The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4)

by Frank W. Butterfield

Dawson nodded. "There's also a sort of open spigot and a ladle where the men can get a cold drink of water. They were passing the ladle around when they heard a scream and the saw seemed to get caught on something." He looked over at Carter. I followed his gaze and saw that Carter, who was standing next to Henry, had turned pale.

  I said, "We get the picture."

  "Yeah, anyway, the men ran into the shed and--"

  Henry interjected, "One of 'em, Hank Johnson, shouted, 'Turn off the saw!'"

  Dawson continued. "So, Jimmy Robinson did just that. There's a big breaker that you can throw that cuts the juice. Otherwise the saw is on continuously."

  I glanced over at Carter, who was now leaning against Henry.

  "What happened next?" I asked.

  Dawson replied, "Well, one of the other men, Ronnie Thompson, ran over to the phone shed and called the main office. In about ten minutes, the doctor on staff came out. He arrived with a manager. After he, the manager, realized what happened, he told the men to go home. They don't know anything beyond that. And they were told to take a week off, with pay. That's why we found them all at home."

  "Did the manager ask them what happened?"

  Henry said, "No. That seems odd. Whenever there was an accident on any job I was on back at Bechtel, no one was allowed to leave until everyone was interviewed."

  I nodded.

  Dawson said, "The only time I've ever heard of anything like this kinda procedure is when someone was anxious to cover things up."

  I asked, "And no one saw Earl Waskom on site that day?"

  Andy piped up. "He hasn't worked there since '39. And the whole place is fenced in with gates and a guard."

  Dawson looked over at Henry. "Tell 'em what you heard about that."

  Henry looked down at his shoes. "Ronnie Thompson pulled me aside. He told me he didn't want anyone else to know but he'd heard that the sheriff has been trying to pin something on Earl Waskom ever since that thing went down with Mr. Jones right before we left."

  I looked around the room. "Doesn't that seem like a long time to be gunning for someone? That's fourteen years, after all."

  Carter said, "Doesn't surprise me one bit. That's just the kinda thing Daddy would do. He had a long memory. And, he and the sheriff were two peas in a pod."

  Henry nodded. He was still looking down at his shoes.

  "Henry?" I asked. "What aren't you saying?"

  He looked up at me. "I think we all just need to get the hell out of town."

  Carter looked down at Henry and asked, "Why?"

  "Well, see, that's the other thing Ronnie Thompson told me. He said he's also heard that the sheriff is looking for a way to get back at Nick, in particular. What he said was, 'You boys need to pack your bags and hit the road before something bad happens to you.'"

  I nodded and looked at Carter who was staring at me. "Waddaya think, Chief?"

  Andy and Dawson both guffawed at my term of endearment.

  Carter smiled a little. He looked at his watch. "I think it's 3:30 and we need to head over to my mama's house. You need to start cookin' your Eye-talian food and, as for the rest of y'all, I hope y'all are ready to do some work in the yard because it sure needs it."

  . . .

  Dawson and I were at the Piggly Wiggly gathering supplies for dinner. The head count was close to ten. Besides the five of us and Mrs. Jones, the party included Aunt Velma, Uncle Leroy, and Carter's cousin John.

  "It looks like there's been a thaw between Henry and Andy." I said this as I was hunched down looking for large cans of tomato puree.

  Dawson said, "Yeah. I guess so. Seems like Henry is willing to be in the same room, at least. But I wouldn't call 'em all friendly like."

  I put four big cans in the small cart. We already had three boxes of Creamettes spaghetti. I didn't trust any brand of spaghetti with an American name. I would have settled for American Beauty, since I knew they were from Fresno, but there was none to be found.

  "What else?" asked Dawson.

  "We need about four pounds of ground beef. Or ground sausage. Can we get that here? Or is there a butcher we should try?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  A woman pushing a cart passed by us. She had a toddler on one arm. He was a cute tow-headed boy who was holding a stick of peppermint candy in his chubby fist.

  "Ma'am?" That was Dawson.

  "Yes?" She stopped and gave us both a once-over.

  "We're from out of town. My friend is about to cook a big Eye-talian dinner for family and was wonderin' if there's a good butcher in town who could make him up some ground sausage?" Dawson's southern accent was suddenly very pronounced.

  She looked up as she thought. "Ground sausage? You mean like for breakfast?"

  I said, "Sure."

  "Well, if you try Robinson's, they have that. It's about two blocks south of here." She leaned in and whispered, "I don't trust the meat here cause of that nigger they have in the back who does all the cuts. I'm sure he's throwin' in dog meat with the ground beef." She nodded in a conspiratorial way.

  Dawson smiled tightly. "Thank you, ma'am."

  She smiled back at him, oblivious to our disapproval. "Where y'all from?"

  Dawson answered before I could say anything, "I'm from Virginia."

  "Virginia? I got some cousins up in Charlottesville. We used to go there every other Christmas."

  Dawson nodded. "It's beautiful country. I'm from down by Norfolk, myself."

  She was flirting with him. Batting her eyes, she asked, "Now where is that?"

  "Right on the coast. Near the North Carolina border."

  "Of course." She smiled at him. Her son was grinning at me. I just grinned back. He offered his peppermint stick but I shook my head.

  "Well, y'all have a good night. Seems awful nice to have the men cookin' for a change. You won't catch my Everett doin' that, no sir." She giggled. "I wouldn't let him anyway. That man couldn't boil water to save his life."

  Dawson smiled and I said, "Thank you, ma'am."

  She nodded at me and turned back to her cart and that was that.

  . . .

  The meatballs were in the big cast-iron skillet and almost ready when Carter came in the backdoor in just his undershirt. I was alone in the kitchen. I wouldn't let anyone help me, so they had retired to the front parlor. I could hear Uncle Leroy telling a long story about someone fishing somewhere.

  Carter was covered in sweat and so was I. Even though all the windows were open, the kitchen was stifling.

  He leaned over and quickly kissed me on the lips. I smiled and asked, "All done out there?"

  He stood over the sink and began to wash his hands and arms. "Yeah. We got all the weeds pulled and the grass is cut."

  "Any more thawing between you-know-who and you-know-who?"

  "No actual violence, which is promising."

  "Do you think he'll ever be at peace with this?" I was referring to Henry. Since the windows were open I didn't want to say too much.

  "I dunno. He and I never once talked about it in all these years."

  I was turning the meatballs, looking for that particular golden-brown color they get when they're the right amount of done. "Why do you think it was easier for you?"

  Carter was rinsing off the soap and didn't speak for a moment. He turned off the faucet and began to rub a towel over his arms. "You and Mike being there had a lot to do with it. Andy's letter had a lot do with it." He paused and stared over my head. "And, truth be told, the fact that he was looking out for us had a lot to do with it."

  I said, "He took a lot of risks for us."

  Carter nodded. "Maybe I should suggest to Andy that he write a letter to Henry." He looked down at me with a question on his face.

  I shook my head. "I wouldn't. Leave 'em alone and let 'em sort it out on their own." I had a sudden thought. "Better yet, let Dawson play the intermediary. That'll be good for him and Andy, both."

  "How ever did you get so smart, Nick?"

 
; I smiled and said, "Living with you, of course. Must have rubbed off. Remember what Nacho said?" That was the nickname for Ignacio Esparza, a police captain in the case we'd worked on in Mexico. He'd died in my arms and was the namesake for our yacht, The Flirtatious Captain.

  "What?"

  "You're much smarter than me."

  "He was right."

  Under normal circumstances, and if we had been home, this would have been the moment when I would have walked into Carter's open arms. But this wasn't the place for that. Besides, I needed to get the water started for the spaghetti.

  . . .

  I was standing over the stove, tasting the sauce when I heard Mrs. Jones ask, "Is that garlic I smell?"

  I knew this moment was coming. In fact, I had been wanting to have this conversation for almost six years.

  I turned around and said, "Yes. There's garlic in the sauce and the meatballs. But, I set aside some of both that doesn't have any just for you and Carter."

  "Oh." She sounded disappointed.

  "I thought you didn't like garlic."

  She smiled wanly. "Wilson Jones didn't like garlic. What Wilson Jones didn't like, no one could have."

  I nodded. I noticed there were tears in her eyes.

  "We have plenty of the other, so you can have as much garlic as you want, Mrs. Jones."

  Aunt Velma walked in just as Carter's mother burst into tears.

  The larger woman pulled her sister into a hug and said, "There, there, Louise." Aunt Velma looked at me with a question on her face.

  Mrs. Jones said, "I can't believe I'm crying over garlic."

  Aunt Velma said, "I'm sure Nick can make you some without it."

  As though someone had flipped a switch, Mrs. Jones laughed and pulled back from her sister. "You don't understand Velma. I love garlic and pepper and cinnamon. And I haven't tasted them in years!"

  We all laughed.

  . . .

  Since Aunt Velma and Uncle Leroy were eating with us, Mattie had the night off. She had, however, sent over a big lemon chiffon cake and some homemade peach ice cream. That was our dessert.

  By the time dinner (or "supper," as everyone but Dawson and I were calling it) was over, it was dark outside. We had all the windows open and, finally, a good breeze was blowing through the house.

  Mrs. Jones had an upright piano in the front parlor, and we were all gathered around it singing as Aunt Velma played. She was the organist at the Presbyterian church and knew all sorts of hymns, which were duly sung. Mrs. Jones was a Baptist and liked the spirituals, including "The Old Rugged Cross," which everyone but me knew the words to.

  Henry asked Aunt Velma to play "Camptown Races," and we were singing along merrily to it when there was a loud banging at the door. Aunt Velma kept playing while Carter walked over to see who it was.

  I watched as Carter opened the screen door and stepped out onto the front porch. Stepping forward, I tried to catch a glance at who was there, but couldn't. As I moved closer, I heard Carter say, "Thank you." This was followed by the sound of someone running down the steps and out into the yard. A car door opened and slammed closed. The rubber of tires squealing on the pavement was next.

  Carter turned around and looked down at me for a long moment.

  "What?" I asked.

  "We have to go." The rest of the group was still singing in a lively and rambunctious manner.

  "What do you mean?"

  "That was a friend of Ronnie Waskom's. His father's dead."

  Chapter 14

  Albany, Ga.

  Tuesday, July 21, 1953

  A quarter until 10 in the evening

  We drove in silence back to the hotel. Carter and I sat in the front. Henry, Dawson, and Andy sat in the back and in that order. John followed us in his own car. He was headed to the police station downtown to see what he could find out and drove past us as we pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  Ronnie was, of course, not at work. Carter parked the car and we all piled out. As we walked towards the front door of the hotel, I saw a big flash of lightning off in the distance. The air was thick and heavy with the anticipation of rain.

  It was just past 10, so the front door was open. A young man I'd not seen before was at the desk. While the others waited, I stopped and asked for messages. He handed me a big stack.

  I asked, "Is the bar still open?"

  He shrugged. "Sorry, mister. I'm new here. You want me to call over there and ask?"

  I shook my head. "No. We'll go find out for ourselves. Thanks."

  "Sure thing."

  With that, we walked over to see if there was any liquor to be had. The bar was empty, but it was open.

  We all sat in a big booth back in the corner. While the others ordered, I looked through the stack of messages. They were all more requests for interviews. Nothing from Marnie or Mike, which was good.

  After checking to make sure none of the numbers were local, I handed them to the waitress and asked her to toss them. She put them on her tray and asked me about a drink. I ordered my usual Martini.

  Once she was gone, I looked around the table. The fun of the earlier part of the evening was long gone. No traces remained.

  Andy asked, "Should we leave?"

  Dawson replied, "I've been in tougher spots than this."

  Henry added, "I don't wanna run away but it seems like the murder is solved and the case is closed. At least as far as the law is concerned. Wouldn't it be better to grab Ronnie Waskom and his ma and get the hell out of town?"

  Carter looked at me.

  "She's not gonna want to leave," I said.

  Carter nodded. "But we could get Ronnie up to Atlanta so he can start school in September, if he wants."

  I said, "Sure. I'll go call Captain Morris and have them go get the plane ready." I didn't get up immediately. I wanted to hear what Carter had to say first.

  He looked down at the table and was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, "The problem here is that damn sheriff. If we don't find who killed my daddy, then that person might kill again. It's not fair for Mr. Waskom or his wife for him to take the fall for this when he wasn't even there and we all know it was a frame-up."

  I nodded.

  Henry said, "But, Carter, we're living on borrowed time. The sheriff is gonna try to come after Nick. Or you. Or anyone of us."

  "It's risky to stay and it's risky to leave. None of us are gonna be satisfied with leaving things undone like this." This was Dawson.

  I could feel the tension just like on Saturday when the sheriff had arrested me. I didn't want to ignore this a second time. Not when other people were involved.

  I stood up. "I don't like how any of this feels. I'm gonna call about the plane. Be right back."

  With that, I turned on my heel without waiting for any reply. Walking back into the lobby, I picked up the house phone and asked the young man at the desk to call Captain Morris' room.

  When he answered, I asked, "How soon before we can take off?"

  It sounded like I'd interrupted something. I heard the sound of a lighter. After taking a puff on a cigarette, the captain replied, "It's looking like rain and the sod is still damp. I'm not sure we can leave. Since the runway isn't paved, we might need more than five thousand feet to get airborne in weather like this. And neither Riddle nor myself like flying blind in rain."

  "What about just getting us up to Atlanta?" I felt like I was grasping at straws.

  "We could fly to Timbuktu if we can take off and stay aloft."

  I explained what had happened and ended by asking, "So, could you go out and check the conditions?"

  There was a long pause. "Yeah. We'll pack up and head out in about twenty minutes. We have a rental car and so does Riddle."

  "Buicks?"

  "Sure. They didn't know we were associated with you, so it wasn't a problem."

  "We can get Carter's cousin to take care of them."

  "What about your car?"

  "I'm gonna give it to Carter's mothe
r. She needs a new one. Don't let me hold you up, Captain."

  He took the hint and said, "Sure. I'll call you in about thirty minutes. Where will you be?"

  "Ask the kid at the desk."

  "Will do."

  "Thanks, Captain."

  "You're welcome, Mr. Williams." With that, the line went dead.

  I walked back into the bar and sat down in the booth. Before I said anything about what the captain had told me, I took a sip of the Martini. It was cold and it was strong and I needed it.

  . . .

  We were nursing our drinks and waiting for Captain Morris to call, when the sheriff walked in. Henry saw him first and whispered, "Damn it. Here comes trouble."

  I didn't turn around but I could hear him walking towards us. He had a set of keys that jangled when he walked, reminding me of a cowboy wearing spurs.

  "Evenin' gents."

  None of us said anything. He was standing behind me. I could smell a combination of after shave and sweat as he did.

  "You fellas plannin' on leavin' town soon?"

  No one replied. I looked at Henry, Dawson, and Andy. They were all studying their drinks.

  "You faggots forget how to talk or somethin'?"

  Carter stood up. "We'll be leaving as soon as we can."

  "Good, good. Glad to hear it. I understand some of you was askin' questions down in frog town. Any of you boys have a Georgia P.I. license?"

  Henry said, "I was just visitin' some old friends."

  The sheriff laughed. "Your old granny was always a nigger lover, from what I remember. Must run in the family."

  Carter asked, "Anything else, Sheriff?"

  "Just one question."

  "Yes?"

  "How you plannin' on leavin' town? You gonna take that big silver bird of yours?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Get the hell out of this town and don't none of you ever come back. You understand that?"

  Glancing to my right, I saw Carter clench his fist.

  I answered the question, "Sure."

  "Good." Putting his hand on my shoulder from behind me, the sheriff said, "Y'all go back to the land of fruits and nuts and stay there. We don't like your kind around here." He squeezed my shoulder, released it, and jangled away.

  . . .

  The captain called from the airport and said it was looking promising. He couldn't guarantee anything but said that, if we could get out there fast, we might be able to take off.