Past Dying (The Alan Graham Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  She pursed her lips slightly, as if trying to repress the thought, and went on: “And it was while I was standing there, by the river, that I heard it.”

  “Heard what?” I asked.

  “What sounded like a pebble rolling down the bank from under the bridge and falling into the water.”

  I tried to imagine it as she spoke, the old woman standing at the river’s edge, the few lights from the town’s street lamps dusting the far side of the water white, and then a sound from the blackness to her right.

  “At first I thought it was an animal but it stopped as soon as I turned my head and I had the strangest feeling somebody was watching me. So I took a step toward it and called out to ask who was there.”

  She took a deep breath and I waited.

  “When there wasn’t any answer I decided to press the issue, you might say: I’ve dealt with too many children in the library to let somebody get away with bluffing me. So I said, ’I see you, come out of there this minute.’ And that’s when it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody came running at me out of the dark.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “A man, I imagine. Tall and wearing a jacket, because it was cold. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he didn’t mean me any good, so I turned and ran. I heard him right behind me but at the last second, right when I was sure he was going to catch me, he must’ve tripped on something and fallen because I heard a thump. Naturally, I didn’t stop to help him. I just kept going to the road and then turned back and started across the bridge, toward town. But I’ll never forget, when I got to the end of the bridge, I turned around, and there he was at the other end, standing there, almost like a scarecrow, staring at me.”

  “But you couldn’t see his face.”

  “No. It’s like I told you before, there was almost no light. About all I could see was his dark jacket, dark pants, and some kind of baseball cap, I think.”

  “Baseball cap,” I said. “What color?”

  “I don’t know. Black, blue, brown … It was so dark and I just wanted to get out of there, because for all I knew he was coming after me, so I went to the sheriff’s office and woke up the deputy and he told me to go home and said he’d send somebody to check it out but I don’t think he ever did.”

  “And that’s when you called the sheriff the next day,” I said.

  “Yes.” She sighed. “But Jefferson didn’t want to listen to the babbling of an old woman. And as for you, Mr. Graham …”

  “I know,” I said. “And we were both wrong.”

  She smiled with satisfaction.

  “Yes. But I suppose one can’t be right all the time.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And, naturally, since nobody wanted to believe me, I went to the only person I could rely on, Jeremiah, and he let me stay with his mother’s family here in Winnsboro. They’re lovely people and I’ll never be able to repay their kindness.”

  I sat back against the seat, trying to put it together.

  “I imagine the killer must’ve thought there was something still at the scene that could incriminate him,” she said. “That’s the only reason I can think of that he’d have gone back there.”

  “Makes sense,” I agreed. “But we still don’t know who it was.”

  “I’m very sorry. I simply didn’t think it made sense to let him catch me.” She sniffed.

  “Of course not.” I started to open the door and stopped: Something had flashed in the passenger side mirror and I tensed, letting my eyes wander down to the oval of polished glass. Slowly, a form appeared, not walking so much as gliding toward us, in a partial crouch, and after the initial shock I realized the form was that of Jeremiah Persons.

  “We’re about to have company,” I said. “Jeremiah.”

  Miss Ethel gave a little cry of surprise. “Where?” She turned around slowly and her eyes widened in alarm.

  “Jeremiah …”

  But the black man was out of hearing, standing just off the right rear, as motionless as a stone.

  The librarian opened her door and got out.

  “Jeremiah, what’s going on?”

  I waited until she was out and then opened my own door and turned to face him.

  The man a few feet from me wasn’t Jeremiah Persons, or, at least, not the Jeremiah Persons I knew. His face was expressionless but there was something about his eye, a coldness, that I hadn’t seen before, and it never wavered from my own. He’d frozen when I got out and I realized his stance was that of a hunter, halted a few feet from his prey. But most of all my attention was drawn to his hands: They were strong hands and the fingers were bent, like those of a strangler.

  I had the distinct feeling that Jeremiah Persons had been sneaking toward us for the kill.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Jeremiah?” Ethel Crawford took a step toward him, and for an instant I thought he was going to spring. Then he relaxed and his hands fell back to his sides. His eye shifted, focused, and a frown clouded his face.

  “You remember Dr. Graham,” she said. “He came here to tell us how things were going in Lordsport.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I walked over. “I traced you through the headache medicine you showed me. How are the headaches, by the way?”

  “Okay.”

  “You get them often?”

  “Pretty much. Ever since the war.”

  “Vietnam?

  “Yeah.”

  “You were in country.”

  “Yeah. LRRP, they called us. Long Range—”

  “—Reconnaissance and Patrol,” I said.

  “You got to understand,” he said. “I didn’t know who you was. You come asking and I told Miss Ethel to take off. I bailed at the corner so I could catch up from behind, because I knew this old road wouldn’t go much further. I didn’t know you weren’t the one who—”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “But I’m glad it was you.”

  “Well, now that we’re all together and glad about everything, can we go back and sit down by the fire?” Miss Ethel asked.

  I stayed another half hour, long enough to have two cups of hot coffee sweetened with honey, and listen to Jeremiah’s story. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to relate. He hadn’t seen anything when Jacko’s car had gone into the river; all he’d heard was the splash and he’d figured it was something big, but when Miss Ethel had called down to him from the bridge, he’d been willing to let her notify the authorities and go on fishing. I started to ask him how a car could have rolled down the embankment without his hearing the tires on the shells or, for that matter, how he hadn’t heard it coming along the road above, and how it was he hadn’t heard a door opening, since someone must’ve jumped out before the car went into the water. But I didn’t, because what he was thinking was clear: With Miss Ethel on the scene there was no need to mix into somebody else’s trouble.

  The situation the night the librarian had been chased was similar.

  “I was sleeping, I heard somebody give out a whoop and I got up and went outside. By the time I got to the door all I heard was footsteps, running.”

  “So what do you plan to do now?” Miss Ethel asked. “Turn us in for leaving the scene of the crime?”

  I exhaled and shook my head. “I think I’ll go back to Baton Rouge, which is where I started for this morning, anyway.”

  “What about us?”

  “I’m the only person who knows you’re up here. It might be best for you to stay a little longer for the time being. If that’s all right with Jeremiah’s mother.”

  The mother, an ancient, stooped woman in a checkered dress, smiled. “Don’t get to see my boy that often, anyway.”

  As I walked out onto the porch, Ethel caught me by the arm.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  I shook my head again. “No.”

  “Well, keep looking. I’d like to get home in time for the DAR meeting next wee
k.”

  “Good luck.”

  This time when I called on the cell phone Pepper gave me hell. What did I mean by not coming straight home? Didn’t I know she’d been worried sick? I should have gotten back two hours ago and when I didn’t come, she’d called Jeff at home and told him that if he’d done anything to me she’d deal with him personally, and he’d been apologetic, denied all knowledge, and now look, she’d never been more embarrassed in her life.

  I abased myself. “I had to nail down Miss Ethel and Jeremiah. I thought maybe they’d seen or heard something they’d forgotten to mention.”

  “And did they? No. Instead, you went right back where you’d been told not to go, meddled, stirred things up, and you’re lucky you didn’t get killed this time.”

  I sighed. She was starting to sound like a wife.

  My God, what was I thinking?

  “I’ll be home in two hours,” I said. “You can slap me around then.”

  “It’s not funny,” she said and hung up.

  It was just after three when I walked into the house. She wasn’t there. Instead, there was a handwritten note by the phone.

  David called and wanted to know if the project’s been shut down because he heard you’d been banned from the parish. He doesn’t know whether to take the crew up there or not, and if he does, who’s going to cook for them?

  All good questions, I admitted.

  Then I saw the rest of the message.

  I’ve gone on an outing with Ellsworth Hooker, who wanted me to look at some artifacts at a remote location.

  I slammed the telephone table with my fist.

  Ellsworth Hooker! Captain Hook!

  I was still staring at the note when the phone jangled.

  “Yes?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Pepper? What in the—?”

  “Figured I’d get your attention with that note. I had to run out to my office for something.”

  “That was unconscionable.”

  “Yeah. I loved it.”

  “I ought to—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just get on home.”

  “Giving orders?”

  “Please.”

  “Maybe.”

  That evening I saw Sam for the first time in days. He lay weak and pale on the blanket, with a worried Libby hovering on the other side of the bed.

  “I thought you’d packed up and gone to Alaska,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.” And I gave him an account of what had happened. “I don’t know a lot more now than when I started.”

  Sam shifted his position slightly. “Seems to me you know a hell of a lot, starting with old Jim Bowie.”

  I took a seat in a chair beside the bed. “I don’t know what that land business was about. Did Bowie buy the land to salt with silver and pretend it was worth more than it was? If he did, nobody bit. Of course, by then people had probably heard of his schemes, but you’d have thought he’d have hooked a sucker early on.”

  Sam grimaced. “You’re forgetting he had family in that parish. The Bowies were well known. It isn’t smart to crap where you eat.”

  It was Libby’s turn to grimace.

  “People around there would have known the Bowies pretty well,” Sam said. “I don’t think he would have salted that land. But in the early days, before much was known about geology, there was a notion that there was silver up in the hills, and in a lot of other places. Silver, gold, diamonds … He may have bought it because he really thought there might be wealth for the digging.”

  “And when there turned out not to be he wanted to unload the tract?”

  “Something like that.” Sam shifted again. “Damn, can’t somebody crank this thing up? I can’t sit up if this bed’s going to stay flat.”

  Libby and I exchanged looks and she pushed the button, raising the head of the bed.

  “That’s better,” Sam pronounced.

  “Of course, he may have used the tract to bury his own silver,” I offered.

  “And sold it for a song afterward? Not by a long shot,” Sam said. “Look, from what you told me before, the man was liquidating all his assets, heading to Texas. The land was just something to be gotten rid of.” He coughed. “But he wouldn’t have sold it for a song if he could’ve gotten silver or gold out of it. I’m afraid the Bowie legend is overblown, all because of that damn knife. But every hero has his mystical weapon, from King Arthur on down. Magical knife, magical man. It’s one of the oldest themes in Western literature.”

  “I’m sure Alan remembers that lecture,” Libby said gently.

  “Well, he can hear it again.”

  “Okay, Jim Bowie wasn’t quite the figure of legend,” I said. “Where does that get us?”

  “I don’t know. You started this.”

  Libby and I looked at each other again.

  “I think he’s better,” she said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Are you leaving?” Sam asked.

  “For right now.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about that business?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “That seems pretty clear. I can’t believe I taught you all those courses and you still can’t use your head.”

  “You’re sick. I’ll come back later.”

  “Why bother? You aren’t going to do any good here. Look, what’s this case about? Jim Bowie, if you look at it from one angle. But what’s it about when you look at the people who were murdered?”

  “I don’t know, Sam, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  He managed a nod. “Damn right. Okay, I’ll make it simple: What started the thing? And don’t tell me the Alamo. I mean, recently? It was the killing of this old man McElwain, right? And what got stolen from him?”

  “Some guns and his lock box, and I’ve already figured it was something in the lock box they wanted.”

  “And something they could sell to this antiquarian, Hightower. Does that eliminate anything?”

  “Probably the watch, the cheap Derringer, and the butcher knife. The coins …”

  “Did Scully say they’d found any of the coins with Hightower?”

  “No.”

  “Then he either didn’t get them or disposed of them. But that misses the point, anyway.”

  “The point being?”

  “What do the coins have to do with Bowie? I read about that San Saba business, the so-called lost mine, guarded by Indians: That wasn’t a trove of peso coins. Besides, if these were Bowie’s coins, there wasn’t enough in the lock box to be worth fooling with.”

  “There was a photograph …”

  “Forget that.”

  “And a paper. A map, maybe.”

  “Which, again, wasn’t found with Hightower.”

  “He could have sold it, buried it, or put it in his safe deposit box.”

  Sam shook his white mane in frustration. “What did that woman say, Jacko’s widow? About the wrong one?” I repeated Lisa Reilly’s words.

  “Well, that’s the key to the whole business, of course. You figure that out and you’ll have it.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  As I went out I ran into his son, a wiry young man with Sam’s smile but his mother’s brown eyes.

  “Any change?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  “And?” Concern clouded his face.

  “I think he’s almost ready to go home.”

  When I got back to the house Pepper was there. We looked at each other for a while before either of us spoke. Finally I said, “Sam wants you to treat me better.”

  “Then he’s sicker than he looks.”

  “Actually, he’s a lot better. I seem to have that effect on people.”

  “You’d better start peeling potatoes or you aren’t going to get any supper.”

  “I peel potatoes very well,” I said and headed for the kitchen. I let Digger in, and after apologizing to him for leaving him home this time, I wa
shed my hands and went to the utensil drawer. I reached inside for the potato peeler, felt something sharp, and drew back my hand. “Damn.”

  “What now?” Pepper asked from behind me.

  I drew out a carving knife. “Why did you put this in here? It’s the wrong …”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do, when you leave this place in a mess and go running off to—Alan … What is it?”

  I looked down at the knife but I wasn’t seeing it. Instead, I was seeing the display case, at first empty, and then with its huge Bowie knife replaced.

  The replica. The wrong one …

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I have to go back,” I told her.

  “An epiphany?” Pepper asked. “A revelation on the road to Ferriday?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. It’s just that certain things seem to make sense now. Sam was right: I’ve been looking at things the wrong way.”

  “Let me record that,” she declared, smiling. “I may want to play it back some time in the future to remind you.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She put an arm around my waist. “And I’m listening.”

  “That’s better. Anyway, what I was saying, if I can remember it now, was that—”

  “—you were wrong.” She squeezed me. “So let me guess: You’re talking about Jeremiah. He’s black, he’s poor, he drinks too much, and he just sort of floats in and out and nobody pays any attention to him.”

  “True enough. I thought he’d taken off because he was trying to help Ethel Crawford, who was his friend. But that wasn’t it at all, don’t you see?”

  “Clearly.”

  “Go on and laugh. But I’m telling you, Ethel isn’t the witness we ought to be listening to: It’s Jeremiah.”

  “All right. And what will this witness tell us that she won’t?”

  “He may be able to tell us what he saw that night.”

  “You mean when Jacko Reilly went into the water?”

  “No. That’s the wrong night.”

  “Oh, I see. And the right night—”

  “—was when Miss Ethel saw somebody under the bridge and ran away.”