Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  I’d made a few of those painful notifications as a cop, but none to a child left behind. Thank God.

  I took a deep breath and slipped on a pair of leather work gloves. Time to make a difference. I wasn’t sure why, but I said a quick prayer before starting. Maybe I thought I needed all the help I could get. Whatever was about to happen, however, I did hope God was in it somehow.

  I set down the duffel and extracted my supplies. The sand over the grave had turned clumpy, scattered, and pocked from rain. The granite had patches of lichen growing on the corners and base. I started with a small shovel and dug out all the weeds, then raked the sand, breaking up the clumps and spreading it more evenly. I added a bag of fresh sand and blended old with new, then used the back of the rake to even the edges up. I’d made a weed killer and cleanser from Epsom salts, vinegar, and dish soap, and the gallon jug I’d brought sufficed to clean the lichen and pour around the edges of the sand.

  Finally I took the saddle of flowers and bent the wires so that it perched securely on top of the headstone. I gave it a few tugs to test it, then stood back to admire my handiwork. The red silk roses, white camellias, and green fern fronds shuddered in the breeze. It was a subtle move, this cleaning of the grave, but it would definitely be noticed.

  “You look like her.”

  I screamed, jerked around, and stumbled backward over the duffel, landing hard on my butt. Gasping for air, I stared up at Roscoe Carver.

  He leaned heavily on his cane, his head tilted to one side, watching me. His slacks and dress shirt hung loose, as if he’d lost a lot of weight, but sweat stained his underarms, chest, and neck. “Am I that scary?”

  I found my voice. “I … I didn’t hear a car. Or footsteps.”

  He pointed back toward the church with his cane. “I was already here. Back side of the church. I saw you buy those flowers. Knew you’d come here before Decoration Sunday.”

  I swallowed hard and pushed up off the ground. “You’ve been waiting every day?”

  He braced on the cane again. “Not much else to do. I’m an old man. Waiting is easy. Done a lot of it in my life.”

  “Why?”

  He gestured at the grave. “Her. Took me a bit to figure it out. Your hair’s blond. Didn’t used to be, did it?”

  I shook my head.

  “I knew it. You can dye the hair, but I never forget a face. Especially when I see ’em die.”

  I brushed off the back of my pants. “You found her.”

  “I did.” His lips pursed. Something else was on his mind.

  “You knew her son. You’re the one Daddy found in Vietnam.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you get to talk to him before … before he died?”

  Another nod. “He told me about you. Thought you hung the moon. Couldn’t wait to get this over with and get back to you and your mama. You were, what … five?”

  “Two, almost three.”

  “He told me a lot. We had a few good meetings before—” He sniffed, staring at the headstone. “My daddy did that. The headstone. Not right away. Too expensive. But eventually. He felt we owed her that much.”

  “Why?”

  His lips pursed again, and his shoulders hunched as he looked north over the ridge. “Because we didn’t stop it. Daddy thought we should have stopped it. We knew what was going on, what was happening up and down US 11, even then. Knew that she was about to step into a mess she didn’t know was there. If we’d stopped her, maybe it would have stopped everything. But we were too scared. We had to live here. Keep living with those demons.”

  Realization tightened my stomach. I took a step closer. “You saw it? You saw who killed her?”

  He held up a hand. “Not me. But Daddy knew who killed her.”

  “So you knew as well.”

  He grew still. “No proof.”

  “But you told my father. He tried to find the proof.”

  “And it got him killed. It’ll get you killed too.”

  “I’m not my father.”

  “The men what killed them won’t care. They won’t care about that cop you’re sweet on either, if they find out he’s helping you. They don’t care about nothing but green. You get in their business, they’ll kill you too.”

  I glanced back at the grave. “You said you owed her. So do I. And my father.” I faced him. “Help me.”

  He examined me, head to toe. “You got kin here? For real.”

  “No lie. Just my grandmother in Birmingham.”

  “She live here long?”

  “All her life.”

  “She remember Bull Connor? The Dixie Mafia? Buck Dickson?”

  “Connor’s goons arrested her brother once. For vagrancy. Just because he had no ID on him. Beat the crap out of him.”

  “Sounds about right. She know you’re doing this?”

  “She found the notice of the job at Doc’s in the paper. She took it as a sign it was time.”

  “So she knows you could die.”

  “Not her hope. But she knows what this means to me, to find the answers.”

  Roscoe hesitated, then inhaled as if he needed to catch his breath, and I realized his eyes gleamed with tears. “You should put her real name there.”

  I glanced back at the grave. “Her name was Esther Renee Spire. Daddy kept diaries once he was old enough to understand what had happened. He wrote down as much as he could remember. She was French. She didn’t speak much English.”

  Roscoe dug a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped his face. “French. And Jewish.”

  I remembered all too well the strange mumblings of my mother about Esther Spire, mumblings that made sense only after I’d begun my own investigation in earnest. “She worked with the Resistance in World War II. That’s how she met my grandfather. Her mother was French.”

  He nodded and tucked away the handkerchief. “Her father was Jewish too, a jazz singer who worked in Paris in the twenties. When the war was done, she tracked down your grandfather here. KKK didn’t like Jews almost as much as they didn’t like blacks. Your daddy knew all this. He didn’t put it in those papers?”

  “Not the ones we have. The papers he had with him here disappeared. My mother told me Esther had been in the Resistance. That she was Jewish. But nothing more.” The tightness in my chest put a hitch in my voice. “But I didn’t think about the KKK at the time.” I swallowed. “She should never have come here.”

  “A Jewess with an illegitimate son. Claiming the father was one of Pineville’s own heroes. No.”

  I crossed my arms. “It’s a wonder she made it off the bus alive.”

  “That’s why my daddy felt guilty. We should have stopped her. But he didn’t want to expose her.” Roscoe hesitated. “But truth is, that’s only half of it. It wasn’t just about her being Jewish.”

  I frowned. “Then what? You know who killed her.”

  He coughed and gasped for breath. “Did Bobby’s papers not contain who his father was?”

  “Please tell me.” I stepped closer to him. “Please.”

  He cleared his throat, then turned his head and spit into the dirt at the foot of the grave. The spittle was red and foamy, and my gut clenched. “Roscoe. You need a doctor.”

  He held out his hand to stop me, shaking his head. “She could have been lily white and Christian. It wouldn’t have mattered. Showing up with a boy who could claim part of an inheritance. No. This was about greed. Reputation. But mostly greed. Green is always the harshest color. Not black. Not white. Green. You know what they say. Follow the money.” He turned. “No doctor. I just need to get out of this sun. I’m going back to the car. I’m parked next to the church.”

  “Wait for me? I’ll put this stuff in the truck, then meet you there.”

  He nodded, waving his hand in an affirmative gesture as he walked away. “I’ll tell you everything, but you need to come to the house. I got some stuff I need to show you. We’re about to stir up a lot of trouble, Miss Star.”

  An unde
rstatement.

  I should have gone with him.

  When I pulled the Carryall up next to his sedan, Roscoe Carver sat, his head back against the seat, eyes staring up. A dozen spiderwebbed cracks spiraled out from a neat, round hole in the windshield.

  “No!” I’d barely braked when I bolted from Belle. I had heard no shots, but Belle’s engine would have masked just about anything. I ran around to the driver’s side of Roscoe’s car and reached for the door handle. But I froze, my fingers twitching, my brain screeching Don’t touch it! Through the window, I could see a tight circle of blood staining his shirt, a small round hole in his sternum. CPR would be useless.

  He was gone.

  “No!” My scream echoed off the wall of the church. I wanted to grab him, yank him from the car, and pump life back into him.

  A second shot ricocheted off the roof of the car and slammed into the church wall behind me, as the report echoed around the cemetery.

  Instinct made me drop to a squat beside the front tire of his car, grateful Roscoe had parked so close to the church. I twisted, trying to get a good look at the surrounding woods beyond the graves, and a third shot shattered his left headlight and thudded into the engine block. I flattened myself next to the wheel well in a weak attempt to stay hidden, and my gut churned as I called 911. After a few moments, I heard the grinding of gears and the roar of an engine, but I couldn’t tell the distance or direction, not with the way the sounds bounced all over the cemetery.

  I didn’t move until I heard the sirens in the distance. I sat up, leaned hard against the tire, and sobbed.

  My one living connection to two murders was beyond caring about Esther Spire, his father’s guilt, or the danger that came from nosing into past crimes. Another good man had died.

  “Rest in peace, Roscoe,” I whispered. “You deserve it.”

  My trouble, however, had just begun.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Pineville, Alabama, 1974

  ROSCOE LEANED AGAINST the doorframe between the kitchen and the hallway, a Camel burning down between two fingers. He watched as Maybelle emptied a second ice tray into a muslin cloth and tied it into a bag. She exchanged it for the one William had pressed to the left side of his head. Her husband smiled up gratefully at her, but Maybelle’s expression could have curdled milk.

  In the bedroom next to the kitchen, a gentle mewing grew into a wet fuss, threatening to become a full-blown wail. Maybelle handed the limp and soaked cloth to Juanita and headed for the bedroom, one hand pressed hard against the side of her breast.

  Juanita had to turn sideways to get by William, with her swollen belly ready to deliver their first. She opened the bag, dumped the half-melted cubes into a bowl, and pushed the bowl into the freezer. She wrung out the cloth and draped it over a rack behind the sink. With a fierce scowl at Roscoe, she followed Maybelle into the bedroom, closing the door with enough force that the dishes in the Hoosier cabinet rattled and shifted.

  Roscoe stepped to the table and tamped ashes from his cigarette into a tin ashtray. “What happened?” He took one more draw from the cigarette and stubbed it out in the tray.

  William lowered the ice pack and gingerly probed the puffy and bruised skin around his left eye. “Some of the Dixie Mafia boys thought we might be running drugs after all. Took a notion to show us that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “Even though Buck’s made it plain—”

  “You know what they say. ‘No honor among thieves.’”

  “I thought JoeLee was supposed to take care of this.”

  William replaced the ice pack. “Me too.”

  “Chris get the same?”

  William hesitated. “Worse. I’m just his n—” He coughed, set the ice pack down, and wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. He motioned for Roscoe to hand him a cigarette. He lit it, his fingers trembling. “I’m just the driver. Chris is Buck’s right-hand man these days. They wanted to send a message.” He took a long drag on the cigarette, staring at the table, his gaze distant. “Roscoe, they messed Chris up bad. Broke ribs. Maybe his arm. Maybe more. He’s in the hospital. His old man’s fit to be tied. Abner Patton went off on Buck like nothing I never seen. I thought it was going to be World War III.”

  Roscoe pulled out a chair and sat. “What happened?”

  William picked up the ice pack again and returned it to the side of his face. “Two old men hollering. Too old to come to blows, I guess. They screamed and pushed and screamed some more. Then Buck said that he had a line on a product that would get them out of everything else, out of the line of fire, and make even more money.”

  Roscoe huffed. “That got the old man’s attention.”

  William gave a half smile, then winced. “Sure did. Then Buck started blabbering about needing Abner’s influence, that he had more power than JoeLee ever thought about. Flattered the old man till I thought he was going to purr like a lap cat. They disappeared into Buck’s office, and I was told to go home and wait for a call. Might be a few days.”

  “What’s the product?”

  William sniffed, rearranged the ice pack, and looked toward the bedroom door. “Roscoe, you take care of them if something happens to me. Right?”

  Roscoe lit another cigarette. “You know I will. Don’t even have to ask.”

  “I know. But if something does happen, it’ll be bad. Really bad. You got me?”

  Roscoe released a long stream of smoke. He watched as it drifted toward the ceiling, dissipating into the filmy blue cloud that already hung there, left by too many cigarettes and Juanita’s fried chicken and okra. He sniffed. “What’s the product?”

  William rolled his shoulders, then ground out his cigarette, stood up, and tossed the ice pack into the sink. It landed with a heavy thud. “You only do business with Isaiah over in Carterton, right?”

  Roscoe’s eyes narrowed. “I do. I think Juanita’s daddy still has an account at Abner’s bank here in Pineville. Why?”

  “Make him move it.”

  “Why? We already know the old man’s a crook. Whole town knows it.”

  William shook his head. “All that, just normal small-town-crook stuff. This … this is something … an entirely different animal. If it goes south …” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Just keep all your business with Isaiah. And keep your head down and focus on that store of yours. Don’t let anyone bully you. Not anymore. You gonna need it.” He jerked his head toward the bedroom door, then crossed his arms over bruised ribs, wincing. “Gonna need it for them. Don’t let nothing happen to them. And don’t ask me about this ever again. OK? You don’t know anything. OK?”

  Roscoe hadn’t seen his brother this terrified since they were children. He nodded. “OK.”

  “I gotta go.” With a nervous jerk, William strode out the back door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  ONE RULE OF thumb in law enforcement was the person who found a body usually had a part in how the deceased ended up that way, either through direct action or influence.

  “What were you doing here?” Michael Luinetti glared at me, knowing that truth in this case. He’d pulled me away from the church, away from the ears of the crime scene unit that he’d called in from Gadsden. They currently scoured the two cars and the surrounding area for evidence. Roscoe’s body had already been removed by the coroner and taken to the morgue in Huntsville for processing. Two of Mike’s deputies, including Dean Sowers, stood near them, making notes.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes, crossed my arms, and tried to explain. Mike listened without expression … well, except for that unrelenting glare. “What I don’t know is how anyone knew we were here. I wasn’t followed, and you can’t see that grave from the highway. Unless they followed Roscoe … but why would anyone do that?”

  “You said Roscoe saw you buy the flowers?”

  I nodded. “He’s been watching me. I knew that. Was glad for it, actually. I thought it might give me an opening to talk
to him.”

  “But if someone noticed him watching you—”

  “—they might have put two and two together.” I wiped my eyes again, annoyed that I couldn’t stop the tears. “Which still leads to me getting another good man killed.”

  Mike had no sympathy. “Do you have a gun?”

  I glanced back at the cars. Two of the crime scene specialists shot occasional glimpses at us. So did Sowers. Mike needed to follow protocol—and to get in front of this quickly. “I do. A nine millimeter Glock. But I left it at Gran’s in Birmingham. I didn’t think I’d need it this soon.”

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s assume for now you won’t need it at all.”

  “You don’t think I can still be Star O’Connell the soda jerk after this, do you? It’ll take the town about five minutes to figure out that I found the body because either I was out here taking care of a grave or I had planned to meet Roscoe. Either option doesn’t end well, given that I’m supposed to be a stranger in town.”

  “Or you’re the one who killed him.”

  I stared at the ground. “Yeah, I’ve already thought about that. If that were true, then the question is why, and that leads back to the same place. That I have a connection with Daisy Doe.” I looked up the slope toward my grandmother’s grave. “And that I came to town under false pretenses. Or tried to hide. Deceive. I didn’t expect it to come out this soon. And definitely not in this way.”

  “So are you really Star O’Connell? Without the soda jerk part.”

  I focused again on his face. The glare had not changed.

  “Because the only Star O’Connell I could find associated with Nashville was married to a sleazy lawyer with the reputation of having most of the city’s corrupt elite in his back pocket. And she vanished about ten years ago, left the Metro Nashville PD, completely disappeared off the grid.”

  “I told you it was a long story.”

  He held up his hand, palm toward me. “Don’t. Not now. I need all the truth you got.”