Roots of Murder

by R. Jean Reid

  She and Jacko took another break, finishing the rest of Ina Claire’s snacks. Nell told Jacko he could leave anytime he wished, but he insisted on staying. They worked for another few solid hours; the back alley acquired a stack of garbage bags. Jacko brought his car around front and loaded up the computers to take to his friend. One of the purchases he’d made was a number of fans, which they placed both upstairs and downstairs. They would be left on overnight, doing whatever could be done to hasten the drying.

  Nell thanked Jacko profusely as she put the shiny new key into the rough padlock on the plywood door.

  He shrugged it off with the comment, “Good exercise.” But even he was showing his tiredness as he went down the steps to his car.

  Nell certainly felt hers as she dragged herself across the square to where her car was parked. She had just enough energy and initiative to rummage in the truck and take out the roll of paper towels she kept there, placing several over her seat to keep the soot transfer to a minimum.

  One advantage of not having children home was she could strip off her clothes in the laundry room and then walk naked to the bathroom. She allowed herself a long soaking bath, including washing her hair twice.

  After the bath, Nell poured herself two fingers of Scotch and took a few sips while debating whether or not to call the sheriff.

  She finally decided to do it, reminding herself to try for honey, not vinegar, this time. But her debate was for naught. The sheriff wasn’t around and none of the three people the phone call was routed through had any information.

  “Damn you,” Nell muttered as she put the phone down and took another long sip of Scotch. “I knew there was a reason I don’t trust you.”

  Mrs. Thomas, Sr. had left the briefest message possible giving Nell their whereabouts. Nell called exactly at five, but no one was in the room. She called again at five fifteen, and this time was rewarded with Lizzie answering the phone and sounding as if she missed her. Nell spent a good half hour talking to both her and Josh. She told them a little about cleaning up the office, emphasizing the good news: the building was fine, just needed some new windows and a door.

  After that, Nell settled in with her Scotch and a book and mostly managed to read, interrupted only occasionally with worries about the paper, her children. Missing Thom. That night, she again slept in the guest bedroom, again making sure all the doors and windows were locked and leaving lights on downstairs.

  twenty-one

  Nell spent most of Sunday continuing the cleanup. Jacko showed up just after noon. Nell was relieved he was sensible enough to have caught up on his sleep. Between them, they managed to create something resembling a workspace. Jacko could share Nell’s office; Pam and Carrie could take over the break room. Ina Claire’s office was more or less usable, so she could stay there. Nell wasn’t sure what do to with Dolan, but he could help make that decision on Monday. They had cleared out most of the damaged area, leaving it free to be worked on. The prosaic back door to the building would now be their main entrance—cement stairs and a metal door leading to the narrow alley that ran behind the Crier.

  Jacko told her his computer friend was already working on data retrieval and had offered to help with purchasing and setting up the new computers.

  Kate again came by before opening the bike shop, bringing several friends with her. They helped Jacko carry the heavier things out of the basement. Even the deputy put his brawny arms to work. The few things that could be saved were left out front to dry in the sun for a few hours; the rest was put in back for the garbage.

  When Nell got home that evening, she completed her same circuit: clothes off in the laundry room and straight into the tub. She had still heard nothing from the sheriff, but vowed she wouldn’t call him.

  Mrs. Thomas phoned a little later to tell her they were back in town, but suggested that Josh and Lizzie stay with her for a while. Nell was so tired—and already comfortable ensconced in baggy sweatpants—so she almost gave in. But she was missing her children and didn’t want to concede to her mother-in-law again.

  Her effort in throwing on respectable cloths and dragging herself out of the house was suitably rewarded with the glee of Lizzie and Josh greeting her. She dutifully thanked Mrs. Thomas, including prompting Lizzie to also say thank you. Josh fell into line without a similar hint. Nell had her victory in the happiness of her children at being with her.

  “Please be careful,” Mrs. Thomas admonished as her farewell.

  “You too, Mother,” Nell answered, then packed her kids in the car and headed home.

  Lizzie, of course, went straight to the computer. Josh, unable to check his email, gave Nell a rundown of what they did. They’d spent the night over at a B&B in Bay St. Louis; he’d been forced to tag along behind Lizzie and his grandmother while they wandered through the shops in the revived downtown area. Josh didn’t say it outright, but it didn’t sound like something he’d enjoy. Nell refereed the computer, letting Josh get his chance. She was tired enough that she left them watching TV—with instructions it went off at ten and they head for bed—and she turned in. As she was drifting off to sleep, she was gratified to hear the TV go off and footsteps head upstairs. They must be glad to be back if they were being this obedient.

  “Mom?” Lizzie tapped at her door.

  “Come in, honey,” Nell told her.

  Lizzie entered and sat on the edge of the bed. Softly she said, “I’m scared.”

  Nell sat up and put an arm around her daughter. “It is scary, but keep in mind they attacked an empty building, late at night. These men are cowards.”

  “It’s not just that,” Lizzie rushed in, overtopping Nell’s words. “I thought I saw that truck. We were walking down the street, looking in windows, and I saw a red truck slowly coming our way. So I pretended like I really wanted to look in that store and hustled Josh and Grandmom in.”

  “Was it them?” Nell asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” Lizzie said, almost crying. “When I looked out again, I didn’t see anything. But it was a red truck, kind of small and dirty, and there were two guys in it.”

  Nell felt a trickle of worry. If the sheriff had picked up the Jones brothers, what were they doing stalking her children? She gently questioned Lizzie, but she’d seen the red truck only once and could offer no more details.

  “I kept pretending I wanted to go in shops and look around,” Lizzie said. “It annoyed Josh and made Grandmom think I’m turning into a proper lady. But I wanted to keep us off the streets. Did I do the right thing? Maybe if I watched longer, I could have got a license plate number.”

  “You did the right thing,” Nell reassured her. “Your safety is most important.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Lizzie said, giving Nell a big hug. “I know you’ll make it okay.”

  How do I make it okay, Nell thought as she listened to her daughter cross the hall to her bedroom. How can I possibly carry that burden? The only answer she had: you have to.

  Nell slept restlessly; any sound or noise from the street woke her. She was almost relieved when the alarm clock went off and she could officially get up.

  The kids wanted to see the Crier, so Nell hurried them to have enough time before school. She drove by instead of bringing them inside. That was bad enough; they were both quiet and somber on the way to school.

  Back at the Crier, Nell used the back door. Wanting as little traffic as possible to come through the burned area, she made up a sign for the main door asking people to please come around back. From there she headed to the police station. She demanded to see Whiz Brown, barely waiting for the desk sergeant to announce her before marching into his office.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Nell said, ignoring the seat and remaining standing. “Someone tried to burn down my building Friday night, and despite it being half a block away, the sheriff’s office handled the call.”

  “What are you
talking about?” Whiz said, his eyes shifting downward in a way that told Nell he knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “It’s kind of odd, don’t you think, that someone could drive right by the police station, throw a firebomb through one of my windows, and you didn’t even notice.” Then Nell threw out, “How much did you get paid to ignore that, Whiz? Enough to hire a good lawyer?”

  She’d expected him to sputter and deny it, but instead he turned gray and looked down. She let the words hang, forcing him to respond. “I didn’t get paid nothing,” he finally said.

  “Then what were you threatened with?” Nell pushed.

  His head jerked up. There was a scared look in his eyes, but he looked away again. Without taking his eyes from the floor, he mumbled, “Nothing. Just nothing. Sorry about your building, but sometimes things just happened. Police can’t be everywhere.”

  Nell leaned over his desk so he couldn’t avoid seeing her, then said, “I’ll find out. If they know, I can know.”

  His head again jerked up. “Just let me retire and get out of here.” It sounded as if he was pleading with her.

  “My son was attacked, my building burned. I can’t just let it go,” Nell told him in a harsh whisper.

  He suddenly looked at her, and in a matching whisper said, “Forget the murders; forget the property stuff. That’s what they want.” Then he was silent, again looking at the floor.

  “Who? Who wants?” Nell demanded. He didn’t answer, just shook his head. Then Nell asked, “Was it your father? Did he murder them?”

  The look he gave her went beyond fear to despair. But still he said nothing, until he finally whispered, “You got to get out of here.”

  “Who are they?” Nell demanded again, but for an answer he got up and left his office, still not looking at her.

  Nell stared at his empty chair, still rocking from him hurling out of it. Then she left, wondering what—or who—had so spooked Whiz Brown.

  When she got back to the Crier office, Dolan was there. Nell gave him a rundown of the arrangements she and Jacko had made, adding that they didn’t know what to do with him.

  “Neither does my wife,” Dolan said. “Maybe I can share the office with Ina for a while. I suspect that I’ll be doing a lot of running around.”

  Nell gave Dolan full authority to pick out paint and carpet colors, ruling out only hot pink and lime green.

  “Nope, not a hot pink guy. You don’t have to worry.”

  Aaron was true to his word and joined them with a handful of business cards, telling them to be sure to mention that the Duprees had recommended them. As Dolan was starting to make phone calls, he pulled Nell aside and asked if they could meet for lunch sometime that week. “Today, even,” he offered.

  “Probably not today,” Nell admitted. “Can we play it by ear? It’s going to be a busy week.”

  “Are you still trying to get a paper out?”

  When she said yes, he shook his head, again cautioning her about pushing it too much.

  Then Jacko, Pam, Marcus, and Ina Claire all arrived. Nell hastily told Aaron she’d try to fit him in.

  “Thanks, I’d like that,” he said and then exchanged both hellos and goodbyes with the new arrivals and was out the door.

  Jacko gave everyone the tour, explaining the temporary arrangements. Carrie arrived just as he finished and he did it all over again. Then Nell gathered everyone in her office for a meeting. They all agreed to getting out a paper that week, as if some gauntlet had been thrown down.

  “I intend to follow up on the stories that might have provoked this attack,” Nell told them. “If you’re not comfortable, I’m not going to make anyone stay. Feel free to talk to me privately later,” she added, knowing the group might make people feel pressured.

  “What’s a paper without a little adventure?” Dolan commented.

  Jacko explained about the computers, Dolan about the repairs on the big room. After that, they all spent the morning figuring out everything from who needed pens to how to run a few more phone lines to the temporary desks.

  Marcus and Jacko decided to sort through the archives Marcus had saved. Dolan was out procuring office supplies, and Carrie had asked to either work at home or be out following the mayoral candidates. Nell had suggested she also do a quick rundown on all the other races, a brief who-and-what for the issue that would be the last one printed before the election. Even though the mayoral contest was the main one, there were still some people interested in who would be dog catcher for the upper seventh ward.

  Pam appeared at Nell’s door. “There is”—she glanced down at a business card—“someone named Cornelius Larkin here to see you.”

  Nell questioned Pam with her eyes, aware her visitor was only a wall away. Pam nodded he seemed okay, just a stranger. Nell gave another nod and Pam went to get him.

  A tall, older man entered Nell’s office, his hair a distinguished silver and black. Nell stood to greet him, noting he was well dressed in a conservative gray suit.

  “Ms. McGraw?” he said, extending his hand.

  “Mr. Larkin, how can I help you?” Nell sat, indicating a seat for him. She glanced surreptitiously at his card, wondering what a lawyer from New York wanted with her as they sat down.

  He looked around the office, then said, “It looks like you’ve had some problems here.”

  “Someone tried to throw a firebomb through our front window,” Nell stated.

  “My God. Do they still do things like that?” he said, clearly taken aback.

  “I’m afraid they do. As we found out the hard way.”

  “Was it because of what you reported about the murders?” He had a deep, rich voice, one Nell guessed could mesmerize a courtroom.

  “That’s possible, but so far no one’s writing their grievances on the wall.”

  He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “I’m here about Michael Walker,” he announced. He hesitated, then continued. “Michael and I were … very close friends. We were going to change the world together … both going to law school. Then he didn’t come home. I went without him, maybe pushing the world just a little bit in the direction I wanted it to go.” He broke off. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to take too much of your time. I just wanted to find out what … as much as there is to know.”

  Nell told the story, everything she knew so far. Cornelius Larkin listened intently, asking an occasional question.

  When she finished, he said, “Thank you. I know it may seem foolish for me to have come this far for … for what I could read in the paper.”

  Nell could tell he was keeping a tight rein on his emotions. “Did you come by yourself?” She was hoping he had family with him. She noticed a ring on his left finger. “Is your wife with you?”

  “My wife?” He glanced at the ring and said hurriedly, “No, I never married.”

  Then Nell understood. “You loved Michael, didn’t you,” she said softly. She wanted to ask, does it stop hurting after fifty years?

  “Yes, I did. Michael couldn’t hide who he was. His family had little use for that and turned away from him. I thought together we could be enough. But … as a ‘friend,’ I could only ask so many questions after he disappeared. I had no legal standing, and if I were to reveal … how much he meant to me, I don’t think that would have helped.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Larkin,” Nell said. Now she understood his emotions. He had held this grief in silence for so long. She wanted to find out about Michael and he needed to talk, so she asked questions.

  They had met at Columbia, “about the only two black faces on campus, so it was easy to spot each other.” Their common background also bound them together; they were both the sons of families that had fled north for the promise of better jobs and freedom from Jim Crow. “Used to hang out together in the jazz clubs of the Village, young, spending our last fifty ce
nts on beer, and happy. Once we had to walk all the way from 8th Street back to Columbia.” He started to explain the distance, but Nell told him she had gone to Columbia J School and knew just how long a walk—half of Manhattan—that would be.

  They talked for over an hour. He did once again say, “I don’t want to take too much of your time,” but Nell told him she had nothing to do that was more important. Finally he said, “I would like to … take Michael home. The only home he had was with me. I know that might take time and effort; I’m not ‘family,’ after all. I didn’t really come all this way to give you my life story, but to enlist your help.”

  “Of course, I’ll do everything I can,” Nell assured him. Then she asked, “Did Michael ever talk to you about anything illegal going on here?”

  “Plenty of illegal things: denying people the right to vote, intimidation, unequal enforcement of the law. I’m guessing you mean something other than the ‘usual’ ones of the time. I had an older brother who was a lawyer also—he passed about two years ago—and I know Michael asked if he could do some research into property law.”

  It wasn’t a smoking gun, but it was the first concrete indication of a link between the murders and the property theft. But he could remember little more—phone calls were expensive back then, there was no email—so while Michael was away they’d communicated mostly by letter, and neither of them had been given to putting much on paper. “We always thought we’d have a lifetime to tell each other about that year.”

  Nell again promised she would keep him informed and do what she could to get the remains released to him. He gave Nell an additional card, writing on this one his home and cell numbers.

  She sat silently after he left. For most people murder and death was something they read about in a paper, but for some it was a lifetime of always carrying the loss. Cornelius Larkin had cared deeply for a man who’d been gone for so long; cared enough to fight to take home the fifty-year-old bones.