The Rivers Webb

by Jeremy Tyler

  “And if you were to make that suggestion, this is exactly the point where I’d tell you to get your official fat ass back on the train for New York.” With that, Roy continued his march.

  “Damn good thing I’m not here officially then, isn’t it?”

  John wasn’t quite sure if Roy heard him or not. Truth be known, he didn’t much care. John had an investigation to continue, and a crime scene to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Matthias Parrott standing at a considerable distance from the body. As the local undertaker, it was his grim misfortune to be acting coroner. Normally, this duty was a simple matter, and well within his level of comfort. Unfortunately, the body he was called to pronounce this morning was a far cry from the tranquil passings to which he was accustomed. Even the occasional animal attacks held a certain natural dignity. What lay sprawled out in blood before him was neither tranquil nor natural. It was an abomination against his very humanity.

  “Mr. Parrott,” John called to the undertaker. “Mr. Parrott, I’m finished here. You’ve noted that I have not disturbed the body, and were witness to this fact?”

  Mr. Parrott could only manage a slight nod.

  “Good. I’ll leave him in your kind care, now.”

  And with that, John left the shaken Mr. Parrott to his duties. He was almost to the front of the house when he heard it. The mournful scream broke the silence of the morning, sending both Dan and Fred instinctively dropping hands to holsters. But John remained undisturbed. He recognized that particular variety of wail. He had been expecting it. Aunt Wilhelmina had just learned of the brutal death of her only son.

  For just a moment, John allowed himself to wonder just how that scene might play out. Given what little he truly knew of Wilhelmina, would she be the sort of woman that would demand to know exactly what had happened, or would she prefer to distance herself from the painful truth? Would she want to take one last look at her boy, or be too grief-stricken to see his face?

  He could only dwell on those questions for a moment, though. He still had work to do, and he couldn’t afford to waste any time. Besides, the answers he was looking for wouldn’t come from Wilhelmina, regardless of her state. No, the person he wanted to speak with would have a much different take on this situation—and unless John was mistaken, he would be coming around the corner any moment now…

  As if on cue, Gerald walked into view. Gerald Peachtree was the absolute Georgian black houseman. In any other context, the sight of him, in his worn, yet scrutinizingly well-kept butler’s uniform, carrying a bucket of soapy water and an old scrub brush, would have been labeled as a stereotype.

  “You’ll have to give Mr. Parrott just another moment or two,” John said casually, as an excuse to start a friendly conversation.

  “Oh, I know it takes him a bit…I jus’ like ta’ git everything together, so’s I can start cleanin’ up ’fore Miss Wilhelmina sees it.” A slight shadow of dread came across his face as he moved closer, to speak more softly, “Nobody should ever have to hear news like that. Not ever.”

  John could only nod his agreement.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Peachtree, I’d like to talk to you for a moment while you’re waiting.”

  “Oh, I don’t never mind a good talk. If you ask me, there ain’t enough of folks just sittin’ down and talkin’. Solve a whole mess o’ problems. But please, one thing. Ev’ry time I hear someone callin’ ‘Mr. Peachtree’ I start lookin’ for my father—and he done passed on to God eight years past! Gerald, if you please.”

  John smiled without even faking it.

  “Alright, Gerald. It’s the New Yorker in me. We call everyone by their last name.”

  “Now see, that just don’t make any sense. Your first name…that’s who ya’ are. That’s what sticks with ya’ your whole life. Take that away from a man and it’s like your just ignorin’ him.” John had to admit, this man was a good scrapper. That was all fine and good. It was always the scrappers that had the best information.

  “Now, there I’d disagree. A man’s first name doesn’t tell me anything about him. Your name, Gerald, that was given you by your parents, and they probably picked it out before you were even born, am I right?”

  “Yes’sir, I was Gerald before I ever saw light o’ day.” He nodded vigorously and flashed bright white teeth at this.

  “Exactly. They had no idea who you were or would be. They just liked the name, so there it was. You were Gerald. But your last name, that’s a different story. That goes back generations, and has its roots in some place in history. A last name has definite character and ties to who a person is. Peachtree is a perfect example. I’ve never met anyone else named Peachtree—and I’ll bet cash money you know how your family got it.”

  At this, Gerald’s smile broadened even more, letting John know that A, he’d struck on a point of pride for this man and, B, that he had successfully managed to put him off his guard…which is exactly what he needed.

  “My great-grandfather. When he came across that old ocean, and he first stepped off the slave ship, he stood out. He was a big man, ya’ see. Not just a little bit, neither, but I mean big. And his colorin’ was jus’ a bit dif’rent, too. When Old Jacob Rivers, who started this here family business, saw him, he thought he looked like a big ol’ peach tree, and since it was customary to change slaves names to a Christian one instead o’ their heathen’s, he called him Peachtree. And, we been Peachtrees ever since.”

  It was a little disturbing, hearing how John’s ancestors had so affected this man’s, but John heard no bitterness in this man’s voice.

  “You see what I mean. History.” John paused a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “But it’s about a different kind of history that I want to talk with you, right now. I’m interested in finding out about a ring.”

  Gerald suddenly went cold, and his face took on an ashen shade that was as good as a confession.

  “What…what kind o’ ring would you be wantin’ to know about, Mr. Webb?”

  “Why don’t you call me John?”

  Gerald was now looking around for some place to demand his attention, something that needed tending to, just so he could get away from this confrontation.

  “Gerald, there was a pinkie ring that George had on his hand. I noticed it earlier, but it’s missing from the body, now.”

  “Terrible thing, that. Do that to a man, then take a ring right off his finger…”

  “I’m not convinced the killer took it, actually.” Gerald was beginning to get the same look in his eye that caged animals often got when they sensed something very bad was about to happen. “In fact, Gerald, I’m certain that the killer didn’t take it. Funny thing about that ring, too—well, actually there’s a couple of funny things—but what’s been eating at me the most, is that, when I first noticed it at the funeral, George was worrying with it, the way you do when you get a new ring, on account of you’re not used to it. But the thing is, when I asked him about it, George told me he’d had it for years. That was a lie, Gerald. A stupid lie. That’s the kind of lie that you tell because you’re covering something up, and you don’t even want a hint of it coming out. It’s the kind of lie you tell when you’re ashamed of something, Gerald.”

  John took a moment to size up the man before him. To his credit, Gerald didn’t try to stop him, or change the subject. He’d been caught, and he knew it, and he was just waiting for the moment when it was time to confess.

  “You know another thing that bugs me about that ring?” John went on, “I waited and waited for the good sheriff to notice that it was missing, and he never did. Do you know why, Gerald? I’ll tell you what I think. I think that Roy didn’t notice it was gone because he never knew it was supposed to be on George’s finger in the first place!”

  Gerald was just about to break, and John knew it. It was time for the kill-shot.

  “So, here I have a very expensive ring that ought to be on George Rivers’ lifeless finger, but isn’t, and a close-knit
family that ought to know all about a nice fancy ring like that, but doesn’t. And here, I’m standing talking to their houseman, who knows everything there is to know about the Rivers, and I’m just wondering…”

  “I took that ring, Mr. Webb.”

  “Call me John.” He couldn’t decide if the threatening growl in his voice had been entirely accidental or not, but it achieved just what he wanted.

  The poor man was defeated, and looked it. John was very tempted to feel bad for him. But not that tempted.

  “Mr. George, he was given that ring by a friend up in Pelham.”

  “That’s a rather impressive gift.”

  “Mr. George was a good man. He never hurt nobody, and he didn’t think ill o’ no one. But he was a quiet fella’, and didn’t like people to know much about him, personally…”

  “Except for this friend up in Pelham. I’m guessing this friend knew George in a very special way.”

  “Mr. Webb…Mr. John, I suppose up north, in a big city like New York, that particular kind of friendship is a little more in keepin’ with acceptable behavior…but down here in Georgia, it just ain’t done. Mr. George would be horrified if anyone was to find out, and that’s why, God as my witness, I took that ring”

  “And where is it now, Gerald?”

  The man paused as if afraid to take another step, but John persisted.

  “Don’t press me right now, Gerald! As of this moment, that ring is evidence in two murders!”

  “Two? Why, you couldn’t possibly think that George coulda’ been tied up in Rev’rend Carl’s killin’! He loved that man like a father!”

  “I’ve got two murder scenes within weeks of each other, in a town that hasn’t seen more than kids shoplifting in thirty years! Explain to me how in hell they could NOT be connected!”

  John was starting to raise his voice a little too much. He didn’t want to draw anyone else’s attention. He made a concerted effort to calm down.

  “The ring’s up in my dresser…top drawer. I was goin’ into Pelham in a few days to return it, once things got a bit more settled.”

  “That’s good, Gerald. That’s a very good idea. Except that you aren’t waiting. You’re going to return that ring today. And you’re taking me with you when you do it.”

  Maybe Gerald was thinking about arguing or making up some reason why he couldn’t…John wouldn’t know, because they were interrupted before he got the chance.

  Dan came around the corner at a dead run and stopped short, clearly surprised to find them together.

  “Alright then, Gerald. I’ll meet you back here at the house at 3:00,” John said matter-of-factly. Gerald simply stammered through an agreement, then headed off with his bucket and scrub brush.

  If Dan was at all curious, he did an amazing job of hiding it. For an instant, John actually found himself running through a list of perfectly legitimate reasons why he would be meeting Gerald later. He caught himself before he opened his mouth. The memory of George’s pinkie ring came unbidden, and he was reminded, yet again, how dangerous the urge to explain yourself could be.

  “Deputy Merrill, I thought you were on bloodhound duty?” he simply said.

  “That’s actually Deputy Flandon’s area. Hell, it’s his dog. The sheriff jes’ tends to yell orders at me, on account I’m used to it a bit more than Fred is. He gets a bit jumpy.”

  John waited, as though in genuine anticipation. The truth was that he would have loved to blow off the local hick police and get on with the matter at hand, but he knew that wasn’t an option. In situations like this one, you had to sit tight, play nice, and hope that the idiots surrounding you didn’t get too much in the way.

  “So, how can I help you, deputy?” John finally asked.

  “I’ve got a motorboat ready to take us out to Grandpappy Island,” Dan replied, as though this answered every question.

  “You got a picnic planned?” Sarcasm could be an excellent camouflage. It masked emotion and deflected suspicion with equal skill, and usually required very little effort. John considered himself something of an expert.

  “It’s where Reverend Rivers’ body was found,” Dan said, unblinking.

  “Yeah, I know, but I assume that you and the sheriff already went over it when the body was discovered, right?

  “Yeah,” Dan said between clenched teeth. John knew what he was suggesting, but was just sadistic enough to make the man say it.

  “So why go back out?”

  “Because, Detective, I’m willin’ to consider the possibility that we might’a missed somethin’. You seemed to know y’er way around a crime scene back there and I figg’ered it was worth a look.”

  It was downright painful to admit that. John knew it, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to let up on a guy who just admitted that John might actually be better at this kind of thing than he was. Instead, he breathed out a tired sigh as if he were mentally listing out ten things that would be a better use of his time.

  “I guess, it would make sense…if you had brought this up when I first got here. But instead you decided to play like you had everything under control and I was just some northerner getting in the way. Now, it’s a bit late. It’s been six days. Do you really think we’re going to find anything helpful?”

  “I don’t know. But wouldn’t we both just look downright silly if there was somethin’ there, and we just never bothered to look?” Dan replied hotly.

  The two men stared at each other for just the briefest of moments, each one trying hard to say something and not say it, all at once. An unspoken battle of word and wit unfolded as each man thought up argument and insult, then refused to give voice to it.

  The funny thing was, whether they wanted to admit or not, they both understood each other far more than they let on. John knew full well how much Dan had to lose should some damn Yankee come in and solve this case. He could appreciate how desperate he was to please the sheriff, and to prove himself in the eyes of the man he revered. And, for his part, Dan could appreciate how conflicted it could be to be stuck in the middle of a town full of people that had no use for him, and where the only person that mattered was gone, and all he could do was try and bring some justice to his death.

  You would think that would help. But it didn’t. At the core of it, they were the sons of Roy Rivers, one estranged, one adopted, and there simply was not room for both.

  “Are you comin’, or not?” Dan said, finally breaking the silence.

  “Yeah, I’ll come. We can take my car.” It was that moment that John’s errant nose decided to discover yet another trace of the mysterious scent that had been teasing him since he’d arrived in Georgia. Dan must have noticed, because he cocked his head slightly to one side and asked, “You ain’t one o’ them northerners that’s allergic to ev’rything, now, are you?” John just waved him off, grateful that Dan was willing to offer him an out. John managed his best fake sneeze, then motioned for them to get into the car. He didn’t know why such a simple thing bothered him so much, or why he was so insistent on hiding it. After all, he had enough to deal with as it was, before adding in this strange compunction. It was going to cause problems, he knew, and yet he just couldn’t seem to help it.

  When Dan had mentioned a motorboat, John had immediately assumed a mental picture of the police boats that the NYPD kept to patrol the Hudson. Of course, he didn’t expect Sales City to boast anything as modern and up-to-date as those, but he was completely unprepared for what was in store for him.

  The ramshackle old cabin and decrepit dock were, for all he could tell, built before anyone living could possibly remember. But the boat itself…that was something else. It was clearly handmade, and probably from planks torn from the same cabin falling apart next to it. The term “motorboat” was due solely to the hand-cranked outboard engine strapped to the keel.

  He looked over to Dan. If this was the deputy’s idea of a joke, he did a good job of keeping a straight face, as he walked up to the door that precariously hung on
to the cabin’s frame and knocked.

  “Earl! Earl, we’re here. Let’s get a move on!”

  They waited just another moment or two before the shack’s occupant emerged. If there was ever a picture of a Georgia hick, this is who they would use to model. He was a big man, about 6′2″ and about 230 pounds, by John’s estimate. The dirty overalls and battered straw hat were so fitting they were comical.

  “Dep’ty. Sorry, I wasn’t ’spectin’ ya’ yet.”

  The big man closed the door behind him, walked down the rickety dock toward the boat, and started throwing strange-looking crates out to make room.

  The odd contraptions had John puzzled, and it must have shown.

  “Crawfish traps,” Dan answered the unasked question. “Earl here makes a decent living bringing in crawfish in bulk. Damn things are his own cockamamie invention, and other’n Earl, only God Hisself knows how they work.”

  John looked at the traps and the boat and everything around him with a strange sense of surreal glee, as it slowly sunk in that such a place actually existed. Then, suddenly, his police training caught up to his euphoria, and he looked back at the man in front of him. John now recognized him from the funeral. He turned quickly to Dan.

  “Wait a second, did you say his name was Earl?” he asked. Dan’s pleased smile spoke volumes.

  “Yep. Earl Cameron. Figured we could kill two birds with one stone, seein’ as how the fella’ that knows Parrott River better’n anybody also happens to be the same fella’ that found the body in the first place.”

  By now, Earl had finished clearing out the boat, and was smiling broadly, as if he had just assumed command of the finest luxury liner in the world.

  John’s thoughts went back to that peacock sitting on the roof of his car. In a town where peacocks roamed free, the sheriff was one of the richest men in town, and your most reliable source of information was a self-proclaimed psychic, you just might as well get used to the idea that strange things were just going to keep getting thrown at you. He looked over to Deputy Dan Merrill, with that ear-to-ear grin daring him to back down, and right there made his decision.