The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "How did you know to go up at that time?"

  "I knew they would be up to something. That's how dirty and nasty those two are. Everyone knows it."

  The judge coughed. "Miss Johnson. Answer only the question that is asked. Do you understand?"

  She looked down. "Yes, Your Honor."

  "But, why 3 in the morning?" asked Kincaid.

  "I heard them come into the hotel."

  "What did you hear?"

  "I heard them open the door and come in."

  I tried very hard not to smile.

  "I see. So, you heard them open the front door of the hotel?"

  Eileen panicked. She knew as well as anyone that this wasn't possible. "Well, what I mean to say, sir, is that I heard them ring the bell."

  "You heard them ring the bell?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you know who answered it?"

  "That nigger boy, Ronnie."

  "And how do you know he did?"

  "Well, he's the only one who could have."

  "And did you hear any words that passed between Ronnie and either Mr. Williams or Mr. Jones?"

  "No, sir. They just went right in and right up to their room in the elevator."

  Since we'd spent at least five minutes talking to Ronnie, she must have been waiting for us in the other bedroom when we walked in.

  "So, that's when you decided to go upstairs?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And how did you get into the suite?"

  "I used the master key."

  "So, you used the master key and slipped into the suite. Did you see anything when you did that? Anything out of the ordinary?"

  "No, sir. It was dark."

  "I see. Were there any lights outside shining through the windows? Say, a street light?"

  "No sir. The sixth floor is above the street lights. That's why people like--"

  The prosecutor jumped up. "Objection."

  The judge said, "Sustained. Miss Johnson, I'll remind you again to only answer the question that is asked."

  She looked down and said, "Yes, Your Honor."

  Kincaid continued. "Now, when you got into the suite, did you immediately go to the corner bedroom?"

  "No, sir. I waited and listened."

  "What did you hear?"

  "Well, sir, I couldn't rightly say."

  "You couldn't?"

  "What I mean is that I wouldn't know how to describe it."

  "I see. So no one was saying anything?"

  "No, sir."

  "Was anyone making any unusual noises?"

  "Well, not really. I guess it was more like snoring."

  I wondered why she didn't mention the conversation we'd had in the living room. She must have fallen asleep waiting for us. That was the only possibility.

  "I see. So, you walked into the suite, where it was dark, you walked over to the doorway, and you could only hear someone snoring. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And could you see who was sleeping in the bed?"

  "No, sir. Like I said, it was dark." Eileen brought her gloved hand to her mouth. I heard someone behind me sigh very loudly. I watched Eileen as she looked at her glove. She opened her purse and searched for something. When she didn't find it, a look passed over her face and she briefly glanced at me. She then snapped her purse closed and tried to discreetly rub her glove on the side of her dress as if she was wiping off something. I noticed her pink lipstick was slightly smudged.

  "Thank you, Miss Johnson. No further questions."

  The prosecutor stood up. "Judge, I'd like to redirect, if I may."

  "Proceed."

  "When you walked into the suite, did you see any clothes in the sitting room?"

  "No, sir. As I said, it was dark."

  I watched as the prosecutor realized the mistake he'd made and sat down. "No further questions."

  The judge said, "Thank you, Miss Johnson, you may step down."

  Eileen stood up, smoothed out her dress, and walked defiantly back into the gallery.

  The judge looked down at his notes and then up at the two attorneys. "I'm prepared to rule from the bench."

  The prosecutor stood up. "Your Honor--"

  "Sit down, Buzz."

  "Yes, Your Honor." Mr. Underwood did just that.

  The judge said, "So, this is what we have, gentlemen. We have an unreliable witness who can't keep her story straight. She heard someone snoring in a dark bedroom. We have word from a housekeeper but no sheets with any evidence. Buzz, if this is what you call 'substantiated' evidence, you need to go back to law school."

  He made a note on a paper in front of him and said, "In the matter of the State of Georgia versus Nicholas Williams on the charge of felony sodomy, I hereby dismiss all charges for lack of evidence. Bail is to be returned to the defendant by the close of business today. Case dismissed." He brought down his gavel, rose from the bench, and left the courtroom very quickly.

  There was a mixed reaction in the gallery. I didn't give a good goddam. I just wanted to see Carter. And get a long, hot shower.

  Chapter 10

  Home of Mrs. Wilson Jones

  Monday, July 20, 1953

  About 4 in the afternoon

  "I can't believe you have been stealing good jam from those poor orphans all these years!"

  I smiled and just sat there, slathering more of the red plum jam over the big buttered biscuit on the plate in front of me.

  "Does it help that he donated to the Dougherty County Hospital Board?" This was Carter, who said all that with his mouth full.

  "I don't know." I watched Carter's mother as she walked around her kitchen. She looked lighter and happier than when I'd seen her on Saturday.

  "Louise! Give the boy a break. You know no one can resist your red plum jam." This was Aunt Velma.

  "Well, this time. But don't you let me catch you doin' nuthin' sneaky like that again, you hear?" She finally smiled, and we all laughed.

  . . .

  After we'd left the jail with briefcase in hand, Carter had told me that we still had our suite at the New Albany Hotel. Eileen, however, no longer had her job. Or that was the story that Aunt Velma told us. I felt sorry for the kid. I knew what it felt like to be left out of the party and to want something you couldn't have. Of course, two days in jail didn't make me like her very much. But I did wonder what we could do for her. I brought this up to the group sitting in Mrs. Jones' kitchen.

  "I don't know, Nick." This was Aunt Velma. "There's something very wrong with that girl. Has been for some time. I know you're charitable, and all, but it might be better for her to just leave her hangin' in the wind. Maybe she'll learn something from it."

  I nodded and looked around. Mrs. Jones was thoughtfully sipping her coffee.

  "How about that new girls' reformatory that they're openin' down in Thomasville?"

  Aunt Velma said, "That's certainly a place where her talents would not go to waste." Carter and I both laughed at this.

  Mrs. Jones said, "If your foundation were to make a contribution, I'm sure that might open a door."

  I shook my head. "Not the foundation. It'll be me." I hadn't told Carter yet about what was happening with the Williams Benevolent Foundation and now didn't seem like the right time.

  . . .

  After my falling out with my ex-lover, ex-friend, and ex-attorney, one Jeffery Klein, Esquire, I had turned over all my legal work to a new man by the name of Kenneth Wilcox. He had been working for an established white-shoe firm in the financial district of San Francisco and, after a few years, he had decided to strike out on his own. When I found out he was taking the kind of cases that Jeffery used to take, the ones involving police raids on Polk Street, up in North Beach, and in the Tenderloin, I had reached out to him and, after we met, brought my business to his tiny one-man firm.

  He'd had to hire another attorney and an assistant for the additional work. I hadn't realized how much Jeffery had been doing for me. When Kenneth had looked into the
workings of the Williams Benevolent Foundation, he'd discovered that Jeffery was on the board and was in the process of changing its focus. I didn't really care. I had never cared. In the past, I would ask Jeffery to go to the board to handle certain cases for me, like the Dougherty County Hospital Board. And they had always complied. But now that Jeffery and I were no longer friends, that door was shut.

  Kenneth told me the foundation had publicly announced that it was moving away from a general charitable focus and was now looking to tackle a more difficult problem: the encroachment of Communism in both the U.S. and abroad.

  This was so far from their original mission that Kenneth had suggested I sue. I didn't want to. It seemed like too much trouble. Besides, my position had always been to be hands-off. Now that position was a reality.

  During the last meeting I'd had with Kenneth, he'd suggested two things. First, he said Carter and I should draw up new wills and that we should name each other as sole beneficiaries. Second, he'd suggested that I start a new foundation and call it something like "The Williams-Jones Foundation." And, he'd suggested that Carter and I should sit on the board. He'd scolded me for nearly ten minutes about why that was important. In the end, I'd had to agree.

  This last meeting had been just a week earlier. I hadn't found the time to sit down and discuss it all with Carter. Not yet.

  . . .

  As I bit into another delicious bite of biscuit, I asked, "So, what's next, Chief?"

  Carter looked at me, put both hands on the table, stood up, and asked, "Nick, can I talk to you outside for a moment?"

  I wiped my mouth and said, "Sure."

  As I stood up, I said, "Excuse us, ladies."

  We walked out through the back door, down the steps, and into the backyard. As we did, I noticed that the grass needed to be cut and there were weeds that needed to be pulled. Not that I had any interest in doing either of those things.

  Once we were out of hearing distance from the kitchen windows, Carter turned towards me with his back to the house and, in a quiet voice, suggested some things that made me blush, which I rarely do.

  I looked up at him and asked, "And where are you proposing to do that?"

  "We could fly somewhere. We have an airplane."

  I shook my head. "Now that I've been to jail, we're staying until we find out who killed your father. I don't like that sheriff, and I have a feeling he's gonna make someone take the fall for it."

  "Do you wanna go back to jail? One of the things that Tom Kincaid wanted me to remind you about is that Georgia doesn't recognize out-of-state private investigators."

  "So, why don't we fly up to Atlanta so I can become an in-state investigator?"

  Carter shook his head. "You think they're just gonna hand one over to you? Like a driver's license?"

  I shrugged. "Some states do that. All you have to do is to register. I know Nevada does."

  "Nevada lets you divorce in six weeks. This ain't Nevada."

  I looked down at the grass. "Look, Carter, you're right. But someone killed your father." I looked up at him. "Doesn't that matter to you?" I knew the answer but I wanted to give him the chance to hear himself say it out loud.

  "No. That son of a bitch had it comin'."

  "I know. But what if someone is framed for it? Mr. Sterling told me that the sheriff was a friend of your father's and that they were both members of the Klan or whatever the modern version of the Klan is."

  This made Carter stop and think. He kicked the grass with his shoe. Finally, he sighed. "We can't leave. Mama'll never forgive me if I don't cut the grass."

  "There you go. Besides, we do have a suite of rooms we can use."

  "I dunno. Doesn't that feel strange to you?"

  "Here's what we'll do. We'll go back to the hotel and take things one step at a time. If we don't like it or it begins to feel strange, then we can leave. We could always drive to Tallahassee for the night or something like that."

  He looked down at me for a long moment. "I wanna kiss you in the worst way."

  "Me, too."

  We stood there in the heat and humidity, both sweating, and neither moving.

  I looked around the big yard. There were a group of trees at the back. "Are those the plum trees that your mother uses for her jam?"

  Carter nodded. "The very ones. They were here when Daddy bought the house. The story was that they were left from when all this had been a farm."

  "Would there be any on the tree that we could pick?"

  Carter's eyes opened wide. "No, sir. That season has come and gone. Besides, if Mama caught you stealing one of her precious plums, I can't tell you what she might do."

  I laughed. We stood there in the still humid air. My back was covered in sweat. The heat was like a glove that I couldn't take off. To cool down, I tried to think about cold August days and fingers of fog curling around Twin Peaks but it didn't help.

  Carter said, "Now we have to go in there and tell my mama that we're leavin' to go make love without tellin' her that, even though she knows that's exactly what we'll be doin'."

  "You let me take care of that. This is what husbands do."

  "Oh, is that what they do?" He gave me his slow, sweet smile.

  "Carter Woodrow Wilson Jones, you better put your engine in neutral. Or we're both gonna be in trouble."

  He just kept on smiling.

  . . .

  Mrs. Jones, a very practical woman in a number of ways, took care of things for us.

  When we walked back into the kitchen, she said, "Son, I need you to come over tomorrow and take care of that yard."

  Carter nodded, "Yes, ma'am. I saw how high it's gettin' out there."

  Aunt Velma stood up and said, "It's on account of all that rain we got last Tuesday and Wednesday." She picked up her purse. "Well, Louise, I'll be goin' home now so Mattie can tell me to leave her kitchen." She laughed and then walked over to hug Mrs. Jones.

  Turning to us, she said, "Try to stay out of jail, will you boys?"

  I nodded and said, "We'll try, but no promises."

  She smiled and gave us each a quick peck on the cheek, pulling Carter down and whispering something in his ear as she did. He turned red and just nodded.

  "Bye, all." She waved at us over her shoulder as she left through the front door.

  As we heard her car start up and pull away, Mrs. Jones said, "Nick, I want you to cook us dinner tomorrow night. Mrs. Wilson says you're very talented. But, tonight, I have my book club, and I need to get ready." She looked at her watch. "Oh, my. Well, you both better skedaddle, and I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

  I just stood there, completely stunned. Carter pushed me towards the front door. I kept going and heard Carter say, "Goodnight, Mama. I love you." I heard her kiss him on the cheek and say, "Goodnight, baby, I love you, too."

  . . .

  As Carter drove back to the hotel, we sat in silence. Finally, I asked, "Did she just do what I think she just did?"

  Carter laughed. "I think so."

  I thought for a moment and then said, "Well, there's only thing we can have for dinner tomorrow night."

  "What's that?"

  Trying to pronounce it like Carter always did, I said, "Eye-talian food, of course."

  I reached over and took Carter's right hand as we both laughed.

  . . .

  When we arrived at the hotel, I checked at the desk for messages. There was a huge stack. I said, "Let's tackle these at the bar. How does that sound?"

  Carter said, "Sounds good," but he was pulling at his collar as he said it and looking at me significantly. That was a signal he hadn't used in a while.

  I nodded and said, "Me, too. And I need a hot shower. But I don't wanna be thinkin' about anything else later on."

  He smiled and said, "You're right, Boss. Let's go."

  . . .

  We laughed when we both ordered Cokes to drink. Neither of us wanted to be drunk later on. I put the stack of messages on the bar and began to sort them out.


  One stack was for messages from Marnie.

  One stack was for messages from Mike.

  One was for interview requests.

  The final stack was miscellany.

  Carter took the ones from Mike and began to read through them. Those were all company business.

  I looked at the ones from Marnie. They started on Sunday with one about looking at the paper and then became increasingly more panicked as they went on.

  I looked through the ones for interview requests. What I mostly wanted to know was if any were local, so I could politely refuse. As I looked through them, most were from reporters in San Francisco and New York. One was from Atlanta, but he left an Atlanta number, so that was good. I didn't give interviews but I liked to be nice to the local fellas. I handed all of them to the bartender to throw in the garbage, which he did.

  The final stack included a message from John from a couple of hours ago. He just wanted to make sure we were OK. One was from Ben White, wondering if we wanted any help. I wondered what that meant. I added those two to Carter's stack. A third was from Earl Waskom. That one caught my attention.

  I looked up to see Carter frowning. "What is it?" I asked.

  "This last one from Mike is about your investigator's license."

  "What about it?" There had been a hearing scheduled in early July, but it had been postponed seven more weeks to the end of August.

  "He says it's been revoked."

  I shook my head. "Not possible."

  "You want me to call him up?"

  "No, I'll call him. You call Mr. Waskom." I handed him the message. "He'd probably like to hear from you. And call John, too."

  Carter nodded. I dropped a five on the bar, we scooped up the messages that were left, and headed over to the row of payphones.

  Carter got into his booth and I got into mine.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed the operator and asked for long distance.

  "I need to call a number in San Francisco, and I want to charge the call."

  "What is the number in San Francisco, please?" asked the operator.

  I gave her Mike's number and then my office number for the charge.

  "One moment."

  I waited and tried to see if I could hear Carter, but these booths were pretty soundproof.