Murder in the Classic City

by Sheila S Hudson

  Giles had a lot of questions about this guy. I explained that from what I could remember Ed had always been socially dysfunctional. But that didn’t explain the name change unless he decided to make a clean breast of his old life. But more importantly, why was he parked in front of my house holding a copy of the Diva Code in his cold dead hands?

  Sgt. Grimes confirmed my credentials with the editor at Avalon Inc. The local authorities couldn’t wait to release their findings to the press telling the whole world that Stella Holmes was really Stephanie Hart. Local media had already “leaked” most of the details anyway including a college photo of me with the deceased at a Christmas formal. I wonder where they dug that up. The reporter also listed details about Giles complete with his activities as professor turned police consultant. Giles was not exactly thrilled with the spotlight.

  And there was more. I hadn’t exactly told the police everything. About a year ago, my editor thought it would be a good research opportunity to visit Chatoog Center, a minimum-security facility for white collar crime. My next Diva book had a character who went to jail for fraudulent tax reports. Pamela Ford, my agent, suggested that the experience would enrich the sequel. I researched some of the facts, toured the center, did a book signing, and there he was – Ed Lawson, a face from the past. We chatted about old times and that was that. That’s when he got the autographed book! That had been at least a year ago.

  Ed was incarcerated in connection with a financial fraud. He swore he was innocent and vowed that when he got out, he would prove it. I wonder if impersonating a priest was part of that plan.

  About a month after the book signing, Ed’s letters started coming via the publisher. I only opened the first one. He sounded too passionate about our history, so I stuffed his other letters into a bureau drawer underneath lingerie. Then as suddenly as the letters came, they stopped. Since no one knew anything about Stella Holmes, the novels, or the book signing gigs, I forgot all about it.

  I wonder how much of this I should confess and how much I should keep to myself. If Ed died of asphyxiation, then I didn’t want to stir the pot with accusations. But what if there was foul play. . .?

  4

  November arrived bringing autumn leaves, barbecues, and elections. Fortunately, elections moved our notoriety to the back burner. Stella Holmes was now – old news. The ruffled feathers smoothed eventually.

  Edmund Tolbert aka Ed Lawson’s death was ruled a suicide, which I didn’t believe. Whether or not he was a ‘man of the cloth’ was another issue. A friend worked at the coroner’s office and got me a copy of the report.

  Asphyxiation was listed as cause of death. From the report he had all the classic symptoms even blue lips. From the little I knew about poisons, I recalled that some varieties can mimic asphyxiation and impersonate carbon monoxide. The description said that Ed wore typical priest clothes and had an old picture of me crumpled in his suit coat. So that’s where the press got that picture.

  Back home to my Agatha Christie books, the PDR, and the internet for more research. Ed would probably be amused if I gave him a starring role in my next novel. And that reminds me, the good sergeant hadn’t returned my galleys.

  My editor wanted one more round of edits before I mailed the final galleys back to him. He wanted them as soon as he returned from his Caribbean cruise. If I sold enough copies of Diva’s Revenge perhaps Giles and I could afford a cruise.

  It was time to give the good sergeant a call or perhaps a visit.

  5

  Larry Alewine was running for mayor against the incumbent. The Alewine slogan is Family – First and Foremost. The Alewines are a prominent family in our burg. Larry’s wife, Beth, and I were friends at one point in our lives, but Beth’s career aspirations trumped everything. The Alewine dynasty was all about blue bloods, aristocracy, and breeding. It marked everything the family touched. No scandal has ever been linked to them, no skeletons in the closet, and no out of wedlock surprises, indiscretions, or quickie annulments. Like a mini-Mafia they had done their job well. Squeaky clean and honest as the day is long at least according to the local newspaper. I suspect if you dug back far enough there was an Alewine ancestor in the editor’s chair.

  Beth’s aspirations had always controlled her life but accelerated after law school. She clerked in the law offices of Benton and Motley rising through the ranks until she caught the eye of Larry Alewine. Beth joined their staff in 1990 and their family in 1993. Only taking time out for Larry, Jr. in 1995, Beth climbed her way to the top and was now a junior partner in the firm. Indeed, Beth had it all and she wasn’t about to lose it. Just how far she would go to protect her holdings was to be tested.

  As luck or politics would have it. Beth’s husband, Larry, was the current Chair of the Personnel Committee at the Episcopalian Church. Larry had interviewed the deceased, Ed Lawson aka Fr. Edmund Tolbert for a staff position. This made Larry possibly the last person to see Ed Lawson alive. During the interview Edmund confessed that he was an ex-offender and wanted a second chance. He produced evidence that he had changed his ways and was studying for the priesthood.

  When Larry decided not to recommend Ed to the personnel committee, he took umbrage and lashed out according to the statements Larry made to the police. The secretary at the Episcopal Church overheard Ed make threats that the Alewines would be sorry for the way he was treated. The shouting was obvious and there were a lot of witnesses to this outburst. This begged the question: Was Ed blackmailing someone? Is that what got him killed? Was it a coincidence that he was in the same town as me with my book and my picture? I didn’t think the police would buy that story. So, I decided to visit Beth in her law office. Maybe Larry told her something he hadn’t shared with the police.

  “Beth, did you know Ed before he came to town?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not. I don’t know why he applied for that job at the church. Larry said he wasn’t qualified at all and was more interested in spouting his ridiculous theories. Obviously, the man had mental problems. I don’t know anything about this ancient story in some newspaper either,” she flung the article at me.

  I scanned the article and remembered it like yesterday. It was coverage of the slaughter of a newborn the University of Georgia fifteen years ago. No one was ever charged in the murder. The case was cold with no clues and no suspects. Just a butchered infant laid to rest without a name on a cold day in January.

  “I was a graduate student when this happened. It rocked my world,” I confessed. I looked up from the article to see Beth wipe away a tear with a tissue.

  “Mine too,” she whispered and turned toward the window.

  While her back was turned, I pocketed the tissue in hopes of finding some answers.

  “Oh, Beth. I am sorry to be so insensitive. It forgot that it was during this same time that your sister. . . um . . . disappeared. This stirs up painful memories, I’m sure. So, what was Ed’s theory that involved you?” I asked.

  “I don’t have a clue, but when he produced this article, Larry threw him out on his ear. I was nowhere near the Athens campus when this occurred. I had an internship with a firm in Augusta that entire semester. I, like the rest of the world, only knew what the media revealed. Of course, it was a heartbreaking event.

  “When I did come home a few days after this story broke, my mother revealed that Lilith left school and she didn’t know where she was. I’ve since had no contact and presume she is dead.

  “Mr. Lawson’s visit was quite upsetting to Larry and to me. One thing Larry said Ed kept repeating was that he was coming back,” Beth said.

  “What do you think he meant by saying that?” I asked.

  Beth regained her poise, but she had shown me the chink in her armor. She sat back down at her desk and the hard shelled Alewine was back.

  “I’ve told the police just what I told you. This Ed person was crazed and obviously desperate. I don’t know any more than I’ve told everyone. I don’t want to be rude but please leave.”


  I thought about our conversation as I turned the corner at Hamilton Avenue and Haight Street. Obviously, Ed’s visit to the Alewines had touched a nerve. How much of Beth’s past did Larry know? Was she hiding the history about her sister? What if anything did it have to do with the news article?

  The car automatically turned into the driveway of my childhood home. I often come here to think things out. Sometimes I bring my laptop and work out the plots of my books, draw character sketches, or research background for my novels. Today I just wanted solace and perhaps some clarity as to what was really going on.

  The English Tudor stood like the monarch she was anchoring the dead-end street. Her front porch and the old creaky wooden swing hung silently waiting. I spent the bulk of my girlhood here in this place. It remained gallantly, a little older and needing a paint job but as elegant as ever.

  Thankfully, no neighbors were within sight, so I stood on the porch for a few minutes basking in memories of reverent silence. The balcony, devoid of Mother’s hanging plants and sun chairs, was bare except for the sense of a powerful presence, which lingered. The lawn now lay unkempt, the garden overrun with thorns and thistles like undisciplined, riotous children. The grass crept over the walkway. The flower garden lay still and silent, another victim of neglect. When my key turned in the lock, a chill ran through my soul. Am I unleashing the past or coming to grips with the present? What exactly did I hope to find here?

  I took a quick turn of the first floor. Everything was in order. Giles and I should put this house on the market but doing so would be like selling part of my soul. Anyway, the real estate market wasn’t good, so I got a temporary reprieve.

  I sat my purse in the front room rocker and returned to the veranda. I sat in the swing for a while. It creaked with “porch music” just as I remembered. I needed that rhythm to collect and organize my thoughts. It was here I got most of my plots for the Diva series. Maybe that alone was reason to keep the homeplace.

  My order of events included retrieving my book galleys from the police, find out what Ed said to Larry Alewine, unseal and read the rest of Ed’s letters, and somehow make these puzzle pieces fit. But first I had a funeral to attend.

  6

  More out of curiosity than anything else, I attended the late Ed Lawson’s memorial service. No relatives came to collect the body, so it was purely a state sponsored event. Dr. Spencer was the minister on call. He briefed himself on what little the police furnished about the deceased’s background. I had sympathy for his situation, but he did as well as anyone could under the circumstances.

  I arrived as the organist completed the last strains of Amazing Grace. I slipped in and sat in the back scanning those who attended. There were officials from the funeral home present to attend to details. No familiar faces that I could spot.

  But wait. Beth Alewine was in attendance. Odd! She claimed that she didn’t know Ed. Indeed, she claimed she had never met him or even heard of him until the interview with Larry. Nevertheless, there she is in the darkest corner. Did Beth lie to me and to the police? Maybe she did know more than she let on. I left early before Beth could spot me. I had a friend in the police department, and it was time to call in a favor.

  ~

  “I could get in deep do-do for this Stephanie,” Natalie reminded me as she pulled a banker’s storage box from the shelf.

  “Is it for one of your mysteries?” she continued.

  “Uh, yes. Perhaps. I’m curious about who this guy really is and why he turned up in our town. I am supposed to know him, but I really don’t,” I answered.

  Natalie was nervous about bring the box out of the evidence room, but she sat it on the nearby table and reminded me, “Ten minutes and I have to get this back to the evidence room.” I nodded.

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  The doors closed behind Natalie and I was left to investigate the person behind this charade. I lifted out the contents: black trousers, black shirt, a crucifix, black shoes and socks, imitation leather wallet with a few dollars in it, and keys. A key to the car and another one, presumably to his lodgings. There was the crumpled photo of me and Ed at some school event. So that’s where they got the picture. And last but not least Ed’s copy of The Diva Code.

  My hands trembled as I opened the flyleaf and there was my signature: Thanks, Stella Holmes. It took me a moment to remember that day when I signed books at the Chatoog Center. Ed was friendly enough. We chatted a little and I moved on to the next person in line. Then he said something peculiar as I left. What was it now? It was a quote that I thought odd at the time but now it made more sense.

  There are no secrets that time does not reveal.

  What secrets? How will they be revealed? I slipped the copy of The Diva Code into my pocket, replaced the lid on the evidence box, and texted Natalie that I was through. Evidence gets lost or misplaced all the time. I had to trust the authorities wouldn’t discover it was missing until I could replace it.

  At home I began methodically going through the book I swiped from the police. Nothing was obvious for the first fifty pages. Then on page 51 I struck gold: “dimly lit rooms encourage dangerous crimes.” I made a sandwich and searched on through chapter after chapter jotting down highlighted words and notes scribbled in the margins. I also googled the quote that Ed mentioned that day at Chatoog. It was from Jean Racine whose life was a tragedy.

  Could I prove that this was Ed’s handwriting? And would I be able to put together some kind of timeline for these jottings?

  I was interrupted as Giles came home from dinner. It wasn’t quite time to let him in on this, so I placed my day’s sleuthing in a drawer. We had the usual evening conversation. Afterwards, Giles went upstairs to read. I cleaned up the kitchen and only pulled out the book and my notes when I knew my husband was fast asleep.

  At 2 a.m. I awoke at my desk with my notes sprawled out everywhere. I had gone through most of The Diva Code and accumulated a lot of words and phrases. Ed had devised a code of his own. He must have anticipated foul play to go to all this trouble. It must have been some sort of insurance. I was too tired to make sense of it. Maybe Giles or my favorite curmudgeonly uncle could help.

  7

  “Hi Uncle Harry,” I called out.

  “Hello yourself,” he answered. “I’m on the back porch. Come on out.”

  I used my key to unlock the front door, tossed my overstuffed tote onto the couch, and grabbed a cup of coffee on my way out to the greenhouse. No matter the weather, my favorite uncle could always be counted on to have everything wide open.

  Uncle Harry aka Colonel Harry Roberts U.S. Army Retired, was not really my uncle but a close friend of the family. I assumed that he had heard the news about my alter ego and would read me the riot act about keeping secrets. Instead, he was poised over a plant tenderly clipping off dead leaves and inspecting its health.

  “What’cha doing?”

  “Trying to bring this castor plant back to health,” he answered.

  “Another poisonous addition to your little shop of horrors?” I asked.

  “But of course. I study them for their healing properties as well as for their deadly ones.”

  Harry smiled and put away his looking glass and tiny clippers. I loved this strange little man who had been my surrogate father for many years. I used what he had taught me about poisons in much of my research. Although I never really announced that I wrote novels I always suspected that he knew.

  Everyone is not privileged to have medical knowledge like Agatha Christie, so an author uses what she has. Harry was my ace in the hole when it came to knowledge of all things deadly. He was a mystery novelist best friend.

  “Have you been keeping up with the latest about the dead man in our driveway and the notorious person I’ve become?”

  “Oh yes. But it’s no surprise to me. I guessed long ago that you were more than met the eye. I’ve read most of Stella Holmes’ books and a lot of the sample excerpts. I recognized the poisons and you even quot
ed me from time to time. Your father would be proud,” he said.

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely. He spoke of you all the time when we were in business together and always with pride.”

  “And since you now know my secret and you are my favorite avuncular, I need a favor,” I tried to flirt and laughed instead.

  “And what would that be?” Harry answered.

  “I need to know what would turn lips blue and kill you but may not necessarily be carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “You don’t believe the police report?”

  “No. I believe Ed Lawson was murdered because he was going to reveal something that would bring down an influential person. I think his clumsy attempt at blackmail got him killed. He died with my book in his hand, so maybe he was trying to tell me something. Anyway, that’s my crazy notion, so will you help me?”

  “Sure. I ‘d be delighted,” his eyes twinkled.

  With his poison botanicals I was assured that my uncle could come up with a variety of answers to my question. I would bet anything that if Ed Lawson was poisoned, as I posited, Uncle Harry would be just the person to find out how, with what, and when.

  “I just need some time, the coroner’s report, and any other details you can manage,” Harry stated.

  “Are you sure you aren’t former CIA, FBI, KGB, or maybe MI6?” I asked trying to keep from smiling.

  “Yes. I’m sure. This is just a hobby, but you would be surprised how many people are interested in poisons, especially natural ones,” he answered.

  “I’m sure, but just know that I’m your number one fan,” I responded. “How much time do you need?”