“I know that,” I said aloud, half miffed. Ham’s insanity was contagious. I was losing my mind too by this time.
“What I know of Garland’s secret life, I found out more than thirty-five years ago.” Ham paused a full minute.
“What in the world is he talking about?” I whispered to Aunt Elizabeth, who didn’t look puzzled but was more receptive to my comments than Felicia. I was beginning to worry.
“He’d just come back from the army. He’d been stationed in Europe – in Berlin. He had been at Vanderbilt law school a semester. It was over Christmas. ‘Daddy,’ he said, ‘I wanted you to know that I’m gay.’” The whole room gasped at once. “I’d never heard the term before,” Ham continued. “I thought he meant he was having a real good time in Nashville and was about to flunk out.”
There was no polite laughter, only silence. I was still stunned from Ham’s first news. This was too much. I looked at Aunt Elizabeth. Her eyes told me that we both knew Ham would sacrifice anybody for his little joke, but his timing had never been so bad. Was he using Uncle Garland’s death as his excuse to drink? He was noticeably drunk.
“When I understood what he meant,” Ham continued, “I cried like a baby for three days. Locked myself in my room and didn’t talk to anybody. Mama, you remember?” He looked at Charlotte. I couldn’t ever remember hearing him call my grandmother Mama. “But I never told you, did I Charlotte, or anyone else, until tonight? It was his secret. Finally, 1 got myself together. It was right around New Year’s and I called him into the library. Right here in this very room. I said, ‘Boy, I don’t know anything about what you told me the other day. I think it’s unnatural but that’s not for me to judge. That’s between you and your maker.’ At that time Garland went to church regularly when he was at home. Sometimes he’d sing in the choir. Had a good singing voice, like my daddy. Victoria didn’t get that, did you sister?” He smiled at his daughter.
What is this? Who is he performing for? Surely he’s not going to use religion as a weapon. My mind was racing. In the last forty years, I’d bet Ham hasn’t been in church often enough to attend all his friends’ funerals. He didn’t even go to Aunt Elizabeth’s last wedding.
“I said ‘Son, I don’t know. Maybe I caused it. God knows my life has never been an example for others to live by, and I know I probably wasn’t always there when you needed me, like when your mama died, but I didn’t know what to do for you.’ Then I said, ‘I know you’re going to do what you’re going to do. I know that, ‘cause that’s the way I’ve lived my life.’ And then I said, ‘I don’t know what it is you folks do, and I don’t want to know. I gather you got yourself a friend in Nashville. That’s why you’re telling me this right now. I don’t know what your plans are. But I know one thing: I’m happy you’re in law school. It has always been my dream that my only son would study the law and come back home and practice in the family firm. Garland, son, it’s still my dream.’ About then, he started to cry. Cried and cried. Told me he loved me. I told him the same thing. Just like I did you girls and Mama. I’ve never been ashamed to say that. And Mama, Victoria, I’m so glad to have all my women home.
“Then I said, ‘Son, that’s the good news. Now listen to the bad.’ He looked at me, confused. I asked him, ‘Do you want to come back home when you finish law school?’ Garland nodded ‘yes.’ I said, ‘Then you must abide by the rules, and here’s what they are: No all-male parties at your house – when you get a house. Course you can live at home long as you want to. No parties here either.’”
I had heard my grandfather lose his grammar before, always when he was drinking and telling a long-winded story. He instinctively lapsed into his “Big Daddy” role. “‘When you get your own house,’ I said, ‘You can’t have no boys living with you, not white ones anyway. Take all the trips you want to, but don’t bring ’em home, and don’t be rendezvousing with them in this state. Go to Memphis, if you have to, but not to Little Rock; we do too much business down there, and we know too many people. Be careful in Nashville ‘round folks from home, (course there wasn’t many of those back then).’ Then I said ‘Whatever you do, I don’t want to see or hear about you making dates in the men’s bathroom down at the courthouse. Don’t ever let me be having coffee at Oscar’s and see you sneakin’ in and outta there’”
“He loves a good story more than the truth,” I whispered to Aunt Elizabeth, “even with his own family. No way have gays been meeting in the courthouse restroom for thirty-five years. Come to think of it, I doubt the term ‘gay’ has been around that long either. The old liar.” But I knew the basic story must be true just like I knew from studying their faces that the others believed it, too. Aunt Elizabeth’s expression was sad but unsurprised.
“Well, anyway, Garland’s been taking his trips, his cruises for thirty-five years; but, I swear, I didn’t know he was still active. I thought he was too damned old.”
“How do you know he was active, Daddy?” Victoria interrupted the oration.
“Because his friend died with him in the helicopter crash, that’s how I know.”
“How do you know that?” Victoria persisted.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you all about the blackmailer,” Ham’s face drained. “Randy Carpenter was Garland’s friend’s name. Garland set him up in one of those fancy shops in Memphis near Overton Square, where they sell those exotic spicy-smelling candles and black soap from Spain. You know the kind of place I’m talking about. Bought him a condo in one of those places with the fence around it and a big iron gate. Real ‘do-dah upscale,’ they call it now. Anyway, this morning before 8:00, Lee woke me up to say that Randy’s brother was on the phone. I came awake instantly. Charley’s the brother’s name. After all his so-much-in-common, shared grief stuff and crocodile tears, he got around to the reason for his call. He said that Garland told Randy that he had remembered him in his will.” We all looked from one face to another in obvious shock. “That’s right. Charley said his brother claimed that Garland said he left him a fairly nice sum. Here’s the thing: Charley also said that Randy left no will. He went on to say the he and Randy took care of their widowed mother and that they had counted on Garland’s inheritance when, in the near future, his mother would need to go into a nursing home. Charley pointed out to me that now that she was so distressed over Randy’s death, she would have to go into a nursing home sooner rather than later. And guess what? Surprise, surprise. There’s no money. Garland held the deed on Randy’s business location and also on the condo, maybe to be sure Randy didn’t leave him. I don’t know. Randy was twenty-years younger. So anyway, Randy’s family plans to sue Garland’s estate unless we want to make an out-of-court settlement.”
“How much, Daddy?” Victoria wanted to know after a few moments of silence and embarrassed looks.
“Just a million dollars.” A longer silence and more stares around the room.
“What did you tell him?” She asked for all of us.
“I told him to go fuck himself!”
TUESDAY MORNING I was relieved to be back to work. I had had all the bad news I could stand for a while – all the shock too. After a year alone, two days of intense family togetherness was too much contrast from my daily existence. Victoria, Charlotte and Binky were still at the mausoleum. No, the Hall. I had made up my mind never to call it the mausoleum again. Even though, surrounded by once white chrysanthemums, an empty silver urn remained on the dining room table.
I drank my coffee and read Uncle Garland’s obituary in the Little Rock and Memphis papers. I was stalling, folding the newspapers, and clearing my desk when the phone rang again. “When do we get Uncle Garland’s ashes back from the Bahamas? Has anyone said?” I asked Michael on the phone before I had given him a chance to tell me why he had called. In all the confusion, I couldn’t remember.
“There’s some kind of red tape,” Michael responded. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 9:00 A.M. I needed to work. “Holly,” Michael’s voice was strained. “Are you sitti
ng down?”
“Why?” Terror rose inside me.
“We’ve had another murder.”
I sighed, from relief or stress, I did not know. “Oh, Good Lord,” I responded. “Who is it this time?”
“Another doctor at the hospital. This one’s female. Her name was Avon Wallace.”
I know that name. Why does he speak in past tense? Don’t you get to keep your name when you die? “Tell me about it” was all I could find to say.
“It was a pretty horrible one,” he hesitated. “Happened sometime last night.”
“What time?” I asked, wondering, was it during Uncle Garland’s canonization or desecration?
“Sometime after midnight, I imagine. I got the call around eight this morning. Dr. Wallace was supposed to report to the hospital at 7:00 to see a critical patient. At 7:15 a nurse from the hospital called her house and got no answer. By 7:45 she called the police and asked them to send a squad car by to check. After the double murder, you know, people are on high alert. Dr. Wallace’s car was in the driveway. The lights were still on in her house but it was locked up tight. Again, the patrolmen removed the back door from its hinges to gain entry. This time they found the body in the bedroom. Then they called the medical examiner and the chief, who didn’t want to disturb Ham so soon after Garland’s death, so he called me. I went right over.”
“How’d she die?”
Michael hesitated. “Stabbed.”
“Like the others?” I asked, practically holding my breath.
“Not exactly,” he hesitated again.
Not pushing for a more direct answer, I changed direction. “Have you told Ham?” I asked.
“Not yet. Do you know if he’s in his office?”
“I got here by 8:00 and Marie said then that he wasn’t in his office. He may not be planning to come in this morning since Victoria and Charlotte are still in town. I didn’t hear whether or not they’re leaving today.” I had ducked out last night as soon as Ham finished his enlightening soliloquy. Felicia and I thought Ham, Charlotte, Victoria, and Aunt Elizabeth needed their privacy whether our grandfather realized it or not. By then he was well into his cups.
“Will you tell Ham?” Michael asked.
“Tell him what?” My wandering mind had not returned.
“About the murder. I need to go back to the police station. Call me if you need me, okay?”
“Yes, certainly. Thanks.” I quickly dialed Marie, who confirmed Ham was now in his office. I raced downstairs to share the tragic news.
After relating Michael’s information to Ham, who seemed half in shocked detachment and half eager for the next thrill, I met Aunt Elizabeth coming from the ladies’ room and told her what little I knew about Delta Ridge’s latest murder.
“Ham thinks I should go to the murder scene before the body’s removed and that you should go with me.”
“My God,” Aunt Elizabeth responded. “Do we have to? I hear horror stories every day but I’ve never been called upon to witness one. Let me think about this. Did Ham say why?”
“From me Ham says he wants a prosecutor, but I think he wants an investigator as well. You know, Ham’s notion of what a prosecutor should be is what he was, naturally. Find the clues, direct the police, step on and destroy the evidence. I don’t know. Or perhaps because he still sees me as the teenager who left town after high school, and he wants to know if I have the stomach for this kind of work before it’s too late. I imagine Ham wants you to go with me to do a psychological profile on the killer.”
“Are you saying, Holly, that our trip to the crime scene is your plane ticket out of here? Or merely wishful thinking?” Aunt Elizabeth’s expression was grim. “I can do a profile without first-hand knowledge of dead bodies in living color. I used to have anxiety attacks.”
“Oh, come on. It won’t be that bad. Remember, I’ve just been appointed a deputy prosecutor. I have to see what my life will be like from now on, as you say, ‘in living color.’ The old people I represented for legal aid in Little Rock were folks that sat across the desk from me. I studied their worried faces, listened to their plights, and cared about them as human beings. When I went to court, I went for them because I knew them, and they needed me.”
“Holly, what’s the point of this soap box sermonette?” Aunt Elizabeth’s laugh held no amusement. It was obvious she was still trying to weasel out of the assignment.
I ignored her impatience. “I’ve got to know if I can stand this work. If I can’t, I need to find a way to get the hell out of Delta Ridge and get back to Little Rock while I still can. The only way I can hear this woman’s story is to see her face. She’s mute forever. She can’t tell me what the murderer did to her.” I paused before admitting my own fear: “When I see her, her body will be tattooed in my brain from now on.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, but I wouldn’t have expected you to be so eager,” Aunt Elizabeth shot back at me. “Or maybe I would. You have a lot of thrill-seeker in your genes. I’ve been in therapy myself all my adult life because I don’t – not a shred; but in our family, it’s difficult to escape it. It follows us and sticks to us like a broken bottle of molasses.” Finally she relented. “Come on, let’s go. The corpse will be autopsied by the time we get there.”
“Let me call Michael. Ham’s sending him with us. You know we ladies can’t go to the grizzly horror show without a suitable male escort.” When I dialed him at the police station, Michael told me he’d leave directly and meet us at the house. That didn’t happen.
AVON WALLACE’S HOUSE was one of four Spanish houses constructed in Delta Ridge in the 1940s. No longer a popular architectural style in the South, most of the houses had not experienced yuppie renovation and were occupied by original owners, who had not been sure how to modernize them or had not had the funds. On secluded tree-lined streets, the pale green and pink houses sat demurely and apologetically between stately four-squares with ionic columns and gingerbread Victorians with long, rambling porches.
All the houses on Chestnut Street were not large, but all were set back at least two-hundred feet from the street, so the large oaks, hickories and pecans formed a continuous shady park in the spring when the dogwoods and azaleas were in bloom. But today they stood nude and barren like the woman who lay inside the house at number 409.
The street, too, was empty except for a solitary jogger whose lined face appeared haggard under a bright blue stocking cap that clashed with his paler blue running suit. It’s too cold to run this morning, I thought, amazed at such addictive stamina in one who appeared so frail. At least it would be for me. I moved quickly from the car to the house, my breath misting before me. But in the driveway, I hesitated, realizing that I was running from cold toward death. “And they are the same,” I said aloud, studying my surroundings, as I thought of my own impulsive return home to work in the family law firm only two weeks before. “What’s the hurry? No one in there is going anywhere and neither am I.” I knew I needed to stop speaking aloud to nobody present.
Aunt Elizabeth received a phone call from a patient as we were about to walk out the office door, so she had not come along with me after all. She said she’d meet us in a little while, but I assumed she was indeed saved by the bell and wouldn’t show up.
“This hacienda has been restored,” I said, again aloud, remembering my previous conversation with an imaginary other person moments before as I commenced my monologues. Michael’s car wasn’t at the house either. I wasn’t surprised by their absences. Not with the way my luck had been running. “Forget it,” I mumbled, getting used to being disappointed. It’s not right my being turned out here alone; but who else cares?
Before entering I studied the landscape. In April, the plantings of Yucca and pampas grass in front of the house might seem incongruous with their antebellum neighbors, but today they provided green relief from the otherwise bleakness of brown grass and gray trees. Attractive and inviting from the outside, the house’s original terracotta stucco and
the heavily carved front door reflected their owner’s indulgent concern.
In the living room the massive furnishings from Spain or Mexico looked like expensive, genuine antiques and custom pieces. Rugs that were once live animals dotted the dark stained floors. In the master bedroom bath the nude body of the victim lay face up on the dead hide of a zebra. In the master bedroom, the bed and the walls, once a study in white, in the harsh morning light, in both color and form were an abstract study in contrast. Lines and dots and circles of crimson embraced them all.
In the center of the unmade bed, between the lacy corners of a starched, white cotton sheet, ran one red streak that swatched its way down the center of the bed and slid over the end of the bed onto the floor where it joined red smudges on the zebra’s back outlining the placement of the woman’s body on the rug.
For a moment I felt as if I were watching the shooting of a made-for-TV movie. My eyes didn’t seem to want to settle on anything. They darted to a man in the corner with a video camera—its searching light. My eyes released the scene momentarily as two other men entered the room. “It’s a stage set. Think of it as a stage set,” I whispered to myself. One of the men, a photographer, stepped forward beside me to snap photos of the body, then moved back for a wide shot of the bed itself, before stepping into the doorway to capture the entire room. The second man, apparently a plain clothed detective, slipped a glass on a bedside table into a Ziploc bag. At the carved, Spanish desk by the window, the third officer sat writing his report.
I glanced up in surprise to see Aunt Elizabeth’s pale face as she entered the room. She came after all, I thought. I nodded a greeting before I said, “I need to study the body. You might want to introduce yourself to the detective in charge.” I was so relieved to talk to a real person. She nodded, looking grateful and relieved as she patted my arm and walked quickly toward the door.
Delta Ridge Page 10