The reverend paused again and looked intently at the congregation. “You remember my Susie,” he continued in a broken voice. “You remember how one day her life was taken from me. How it was taken from her mother and her friends. You remember the man who took it and how God saw fit to deal with that man by having him die in prison. You remember and you demand that the same happens to those boys who took Gladys from us.”
Hick’s heart dropped. Was Reverend Wheeler making an accusation from the pulpit? Did he know something? He glanced at Adam whose usually relaxed face was taut and strained. Adam shook his head in disbelief. Evidently, the fact that the Delaney brothers had found the body had become public knowledge. Hick turned, and out of the corner of his eye, saw the delighted face of Wayne Murphy, testimony to his part in spreading that news.
The reverend stood silently for another moment and his eyes lighted on Hick. He said nothing, but his expression was accusatory, as if wondering why the Delaney brothers were not at that very moment rotting away behind bars. Then, he turned and walked, back ramrod straight and head held high, to his chair while the organist played and the church soloist began singing “Amazing Grace.” After the soloist sat down and the congregation wiped their eyes and stifled their sobs, one of the English teachers recited the Lord’s Prayer and the Home Economics teacher read the 23rd Psalm. Then everyone sang Gladys’s favorite hymn, “Blessed Assurance.” Finally, George Shelley, the last principal of Cherokee Crossing High School, approached the podium. He seemed ill at ease after the reverend’s speech and paused to take a deep breath. In the pause it was impossible to not compare the two men. Whereas Wheeler was grim and dark, George Shelley was tall, with a handsome and open, youthful face.
Hick recalled when his father hired George Shelley. Only a boy, he still remembered Mr. Shelley bringing his young wife by the house. They were new to Cherokee Crossing, and Hick’s mother invited them often for dinner. Hick remembered his dad and George sitting on the porch swing after dinner while George’s wife, Elizabeth helped with the dishes. George was extremely clever and no one was surprised when he was transferred midyear to a larger school in Pocahontas. After cancer forced Hick’s father to stop working, George Shelley had returned as principal and then had the unfortunate task of overseeing the school’s closure and transfer of the remaining Cherokee Crossing students to the consolidated district in Pocahontas.
George cleared his throat and brought Hick’s attention back to the present. “It is with great difficulty that I stand before you all today,” he began with evident emotion. “If you would have told me last year while Gladys and I were closing the school that in another year we’d be burying her, I would not have believed you. Gladys was so full of life. When the school closed, she personally sent every student a note of encouragement, reminding them that Cherokee Crossing High School had given them an excellent education, and that they had nothing to fear in Pocahontas. She was correct. Our students excelled in Pocahontas last year, in large part due to the foundation and example set here in Cherokee Crossing.”
“Gladys was a private person. She never said a lot about herself, but she didn’t need to. You knew who she was by the life she led. She was one of those rare individuals that everyone, without exception, liked and admired. I remember when Elizabeth and I first moved to Cherokee Crossing. It was Gladys Kestrel who invited us to church, this church. She made sure we felt welcome here, and we did. It is with gratitude that I remember her kind attention and the way all of you took us in.”
“When we were closing the school last spring, she insisted I leave all the tedious paperwork in her hands. Knowing that I had a new job in Tennessee, she sacrificed her free time to close the school so Elizabeth and I could put our new house in order.”
“The last we heard from her was at Christmas. She sent us a beautiful card and a fruitcake, and, of course, knowing Gladys as we all do, she sent the girls candy. I had no idea it would be the last time we would hear from her.” He paused and closed his eyes. He began again, but his voice broke. Finally, he continued, “I don’t know why anyone would hurt
Gladys. She was thoughtful, caring, and kind. She would go out of her way to give anyone a hand and never once thought of herself. While we can’t make sense of it, we need to move on with our lives and honor Gladys by living our lives the way she lived hers, by helping our fellow man, lending a hand to those in need, and listening to those who have nowhere else to turn. That is how I intend to honor the life of Gladys Kestrel, one of the finest people I ever knew.”
Loud sobs erupted from the front of the church and Hick recognized Miss Audie’s voice. His mother dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, and Maggie dug in her purse for a handkerchief, finally settling for the corner of little Jimmy’s blanket. George’s eulogy had been a beautiful contrast to the Reverend Wheeler’s harsh, embittered accusations, and Hick was thankful that the funeral ended on a warmer note, one more fitting for a woman like Gladys Kestrel.
The Wanderlust Cemetery sat on the outskirts of Cherokee Crossing in the middle of an enormous cotton field. The small, scrubby trees scattered between the tombstones were sparsely leafed after the unusually cold, wet spring, and to Hick it seemed ironic that Gladys would be buried there. Wanderlust was not something with which she was afflicted. His mother said that Gladys arrived in Cherokee Crossing, Arkansas in 1918, one year after Hick’s father had begun his teaching career, and she’d been there ever since.
No one knew where Gladys came from, but the Postmaster whispered of an envelope sent from a Memphis adoption agency stamped with, “Photo. Do Not Bend.” It became common knowledge that twenty-year-old Gladys Kestrel had a son out of wedlock and Cherokee Crossing was her haven. This information made a brief impression and then was forgotten by everyone but Gladys. The mouths of the gossips were closed, largely due to her impeccable life.
The service was already underway when Hick, after taking Maggie and Jimmy home, arrived at the gravesite. His mother and Miss Audie sat beneath a tent that flapped in the cool breeze as Ted Wheeler read from the Bible. Cardinals sang pretty-pretty-pretty from nearby branches and puffy white clouds billowed above the damp-smelling earth. The typical, beautiful June morning was natural and right; the grief and pain of burying Gladys was unnatural and definitely wrong. Standing apart from the cluster of mourners, Hick watched the sad spectacle and tried to make sense of it all.
“Morning Sheriff,” a voice said, breaking into Hick’s thoughts. He shook the hand offered by Matt Pringle and the two men stood watching as the coffin was lowered into the ground. In spite of Matt’s short-lived engagement to Maggie, the men had remained on friendly terms, Matt letting his disappointment fall effortlessly from him, as he had every other disappointment. He married a girl from the next town over and they were expecting their first child. In spite of his penchant for self-centeredness, he was one of those people hard to dislike. He cleared his throat and said, in a lowered voice, “I don’t mean to step on any toes, and I ain’t one to tell you how to do your job …”
Hick looked at him in surprise. “It’s just this,” Matt continued. “Wheeler, he might be a preacher and all, but you need to know, he’s got a real vindictive side to him. My brother Ronnie dated Susie when they were in high school and Wheeler was over-protective. And I don’t mean like other daddies who protect their daughters. I mean he was relentless.”
“What do you mean by relentless?” Hick asked.
“He hovered like a mosquito, like Susie was his property to give to whoever he saw fit. Every date they ever had was in that house and within earshot of Wheeler. He was possessive and mean and he never forgave Abner Delaney for killing his little girl. I don’t doubt his hate reaches far enough that he’d like nothing more than to see Abner’s boys tagged for this crime.”
Hick recalled what he knew of Matt’s older brother, Ronnie. Because he was only ten years old when Ronnie Pringle died, he never knew the older boy personally, but he knew a great deal about him. In his tim
e, Ronnie Pringle had been the big man on campus at the Cherokee Crossing High School. He was wealthy and attractive and favored with those blessings life is generally all too stingy in bestowing. Like Susie Wheeler, he never realized any potential he might have had as soon after graduation he was kicked in the head by a mule. They say he died instantly.
Hick thought of his wife’s short-lived engagement with Matt, a younger, but otherwise almost identical version of his brother. He never understood Maggie’s obstinate refusal to stop loving him when Matt Pringle could have given her so much more.
Matt bent down and picked a couple of burrs from his pant cuff. He straightened back up and put his hands in his pockets. “I know Eben and Jed. They’ve worked for me for years, and I don’t reckon I can see them killing Gladys. But Wheeler can and does and what he said today is just the start. I know how he operates. His God is a God of hate and vengeance. I just wanted you to know.”
“I gathered he already had his mind made up.”
“And before he’s done, half of Cherokee Crossing will have their minds made up, too.”
Hick sighed and shook his head. The scratch of a shovel and the thud of dirt hitting the coffin marred the beautiful spring day “A damned shame,” Matt muttered, and then clapped Hick on the back and turned to go.
Hick couldn’t get Matt’s words out of his head as he drove his mother back to the church for the funeral luncheon. She sat beside him quietly, a small, lace handkerchief held to her nose. He reached across the seat and squeezed her hand and she smiled at him through her tears.
“Gladys was a good person,” she said in a quiet voice. “I feel like I’ve lost part of my family.”
“I know, Ma.”
“What do you think your daddy will say?”
Hick glanced at his mother and decided he misheard her.
“You don’t think those boys …” she said with a sniffle.
“I don’t know,” Hick answered. “I can’t believe it, but I just don’t know.”
He pondered the idea of Jed and Eben killing Gladys, but couldn’t fathom them being cunning enough to call the police to throw the investigation off their trail. They weren’t dumb, but they weren’t shrewd either. And what possible motive could they have for the killing? He was still thinking of the two boys when they arrived at the church. Walking inside, he saw a group in what appeared to be a heated debate.
“Poverty is not a crime,” Elizabeth Shelley, George’s wife, was saying as Hick joined the group.
The reverend looked at her benignly as if taking into account she was simply a hysterical female and not fully aware of what she was saying or with whom she was speaking. “Perhaps not,” he answered in a condescending voice, “but when the character of a man is so skewed that he can no longer tell right from wrong, he must be removed from society, regardless of the cause.”
“And you feel no share in the responsibility for this ‘skewing’?” Mrs. Shelley persisted. Mrs. Shelley’s appearance belied a more passionate nature. She was a small woman with a face more intelligent than beautiful. At this moment, her light eyes flashed at the pastor. There were few women in Cherokee Crossing who would dare confront Reverend Wheeler, let alone engage him in debate.
Wheeler’s eyes narrowed. “I have no responsibility in what hoodlums do. They do not share our values. They take what they can with no respect for humanity. For those of us who value mankind as being created in the image of God, what share can we have in their wrongdoing?”
“But, aren’t the poor also created in God’s image?”
“The poor are poor because of the sins of the fathers, the laziness of the mothers, and the will of the almighty. Who are we to question the will of God?” He noticed Hick and, anxious to extricate himself from Mrs. Shelley, demanded, “And what of the Delaney boys? Have they been arrested?”
“No, Reverend Wheeler. On what charge?”
The reverend stared at him, his eyes cold as icicles. “Murder, of course. You can’t possibly think anyone else killed Miss Kestrel.”
“Until Adam and I complete our investigation, I am keeping an open mind.”
The reverend’s lips thinned and pressed together in a scowl. “You can’t be serious. Those boys are the fruit of Abner Delaney. Murder runs in the blood.”
“Even if that were true,” Hick countered, “I can’t arrest them for what their father did years ago.”
Mrs. Shelley turned back toward Reverend Wheeler. “Thank goodness there is someone left in Cherokee Crossing with a little sense.” Addressing Hick she said, “If you’re anything like your daddy, you won’t let prejudice cloud your better judgment.”
Hick blushed and shuffled his feet. “I don’t intend to let—”
Reverend Wheeler exhaled loudly. “Intend,” he repeated in a mocking voice. “Your good intentions may let two killers walk free. Even now, they’re probably on their way out of town.”
“That truck of theirs wouldn’t even get them to Pocahontas. Them boys ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
The reverend inched closer to Hick. “Have you seen a fox caught in a trap? They will gnaw off their own feet to get away. Those boys will be out of the state tomorrow if you don’t get out there and arrest them today.”
Hick stood his ground. Noting Wayne Murphy hovering he said, “Jed and Eben Delaney are not suspects in this murder. They are material witnesses, but that is where their involvement appears to end. Unless I have some kind of substantial evidence, I cannot and will not bring them boys in.”
The reverend’s face reddened. “The next time you look for your ‘material witnesses’ they’ll be gone. I know how these people operate. They’ll be gone and Gladys’s blood will accuse you from the grave.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” Hick nodded at Mrs. Shelley, turned from the reverend, and joined his mother and sister at a table where a glass of sweet tea waited for him.
Adam arrived with a heaping plate of food and took a seat across from Hick. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Apparently Wheeler has some sort of God-given ability to see into the hearts and minds of men that we mortals lack.”
“He’s gonna be a problem.” Adam picked up a piece of fried chicken and bit into it.
Hick’s sister, Pam, leaned forward. “Sounded like Mrs. Shelley was really giving it to him.”
“Well, I’m glad someone has the nerve,” Adam said through a mouthful of chicken.
“Tennessee seems to be agreeing with the Shelleys,” Pam continued.
“I believe they’ll be very happy there.” Hick’s mom patted Pam’s arm.
“I reckon a change now and then can be a welcome thing,” Hick said absently, his attention focused on Wayne Murphy who stood apart from everyone else, coolly observing the room as was his custom. Murphy caught his eye and nodded. Hick turned away. He took a long drink of his tea and looked at his brother-in-law. “Adam, you gonna be ready to get back to work any time soon?”
Adam stuffed a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, grabbed a chicken breast from his plate, and stood up. “Let’s go get this bastard.”
4
Stopping the squad car in front of the Cherokee Crossing High School, Hick and Adam climbed out. They climbed the acorn stained steps toward the whitewashed glass door. For over three decades the building had housed kids in grades seven through twelve, and yet in a year’s time nature had already begun to reclaim its space. The gutter above the doorway had torn away from the building and rain pouring down the façade caused green mold and white mildew to grow on the bricks. Kudzu crept up the mortar and was beginning to spread across the front of the building. The lawn was overgrown, and thick weeds sprouted through cracks in the sidewalk. Several small trees grew up against the foundation along with various unidentifiable bushes. The windows had been boarded up, but some on the second floor already had holes from squirrels and raccoons. Hick imagined how sad all of this must have made Gladys as she watched the school’s slow d
escent into decay.
Inside, the place was shrouded in darkness and eerily empty. The two men pulled out their flashlights, and Hick noted the darkened rectangle on the wall where the portrait of his father, now hanging in his mother’s living room, had spent so many years. The formerly gleaming linoleum floors were now covered in dust, and the locked trophy case which had displayed the baseball trophies of their youth now stood open, its shelves bare. The school closing had been a hard blow for the town, in particular for Gladys Kestrel. While most of the staff was able to find work elsewhere, Gladys didn’t seem to have the energy to look. It was as if she was part of the brick and mortar of the building. She never ceased to come to her office every day, supposedly to clear up files and paperwork. But everyone knew that Gladys’s whole life was wrapped up in that building. She couldn’t stay away.
A gloom settled around them as they made their way down the hallway toward the principal’s office. Hick opened the door to the reception area and then stepped into Gladys’s office. It smelled musty and close but was still relatively organized. They ran their flashlights along the length of the room noting that everything seemed to be in order. The filing cabinets were emptied, their contents boxed and stacked in neat rows along the wall. With a glance at the door to his father’s office, Hick turned to Adam. “Nothing suspicious here. No signs of a struggle. Everything’s just as she left it.”
Adam picked up a file from one of the boxes and shined his flashlight on it. “Where were these going?”
“I reckon to the county courthouse. Archives, probably.”
Adam thumbed through the box. “A lot of people went through this school. End of an era.”
Hick moved to Gladys’s desk and sat in the chair. He looked at the files sitting on top of it and then at the box beside the desk. “It looks like she was almost finished. These are from 1949. She’s got files from 1915 through ’49. The school had a pretty good run.”
Behind Every Door Page 3