by Julie Smith
Suddenly, for the first time in the interview, she smiled. “Why, no. Was he workin’ on a book? Was that it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Edwin wrote a book! So that’s what this was all about. And I see now why he left so suddenly— I bet he’d sent it off to someone who was gon’ publish it.”
“Ma’am, could I ask you something? I just have a hunch and I want to try it out on you. I’m wondering— who was Edwin’s favorite author?”
“Favorite author?” She looked confused. “Wait! I know. That nigra man.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know.” She pulled a worn paperback from a nearby bookcase and turned the cover towards me: Giovanni’s Room. “Oh. James Baldwin.”
“Is that who you thought it’d be?”
I shook my head. “I thought it might be Faulkner.”
She smiled for the second time: “We don’t think much of him around here.”
“I thought I might talk to some of Edwin’s friends while I’m in town.”
“I’d start with Wanda Kimbrough if I were you. She’s still workin’ over there.”
Meaning still the librarian at Itawamba Junior College, where she’d gone to fill in for a month ten years ago. I wondered momentarily if the job was good enough to kill for.
If it was, though, I couldn’t see Wanda as a suspect, maybe just because I didn’t want to. She was big and friendly, which I liked; and she would say anything that came into her head, which I find the most compelling of human attributes.
“Tell me something,” she started out. “Is your client gay?”
“I gather Edwin was.”
“You gather right. But Veerelle’s a Bible-thumpin’ Baptist and a bloodsuckin’ old tyrant to boot. I’m happy for Eddie. Always have been. Because I guaran-damn-tee you what happened— he found all the dicks he ever wanted to suck in San Francisco and that was it for Fulton, Miss’ippi. See, Eddie never could really be himself here, with his mama lookin’ over his shoulder, and he felt so guilty about being gay he spent every penny he ever made on her and never had a goddam thing for himself. And you know what? I think Veerelle knew. I think she knew all the time. And she never would give him the ease of sayin’ she knew and that it was okay. She just took everything he had and made him wait on her hand and foot.”
“She didn’t seem so bad to me.”
“Oh, I guess she’s no worse than any other old hypocrite in these parts. The woods are full of ’em. But the plain fact was, she was making Eddie’s life a living hell and he had to get out.”
“How did you and Eddie know each other?”
She picked up some books from a cart, shelving them as we talked, handling them with the sensuous pleasure of the true bibliophile. “Met at Ole Miss. We were English majors.”
“That reminds me— who’s your favorite author?”
“What? Are you nuts?”
“Quick. Who is it?”
“Faulkner. What’s it to you?”
“Next favorite?”
“Eudora Welty.”
“Who was Eddie’s favorite?”
She made a face. “James Baldwin, of course. Why the hell did you ask?”
I decided to try one more bit of amateur psychology: “I wanted to see if you’d say Mark Twain.”
She looked utterly bewildered. Maybe she was a good actress, but I didn’t think she knew doodley-squat about the manuscript. As they say in Miss’ippi. I said: “Because your friend called a university library and made some inquiries about him. Right before he disappeared.”
“So what’s this all about?”
“I can’t really tell you that. But I’ll tell you one thing. It was the library at the University of California.”
“You mean Berkeley?”
I nodded, forbearing to tell her the true institutional nickname. “He said he’d be there in a few days to do some research, but he never showed up.”
She gasped. “So maybe he didn’t get there.”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“And all these years I’ve imagined him in hard-on heaven.”
I shrugged. “He might have decided to do his research elsewhere. The point is, I think he knew something important to the case I’m working on. What can you tell me about the way he left?”
“He just told me he was going to San Francisco to check out the Castro District. Said if he liked it, he might move there.”
“But he went awfully suddenly, didn’t he? It seems odd to pick the beginning of the school year when he could just as well have gone the previous summer.”
“He never told me this for sure, but I think he had the hots for a guy from San Francisco who was here that summer. Visiting a friend, quote unquote. Eddie didn’t have a lover here and I think he went all warm and gooey for Tad— Tad Ludwig, his name was. Hunky blond, if you like that type. But Tad was already taken. Or so it would seem.”
“You think he and Eddie had something going on the side?”
“Let’s put it this way. I came upon the two of them in the parking lot one night. I wouldn’t want to convict on circumstantial evidence, but Eddie was on his knees.”
“So you think Eddie got a sudden uncontrollable yen for Tad.”
“Either that or a phone call from him.”
“Tell me something. Veerelle said Sonny had a side to him that she didn’t like to think about. What do you think she meant by that?”
“That he was gay, I guess.”
“Just off the top of your head— do you think Eddie was honest?”
She laughed, or rather more or less bellowed. “Eddie? He taught me how to shoplift when we were eighteen.”
“Is that all?”
“Darlin’, all I can say is, it’s a good thing Edwin Lemon had no ambition whatsoever. Because if he did he would have screwed ol’ Veerelle herself to get what he wanted.” Besides herself, Wanda told me, Edwin had had only one other close friend who still lived in the greater Tupelo area: Tad Ludwig’s friend, Duncan Jones. Dunc taught English and had an office almost within shouting distance of the library. He was getting on now, and probably wasn’t currently attracting too many of Wanda’s hunky blonds. He had lank hair and glasses, but offsetting both, a warm, open face that looked honest and probably wasn’t.
After ten years, he seemed still not to have forgiven Edwin for something: “He never told me he was going anywhere. One day he just wasn’t in the library and Wanda was.”
“Do you have any ideas about why he left?”
“Only what Wanda said he told her.”
“You don’t sound as if you believe it.”
“I’ve got enough sense to take Wanda with a grain of salt.”
“Did Edwin seem like an honest person to you?”
“Completely. Why— did Wanda say he wasn’t?” He snorted. “Wanda has the morals of a tree toad.”
“Oh. Well, who’s your favorite author?”
“Mark Twain. Why?”
I wasn’t ready for that. But I thought fast and hit him with a non sequitur he couldn’t ignore: “Did you know Edwin had a thing with your friend Tad Ludwig?”
“That cunt!”
“Tad or Edwin?”
“Wanda. Minefield-mouth.”
“Meaning she talks too much or she lies?”
“Both.”
This was going nowhere. Time to segué home: “Did you and Edwin ever discuss Mark Twain?”
“Not that I can recall. Why?”
“Think carefully. Huckleberry Finn, in particular.”
He wrinkled up his brow. “No. I’m sure of it. But would you mind telling me why?”
“I would, I’m afraid.”
But I figured he’d find out from Wanda, since they were such good friends.
One more errand before I could do what I really wanted. At the office of the Journal, I penned the following: “I may have something that belongs to you. It was written by Mr. Mark Twain, who told the truth, mainly. Please call
collect.” Then I wrote another ad, asking for information about the whereabouts of Edwin Lemon. After inserting both, I set out, as any real American would, to seek a deep spiritual experience at the birthplace of Elvis Presley.
There was something there that made me downright sentimental. Some clever architect, in constructing the Elvis Presley Memorial Chapel, had lined it up on a direct axis with the hallowed spot. Thus if you happened to be getting married in the chapel, you’d be looking out at the tiny house that spawned the King himself. Momentarily, I wondered if Sardis would consider a proposal.
CHAPTER 6
By being out when I phoned, that young lady missed a great opportunity, as the fit may never come over me again. But no matter, she’d get another— to welcome the prodigal home— in a few measly hours.
I was in San Francisco by one p.m. the next day, and entering Oakland about two, full of plans. I would simply find Edwin Lemon through Tad Ludwig and everything would fall into place. Maybe one or both of them was actually listed in the phone book. I was singing loudly: “It’s a treat to beat your feet in the Mississippi mud.” I was enjoying the sunny but coolish weather, delightful after the racking heat of Tupelo. I was being greeted by my faithful cat Spot on my own front porch. And then I was in my living room, staring at ankle-deep carnage: papers, papers everywhere. All over the dining room floor. Empty manuscript boxes and their contents willy-nilly. The living room itself was as neat as ever except for one foreign object: The key I’d left for Sardis was lying on my awful coffee table.
With leaden chest, I went to confirm what I already knew: Huck Finn had escaped from my care just as surely as he had from his Pap’s.
I bellowed, “Sardis!” She was downstairs in a minute, tearing through the door in a pair of khaki cutoffs. I liked seeing her legs and I liked the way she neither minced nor wasted words. She could have said, “Hi, Paul. Omigod, what happened?” But the simple and eloquent “Shit!” she pronounced said it all.
“I guess,” I said, “I should have just given you the damn key.”
She ignored that. “They got the manuscript?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I feel awful— if only I’d…”
“What? Broken in yourself and got it first?”
“You left Spot out or I would have. I just kept him with me and hoped for the best about Huck. Did you forget the key or what?”
“No. I put it under the mat. Someone just got there before you did. What time did you get home yesterday?”
“About five, I guess. I was shopping for new-apartment stuff. When I got your message I came down right away, but the key was already gone.”
“For all I know, someone watched me put it there, and had Huck on their own raft five minutes later.”
“Should we call the cops?”
“No.” Instead, I got Booker on the phone. “Bad news, buddy. While I was away, someone stole the manuscript.”
“You just got home?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right over.”
While I made the call, Sardis made herself useful. She was waiting in the living room with a couple of open beers and a slightly belated hello kiss. “So, Paul. Exactly what was going on in Foo-all-ton Miss’ippi?”
“I heard about a fellow—”
“Which by the way is pronounced Fulton. It’s you people who go in for extra syllables, not us. For instance, no Mississippian would ever say ‘schoo-ul,’ which every Californian does with an air of great superiority. It’s school.”
“Right. Schoo.”
“You can hear the ‘l’ if you listen. And now you may get a word in edgewise.”
“You would have been proud of me, babe. I said ‘ma’am’ for the first time in my life.”
“To whom?”
“To Veerelle Lemon, mother of Edwin, and thereon hangs a tale.” Quickly, I told it, getting Sardis so excited she went upstairs to find the San Francisco phone book she’d brought clear to the East Bay. Alas, however, neither Tad Ludwig nor Edwin Lemon was listed.
I was on my second beer and pondering whether to let bygones be bygones and get an extra key for Sardis when Booker got there. He took one look at the mess and curled his lip. “Amateur hour. Pathetic.”
“How can you tell?”
“Shouldn’t have made the mess in the first place, but certainly should have cleaned it up. This guy had a terrible case of nerves. Real bad nerves. Sweaty armpits, sweaty palms. I just hope he didn’t sweat on the goods.”
“Why should he have cleaned up the mess?”
“The idea, Mcdonald, is to give the illusion nothing has happened. That way it could be days before the crime is discovered, giving the pro plenty of time to find a fence. Besides, there’s professional pride— if you did a job and left your office looking like that, could you feel good about it?”
“I guess not.”
“Let’s see the point of entry.”
I pointed. “The front door, I guess. I left the key under the mat for Sardis, but when she got home it wasn’t there, so she assumed I’d forgotten it.”
“I may have to revise my opinion. A pro would definitely look under the mat.”
“Booker, if I may say so, it hardly matters, does it? Whoever it was wanted the manuscript. They obviously headed right for the papers and went through them until they found the right box.”
“By the way, how come you didn’t hide it any better than that?”
“You won’t believe me, but at the time, I thought it was a terribly clever hiding place.”
Booker looked disgusted and I couldn’t say I blamed him. “Look, if you want me off the case…”
He gave me his familiar wave of the hand. “It could have happened to anybody. Besides, I made you get on the plane before you had time to get to the bank.”
“The thing is, I wasn’t all that nervous about it because I didn’t think anyone knew I had it.”
“Except Sardis and me. Sardis, did you tell anybody?” She shook her head.
“Neither did I. You, Mcdonald?”
“No.”
“So either someone followed me here on Saturday night or someone guessed. No one knew I had it, so why would they follow me? That leaves guessing.”
I was getting a nasty inkling. “Isami!”
Booker tried not to look too pleased. “Why Isami?”
“Suppose she knows the manuscript is missing— in other words, knows Beverly had it, and was in cahoots with her, somehow or another. The manuscript disappears, Beverly gets killed, then the next day I turn up with a cock-and-bull story about Beverly wanting me to meet her for a possible Chronicle story. What could that mean to Isami? Maybe she thinks Bev was about to double-cross her and give the whole story out. Or maybe she gets the idea Bev already had. So she comes looking for my notes and accidentally finds the manuscript. Or maybe it isn’t that. Maybe she figures I’ve got the manuscript and came around to hold it for ransom or something.” I turned up my palms. “I don’t know. All I know is she’s the only possibility I can think of.”
“I guess we’ll have to take a look.”
Sardis put her face in her hand: “Oh, no.”
“You mean,” I said, “burglarize her again?”
Booker nodded. “I don’t see what else to do. Do you?”
“Excuse me,” said Sardis. “I don’t think I want to hear the rest of this.” She walked out on tanned and luscious legs.
A part of me wanted to get out too. But another part felt guilty about losing the manuscript, and yet another was frankly excited at the possibility of participating in a burglary.
With Booker’s help, I’d burgled before, but that was out of desperation. This time no one’s survival was on the line, but the manuscript was important— and there wouldn’t really be a victim. It wasn’t, after all, as if we were going to steal anything from Isami; we were merely going to look for something she wouldn’t have if she were a law-abiding citizen, and then we were going
to walk away, leaving the place exactly the way we found it. Unless she actually had the manuscript— in which case we’d take it— she wouldn’t even know we’d been there.
There was that argument and then there was the other, the product of almost forty years of socialization. We would have been there. We would have invaded her privacy and her home, whether she knew it or not. It wasn’t right.
But the thing was, Booker was going to do it whether I helped him or not. What difference would it make if I went along for the ride? I reminded myself that I’d done a few illegal things— and certainly lied— in my reportorial days, and thought it perfectly permissible in the interests of getting a story. Meaning permissible because it had society’s sanction— or at least that of an important publishing corporation. Surely an irreplaceable literary treasure was as important as a newspaper story. So couldn’t I act on my own?
That didn’t get me anywhere because I knew I wasn’t going to be acting on my own and wouldn’t in any case. Without Booker, there was simply no possibility that I would break into Isami Nakamura’s house for any reason.
The question was a thicket of thorns and I decided not to pursue it a millimeter further. The plain fact was that, since I didn’t think anyone could get hurt and some good might actually be done in the long run, I could justify the burglary to myself in a dim way. Barely. And so I was going to do it.
Why did I want to? For the same reason I’d been a reporter, probably. Sardis liked to call me an experience junkie and I guess I was, in a way. I would do just about anything once if it wasn’t dangerous, illegal, or immoral. And some things, apparently, that were all three.
Booker gave Isami a call. “Damn answering machines. With people screening their calls, it’s hell to case jobs any more.” He sighed. “But she doesn’t answer, so let’s go on over.”
“Should I wear anything special?”
“You mean like jeans, black sweater, and stocking mask? I don’t usually, but it can’t hurt. Don’t forget gloves, though.”
I certainly wasn’t going to trouble Sardis for a stocking, so that settled that.
Not even a porch light was on when we arrived. Perhaps Isami was still staying with a friend. Booker gave me the OK sign, but walked around the house anyway, listening for tiny noises. We’d stopped for a bite and it was now about nine-thirty, so I figured if she was out for the evening, she wouldn’t be back for a while. Booker was a little nervous— people sometimes came home right after dinner, he said. But he thought she’d have left a light or two on if she planned to.