Hildreth 2-in-1

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “Savannah, I heard through the grapevine that you made a visit to Emma Riley the other day.” She stopped for a moment, but I knew what was coming.

  Who knew how she knew, but no one here was surprised. “Oh, you did?”

  “Yes, now I don’t know what you are doing or what you are working on or why in the world you went to talk to Emma. But you and I are going to talk tonight and I want to hear everything. I have a feeling that what you are working on involves pageants because there is no way this side of Texas that you would voluntarily ask someone to show you her pageant program book.”

  “Now, that’s not necessarily true.”

  “Oh, yes it is. You would rather be hog-tied and drug through cow manure across the whole state of Georgia than to have to sit down and look at one of those books.” I wasn’t sure where she came up with that, but she was pretty accurate on this point.“Nor is there any reason that after all these years you would seek out Emma Riley. So, just plan on me being up whenever it is you get home. I love you, and be safe. We’ll talk tonight. Good-bye now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Edison Walthall Hotel is where everyone goes for Sunday brunch, mostly because the food is fabulous, but also, though no one would admit to it, to be seen. Gregory knew that Mr. and Mrs. Cummings III and IV went to the ten o’clock service at Saint Peter the Apostle at 123 NW Street, followed by an eleven fifteen brunch at the hotel. This was Judge Tucker’s normal routine as well, when he was in town, which he wasn’t this weekend, which was why Gregory knew it. At least that is what he testified to. He also knew that the Cummingses were usually home by twelve thirty and enjoyed working in their yard on Sunday afternoons.“I see them there working when I get out of church,” he told me.

  “I thought we’d take our own trip to the Edison for some Mississippi brunch,” he said in his most southern of accents.“That way you can see what all the highfalutin Jacksonians look like.”

  I returned with my best Scarlett impersonation:“Well, that is a wonderful idea. How about I let you drive since you know the way?”

  After cleaning ourselves up, we walked outside into a beautiful Sunday morning. He opened the door for me, and we traveled a short distance to the hotel. It was only about eleven, but the place was already busy.

  “Do you people not go to church around here?”

  “We go to the early service, Miss Savannah. We might miss something happening if we go any later than ten or ten thirty. But if you want to go to a happening place, come with me. We don’t get out until about one. Then everyone goes to my mother’s house for fried chicken.”

  “Gregory, are you sure we aren’t related? We stay in church till pretty late too, and fried chicken is our favorite Sunday meal.”

  “It is the South, Savannah. I could be your cousin.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a hoot!”

  “Yes, I would find it rather amusing.”

  “Sorry I kept you out of church today. I’m sorry I kept myself out too.”

  “That’s OK. Even though you need extra repentance for your escapades last night.”

  The Edison was a beautiful hotel, with a brunch I hadn’t seen the likes of in years. They had eggs, bacon, sausage, beautiful fresh fruit with real cream, and a place to make omelets or pancakes. They even had a beautiful display of desserts, if you had another sweet tooth after you got through licking Aunt Jemima off of your plate. The waitress smiled at us politely but gave us the once-over, trying to figure out if we were a couple. She sat us at a small booth near the back of the room. As the waiter poured the water for us, I asked Gregory a question I had never asked a person before.

  “Gregory, do you still find it difficult living as a black man here? I mean, not just in the South, but in America in general?”

  “You’d be surprised, Savannah. Sometimes you see it in their eyes or hear it in the inflections in their voices. Sometimes it’s subtle; other times they don’t even try to hide their feelings. You even see it in churches.”

  “In churches?”

  “What rock have you been under?”

  “I’m not sure. We have every imaginable race in our church.”

  “You are the exception. Racism exists on both sides on what should be the most unsegregated day of the week. But it’s everywhere. I see it in the way people refuse my gaze or move to the other side of the street. You want to scream at them,‘I’m a lawyer, not a criminal.’” Then he added with a laugh, “Of course, most people think lawyers are criminals.”

  I had to laugh at that one too.“They need to meet my lawyer, because he’s dirt cheap.”

  “Well, I hear his prices might be going up.”

  “Not mine. I’m locked in at a lifetime rate.”

  “Well, anyway,” he said, looking down and putting a lemon in his water,“it does get old at times, but some things have become a way of life.”

  “Some things should never become a way of life.” I took a drink of water. “Thank you. You have been a great help and have come up with many wonderful ideas, I might add. I don’t know that I’ll use them all, but they were good nonetheless.”

  “Savannah, look casually at the door. That’s Mr. and Mrs. Cummings III. Oh, and that’s their son and his wife coming in right behind them,” he whispered.

  The presence of the stately looking older couple commanded the room. They moved spryly for their age, and I could tell they were regulars. People rushed immediately to service them. Mr. Cummings was tall and had an air of authority about him. His hair was totally gray, and he wore tailored glasses. Mrs. Cummings was statuesque. Her hair was white and she wore a vibrant red suit with matching red pumps. Even her lipstick was a bold red.

  The son followed, looking like a younger version of his father. His wife followed him, looking like a cartoon character.

  “Where did he get her?”

  “From the hills of Tennessee, they say. Dumped wife number one, brought this beauty in, cleaned her up, and now he takes her out. Kind of like I did for you,” he said, flashing his big smile. I raised my right eyebrow and he kept on.“They say she’s had more sucked out of her than the Mississippi River. I think she’s been pulled and plucked so much she’d probably bounce back if you threw her up against a wall.”

  “You are cruel.”

  “But knowledgeable.”

  We watched as the foursome took their seats. Every time someone came through the door and walked by their table, they would stop to speak to the Cummingses.

  “This town loves these people.”

  “As I said. They are all but gods here, and you’re going up against them with recent-college-graduate bravado and, dare I say, a few stolen facts.”

  “I’ll be hung by morning.”

  “You’ll be fabulous, Savannah.” His tone had become serious. I looked at him.“You know something happened. Something that was wrong. You had gut instinct. You did your research, albeit somewhat criminal. You hold a smoking gun, and if by chance there are more rounds in the chamber, you at this moment are the only one who can do something about it.”

  We finished our breakfast and kept our eyes on the Cummingses as they finished their own and eventually left . We paid our check, and Gregory took me back to my car. For the thousandth time,we rehearsed how I should play my hand. I retrieved my stuff from his trunk and climbed into my car. Before we left, he walked over to my window.“It was nice to meet you, Savannah. You are proof that good things come out of Georgia.”

  “You are proof that good people become lawyers. Atticus Finch would have liked you,” I said, patting his hand as it rested on my rolled-down window.

  “I would have liked him too. Good luck. You’ll be a great journalist. I expect to read that article you’re going to write,” he said, smiling and standing back up to return to his own car.

  “I’ll make sure you get a copy of that article,” I said, smiling back. With that, Gregory climbed in his car and led the way to a grand house on the outskirts of downtown. The sign
at the entrance of their driveway read “Cummings Estate.”As he pulled away, I saw him wave through his rearview window. I returned the wave and hoped I could recollect our plan of attack. But I knew the one detail I would never forget—Gregory.

  The straight driveway ran for almost a quarter-mile. The house was directly in front, so as I drove, it was always in my sight, becoming larger and larger the closer I got. Stopping in front of their home, I took a deep breath. Who knew how this was going to work? But the only way to know would be to actually evacuate the car and find out. Even removing my seat belt seemed like a daunting task.

  As I closed the car door behind me and began to approach the house, the front door swung open. The older lady who only moments earlier had been in her Sunday best was now changed into denim trousers, a white T-shirt, tennis shoes, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, her red lips still vibrant. In her left hand were a pair of gardening gloves, and in her right, what appeared to be fruit tea. Following close behind was the rather intimidating figure of her husband. Well, intimidating until I got a look at his bad case of chicken legs in old Bermuda shorts and the same black socks he had surely worn to church under his suit. He also wore a white T-shirt and a large straw hat to protect him from the glare of the intense sun.

  They didn’t see me until they reached the bottom of their steps.

  “Well, hello, young lady. You startled me,” Mrs. Cummings said, almost tossing her glass and forcing me to catch it.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought you might have heard me pull up.”

  She laughed,“My hearing’s not as good as it used to be. I probably wouldn’t hear a burglar if he was standing in my bedroom.”

  “Well, don’t spread that around town.”

  That caused her to eye me suspiciously. Eventually she relaxed, realizing I didn’t seem the burglar type. And a burglar probably wouldn’t drive straight up the driveway and head to the front door on a Sunday afternoon. No, burglars climb into open windows and rummage through people’s private, personal files.

  “So how can we help you, young lady?”Mr. Cummings asked, turning his back to me and beginning his Sunday gardening ritual. “I hope you’re not selling something.”

  I walked up and extended my hand to Mrs. Cummings, who hadn’t moved from the bottom of the stairs since her initial discovery of me.“No, sir, I’m not. My name is Savannah Phillips. I live in Savannah, Georgia.”

  She put down her gloves and iced tea and shook my hand.

  Then laughed, adding,“Well hello, Savannah from Savannah. People probably call you that all the time!”

  I tried not to glare or smirk, but I knew immediately this lady and I were not going to like each other. “Did you say ‘Phillips’?” Mr. Cummings asked, looking over his shoulder briefly.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” I answered.

  “So why are you here, Savannah?” Mrs. Cummings continued, turning to find her own spot in the garden.

  There I sat with two backs staring at me. I decided to go for the jugular. After all, I had been suspected as a burglar and I had been called “Savannah from Savannah.”

  “Actually, I’m here on business.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I’m working on an article investigating voting irregularities and possible bribery at work in the Miss Georgia United States of America pageant,” I stated calmly. Both pairs of hands stopped gardening. Neither head turned around.“Yes, it seems that thirty years ago some questions were raised about the possibility of a rigged pageant. I met with Mrs. Stanley Harvard of Atlanta’s Wilcox and Harvard accounting firm. I’ve also met with a couple of former contestants.”

  With that, Mr. Cummings turned around and rose. He seemed much nicer seated. He approached me in what was still a frightening swagger for a man of some seventy years. “I have judged many a pageant in my day, young lady. Girls make accusations all the time. They get upset and start screaming foul. But if you came here looking for some story to quench a thirty-year-old question, you might want to take your assumptions and head on back home to Savannah.” Then he just stared at me.

  “So, does this mean you don’t want to give me any type of statement?”

  “I don’t give statements to accusations or conjecture. So, no, I’m not giving you a statement on anything,” he said, remaining perfectly still. By this time,Mrs. Cummings had turned in front of her hydrangeas to view the action.

  Seeing that everything was going pretty much as rehearsed, I turned around to head back to my car. The walk back allowed me to take some deep breaths and collect my parting words. Opening my car door to make it clear that I was leaving, I turned around, letting one foot rest on the frame and keeping the other planted firmly on the ground. They needed one final thought to ponder on their Sunday afternoon among azaleas, boxwoods, and hostas.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you both. I hope we see each other again. You know, before I leave, I’ll share one more thought with you. As I was down at the courthouse last night, going through all of your records with the blessings of Judge Tucker, I discovered that Mrs. Cummings owns a printing business and a jewelry store. I also noticed that a printing company by the same name does all the printing for the Miss Georgia United States of America program books and has for roughly the last thirty years. The one thing that didn’t seem to make sense however,was”—I paused for Law & Order effect—“why the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant would use a printing company in Mississippi.” Slapping myself in the head I added, “Then, I realized that P&R Printing Company wouldn’t register with anyone as being yours. So I put two and two together and came up with this scenario: Maybe your printing company has a deal worked out with Mr. Todd, the Georgia state pageant director, that for every page that is sold, your printing company gets a kickback and, for those kickbacks, Mr. Todd gets a vote of his choice.”

  Mr. Cummings put his hand under his chin and took one step forward. I pulled my door to me for protection. “Then I came across some banking sheets,” I said, reaching inside and pulling a copy of the sheets from the front seat. “They showed a large deposit, every year, exactly one week after the pageant.”Then risking the possibility that they might investigate my breaking and entering, I proceeded cautiously.

  “Then I found someone to help me.”They never had to know who. With any luck they would spend the next two months interrogating their staff. “And with their help I found these letters,” I said, holding up copies of Catherine’s letters as well. “This wasn’t hard to get. There are even dates and transaction amounts here. So, I’m sure that if I need any further information, Judge Tucker will get me anything I need to help progress this little Mississippi steamboat right on up the river.”

  I bent down to act as if I was getting in the car, but popped back up for the coup de grâce. “It would be nice if I found nothing, but a good journalist must be thorough. If you change your mind about giving a statement, you can reach me at the Savannah Chronicle . You can just ask for Savannah from Savannah, OK?”With that I gave a big smile and a wink and climbed into my car. Mr. Cummings didn’t move a muscle as my car turned in front of him. I rolled down the passenger window and leaned toward it. “Oh, and tell your son I’d like to talk to him as well. I won’t bother him today though, seeing as Sunday should be a day of rest. But, I would love to discuss his years of service, specifically the year that Emma Riley lost. He might want to know what she’s up to now. Take care.” I gave a final nod to each and drove off.

  I couldn’t tell by either one’s expressions if I’d receive a call. But I didn’t figure any of us would sleep much tonight. If I was right, they’d call. If I was wrong, well, my story on Victoria’s violets would have to be one of the most creative pieces I had ever written.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I used the twenty-five-minute drive from the Savannah airport to listen to my Jonathan Pierce CD. He was a cutie, that one. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was married. But a guy like that wouldn’t want a newspaper writer from S
avannah who was doing her first story on a rigged beauty pageant.

  On the outskirts of town, I picked up my cell phone and checked my messages. There were three. The first was from Vicky, telling me what was for dinner, saying she hoped I got home safely, and that we would talk later. I had no doubt. The second message was from Paige, wanting to get together for dinner. And the third message was from Gregory, wanting to know how my encounter had gone. He left his number.

  I wasn’t about to address Vicky any sooner than necessary, so I decided to call Gregory. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Mr. Grisham?”

  He laughed.“You couldn’t afford him so you had to settle for me, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You’re the cheap attorney.”

  “So go ahead. What happened? I’ve been waiting all afternoon for you to call me.”

  “Well, I don’t know that anything was accomplished, but I laid it out there like you told me to.”

  “What was their reaction?”

  “Mr. Cummings had none. He just stared a hole through me. Mrs. Cummings stopped her yard work long enough to turn around, but I didn’t get more than a stare from her either. They are a stoic couple.”

  “All you could do was lay your evidence out there. Now you’re going to have to play the waiting game. Even lawyers have to endure this type of thing.”

  “I’m not a lawyer, remember. I’m a journalist. No, I’m not even a journalist. I don’t know what I am. But I know what I’m about to be: a tour guide wearing fifty layers of crinoline, melting makeup, and a bonnet that no self-respecting woman should be forced to don. How is it possible that I have already descended from published author to Scarlett O’Hara reject? I ask you, how is such a thing humanly possible?”

  “At least you’re positive.”

  “Oh, I am? You call that scenario positive?”

  “Yes, you have a career to fall back on. Most put all of their hopes into one thing. But not you. You are a multifaceted individual with many gifts. If you can’t write about Savannah, you can just tell people about Savannah.” He laughed himself into a tizzy.