“Is that ham for the Wilsons?” I asked.
She nodded. “You must have heard about Melanie.”
“Aunt Maggie told me. How did Thaddeous take it?”
“About like you’d expect,” she said. “Didn’t say much, but he didn’t eat a bite of breakfast.”
Poor Thaddeous. Unrequited or not, he had loved that girl.
“I told him he ought to stay home from work,” Aunt Nora continued, “but he went in anyway.”
“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” I said. “You should be in bed, not in the kitchen.”
“I’ll take a nap as soon as I get back. I was just getting ready to change clothes and run this ham over to the Wilsons.”
“I’m afraid not,” Richard said. “As a doctor, I’ll have to insist that you get some rest. Laura and I are quite capable of delivering a ham.”
Aunt Nora opened her mouth as if to protest, shut it again, and then said, “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“We’re sure,” I said, as I untied her apron, took it from her, and pushed her toward the stairs.
“All right,” she said, “but Richard, since when does being a doctor of literature give you the say-so to tell people when to go to sleep?”
He drew himself up haughtily. “Madame, men and women of my profession have put thousands of students to sleep over the years. I consider myself admirably qualified.”
She was still chuckling as we carried the ham out to the car.
I let Richard drive the air-conditioned rental car and led the way to the Wilsons’s house, just a five-minute drive away. He parked behind me on the street and I waited for him to join me.
“Do I look all right?” I asked doubtfully. Shorts didn’t seem very appropriate for a condolence call.
“You look fine,” he said. “Besides, we’re just going to leave the ham and go, so they probably won’t even notice what you’re wearing.”
I nodded, and rang the doorbell. After a moment, Mrs. Wilson opened the door. Her face was so swollen from crying that I barely recognized her. She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “It’s Laurie Anne, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was surprised she remembered me. “My aunt, Nora Crawford, sent this over.” Richard held out the platter. “Mrs. Wilson, this is my husband Richard Fleming.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Richard. Why don’t y’all come in for a minute?” She turned, and after looking at each other helplessly, we followed her inside.
Mr. Wilson was an engineer in Hickory, and their house was nicer than most of those in Byerly. The floor of the living-room she lead us to was carpeted in pale blue and the couch and chair were upholstered in a matching floral pattern. The coffee-table was shiny and bare, and I could tell that they almost never used the room.
Mrs. Wilson sat in the chair, and Richard and I sat on the couch. When she didn’t offer to take it from him, Richard put the ham in his lap.
“It was very nice of you to come by,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I know you have your own troubles about now. How is Mr. Burnette?”
“He’s not doing very well, I’m afraid,” I said.
“I am sorry.”
There was a pause, and I honestly didn’t know what to say. I had always left condolence calls to the grownups. “I was very sorry to hear about Melanie,” I finally said. “She was a very nice young woman.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Melanie thought a lot of you, too.”
Had she? I hadn’t known her all that well.
“I think you inspired her,” Mrs. Wilson went on. “None of her girlfriends were planning to go on to college, but when she heard about how well you were doing up in Boston, she decided she wanted to go, too.”
Funny, I didn’t feel like much of an inspiration. I just felt awkward, and now I wished I had taken the time to get to know Melanie better. Come to think of it, where were Melanie’s friends? She had always been popular in school.
As if she had guessed my train of thought, Mrs. Wilson said, “I suppose she lost track of most of those girls when she went away.”
I nodded, wishing I could think of a way to get out of there gracefully.
“Have the police found out anything more?” I asked. I wasn’t real sure it was polite to ask, under the circumstances, but I didn’t have anything else to say.
Mrs. Wilson must have been used to such inquiries, because she just shook her head slowly. “Even before they found her, they came and asked all kinds of questions, but I couldn’t tell them much. I’m sure Melanie couldn’t have known the man who did this to her, but they kept asking about the boys she dated.” She hesitated. “You don’t suppose that’s scared people off, do you?”
“Ma’am?”
“Being afraid they’d be involved somehow, I mean. I guess that’s why no one much has come by. Wallace and I don’t have any family in town, but I thought that some of the neighbors would have been over. Everyone was so nice before they found her, but now that we know for sure, it’s been very quiet. Other than reporters. I guess people don’t know how to act after someone’s been… After someone dies like that.”
Richard said, “Maybe they thought you would rather have the time alone.”
The front door opened just then, and Mr. Wilson came in, looking ten years older than when I had seen him last. I introduced Richard, and he shook our hands and finally took the ham into the kitchen. We took the opportunity to escape.
“Can you believe that?” I fumed as soon as we got outside. “It’s not bad enough that people blame the victim for a rape. Now they’re blaming the family, too.”
“Maybe they just wanted to give them time alone,” Richard said again.
“Baloney! If Melanie had died in a car crash, that house would be filled with people trying to comfort Mrs. Wilson. But because she was raped, they think it’s going to rub off or something. Sanctimonious SOB’s!”
“Calm down,” Richard said, taking my hand. “They’ll hear you.”
I took a breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. “You’re right. I’m just so mad I could spit.”
He stepped back in mock alarm, and I had to smile. “It’s just a figure of speech, Richard.”
“Another colorful Southernism, no doubt.”
I was itching to get back to the hospital, but it would have been silly to drive two cars all the way to Hickory. With luck, we could drive to Paw’s, drop off one of the cars, and be at the hospital within the hour.
“Let’s get back to the house,” I said. “You can follow me.
“I know the way.”
I looked at him doubtfully. “Are you sure? It’s kind of tricky from here.”
“Compared to Boston? This is a piece of cake.”
I shrugged. “You asked for it. I’ll wait for you at the house.”
“Madame, are you impugning my driving ability? I’ll just take that challenge! I’ll be waiting for you at the house.”
“Is that so?” I said.
His answer was to hop back into the rental car and race the motor while I got into the station wagon. Silly fellow, I thought. I grew up in Byerly, and I knew every shortcut. Besides, since the station wagon wasn’t air-conditioned, I had added inducement.
Chapter 11
I knew that Richard was just trying to get my mind off of Paw and Melanie when he suggested the race, but I had every intention of beating him back to Paw’s anyway.
Richard would no doubt be going back the way we had come, passing Aunt Nora’s house, and then getting back onto Main Street. I, on the other hand, knew that if I turned right onto Garner Street, I could miss three stop lights and pick up Main Street further down. By the time Richard got there, I would be sitting on the porch drinking iced tea.
Unfortunately, there was a lot more traffic on Garner Street than I had expected. You’d think it was Boston. What on earth could be causing such congestion at this time of the afternoon? When I reached the turn-off that should have taken me to Ma
in Street, I saw that it was so locked up I couldn’t make the turn. I went a block further and turned.
There was only one car between me and Main Street, but it was stopped. Remembering that laying down on the horn wasn’t considered polite in North Carolina, I resisted the impulse. Instead I stuck my head out the window and saw that the intersection was blocked by bright yellow sawhorses.
I turned off the engine and got out of the station wagon, and went up to the car in front of me. The driver had his window rolled down and was looking at a newspaper.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“The KKK’s marching,” he said with an expression of distaste.
“What for?”
“They claim the police are dragging their feet in that Wilson girl’s murder investigation to protect the blacks. This is supposed to be a show of strength.” He snorted. “According to the radio, they’ve got Main Street blocked halfway to Hickory so we can’t go around.”
He turned back to his newspaper.
That was just great! No one could go sit with Mrs. Wilson, but they could put on those silly hoods and march down the middle of town. Only the Ku Klux Klan would use a murder to try to drum up support. Knowing the Klan, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had killed Melanie themselves just to provide an excuse to recruit new members.
Well if they thought I was going to stand in the hot sun and watch grown men parading around in bed sheets, they had another think coming. I went back and sat determinedly in the station wagon.
A state police car drove slowly past on Main Street, lights flashing, and several other state troopers came by on foot. I didn’t like it. Although I supposed it was necessary for the police to keep an eye out to prevent violence, it still smacked of their condoning the Klan’s activities. Seeing two men go by with television cameras on their shoulders didn’t help my mood any, either. Media attention was what the Klan wanted.
A minute after the police car passed by, a pair of Klansmen walked by carrying a banner identifying themselves in glittering letters as the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, as if their outlandish costumes weren’t enough. They were followed by what I had to admit was a well-trained troop of Klansmen marching neatly in step. The men looked straight ahead, despite the catcalls and taunts from people walking along beside them. More police officers made sure no one did anything drastic.
I was glad to see that there were a lot more people taunting than there were Klansmen marching. I was tempted to join in and tell the Klansmen exactly what I thought of them, but Paw had always said, “Men like that, they only want attention. Just don’t pay them any mind.”
The march went on for some time, and I started to wonder if the Klan hadn’t brought in ringers from other towns. Surely there weren’t that many Klansmen in Byerly. Finally the march ended as it had begun, with a slowly moving state police car accompanied by officers on foot. Two of the officers stopped long enough to move the sawhorses out of the way and wave us through.
Finally! I turned onto Main Street. I still wanted to beat Richard back to Paw’s house, but I wasn’t about to speed with all the policemen around. Besides, he must have been stuck behind the march too.
Richard would be going down Main Street to Florence Street, which was the way I usually went, but I was going to take Rock Creek Road to the tobacco road behind Paw’s house, the shortcut Uncle Conrad had avoided. I didn’t use the route often because it was as bumpy as all get out, but I had a race to win.
Traffic was heavy by Byerly standards, thanks to so many folks getting caught by the march. I saw that some of the cars and trucks were carrying Klansmen, still wearing their robes and hoods. A green pickup truck carrying at least seven of them turned onto Rock Creek Road ahead of me. As I turned, I made sure to stay far enough behind them that the dust they stirred up wouldn’t pour in through the open windows of the station wagon.
I needn’t have bothered. They were going a lot faster than I dared to, and I bet myself that they were heading back for the mill. They had probably snuck out at lunch, and wanted to get back before they were missed. I remembered what Odelle had told me about a hole in the fence around the mill. No doubt that’s how they were planning to get in.
That started me thinking. If someone had hit Paw, then he might have snuck in through that hole in the fence. That would explain why the guard hadn’t seen him. I sped up. Maybe I’d tag along with this crew long enough to see exactly where this hole in the fence was.
Now I was close enough to see the Klansmen. They were a rowdy bunch. Several were drinking beer, and the others were pounding each other on the back and jumping around, probably congratulating themselves on being such macho guys. It was a wonder none of the men in back tumbled out. It would have served them right if they had, I thought meanly.
The mill was in sight over the tops of the pine trees when I saw a beige Pontiac stopped by the side of the road. Steam was rising from the engine, and even with my limited knowledge of cars, I could tell that something had overheated. Two black men, one with hair starting to go gray and one a wiry fellow a few years younger than me, were peering under the hood.
As the Klansmen went by, they yelled comments at the two black men. I didn’t need to hear the actual words to know what was said. One even spat as they went by, but it only hit the ground. The older of the two black men looked up briefly and then acted as if he hadn’t seen them, but the younger one yelled something back and made a rude gesture. When the older fellow saw what his companion was doing, he pushed his hand down, but it was too late.
The pickup rattled to a stop and the Klansmen seemed to be conferring. I didn’t like it. After getting all riled up by the march, this crew was nothing but trouble looking for a place to happen.
By now I was a bit beyond the Pontiac, wondering what I should do. I could get around the pickup easily enough, but then what would the Klansmen do? The pickup moved forward again, and I started to relax, but after driving forward a few yards, they turned sharply to the left and made a three-point turn.
In my rear-view mirror, I could see the black men slamming down the hood of the car, jumping back inside the car, and locking the doors. There was the grinding of gears as the driver tried to get the car moving, but it wasn’t going anywhere.
By now the pickup had completed its turn, and was speeding back the other way. As it raced past the Pontiac, the men in the back tossed beer cans onto the stopped car. The driver laid down on his horn, and yelled at them, but the Klansmen only laughed, a disturbing sound when coming from the cartoon faces of the hoods. A few yards past the Pontiac, they slowed and turned.
This was crazy! They drove past the Pontiac again, throwing more beer cans and trash. This time I honked my horn as they passed me, thinking that surely they wouldn’t do anything else with me sitting right there. One of the Klansmen waved at me as if to shoo me away, but I could have not been there at all for all the notice the others took of me. It occurred to me that there was no reason they should care. I wouldn’t be able to identify men in hoods.
They started to turn again. What about the truck’s license number? As they made the turn, I read it quickly and repeated it to myself over and over again while I scrambled in my pocketbook for a scrap of paper and a pen to scribble it down. Now I had them!
They swung past the Pontiac again, but instead of turning right away, several of them had climbed out of the truck and were bending down. What were they doing? Then one of them triumphantly held up a big chunk of granite. They were getting ammunition.
Beer cans were one thing, but rocks were another. How far were they planning to go? Damn, damn, damn! All those state troopers in Byerly, and where was a cop when I needed one? By the time I could find one, it would be too late. That license plate number wasn’t going to bring anyone back to life.
Scared as I was, I couldn’t just sit there. I put the station wagon into reverse, and backed up as fast as I dared to. I stopped next to the Pontiac and yelled, “Get in!�
� but before the black men could get out of their car, the pickup truck returned. A couple of small rocks bounced across the top of the Pontiac, but clearly the Klansmen didn’t know what to do now. All I had to do was wait them out, I told myself.
Only they didn’t go away. They climbed out of the pickup, and five of the Klansmen made a circle around the Pontiac. Most were carrying rocks, and one had a thick tree limb he hefted like a baseball bat. The men inside the car watched them as if trying to gauge their chances.
One of the two remaining Klansmen, whose robe had a symbol the others didn’t, started waving me on. I shook my head at him, and honked the horn.
“Get out of here!” the Klansman yelled.
“Go to Hell!”
He spat in disgust. “Get them!” he yelled to the men surrounding the Pontiac. Hesitantly, one of them stepped forward and banged on the windshield with a rock. Again, harder this time. Another one hit the passenger window.
The man I guessed was the leader put both hands on his hips, and I could tell he was smiling even if I couldn’t see it. I slid to the passenger side of the station wagon and got out of the car. The Klansman who was just raising his arm to strike the driver’s window stepped back.
“You leave these men alone!” I said as firmly as I could. From inside the Pontiac I heard the men telling me to get away, that I was going to get hurt.
The other Klansmen backed away from the car, but the leader pushed right up to me.
“Get out of here!” he said.
I didn’t say anything. I was afraid that my voice would give away how scared I was.
“These niggers have been asking for it, and now they’re going to get it.”
I stared him down, if one could stare down holes in a hood.
The other Klansmen started moving restlessly. They hadn’t counted on this, and I, for once in my life, was grateful that Southern men treat women differently from men.
The leader, sensing his position weakening, said, “Don’t mind her. Get them niggers out of the car!”
Toni L.P. Kelner - Laura Fleming 01 - Down Home Murder Page 8