by Maxwell Cynn
“What happened to Northerners being more open?”
“What happened to Southern manners?”
“I'm progressive, remember?”
“You don't know who you're messing with, you stupid country hick. You keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, you're going to get it blown off.”
“Spoken like a gun moll. And I took you for pretty window dressing.”
She pushed away and Jack let her.
“You better stick to stories about hog farms and prize cows, Jack.”
“I prefer whale oil and interstate commerce. You know, a little white girl can get into a lot of trouble around here, Patty. You're not in New York anymore.”
“And you're not dealing with a bunch of inbred moonshiners, Jack.”
“Well, this is my town, Miss Burkeheimer. You know, Cornwallis said, when he tried to march in here, it was like marching into a hornets nest. We haven't changed. We don't like people coming in here causing trouble.”
“You don't know what trouble is, farm boy,” she said, then turned and walked away.
Jack took his drink and sat at the table with Jeb. The cute little colored girl Jack had seen earlier was on Jeb's knee, giggling at something he had said. “Mind if I join you?” Jack asked.
“Sit, Missa Spaulding,” Jeb said. “This here's Tonya Brown. Tonya, this here be Missa Jack Spaulding. He's that famous writer I was telling you about.”
Tonya looked at Jack with wide eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Brown,” Jack said. “Do you work here?”
“Yes'sa,” she said, shyly.
“Do you remember a young white girl that came in here the other night? She may have been with a Lumbee from the college.”
“Sho' thing, Missa Spaulding. She come in here all the time, Miss Dunhill did. Her and Mark...”
“Mark?” Jack interrupted and pulled out his notepad.
“Mark Locklear, Miss Dunhill's beau. They been together a couple of months now, I recon.”
“They were here, together, the night she was killed? Were they arguing?”
“Oh, no. They was all lovey dove and happy when they left. They always was. Mark's a really nice guy. He took good care of Miss Dunhill.”
“He's a student at the college?”
“Yes'sa, third year. I think he's studying agriculture. His daddy's got a farm back east.”
“Swell, where can I find this Mark Locklear?”
“He stay over at the college. He only come here with Miss Dunhill. He never talks to any of the other girls, and he never drinks. I remember he always wants a Nehi Grape, or an RC Cola. Miss Dunhill liked Bourbon or Gin. She picked at him for not drinking, but he never would even taste her drink. Course, you know what they say about Indians. They can't take their liquor.”
Indians, especially the Lumbee, were considered colored with respect to segregation. They weren't allowed in the whites only clubs. There weren't many Native Americans in Charlotte. Down East in Lumberton and Fayetteville, where most of the Lumbee Indians lived, there was a triple segregation – Whites, Coloreds, and Indians – but in Charlotte, Indians were considered part of the colored community – at least by the whites.
Jack thanked Miss Brown and gave her a big tip. Reluctantly Jeb followed Jack outside and drove him back to Mrs. Duke's. It was three in the morning before Jack had any copy written, and it was thin at best with hardly any real detail. A wealthy white woman at a colored jazz club, dating a Lumbee Indian. Sounded more like a gossip column than a front page piece.
* * *
Helen awoke to a soft knock on her door. She put on a robe and opened it.
“I'm sorry, Helen,” Catherine said in a whisper. She was in a robe herself. It was still dark outside. “Nathan called on the telephone. He said he's coming over to pick you up. He needs you to go down to the jail with him. Something about a client.”
“Yes,” Helen said sleepily. “I'll get dressed. I'm sorry he woke you, Catherine.”
“Oh, that's fine, dear. It's kind of exciting. I'll start some coffee while you get dressed.”
When Helen walked downstairs Catherine and Nathan were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee.
“I'm sorry, Helen,” Nathan said, standing.
“No, it's fine Uncle, ah, Mr. Black. What is it?”
“I have a client that was arraigned tonight, but I have a trial this morning in Monroe. I need you to work on arranging bail.”
“Okay,” she said. Her stomach tightened into a hard knot. “What do I need to do?”
“I'll explain in the car. Thanks for the coffee, Catherine.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Nathan.”
Nathan walked out the front door and Helen followed behind, her head swimming and her stomach churning.
“What is the charge?” she asked once they were in the car.
“Murder.”
* * *
Jack had gotten a few hours sleep before he ran down to the police station.
“Morning, Jack,” a cop at the desk said when he rushed in the door.
“Morning, Johnson,” he said over his shoulder without slowing up. He found Detective Malory walking down the hall toward his office.
“Anything new on the Dunhill case?” Jack followed Malory into his office.
“You first, Jack.”
The detective eased into his chair and set a cup of coffee on the desk. Jack opened his notebook.
“Young white girl who likes jazz and was dating a Lumbee Indian, found dead within two blocks of an illegal club that she was known to frequent, in a colored area of town.”
“Brass-ankles name?”
“Mark Locklear, junior at Biddle University, studying agriculture.”
“You have as much as I do.” There was a good bit of frustration apparent in his voice. “The Sheriff arrested Mr. Locklear last night and the DA is pressing charges.”
“That was quick.”
“Yeah, too damn quick.”
“You don't buy it?”
“Hell, I don't know, Jack. This Locklear kid doesn't have any priors, he comes from a good family down in Lumberton, he's a straight A student at the college and star athlete. But he was seen leaving a club with her. I've been on this thing all night. I was going to question him this morning, then I heard the Sheriff already had him locked up.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. When the DA got the case and the Magistrate signed the warrant my part of the case ended. I'm just finishing up my report for the Chief, then going home. The Sheriff's Department made the arrest, it's their case.”
“But you don't think this kid did it.”
“I don't know who did it. I didn't have time to investigate. I didn't peg him as a suspect, a witness maybe. It just doesn't feel right, but don't quote me on that. Maybe the Sheriff found something I didn't. Guess we'll see when it comes to trial.”
Jack left the police station and walked to the Magistrate's office. He knew he wouldn't get much from the Sheriff's Department. Jasper Calhoun was the county's only magistrate and one of Jack's oldest friends. Magistrate Calhoun had a small office in the courthouse and held court there while the Circuit Judge was making his rounds to other counties. He also held court in his home for late night arrests and warrants.
“Morning, Jack,” Mary Turlough, the court clerk and court secretary greeted him as he walked in.
“Is Jasper busy?”
“He just got in, I'll check.” She stood up behind her desk. “He's in a mood, though. A deputy dragged him out of bed last night for a warrant.”
“I heard.”
Mary walked around the desk and down the hall to Jasper's office. When she came back out she waved Jack down the hall. As they passed she whispered, in a sing-song voice, “He's in a moo-ood.”
Jack walked into the office and Jasper was sitting at his desk. The elderly man was scowling over a stack of papers and sipping a large cup of coffee.
“Morning, Jas
per,” Jack said jovially.
Jasper grunted and looked up from his papers.
“Dunhill case,” he said, taking off his spectacles.
“I hear they got you out of bed for the warrant.”
“Yeah, they brought the suspect by the house at four in the morning. Why the hell they couldn't just hold him until I got to the courthouse, I don't know.”
“They wanted to scoop the City Police,” Jack said dryly.
“They ain't the damn News and Observer, Jack. So what can I help you with?” He asked like he already knew the answer.
“Just confirmation that Mark Locklear has been charged in the murder of one Kathy Dunhill.”
“Yep.”
“That's it? Yep?”
“I signed the warrant. He's held over without bond until the Circuit Judge returns Monday. The DA has the case, so you need to talk to him about particulars.”
“The City Police think it was a rush job, off the record of course. Why the hurry on the arrest?”
“Oh, we are off the record now?” Jasper said wryly. “It's a damn pissing contest, Jack, you already know that. But she also came from a wealthy family. The reason given, on the record, for the rush was that he's a flight risk, being from out of town and all.”
“And being a Lumbee Indian.”
“Yep. The Sheriff said he was worried the suspect would high-tail it back to Lumberton and disappear in the crowd.”
“They could have held him until morning.”
“That's what I say. But like I said, it's a pissing contest. The heat was on to find the young lady's killer and the Sheriff got there first. It's good for you, though. You can make your deadline and scoop the Observer again.”
“True,” Jack admitted.
“Want some coffee?”
“No thanks. I've got a story to finish.”
“When we goin' fishin'?”
“You know, that's a damn good idea. We haven't been in a while.”
“Not since the last time we went with Daniel.” Jasper looked down. Both men were somber for a moment then Jasper spoke again. “We need to go, Jack.”
“Yeah, we do. The next weekend I have off.”
“I'll hold you to it.”
Jack smiled and turned to leave. He had grown up fishing with Jasper. The older man had been good friends with Jack's father back then. They'd taught Daniel to fish, when he moved to town, and he had taken to it like a local. It was usually Daniel who made the two men stop working long enough to go to the river.
“You can probably wheedle a copy of the affidavit out of Mary on your way out,” Jasper said with a smile, “if you haven't already.”
Jack waved, walked out the door and back down the hall to Mary's desk. He got the affidavit and looked it over, then walked briskly back down the hall and into Jasper's office.
“This is a crock of bull,” he said as he stormed in.
“What?”
“The victim and the accused were at the Excelsior Club before she was murdered. This says he picked her up at the Crown. That's a white club halfway across town.”
“Yeah,” Jasper said. “They testified that he passed as white and got in. That's where he met Miss Dunhill. Then he took her across town and dumped her in Biddleville where they found her.”
“This is all wrong, Jasper. She was dating Locklear. They left the Excelsior just before she was murdered. They couldn't have traveled across town and then back.”
“That's the testimony they gave me, Jack. He picked her up at the Crown. That was the last time she was seen alive. They have witnesses who saw them leave together.”
“Dunhill was a regular at the Excelsior. So was Locklear.”
“Not according to testimony. Maybe you should have a talk with Mr. Shackleford.”
“I'll do just that.”
* * *
Jack left the courthouse and stopped at the phone booth out on the street. He called the paper. Sally connected him to Bill.
“What's up, Jack? You got me anything on the murder?”
“Something fishy is going on down here,” Jack said. “The Sheriff brought in a suspect, but the testimony they gave Jasper is completely different from what I've dug up so far, and the City Police don't have a clue where the Sheriff got his information.”
“You think it's a cover-up?”
“Could be. The information I have says the girl was a regular at the Excelsior, and was dating the Lumbee Indian they arrested. Maybe the family is pulling strings to cover that up. The Sheriff told Jasper the suspect picked her up at the Crown and that he was passing as white.”
“We better hold back,” Bill said thoughtfully. “We'll let the Observer scoop us on the arrest. You keep digging into the story and see what you can find. If it is a cover up, and the Observer prints the official story, we could blow the lid off. That would be better than a scoop. But you be damn sure of your facts, Jack. Dunhill has a lot of friends in high places. We can't get this wrong. If you say his deceased daughter was dating a brass-ankle and hanging out in a colored speakeasy, you better be able to back it up.”
“We could report the arrest without comment,” Jack suggested. “Just say that the Sheriff's Department arrested Mark Locklear in connection with the murder.”
“Good idea. Give Sally some copy and we'll run it. See what you can dig up for tomorrow's edition. I'm sure the Observer will run something in the morning. They'll try to lay out the whole official case, everything they can pull out of the prosecutor. If you have the other story we can run it as contradiction to the Observer's version.”
“Alright, switch me back to Sally and I'll give her the copy.”
“Sally!” Bill yelled.
Jack heard the receiver clank on Bill's desk and the man's voice a distance away.
"Sally!"
The phone clicked. “Hey, Jack.”
Jack dictated a short piece with bare facts about the arrest of James Locklear.
Chapter Eight
Jack walked down the stairs into the basement of the Courthouse where the District Attorney had an office. He wasn't hopeful of getting anything out of Shackleford. He turned the corner at the bottom and ran smack into Helen Jameson, causing her to drop the arm full of papers she was carrying.
“I'm sorry, Miss Jameson.” He knelt down to pick up the papers.
“Helen,” she reminded him.
He stood and handed her the papers. He gritted his teeth at how fast his pulse was racing and the rush he felt when the skin of her delicate fingers brushed his.
“What brings you down into the dungeon, Helen?” He was searching for something to say.
“The police have one of Mr. Black's clients in custody. Mr. Black is in Monroe for the day, so he sent me to meet with the District Attorney, and try to arrange bail.”
“So what do you think of our illustrious District Attorney Shackleford?”
The look on her face spoke volumes, but she only said, “Difficult.”
“He's a pompous ass,” Jack said with a laugh. “But he's ours.”
“He wouldn't even talk to me,” she growled. “He said it can wait until Mr. Black gets back in town. He just gave me a stack of papers and told me to have Mr. Black come by later.”
“What's the case?”
“I'm sure you've already heard, so I guess it's alright to tell you.” She said it as if she were trying to convince herself. “Mr. Black is representing Mark Locklear.”
“Have you talked to your client yet?”
“I've been with him all morning.”
“Did he do it?”
“No.” She sounded a little defensive and irritated.
“So you're not here looking to cop a plea?”
“No. As I said, I was trying to get Mr. Locklear bail so he can continue his classes. If the DA would agree, Mr. Black could talk to the Judge while he's in Monroe.”
“So what's Locklear's story?”
“I probably shouldn't be talking about the case, Jack
. You are a reporter.”
“Maybe we can help each other out. There's something fishy about this case, and I'm going to find out what.”
“Are you suggesting we share information?”
“I'm suggesting that the Sheriff hasn't fully investigated this case. Perhaps we could investigate it together.”
“You think Mr. Locklear is innocent?”
“I don't know,” he said honestly. “But I think something is being whitewashed.”
“Okay, Jack. You tell me what you've found and I'll share what I know.”
“Let's go back to Catherine's.”
* * *
When they got back to Mrs. Duke's house, Helen paused in the upstairs hallway at her door.
"You want to use your room or mine?" Jack asked.
"It wouldn't be proper for me to be seen going in your room, Jack."
"Well, all my notes are in my room. Should I get them and we can go to the parlor?"
"No. You just get your notes, and I'll meet you in your room."
Jack and Helen went into their respective rooms. Jack was a little confused. He wasn't sure why she wanted to go into her room first, before coming to his, but he knew there was no reason trying to figure it out. Jack opened his desk drawer and took out a stack of papers. Helen tapped on Jack's door as she walked in from the shared bathroom. Jack smiled.
They laid out all the papers provided by the DA, and Jack's notes, on the bed and went through them. He told Helen what he knew or suspected so far.
“Magistrate Calhoun, let me peek at the affidavit the Sheriff gave him." Jack pulled out a piece of paper from Helen's stack. "Here's a copy. The Sheriff testified that Locklear went into the Crown Club, passing as white, picked up Miss Dunhill and left with her. I talked to someone up in Biddleville that told me Locklear and Dunhill have been dating awhile and both were at a club there shortly before she was killed. Someone is lying.”
“Locklear told me essentially the same thing,” Helen said. “He claims he's never been in the Crown Club, and told me that he and Dunhill were dating.”
“Here.” Jack held up another paper from the stack Helen had brought from the DA's office. “This names Tonya Brown as a witness to Locklear and Dunhill having dinner at the Crown. But Tonya is a waitress at The Excelsior Club. I talked to her last night. She's the one who told me they were there right before the murder.”