Burying Daisy Doe

by Ramona Richards

  “It’s not about the distance, Bobby.”

  “You know I can take care of myself.”

  “Yeah, I thought I could too. But this ain’t like the violence of ’Nam. Not like facing down the enemy in the paddies.”

  “So he came by Friday?”

  Roscoe nodded. “I didn’t have much. An appliance and repair shop is not a big cash-flow business. Mostly credit cards and checks. I had maybe five, ten of each bill. But he didn’t blink. Gave me the replacements, plus the two hundred.”

  “You got ’em?”

  Roscoe slipped an envelope across the table. Bobby took it and slid it into a folder beside him on the seat. “Y’know, I can’t keep taking this much out of the till every week. I’ll go under. Eventually, I’m going to have to let them go into circulation.”

  Bobby nodded. “Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll see if I can’t arrange for something else.”

  The server appeared beside their booth. “More coffee?” They both nodded, and she poured, winking at Bobby. “Y’all’s food will be up in a minute.” She moved on to the next booth.

  Roscoe chuckled. “You get that everywhere you go?

  Bobby winced. “I thought it’d die down some after I hit thirty. Usually they check out my left hand.”

  “Well, they never know exactly how married you are if they don’t try.”

  Bobby’s smile vanished. “You think that’s what’s going on in Pineville? They didn’t know how you’d react until they tried? Think they’d take no for an answer after all?”

  “Not without leaving some serious damage behind. And it’s more than that. It’s more about loyalty than actual cash.”

  “Loyalty?”

  “My brother’s been tangled up with them for years. He knows a lot about the inside of the business. They probably think he’s talked to me, that I know it too. This is about getting me in deep enough that I won’t go to the authorities outside of town. That I’ll stay loyal to my brother, my family, no matter what.”

  “Good thing I’m not any sort of authority.”

  Roscoe leaned forward. “Seriously, man. If you can do anything, thank you. You have no idea how complicated their web is or how dangerous they are. Me and William both. It’s like we’re sitting on top of land mines. Can’t get off, and the wrong move could get us both killed.”

  They paused as the server set down an array of plates on their table—eggs, bacon, waffles, grits, toast, hash browns. They settled into eating, enjoying the food in silence a few moments. Finally, Bobby paused and wiped his mouth. “About that other thing.”

  Roscoe pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it over. “Names and phone numbers. But it won’t be easy. They are both”—he paused, and one corner of his mouth jerked—“‘fortunate sons.’ Now they’re pillars of the community, so to speak. They’ll close ranks. The older one, he was maybe eighteen when it happened. Get your man to look into him. But he’s enmeshed in all of this as well. Not sure about the younger one—he seems legit for the most part, but you never know. The older one, he is. Won’t be easy to get him alone, to see what he knows. And he’s as deadly as the rest. William says he knows where all the bodies are buried, even if he didn’t put them there.”

  “We’ll be careful.”

  “Y’all need anything else?” The server’s infectious grin and happy tone made them both smile. Her grin faded a little as Bobby took the check from her with his left hand.

  Roscoe shook his head. “Boy, you are trouble everywhere you go.”

  Bobby shrugged. “An old family tradition.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Pineville, Alabama, Present Day

  THE NEXT DAY, Decoration Sunday, I went to church alone. Partly to face whatever music awaited, but also to demonstrate that Mike and I weren’t a couple after all.

  I did not bring a casserole.

  I sat about halfway down toward the altar, careful not to sit in anyone else’s usual spot. People were creatures of habit, after all. The church was packed for the event, so I saw a lot of unfamiliar faces, not all of which looked particularly friendly when turned in my direction. But a lot of reunions of distant family and friends kept a high chatter going, and most folks ignored me. Placement of new floral arrangements extended beyond the cemetery into the sanctuary, and a row of polished and watered peace lilies stretched along the steps leading up to the pulpit. Daylilies lined the outer walls, their overpowering scent leaving me on the constant edge of a sneeze.

  A few minutes later Miss Doris twisted in her seat down front and motioned for me to join her and her friends. I hesitated, then shook my head. I was a spectacle paired with Mike—I knew I’d stand out like a sore thumb among the short crew of eighty-somethings. But Miss Doris’s expression became insistent. I finally picked up my purse and joined her. As she and the others scooted over to make room, she patted my arm and whispered, “You need me, dear. You need some solidarity. Especially today.”

  Miss Doris, as it turned out, was not just the lighthearted party girl who liked being flipped over her husband’s back.

  “Where’s Mr. George?” I whispered back.

  “Oh, you are new here, aren’t you? George hasn’t darkened the door of Pine Grove Baptist since our wedding. He’s Catholic. Attends St. James in Gadsden. Three of our kids followed in his footsteps.”

  “Charlotte and Dean?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, checking to see who else had arrived for service. “Technically, they are members here, but I doubt they even know who the preacher is.” She peered at me closer, then held up her readers in front of her face to magnify the examination. “And, darlin’, if you’re going to stay up all night crying, you need to invest in a better concealer.” She gestured at my face with her glasses. “Roscoe?”

  I nodded.

  She humphed under her breath. “Just remember. You didn’t get him killed. Whoever pulled the trigger did.”

  I touched the thin skin under my eye. It did feel puffy.

  A chime sounded from the organ, and the choir filed into the loft at the front, signals for everyone in the pews to settle down. Miss Doris faced the front again, and I fought a sense of disappointment. I had hoped Dean would be here today to see my improvements to Daisy’s grave. I was determined to raise his curiosity about me as much as mine had heightened about him. Given what I knew about him, I had a feeling that the direct approach would never work. He needed to be lured. And if I could draw him out, who knew what other woodwork-dwelling critters might emerge with him.

  After the service, Miss Doris invited me to join her crew for lunch, but I’d never be able to eat more than enough to insult them. The area where Roscoe had been killed was still taped off, so most of the gathering had moved up the hill a bit. I did as well, wandering up toward the cemetery, lingering at a few plots to admire the landscaping and new silk flowers. I thought idly about how other cultures honor their dead, and glanced up at the sky once, muttering, “Was this your idea? Flowers to smother the scent of death?” No answer, but I hadn’t really been expecting one. My steps halted at Daisy Doe’s grave.

  This first Sunday in May grew warmer as I stood there, my thoughts circling around the woman who’d started all this. The tawdry glamour that must have encompassed her childhood, the mixture of jazz and religion that probably had confused her as much as it did some children even today. Born between the wars, Esther Spire would have been a child when Hitler rose to power, a teen when the invasion of Poland began. But to have been in Paris in the late thirties and early forties! Her work with the Resistance must have given her confidence, a sense of power.

  But nothing could have prepared her for the South of 1954. Her skin might have been white, but her wartime lover would have known the truth. “Is that the sum of what this was about?” I whispered. “Her being a Jew? Please tell me something else was going on.”

  Not sure why I felt that kind of conflict. Being Jewish would definitely have been enough to get her killed. His
tory proved that disturbing fact. Why did I feel the need for something more to be involved?

  I didn’t turn when I heard the footsteps and felt the strong presence at my back. “I thought we were going to stay away from each other.”

  Mike cleared his throat. “The gunshot residue test was negative.”

  “Of course it was.”

  He remained silent a few moments, then his voice dropped a bit. “You need to get ready. This may be about to explode.”

  My chest tightened. “What’s happened?”

  “Someone broke into Imajean’s home last night while they were at a movie. Roscoe lived with her and Charles. Ransacked the place.”

  My mouth dropped open, and I spun on my heels. “What did they steal?”

  “As far as she can tell … nothing. But it was clear they were searching for something. All her valuables are still in place, but they pulled and dumped the drawers, cleaned out the closets, upended the beds. They even left two pistols behind.”

  I frowned. “No one leaves the guns. Even if they don’t take the electronics and jewels, they take the cash and the guns.”

  He shrugged. “No guns, no cash. She had five hundred dollars tucked away in the underwear, and all they did was spread it around the room when they tipped the drawer over.”

  Roscoe’s words popped back into my head. “Roscoe said he had something he wanted to show me.”

  “Did he have it stashed at Imajean’s?”

  “No idea. We were going to talk about it when we got back to his car. But I bet someone knows what he had.”

  “I’ll mention it to Imajean.”

  “I still want to talk to Dean Sowers.”

  Mike looked away from me toward the woods, his gaze distant. “Ever since I came here, Sowers has been a good, reliable officer. He helped show me the ropes, get acquainted around town. Stood up for me when people thought he should have had this job, not an outsider.”

  “I’m not saying he was involved, but—”

  “—he has to know something.”

  “Right.”

  He focused on me again. “I don’t want good people to get caught up in this when they weren’t a part of it.”

  “I’m just hoping the good people are who we think they are.”

  He crossed his arms. “Sowers has put in his papers. He’s retiring, effective the fifteenth.” Mike must have seen the confusion in my face. His eyebrows arched. “What?”

  “Miss Doris said Dean didn’t plan to retire for a long time. Basically, his marriage isn’t great, so he didn’t want to spend long hours at home.”

  “Explains why he likes the night shift.”

  “But not why he’s suddenly retiring.” I filled Mike in on my chat with Miss Doris.

  He listened passively, his face calm, then he scanned the dinner-on-the-grounds crowd. A lot of heads looked our way. “Go home, Star. You’ve got the message across for now. Let things ferment for a while.”

  “See what bubbles to the top in a few days?”

  “Something like that. But keep me posted if you hear anything new.”

  I looked across the spread of the cemetery, the families gathering around the tables and a few of the stragglers wandering up toward the newly groomed plots. The kids running in groups, chasing one another among the headstones. “Somehow I don’t think it’s going to take a few days.”

  Mike nodded once and strode away, all business, back toward the long tables laden with the offerings of Pineville’s best cooks. A group of the children, five or six of them, circled around me, squealing. One boy had a lizard, threatening to throw it on the girls, who screeched with glee. A girl scooted behind me to hide. I laughed.

  I looked around at her, grinning. “You’re not afraid of a little lizard, are you?”

  She gazed up at me, brown eyes gleaming. “You’re Star, aren’t you?”

  My eyes widened. “I am. Do I know you?”

  She shook her head, dark pigtails bouncing. “Nope. But I’m supposed to give you this.” She pressed something into my hand, then scampered back to her friends.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, but I didn’t look at it until I got back to Belle, started the engine and the air conditioning, and locked the doors. It was a folded offering envelope, obviously lifted from one of the special holders on the back of each pew. Three short lines were scrawled across the back:

  MEET PANERA

  THE SUMMIT

  2:30, MONDAY

  The Summit was a shopping complex in Birmingham. A busy area, but relatively easy to access from the interstate bypass. At two thirty, Panera wouldn’t be crowded, but it was tucked away from the main drag. A good choice overall.

  I tucked the card over the sun visor and drove back into Pineville, wondering how hard it would be to find Dean’s “disappearing” spot, the one Miss Doris had mentioned. I needed to get directions from Mr. George. I circled the square, noting how deserted everything was. Decoration Sunday drew everyone out to the churches, even the ones who normally spent Sunday reading the paper. I pulled up beside the Airstream and put Belle in park. She dieseled once before cutting off. Ah, time for a tune-up.

  I got out, unlocked the door to the trailer, and pulled it open.

  Dean Sowers sat in my recliner waiting, a .38 revolver held in his lap. He nodded at me. “Come in and close the door.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Pineville, Alabama, 1983

  “WHAT DO YOU mean, it’s not all counterfeit?” William braced his rear against the lowered tailgate of his truck. He pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and shook one free. He tucked it in the corner of his mouth and offered the pack to Roscoe.

  Roscoe declined the cigarette, then slipped off his suit coat and draped it over one arm. He loosened his tie. He’d closed the store early that afternoon and driven into Gadsden for a parts order. He stopped by his PO box before heading home to find a letter from Bobby Spire.

  “Bobby gave the money to a contact he has with the Secret Service.”

  William lit the Camel and took three strong drags on it. “The guys who guard the president?”

  “Yeah. They’re the ones who investigate counterfeiting. They said only part of the money was bogus.”

  William blew free a long trail of smoke, then flicked the first ashes off the end. “Chris said it was all funny money. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Roscoe shrugged. “No idea. He said most of the real bills had no trace on them. But one was tracked to a bank robbery in a little town in south Georgia. Another had significant traces of cocaine on it.”

  William pushed himself up on the tailgate, letting his feet dangle. “Why would Chris lie?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

  William looked down at the gravel driveway, lost in thought.

  Roscoe went on. “Bobby said they might be looking at two levels of criminal activity. The counterfeiting and money laundering.”

  William’s head jerked up. “Money laundering?”

  “Passing cash from criminal acts through legitimate busi—”

  “I know what money laundering is.”

  Roscoe studied his brother. Since he’d started driving for the old man, William had gone from being fidgety and nervous to comfortable and arrogant about the almost nightly runs through northeast Alabama. In the past few weeks, he’d become agitated again, smoking more, disappearing more.

  “What are you thinking, William? What’s going on?”

  William took another draw of the cigarette, crushed it out against the metal of the tailgate, and flicked the butt onto the grass. He licked his front teeth and stared down at the driveway again.

  Roscoe waited. Since he’d been a child, William had taken his time putting any serious thoughts together. Weighing all possible combinations. Roscoe had once teased him that he and Maybelle would have been married two years longer if William had gotten the words together sooner. When William looked back up at Roscoe, it was if all his worries poured out in a
stream.

  “Chris’s been acting weird lately. Skittish. Scared of Buck and scared of his old man. He says that something’s going down, and they aren’t keeping him in on it. Like they still want him to do these runs, but they no longer want him to know what they’re about. When they’ll happen. They’re starting to treat him like an outsider. They’ve been depending more on Chris’s brother, Abner’s youngest. And a friend of his brother. Like they’re setting them up to take over. Chris thinks he’s being pushed out, but he doesn’t know why, what’s turned the old men against him.”

  A chill of fear sank into Roscoe. “That means they’ve turned on you too.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve always known I’m expendable. Just another … driver. A dime a dozen. I thought as long as I was up close and personal with Chris, I’d be safe. I just don’t know anymore.”

  “William, you’ve got to get out of this. Let me help you.”

  William scoffed. “You kidding? Do you know what would happen to both of us if they knew you’d given that money to the feds? How much have you given them?”

  “About two months’ worth.”

  William frowned. “How are you getting by with losing that much?”

  “The feds are replacing it.”

  “That’s a sweet deal.”

  “It won’t be if anyone finds out. Brother, you have got to get out of this. If they turn on Chris, they could take you both out.”

  “I can’t believe Abner would let Buck take his own son out.”

  “Then you’d better believe it. They would both save their own skins at the expense of anyone in this town.”

  William paused, pulled out the pack of cigarettes, stared at the label, then slid them back in his pocket. “Can I get you to do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Can Maybelle and the kids stay here when I’m making the runs? I don’t want her to be alone … y’know, if something goes wrong.”

  “You know they can. Anytime.” Roscoe took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “You think something is going wrong. Soon. Don’t you?”