The Rivers Webb

by Jeremy Tyler

  The Rivers Webb

  By Jeremy Tyler

  Copyright 2011 by Jeremy Tyler

  Cover Copyright 2011 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  The Rivers Webb

  By Jeremy Tyler

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Thursday, May 19th, 1942

  The rivers are always cold in Coweta County. They flow from underground springs that bubble up out of the high hills, and fork out throughout the region. Some are barely trickling streams, just enough water to carve out a little niche through the forest. But some are quite deep indeed.

  The Parrott River, outside of Sales City, for example, is especially deep, and wide enough in some sections that small islands have formed. These little islands have become a favorite spot for picnics and romantic trysts. Fishermen like to camp out on the islands, too. Fishermen like Earl Cameron. Earl believed in only two things for certain: fishing, and the Baptist Church.

  Fishing, because it was the one thing he could do where nobody complained or nagged about his drinking, and the Baptist Church, because the preacher always talked about Eternal Security. Sure, he would always remind Earl that God blessed those who did what was right…but Earl would just smile, as he put his 50 cents in the offering plate. As far as he was concerned, who cares if you’ve got the smallest house in Heaven—as long as everyone’s got the same view. That was Earl’s philosophy on God, redemption, and church, all rolled together.

  This morning, Earl was stretching and yawning from one of the best night’s sleep he had had in a long time. “GrandPappy Island” was the largest on the river, at 40 feet across, and was situated far enough away from any roads that Earl could while away the evening the way he liked to, with all the beer he wanted, and with nothing but the sound of crickets to lull him to sleep.

  Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he made his way to the shore, where the ice-cold water was keeping his liquid breakfast fresh for him. Unfortunately for Earl, his morning was about to take a decidedly negative turn. As he reached down into that icy water to pull out the six-pack, he brought up much more than beer, and the sight that greeted him when he pulled it up was enough to sober him completely, with no further thought to alcohol.

  The thing about ice-cold water is, it preserves things—almost perfectly. So, Earl could make no mistake about the face of the man now lying on shore, next to his beer. Reverend Carl Rivers was unmistakable, even with the gunshot wound leaving a nasty hole in his temple.

  Earl couldn’t have known that the entire town had been searching for the good reverend since Tuesday, because he had been fishing all week, and had not spoken to a single soul that whole time. If he had been more social, he would have known that Reverend Rivers had never shown up for the ladies bingo game held at the Methodist Church Fellowship Hall every Tuesday. He would have realized that his disappearance had sparked a massive search involving nearly every man, woman, and child in Coweta County. He would also have known that, as he stood there, stupefied and shocked, word was spreading across four counties and beyond, that the reverend was missing, and feared dead.

  But Earl had been fishing. So all he knew was that, for some reason, the Methodist Pastor that used to keep a hunting cabin just a few miles from his little fishing shack had just shown up dead in the middle of his fishing trip.

  It was a tough moment for poor Earl. He was one of Georgia’s proud natives, and had hunted these hills since he was a boy…but there was a big difference between hauling a buck into your truck and moving a dead reverend out of a river. Grimacing, he grabbed the dead man by the collar and pulled him onto shore. Certain that he was far enough on land and wouldn’t be traveling anywhere until he got back, Earl left the body and ran to his boat.

  Such a trauma did the whole thing place on Earl that he was all the way down the river to where he had parked his truck before he realized that he still held the beer can that had so recently been lying next to Reverend Rivers’ head.

  “Reverend, if you were trying to break me of the drink, this was as close to successful as anyone’s ever got!” he said out loud.

  The sound of the beer tab being pulled echoed loudly, just before he turned the ignition in his truck, and raced off to find the sheriff.

  Monday, May 23rd, 1942

  The mournful wailing of the train whistle sounded oddly appropriate today. As the train slowly pulled into the Moultrie Station, John Webb was feeling every bit as despondent as any man could. Carl Rivers had been more than an uncle to him. He was the man who had encouraged him throughout childhood and well into adulthood, with an uncanny way of knowing when John needed a kind word the most. Even separated by an immense distance, it had always been his Uncle Carl that had managed to bring him through his toughest times. He couldn’t begin to count the number of times he had come home from a difficult day, feeling as low as he possibly could, and sure enough, there would be a letter waiting for him.

  Carl Rivers had also been his sole connection to this small Georgia town. His sole connection, in fact, to everyone on his father’s side of the family—including his father. After his mother had finally had enough of the Rivers family and their “fine southern grandeur,” she packed her few belongings, grabbed her four-year-old son, and left. There was no bitter divorce or nasty custody hearing. Roy Rivers offered a substantial sum as a settlement, which she promptly refused, and that was all.

  To this day, John did not know what had caused her to leave it all behind. When he asked as a child, she just smiled at him, and said that they were better off away. Later, when he asked her as an adult, she talked around the subject, stating only that the lifestyle she was expected to live, and that was expected of him, was not one that she could ever be comfortable with. She would never say anything more specific, no matter how much John asked her. Her determination to keep quiet was unmovable. After a while, he stopped trying to get answers out of her. He was happy with his life, and he learned to appreciate it, regardless of the circumstances that had brought him to this point.

  Though she never would say anything more about it, John knew that there had to be something that had happened to make his mother leave—something so terrible that she would leave her husband and all the comforts of a wealthy home, and return to Connecticut with little more than the clothes she and little John had on. But his mother kept whatever secrets she knew about the Rivers family with her until the day she died.

  John was raised by his mother, with the help of Grandma and Grandpa Webb, and the only person from the Rivers family that ever called, wrote, or showed any interest in his continued existence was Uncle Carl.

  Uncle Carl, who had driven all t
he way up to Connecticut to watch him play his first little league game. Uncle Carl, who had been there for every major event in his life. Uncle Carl, who had told John how proud he was when he graduated from the Police Academy, and had given him a beautiful gold pen when he had been promoted to detective. Uncle Carl, who had been a constant source of support, advice, and comfort in times of doubt.

  Of course, now he was gone. He was dead, murdered, and there was no chance in hell that his killer would ever be found, unless someone who knew what he was doing was heading up the case.

  Which is exactly why he had dropped everything to come down here.

  As John stepped off the train, he breathed in the air of his home state. It was fragrant, cloying, and slightly spicy, but not, overall, unpleasant. Oddly, he felt very removed from it all. He had assumed he would feel some kind of connection, some sense of familiarity, but he felt just as alien as if he had placed one foot on Mars.

  “John? John is that you? My sands, how could it be that you look so much like your father…?” The voice was familiar enough, since he’d only just spoken with his aunt, Wilhelmina, just yesterday. Beyond their exact relation, he knew very little of her, save that the mention of her name had always sent a cold shiver down his mother’s back. Matching the face to the voice offered little surprise. As he had imagined, her face was set deep with lines and creases brought on by years of disapproving frowns and condescending scowls. Her clothes were just as harsh, and pristinely laundered, as though they were as loathe to touch dirt as she was to associate with people of “lesser class.”

  “Wilhelmina. I said I didn’t need anyone to meet me; I can make my way into Sales City just fine…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve arranged for you to have a car at your disposal for the duration of your stay. Can’t have you conductin’ an investigation while hitchhikin’ across the county—or is that how you do things in New York City?”

  John took the gentle rebuke in stride, trying to pretend that it was offered in a familial, motherly fashion.

  “Thank you, Aunt Wilhelmina. I guess it wouldn’t do to be asking people for rides through town, after all,” he acknowledged.

  “It certainly would not! Of course, I would have offered our man, Gerald, to drive you around, but I suppose it would offend your sensibilities, havin’ a colored work for you. I hear that it’s ‘unseemly’ up north,” Wilhelmina said, as she walked to the passenger side of a green Studebaker. She stood, expectantly, while John walked over and opened her door. The forced, acidic smile that was his reward spoke volumes. John would have liked to smile as though this was a pleasant conversation, but he could taste the bitter anger in her voice. He was not welcome, not wanted, and could only get in the way. His expertise as a detective with the New York Police Department had nothing to do with this case and would be of absolutely no help whatsoever.

  “Actually,” John said, sliding into the driver’s seat, “It’s not the idea of a black man earning a living as a servant that bothers anyone, so much as the idea that he can’t ever be anything else,” John started the car, loudly, revving the engine to punctuate his jab.

  As they pulled onto the road, John was hopeful that Wilhelmina would get the idea that he was just a rude northerner and leave him alone. It was not to be.

  “Yes, I know all about this new era we’re supposed to be livin’ in. ‘It’s 1942,’ everybody says. ‘Ya’ got to git with the times,’ they say. If you ask me though, people ought to spend less time goin’ around and stirrin’ folk up about civil rights, and spend more time focusin’ on civil livin’! Imagine, gettin’ all worked up just ’cause some folk have been asked to drink out of their own water fountains, or stay on their end of the bus… Well, you won’t hear about any such nonsense here in Coweta County. Our coloreds know a thing or two about dignity.”

  John said nothing in response. Like his aunt’s “coloreds,” he knew that dignity in Coweta County often boiled down to keeping your mouth shut.

  “Now, don’t go thinkin’ that I’m one o’ them awful people that can’t see a man for a man. No sir, that is certainly not the case!” She said with a prim, disapproving scowl. It seemed as though she were actually taking offense to what she assumed John’s opinion was of her, and was determined to set the record straight.

  “Why, I was just talkin’ the other day with the ladies at the beauty shop about that colored sailor what got a medal for bravery at Pearl Harbor. There’s been some stir about how he got a nice big medal pinned on his chest, and hundreds o’ white men who was just as brave got a pat on the head and told to git back to work. Oh, you should’a heard those hens just cackle away about how wrong that was. Well, I said right there and then what I thought, and I didn’t give one wit what anybody has ta’ say about it! I said, ‘Don’t you be sayin’ a thing about that boy defendin’ his country. He didn’t ask for a medal, no more’n anybody did. If our Navy wants to pin a medal on him, so’s colored folks can see that they’s appreciated, then I say he’s a hero twice!’ Well, I can tell you that raised an eyebrow or two, but I said it, and I’m glad I did.”

  John wasn’t sure what to make of that little speech. Should he just smile and agree that, yes, indeed, of all the bigots in the world, she was probably one of the nicest, or should he bother to point out all the parts of her ‘defense of the black man’ that were just plain wrong?

  As if realizing that a subject change was needed, Wilhelmina took a long sigh and stared off into the cow pastures along the road.

  “You know, I don’t know why you insist on stayin’ in that crowded old boardin’ house in the first place, when we got plenty of room at the house. It doesn’t seem right to leave family out, and I just feel terrible about it,” she said absently.

  “I appreciate the offer. And normally, I would be happy to accept,” John lied, “but it’s going to be more helpful to the investigation for me to be in a central location. Your house is far from the center of town, and the boarding house is right on Main Street.”

  “Well, I don’t see how that matters much. It’s only a five minute drive.”

  “True, but it’s not the amount of distance…it’s that there’s any distance at all. If I’m going to find the murderer, I’m going to have to get to know him. Spending time in town is my best shot at doing just that.”

  Wilhelmina acted as though she had just been shot.

  “John Rivers Webb, you are not about to tell me that you think someone from Coweta County did this horrible thing!”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Wilhelmina, but that is exactly what I believe.”

  “I can’t believe that you are about to waste precious time and resources interrogating good, honest people when it is painfully obvious that it just had to be some deranged stranger passing through town.”

  “And just what, other than your distaste at the thought of a murderer living among you, leads you to that conclusion?”

  The stern look on her face—if possible—actually deepened in intensity.

  “I know it is so, because I am familiar with every person in Coweta County. This isn’t New York, John, where everyone is a stranger. This is a small town, in a small county, and it is populated by good, decent folk who go to great lengths to be kind, courteous, and decent to one another. Why, just two weeks ago we all got together for a barn raisin’ over at the Stovall home. I, myself, organized a bake sale to help raise the money for materials… Poor Stovalls can’t really afford much, they struggle so hard.”

  “I’m sure it was a wonderful affair, and I’m sure the Stovalls are grateful. It doesn’t change anything, though. Uncle Carl was shot, and the plain truth is that all the evidence points to our killer being someone local.”

  “How, in Sam Hill, could you possibly know that!?”

  “I don’t ‘know’ anything, Wilhelmina, but I’ve spent a good deal of time looking over the reports sent to me from the sheriff’s office, and I can tell you that whoever did this had Uncle Carl in mind,
specifically, for a target. It wasn’t random. He was killed for a reason. I’m going to find out what that reason is, and when I do, I’ll find his killer.”

  This last was enough to bestill the wagging tongue of John’s passenger. The remainder of their journey, though short, was a quiet one. In fact, other than brief—even terse—directions to the Rivers Estate, Wilhelmina said nothing.

  Turning down the dirt road into the house was a revelation to John. He knew the Rivers had money…old money, the only kind in Georgia that ever really mattered. What he didn’t realize was how obvious they made it. The mansion stood out glaringly against the simple, even ramshackle, homes that made up its neighbors. The oddly shaped and overly pristine garden that sloped along the drive signaled out to all who could see and smell: Here lies the result of privilege and breeding, bereft of hard work.

  “You know that the funeral is tomorrow at nine, sharp. If you’d like, I can arrange for our driver to swing by and pick you up so you can ride with the rest of the family.”

  Almost out of habit, John started to politely decline. But then, something about the way she asked the question caught him. It was neither pleading, nor drenched in the airy dross of insincerity. In fact, it was so lacking in any guile or deceit that he almost didn’t recognize it for what it was: a genuine offer of kindness.

  “That would be nice, actually. I’d appreciate it,” he finally replied.

  Wilhelmina smiled her most beneficent smile, and then scooped up her dress, shut the car door behind her, and marched to the massive front doors of the house. Still a little surprised, John turned the car around in the ample driveway, and headed into town.

  Wilhelmina wasn’t exaggerating about how close it was, either. Within five minutes he was parking in front of the sheriff’s office on Main Street of Sales City. The problem was, there was no one there. Walking up to the door, he peered through the glass to see the unlit interior. It was tidy, efficient, and adequate…the classic image of a small town sheriff’s office. It was also completely empty.