The Christmas week stories on the murders of Janie Rose Carlton and Maylene Ayers got a lot of attention. Tan-4 planned to enter them in the Georgia Press Association contests, maybe even some national competitions. Unlike police officers, who wanted only to solve a case, journalists could produce compelling crime stories, whether they were solved or not. In fact, Branigan thought secretly, sometimes the unsolved mystery made a better story.
That would certainly seem to have been the case as Marjorie, Jody, Branigan and Lou Ann spun their narratives about the girls. Reporters had circled back to the Carlton and Ayers families with the explanation Mackenzie Broadus gave about why their daughters left Rutherford Lee. The parents were stunned to hear it, but it was hardly a blip in the horror they were living. And the fact that Maylene’s family confirmed she was headed home for Christmas made their grief all the more piercing.
Harley had assembled a portrait of Ralph as a longtime low-life, locating a former wife who talked freely about his abuse and a former co-worker who talked about his temper.
The Grambling police located Roy Browoski of Philadelphia and sent Detective Scovoy to question him. It didn’t make the story, but the detective shared with Branigan that Roy was never without his blue Phillies baseball cap with a red peak. There wasn’t enough to make an arrest, but Browoski remained a person of interest in the case.
Business writer Art Whittaker uncovered some interesting buzz from his counterparts in Pennsylvania. Nothing that made the Rambler stories, mostly gossip, but detectives were interested to learn that Harry Carlton had borrowed money from some questionable sources. Scovoy met with colleagues from the Philadelphia Police Department who were acquainted with these sources, who, in turn, sometimes used the services of one Roy Browoski. But killing a college student over her father’s debts? The scenario had the Northern police officers shaking their heads in doubt.
Chan had returned to Furman, but Charlie chose to stay at home for spring semester while undergoing extensive dental surgery. She’d arranged to take two online classes, which was all she could handle. Her plan was to take two more classes at Grambling Tech over the summer and return to the University of Georgia in the fall, ready for her sophomore year.
Suddenly, a cry went up from the reporters’ two tables pulled together in a corner of the dark bar. “Bert!” It was the customary greeting for those working the desk on a weekend night.
Bert gave a wave and stopped at the bar to order a beer. He slid into a chair that Jody and Branigan pulled from a neighboring table.
“The Rutherford Lee Greeks are at it again,” he said.
Branigan and Jody leaned in to hear him over the din.
“A girl came into St Joe’s to have her stomach pumped. Pledge party.”
“Which sorority?” Branigan asked.
“Kappa Epsilon Chi.”
“That may be it for them,” she said, remembering Sylvia Eckhart’s stories of their accumulating offenses.
“Where’s the girl from?” Jody asked.
“Atlanta. The parents weren’t there yet when Harley left the hospital. But the college dean was. I think he was shaken by our Christmas stories and wanted to get out in front of this one.”
Another roar went up from the adjoining tables. “Harley!”
Harley grinned, and Bert waved a waitress over. “I’m buying for him. He’s had a rough night.”
Jody got another chair and Harley plopped tiredly onto it, accepting a beer from the waitress.
“Tell,” Branigan commanded.
“The Kappa Eps had a pledge party at that new Marlin Hotel on I-85. Guess the hotel wasn’t aware of these girls’ reputation. They were playing drinking games, and this chick couldn’t hold it. She passed out right there in the ballroom. Fortunately, two girls took her to the ER. Doctor said she could’ve died if they hadn’t.”
“Boy, they don’t learn, do they?” Bert said.
Branigan sat back. “What did the dean say?”
“He didn’t say he was closing them down, and I asked that specifically,” Harley said. “But he said he personally would bring them up on charges before the Honor Council, because this girl was only eighteen.”
Jody turned to Bert. “Playing it on 1A?” he asked.
Bert nodded. “Bottom. Wouldn’t have normally, but after the interest in those murders, yeah.”
Branigan sipped from her glass of white zinfandel, the only wine Zorina’s carried. The story about Janie Rose and Maylene was over as far as The Rambler was concerned. Well, at least until the police solved it. Then it’d flare up again. But it was hard for Branigan to let go, especially since she’d never been completely satisfied that the intended victim of the wreck was Janie Rose and not Charlie. Hard to let go after seeing Maylene’s body in the alley, blood seeping into her tangle of hair. A reporter was rarely on the scene in time to see things like that.
So the story had lain under the surface this winter, surging, shifting, never entirely leaving her mind.
Chapter Two
Branigan slept late on Saturday, and Cleo remained lazily on her own pillow beside the bed until she got up. Branigan pulled on warm socks and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. When she stepped out to get the morning Rambler from the driveway, she was delighted to find it was sunny and 64 degrees. Patting Cleo, she said, “This, my friend, is why we live in Georgia.” She stood for a moment with her face raised to the sun, enjoying its spring-like feel. Georgia had plenty of cold weather, that was for sure. But every February you got a sprinkling of days that portended spring.
Branigan fed Cleo, then sat at her kitchen island with a bowl of Raisin Nut Bran, and coffee in a handmade pottery mug Chan had given her for Christmas. She read Harley’s story twice, pondering the fate of these sorority women who’d provided alcohol to an underage girl and wondering if they’d told her everything they knew about their hearse. The vehicle was still in the police compound as far as she knew.
After a third cup of coffee, Branigan went into the guest bedroom, the one she’d slept in as a child visiting Gran and Pa, and rummaged through drawers containing her summer clothes. She pulled out striped running shorts and a worn sleeveless T-shirt. Calling to Cleo, she trotted across the driveway and through the cotton patch, past the barn and empty chicken houses to the pasture, luxuriating in the warm day she hadn’t anticipated.
They ran past the lake into a second pasture, where Uncle Bobby’s cows raised their heads to look at them. But the cows were so accustomed to Cleo that they resumed their grazing, knowing the pair posed no danger. Branigan’s feet pounded across a dike between two additional lakes and into an open field. Here the grass was a little high for running, so she turned back to the second pasture and circled twice, the cows scarcely noticing. After thirty minutes, she began a cool-down walk that took her back to the pasture closest to the house.
Halfway through the cotton patch, she was startled to see a white SUV parked in her driveway, but almost instantly recognized the muscular figure leaning against it. She’d been out with Chester Scovoy twice more since the night Maylene died – not nearly as often as they would’ve liked. He raised an arm, and Cleo bounded over to leap on him. That was another plus as far as Branigan was concerned. Cleo had bonded instantly with the detective when they met downtown one Saturday.
“Whatcha doing way out here?” she asked when she reached the driveway, her breathing returned to normal.
“Such a pretty day, it made me think of you.”
“Ah, smooth talker. Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’d love some. What’ve you got planned today?”
“I told Liam and Liz I’d stay with Charlie for awhile this afternoon. Liz is with her mom, and Liam needed to go to the jail.”
“Want some company?”
“Sure. Charlie would love to see you. Let me get you some coffee, and I’ll get a
shower.”
Chester followed her into the house. “Nice place, Branigan.”
“Feel free to look around. There’s also cereal and Pop-Tarts if you haven’t eaten. I spare no expense in the realm of breakfast.”
She quickly showered, and dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweater. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and applied sunscreen, face powder, mascara and lipstick, not bothering with foundation. She located her summer flip-flops in the back of her closet, and came into the kitchen to find Chester perched at the island with coffee and the newspaper.
“You look right at home,” she said.
“You’ve got so much room to spread out. You make me think I’m right in wanting to buy a house.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been living in an apartment for ten years. Not much bigger than your kitchen, and nothing to show for ten years’ rent.”
“It makes sense if you’re staying in Grambling. But why now?”
“I’ve known for years I wanted to stay. I just never took the time to get a real estate agent, look around, get approved by the bank, all that stuff.”
“I’d be glad to help you look.”
“Oh, right. You have so much spare time. Like me.”
She smiled. “Good point. But sometimes you have to carve out time for yourself.”
He looked around again. “Mind giving me a tour? I need to start getting ideas.”
“Sure,” she said, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “As I’ve told you, Pa Rickman – that was my grandfather – built this house after he and Gran worked in the mills. At the time, it was the most modern thing any of Gran’s sisters had seen. Their old home place literally had an outhouse. So Gran and Pa were quite la-de-da there for awhile.”
“You’re talking to a man from South Carolina. I get it.”
Branigan pointed to the adjoining den. “Pa added the den later. That whole room was originally the garage. He brought it up level to the kitchen, and made it living space. That’s why its windows are so much larger than the ones in the rest of the house. It was a chance to bring in more light. And the tile floor is great for Cleo’s shedding.”
She nodded her head toward the kitchen cabinets. “When I moved back, Mom and I renovated the kitchen, adding the island, granite countertops and new cabinets. Luckily, we were able to keep the tile floor.”
Chester walked into the den and stood in front of a painting of a lake at night, woods crowding in, the lake surface lit by a single moonbeam. “This looks like the Vesuvius Hightower piece that Malachi was so taken with.” Vesuvius was a homeless artist, killed last summer in a hit-and-run.
“It’s very similar,” she agreed. “But I bought this one from Jericho Road before his paintings started to be worth so much. You know, an Atlanta gallery is carrying his remaining inventory. I couldn’t afford one now.”
Chester looked at the rest of the artwork that hung above the green and rose florals and stripes of Branigan’s furniture. “A lot of these look familiar,” he said. “Maybe from those street fairs in the spring?”
“Yep. I like to collect local art. There’s more in my office.”
She led the way, Cleo following, into the formal dining room and living room that ran across the front of the house. Her grandparents’ furniture was still in place on beige carpet – a dining room table for eight, a handsome china cabinet filled with gold-rimmed dishes, an adjoining living room with a couch and two armchairs in white brocade. There was very little of the vibrant color found in the den and kitchen.
“This part looks like a different house,” Chester said.
“Yeah, I hardly ever come in here. The family just left Gran and Pa’s furniture.” She pointed at the bay window that looked out over the front yard and empty country road. “At Christmas, Pa used to put painted wooden cutouts of carolers in the yard, with a spotlight. And Santa and his sleigh on the roof. And they always put the tree in front of that window. I spent weeks of my childhood lying under a Christmas tree. Always a real one, always smelling wonderful.” She forced a smile. “That’s the hard part of living here,” she said. “Remembering those Christmases, and having so many of the people gone.”
Chester put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed, saying nothing.
Branigan led him from the living room into a small hallway, pointing out the guest bedroom that faced the roadway, and her bedroom that looked out over the cotton patch.
“One bath?” he asked.
“Two. There’s one off my bedroom, and another larger one down the hall. Look around all you want.”
Chester stuck his head into the guest bedroom, then wandered into Branigan’s, where a queen-sized bed took up most of the floor space. Cleo went to her pillow and flopped onto it with a sigh. Branigan showed Chester the small bathroom with its dated miniature tiles of black and white, and cramped shower stall.
“This will be my next remodeling project,” she said, “if I decide to buy from Mom and Uncle Bobby. Maybe bump out the entire bedroom and bathroom for more space. Mom and I went ahead and did the kitchen because it would increase the value no matter what. But I’m still renting, so…” She trailed off. “Come see the bigger bathroom.”
They walked down the hall. “Oh, wow,” Chester laughed. The fixtures were turquoise, and the wall and floor tiles bright pink. “Someone was making a color statement here.”
“This will be renovation No. 3,” Branigan said. “Nothing big. Just getting the color off the Pepto-Bismol spectrum.”
The hallway led into the house’s original den, which now served as Branigan’s office. Her desk faced sliding glass doors that opened onto a porch. They could see all the way past the cotton patch and down to the pastures and lake, the sun glinting off its blue waters.
“So you can work with that view?”
She laughed. “Some days.”
Chester looked around. The walls were paneled in stained pine, and Branigan had filled them with colorful canvases, mostly watercolors, but with a hand-colored photograph as well. Chester’s eye went immediately to the photograph, which showed a weathered two-story house being reclaimed by wildly growing vines and encroaching undergrowth. The photo was black and white except for the peach color of the old house’s chimney and hurricane shutters. The picture frame was made of distressed wood that looked as if it could have been taken off the house itself.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“That’s by Jamie Wardlaw. She’s a photographer in town. I bought it because it reminds me of a shack down in my pasture.” She pointed toward the lake. “You can’t quite see it from here because of the trees, but it’s a place where Pa and his buddies played poker. Gran wouldn’t allow cards in the house, so they played down there. It’s being taken over by vines. Not kudzu, thank goodness. But stuff just about as aggressive. It’s beautiful in a wild kind of way.”
“That picture is haunting,” Chester said.
“I know.” She led him out of the opposite side of the office, and they found themselves back in the kitchen.
“This is a really nice sized house,” Chester said enthusiastically. “Plenty big enough, but not crazy big like some of those new subdivisions. I like it, Branigan.”
“Me too. Obviously.” She poured the rest of her coffee into the sink. “Ready to head to Liam’s?”
“Let’s do it. I’ll follow you.”
Branigan let Cleo out, locked the door and led the way to the Delaneys’ house.
It was hard to tell who was more surprised – Liam, to see Branigan arrive with Detective Scovoy in her wake, or Branigan, to find Malachi Martin standing in Liam’s yard.
“So Charlie’s getting a babysitter from the Grambling PD?” Liam smiled knowingly at Branigan. “You haven’t heard something, have you, Detective?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Chester assured
him. “I’m off today. I just happened to go by Branigan’s farm this morning, and she was headed here. So I’m tagging along.”
Liam raised an eyebrow at Branigan, who blushed and turned to Malachi. “And Mr Malachi? Are you going to the jail with Liam?”
“Yes’m. Ralph call Pastor Liam and ax him to bring me. Don’ know what it’s about.”
The pairs split – Branigan and Chester walking into the Delaneys’ house to stay with Charlie, Liam and Malachi heading for the Law Enforcement Center.
Chapter Three
If you didn’t already know you were in the Deep South, thought Malachi, the Grambling jail would sure tell you. Visitors talked to inmates by phone (in the jail’s old section) or by hollering through a metal screen (in the new section). And “new” meant the part built thirty years ago.
At least coming in with Pastor Liam, Malachi got seated across a table from Ralph Batson in a private room. No phones. No barriers. No guard even.
“Buzz us when you want out,” said the guard who’d hustled Ralph in.
Apparently, the po-lice had decided that preachers – especially Pastor Liam and the town’s black preachers and those with old mill village churches – could be a help in keeping crime down. So they made sure the prisoners saw their preachers as quickly as their lawyers.
Pastor Liam had been in here plenty, Malachi could tell. While Malachi didn’t like those clanging metal doors one little bit – he’d been on the wrong side more times than he could count – Pastor was leaning back in his chair as though he was in his church office.
“You wanted to see us, Ralph?”
Ralph was a lot whiter than when Malachi saw him last. His tattoos stood out more, and he didn’t look as broad or as solid. With the alcohol and drugs out of his system, he was quieter too. Not the know-it-all Malachi had known in Tent City.
“Yeah,” he answered. “It’s ’bout my cell phone.”
“The police have it?” asked Pastor Liam.
The Cover Story Page 16