Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  Charlie randomly laid Paul’s lime-green notes on the motel coffee table. Not focusing on chronology or any other kind of sequencing sometimes revealed a new insight and almost always more questions. The first note read: “Paul might have been autistic.” Nothing. “Paul left his job at the MotorCity Casino abruptly.” “Paul received beneficiary checks from his grandfather.” Charlie grabbed a red post-it and wrote: “Does Paul have a bank account?” If Paul was receiving benefit checks and also had a job at the bottling plant, it might be useful to know how he spent his money. Charlie placed another green note on the table. “Paul was thirty-five years old; born in Birmingham.” Then one with a question: “Why did Anna Springer move Paul and Joyce to Detroit?” Charlie yawned. I need a way to fill in some of this personal information. She’d been thinking about a nap since that heavy lunch, and she stretched out on the couch. It was six o’clock and Don was probably ordering his second happy hour drink. She pointed the remote at the TV where Judge Judy was in the midst of dressing down some hapless soul who had lied to her. She muted the volume and yawned again.

  The banging on the door wasn’t a dream. Charlie pulled back the blind to see Don grinning like a fool and waving a piece of paper. She threw open the door and Don lumbered in, handed her a document and headed for the refrigerator.

  “Wash your hands please,” Charlie ordered, then examined the paper. “You got the power of attorney.”

  “You bet I did,” Don said, drying his hands on the front of his jacket then retrieving the Styrofoam container with his dinner from the fridge. “You want your food?”

  “No, I’ll get mine in a minute, go ahead and zap yours. It says here that Joyce gave Haldeman full power of attorney for everything. Real estate, life insurance, a trust for Paul.”

  “That’s right. And look at the paragraph at the bottom. She owns four properties, not three.”

  Charlie studied the document again, while Don admired his plate of steaming food.

  “You want me to put your dinner in the microwave now?”

  “Okay, okay. Sure.”

  “It doesn’t say there, but I have information on the fourth property,” Don slid his fork deep into a slice of turkey covered with stuffing. He was baiting Charlie, waiting for her to ask the question. She put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, are you going to tell me or play games?”

  Don smiled. He chewed his first bite thoroughly, then made a show of reaching for a napkin and dabbing at his mouth. The stage properly set, he was ready to astound his audience. “It’s Freeman Funeral.”

  As if on cue, the microwave bell sounded. Charlie’s salmon patties and rice were ready to eat, but this missing person case was a long way from done.

  The plan was to return to the Freeman Funeral Home for an after-hours visit. If Joyce owned the building, maybe that’s where she was hiding. The neighborhood party store was just ahead and Charlie signaled for Don to pull the car over. The building was garish at night. Christmas lights were strung around the perimeter of the window and a row of white marquee bulbs circled the handmade metal sign that read “Olive Tree.”

  “I’ll just be a minute. I need batteries for my flashlight. You want anything?”

  “I could use chewing gum.”

  The store had only two customers. The clerk Charlie had seen earlier that day, Yusef was the name on his tag, was behind the counter.

  “Back again, I see.”

  “Yes, I need two D batteries and I’ll take a couple of packs of gum.” Charlie pointed through the glass counter.

  Yusef stood behind a barricade Charlie hadn’t noticed during her daytime visit. The thick wall of Plexiglas had a twelve-inch door with a lazy Susan, allowing cash in and merchandise out. Yusef noticed Charlie’s quizzical look.

  “This is a dangerous neighborhood,” he said through a circle of small perforations that allowed communication.

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “That will be nine dollars.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, each adamant in their perspective of the fairness of the price. Finally, Charlie opened her side of the Plexiglas door and placed a ten-dollar bill onto the lazy Susan. When she closed the door, Yusef opened his side and pulled the peg that turned the tray toward him.

  “You need a bag?”

  Charlie shook her head “no” and the tray rotated back to her with her purchases and change. “I’m looking for someone, maybe you’ve seen her?” Charlie held a photo of Joyce Stringer up to the wall.

  Yusef looked at the picture. “No.”

  “What about this guy?” She held up the police photo of Paul’s cousin, Andrew. Yusef’s eyes grew large.

  “Are you police?” he asked.

  “No,” Charlie said and made sure to confirm that with a shake of her head because the customers glanced her way upon hearing the word “police.”

  Charlie moved closer to the barrier and lowered her voice.

  “I’m an investigator,” she said, placing her business card onto the tray. “Do you know the guy?”

  Yusef took a while to study the card and stared at Charlie so hard that she hoped her facial waxing hadn’t worn off.

  “Yeah,” he said softly.

  “Does he have any relatives?” Charlie was almost whispering.

  “He lived with his mother but he’s not there anymore,” Yusef said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s dead.”

  Charlie nodded. “I know.”

  “We used to talk about Detroit, he had a cousin there, too.” Yusef looked for a reaction from Charlie, then continued when her face didn’t change. “His mother’s a real nice lady; lives down the street.”

  Charlie stepped aside when two young men in baggy jeans, Timberlands, and oversized t-shirts lined up behind her with three forty-ounce bottles of beer. They placed their brews onto the tray. Yusef spun it to retrieve the beers, then spun it back to them for six dollars. Apparently, beer was cheaper than batteries at the Olive Tree. Yusef packed the bottles into individual paper bags and then into one of the smiley-face plastic totes that were strewn around the neighborhood. The two customers moved to the door and automatically paused while Yusef buzzed them out.

  “Take it easy, Sef,” one of the men said.

  “You take it easy yourself, Keith,” Yusef replied. “A private investigator?” he asked, returning his attention to Charlie.

  “Yep.”

  Charlie waited for the barrage of curious questions, but there were none. She moved to the pastry display.

  “Can I help you with anything else?”

  Charlie splurged and bought two coffees and a couple of sweet buns. The smell filled the car as soon as she opened the door, and Don made quick work of unwrapping his pastry. He had just taken a huge bite of bun when he was startled by a knock on the driver side window. A guy’s face was pressed to the glass, hollering to have the window rolled down while Don tried to figure out how to get to his gun without dropping his coffee and bun. For a moment, Charlie thought the man might be an aggressive panhandler and was about to advise Don to roll down the window, when a second guy appeared at her window.

  “Oh shit,” Charlie said.

  She guessed they had maybe five seconds before one or both of the men showed a weapon. Then out of nowhere, Yusef appeared at the front of the Chrysler brandishing a sawed-off shotgun.

  “How many times have I told you not to interfere with my paying customers?” Yusef said, angling the shotgun from one guy to the other.

  “Man, we ain’t messin’ with your damn customers. We saw them cruisin’ around here this mornin’ and now they’re back. We wanna know what’s up.” The man at Don’s window spoke up.

  “This lady is trying to help Drew’s mother,” Yusef said, assuming Charlie’s good intentions. “She’s from Detroit.”

  The two guys shared a silent communication and the man who spoke shuffled over to the sidewalk to join his friend. The hands of both were deep in the pockets of their chinos.


  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” the other guy said.

  Yusef lowered his shotgun. Charlie saw an opening and lowered the window.

  “We just want to come by the house to speak to Andrew’s mother but we weren’t sure which house was hers.”

  “Come on, we’ll take you there. Just leave the car here. It’ll be okay,” the shorter of the two men said.

  Charlie glanced at Don, who was protectively gripping the steering wheel.

  “Go ahead,” Yusef said. “I’ll keep an eye on your car from the store.”

  Charlie examined her watch, it was nine o’clock. Don began to unbuckle his seatbelt and Charlie exited the car, giving Yusef a grateful nod.

  “I close up at eleven. Be back before then,” he said with the directness of a man with a shotgun.

  Sixty-year-old Jennifer Meadows was Anna Stringer’s younger sister. The house on 31st Street was the family home, purchased by their father five decades before, and in the ensuing years no fewer than three generations of the Stringer clan had lived simultaneously under its roof. The house’s infrastructure matched the neighborhood’s deterioration. The porch squeaked loudly with the pressure of each footstep and the banister leaned precariously. Paint shards stood out from the house frame like cat claws and there was a broad hole in the porch awning. Plywood was nailed across the front windows and an iron gate protected the front door.

  The interior was clean but crammed with furniture and the temperature must have been eighty degrees adding to the feeling of claustrophobia. Charlie and Don were offered seats in the dining room where two glass hutches, one an ornate French provincial style, the other modern with black faux wood and chrome drawer pulls, overpowered the room. The black cabinet contained family photos where a large picture of Andrew was prominently placed. A television on a rolling stand separated the hutches and was tuned to a cable channel devoted to crime dramatizations. The TV was muted but twice during the conversation everyone in the room, including Mrs. Meadows’ two young grandchildren, grew quiet to stare, first at a bloody corpse and again when a woman was being brutally beaten.

  The grandson was a sturdy seven-year-old with a close-shaved haircut and wide-set eyes. The little girl, who had an amazing display of colorful barrettes on her pigtails, made a point of telling Don she was four and a half. Charlie wanted to shoo the children from the room, sparing them the media violence, but they were much more fascinated by the white man at their dining room table than the TV. Don was enjoying the spotlight.

  “Who did you say you worked for?” Jennifer Meadows tapped the business card on the table, shifting her glance between Charlie and Don.

  “We’re assisting Dixie Beverages’ life insurance company in the investigation of Andrew’s death,” Charlie fabricated without missing a beat.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Meadows cried a bit every time Andrew’s name was mentioned, and she wiped at a tear. “I guess they don’t want to pay us anything, huh?”

  “That’s not the case Mrs. Meadows,” Don said, picking up the ruse. “But since the circumstances were so unusual they’d like to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Somebody kill Unca Andrew,” the granddaughter announced. She stood at Don’s side. He patted the tiny hand she’d planted on his knee while she stared up at him in awe.

  Mrs. Meadows confirmed that Joyce was the legal owner of the house because Anna Stringer trusted her daughter with all the family affairs. The house had no mortgage and Joyce made sure the taxes were paid while Jennifer paid the monthly utility bills. She usually saw Anna only once a year during their annual family visit but she and her sister kept regular phone contact.

  “Andrew and Paul were more like brothers than first cousins. Andrew was making good money at the bottling plant, that’s why he thought Paul should come home and get a job here.”

  “When did Paul move back to Birmingham?” Don asked.

  “Oh, let’s see. This is August. I guess it was May. Is that right, Cookie?”

  Meadows’ daughter, Cookie, hadn’t joined the group in the dining room but had been eavesdropping by pacing past the door at regular intervals, at least six times by Charlie’s count. She was a heavy girl who played up her girth like it was an asset. She wore a low-cut, asymmetrical black top over a pair of turquoise leggings. Her auburn synthetic weave hung well below her shoulders. Her green bauble earrings were not quite turquoise but did match the color of her manicure.

  “It was Memorial Day,” Cookie said, sticking her head in the doorway. “Remember? Paul brought that girl, Grace, to the church picnic.”

  Don and Charlie instinctively made eye contact. Cookie resumed her hallway pacing.

  “Oh that’s right. I remember now. Paul would hop on the Greyhound to visit Andrew all the time.” Mrs. Meadows paused as the tears welled. “But in May, Joyce drove him down here with everything he owned. Lock, stock and barrel.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Joyce?” Charlie asked.

  “The last time was at the funeral.” She paused again. “Oh Lord, I just can’t believe my boy is gone.”

  Jennifer could no longer hold back the flood. She lay her head on the table and sobbed. Her grandchildren moved to her side and Cookie stepped into the room to comfort her mother. Don and Charlie excused themselves.

  It was 10:30 p.m. The neighborhood sentinels still hovered outside the Stringer house and they offered an escort back to the Chrysler. Don was uncomfortable with the company but Charlie used the brief walk for a bit of interrogation.

  “It’s a shame what happened to Andrew and Paul,” Charlie said to the man.

  “I’ve known Drew all my life and Paul would hang out with us sometimes when he came to visit.”

  “Why is the house boarded up?”

  “There was a drive-by not too long ago, sprayed bullets across the front of the house. Miss Jennifer says she’s scared to put the glass back in.”

  “When did that happen?” Don asked.

  “A month ago. There’s two little kids in that house. Anybody try that again, we got something for ’em.”

  The shorter man grunted his agreement.

  “Oh, by the way,” Don said. “There was a guy behind the wheel of a Mustang parked up here by the corner this morning. Is he one of your boys?”

  Charlie saved Don from his language faux pax. “What he means is, is that someone you know?”

  Both guys had stopped short to stare at Don. Then the shorter one continued walking, Don at his side. “Naw, man. He’s just some heroin head. Come up here to score, so his wife won’t know. Then nods off in his car.”

  The cold coffee and half-eaten pastries on the front seat of the vehicle were proof it had not been molested. Charlie waved at Yusef through the store window, signaling all was okay.

  “Where to? The funeral home?” Don asked.

  “No. It’s late and I’m tired. Let’s just head back to the motel.”

  Don and Charlie drove for the first five blocks in a somber silence. The landscape was dark because many of the bulbs in the streetlights hadn’t been replaced.

  “I feel sorry for those kids,” Don said.

  Charlie didn’t respond. She and Don had discussed the complex issues of poverty before. They’d debated personal responsibility, the role of education, systemic racism, the welfare state and the repercussions of absentee fathers. Charlie didn’t fully subscribe to her own liberal arguments and the conversations left her exhausted. She resented being the defender of all Black people, a burden she had taken upon herself.

  “I feel empathy for them too. But I’m not going to judge,” Charlie said.

  “Do we have a plan for tomorrow?”

  “I was thinking about that. I’m going to need the car early. I’ll go to the funeral home to meet up with Grace Freeman and keep an eye open for Joyce. I think maybe Grace knows things she doesn’t realize could be important.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I think you should go back to police hea
dquarters. Hang out. I’m trying to figure out if this neighborhood has gang violence or organized drug activity. Maybe Paul and Andrew were killed because of some personal vendetta. What do you think?”

  “Could be any of the above. Do you think we need a second rental car?”

  “Yeah, maybe so. This one ain’t exactly inconspicuous anymore.”

  “Speaking of which, there’s a van following us,” Don said.

  Charlie fought the instinct to look back or flip down the visor mirror.

  “Are you sure, Don?”

  “Yep. They made the U-turn with us when we left the convenience store and they’ve been a couple of cars back ever since.”

  “You think it’s the neighborhood guys?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay. So what do you want to do about it?”

  “Well, I sure don’t want to lead them back to our motel.”

  Don made a left in the direction of I-65. The van followed.

  “I’ll get on the expressway and try to lose them.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Right now, my plan is to keep going south away from the motel. But, I’ve studied the street maps and I think I can keep us from getting lost.”

  I-65 south led to Montgomery, the state capital, and even at ten o’clock on a weekday night the traffic was impressive. Charlie considered herself a good driver but had to admit Don was better. He maneuvered from lane to lane, speeding up sometimes then slowing to avoid contact with the traffic all around him. He led the van on a merry chase.

  “You’ve done this before,” Charlie said, holding onto the bar above the car door.

  “Yeah, but this is the first time I’ve been on the wrong end of the pursuit.”

  Don sped up and quickly changed lanes, wedging himself between two sixteen-wheelers. The van’s driver couldn’t follow and had to fall back, staying in the adjacent lane to keep an eye on the Chrysler.