Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “Who hired you to investigate?”

  “The Dixie Bottling Company,” Charlie lied. “Actually, their insurance company.”

  “Why then the interest in the Freeman twins and Joyce?”

  The priest’s look was shifting from beatific to suspicious and Charlie began to squirm. Straughn rose from his chair to close the door. He returned to his desk, perched on the edge nearest Charlie, and peered down at her. Charlie was propelled back to Sacred Redeemer grade school on the day she forced Cliff Johnson’s face into a mud puddle on the playground.

  “Ms. Mack. I don’t think you’re being forthright,” the priest said, playing his upper hand. “Why don’t you start again?”

  Charlie took a deep breath, said a mental “Hail Mary Full of Grace,” put on her best face of fake chagrin and lied like an unrepentant prisoner at his parole hearing.

  “Well actually, Father Straughn, Joyce Stringer’s former employer in Detroit hired me. She’s worked for him for more than twenty-five years and is like extended family. He’s concerned about what she’s been going through.” A profiler’s training teaches that the most believable lie has a kernel of truth. “So, I’m speaking to people who knew Paul and could give us a lead on how he might have come to such a tragic end. The police have all but given up on the case, and we hope to bring Joyce and her family some closure.”

  The priest’s face was now the passive listener. He moved from his perch on the desk and returned to his chair.

  “Go on.” He wasn’t quite convinced.

  Charlie played out her Post-its technique aloud, stating a couple of facts then posing a couple of questions. She was careful to avoid speculation about Joyce. Paul and Andrew were murdered. So why, after the fact, had there been a drive-by shooting at Andrew’s house? Paul lived away from Birmingham almost fifteen years. Why, after only a month back in the city, had he become a victim of violence? Paul and Grace Freeman had a relationship of some kind but not everyone thought it was a good idea. What was that all about?

  Father Straughn’s face remained a mask but as she spoke Charlie watched his eyes register answers, insight, and closely held secrets. The priest wouldn’t outright lie to Charlie, but neither would he reveal any information that was confessional. She hoped her point about closure for the Stringer family would make him want to help.

  “I met Robert Stringer, Anna, Jennifer and Joyce when I first arrived at Saint Agnes. That’s also when I met the Freemans. There actually weren’t many African Americans in the parish at that time. Mr. Stringer was a devout Catholic. He had been injured as a young man and was wheelchair-bound but he rarely missed Sunday Mass. His wife died when Anna and Jennifer were young but he made sure his daughters and grandchildren got to Mass every week while he was alive. Joyce was in the fourth grade at the time and Paul was born the following year.”

  “Did Paul and Joyce have different fathers?”

  “That’s something I can’t speak to.”

  Charlie wondered if that meant he didn’t know or wasn’t saying. “I understand Paul had special needs?”

  “That’s what they call it now, isn’t it? When Paul was in school, people just called kids like him slow. It’s odd, now that I think of it, because Paul was anything but slow. He moved fast, talked fast and was a whiz in math. It was difficult for him to focus for long periods of time and that affected his reading, but he was a kind, happy kid and a joy to be around.”

  “What about Grace?”

  “Well Grace is a different story. She was diagnosed as autistic at age three. Her father is well-to-do and he tried many treatments. I remember he took Grace to clinics on both coasts before Mrs. Freeman finally insisted Grace be enrolled at Saint Agnes where she could be near her brother. We had very caring and talented teachers working with our special education kids. We didn’t have a lot of classroom space at the time, so although Paul and Grace were in different grades and had different learning problems, they were in the same classes. Paul always looked out for Grace.”

  “I know I’m jumping around in time here, Father Straughn,” Charlie began.

  “Please, call me Father Steve. Everyone does.”

  “Okay. Grace told me she and Paul were going to be married, is that true?”

  “I don’t see how that could possibly relate to your investigation, Ms. Mack.”

  “Well it might not, but I’ve learned in doing this kind of work that often what seems inconsequential, can be the key to an information treasure chest.”

  “Or it could open Pandora’s box,” Father Steve quipped.

  Charlie conceded the point but wasn’t ready to give up the set.

  “All due respect, Father, but I’m investigating a murder. If there’s any information that might shed light on Paul’s circumstances, I’d think you’d want to help.”

  “I do want to help, but some of your questions push up against family privacy.”

  “Grace mentioned her father didn’t want her to have anything to do with Paul,” Charlie lobbed.

  The priest put on the mask face.

  “But she also said you and Joyce supported the relationship.” Charlie was seeing the photograph in her mind. Straughn wouldn’t take the bait so she tried another approach. “Are the Freemans still members of your church?”

  “I don’t see young Grant here very often but his father, his mother, Ruth and Grace still attend Mass regularly.”

  “What about Jennifer Meadows?”

  “No. Mrs. Meadows and her family now attend a Baptist church.”

  “Father, can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Paul and Andrew? Had anyone told you of threats or trouble with them?”

  “No, no. I didn’t see much of Andrew but Paul had attended Saturday afternoon Mass a couple of times since his return to Birmingham. I saw him the Saturday before he was murdered.” Straughn paused to stare at a spot on his desk. He shook his head remembering. “He was all excited about taking Grace to a 4th of July picnic the next weekend.”

  “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I just have one or two more questions. When was the last time you saw Joyce?”

  “This morning. I was meeting with her when you arrived. She’s been an important benefactor to our church over the years and now she wants to establish an endowment for our special needs program in Paul’s name. It will be called the Paul G. Stringer Fund for Special Learners.”

  Father Steve was apparently clueless that Joyce was on the run and Charlie didn’t want to tip her hand. She thanked the priest and returned to the rental car where she spent a half hour furiously making notes. She’d been in proximity of Joyce and missed her. But now they had confirmation that Joyce was in Birmingham. Charlie looked at her watch. It was almost lunch time, but before she called Don she wanted to check in at the office.

  “Hi Judy. How are things?”

  “Hi Charlie. Things are quiet. There’s some guys doing cabling work in the building today and they just left our suite. They said we’re getting a new phone system. Gil is off to a meeting. So I’m in charge.”

  “Don’t let Don hear you say that.”

  “How is the Polish wonder? He must be a big hit in the deep South.”

  Judy was also Polish. Blood might be thicker than water but Judy and Don were oil and water.

  “He’s holding his own. I’m glad he decided to bring his gun on this trip. We had some people following us last night.”

  “Are you guys okay now?”

  “We’re fine. Don managed to shake the guys with some magnificent driving. Apparently we’ve been stepping on toes. I just wish I knew whose feet they’re attached to.”

  “You get any leads on Joyce?”

  “You bet. I found out for sure that she’s here and I think I might know where she is.”

  “That’s great, Charlie. Will you turn her over to the police?”

  “Well, I promised Abrams to let him know what’s going on first.”

  “That reminds me,”
Judy said shuffling through phone messages. “Some guy from Abrams’ office called yesterday evening asking for you. I thought it was a crank call at first, his name is Owen Owens.”

  “What time did he call?”

  “Right at closing time. He asked for you and I told him you were out of the office on a case.”

  “Did you tell him I was in Birmingham?”

  “Well, yes. He asked if you were there and I said you were. Was I not supposed to tell? I figured since we cleared the trip with Abrams, it was okay.”

  “I just don’t like Owens and I can’t imagine why he’s calling. Did he say?”

  “No, just said he needed to speak with you about the case. He seemed to know all about it. He mentioned how upset Mr. Abrams and everyone at the company is about Joyce. He even mentioned the brother.”

  “What did he say about Paul?”

  “He said he was fond of Joyce and Paul and if there was anything he could do to help you should call him.”

  “Give me his number, will you?”

  Chapter 13

  Don wasn’t available for lunch. His chat with a couple of detectives was going well and he was springing for lunch to ply them for more information and to show his appreciation. Charlie’s stomach growled and she thought of the array of food behind the glass display at the meat ’n three, but it would take twenty minutes to get downtown. She considered the McDonald’s and Wendy’s near the motel, always a possibility for a foodie who wasn’t a snob, then remembered the fast-food chicken joint across the street from the Olive Tree. There was also a barbershop a couple of doors from the restaurant and there was no better way to hear about things going on in a neighborhood than sitting in a Black barbershop. I can take care of eating and querying on a single block.

  Charlie pulled the Impala away from the curb with a final glance at St. Agnes and headed to 24th Street. She thought it best to keep a low profile, so she parked the car about a half-mile north of the neighborhood’s prying eyes, crossed the street and for the second time in as many days, she boarded the southbound 40 bus. The driver was a stout, African-American woman with a braided hairstyle. She gave Charlie an “I don’t take no shit” stare. Charlie smiled and deposited change into the fare box. This bus was more crowded than yesterday’s, but she found an aisle seat near the rear. The man she sat next to was sleeping. His leg infiltrated Charlie’s space but she was getting off in a couple of stops so she perched on the edge of the seat. When she passed the Olive Tree, she pulled the signal cord; the lady bus driver eyed her through the mirror as she stood at the back door. Charlie crossed 24th Street and doubled back, as she passed glancing into the barbershop where three barbers busily cut hair and four customers waited.

  Charlie decided dining in at Southern Chicken would be tolerable. The floor was clean and the plate glass window had been recently washed. She stood in a long line and ten minutes later ordered a two-piece white meat dinner then carried the breast, wing, coleslaw, biscuit and a large cola to a stool at the window counter overlooking 24th Street. There was a lot to see in the twenty minutes it took to devour her meal.

  Vehicles sped north and south but there was no traffic light so the cars never slowed. Pedestrians moved by the window, most giving quick glances at the chicken being consumed. A caravan of transports—cars, trucks, wagons, shopping carts arriving at, and departing from, the laundromat next door, laden with overflowing clothes. Men, women and children were full participants in the washday enterprise. Across the street, the Olive Tree also had a steady stream of customers. Charlie wondered if Yusef was working today.

  When Charlie entered Burke’s Easy Cuts, there were three customers ahead of her. Every head turned to look, and she returned the glances. One of the barbers called out a welcome: “How you doing, we’ll be right with you.” Charlie nodded. She factored up to an hour before her turn in the chair and that would give her plenty of time to observe and listen. Following barbershop protocol, she chose a magazine from the pile on a side table and claimed an empty chair along the wall. Midday sun poured through the door and the plate glass window but didn’t quite reach her perch, making her survey of the twenty by fifteen-foot room an easier task. Behind the barber stations, a long mirror reflected a wall covered with framed pictures of people and buildings and yellowing newspaper clippings. Apparently Burke’s had been a mainstay in the neighborhood a long time. One of the headlines, large enough to be read backwards, was about the 1963 Birmingham church bombing.

  All the customers were men, mostly in their teens and early twenties, and one, old man. Each lap had a magazine: Ebony, Car and Driver, People, Esquire, Jet. Those getting haircuts occasionally made eye contact with Charlie when their chairs swiveled her way but mostly they, and the waiting patrons, focused on a small TV mounted on the front wall. showing a videotape of Spiderman 2. The elderly man, who Charlie decided might be close to seventy, read a newspaper. His hair was thin and gray, a few shades lighter than his cotton trousers which barely concealed narrow legs and bony knees. His tweed jacket was loose over his slumping shoulders and a cane rested next to his chair. The others looked like all the young Black men Charlie had seen around this north Birmingham neighborhood, wearing tattoos, baggy pants, big shirts and unlaced footwear.

  Charlie knew it was a barbershop tenet that the barber’s hair should always look freshly cut and, if bearded or mustachioed, facial hair must be immaculately trimmed. Such was the case for the two male barbers in the shop. The lady barber was perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties and her hair was blonde and cut in a trendy geometric style. Charlie watched with fascination as the woman executed an ornate carving into the side of her customer’s short hair. She twisted and turned the clippers with the confidence of an artist touching a brush to canvas.

  When it was just her and the old man waiting, Charlie took the opportunity to examine the wall of newspapers and photographs. The display was a mini-pictorial of Birmingham’s black history with a sea of faces, some familiar, most not. There was a photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. who had apparently visited Burke’s barbershop in the early Sixties. King posed with a group of men that included local civil rights leader, Fred Shuttlesworth.

  “That’s me, next to Dr. King,” the barber who had greeted Charlie said proudly.

  “Was this in 1963?”

  “It sure was. I was ten years old. That picture was taken right after Dr. King got out of jail.”

  “Oh, right. His Letter from Birmingham Jail.”

  The barber reached for the remote and turned down the volume on the TV. “You see,” he said to the young man in his chair, “this lady knows something about the struggles of our people.”

  The teenager shrugged and feigned attention to his magazine.

  “Johnny, you remember.”

  “Sure do, Burke,” the old man said. “Your daddy and me went downtown to demonstrate with King and later that summer, he closed the shop and we went to the Washington, DC march.”

  “I remember that too, Johnny. I couldn’t go because Mama said it was too dangerous.”

  The two men went back and forth reminiscing while Charlie resumed her examination of the wall’s artifacts. The photos of two buildings got her attention. Saint Agnes Catholic Church and the Freeman Funeral Home.

  “Is this the Freeman Funeral Home? It looks a lot different now,” Charlie said.

  Burke paused in his conversation with Johnny who was now getting his hair clipped. “Yeah, that’s the old building, when it was just up the street.”

  “Before Freeman Junior got too important to live in the neighborhood,” the old man said. Burke chuckled at the remark. “He used to come in here every week when he was in high school. Never had a hair out of place, always wanted a hot-foam shave and his sideburns just right. You’re too young to remember that, Burke. He was a big football hero. Your daddy used to have a name for him, what was it? I don’t remember now.”

  “Gillette,” Burke said.

  Charlie’s ears
tingled.

  “That’s it, Gillette. Because he was always sharp as a razor blade.”

  Both men laughed.

  Charlie finally got her turn in the chair. She didn’t really need a haircut but asked Burke to give her a trim. Another customer waited for the lady barber.

  “This your first time in the shop?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m here for a quick visit.”

  “Who you visiting?”

  “Ernestine Mack,” Charlie said, giving her mother’s name.

  “Don’t know her.”

  “Looks like you’ve been in business a long time.”

  “Yep. In this same spot for almost fifty years. I took over the business from my father.”

  “You can’t go wrong with a barbershop.”

  “Don’t know about that, things have changed a lot. The younger generation go to salons now, or one of those chain cut shops where they don’t know you but they get you in and out quick. Everybody’s moving fast these days.”

  “Is that what happened with Freemans?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You all said he moved the business.”

  “Oh, right. That was his son. When the family moved over the mountain.”

  “Over the mountain?”

  “The suburbs. Mostly white, mostly rich.”

  Burke’s scissors clicked rapidly at the top of Charlie’s head. She hoped he wouldn’t cut her hair too short.

  “Did you know Paul Stringer?” she asked.

  “Yeah I knew Paul. You know him?”

  “No. But my mother knew his folks. Sad thing, the way he died.”

  Burke didn’t say more and Charlie thought she had pressed enough. The scissors clicked near her ear like a set of castanets. Her back was to the door when she heard it open and Burke give his “be with you in a minute” greeting. When her cut was done the barber put a soft brush in talcum and swept it along her neck and ears to remove the stray hair. He gave her a hand mirror and swung her chair so she could check the back. With a start, she recognized the new customer as Walter Barnes from the MotorCity Casino. Her heart skipped a beat. Damn, what’s he doing here? Charlie used her toe to angle the barber chair towards the rear of the shop, with her back to the door. She returned the mirror to Burke and rose from the chair.