Elizabeth knew of the Freedom Rider movements that began in 1961 in response to the US Supreme Court’s ruling in Boynton v. Virginia. In Boynton, the Court held that segregation of interstate transportation facilities was unconstitutional. Brave African-American and white men and women tested the Southern states that refused to relinquish their segregation laws and rode in public buses together and were met with hostility and violence. She caressed the edges of the page that symbolized a small piece of history.
She needed to know more about Margaret and why her sweater was at the bottom of the box.
* * *
A pigeon pranced around the base of the park bench, pecking at the particles on the ground. It slowly inched its way closer to Grace, who sat on the end, and the bird began turning in circles in a mating dance. “Thanks for the ego boost, buddy, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.” She peeled off her suit jacket, as the late morning temperature climbed. It felt more like summer than late fall.
In the playground, a group of children climbed apparatuses, as their worried mothers scampered behind them trying to save them from injury. A wave of sadness traveled through her that seemed to be twofold. She thought of her own childhood, growing up without a mother. Her father did an admirable job playing both roles, but there were times that she would have loved the smothering love of an overprotective mother. When she was young, her childhood scrapes and bruises, of which there were many, were greeted with a quick drying of her tears, a pat on the back for bravery, and a caution to be more careful next time. It was the only way he knew, which set the tone for how she handled her adult scrapes and bruises.
Her other sense of sadness was not from the past, but what was to be, or better said, not to be—motherhood. She loved children. She loved their simplicity and honesty. They said what they meant. It wasn’t always rational or pretty, but it was honest. It wasn’t only her job, but her life choices that made it seem improbable. Her longest relationship was six months—three months of continuous sex, followed by two months of attempting to define the relationship, and finally one month of breaking apart.
She drew in a ragged breath as her thoughts turned to Elizabeth, as they frequently did. She had analyzed well into the night the anger that she took out on Elizabeth the day before, and she knew it was deeper than the fear for her father’s safety. It was anger at what she desperately wanted, but couldn’t have. Although her mind came to terms with her decision, her heart was still struggling with it.
The pigeon, which had given up its romantic interest in her when it found a pile of crumbs, fluttered at the arrival of a visitor, but refused to abandon its stash. Grace turned away from the children and looked to Casey, her longest relationship.
“Casey, thank you for meeting me.”
Casey sat next to her, leaned in, and brushed a kiss across her lips for old times’ sake. Grace tried to muster an interest, but what once was, was no longer. Casey pulled back slightly and placed her hand on her thigh. “I’m glad you called.”
It wasn’t that Casey was irrational, irresponsible, or unpredictable that ended the relationship. It was that they were too much alike. Casey was a prosecutor with the organized crime unit, which was how they met. Once the novelty of the sex began to wear and they settled into the day-to-day of a relationship, there was little that sparked her interest, a contrast to a particular nonprofit attorney who was irrational, irresponsible, and unpredictable and set every fiber of her being ablaze, and they’d barely kissed. She chastised herself for allowing her mind to go there once again.
“Are you there?” Casey asked, and Grace hadn’t realized how long she had allowed her mind to wander.
“Sorry, I haven’t had much sleep. I was hoping to discuss a case with you.” Although she attempted to mask it, she saw the disappointment in Casey’s face at Grace’s purpose of their meeting. Grace didn’t mean to lead her on, but given her contentious relationship with ADA Wilcox, she felt it best to discuss the Francis case outside of the DA’s office.
Casey straightened her shoulders and sat back slightly, giving Grace more room, but kept a proprietary hand on her leg. “Okay, how can I help?”
“Let’s say there was an ongoing investigation by local police into an organized crime syndicate, and there is an attempted murder of what turns out to be an ideal witness for the police in this investigation. The suspects believe that this witness was killed, so the police perpetuate their belief by conducting a cursory murder investigation and then shelving it as a cold case to protect the witness.”
“We’re talking about witness protection.”
“Yes. How does it work?”
“How long ago are we talking about?”
“Nineteen sixty-three.”
Casey raised her eyebrows but said nothing. “Well, the witness protection program wasn’t founded until 1971, and then it was only federal. So, if this occurred as you say, then it was definitely off the books. Whoever arranged this did so on his own.”
“What would happen with the witness if, let’s say the case never goes to trial?”
She shrugged. “The witness just disappears on her own I guess, assumes a new identity. Not too hard to do in the sixties, before technology.”
It wasn’t lost on Grace that she used the feminine pronoun. “You know what case I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Perhaps. I know you’re working on the case with ADA Dickhead. I check in on you from time to time. I’ve picked up the phone more times than I’ll admit to call you, just to talk, but, well, you know.” She paused and looked toward the playground. “How about we go out for drinks, just to catch up?”
Grace winced at the offer, then tried to mask it, but it was too late.
“Ouch, not the reaction I’m used to getting.”
“Sorry, It’s just…well, things are complicated, and it’s probably not a good idea.”
“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with you slamming Dickhead up against the wall outside the court. News travels.”
Grace scrunched her nose. “You heard about that, huh?”
“Oh, don’t worry, you’re a local hero.”
Grace smiled, relieved that there were more in her corner than she realized. Grace looked back toward the playing children, and an awkward moment passed. She was now ready to end the conversation, having obtained the information she needed, but didn’t know how to tactfully extract herself.
Casey gave her a wistful look and then patted her on the knee. “It’s okay, Grace, I get it. We can still be friends. I’ll look around in the old case files in my unit and see if there is anything from sixty-three that might look like it belongs to your case.” She pushed herself up and walked back the way she came without turning.
* * *
Elizabeth slouched in the booth of a diner with Danny opposite her. He was deeply contemplating the menu. Her head was still swimming from the day before, in part from her exploits with Jack, but also her brief encounter with Grace, which still weighed heavily on her. She needed to talk out all the information she had learned to help her focus, so she called Camille and asked her to meet for lunch at a diner near Camille’s work and brought Danny along.
Camille approached and slid in next to her. “So what’s going on?” she asked as her greeting.
“Can’t decide on the deluxe burger with fries or the roast beef with coleslaw,” Danny answered.
“I think she meant something a little more substantive than that.”
When the waitress arrived for their orders, Camille selected a salad without looking at the menu, but Elizabeth wasn’t hungry, so she opted to stick with her coffee.
“In that case, I’ll have the deluxe burger with fries, and she will have the roast beef with coleslaw,” Danny said, pointing at Elizabeth.
“Danny, I’m not hungry.”
“Then more to share,” Danny said as though the problem was solved and handed the menu to the waitress.
“So back to my original question,�
�� Camille said. “What’s going on?”
“It seems the report of the woman’s death, her first death that is, was greatly exaggerated.”
Elizabeth explained her visit with Jack Rourke, and Camille gripped her arm when she told them about the witness protection program and held on tightly through the remainder of the story.
“I think this woman could be Josiah Webb’s daughter.”
“Are you sure?” Camille asked, excitement evident in her voice.
“From everything we know, she was killed at the plantation.”
“How do you know?” Danny asked.
“Her body was found just outside the plantation, and she directed us to the plantation with her message. So, it only makes sense that her death, or purported death, occurred on the plantation. When I went back there—”
“You went back to the plantation?” Camille interrupted.
“I went back with Jack, so we could talk with Samuel, and he said that Webb had a daughter. And I think it was Webb who killed her.”
She looked at them both and they were staring back, hanging on her every word. “Jack said that the woman had a locket with a picture of an African-American man. Given what we know of Webb’s history, Webb and his daughter didn’t see eye to eye on race relations. Perhaps Webb learned of his daughter’s relationship, and he lashed out against her. Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt her; maybe he acted in the heat of passion.”
“If Webb was responsible, then it would explain why no one came forward to report her missing,” Camille added. “As long as he thought she remained unidentified, Webb wouldn’t endure police scrutiny, something he could have done without.”
“Exactly, and as long as Webb thought she was dead, she was safe from him. The arsenal we found was enough to start a small revolution. I’m guessing he was up to something and whatever information his daughter amassed over the years living on the plantation would have been very interesting to law enforcement.”
“Witness protection,” Danny blurted out, as if he was just catching on, which caused the waitress, who had just approached their table, to jump.
Elizabeth offered an apologetic smile, and they waited in awkward silence until the waitress left before they resumed their conversation.
“I’m confused,” Danny said as he shoved several fries into his mouth. “If she was giving up all this information, then why wasn’t this Webb guy arrested?”
“Because he died a few months later. With Webb’s death, the information was probably no longer of use. Their suspect was deceased. Case closed. What I don’t know was whether Webb’s death was at the hands of one of his own people, who thought he had become a liability, or overzealous law enforcement, who decided to forego the judicial system.”
“Why did she come back?” Camille asked, staring at her salad that remained untouched. That was the question that haunted Elizabeth.
“I need to see the purse,” she offered in response. “The woman went through an effort to give away a nearly empty purse. Maybe the lipstick message that she scrawled on it was its only value, but I can’t overlook the possibility that there is more to it.” Although Elizabeth had ample photographs of the purse and its meager contents provided by the prosecution, she needed to see it herself. “I’m heading to the DA’s office to deliver a request for production of the purse.”
Camille wiped away a tear that escaped down her check and Elizabeth squeezed her hand, and even Danny stopped eating for a brief moment and reached across to put his hand on top of theirs in a show of solidarity. No words were needed.
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth sat in the hard plastic chair in the lobby of the police station, impatiently waiting. She had come to know it well over the last few months and didn’t bother to look around or people watch. Instead, she stared at the beige linoleum squares on the floor and unconsciously tapped her foot in rhythm to her bouncing knee. She was too tired to pace.
She personally delivered her request for production of the purse to the district attorney’s office the day before and had the pleasure of meeting ADA Wilcox, who was equally pleased to see her. After a terse conversation that included Elizabeth’s threat to follow up her request with a motion to compel filed with the court, Wilcox capitulated and arrangements were made for Elizabeth to stop by the police department the next morning to view the purse, which was currently stored in an evidence locker.
She had been waiting nearly an hour, no doubt a power play, and she considered going to the front desk to harass them, but frankly, the moment of quiet was welcomed. She leaned back and closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander where it pleased. In a light sleep, she dreamed of Grace calling out to her.
“Elizabeth.”
Her eyes snapped opened. It wasn’t a dream. Grace was standing a few feet in front of her.
“Are you ready or should I come back when you’re done napping?”
She rubbed at her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here.” Elizabeth stared at her waiting for a better answer. “You asked to see the purse.”
“Oh, right.” She expected a uniformed officer associated with the evidence room to meet her, and she wondered if Grace’s presence was her doing or the prosecutor’s. She rose and dutifully followed behind her, and she couldn’t help but smile. They were playing out a very similar scene to when they first met, but this time she kept her eyes trained on Grace’s backside instead of finding interest in the offices that they passed. Grace wore black slacks with a white form-fitting turtleneck, and she realized that she had never seen Grace in anything but pants. She allowed her thoughts to wander to the feel of her smooth long legs under her hands, but it didn’t take long for her mind to circle back around to their present state, in which they weren’t speaking to each other for reasons Elizabeth didn’t understand.
She debated breaking the ice and offering another apology for taking her father to the cemetery. It would at least be a start; however, before she could find the right words, she was cut off by ringing coming from Grace’s pocket. Grace yanked out her phone and barked, “Donovan.” Elizabeth smiled, that was familiar, but her smile faded as Donovan’s mood softened. Who was she talking to?
She could garner very little from the half of the conversation that she could hear because most of the talking seemed to come from the other end, but it was clearly a friendly chat.
“Thanks for calling me.” Grace hung up the phone and continued leading her through the corridor.
Elizabeth warred with herself. Should she say something or pretend as though she didn’t notice the conversation? She would pretend that she didn’t notice. That was the best approach. It wasn’t her business anyway.
“So who was that?” She couldn’t help herself.
“Work call,” Grace answered without breaking stride.
Work, right.
Before Elizabeth could explore further, they entered a small room where a man sat behind a glass window. Grace pulled out her identification, and the man buzzed them through a side door. Once inside, Elizabeth found herself in a small windowless room with a metal table taking center stage. The white purse was on the table, and Elizabeth approached it, thoughts of Grace’s telephone call pushed aside.
“Don’t touch it,” Grace said, and Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow in her direction. She could see remnants of black powder where it had been dusted for prints. “Ah hell, who am I kidding? Half the precinct has probably touched the damn thing.”
Elizabeth lifted the purse and inspected the lipstick. It was one thing to see photographs, but to hold it in her hands was a whole other experience. This was the last thing this poor woman touched. What was this woman trying to tell them? She held it up and slowly turned it around, side to side, and top to bottom. As the photographs showed, most of the lettering was smeared, and she couldn’t decipher anything additional.
She ran her fingers across the metal clasp and followed the loop of the small white handle. It was hard to belie
ve that the woman died for this thing. She pulled apart the clasp and it made a faint clicking sound as it opened. She peered inside. A dark lining covered the inside, and as she rotated it around, the contents slightly clanked together. She pulled out the brush and turned it in her hands, inspecting the fine craftsmanship of the back and handle that depicted a quaint scene of a majestic home with two proud pillars surrounded by trees and a wavy stream trailing down the handle with flowers on each side. It almost looked like a Monet painting carved into silver. The photographs of it didn’t do it justice. It was much more beautiful in person.
She set it on the table, then closely inspected the matching compact mirror that had a carving that resembled the brush. On the backside, there was a field of flowers with trees surrounding it, and the front had the wavy stream cutting through trees that led to a cross in the middle. She opened it. The inside was bare. She closed it and placed it next to the brush. Last, she held the lipstick tube and twisted it between her fingers. On one side, the wavy stream ran down the length of the tube, with a small row of homes flanking its side, and the rest covered in a field of flowers. She removed the cover and confirmed that the shade matched the writing on the purse before setting it next to its companions.
With the contents emptied, she put her hand inside and ran it around the lining. She could feel the smooth cool material under her fingers. “There has to be something more. Why was she so desperate to pass this off?” She really didn’t expect Grace to answer, as she still believed it was a simple robbery gone wrong. “Do you have a flashlight?” Elizabeth asked.
“Why?”
“Because I thought about checking out some crawl spaces when I’m done here and forgot my flashlight.” Given the places they had found themselves in recently, she realized that Grace might take her seriously and followed it up for clarification. “I want to inspect the inside lining.”
Secrets of the Last Castle Page 15