Delta Ridge

by Frances Downing Hunter

  “The night your father died, he got a call from that woman, his client. I was in bed. I heard the phone ring. I picked it up. I heard him agree to meet her. He told me he had to go out. He was gone maybe an hour. So I commenced to drink toward suicide, but my tolerance was too great by that time, so I found Tom’s gun. As prosecutor, he thought he should always keep it in the house for our protection. Even in my stupor, I remembered it was on the top shelf in our bedroom closet. I found it. It was already loaded. It took me ten minutes just to find that out. I’d never held a hand gun before. I waited until he came home. I know now I never planned to kill myself. I was staging a scene for Tom’s benefit in some crazy attempt to reach out to him, to get his attention. Increasingly, he had been withdrawing from me, from my drinking, from my wild scenes. So I planned a finale. When I heard him come in, I got out of bed, the gun in my hand. It was his habit to remove his top coat and hang it in the hall closet before he came upstairs. I called to him from the upstairs balcony. When he looked up, he saw the gun in my hand and raced up to the landing. After a struggle, he took the gun from me and started back down the stairs. Sometime after that, I heard a shot. It was so loud. That’s my last, clear memory. After that I can’t be sure what I remember and what I dreamed. At first I thought I killed him, but he was found downstairs. Ham told me that later.” Victoria looked at her father, who was holding his head in his hands. “Daddy, you did tell me that, when I was in the hospital in Little Rock. Don’t you remember?” Ham nodded. “Was it the truth?”

  “Yes, sister. It was the truth,” Ham said, and the others nodded affirmatively.

  “You could have shot him, and then he could have fallen backwards down the stairs.” I wasn’t letting them go so easily, either one of them.

  “I thought about that, Holly, but I came to believe that I would have some memory of it, of pulling the trigger. Ham told me that I had no powder burns on my hands.”

  “He could have lied. You’re not telling me that he let anyone else near enough to test your hands.”

  “I believed him, Holly. He’s my father, and that’s when I began to get better, I think. At the hospital, they took me off the alcohol and pills. When I couldn’t get anything, I had no choice but to dry out. Then they gave me lithium and shock treatments. But one day, when Ham visited me--he came every week, every Saturday for two years—but one day when my head was clear enough to think, I asked him to tell me what had happened that night. I knew reality could be no worse than my tormented imaginings. He said that Tom’s body and the gun were found in the foyer. I asked if Tom had fallen. Ham said, ‘No, he was on his face, facing the front door.’ Then I knew I didn’t do it. Holly, I couldn’t tell you that. ‘Guess what, Holly, bad news first: I thought I killed your father, but the good news is he killed himself. It took me years to come to the truth: the gun caused his death. I had the gun; therefore, I caused his death. I’ll always have to live with that, but I know I didn’t fire that gun. I also know he didn’t kill himself—not intentionally. I have to believe the gun went off accidentally as he was carrying it down the stairs. I’ll never know for sure. I was in such a fog. I kept coming in and out of my inebriated unconsciousness.”

  “Do you remember my trying to talk to you, Mother?” I asked.

  “I think so, I heard you say ‘Daddy’ and then later ‘Mother’. I thought I heard other noises, voices, the TV maybe. I heard the shot. But the time sequence is a jumble, and I don’t remember anything for days after that. What clear memory I have is waking up in that hospital in Little Rock with every nerve ending feeling as if it were exiting my body right through my skin. Probably the D.T.’s, but I never saw snakes on the ceiling. For a long time they stayed inside me. I remember going home for your graduation and then being too weak to walk when I tried to get out of bed. I’m sorry, Holly.”

  With tears in my eyes, I hugged her.

  “Go back to the voices, Victoria, you never told me that. There was no television on in the house when I got there unless Holly turned it off.” Ham, the prosecutor, was back. He looked at me steadily.

  “No, no TV,” I responded quietly, my arm around mother’s shoulders.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before, Sister?” Ham looked gently at Victoria.

  “Ham, we never talked about what happened—not ever.” Victoria looked at her father.

  “I never knew.” Ham’s face was that of a very old man.

  “Whether I killed Tom?” Victoria finished his sentence. “I never knew until today that, for all these years, you thought I did.”

  13 Michael’s Note

  WHEN I ARRIVED at my office Tuesday morning at 8:00, I was exhausted from the events of the long weekend and the family catharsis at the farm. Feeling both relief and apprehension, I studied the unopened files on my desk. Family life and family disaster had intruded too much on my time and thoughts. I had a job to do and was afraid I was not pulling my weight. Seeing Michael’s note on my desk added to my guilt. Better read it.

  7:40 a.m.

  2/23/93

  Dear Holly,

  Sorry I missed you but I had to leave early for Little Rock. I may be back late tonight, so I hope it’s convenient for Robert to spend the night at your house. Chief Detective J. D. Jones with the C.I.D. was to meet with me at 9:30 about the F.B.I, report. I’ve asked Sara Lee to refer him to you. I hope you can see him. I’m leaving you a copy of the report. I hope you enjoyed your holiday yesterday. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Thanks,

  Michael

  Was he being sarcastic? I couldn’t tell. Sipping coffee from the cup I had filled quickly, I fumbled for the report on the messy desk. I had to get my life in order and concentrate on my work. I was studying the report when Sara Lee poked her head in the door.

  “Good morning, Holly. Got a minute?”

  “Sure, come in.”

  “Michael called this morning and asked me to brief you on J. D.”

  “Yes, please do, Sara Lee. He’s to be here at 9:30.”

  “He’s been with the police force about four years. He’s the chief detective with the criminal investigation department. He’s from Blytheville. He attended the community college there and has his bachelor’s in criminology from the state university. He’s the chief investigator in the Wallace case. Divorced. No children,” Sara Lee paused and smiled sideways.

  “You prepared all that this morning?” I laughed. Who needs to know that he’s divorced, by the way? “You should be investigating this case. Uncle Wylie thinks you’re doing a great job.”

  “Thanks for telling me. Your uncle is a dear to work with. “

  “That’s what he says about you. What does J.D. stand for?”

  “Jefferson Davis Jones.”

  “Did someone call my name?” A tall good-looking black man stuck his head in the door.

  “Holly, this is the handsome devil of which we speak. J.D., I’d like you to meet Holly Scott, our new lawyer and the chief deputy prosecutor.”

  “Well, this certainly is an improvement over spending the morning with Michael Martin. Talk about a bevy of beauties.”

  We both smiled. “I need to get back to work,” Sara Lee moved toward the door as J.D. watched her exit.

  “Shall we sit at the conference table?” I rose and I picked up the F.B.I. report from my desk. Walking up the stairs gave me added time to think. I wasn’t certain who was conducting the meeting.

  “How shall we begin?” I asked, as I sat down, choosing not to fumble into unknown territory.

  “Shall I offer a little background?” the detective smiled again. I was sure he knew that I was involved in my first investigation.

  “Please do.”

  “Once an investigation of a crime scene is completed, information is sent to the crime lab in Little Rock and to the F.B.I. Academy in Virginia. Both organizations analyze our findings and send reports.”

  “Is that procedure done for all crimes?” I decided my role was to be the good student.


  “No, this report was prepared by the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Chief Collins requested an analysis of the crime scene of the Wallace murder.”

  At that moment the phone rang. I scrambled back to my desk and caught it on the third ring. It was Marie. “Holly, I assumed you wanted me to hold your calls,” Marie began.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, I took a message for the first one, but Ham is back, and he needs to see you. He says it’s urgent. I’m holding a third call for Detective Jones. It’s Chief Col1ins.”

  “Just a minute,” I had Marie hold the line. “Chief Collins wants to speak to you,” I said, handing Detective Jones the receiver. I quickly added, “Ham wants to see me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I raced down the stairs thinking how inconsiderate Ham was to interrupt my meeting. “Yes, Ham,” I barged into his office without knocking. “I didn’t know you were back from the farm.”

  “I just got back. This letter was on my desk. It’s from Randy’s brother’s lawyer. He has filed a petition contesting the will.”

  “What will?”

  “Garland’s will. Hell, I haven’t even seen it yet, and this son of a bitch is already contesting it.”

  “Where is the will?” I was incredulous.

  “I don’t know. I asked Wylie to check Garland’s files last week, but he couldn’t find it. Marie doesn’t know either. She doesn’t remember ever seeing Garland’s will.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I can’t do anything until I find the damned will.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Irritation showed in my voice.

  “Go down to the bank and see if Garland has a safety deposit box. You’re not as well-known as the rest of us. I’d look like a damned fool, not knowing any more than that about my own son’s business. Marie and Wylie have both gone through Garland’s files and found nothing.”

  “Ham, I’m in a meeting.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “J. D.’s gone back to the station. He rung me while you were on the way to my office. They’ve got a giant disaster down there.”

  I stared at my grandfather. “What do you mean?” I asked coolly.

  “Somebody forgot to check the back-patio door at the Wallace house. It was left open.”

  “You mean after the investigation?”

  “No, I mean after the murder. An officer was at the house this morning and noticed it was open. Hell, it was never locked. Everybody was checking blood and prints and fibers and forgot to check the damned back door.”

  “I thought the police had to take the back door off its hinges to get in the house.”

  “They did that, the idiots. That was the kitchen door. I’m talking about the French doors that open off the living room. They connect to a terrace on the back of the house.”

  “Does that really change anything?” I asked, confused.

  “Maybe not by itself, but the hair analyst from Little Rock found traces of Negroid hair in the bedroom.”

  “And....”

  “And the police have had three reports of a black man in the neighborhood that morning. He was seen by the paper boy at 4:30 A.M. walking across Dr. Wallace’s front yard. And the Tices’ nephew has absolutely no alibi for the night of the Wallace murder. Seems he made a drug buy as soon as he got out of jail. Went back to his room, got drugged up, and passed out. No witnesses.”

  “What does it all mean, Ham?”

  “It means we’ve caught a stream full of red herrings big enough to fill a damn fish barrel, and our case against Sam Oliver is starting to leak like a sieve.”

  “Oh.”

  “And if that’s not enough, in less than one week, it will be known all over the county that Garland’s boyfriend’s brother is contesting the damn will.”

  “You knew that might happen.” I had not forgiven my grandfather.

  “Yes, but I didn’t know all the news would break at once. False arrest is a pretty serious offense. Sam Oliver may sue the state for some zillion dollars, and we all look like a bunch of idiots, not just the Keystone Kops, but the law firm as well.”

  “What can I do?”

  “First, find the will. Then leg work. I want you to check with the hospital, the Wallace family, socialize with Donna Brooks. She called you, by the way. Whatever it takes. We can’t depend only on the police. We need a strong case against Sam Oliver.”

  “Are you convinced he did it? What about the black man and the hair? Have the police picked up the black man the neighbors saw, or do they even know who he is?” I pinned my grandfather down, not an easy task, but I was getting experience and beginning to like it more than my new Girl Friday role.

  “They already had one of them locked up and were too stupid to know it. In the drunk tank. He was picked up before 8:00 that morning down on North Main Street for public intoxication. Our strongest case, botched up as it is—is against Sam Oliver. No black wino had the energy to stab that woman one-hundred-and-fifty times.”

  “That’s a very prejudiced thing to say.” I thought I had him.

  Ham stared at me and shook his head. Exasperation showed on his face. “It’s not prejudice. It’s logic. Black has nothing to do with it. This was a hate crime. A lust crime. Miss Holly, you need to pull the burr out of your backside and be reasonable, girl. I didn’t kill your daddy, and I haven’t charged an innocent man. But I’ll tell you one thing. You talk about prejudice. All the good doctors and their lovely wives, all the Donna Brooks’, and the good white church folks—all of them will jump on that black wino like Br’er Rabbit’s tar baby, if they see a chance to get the good doctor off. And every black preacher in the county will have his members screaming racial prejudice, and they’ll be right. And the dumb ass police in this town would pick up any black man who’s within five miles of a crime scene. It’s a hell of a lot easier than sweating in the hot sun gathering evidence. Lazy bastards.”

  I felt my face growing flush. I had had enough. “I think I’ll go to the bank.” I ducked out the door, secretly glad the local police were taking some of the heat off my back.

  There were four banks in Delta Ridge, and I realized as I walked out the door to the parking lot that Ham hadn’t told me which one. I didn’t dare return and ask. The family had always used First National, but my paycheck had come from Farmers and Merchants. That left the Carter County Bank and the new bank whose name I couldn’t remember. I decided to start with First National.

  Using my best official voice, I approached the teller’s window. “May I help you?” the young woman smiled politely at me as I studied her closely, trying to place her face.

  “Yes, please. I’m Holly Scott. My Uncle Garland Carter was recently deceased. I need to determine if he had a safety deposit box at First National.”

  The teller looked quizzically at me. “Excuse me a minute, please.” She disappeared into an office behind her.

  After a few minutes, the woman emerged and spoke to me. “Mr. Barton will be with you directly. Would you like a seat?” She opened the small half door on her right and escorted me to a settee and two chairs outside a closed office door with a sign etched in glass that read Vice President. I sat down. A few minutes later, a fat-faced, balding man appeared at the office door and cleared his throat.

  “Miss Scott, I’m Horace Barton. I just talked to your grandfather. Please follow me.” He opened a heavy mahogany door beside his office door and escorted me through a long hallway. At the end of the hall, he unlocked a heavy metal door and led me into a room lined with metal drawers.

  It looked like a post office. I had never owned a safe deposit box nor had I ever opened one. What good jewelry I had, I wore on my body: a gold watch and a small gold and diamond ring my grandfather had given me for my high school graduation, a small diamond drop on a chain and a pair of gold hoop earrings that had been gifts from ex “men in my life.”

&nbs
p; Mr. Barton opened a drawer and placed it on a long table in the middle of the small room. “Please ring the bell when you’re ready to leave.” He pointed to a button on the wall by the door.

  Looks like I got lucky the first time, I congratulated myself. I opened the box and studied its contents. I found fifty thousand shares of Wal-Mart stock bought at thirty-dollars a share. I had never had much money to invest, but my grandfather often gave me stock for Christmas. I owned five hundred shares of Wal-Mart, and I knew it had gone to sixty-three dollars a share and split. Other stocks in the box such as IBM had not done so well. I saw some AT&T. Wait a minute. This is none of my business. I saw several gold coins in the bottom of the box but no will. I rang the bell. Mr. Barton returned shortly.

  “I’d like to take the contents with me,” I said, not knowing if that was what I was supposed to do.

  When I returned to my car, I placed the large manila envelopes in my brief case and decided that I should visit each of the other three banks. That’s what Ham would do-- except he didn’t do anything. He sent me. I was slightly irritated that Mr. Barton had called Ham before relinquishing the key to the box. In Delta Ridge I obviously had full gofer status. I noticed that the new Commerce Bank was right across the street.