strand of hair back off of her face. “I have to get back. Nate gets worried.” She brisk-walked around the circle to the other side of the fountain and then took a path into the square.
I had to smile. Nate’s sister was a 99%er.
13
MISS ROMAN SAID THERE WAS an obituary for Jill Hicks. I wanted to read it for myself. I sat in the truck and did a search of the Savannah Morning News website on my phone. I found that indeed a Jill Hicks died in an automobile accident on the Coastal Highway in Burroughs, a town south of Savannah. Another search found me the article on the accident. Jill Hicks died when the car she was driving skidded into a canal and she drowned. According to the article, the police think Hicks may have been texting at the time.
Apparently, Miss Roman didn’t care to share the tragic details with me.
*****
I was bothered by the fact that it was so easy for me to find Jill’s obituary. How could it be that Estelle didn’t know her daughter was dead?
Estelle was staying at the Riverfront Hotel in Savannah’s Historic District not far from the big bridge. I’d notified next of kin many times before when I was a cop. It never gets easier and I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news.
The desk clerk called up to the room, then told me Estelle would meet me in the lobby. As I waited, the smell of sizzling sausage from the free buffet made my stomach growl. I helped myself to a bowl of grits and threw a couple of slices of bacon on top. As I ate, I listened to the local weather on a TV above the table with the cold cereals and toaster. It was going to be a nice day in Savannah. What else was new?
When Estelle came down, her hair was a mess and she looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. I think she could see from my face that there was something wrong.
“Is there a problem, Mr. DeSantis?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Estelle’s mouth pulled back and her eyebrows arched as if she were more annoyed than worried.
“Oh, for the love of Mike. You’re not going to tell me Jill died in a traffic accident, are you?”
“You know?”
“No. I do not know because it is not true that she’s dead. I’ve been trying to tell the police that they got it wrong.”
I couldn’t understand what was going on. The woman had me looking for a dead girl. She was obviously in denial. I was glad that I hadn’t put too much time into the case. I had Greenleaf and Max to thank for this.
“Why didn’t you tell me the police told you she was dead?”
“Woul
d you have taken the case?”
It was bad enough that I looked at my future when I had visited my father, I didn’t need to deal with the dementia of strangers as well.
“Of course not.”
“I rest my case, as they say. I was told that my daughter died in a car crash. If that is true, then why is she trying to contact me?”
“Who’s trying to contact you?”
“My daughter. I’m telling you she is not dead.”
“Someone must have identified her body.”
“Not someone. Some thing. Roscoe Hicks, that no-good husband of hers.”
“Didn’t you see your daughter,” I paused trying to find a kind way to say it, “you know... at the funeral?”
“I was up in Augusta, in the hospital. Jill’s husband had her cremated before I even heard of the accident. He sent me the ashes. But I know they’re not hers.”
Poor Estelle. I wondered what her relationship with her daughter was like that made her fall so deeply into denial.
“Sometimes you have to face what is, no matter how much it hurts,” I said to Estelle.
“My daughter is alive. Who else would have sent me money on the first of the month?”
“The Social Security Administration would be my guess.”
“Listen, Mr. DeSantis. I’m not crazy and I wish you wouldn’t joke. I received a parcel the other day. There’s $1,500 and a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in it. Only Jill would send that to me. The Kisses have been a joke between us since she was a child.”
“Okay, I’m listening. But you said the police confirmed she was dead. Even if you don’t believe the husband, that’s pretty irrefutable.”
“They confirmed the car was hers, but maybe she didn’t die. Maybe she was sent to a hospital and recovered.”
“You said you have the ashes.”
“Roscoe sent me some ashes. He said she had told him she wanted to be cremated when she died. But that can’t be true. She was afraid of fire. She never would want that. They could be the ashes of a dog, for all I know. I wouldn’t put anything past him. He’s a little younger than her, if you know what I mean.”
“How much younger?”
“She’s forty-two and he’s twenty-seven.”
“How was that money delivered to you?”
“A small Priority Delivery box from the post office; as I told you, there was a bag of candy kisses in it. Don’t forget the kisses. I know she’s trying to send me a message.”
“Did you look at the return address?”
“There is none. But the box was stuffed with newspaper. The Ava Island Sands.”
“So, you concluded that the package was mailed from Ava Island.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Tell me about Andy Keller’s relationship with your daughter.”
“My daughter confessed to me that things between her and Roscoe were not going well.”
“And she told you she was having an affair with Andy Keller?”
“She didn’t have to. The next time I called her—it was the last time I spoke to her—a man answered. I knew it wasn’t Roscoe. When I asked who it was, he said his name was Andy Keller. He put Jill on the phone and when I asked who he was, she was evasive. She said he was some kind of blogger. When it comes to men, my daughter doesn’t use the sense she was born with. She goes from bad to worse. At least Roscoe had a job. Who can make money as a blogger?”
“I don’t know much about blogging, I’m afraid. But you do think Roscoe killed Keller because he thought he was having an affair with your daughter?”
“Exactly. Are you looking for him?”
“I had a lead that led to a dead end.”
I left Estelle drinking her coffee surrounded by snow birds at the other tables. I grabbed a coffee and a cruller on the way out and headed back to the office.
14
AS THE MORNING EDGED ON, the stifling humidity beat the ambition out of me. I cranked up the air conditioning in my F-150 and fantasized about the dry Los Angeles air. When I returned to the shady Blue Palmetto parking lot, I was pleasantly surprised to realize that it must have been fifteen degrees cooler in the shade of the huge tree that darkened the lot. I drove onto a patch of live oak leaves that covered the crushed shell parking area. I was beginning to understand Lynch’s complaint. Georgia live oak must be the messiest tree in the world, shedding thousands of small leathery leaves in the spring.
As I walked toward the porch, I spread my arms to catch the refreshing breeze coming off the water. Since I had been missing in action, I expected to hear an earful from Felicia Greenleaf. As soon as I opened the door on the tiny screened porch, she called out from inside. For a little woman, she had a voice that could be heard half way to Atlanta.
“Well, it’s nice of you to decide to come in. I’ve been fielding calls all morning. The insurance company wants to know if you have the pictures. Mr. Drysdale wants to know if his wife is cheating. Mrs. Halifax wants to know if her late husband had a safe deposit box or not. And I want to know if you brought me coffee.”
“Yes. Yes. I’m not sure. And here. I brought you a cruller, too.”
I put the coffee and pastry that I had picked up from the hotel buffet in on her desk. I didn’t tell her where I got them.
“You’re learning. It’s too bad that I have to train you, then lose you.” She took the lid off of the coffee and smelled it. A broad smile spread over her face, and she took a sip followed by a big bite from the long, braided donut.
“I was trying to find Estelle Brewer’s daughter, if you were wondering.”
“Did you take on the case?” Crumbs of cruller exploded from her mouth as she spoke.
“I guess I did.” I made a face.
“I’ll consider the coffee and cruller a thank you. So, what’s your problem?”
“Oh, no problem. I didn’t need something else to work on, I’ve already got a...” I hesitated.
“I know, you have a shit load of cases to work on and you want to get out of here,” she said.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Did you ever think of asking Big Al for advice?”
It took a minute for me to process what she was saying.
“My father? You want me to ask my fly-by-night father who has Alzheimer’s for advice.”
“Why not? One: you’re a big boy now so it’s time you got over what happened more than twenty-five years ago. He’s in your life now, like it or not. Two: he’s in the early stages of the disease and may still have a lot to offer. Think Glen Campbell going on tour after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. And don’t forget Ronald Regan running the free world with the illness.”
I thought about my unpleasant visit to The Palms. “I don’t think he comprehended who I was and probably only understood half of what I was saying.”
“Maybe you should try listening to your father a little. It doesn’t matter what he understands. It’s what you understand that matters.”
“Understand what? That he’s a self-centered bastard?”
“Well, even self-centered people get it right once in a while.”
“Like?”
“Granville.”
“That’s the last thing I want to hear about.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. Then you can do what you want with the information. What do you know?”
“That Big Al solved the case of the missing Granville girl. I heard it from day one when I got down here.”
“There’s a little more to it than that. Martin Granville was a well-known race-car driver in the ’80s. He had it all, a beautiful young wife, a small daughter, a large spread northwest of Savannah not far from Augusta, and a cocaine habit. One night while he was in his car barn working on one of his vehicles, his little daughter was kidnapped from her bed while his wif
e was upstairs reading and the nanny was out of the room. Al Sr. tracked down a man named Georg Gerber who was sent to jail and there he died.”
“As you said, everyone gets it right once in a while.”
“The thing is he didn’t get it totally right. The little girl was never found. That always bothered him.”
Was she kidding? I was supposed to feel bad that he couldn’t find the little girl after he abandoned his own family. “Spare me, please.”
“He’s a good man and you can still learn something from him. Take my advice or leave it. I’m trying to help; nothing more.”
I was tempted to tell her that she had said she wouldn’t give any more advice, but the fact was she was indispensable to Blue Palmetto, and if I was going to close the agency in a timely manner I was going to need her help. But I think we were talking about two different kinds of help.
“It would be a bigger help if you could get me all you can on a guy named Roscoe Hicks. I want to wrap this Brewer case up quickly.”
I escaped into my office at the back of the cottage, where I set my mind on how to find Roscoe Hicks. Miss Roman told me he worked at a plumbing supply house out on Ogeechee Road a little past the Home Depot and Wal-Mart. Maybe someone there could tell me where Hicks was holding up. A quick search came up with Sampson Brothers Plumbing Supply on Ogeechee. It had to be the right place. I called.
“Yeah, hi. I’d like to speak to Roscoe Hicks.”
The guy that answered had a voice that sounded like a rusty gravel crusher. “He ain’t here. What do you need? I can help you.”
“Do I have the right supply house? He does work there, right?”
“Not no more. He quit a week ago.”
“I see. I’d like to contact him. He seems to have moved. Would you have his new address?” It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.
“Who the hell is this?”
So much for the long shot. “I’m an old friend and I’d like to reconnect with him. He must have left a forwarding address.”
“Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. My brother is off today and I’m trying to run this whole operation myself. I got better things to do than giving you personal information about my employees.”