Magnolias, Moonlight, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Well, what about Michael Kommer? You’ve seen him, right? Can you believe that?”

  “No,” Topaz said, puzzled.

  “He’s an anchor on ESPN.”

  “No! Seriously? I don’t watch sports.”

  “Yes, Llano Estacado High’s one claim to fame.”

  “I’ll have to check it out. What about you? Have you stayed in touch with anyone?”

  “Not really. A few Christmas cards here and there, but that’s all. Moving every few years makes it hard. That’s no excuse, I know.”

  Topaz frowned as she cracked open the water bottle. “You don’t have to have any excuses. That was high school. It’s over. We were forced to spend time with those people. You don’t have to keep it up your whole life.”

  “I suppose you’re right. It is good to see you again, though. I wonder what happened to Jeremy Hoskins?” He was the guy, the one everyone had a crush on.

  Topaz shrugged and sipped her water. “Who knows with him.”

  “Probably a lawyer like his dad.”

  “Probably.”

  We both fell silent, watching the kids race around the yard with their balloons trailing along behind them. I searched for something else to talk about, but couldn’t think of anything else high school related.

  It appeared we didn’t have a lot to say to each other after the initial “how have you been?” stage. A little girl from down the street fell and scraped her elbow on the brick steps, and by the time I’d found the Band-Aids, the party was breaking up and Topaz left with the other guests.

  An Everything In Its Place Tip for an Organized Party

  Party Countdown Checklist (One to Two Days Before)

  Purchase perishable foods.

  If you’re preparing food trays yourself, cut and arrange food, then refrigerate.

  Set the table or arrange buffet.

  Wash serving pieces.

  Set up decorations.

  Pick up fresh flowers.

  Choose the music.

  Touch up the house—concentrate on the entry and the areas where the guests will be and give the bathrooms another cleaning.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A couple of hours later, I put on my turn signal and pulled into a small gravel parking area beside the homemade sign that read ANTIQUES. I had a few minutes before I was supposed to meet Abby and Nadia at the Peach Blossom. I might as well knock something off my to-do list, if I could.

  Crooner had some prime property because of his location on a fairly busy state highway. Five flags, a mixture of the Georgia state flag, the Confederate flag, and the Stars and Stripes, were spaced along the lot. They hung limply in the still air, but on windy days the snapping flags drew attention to the business.

  I passed the first flag, a Confederate flag, and spotted the chairs Topaz had mentioned. They were spaced in two rows beside a decrepit wicker chaise longue and a metal office desk. Everything Crooner had was out in the open, and as far as I knew, he never moved anything inside. There wasn’t any cover or roof anywhere to store anything if it rained. In fact, I’d driven past here many times when it was raining and everything stayed right where it was, in the open. Rain or shine, Crooner’s antiques were always exposed to the elements. The wicker chaise longue certainly had taken a beating—I thought I saw some mold—and the desk was rusty.

  Hopefully, Crooner’s prices would be better than anything I could find at a big box home improvement store here in town. Dorthea had offered to let me use her lawn chairs and I knew Abby would bring some over, too, if I asked. I thought we could get by if I could find a dozen more chairs. I counted the wooden folding chairs. There were ten and they were in good shape. I thought they’d do.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a black man making his way through the accumulated junk toward me, humming a tune I couldn’t identify. “Can I help you?” He walked with one leg held straight and I wondered if he’d hurt his leg recently or if he always walked with a limp.

  “How much are these chairs?”

  He pulled off his baseball cap and scratched his short gray hair. “Oh, I picked those up at an estate sale last week. Haven’t had ’em long. And they’re in real nice shape.”

  I had to agree with him. Made of a light wood covered with a shiny varnish, they looked like the best thing on his lot.

  He shoved the cap down and put his hands into the pockets of his thick barn coat. “Twenty dollars.”

  “For all ten?” I asked, amazed. Okay, maybe that’s why there were always cars in the little gravel parking lot.

  He chuckled. “No. Each.”

  “Too steep for me,” I said, and moved away.

  “Now, don’t be hasty. Maybe we can work something out.”

  I paused and looked back at the chairs. Even at twenty dollars each they were close to the same price I’d pay for metal folding chairs at an office supply store. I knew because I’d checked online before I left the house.

  “Well, they are nice, but I just need them for one party. I hate to pay more than ten bucks apiece for them.”

  “How about we meet halfway at fifteen?” he offered. “I’d even load them up for you.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Come on back here to pay,” he said as he made his way to the closest of two tiny houses perched at the far end of the narrow lot. His uneven gait made him lurch from one side to the other as he climbed three stairs to a screened porch. He held open the screen door for me, then went to a desk that was a match, rust and all, with the one I’d seen outside beside the chairs.

  Just like the lot, there was stuff everywhere—old lamps and fans, rusty advertising signs, and piles of yellowed magazines. He went back to humming the same tune as he wrote my receipt.

  I handed over my check—I didn’t think he was set up to take debit cards—and asked, “Was this the house that William Nash lived in?” I tried to see past the accumulation of stuff to the lines of the house. About all I could make out was a door from the screened-in porch to a microscopic kitchen area.

  “Yes, ma’am, it was. He used to keep an eye on me when I was outside,” he said with a nod of his head toward the small patch of land between the house and the railroad tracks that ran a few feet behind the houses.

  “So you knew him?”

  “Oh yeah. I lived in the house next door.” He tapped the receipt. “My name and number’s on there. You call me, if you’re looking for something in particular. Dressers, bureaus, hutches, anything you want, I can be on the lookout for it.”

  I glanced at the receipt as I folded it. “You’re Crooner?” I asked, confused. I glanced at the open box of Confederate flags on the floor.

  He saw my glance and winked. “I don’t have to like something to sell it. If I only sold what I liked, I’d be a lot shorter on cash today, that’s for sure.”

  I followed him outside. Talk about your pragmatic attitudes. I supposed it was his business and if he wanted to sell Confederate flags, then he could. Despite the limp, he was able to stack and load the chairs quickly. “So, is it true, what I’ve heard about Nash, that he was organizing a march to support the Montgomery Bus Boycott?” The question was out of my mouth before I had time to check it. Habits are hard to break, especially when you’re naturally curious. You’re not interested in Jodi or Nash anymore, I silently lectured myself. No more questions.

  He shook his head. “That was a sad business—one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen in my life. Why are you interested in what happened so long ago?”

  “All the news coverage has made me curious,” I said.

  He focused on gently positioning the last chair in the Jeep. “That’s what folks said.”

  “Has anyone asked about him recently?”

  He firmly closed the hatchback door and turned to me with eyes narrowed. “Are you one of those TV people?”

  “No. No, I’m not,” I said quickly, and he looked a bit disappointed. “You want the reporters here?”

  “
A little free publicity couldn’t hurt, ’specially if it drew those Atlanta folks down to do some antiquing on the weekend.” He laughed as he said that, then called over his shoulder as he shuffled over to help a new customer, “You take care, Mrs. Avery.”

  Abby and Nadia were already seated, chatting with a tall, curvy woman standing beside their linen-covered table, when I arrived at the Peach Blossom. I’m fascinated with how quickly Abby gets to know people. Couple her instinctive bonding with our location in the South—where people strike up conversations over grocery carts and gas pumps—and she’s like a veritable information vacuum. Give her a few minutes and she knows all sorts of details about people—jobs, schools attended, family background, even recent surgeries.

  I pulled out a chair and greeted everyone.

  Abby said, “Ellie, this is Kate Navan, the owner. We were admiring her pictures on the wall.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Your inn is lovely.” I’d taken a good look at a huge live oak in front of the house when I arrived. It had to be the tree mentioned in the brochure, the Hanging Tree. With the mention of the hanging on the inn’s Web site, I’d almost expected the place to emphasize the macabre, but it had a serene atmosphere. Sconces glowed along the pale cream walls. Low vases of fresh flowers rested on each table and there was an incredible view of a peach and pink sunset through a set of French doors, which opened onto a veranda.

  The house was obviously quite old. It had wide wooden-planked floors that creaked and windows with slightly wavy glass. As I looked around, I noticed all the windows and doors had transoms over them, which I’d seen in other older southern homes. They were to help the air circulate throughout the house.

  “Thank you,” Kate said with one hand braced on her rounded hip and the other on the back of the only unoccupied chair at our table. She glanced around and said, “I know it looks great now, but you should have seen the place when I first got it. Those pictures do not show how decrepit it was. Rotting wood and dirt, everywhere. We had to totally redo everything. Practically rebuilt the place from the ground up. New wiring, new drywall, new plumbing, new roof…” She shook her head and laughed, her white smile flashing against her mahogany skin. “My poor daddy. He worked so hard. He said this was my college fund and inheritance all rolled into one. Now, what are you ladies having tonight?”

  “Well, I’m definitely having the cheesecake,” Nadia said.

  “Chocolate cake with ganache, for me,” Abby said.

  “Count me in for the chocolate,” I said.

  The Peach Blossom had some trendy items on the menu, but most of the food was authentic southern cuisine. I settled on chicken-fried steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. I figured if I was going southern, I might as well go all the way. Kate didn’t write anything down, only nodded as we gave our orders. Then she brought us a basket of soft, warm bread and real butter.

  Abby and Nadia chatted about school and I buttered my roll, thinking about how Crooner had neatly slipped out of answering my question about whether anyone had been asking about Nash. He’d distracted me with his own question.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Abby said, waving the bread basket at me. “You seem a bit preoccupied.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and took another roll from the basket. “There’s just a lot going on.” And a lot I didn’t understand.

  “Jodi?” Abby asked, and I nodded.

  “I didn’t want to say anything at the party today, but someone’s threatening us.” I described everything from the keying of the car to the text message.

  Nadia said, “I can’t believe you’re as calm as you are right now.”

  “Well, I’ve made a resolution. No more questions. No more curiosity.”

  “But did you find out anything that would threaten someone?” Abby asked.

  “No,” I said. “I can’t find anyone Jodi talked to about Nash. Isn’t that what a reporter would do? Interview people?”

  “Sure, but maybe she was doing background research first?”

  I shook my head again. “Nope. I’ve checked most of her papers and I can’t find anything on Nash. No notes, nothing.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t on paper. Maybe it was on her computer,” Nadia said.

  “The FBI has her computer. I bet they’d have already found it if it was on her computer.”

  “Oh,” Nadia said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that Jodi and Topaz didn’t get along.”

  “Really? Jodi wrote a profile about her for the newspaper and there didn’t seem to be any animosity there. In fact, the tone of the piece was pretty flattering.”

  Nadia shrugged and said, “All I know is what I heard.”

  “Who said this?”

  Nadia looked at Abby for help. “Remember last year, when the FBI questioned some teachers? It caused quite a ruckus, let me tell you. But I never knew who actually said they didn’t like each other.”

  “I wasn’t there last year,” Abby said.

  “That’s right,” Nadia said. “You fit in so well now that it seems like you’ve always been there.”

  “So it was a rumor?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I know the FBI asked about it.”

  “Wait. What am I doing? I just vowed not to be involved in Jodi’s case anymore and I’m asking you questions about this. You guys have to help me stop it.”

  “Sorry, honey. You’re right. We’ll keep you in check,” Nadia said as she patted my hand.

  Kate came by and topped off our glasses of peach iced tea, one of the signature menu items that drew people to the inn.

  Abby asked her, “How long have you owned the Peach Blossom?”

  “For fifteen years.” Kate surveyed the room. She seemed satisfied that the rest of her customers were being well taken care of because she continued. “My daddy complains about all the work it took to bring this place up to snuff, but he’s the one who found it for me. Land prices were starting to take off around here. That was the beginning of the growth boom and there was no way I could afford anything. I never did understand why the owner sold it to me at such a good price, but Daddy said to lowball him. I did and it worked.”

  She transferred the iced tea pitcher to her other hand and pointed to a photo on the wall. “There we are on the day I signed the papers. I wasn’t sure I’d get it. I wanted it so bad and I was afraid a developer was going to come in and raze the house and build a subdivision. But I got it. Course, after we found out how bad it was, structurally, I almost wished he hadn’t taken my offer. Daddy still says I should have gone out and bought a new house. It would have saved him so much work, but it wouldn’t have had the feel of this place.”

  “No.” I glanced at the six framed black-and-white photos on the wall beside us. “This place feels aged. You can’t create that. Is this your dad?” I asked, pointing to one of the pictures. She nodded.

  “I think I just met him. He sells antiques?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, he calls them that, but I doubt there’s much on his lot that would qualify as a genuine antique. I wish I could get him to close that place down, but he’s not about to retire. ‘What would I do all day?’ he asks me. He fell and broke his hip last year and I thought that would do it, but no, he just totters on.”

  I looked at the picture of Kate and her dad. They were both smiling as Kate dangled a set of keys from her fingertips. Several overgrown bushes almost obscured the house in the background, but I could see a few rickety steps, peeling paint, and a tilting handrail around the porch.

  “Crooner. Is that a nickname?” I asked as I studied the picture. His face was more gaunt today, but otherwise he looked the same.

  “Yes. He’s got a beautiful voice. My grandmother called him her ‘little crooner.’ It stuck. Pretty soon everyone called him Crooner. When he was a kid he sang all the time. My grandmother said he had music in his soul. She wanted him to sing in church, but the one time he got up there—he was about seven—he froze up. Couldn’t make a sound. Still can’t sing in
front of people to this day. It’s a shame, too, because he really does have a nice baritone voice. He won’t even sing for me, but I’ve heard him when he didn’t know I was there.”

  “He was humming today.”

  She nodded. “I think my grandmother was right. He does that all the time. He can’t sing, but he hums, usually without realizing he’s doing it. It’s like he can’t completely hold back the flow of music. Well, let me go check on your entrees. They should be up any minute.”

  By the time I’d devoured my southern dinner and chocolate cake, I’d learned that Kaitlyn Foster, one of Nadia’s third-grade students, was a challenge—they called her precocious—and that there was a controversy because one of the teachers wanted to use a new spelling curriculum next year.

  We paid our bill and Kate walked us out to the porch, where we paused in the cool night air to zip up jackets and find car keys. “Is that the tree?” I asked Kate. It was dark now, but a floodlight at the base of the tree highlighted the twisted branches towering above us.

  “What tree?”

  “The Hanging Tree. I read about it on your Web site.”

  “Is that up again?” she said, aggravated. “My daddy is my webmaster, but he’s going to lose that title if he can’t keep to the content I want. I’ve told him to take that off of there, but he keeps sneaking it back in. Says it’s a draw.”

  “What’s a draw?” Abby asked.

  “A rumor that a man was lynched and hung from that tree,” Kate said, shaking her head. “That is not what I want to be known for.”

  “If it makes you feel better, everything I’ve heard about the Peach Blossom was about how nice it was out here and how good the food is,” I said.

  Nadia nodded. “And now we know what we heard about the food was true. I may not fit into my pants tomorrow, but I don’t regret it. That cheesecake was the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Well, that’s sweet of you to say,” Kate said, calming down a bit.

  “So, do you think the rumors about the tree are true?”

  “I have no idea. All that was way before my time and, frankly, I don’t see what good it does, hashing up all that stuff now. You ladies have a good night. Thanks for coming out.”