by J. L. Salter
“Countin’ th’ one I lef’... prob’ly five er six duzzin’.”
Shane handed over the fiver. “So Ricks could be in any of them and moving every day.”
Cratchit nodded and took a deep swallow of brew.
“If you knew where he was right now, would you tell me?”
The old man nodded eagerly. “But it’s worth lots more than a sawbuck.”
“Do you know where he is, Cratchit?”
His face fell. “Nossir. But he was askin’ Murphy ‘bout th’ rail yard.”
Chapter Thirty-One
October 14 (Friday morning)
Kaser had never before been in Lynwood, California. He double checked the address before he exited his airport rental car. Except for the lone palm tree near the corner of the modest lot, it looked about like any small ranch style house in most other parts of the country. This one, like countless structures in the L.A. area, had faux stucco over the brick. Purely decorative.
This would be Kaser’s third and last contact with Helana Harte Ross, and their first face to face meeting. She was granddaughter of the departed actress who seemed to have been privy to certain secrets that Kaser was driven to eliminate. Had any of that information filtered down? Actually, he doubted it, but—being thorough—he would find out. And, if Kaser got lucky, he’d also get his hands on some proof of the murder, covered up so long ago in a little port town along the Kentucky shores of the Mississippi.
He’d learned a good bit about Helana from their two phone conversations. Age 79, she’d moved back from Idaho a few years after being widowed. She lived alone, except for a cat. Kaser hated cats and they returned the sentiment.
After ringing the doorbell, he waited. He heard a voice and possibly the television, and also noisy fumbling with locks. When the door finally opened, he produced his brightest smile. It was one he’d practiced as a college student selling Bibles door to door for three summers.
“Mizz Ross, I’m John. We spoke on the phone a couple of times.”
“John? Why, that’s my brother’s name... Johnnie.” She looked outside, probably to see if anybody else was around. Nobody besides the construction workers across the street and two doors down. “You come on inside... I don’t like the neighbors noticing my business.”
“Thank you kindly, Mizz Ross.” It was too warm for a jacket, so all he carried was a zippered briefcase. “I hope I caught you at a good time.”
“Well, I suppose so. It’s just me and Charley watching TV.” She looked a little dizzy. “I have to sit back down... the doctor gives me medicine for my heart.” She reached out a hand to steady herself and it landed on Kaser’s forearm. “It’s nice to have someone sturdy to walk with. I don’t think those pills help my heart much, but they do tend to make me a little unsteady at times.”
Medicine or no medicine, Kaser wasn’t sure how much she’d recall from their earlier conversations, so he retraced a few topics to put her at ease. His elaborate tale about writing a biography of her grandmother had obviously worked exceptionally well and he could adapt that for future uses. “Well, as you’ll recall, Mizz Ross, the cost of writing and publishing this book comes from an anonymous Hollywood benefactor who’s matching funds provided by the California affiliates of public television.” Everybody responded favorably to public broadcasting... it seemed so clean.
“You mean it won’t be a New York publisher?” Helana released his arm and settled into her nicely-stuffed chair. Then she motioned him toward a companion piece fairly near, but not blocking her view of the loud television.
“No ma’am, Mizz Ross.” He smiled softly. “The network does a lot of their own publishing these days... makes them so much more responsive to loyal viewers, like you. It also allows them to get books out a lot faster than the big six houses can. In fact,” he said with a wink, “when they hired me for this project, I insisted that they get the book out within four months of my final corrected proofs.”
“So that won’t be in time for Christmas then?” She looked genuinely disappointed.
“No ma’am, Mizz Ross... not this Christmas.” He flashed another Bible-selling smile. “But it should be out in time for your grandkids to take to show and tell before the school year’s out.”
“Oh, they’d love that... a book about my granny. Let’s see, their great-great-grandmother, I believe.”
Kaser nodded.
“Won’t that be grand, Charley?”
The elderly cat rose slowly, stretched, and looked disdainfully at Kaser. Then the feline stiffened her tail and sauntered to the other side of Helana’s chair.
Kaser had to restrain his frown. Don’t like cats at all.
“Well, John, I believe I already told you just about everything on the phone. What else can I help with?”
Kaser un-zipped his leather portfolio and pulled out a small tablet. “Did your grandmother ever have any visitors from her Vaudeville traveling days?”
“Not sure... but possibly so.”
“Did Mizz Harte have any on-going communication with any friends or associates from those days?”
Helana looked briefly toward Charley as though the cat could help her remember. “Well, the people she worked with all died, I suppose. But Granny did correspond with some, for a time... she had a lovely hand. Also wrote some of their children I expect. In fact, she was godmother to at least one.”
“But no visitors from any of those families, as far as you know?”
“Well, some of her Vaudeville work was out here in California... so she may have stayed in touch with some of those people. Plus, I recall Granny did go to New York a couple of times. She might’ve visited with some of her friends along the way.” Helana seemed distracted. “Don’t know. Her diaries would say for sure.”
“Do you still have any of your grandmother’s diaries, Mizz Ross?”
“Oh, I’m afraid they were all thrown out after Daddy died. His attorney—” She shook her grey head sadly. “But I have read several of Granny’s letters.”
Kaser scooted forward in his chair. “Letters? Mizz Ross, when we talked before about your grandmother’s papers, didn’t you say they’d all been thrown away?”
“Why, yes, but I didn’t mean all her letters. I still have a few of those.” Charley rubbed her flanks against Helana’s shins and then clumsily hopped into a comfortable lap.
“Those letters... do you have any of them handy?”
Helana made no effort to rise and didn’t respond directly to his question. “Granny said she had…at one time or another…at least one pen-pal from nearly every town their troupe ever played in. Sometimes it was a young fan but several were supporters of their local theatre.”
“Supporters?”
“Well, she called them patrons. I suppose they were benefactors of the arts... or people who owned the theatres. Might have been audience folks who enjoyed the performance and met her backstage. Granny was quite attractive in her day, you know. And some of her costumes in those early years showed off her ankles.” Helana giggled. “Of course, they wore tights in those days.”
Kaser looked around the small living room. “Where did you say those letters were?”
Helana started to point toward her bedroom but apparently changed her mind and indicated the cabinet beneath the television. “Over there.”
“Mizz Ross, would it be okay to have a look?” He’d already started that direction.
“Oh, I suppose so. But you’ll have to read them here, I’m afraid. That’s all we have left of Granny, you know.”
“We?”
“Charley and me.” Helana lightly scratched the feline’s head.
Kaser got down on one knee to reach into the cabinet. “In this accordion folder?”
She nodded. “And you can read them over at the table if you want. It’s time for my show.” Helana clicked the remote.
He could tell by the music it was a British comedy and the television’s volume was fully twice as loud as Kaser would have needed.
He hurried to the kitchen table... hoping to get some distance from the noise. On his first pass leafing through the letters, he wanted only names and locations. Hardwicke from West Virginia, Donner from Colorado, Flanagan from New York, and Marvie from Tennessee. None of those names matched anything he’d painstakingly researched so far. And no correspondents from Kentucky at all. Oh, wait a minute, a letter from Kentucky! From Ethel Bier. Hmm. Less than a month ago, he’d clinically dispatched Ethel Slate Bier, because she was among those Slates who had feuded with the Vernon folks of old man Barkley. Holding one of her ancient letters gave Kaser a brief flashback of a job well done. Very thorough and quite terminal.
Kaser glanced back at Helana, then fully absorbed by her program. She stroked her cat a bit more vigorously when she laughed at the humorous spots. Kaser returned his attention to the letter from Ms. Bier. Nothing directly incriminating, but Bier did make a passing reference to those guilty Vernons. Out of context, it meant nothing.
Thinking he’d seen all the letters, Kaser took another look in each of the accordion’s compartments. Ah, one more. Also from Ms. Bier. In that one she bitterly complained the real murderer would never be caught and her family, the Slate descendants, could never rest until justice was done... no matter how many generations it took. He scanned it quickly and paraphrased in his head: nobody in authority was interested in re-opening the case; the framed murderer had been punished—case closed.
Kaser put those two letters aside and returned the rest to the accordion. Then he went through the post cards. Most of the names didn’t interest him and none of the contents were significant.
He clutched the two Bier letters tightly. Those were what he’d come for. None of the other Slate relatives he’d interviewed had anything nearly as specific as Ms. Bier’s tirade. The extent of their information was simply the unceasing efforts of the Slate family and its descendants to shift the blame for Frederick’s tragic death away from the Mississippi drifter and to the true murderer, Matthew Vernon.
Nothing in Durocher’s Vernon ancestry had been nearly this vivid or incriminating. Of course, their entire effort had been to deny the allegations against their own patriarch, Matthew Vernon, if they didn’t know the truth. And, if any of them did know the facts, to perpetuate the multi-generational cover up.
Today’s material bore out the Slate version of events. When Kaser had first stumbled on this murder, he’d figured it would amount to nothing more than some professional jealousy between two merchant families in a bustling river town. A minor feud stirred by misinterpretation or misunderstanding. Might have even been a duel gone bad. Who could have imagined it would be a full bore murder with bribery, conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and numerous other felonies?
During a TV commercial, Kaser refocused on his hostess. “This will be good material for the biography. It looks like your grandmother knew prominent families in several different states, plus cities along the Mississippi. Do you recall hearing anything about the Slate family?”
“Actually... I don’t believe so.” Helana stroked the pampered cat.
“Mizz Ross, you mentioned a brother, earlier. How old is he?”
“Johnnie... way over in New Mexico. He was... 75 in June. He’s younger, but his brain’s gone, bless his heart... after the stroke.” She whispered that final word. “That wasn’t but a year or two after Daddy died. I don’t know why Johnnie was up on that high ladder... at his age. Some people say the stroke made him fall and others say his fall caused the aneurism. Do you know which it is, John?” She looked into Kaser’s face as though he were a doctor. “I mean which causes which... usually?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t know. Sorry.” For some reason it rattled him to be asked medical advice. “Mizz Ross, do you have any photos of your grandmother?”
“Just that one studio portrait.” Helana pointed to an oval shaped frame on the far wall. “She was quite lovely... and not only by the standards of that time.” It was clear Helana was proud. “But no, all the other pictures disappeared.”
“She didn’t leave you any pictures? Or anything else?” He dialed back from sounding so incredulous. “Any primary source material I could borrow from you would be invaluable for our biography.”
“I wish I could help you, John. But Daddy’s lawyer—” She just repeated what Kaser had already learned in their September twenty-fourth phone call.
“And those cleaners discarded all of Mizz Harte’s belongings... except what you’ve just shown me?”
Helana started nodding but stopped. “Well, I guess I misspoke. I do have one little drawing that Granddad did. He’d been a scenic designer in silent films and was a very good artist before arthritis took that away.” Her ancient cat yawned hugely. “It shows me sitting in Granny’s lap... when I was just a child.”
“What kind of drawing, Mizz Ross? Do you still have it?” Kaser rubbed his right thumb’s knuckle with his left thumbnail.
Helana nodded.
After what he deemed a suitable wait for a reply, Kaser asked, “Would it be possible for me to see it, Mizz Ross? Perhaps make a copy if it’s significant. You know... for the biography. I didn’t know about your grandfather’s artwork. I think I’ve got a chapter where that would fit nicely.”
She smiled. “Oh, let me think. It’s in a little frame.” Helana glanced toward her bedroom door.
In Kaser’s line of work, sometimes patience was required in extra measure; he’d come back to that later. “Well, not having any primary resource material makes it extra difficult for a biographer like me. I need to know where Mizz Harte went, who she talked to, and what secrets she knew.”
“She made dozens and dozens of early movies. I’ve only seen two, I believe. You miss a lot not hearing her. Granny had a pretty singing voice. She could do accents, too. A natural entertainer.” Helana seemed slightly off the subject. “Before the films, she had all those years in the touring company. I don’t know any of her secrets, but Granny used to tell us stories she heard on her tours with the acting troupes... all over the states on the railroads and up and down the big rivers on steamboats.”
“Trains and riverboats? Mizz Ross, do you remember any of those stories?”
“No, I don’t believe so... not anymore. We just called them Granny’s Stories.”
“Do you recall anything about them?” Kaser scraped the knuckle on his right thumb so deeply that it looked like it might bleed.
“Some were funny... some were sad. But I’ve forgotten what they were about.”
Kaser decided to try again for the drawing. “Where did you say that picture was, Mizz Ross? I’d like to have a look before I go.”
Helana looked down in her empty lap as though she thought she’d already gotten the picture when it was first mentioned. “Oh—” She pointed. “It’s on my bureau...”
“Would it be okay if I go get it? Just to save you getting up, I mean.”
“Oh, I suppose—” Her program was already back on.
Kaser hurried down the short hallway. He easily spotted it on her dresser and carefully slid the thick cardboard backer out of the frame. The pen and ink drawing of the girl and her grandmother was nothing special, but it seemed unusual that the page had been folded twice. Odd. Why not just trim the sketch to size and frame it? To have folded the page meant something on the back must be worth saving.
When carefully unfolded twice, the reverse seemed to be a large sheet from an old manuscript in faded brown ink and it looked like a page from an antique ledger book. He scanned it quickly.
Jackpot! The botched hanging of an innocent man. Kaser tried to read it more thoroughly but the handwriting was difficult to decipher. No matter, he could make out enough to know what he had in hand. The names were all wrong, but this was the same event... clearly. The murder of Blank and the guilt of Brown. They had to be Frederick Slate and Matthew Vernon. And if the information on this single manuscript page was accurate, the crime also involved bribery of witnesses and a costly cover up.<
br />
Kaser peered around the doorframe at his hostess watching television. It was likely she’d been given the sketch already inside the frame and possibly never knew anything was written on the back. But, sadly, that would not be enough to keep her alive. Kaser rubbed the already-raw knuckle with his thumbnail.
With the sketch and empty frame in one hand, Kaser returned to the room with the blaring TV. Helana nodded as he walked past her but her eyes remained fixed on the British comedy. Standing slightly behind her over-stuffed chair, Kaser pulled a .45 caliber pistol from his briefcase and suddenly whacked the right side of Helana’s head. He’d had lots of practice with that blow and nobody could survive it. It was his method of choice with older people because it usually appeared as though they’d fallen and hit their heads. Eight out of ten coroners agreed.
Kaser rolled her body forward out of the chair, onto the floor, and knocked a few items off the coffee table as further evidence of her fall. Then he quickly felt for a pulse at her neck. Detecting none, he turned down the TV volume.
He put the manuscript page in his pocket with the two Bier letters. These would be good leverage against Dillon if he balked at the newly-increased contract rates. Then Kaser carefully retraced his steps and wiped a small dish towel over anything he’d touched with his fingertips.
With the empty frame in one hand, Kaser approached the sedentary cat, which hissed and bristled its tail. Every cat needs a swift kick. But his aim was off and the cat bit into Kaser’s ankle as it swung past. “Yeow!” There were no front claws to deal with, but the back feet were fully equipped. When he finally grabbed Charley’s neck firmly enough to pull her off his ankle, all four of the cat’s legs stuck nearly straight out. With some difficulty, he tossed the agitated feline through the back doorway. Besides looking angry and indignant, Charley acted like she’d never been outdoors before.
Then, with the towel, Kaser closed the door and locked the hasp. He lifted his trouser cuff to examine the wound. Not as deep as he’d imagined from the pain involved. Kaser dabbed his blood with the towel. Then he exited the way he’d entered, through the front. On the way to his rented vehicle, he tossed the oval frame and bloody dishrag into an open dumpster near the house under construction. Some dumpster diver might want it to re-sell them.