Mahoney studied the shot carefully. Everything was the same except that on the far edge of this picture, he suddenly saw what looked to be a piece of paper lying a few feet from where Paul had fallen. Probably nothing, but worth checking.
“Have you still got the keys to Klaussner’s store?” he asked Monroe.
Monroe reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a ring of keys. “Be sure to get these back, or Gomez will have a shit-fit.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mahoney answered. He pocketed the keys, then turned and left.
By the time Mahoney reached the store it was early afternoon, and people were coming and going along the street. He parked his car directly in front of the bench Jubilee had supposedly been sitting on and climbed out. He pulled a Polaroid camera and a pair of white cotton gloves from the trunk, then crossed the street, stepped through the Caution tape, and unlocked the door.
With the windows still boarded over, there was only enough light to find his way across the room but not much more. Mahoney made his way to the light panel and flipped the switch. At first there was only an eerie blue flicker; then brightness flooded the room. Everything was as it had been the morning of the shooting. Chalk marks where the bodies had fallen, a cigarette display swept to the floor, several cans of green beans rolled to the far side of where they’d been stacked, and there, partway under the counter, the piece of paper. Mahoney took a Polaroid shot; then with a gloved hand he lifted one corner. It appeared to be a sign, but for what?
He eased the paper from beneath the counter and flipped it over. “Help Wanted” it read. “Stock Boy -- $30 week.” Based on where he had found the sign, it seemed likely that Paul had been holding it in his hand when he was shot. Mahoney photographed the sign, then returned it to its original position.
After spending almost an hour in the store Mahoney switched off the light and left. As he relocked the door, footsteps came up behind him.
“Saw the light on and thought I’d check,” the man said. “I’m Ernie, barber shop next door.” He stuck out his hand.
After the handshake, Mahoney asked, “Were you here on the day of the robbery?”
“Yeah, I was,” Ernie answered. “Awful, ain’t it? You just never think in a town like Wyattsville…”
The only witness report in the file was that of Martha Tillinger, but Mahoney took a chance and asked, “Did you see or hear anything?”
“Sure did,” Ernie answered. “Ken Spence was here for a shave that morning. Since he lost sight in his right eye he don’t trust himself with a razor, so he comes in same time every Wednesday and Saturday. I was lathering him up when I saw the young one come from across the street and head into Sid’s place. I was shaving Ken when the second one came by.”
“They didn’t go in together?”
“Not when they passed here, but after that who knows?” Ernie shrugged.
“How long was it from the time the first man went in and when you saw the second one go by?”
“A minute maybe.”
“Did the two men come from the same direction?” Mahoney asked.
“Can’t say. I know the boy came from across the street, but I didn’t see the second one ‘til he passed by here.”
“What happened after that?”
“I heard the gunshots. Three or four of them, so close together I can’t say for sure how many there were.”
“Anything else?”
“A minute or so later the second guy hightailed it past here and disappeared.”
Mahoney asked if he had seen the girl sitting on the bench across the street or noticed anything else unusual the morning of the robbery, but Ernie shook his head and said he couldn’t tell much else because he wasn’t facing that direction.
As Mahoney climbed back into the car and headed for the ferry, he again thought, Too many questions. Jubilee said her brother went into the store. Could it be that he wasn’t there to “do” a job but to get a job? To a seven-year-old kid the two things most likely sounded the same, so did she say one and mean the other? And which one was the truth? If Paul had by some chance partnered with Hurt McAdams, then why did they come into the store separately? Where was the gun that shot Klaussner? As the questions accumulated, it seemed as though each new thought muddied the water a bit more. It was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Mahoney’s earlier indigestion kicked into high gear, and halfway to the ferry he had to stop and buy another roll of Tums.
Once Mahoney was back at the Wyattsville station, he began a search for Freddie Meyers. He started with Property Records and then moved on to Voter Registration. Neither search produced any results. His next move was going to be a telephone directory search, which was none too reliable because people not looking to be found used fictitious names or had no listing. There were nine directories that covered the stretch of land considered the Eastern Shore. Two of the areas were across the state line in Maryland, and five were in Virginia. Mahoney went through the first three and found nothing. In the Watertown County directory, he found a listing for F.W. Meyers in Exeter.
It was on the same road as the Doyle farm had been.
“Impossible,” Mahoney mumbled. “What are the odds of…”
He dialed the number and let it ring seventeen times before finally hanging up. It was just about dinnertime. Maybe Freddie Meyers, if this was Freddie Meyers, didn’t bother to answer a ringing phone if his mouth was full of food. Mahoney sat for a moment and thought. He dialed a second number.
“Hello,” a youthful voice said.
“Hi, Jack,” Mahoney replied. “Is Mommy there?”
“Hi, Dad.” A whisper of disappointment was threaded through young Jack’s words. “Yeah, she’s here. Mom made spaghetti tonight. Are you coming home soon?”
“In a while,” Mahoney answered. “Let me talk to Mommy.”
“Mom!” Jack yelled. “Daddy’s on the phone!”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called back. “Ask if he’s on his way home.”
“Mom said are you on your way home?” Jack repeated.
“Not yet,” Mahoney answered.
A disgruntled grunt was the only answer. Mahoney heard the sound of the receiver clunk against the table and waited. A few minutes later Christine’s voice came on the line.
“What now?”
“I’ve got to take a run out to Exeter, so don’t hold dinner.”
There was a space of silence, the kind of silence that meant Christine was angry. “I spent the whole day making a pot of that homemade spaghetti sauce you like. With meatballs.”
“I appreciate that, but this is something I’ve got to take care of.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?”
“Afraid not,” Mahoney answered. After several more apologies and a promise to take everyone for ice cream when he got home, he hung up. He scribbled the listing address on a note paper and started out to Exeter.
The town of Exeter was not really a town but a stretch of back roads that twisted and turned with not a single house visible from the next one. Mahoney took the same turn he’d taken when he’d gone out for the Doyle murders. He drove for nearly a half mile and did not see even one house until he came to the long drive leading past the field in front of the Doyle house. Standing at the end of the driveway was a mailbox with the number painted on the side: 1722.
“Damn,” Mahoney said. Apparently F.W. Meyers lived in the house where Susanna and Benjamin Doyle were murdered. He turned down the drive and continued to the house.
The front window had been replaced, but other than that there was no visible change in the appearance of the place. It still had the look of a house in need of repair. The lights were on, and strains of Gogi Grant wailing “The Wayward Wind” came from inside. Someone was obviously living there. Mahoney stepped to the door and rang the bell. Nothing; no sound. It was still broken. He knocked on the door. No answer.
After knocking several times
and getting no answer, he banged his fist against the door and shouted, “Hey there, anybody home?”
The music clicked off, and moments later a small, paper-thin man opened the door. “Sorry,” he said, “couldn’t hear, what with the music.”
“I figured,” Mahoney answered.
F. W. Meyers was indeed Freddie Meyers, and, yes, he had moved here from Norfolk. Freddie explained how he’d bought the Doyle place at an auction. “Paid the past due taxes and the house was mine. ’Course, the place needs a bit of fixing up, and the farmland’s nothing but a weed patch, but in time…”
Freddie Meyers was as pleasant a man as Mahoney could hope to meet, until he heard the mention of his ex-wife’s name.
“I’ve got no more money,” he snapped, “so if that’s what this is about you’re wasting your time.”
“It’s not about money,” Mahoney assured him. “I’m just looking to find Anita.”
“Why would anybody want to find Anita?” His words had the sound of an ex-husband filled with bad memories.
“I’ve got a little girl with no place go, and I think she’s Anita’s niece. Her parents were Bartholomew and Ruth Jones.”
Freddie nodded his head sadly. “Yeah, Ruthie was Anita’s sister, but they haven’t talked for maybe six or seven years.”
“Unfortunately, Ruth died several years ago.”
Freddie winced. “Damn. She was the one who deserved to live. What about Bartholomew?”
“He’s gone too.”
“The mine got him, didn’t it?” Not leaving room for an answer, Freddie continued. “That’s one thing Anita was right about. She was always harping on Ruthie about that life being unfit for man or beast. Anita used to write Ruthie letters saying she ought to leave Bartholomew and come live with us. She thought if Ruthie left, Bartholomew would see the error of his ways and move back to Norfolk.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “That was the better side of Anita.”
“Then she ought to be pretty pleased to learn she’s got a niece who’d like to come and live with her.”
Freddie crumpled his face into a giant question mark. “It all depends.”
“Depends on what?” Mahoney asked.
Freddie shrugged. “If I could’ve figured that out, we’d still be living together.”
When Mahoney asked for Anita’s address, Freddie wrote it on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “When you talk to Anita, you might mention that if she and the girl want to come out here to live I’d be willing to consider it.”
“I’ll do that,” Mahoney answered and turned to leave. Before he got to the door, Freddie asked about Ruthie’s boy. Mahoney had hoped to avoid that issue, but now he had no choice.
“He was involved in a shooting, and he’s now in the hospital.”
“Paul? Ruthie’s boy? Involved in a shooting?”
Mahoney nodded.
“Damn,” Freddie repeated. “I’d’ve never figured Ruthie’s boy for such a thing.” He stood there shaking his head sadly as Mahoney scooted out the door.
When Mahoney finally arrived home it was almost ten o’clock, the kids had gone to bed disappointed at not having another ice cream outing, Christine was barely speaking to him, and the plate of spaghetti sitting on the kitchen counter had turned a cold greyish pink. On top of all that he spent another sleepless night—tossing, turning, rolling the still-unanswered questions over and over in his mind. He worried about a dozen different things but didn’t realize Carmella Klaussner was the one thing he should have been worrying about.
Jubilee
I’m still feeling mad inside, even though Ethan Allen done said nobody means nothin’ by those mean things. He claims they was just guessing at what the truth might be.
Paul never did nothin’ bad to nobody, and I’ll fight anybody what says he did! I know girls ain’t supposed to fight, but I figure folks ain’t supposed to tell lies neither. If they can tell lies, then there ain’t nothin’ wrong with me fighting.
I’m gonna go see Paul more times, and I’m gonna keep reminding him all the things what happened. Soon as he starts remembering stuff, I’m gonna remind him about how we’re gonna get us a nice place to live and not bother about finding Mama’s sister. If I thought Aunt Anita was nice like Ethan’s grandma I might feel a bit different, but I can’t say for sure I would.
I like Miss Olivia a lot. She’s real nice to me. Yesterday when me and Ethan was asking for more cookies he called her Grandma, and ‘cause I forgot she just belongs to Ethan and not me I called her Grandma too. She laughed real loud and said she wasn’t actually Ethan’s blood kin grandma, but they’d agreed it was a good name to call her and if it was good enough for Ethan to use, then I could go ahead and use it too.
I was real happy until she added, “For now.”
I guess Paul’s right. Good things don’t always last forever.
Front Page
After Carmella Klaussner overheard the conversation between Mahoney and Gomez, she began to sizzle inside. For more than a week she’d sat beside Sid’s bed, watched a machine force breath in and out of his almost-lifeless body, and counted heartbeats as the neon green monitor light zigzagged up and down.
Even when her arthritic hip was inflamed and painful, Carmella fell to her knees and prayed. “Please, God,” she said, “spare my Sid.” Every time there was an involuntary muscle twitch, she’d jump to her feet believing Sid was now going to open his eyes and speak. Each time she’d been wrong, and her dashed hopes brought more heartache.
Carmella had cried enough tears to fill an ocean, but she’d also cursed the evildoers who caused this turn of events. For the first three days Carmella’s prayers asked only that Sid be healed. On the fourth day she added a second prayer asking for vengeance on those responsible.
“Curse them,” she’d prayed. “Strike them down as you would Satan!”
Two doors down from Sid’s room, Paul had opened his eyes. He had spoken and today he had family come to visit. “How can this be?” Carmella asked God. “How can it be that a sinner is healed, and a saintly man lingers on death’s doorstep?”
Not long afterward, she’d overheard the heated conversation that took place outside the boy’s room. The thought of someone even suggesting the boy might be innocent was like a razor slicing through Carmella’s heart. “Are you not listening, God?” she raged. “Do you not care about justice?” After nearly an hour of arguing with her soul, Carmella Klaussner decided that it was on her shoulders to see justice was done.
Gomez was still in Paul’s room questioning the boy about things he had no memory of. “Where did you first meet Hurt McAdams?” he asked, but the look in Paul’s eyes was nothing more than one of confusion.
When he heard a rap on the door, Gomez turned. It was Carmella Klaussner. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Gomez gave Paul a menacing look and snarled, “Don’t think this is over. I’ll be back.” He walked outside to where Carmella was waiting.
“Is it true?” Carmella asked. “Can that other man get this boy off scot free?”
Gomez gave a disgusted shrug. “Yeah, I guess it could happen.”
“You know he’s guilty! How can you let a man go free when he’s guilty?”
“It’s not me,” Gomez said defensively. “It’s Mahoney. He’s the one.”
“Why do you let him get away with it? Don’t you care?”
“Of course I care,” Gomez said. “I care, but sometimes caring ain’t enough. You need proof positive.”
“My Sid shot him!” Carmella’s bottom lip quivered as she spoke. The anger she was holding back was almost too much to bear. “Sid’s a God-fearing man. He would never shoot another human being if he didn’t have good reason!”
“I know that, and you know that,” Gomez replied, “but try telling the rest of the world.”
At that point Gomez walked away and left Carmella stewing in her own rage. “That’s exactly what I will do!” she grumbled. Already a plan was forming
in her mind.
Carmella returned to Sid’s room, and for almost three hours she sat beside his bed. Only now she wasn’t listening to the whoosh of the machine pushing air into Sid’s lungs, nor was she watching the green bleeps traveling across the monitor screen. Now Carmella was thinking of how to get the revenge she wanted. It was four-thirty when she picked up the phone and dialed Lucinda’s number.
“I need a favor,” Carmella said.
“For you, sweetie, anything,” Lucinda answered.
Carmella explained that it wasn’t just for her, it was for her dear, sweet Sid. She went on to remind Lucinda how Sid supported the school baseball team, hand-delivered groceries when anyone was sick, and gave generously to the church. Then she launched into the unfairness of the man who shot Sid getting off scot free. “Is that a fitting tribute for a man like Sid?” she sobbed.
“But,” Lucinda stuttered, “what can I do about that?”
Carmella’s sobbing stopped. “Not you. Mike.”
“Mike?”
“Yes,” Carmella answered. “If Mike were to run a story about how someone is trying to circle around justice, I think public opinion would turn against that detective and he’d have to do the job he’s supposed to do. As the editor of the paper, he has an obligation to let folks know what’s happening.”
“You could be right.”
“I absolutely am. Remember when Mike wrote about that butcher over on Elm weighing meat with his thumb on the scale?”
“Seven or eight years back, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Carmella answered. “But people remember. Now everyone insists on getting a pound–and-a-half of sausage for every pound they buy.”
“That’s true,” Lucinda agreed.
By the time Carmella finished pouring out her version of a crooked cop getting a hoodlum off scot free, Lucinda was nearly in tears. She promised that Mike would do something to right this travesty of justice, or he’d be cooking his own dinner for a month.
Jubilee's Journey Page 17