The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4)

by Frank W. Butterfield

Mr. Williams, heir to a gold rush fortune, resides in San Francisco. Earlier this year, he notoriously assaulted publishing magnate George Hearst and his wife in a restaurant of that city.

  Thomas Kincaid, local attorney for Mr. Williams, had no comment and could not provide the whereabouts of Mr. Williams by press time.

  Chapter 12

  Dougherty County Jail

  Tuesday, July 21, 1953

  Just after 10 in the morning

  Carter asked, "Do you have a lawyer?"

  We were sitting in the visitor's room at the county jail meeting with Mr. Waskom. The room was small with a single table and two chairs on either side. We had entered at one end of the room and Mr. Waskom had entered from the other. He looked tired. He was wearing the same glasses he'd had on when we saw him at the cemetery Friday afternoon. And they had the same piece of tape that held them together.

  "No, sir."

  "Well, we'll get you one."

  "But I can't afford no lawyer."

  Carter said, "I owe you a lot, Mr. Waskom. We'll take care of all of this. Don't worry about the money."

  The man looked at me sideways for a moment, a glint of suspicion in his eyes. Finally, he let out a big sigh. Looking at Carter, he said, "Well, thank you, sir."

  Carter nodded and pressed ahead. "Where were you when my daddy was killed?"

  "I was out in my taxi cab. I was driving Miss Darlene to her weekly appointment at the beauty parlor."

  "Did you tell the sheriff that?"

  Mr. Waskom rolled his eyes and huffed in disgust. "No one asked me. They just brought me here last night, charged me, and put me in a cell."

  I asked, "How is Mr. Sterling treating you?"

  Mr. Waskom smiled. "He's been very kind. He's a good man."

  Carter asked, "Do you need anything?"

  "Well, for one thing, I need my pills. For the seizures."

  Carter nodded but didn't say anything.

  I said, "We'll talk to Ronnie and get that straightened out for you. Hopefully, he'll be here later today with what you need."

  Mr. Waskom said, "Thank you, Mister Nick."

  I nodded and asked, "Who should we talk to about what really happened at the mill?"

  "Go see Ronnie Thompson. He'll know everything."

  "How do we find him?"

  Mr. Waskom smiled. "Ask anyone. They'll know."

  Mr. Sterling opened the jail-side door and walked in. "Time's up."

  We all stood. Mr. Waskom shook Carter's hand with obvious relief and gratitude. For me, he simply nodded. Then he slowly walked back through the door and was escorted away by Mr. Sterling.

  . . .

  Outside the jail, we met Henry, Dawson, and Andy. I told them about Ronnie Thompson. They decided they would start with him and then find the others as they could.

  "There's a barber shop that I remember that might be the best place to start." That was Henry.

  Carter said, "Do you mean Duke's?"

  Henry nodded. "That's the one. Over on Indiana Avenue."

  Andy said, "That's the best place to begin." Henry looked away as Andy talked.

  Dawson said, "Come on. Let's get on it. Where are y'all off to?"

  I said, "First to see the lawyer. Then to the bank."

  Carter added, "Then to see Mrs. Waskom."

  They walked over to where the two rental cars were parked. I noticed when they left that Henry and Dawson got in one car and Andy got in another.

  . . .

  After stopping by Tom's office to arrange for his services and to give him another retainer check, we walked over to the First National Bank.

  As we walked into the lobby, I looked around to find the bank manager. We stood there for a moment. I noticed that everyone stopped talking as we did.

  A balding man in his 40s wearing a well-tailored suit came around a corner. He asked, "Mr. Williams?"

  I nodded.

  "I'm Mr. Willoughby, the bank manager. Won't you come with me?"

  We followed him through the lobby, past the teller line with its whispering patrons, past an openly disdainful secretary, and into his office.

  "Please sit." He pointed to the two chairs in front of his desk. We did just that.

  He walked around and sat down in a large leather chair. Pulling out a form, he handed it to me. "We received your incoming wire this morning from Bank of America in San Francisco. Fortunately, we can cover that amount. Would you please fill out your name and address at the bottom and sign and date on the line?"

  I pulled a pen out of the well on his desk and did that. As I handed him the form, he handed me a check.

  "If you'll endorse this check, I'll have the head cashier bring your cash in. You'll notice we deducted a small fee since you're not a bank customer."

  I nodded, signed the check on the back, and handed it back to him.

  He looked at both of us. "Did you bring anything with you to hold your cash?"

  I shook my head.

  He smiled a small smile. "That's fine. I have an attache case you can use." He stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back with the head cashier." He rushed out the door.

  Carter said, "This is the most polite bum's rush I've ever received."

  I laughed.

  "How much was that small fee?"

  "Twenty-five bucks."

  Carter whistled. "Well, that should cover the cost of the attache case."

  I added, "And then some."

  . . .

  Once we left the bank, we got into the car. Carter took the wheel while I got in the passenger side. I put the attache case behind his seat. Starting the engine, Carter put the car in gear and pulled out into the light downtown traffic and drove us over to the Waskom house.

  It was a small cottage, painted all in green with white trim. A small front porch was covered with a number of wooden and metal chairs along with various potted plants. The yard in front of the house, like the other houses on the block, was immaculately kept. Someone was growing roses and one bush was in bloom. I didn't know anything about gardening, but I thought it was too hot for that. But, then again, the Georgia heat was too much for anything, in my opinion.

  I followed Carter up the steps. The front door was open, but the screen door was latched shut. Carter knocked heavily on the frame of the screen door and called out, "Mrs. Waskom? Carter Jones here."

  The tone of his voice was the most southern I'd ever heard him use. It was pinging a definite five on his five-star scale of southern charm.

  "Mister Carter?" A small woman with a light mocha face full of worry lines came up to the screen. She peered up at him through thick glasses that, like her husband's, had a piece of tape holding the bridge together. Her hair was pulled back off her face and hidden under a pink scarf. She wore a simple blue dress with a white apron tied around her waist. She looked though the screen with an expression of curiosity mixed with resignation.

  Carter replied, "Yes, ma'am. How are you?"

  As she unlatched the door, she said, "Well, I imagine you know I've been better." She stepped back to let us in while Carter pulled open the screen door. "But, we're prayin' and doin' what we can. You all come in from the heat. It's a little cooler in here."

  We took off our hats as we walked into the front sitting room, which was comfortably furnished. A ceiling fan was circulating the warm air and made it a little cooler than the outside, but not much.

  "Mrs. Waskom, this is my friend, Nick Williams."

  She looked me up and down as she wiped her hands on a her apron. She nodded and asked, "How do you do, Mister Nick?"

  "I'm sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances."

  She looked at me for a moment and then turned to Carter and said, "I was gonna make you a nice lunch but what with everything that's happened..." Her voice trailed off.

  Carter said, "Please don't go to any trouble for us."

  This snapped her back. She laughed. "If you don't mind pot luck, we have plenty to eat. Whole neighborhood
has been stoppin' by to leave food this morning. You'd think there'd been a death in the family."

  There was something in the tone of her voice that I didn't like.

  . . .

  We did our best to make a dent in the vast amount of dishes that had been brought to their house and took up every available spot in the icebox and on the counter. Ronnie Waskom had been in the kitchen when we arrived. As we ate, he asked, "How's pop?"

  Carter said, "He seemed fine. They're taking good care of him. He said he needs his pills."

  Ronnie nodded. Neither he nor his mother said anything. I wondered if the pills were connected to what happened when Carter's father had attacked the man.

  Mrs. Waskom took a sip from her glass of beer. Just then, a voice could be heard from the front of the house. "Mrs. Waskom? It's Reverend Houston from Bethel."

  She stood up quickly and poured her glass down the sink. She snatched up our bottles and put them in icebox. She walked quickly into the front sitting room.

  Ronnie stood up, went to the icebox, and said, "Preacher. Can I get y'all a bottle of Coke?"

  I said, "That sounds great. No beer at church?"

  Carter said, "Hush." We could hear Mrs. Waskom and her guest coming towards the kitchen.

  Carter and I stood up as they walked in. The minister was a tall, handsome man with dark black skin, light brown eyes, and wore clerical garb. He was holding his hat in his left hand.

  "Preacher, this here is Mister Carter Jones."

  "The name is Reverend Paul Houston. Sorry to hear about your father, Mr. Jones." The man had a distinct accent that sounded Ivy League and stood out in contrast to both Carter's and Mrs. Waskom's. He extended his right hand which Carter shook.

  Carter said, "Thank you, sir. This is my friend, Nick Williams."

  The minister's eyes narrowed briefly. He took hold of his hat with both hands, nodded slightly, and said, "Mr. Williams."

  I nodded and replied, "Reverend."

  Mrs. Waskom asked, "Preacher, what can I get you? We have somethin' of everythin', thanks to the neighbors."

  He smiled and said, "I just had lunch, thank you, Mrs. Waskom."

  "How about some fresh lemonade?"

  "That sounds fine."

  "How about for the rest of you?" Ronnie had been interrupted in his attempt to sneak us bottles of Coke.

  Carter and I both said, "Yes, please," at the same time.

  As she opened a cabinet, Mrs. Waskom said, "Y'all have a seat." And we did.

  "Mister Carter, this here is the new preacher at the Bethel A.M.E." She picked up our empty plates and took them over to the sink.

  I noticed that Carter's face was tightened and his eyes were opened more widely than normal. I knew this expression. He was angry but didn't want anyone to know it. He looked over at me for half a beat and then back at the reverend.

  We sat quietly while Mrs. Waskom filled three beautiful crystal glasses with chipped ice from her icebox.

  Carter finally said to Ronnie, "We talked to Thomas Kincaid about representin' your father."

  Mrs. Waskom said, "But we can't afford no lawyer."

  As she said this, I watched her pour the lemonade from a heavy crystal pitcher over the ice in the three crystal glasses. The set had to be at least fifty years old or more. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the reverend glance over at me.

  Carter said, "Nick took care of all of that. Don't worry about the money. We just need to get him out of there."

  Mrs. Waskom huffed in disgust just like her husband did earlier. "Well, we'll see about that."

  She placed the glasses of lemonade on the table and then brought over a small plate of sugar cookies and put them on the table as well.

  Carter moved his right leg around. Mrs. Waskom asked, "Didn't I hear you got run over by a firetruck or somethin' like that?"

  Carter laughed. "Not exactly run over. I just slipped and fell and, well, it's a long story. But now I have a trick knee that seems to predict the weather."

  Mrs. Waskom sat down at the head of the table, rubbed her left elbow with her right hand, and said, "I have one of those myself, only it's this here elbow. I cracked it a few years ago, and I can always tell when it's gonna rain. And, I'd say we're gonna have us a big storm later on tonight. Wouldn't you say so, Mister Carter?"

  Carter moved his right leg around a bit more and said, "I sure would, ma'am."

  I took a sip of my lemonade. It was delicious: a little sweet and a little tart and very refreshing. "Mrs. Waskom, this is perfect lemonade."

  She beamed at me and said, "Well, thank you, kindly, Mister Nick. There's plenty, so you drink your fill."

  I smiled and nodded as I took another sip.

  The reverend cleared his throat. "Now, it's my understanding that Mr. Waskom was in his cab, with a customer, at the..." He looked over the table at Carter and pulled at his collar with visible discomfort. After hesitating, he continued. "At the, uh, time of the incident."

  Carter shifted in his chair. He was getting angrier by the moment.

  I spoke up. "That's right, Reverend. Mr. Waskom said that he was taking a Miss Darlene to her weekly appointment at the beauty parlor."

  Mrs. Waskom nodded vigorously and said, "Darlene Johnson. She lives two blocks over. She called me this morning as soon as she read the newspaper."

  I asked, "Do you know if she went to the sheriff?"

  Mrs. Waskom, Ronnie, and the reverend all looked at me as if I had just asked about her flying to Mars. Ronnie said, "That's not how it works here. No colored person would just walk into the sheriff's office."

  Mrs. Waskom crossed her arms and said, "Not if they want to leave, they wouldn't."

  The reverend looked at Carter for a moment and then turned to me. He asked, "I understand you are a private investigator in San..." He pulled at his collar again, like he had earlier. "In, uh, California. Is that right, Mr. Williams?"

  "Yes. But Georgia doesn't allow out-of-state investigators to operate without registering. So, we're not officially investigating. We're just visiting with folks."

  I couldn't see Carter's face, but I could see his right hand on his thigh. He was clenching his hand so tightly that his knuckles were white.

  Carter spoke up, addressing Mrs. Waskom. "Henry Wilson and Beauregard Anderson came into town yesterday. They're visiting the families of the men who were working on the floor that day with my daddy."

  Mrs. Waskom tilted her head at me. "You know Mister Henry?"

  I nodded. "Yes, ma'am. He's a good friend."

  She nodded but said nothing.

  The reverend stood up. We all did the same. "I'll be going, Mrs. Waskom. Please call me if I can be of any further help."

  She nodded. "Thank you for stopping by, Reverend. Your prayers mean a lot to me and to Earl."

  The reverend shook Ronnie's hand and then Carter's. He held his hat in both of his hands again while he said to me, "Thank you for coming to this family's aid in a time of crisis, Mr. Williams. It's very generous of you."

  I smiled and said, "It's my pleasure, Reverend."

  With that, he put his hat on his head and said, "I'll see myself out."

  Mrs. Waskom followed him, saying, "I'll follow you out, Reverend, so I can latch that door behind you."

  The three of us sat down at the table. Ronnie looked at me and said, "Sorry about all that, Mr. Williams. I hope you weren't offended by the reverend."

  I shook my head and said, "No. I understand. The important thing here is to get your father back home. That's all that matters."

  I looked over at Carter, who seemed to be cooling off. He said, "There's one thing I wanted to talk with you about, Ronnie, if you have a couple of minutes. Before you go down to the jail, that is."

  "Sure thing, Mr. Jones."

  Carter took in a deep breath and said, "I hope you won't be put off by this but, well, I sure would like it if you would let us pay for you to go back to Morehouse and finish up your college degree."

&nb
sp; Ronnie's eyes widened. He looked at me, and I simply smiled and nodded. He looked back at Carter and said, "I don't know what to say, Mr. Jones."

  I said, "Just say yes. He's not gonna let you say no." I took a sip of lemonade and added, "And neither will I, for that matter."

  Mrs. Waskom walked back into the kitchen just then. "That man thinks he can just prance in this house and treat my company disrespectfully."

  Ronnie grinned and asked, "Did you give him a piece of your mind, Ma?"

  "You bet I did, son." She had her hands on her hips. Her lips were pursed in obvious disapproval.

  Ronnie looked at me and said, "Don't ever mess with my mama. You don't ever wanna be on the wrong end of that kinda talkin' to."

  I smiled and said, "Don't worry. I'll mind my manners."

  She sat back down in her chair and looked over at me. "You just stay out of jail and take real good care of this boy here." She looked at Carter. "And we'll be fine."

  I nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I plan to do both."

  Chapter 13

  New Albany Hotel, Suite 601

  Tuesday, July 21, 1953

  Just past 3 in the afternoon

  "What did you find out?" That was my first question as we all gathered in the living room of our suite.

  "We were comparing notes in the lobby while we were waiting for you and Carter to get here. No one we talked to was there when Mr. Jones fell into the saw." That was Dawson.

  Henry was leaning against the wall near the door to the bedroom on the right. His arms were crossed and he was not happy.

  Andy was sitting on one of the sofas next to Dawson. He was very specifically not looking at Henry. This was as good as it was going to get.

  Andy said, "They were all on a break outside the shed."

  I nodded. "What happened?"

  Dawson answered. "There were five men, all Negroes, working at that particular saw. Mr. Jones came in and told them all to go take a break. That happened at 2:50 p.m. The five men went outside to where the canteen keeps a kind of lean-to shack. There's a gal there who sells bottled soda pop kept on ice, chewing gum, and candy."

  Henry added, "Hard candy. The kind that doesn't melt."