Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  Mike had been right about one thing: the rescue of Miss Snopes was a hot topic, and the fact that I obviously knew and loved cats had turned even the most reluctant of Miss Doris’s crew in my direction.

  What was it about cats?

  I couldn’t eavesdrop as much as I wanted to, however. The regulars kept me hopping. Ed Walker’s hardware store two doors down opened at seven, although if you had a special need, like a tractor part so you could get your day started, Ed would meet you as early as you needed. Every farm and contractor in town had Ed’s cell phone number. But if Ed’s wasn’t busy, the boys would show back up around nine thirty for coffee and any biscuits we had left. Today, apparently, was a really slow day at the hardware store.

  But truth was, I liked being busy. It gave me plenty of customers to get to know, and on days like these, it kept me from thinking about things like how stupid I felt for being that concerned about a scared cat. Despite what Mike said, I couldn’t shake the idea that it was just dumb. It wasn’t part of some grand conspiracy to scare me or make sure I felt unwelcome in Pineville.

  It was because I have a weak spot for cats. Always did. Gran used to scold me for bringing home every stray in the neighborhood. But she’d feed them, and I’d nurse them back to health, then find them homes. Papa was allergic, so they were relegated to the back porch and we never kept one for long. Being a serial adopter was my way of satisfying my love of cats. Even Tony had tolerated the habit, although his philosophy on felines normally consisted of “So many cats, so few recipes.”

  Mike was the one regular who didn’t show for breakfast Monday morning, but I didn’t really expect him. Around seven fifteen, I saw his cruiser barrel through the square with the blue lights going. A few minutes later, two fire trucks followed suit, so I figured I wouldn’t see him till after my shift.

  To be honest, I appreciated having a normal morning. I still hadn’t moved anything into the trailer, so after work I headed upstairs. A cold shower and a short nap later, I took the first boxes of clothes and toiletries over. I paid Doc rent by the week, so I didn’t have to be out of the room until Friday. I wanted to take my time, however, settling into the pink beastie.

  Adjusting to life in what was essentially an elongated walk-in closet was not as easy as you might think. Back in Nashville, I had a twelve-hundred-square-foot cottage with two bedrooms, two baths, and a nice-sized living room. Even the room over the drugstore was large and airy, about twenty by twenty, with a high ceiling. The Overlander was basically my cottage stuffed into a twenty-six-foot-long aluminum sausage. As Gran used to say, “Not only can’t you swing a cat in there, if you turn around too fast, you can say hello to your behind.”

  You weren’t going to acquire a large art collection if you lived in a travel trailer or enjoy a big-screen television, but it had all the essentials: stove, fridge, more storage than you’d expect, bathroom, comfy bed. And with the way Papa had refurbished the beastie, I had a nice office space for my laptop and a recliner to develop bad habits in. I decide to move in back to front, saving the more sensitive office files for last. So I went to work, putting away my clothes and setting up the bathroom.

  “Ahoy the Overlander!”

  Ah, the unmistakable Yankee baritone of Mike Luinetti.

  “In the back. Come on in.”

  He ducked and stepped inside. “Are you putting away your underwear?”

  “Nope. Already done. You’re safe.”

  “Actually, I was going to offer to help.”

  I grinned and closed a drawer on a stack of T-shirts and shorts. “Sorry. What’s up?”

  “We had a fire this morning.”

  “Yeah, I saw the trucks. Where was it?”

  He dropped down into the recliner. “Out on the old highway heading for Pell City.”

  I sat on one of the bistro stools. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Nope. It was an old shed that should have been torn down about forty years ago.” He grinned.

  I took the bait. “And you’re telling me this because …”

  He grinned a bit longer, incredibly pleased with himself. “The Pell City Highway runs right past the archives where the old sheriff’s records are stored.”

  I got it. “So when you left the fire, no one had any reason to suspect a side trip.”

  “Yep. The archivist is a lovely lady who is a stickler for protocol, but she’s also glad to see a friendly face. She got to tell someone new about her two new grandbabies, and I got to poke around to my heart’s content.” He leaned forward and winked at me. “She was also curious about the new woman in my life. And the big flamingo that has Jake Beason in a kerfuffle.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  He grinned. “News travels fast. Small town.”

  “Did she really say ‘kerfuffle’?”

  “As my grandma lives and breathes.”

  “Love it. What did you find out?”

  “That you, my dear Star, are not always right.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “They still had files on the cases?”

  He nodded, then shrugged one shoulder. “Not extensive files. Just the basics, the way you’d expect on a case that old. Mostly it was the same paperwork you already have.” He stood up and then sat down on the stool next to mine. “But I did get you this.” Mike pulled a folded slip of paper out of his shirt pocket. He leaned against my arm as he handed it to me, and the strength of his presence had a calm reassurance to it, something I was not used to.

  I leaned back on him with a mischievous smile before I unfolded the paper. “You haven’t started stealing for me, have you? Is this a copy, or did you raid the files?”

  “A copy. I knew it would raise too much suspicion if I actually checked the files out.”

  I unfolded it and scowled. It was a copy of my father’s autopsy report. I looked back up at Mike. “I have this.”

  “Not this one. Remember how the signature is blurred on yours? You can’t tell who did the postmortem?”

  I looked down again and flipped the paper over. There on the back, the clear signature of the doctor who did the exam. I stared at it a moment, not really believing it. I stood up, staring down at him. “This can’t be right. Andrew Taylor. My Doc Taylor? He’s a pharmacist!”

  Mike still hadn’t lost that possum-eating grin. He took my hand and pulled me back down to sit on the stool, closing his fingers around mine. “Star, you still have so much to learn about this town. Doc inherited the pharmacy from his father. In the seventies and early eighties, our current Doc Taylor was a practicing physician. Samford grad, UAB med school. Board certified in 1978. Practiced here for a long time before his father became ill. But then old Doc Russell Taylor became so determined to have his son follow in his footsteps that Dr. Andrew Taylor went back to school and changed professions, from doctor to pharmacist, out of respect for his father. They worked together as pharmacists for a couple of years before the old man died.”

  “That’s serious family loyalty.”

  “Well, it did mean no more house calls and late-night interruptions. Being a small-town GP is not exactly easy street. He gave up his practice, but not his license. I’d still trust him to set a leg in an emergency.”

  I had a new appreciation of the man who’d given me a job and a place to park my life. “And how do you know so much about my new employer?”

  “You do know that Dean Sowers is Miss Doris’s son-in-law, right?”

  “Ah. Right. Cops gossip more than town matrons do.”

  “Yep. Anyway, it’s not much, but I thought you might be able to talk to him some as this starts getting out. What else did you find out last night?”

  I pulled my hand from his and crossed my arms, leaning against him again. “Enough to think that the corruption may not have stopped with the sheriff’s department. Did you know that Buck Dickson employed mostly black drivers to run his shine? Hired a lot of the black vets who couldn’t get work otherwise, dating back to the first involvement in Vietnam in the early
sixties.”

  Mike’s eyes widened, and he let out a long breath. “Very progressive of him.”

  I coughed. “Yeah … it was hardly altruistic, much less progressive. Mostly he considered them expendable and easily replaced, but they helped him build trust in the black community. It also funneled enough money into this town that the local politicians made sure Buck had a good employment pool. The locals, who were apparently deep in the till with Dickson, put pressure on business owners not to employ the black vets.”

  “That’s insidious. Who told you that?”

  I nodded toward the house. “Doc. He’d consumed enough beer that when I asked how you compared to previous sheriffs, all kinds of stuff came rolling out. And politics and civil rights had nothing to do with it. All Buck cared about was business. Employing the black vets satisfied the community and made for good business relations, since he ran shine and other illegal stuff to both whites and blacks for forty years or more. Paid good money for the best drivers, then charged them with keeping the peace around here. Sit-ins and protests interfered with business. When the shine market dried up, he switched to bootleg music and movies, expanded into Birmingham, where having black drivers drove business even farther into the black communities. JoeLee and his cronies made sure they didn’t get caught. If they did get caught in other counties, the local politicians worked it out. Drivers who caused trouble had a habit of getting into bad car wrecks. Continued for a while under the new sheriff after JoeLee died, then the internet started taking over.”

  Mike nodded. “I remember some of the tales about Buck when he tried to go legit in the late eighties and failed miserably. He died in the early nineties, I think.”

  “And Doc said you didn’t dare cross him. People who did up and disappeared.”

  Mike looked at me closely a moment. “You think Buck killed her?”

  I paused, then shook my head. “I considered it, but I can’t see a reason why he would. She’d been in Pineville less than forty-eight hours. Besides, Doc said Buck never got his hands dirty. Something had to be taken care of, the local guys did it. Even when the feds did get wind of something going down, the locals took the heat. That was the reason Buck was able to retire and die a rich old man.”

  “How about your dad?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “That’s more likely. Maybe whoever killed my grandmother was involved with Buck, and my dad was killed to protect them.” I shook my head again. “An interesting theory, but unless I can turn up a connection, it’s just that. A theory. Truth is, all of that corruption might not have had anything to do with my grandmother’s death at all. She was Jewish in a town thick with the KKK. Or maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I need to know more.” I took a deep breath and leaned back. “How long before you think it’ll happen?”

  “That everyone will find out about the real reason you’re here?”

  I nodded.

  Mike slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer, sending a calming warmth through me. His voice was low. “Not too long. I had to sign the files out, but she didn’t really pay attention to which ones I pulled. Sooner or later, she’ll get bored enough to check. She’s county, not Pineville, but eventually she’ll say something to one of her friends.” He made an explosion gesture with one hand.

  “I can probably talk to Roscoe without anyone knowing. After that …”

  Mike pulled away from me and stood. “Let’s walk over to the museum. I’ll introduce you to the Hall sisters all over again. See what you can find out without talking to anyone just yet.”

  I changed into a pair of slacks, then locked up the beastie. Mike slid his hand into mine as we headed toward the square. The growing affection between us had begun to feel more comfortable, even natural, and I realized that I hoped nothing during the case would cause Mike a lot of pain, physically or emotionally. Getting involved with someone during a case was usually a bad idea all the way around. I knew that from experience. But I’d have to be a complete sociopath to ignore the camaraderie we had developed, even in such a short time.

  The walk over to the museum, which was housed in a storefront facing the square, took all of ten minutes, but the afternoon sun had begun to show promises of summer in its heat. A light breeze kept the temperature pleasant, however, and Mike set up a running patter about the people in passing cars, as if I’d remember all he said an hour from now. He waved at each one, and most of them waved back and smiled. The citizens of Pineville had, indeed, adopted their Yankee chief.

  The museum storefront, a three-story building with an aged redbrick federal front, had once been an Elmore’s Five and Dime, as evidenced by the remaining “more’s Fiv me” that hadn’t quite been scraped off the window. A large hand-lettered sign had been taped to the window: “New Home. Pineville Musuem and Historically Archives. Come In.”

  Well, at least the lettering was neat.

  Mike caught me staring at it and chuckled. “We only have one guy in town who letters windows. The art teacher at the high school. He’s scheduled to do their window after graduation.”

  “Hope he knows spelling and grammar. They couldn’t hire someone out of Gadsden or Birmingham to do it?”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “I love small towns.”

  A small bell dinged as Mike pushed open the door. Cool air rushed over me, and the dust of a thousand artifacts tickled my nose. I sneezed.

  “Miss Star!” Two voices sounded as one.

  One of Elmore’s former checkout stands had been converted into a small reception area. Behind it, rows of display shelves that had once held trinkets and household goods were lined with tidy stacks of papers, books, boxes, and glass cases. Twenty feet over our heads, wooden ceiling fans circled lazily.

  One sister stood on a ladder, arranging something on a top shelf. The other had been lifting old books from a box, but stopped, wiped her hands on a thick bibbed apron, and headed my way.

  Mike pointed at the sister on the ladder. “Miss Betsy Hall.”

  The other sister reached us first, as Betsy began her descent. “And I’m Claudia. I had a feeling you wouldn’t remember from last night. It was pretty hectic, what with Miss Snopes and all.” She held out her hand.

  I shook it, a little surprised by how warm and firm her grip was.

  “Two of the five most beautiful sisters ever to grace Pineville.” I couldn’t tell if Mike was being gallant or slightly sarcastic. I hoped gallant.

  Claudia blushed a bit. “Pshaw. Such a flatterer.”

  I glanced at him. “Five?”

  Betsy joined us, and in the light of day, I could tell she stood a bit taller than Claudia. “He means Abigail, Beulah, and Dinah. Our sisters. We’re one of the local stories, Miss Star, if you haven’t heard by now.”

  “Um, no.”

  Claudia touched my arm again. “We can tell you that later. Is there something we can help you with?”

  I glanced again at Mike. He cleared his throat. “Star’s looking for a way to know Pineville better, and I know y’all have had a lot of work getting the museum moved from that old house. Thought you could use a volunteer, and she could learn the town.”

  Their faces brightened. “Truly?” Betsy asked.

  I nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  They both pressed their palms together and looked at each other. The sisters nodded simultaneously, and I wondered if they’d somehow mastered telepathy.

  Betsy looked to me. “We’d love to have your help. Can you start now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent,” Mike said. “I’ll leave you to get to know each other.” He winked at me, and the bell dinged again as he left.

  The three of us looked at each other for a moment, then I spoke suddenly. “Oh! How is Miss Snopes today?”

  They beamed. “Back to her perfect self,” Betsy explained, then she looked around, glancing behind me, as if Mike had not really left. “And we figured out what spooked her.”

/>   “I thought it was the dog,” I said, a bit wary.

  Claudia leaned closer, her voice dropping in volume. “No, not at all. Precious—”

  “—Demonspawn—”

  Claudia flapped an annoyed hand at her sister. “—Precious is sweet. Miss Snopes never showed any fear of her. The dog can be a pest but not terrifying. Anyway, after we got her home, we remembered the last time Miss Snopes had acted like that.”

  “Last year,” Betsy put in, her words just as sotto voce, “we had a break-in at the house.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!”

  Claudia sniffed. “Horrible people. They took some of Mother’s prized jewelry, some cash, a box of papers we were cataloging for the museum—”

  “—a few other items. Terribly invasive. We found it when we got home. Called Michael right away—”

  “—and he was there in just a few minutes … but … Miss Snopes took a distinct dislike to one of the responding officers. We couldn’t prove it, but we think—”

  “—we think he kicked her during the investigation. They were all over the house, examining everything, and Miss Snopes was always so friendly—”

  “—like she was with you. We think he got tired of being pestered and booted her. She hid for a day after they left. Now she hates him. Gets like that every time he’s around.” Claudia paused and looked around again, as if someone outside could hear her.

  “How horrible! Have you told—”

  Betsy waved away my words. “Oh, we could never tell Michael. We have no proof to cast such aspersions on one of his men. And people would hate him if they thought he hurt Miss Snopes.”