We walked up the steps together, across the well-swept porch, through the screen door, and into the sitting room.
The house smelled like something delicious. I had no idea what it might be, but it made me hungry even though we'd eaten just a few hours earlier. A hodgepodge of furniture filled the sitting room. It wasn't stylish, but it was supremely comfortable.
A man of about 60, with thinning hair, sat in a big armchair covered in a rose print. He folded his paper, stood up, and said, "Carter, son. I'm sorry to see you but glad you're here." He didn't hug, but his handshake was warm.
Carter said, "Hello, Uncle Leroy. How's business?"
"Fair to middlin'."
Aunt Velma laughed. "What he means is that there's a housing boom and they can't cut this Georgia pine down fast enough."
I remembered Carter once telling me that Uncle Leroy owned several thousand acres of pine, two sawmills, a paper company, and a furniture company. I also remembered that Carter's father specifically did not work at his brother-in-law's paper plant. Carter hadn't ever explained why.
Uncle Leroy looked at me and said, "Welcome to Albany, Mr. Williams." He extended the same warm handshake that he'd given Carter.
I smiled and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Roscoe. Please call me Nick."
He smiled back. "Fair enough. You call me Uncle Leroy, of course." His eyes twinkled. I wondered to myself who these angels were. Then I remembered that they were related to Carter, a man whose heart was much larger than even his gigantic body would suggest.
"Have a seat, Nick. Let's you and me get acquainted." Using his eyes, he made the point and I sat down on the sofa next to his chair.
I looked up at Carter, who was watching this transaction in mild disbelief. I nodded and smiled. His eyes started turning red again, which was all I needed to know. Aunt Velma began to walk towards what looked like the kitchen door and Carter followed. I watched as the door opened and then closed again.
Breaking my reverie, Uncle Leroy said, "He's gonna be fine. Velma and that friend of yours, Mrs. Wilson, have been doin' some great work on Louise. Of course, Wilson's death is an awful thing but, in a way, it's just about the best thing he ever did in his whole sorry life."
This jerked me back to the matter at hand. "What do you mean?"
Lowering his voice, Uncle Leroy said, "You never met a meaner son-of-a-bitch than Wilson Jones." I didn't say anything. I thought about my own father and wondered who would win that particularly dubious distinction. "I wouldn't hire him. I've always been a fair man and hired the best workers, which naturally includes colored. I didn't trust Wilson around colored men. And he never forgave me." He looked around the living room. "This is the first time I've been in this house. Velma always had to sneak over here during the day when Wilson was at work so she could see her own sister." He shook his head. Taking out a pack of Camels, he asked, "Smoke?"
I nodded and took the cigarette offered. He continued, "That Mrs. Wilson of yours has been a godsend, son." He laughed. "Just won't take no for an answer." I nodded and smiled.
"She and her daughter, who's my secretary, moved into the neighborhood about six weeks ago and she has them all eating out of her hand."
Uncle Leroy smiled and nodded. "Oh, I can see that. That woman could be President. But I think that would be putting her power to waste. Velma and their other sister, Maria, tried and tried to get Louise to send Carter a postcard, if nothing else."
I nodded. "Is Maria here?" I pronounced it the same way Uncle Leroy had done: like the name of the wind in the song from Paint Your Wagon.
"She passed in '44. Velma thought that might do it. But Louise is stubborn."
I smiled at that.
He said, "Runs in the family, don't it?"
I nodded. "It does." I didn't think Uncle Leroy, however accommodating he might be, was quite ready to hear the specific ways that Carter could be stubborn, so I changed the subject.
"Is Carter's brother buried here?"
"Well, now." He exhaled. "You hit on a sore point."
"How so?"
"He ain't buried nowhere unless you call the beach in Guam a cemetery."
I nodded. I knew that not every body was returned for burial from some of those big battles. They couldn't always figure out which parts belonged to who.
"Bobby," that was Carter's brother, "he never had a proper burial. They did put a headstone out at the cemetery, but it wasn't the same thing." He paused and lit another cigarette. When he was done, he continued, "That just about tore Louise up. One son livin' the wild life in San Francisco, which might as well be Timbuktu as far as Louise is concerned." I smiled at that and thought about Carter's very un-wild life. "Then Maria died two weeks after we got the telegram about Bobby. It was a real mess around here, I'll tell you that." I could hear a hint of reproach in his voice. In other words, Carter should have been here to comfort his mother. Knowing what I knew, I couldn't agree with that thought, but I could understand it.
Uncle Leroy's face softened. "The three Carter sisters. Each prettier than the other. Velma was the oldest. Then Louise. Then Maria."
He sighed. "Of course, we all went to school together. I asked Velma out to an ice cream social and that was it. She and I married in '14 in the summer. My pappy died the next year and that's when I came into the business. Then came the war and I got called up in December of '17. My younger brother, Earl, he managed the business while I was gone." He paused in reverie.
"You never saw a more beautiful sight than Velma at the depot in Atlanta when our train pulled in from Virginia where we'd landed back from France. She was dressed all in frills and bows and had a big hat. Prettier than any mam'selle I ever saw in gay Paree." He smiled for a moment and then frowned as his memory took its course.
"By then, Maria was married to Lewis Parker, a good man, and was pregnant with John, Carter's cousin. Then, before you know it, Lewis got the flu and died before he could see his own son. Robert, Carter's brother, was born about the same time as John." I noticed he skipped over the part where Carter's parents would have been married.
"Then came Carter, less than a year after Bobby. And that was that." His voice was wistful. I wondered if he'd missed having children of his own.
"So, what can you tell me about what happened to Mr. Jones?" I wanted to change the subject and start talking about something I could do.
Uncle Leroy looked over at me for a long moment. "Before, I said that I'm a fair man. Leastways, I try to be. I hire the best man, or woman, for the job. I don't take account of skin color. The only thing I haven't done is to raise up a colored man as a manager. Not that I'm lackin' for qualified candidates. I'd lose half my employees if I did that." He stopped for a moment to light yet another cigarette. He offered one and I shook my head.
As he puffed, he continued, "Wilson had just become the senior boss over at the plant where he's always worked. The owner passed a few weeks ago." He took a long drag on his cigarette.
"So, on Wednesday, Wilson goes to work around 8, as usual. They have a big order of lumber to get ready and put on the train that afternoon. It's headed down to Tallahassee and Gainesville. Anyway, what I heard is that one of their big saws was giving trouble, so Wilson went down to see what was up. One thing led to another and he fell into the saw."
I nodded grimly. I'd seen a lot of things. Death by saw was not one of them, but I could easily imagine.
"It's gonna be a closed casket." Uncle Leroy took a long drag and then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the side table. I didn't ask for more detail. That was enough for me.
"How do you think I can help?"
"Well, son, it's like this. It's my belief that he was pushed. Wilson was many things, but stupid was not one of them. I can think of several people down at that mill who would be more than happy to do it but I can't think of anyone one who would benefit from his death right now." He looked at me intently. "How much do you know about the Klan?"
"Just what Carter told me. It
sounds like his father seemed to enjoy lynchings."
Uncle Leroy nodded. "No one more so. In this town, at least." He paused for a minute or two. I just waited. I could hear voices coming from the kitchen but it all sounded fine from where I sat.
Finally, Uncle Leroy spoke. "I heard you bought a Buick from George Johnson today."
I nodded.
He smiled at me. "Not everyone walks into a car dealership and pays cash for the most expensive car on the lot."
I laughed. "It seems to be a habit of mine. I did that with the first car I bought."
He paused to take another deep drag on his Camel before putting it out in the ashtray. "Notice anything interestin' happen when you pulled up in front of the New Albany in your new car?" I knew he was trying to tell me something even though it sounded like he was just spouting off random ideas.
I thought about that moment. I remembered the Negro kid who'd taken care of the car and brought our luggage up to the room.
"Sure. What was his name?" I was trying to remember if he even told me.
"You wouldn't know. Colored, unfortunately, don't bother to tell their names unless asked. Name is Ronnie Waskom. That name mean anything to you?"
"No. He was attentive."
"He knew who you were. And who Carter was, in particular. There's a history between Earl Waskom and Wilson Jones. Ronnie is the younger son. The surviving one." He paused and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Velma's always on me to quit but they taste too damn good." He coughed as he lit another one. "Pardon me, son." He took a deep drag on the new cigarette and smiled in relief.
"Of course, Ronnie Waskom knew that you had bought the car that George Johnson was saving for himself. Only Johnson is too smart a businessman not to sell it to a rube from the big city who's willin' to pay a thousand over list." Uncle Leroy winked at me.
I laughed. "Well, you know my story. It isn't my money, so I don't care."
Uncle Leroy cocked his head at me. "You read the financial pages lately?"
I shook my head. "No, why?"
"Well, there was an article about you in the Atlanta paper on Wednesday. Some think you've already more than doubled or tripled the size of your trust since you created that foundation of yours. They're calling you a financial wizard."
"What?" This was news to me. And completely ridiculous.
"Sure. Course the Heart papers think it's proof of something sinister. None of the financial bigwigs really know what to make of you, Nick."
I shook my head. "I'm just a kid who inherited a bunch of money. I have no idea what I'm doing. That's why it's being managed in a trust."
"Well, that trust is gettin' bigger by the day, son. You might wanna have a look into that." This really seemed to amuse Uncle Leroy.
"Fine. Let's get back to what you were saying about the kid at the hotel. What does that have to do with anything?"
Uncle Leroy leaned in and said, "From what I hear, there were five colored men on the floor that morning when Wilson came down to look at the saw. One of those colored men is gonna hang for this murder and everyone knows it wasn't any of 'em who did it." He looked at me squarely. "Every colored person in this town is lookin' at you for help. And I don't blame them one bit." He leaned back, looked out the window, took a long, last drag and sighed when he exhaled.
We sat there for a few minutes in silence. I was thinking through the possibilities. I mentally made a list of the questions I had about this case, such as it was. As I was about to ask Uncle Leroy the first of them, there was a loud racket in the kitchen.
I looked up to see Carter busting through the door. He said, "Come on, Nick. Let's go." He raced out the front door and let the screen door slam behind him. I stood up as Aunt Velma came out. She had a worried look on her face.
"Y'all go for a drive so he can cool down. Then come on over to our house and you can have supper with us there. We'll try this again tomorrow." She sighed.
I stood up, put on my hat, and asked, "Was it bad?"
Aunt Velma shrugged. "It was better than I was afraid it would be but not good. He'll tell you about it in his way. And, remember, we love you both."
Uncle Leroy stood up and shook my hand, "That's right, son. You're part of this family even if not everyone understands that. Yet. Now, go on." He looked at the door meaningfully.
I tipped my hat to Aunt Velma and walked out the screen door and into the hot and sticky late afternoon air.
Chapter 5
Albany, Ga.
Friday, July 17, 1953
Around 5:30 in the afternoon
"I had no right bringin' you into this mess, Nick." Carter looked over at me. We had been driving for about ten minutes.
I looked back at him and said, "Where you go, I go. Face it, we're as good as married."
Carter smiled for a moment. That was a good sign.
I pulled up to a stop sign at the highway. "Left or right?"
Carter took in a deep breath. "Let's go to the cemetery. Right."
I nodded and pulled out onto the highway.
. . .
We found the headstone for Robert Wilson Jones. It was easy to find because it was next to a big hole in the ground, presumably the final resting place for Wilson Jones.
Carter squatted in front of the granite rectangle. He ran his hand over his brother's name. The dates read, "February 25, 1918 – August 9, 1944." Below that it said, "U.S.M.C.," meaning that he'd been a Marine.
I put my hand on Carter's big shoulder. He put his hand over mine. We stood there in the cemetery as the bugs sang their buzzing songs. I could also hear a popping sound coming from the woods about fifty feet from where we stood.
Carter raised up and said, "You hear that noise?" He took out his handkerchief and wiped off his sweaty face. I nodded. "That's the resin in the pine trees boilin' up to the top. Let's walk over there."
I followed him as he led me to the woods. When we were right at the edge of them, I could suddenly smell the resin wafting through the hot air. It was wonderfully sweet and refreshing.
Carter sat down on the ground that was covered in red and brown pine needles and leaned up against a very tall and very old tree.
He put his head down between his arms for a long while. I stood there for a moment before I decided to have a seat next to him. As I leaned against Carter and the big tree, I looked out at what there was to see.
We were up on a rise and could see all of the cemetery. In the distance, I could see a Negro man walking through the headstones. He was tall and had gray hair. The glasses he wore were taped together in the middle. I watched him as he got to where Bobby's headstone stood. He looked down at the open grave and spat. I could hear him say something, but I couldn't make out the words.
I turned to look at Carter. He was watching what I was watching. He said, "Good. He deserves it."
We sat there as the man walked back the way he'd come. After a moment, I asked, "What happened at the house?"
"Louise Jones, the most stubborn woman ever born. That's what happened."
I decided to go at things from the side. "So, did your parents stay together because she was so stubborn?"
Carter laughed a very grim laugh. "That and because he told her more than once that he would kill her if she left."
I nodded. And waited.
Carter sighed. "I know how you do your thing, Nick. That doesn't work on me."
I poked him gently with my elbow. "Well, you have your ways, and I have mine. You tell me as much as you want or as little. I'm here. I'm not goin' anywhere. And we have all the time in the world."
He reached out and grabbed my hand. We sat there for another few minutes in the buzzing and popping sounds of the cemetery holding hands and looking out at all the dead.
. . .
A wind came up suddenly. It was odd but it was nice after all the muggy stillness. Carter moved his right leg around. I asked, "Is your knee predicting rain?"
Carter nodded. "Seems like it." Although he c
ould walk just fine now, the run-in he'd had with that firetruck at the end of '52 had caused his knee to act up whenever the weather was about to change. So far, it had been remarkably accurate.
Carter stood up and then reached down to pull me up. As we walked towards the car, I saw dark clouds off in the distance. The wind was picking up, becoming more and more gusty. As we got to the car, I said, "Let's put the top up, just in case." And we did just that.
We got in the car and were back on the highway leading into town when I saw police flashers behind us. I slowed down, pulled over to the right, and turned off the engine. I pulled out my license from my wallet in my coat pocket.
I asked Carter, "Can you grab the registration slip? It's in the glove box." He opened the compartment door, pulled out the yellow paper, and handed it to me.
The window was already down. I waited for the policeman to walk up. When I looked in the mirror, I noticed that he was still sitting in his car.
Carter asked, "What's going on?"
"Looks like he's on the radio."
We sat for a few moments longer. Finally, the officer stepped out of the cruiser and walked forward next to my side of the car.
When he got to the window, I looked up. He was maybe a little shorter than Carter, about the same age, had bright blue eyes and short blond hair. He looked vaguely like Carter.
"Mr. Williams?"
"Yes?"
"Can I see your license, please?" He had a very soft drawl. He didn't seem to be upset. I handed over my California driver license and waited.
The officer examined the front of the license, turned it over, and then handed it back. He leaned down, put both hands on the car door, and asked with a serious expression on his face.
"Where you two headed?"
Before I could respond, Carter said, "You know exactly where we're headed, John."
I looked up at the officer who was now grinning. "Get the hell out of that car, Carter Jones!"
Carter jumped out the passenger side door and went to the back. Through the rear-view mirror, I watched Carter and the police officer embrace for a moment. They stood back from each other as they started talking.
The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4) Page 4