He stood with his hands on his hips, as cocky as a bantam rooster turned loose in the hen house. “But I got out of there, Grandmother Belle. Worked my ass off for a scholarship to college, graduated, and no one ever realized I’m black. But someone’s going to pay for my growing up in an unheated apartment during Detroit’s brutal winters and those welts my ‘father’ gave me.”
Belle whimpered and clutched the glass against her chest—stared at the poisonous serpent that had slithered out of the marshland of her past to confront her, its fangs dripping with venom.
The sneer on his lips cut her to the heart. “Don’t think I’m not appreciative of the gardening job—gave me a chance to get in solid with Great-Aunt Julia. She’s terrified I’ll go to the newspapers with this.”
Belle gazed in shocked silence at the much-folded piece of paper, yellow with age, that he tossed on the table. “That’s my passport to riches, Grandmother Belle. Julia’s been building me a nest egg because she wants me to stop Abigail James from uncovering the truth about Rosemary Dickison. Now while I wouldn’t mind seeing Julia squirming in the mire with the rest of us, you can’t strangle the goose that lays the golden eggs. The redheaded wench will have to go.”
She whispered through dry lips, “My Starr never seemed to mind being poor and not having a daddy—why are you so full of hate? And where did you get this?” She picked up the birth certificate but he snatched it out of her fingers.
“Your bastard daughter had it tucked away. Proof that she was related to the high and mighty. I found it this winter and beat the whole story out of her. Why do you think I showed up on your doorstep? Not out of any urge to renew family ties!”
He stormed out of the kitchen. Belle rose, crossed to the sink, and poured the rest of the brandy down the drain. Seeking the only other source of comfort available to her, the housekeeper went outside into her garden and knelt beside a patch of aconite.
Touching a dark blue hooded flower, she remembered that although the spiked plant could ease pain, it was also poisonous to humans. When a garden was attacked by insect pests, herbal concoctions possessed the power to repel them. One man threatened to expose the past and shatter many lives—and under her fingertips bloomed the power to stop him.
Belle pulled her wandering thoughts back to the present and Flora’s agony. The pearl’s magic had faded and both tisanes and herbal rubs failed to ease her suffering. After hearing Belle’s report of the woman’s condition, Dr. Lewis was on his way over to see if he could convince her to be admitted to the hospice unit of the hospital.
Last night the man had said that Abigail would have to go. Belle knew what he meant—a man so filled with hate that he would beat his own mother was capable of rape and murder. Belle picked up the phone again.
On the bed, Flora moaned. Belle listened to the tenth ring and slammed the receiver down. Where was Abigail James?
Chapter 49
Another phone was being slammed into its cradle as Assistant State’s Attorney Cal Davis shook his head. “Crank call number six about this fifty-year-old murder investigation we’re supposedly conducting. If the boss wasn’t so busy, I’d have him take a few of them. Everyone thinks they know who wasted the girl—I’ve heard suggestions ranging from Jimmy Hoffa to Richard Nixon. This last old lady wanted me to warn that woman lawyer, Abigail James—whom the newspaper claimed is working with us on this ‘investigation’—that Julia Kyle is quite mad and will stop at nothing, even burning down people’s houses to keep them from talking.” Cal started to laugh. “Can’t you just picture it? Poised and chic Julia Kyle creeping around at midnight with a handful of old rags and a gasoline can?”
Chapter 50
Abigail felt a flutter of nerves as she parked the car, beginning to doubt the wisdom of confronting a respected judge on the flimsy basis of Oliver Payton’s dream—a man with a grudge against the entire Kyle family. If she were mistaken, Austin would have grounds for a harassment complaint to Ross and as state’s attorney, Ross would have to do something. She smiled. At least he wouldn’t be able to keep hanging up on her.
It was a quarter to three. Abigail walked over to study the Depression glass but was blind to the beauty of the glowing shades of ruby and blue displayed inside the case. Unable to remain still, she paced the length of the room three times, and on her last turn, she saw Judge Kyle enter and cross the foyer. Gripping the strap of her shoulder bag until her fingers were numb, she followed him.
Descending into the cool dimness of the basement where the heavy wooden support beams heightened the atmospheric tension, Abigail wished she’d changed into more professional attire. Would the judge take the accusations of a woman wearing jeans and beaded moccasins seriously?
As Austin Kyle, his silvered hair turning him into a ghost of jurisprudence and his expression unreadable, stepped out from behind a wooden pillar near the foot of the staircase, Abigail remembered that today’s date was August 7th—the anniversary of Rosemary’s death.
Chapter 51
Julia walked down the alley, her heels tapping on the bricks and broken cement and her head held high.
Quincy, dapper in a blue pin-striped suit, was waiting under a rusting fire escape. “Did you bring what I asked for?”
Tight-lipped, Julia nodded and pulled a thick envelope from her purse. “They’re at the museum right now and Austin is probably telling that woman everything he knows. What do you plan to do about her?”
“Chill out, Julia. I told you I’d take care of her.”
She handed over the envelope; he whistled in surprise as he thumbed through the bills and plucked out the piece of stationery with Julia’s signature. “I don’t have time to count the money, but it doesn’t matter. As long as I have this signed statement—on engraved stationery yet—I can collect anytime.”
He looked up, something ugly and vindictive behind the handsome face. “Okay, Julia. Hand over the ring.”
Without a flicker of emotion on her marble features, she slipped the band from her finger and extended it. Quincy snatched at the ring and held it up, a proud father gloating over his firstborn. “You told me your daddy gave this to you, didn’t he? Well, my daddy never gave me nothing except the back of his hand and his belt. This ring’s a good start—my first family heirloom.”
She watched him tuck the envelope into his breast pocket and he noticed the direction of her gaze. “Like the suit? The best that Kyle money could buy.” He laughed. “Just to give you something else to ponder, I looked up Nathan Reed’s death certificate. Did you know that although the cause of death was listed as drowning, the coroner questioned the severity of his head injuries from merely driving off a bridge? I’ll say my prayers that your little brother gets his precious nomination—this knowledge’ll come in handy then. What did you hit him with, Julia? A gold bar?”
He was still laughing as the blade sliced into his chest. Quincy felt a burning pain and his mouth opened in a soundless gasp as he clutched at the wall for support.
As if in a dream, he watched Julia remove the blood-stained envelope from his pocket, tuck the knife back into her purse, and crouch down to switch off the fallen tape recorder. She pried open his fingers and replaced the diamond-and-ruby ring on her own hand. Without another glance in his direction, she turned, purse in one hand and the boom box dangling from the other, and began picking her way through the beer cans and garbage littering the alley.
One hand clawed at his chest and a withered rosebud fell from his lapel as the bricks under his other hand turned cold. Cold as ice. No, they were golden, shimmering, gold. Gold bars. He was surrounded by a fortune and couldn’t move to tear it from the walls. Then he was sliding down to lie in the filth of the alleyway, the haunting sweetness of the dying rose filling his nostrils and his fading gaze still fixed on a magnificent, glittering treasure.
Chapter 52
Ross emerged from his negotiations at 2:45 and hurried to the vending machine in the lounge to get a can of Pepsi. Seated on the corne
r of his secretary’s desk, he let the cool liquid soothe his raw throat as he listened to a recital of his messages.
He frowned as Abigail’s was read to him. “Just what I needed to hear. Julia will be after Red’s pretty scalp if she ruins Austin’s chances and I’ll have to break it up. Talk about being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
Bev Simpson ignored his mutterings and picked up the final message. “Your friend, at least he claims to be a friend”—here she squinted at the paper—“gave me the name ‘Silverado Sam,’ wants you to call him back. He’s got the information you asked for about the arachnid. We’ve also been flooded with calls about the Dickison investigation.”
Ross scratched his jaw. “Arachnid? Silverado? Must be Dave and his cute way of referring to Spider. I’ll call Dave and then maybe I’ll run over to the museum and see if I can stop Red, er, Ms. James, from making a complete fool of herself. Bev, make a list of the calls about the Dickison case—giving an interview to the paper is something else I’ve got to talk to that woman about.”
Dave had indeed traced Spider Webb. “The man didn’t distinguish himself in the annuals of crime, but his unusual name made him memorable enough for me to locate him. Spider was killed near Springfield, Illinois, in a shoot-out with the Flying Squad while trying to hijack a fur truck with a few pals.”
“Did he make a deathbed confession to killing a young woman from his hometown?”
“He was riddled with bullets, Ross. The man didn’t live long enough to whisper ‘Mother’ before he died.”
Ross swung his feet up on his desk and reached for the half-full can of Pepsi. “Well, his death explains why he never came back to Lincoln City.”
“Unless he came back as a ghost. If you have any thoughts about prosecuting Spider Webb, Ross, forget it. He’s buried in a cemetery somewhere in Sangamon County with a tombstone that reads, ‘Spider Webb. Died August 7, 1937.’”
Ross stiffened and squeezed the can so hard that the aluminum pinched in to form an hour-glass shape. “August 7th? He was killed August 7th?”
“Yeah. A hot Saturday night—God knows why they decided to snatch a truckload of furs, I mean, why not a beer truck and get a cold brew? Spider was a very junior member of the Carson gang that was terrorizing the trucking industry until he spun his last web.”
Ross’s mind was racing. “Rosemary was killed shortly before midnight on August 7th and earlier that day, according to a witness, Spider bragged about pulling a big job that night.”
“Well, unless your Spider had wings, he didn’t kill the girl. Got himself in with some rough playmates. According to the police report, the man was killed at eleven-thirty P.M.”
“Thanks, Dave. I’ll get back to you later.”
Ross drummed his fingers on the desk, debating whether to interrupt Red’s meeting. She’d be furious if he showed up after hanging up on her earlier, but now that he had a chance to replay that conversation in his mind, he recognized the genuine note of fear in her voice. And she’d made that second call. No, best to run over to her office and wait for her there. Nothing could happen to her at the historical museum—the place was always crawling with school groups.
Cal was on the phone when his boss emerged and strode out of the main office. Anxious to share the joke, he hastily got the caller off the line but the double walnut doors had already slammed behind Ross. With a shrug, the assistant state’s attorney began writing up the last five messages from kooks about the Dickison case, including the one from the Pringle dame that claimed Julia Kyle was an arsonist.
Ross steered his convertible out of the parking lot. The prospect of sitting in on the meeting was tempting, with the historical museum just across the lot, but he doubted the warmth of his reception from the unpredictable Ms. James.
At a stoplight, Ross noticed the crowd gathering at the entrance to an alley. Two police cars and an ambulance were pulled up in a cluster, red lights flashing, and Ross decided his official capacity demanded that he take a look.
Parking down the block, he walked back to the alley entrance and pushed his way through the crowd. The patrolman keeping the gapers at bay seemed relieved to see him. “Someone got stabbed, Mr. Stewart. They just phoned it in.”
Ross stepped over a garbage bag that reeked to high heaven and joined the group gathered around the body of a man whose presence gave new meaning to the words “dead-end alley.”
Waving at the flies that buzzed around the bloodstained shirt, the man kneeling said, “He’s still warm—and there’s a trickle of blood from the wound. The killer can’t be long gone.”
“Anything of significance?”
The patrolman straightened. In his gloved hand was a smooth shaft. He touched a button and a gleaming blade appeared.
“The stiff had this flick knife hooked to his belt in the back under the coat, but it looks like someone beat him to the punch.”
Another man was looking through a tooled leather wallet. “Here’s a Massachusetts driver’s license issued to a Quincy Mann.” He removed a folded piece of paper with a tweezers. “Now that’s funny. Why would a guy carry a girl’s birth certificate?”
Once the faded piece of paper was encased in plastic, Ross studied the birth record for Starr DuBois, born on June 17, 1940. The name of the mother was listed as Belle DuBois, but it was the name of the father that raised his eyebrows. “Austin Kyle,” he said under his breath. “What would this guy want with a birth certificate for a daughter of Judge Kyle?”
The answer came to him in a flash. Of course, blackmail—and blackmail often led to murder as the victim being bled dry became more and more desperate.
“Funny thing.” Scott, one of the uniformed men, had picked up one of the velvety petals scattered like drops of blood near the corpse’s head. “Must be a trademark—second rose left at a crime scene this week.”
Ross pivoted, his inner sensors flaring to life. “What was the other incident?”
“Some woman had a body chalked on her driveway Saturday night. The drawing gave me the creeps—looked like someone had outlined a murder victim. A dead rose was lying right about where the heart would be on the body. Poor lady was all shook up, stood there in her robe, shivering, with her bandaged hand—”
“Her name! What was her name?”
The harsh anxiety in Ross’s voice brought a bewildered frown to Scott’s face as he responded, “James. Abigail James.”
Another policeman came up the alley with a youngster in jeans ripped at the knees in tow. “This kid says he’s a witness.”
“Ain’t no witness.” The boy squirmed free. “But I saw that old woman come out in a hurry and she had a red stain on the sleeve of her jacket. I told the guys it was blood but they didn’t believe me until we looked and saw him lying there.”
Ross grabbed the child by the arm. “What did the lady look like?”
“You’re hurting me! I didn’t cut him up—she did.”
“What did she look like?” Ross eased his grip and forced his voice to sound paternal. “What made you notice her?”
“She was carryin’ a boom box and it looked real weird with her purse and high heels. We was joking about if maybe she was into heavy metal.”
“Can you describe her? What color was her hair?” Ross kept his tone level but he could feel the pressure building, a strange urgency that had begun with Scott’s story and increased with each word from the youngster’s lips.
Seeming pleased at being the center of attention, the boy assumed a thoughtful expression. “She was ’bout as tall as that guy there.” He pointed at the shorter patrolman who was nearly five feet ten inches. “And her hair was black—but I thought it was a dye job cause of the punk silver streak in her hair. And her eyes had a funny look, like she was brain dead. Zoned out.”
“Tall, black hair with a silver streak.” Ross released the boy into the custody of a uniformed policeman. “Get his story—it’s important.”
He looked down at the body s
prawled at his feet. The faint, sour scent of violent death was growing stronger, triumphing over the smell of rotting garbage. The man’s expensive suit looked forlorn against the dirty gray of the concrete. Dark curly hair and boyish grin would have made the dead man physically appealing in life, but now the open eyes saw nothing but darkness. One hand lay slackly against the bricks of the building towering over him as though he had reached for them in his death agony.
What was the connection between this body, a birth certificate, and Julia Kyle? The rose and Abigail James? He bent to retrieve some of the rose petals, thinking about Julia Kyle with blood on her sleeve coming out of an alley containing a dead man. And a Kyle was meeting with Red at the museum.
“I want every scrap of garbage tagged for ID. Tell the photographer to get a couple shots of the birth certificate.” He slipped the petals into the pocket of his suit coat.
“Scott!” The uniformed man stepped forward. “Come with me—something smells here besides the garbage and the stiff.”
Chapter 53
Since its retirement as a courthouse, the basement of the building had served as a center for volunteer organizations—a beehive of well-lit offices, bustling workers, and ringing phones. Since Abigail’s last visit, however, the offices had been cleared out and the volunteers had vanished, and the only sound was the scrape of her moccasins as she advanced to meet Austin Kyle.
Abigail glanced past the jurist down the dimly lighted tunnel stretching beyond him. Staging the meeting in a conference room after making sure their presence was duly noted by the volunteers had seemed enough of a safeguard, but now she was alone with a man who’d kept a deadly secret for over fifty years.
Rosemary for Remembrance Page 27