Since they came and went through a back entrance, they let me out the front and locked the door. I walked slowly toward Belle, glancing back occasionally to make sure all the lights went out. I watched until their twenty-year-old Lincoln Marquis eased out the back lot and turned toward their home. Then I unlocked Belle and slid in. As I let some of the hot air inside dissipate, I punched a number on my speed dial.
I reached to close Belle’s door, which shuddered to a halt as a hand blocked it and shoved the door back open. I yelped and twisted in my seat. Ellis Patton blocked the opening, with one arm on the door and the other on the frame.
“Star.”
I caught my breath. “Mr. Mayor.” I laid my phone on the dash.
“You’ve created quite an uproar in my town.”
I tried to smile. “Not my intent—”
“Don’t lie.” His eyes were hard, his face impassive. He leaned closer, his body filling the space. His “man of the people” demeanor vanished. “It dishonors both of us.”
I waited. This was obviously his conversation. After a moment, he leaned back and let go of the frame, but one hand remained on the door.
“You need to keep a few facts in mind, Star. Most of what you’re investigating took place outside the city limits. Except for Sowers’s suicide, Michael Luinetti has no authority to look into any of it. He’s overstepping his bounds. The city council and I don’t like it.”
“Have you mentioned this to him?”
“I will be doing so tonight. And reminding him that we are the ones who hired him.”
“That means the county sheriff would have to take over.”
“Correct. If there’s, in fact, anything to take over. Roscoe Carver died of a heart attack. Dean Sowers shot himself. But you can be sure the sheriff’s office will have no interest in cooperating with an outside investigator.”
“I would have thought you, of all people, would have wanted this to stay within the town’s control.”
He ground his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw jerked and bounced. “You’re an outsider. You have no idea what’s important to this town. We value peace, quiet, and a certain contentment. Something you have no clues about. Just like—” He broke off.
“Just like my father?”
“And his mother.”
We stared at each other in silence. Finally, I asked. “Anything else, Your Honor?”
“Yes. Get that monstrosity out of Taylor’s yard. If you don’t have it gone by this weekend, we’ll pass an ordinance to outlaw it. Then we’ll tow it to the junkyard and have it crushed to a block of solid metal.”
“As soon as Mike releases it. Maybe you can talk to him about that as well.”
“You can bet on it.”
With that he stepped back and slammed the door. I watched him in the rearview as he marched away. Down the block, he got into his old pickup. I could see a second person in the truck, and if the shadow ballet that played out between them was an indication, they were not happy with each other. His grandson? Dandridge? Miss Doris had implied Dan was supposedly the Patton heir apparent. After a moment, Ellis started the truck and it roared out of the square.
I picked up the phone. “You get all that?”
“Nice to know I’m so valued in this town.” Mike Luinetti’s voice dripped with wry irony.
“He’s probably headed your way now.”
“No doubt. I’m glad I haven’t had supper yet. So why did you really call?”
I filled him in on what I’d heard from Claudia and Betsy Hall. “They think they’re invincible. But after my little chat with His Honor, I’m not convinced anyone is.”
“Agreed. I’ll keep an eye out. What time will you be back tomorrow?”
“They’ll open at their usual time, around ten. I’ll be there around then.”
“Any chance you can drive something a little less obvious?”
I had to grin. “Possibly.” In the background of the call, I could hear the muffler of Ellis Patton’s old truck. “You have company.”
“Right. Star?”
“I’ll be careful. Promise.” I hesitated. “You do the same. Please? I can’t handle anyone else getting hurt because of me. Especially you.”
After a moment of silence, he said quietly, “I’ve got your six. That’s not going to change.”
I heard a banging in the background, and he ended the call. I phoned Gran to let her know I was on the way home. When I got there, she had supper waiting. Fried chicken and potato salad.
I hugged her tighter than I had in a long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Pineville, Alabama, 1984
“HE THREATENED IMAJEAN, William. I won’t stand for that.”
“I know. He’s threatened Maybelle and the kids. Even the baby. Usually every time Chris screws up or I want to quit.”
William used his pitchfork to spear another load of hay and toss it into the stables below. Both stood in the loft of their father’s barn, helping with the daily chores. The January chill eked through every crack of the old structure, chilling them to the bone. Roscoe’s hands felt numb from the frigid air, even through his leather work gloves. His father had milked the cows that morning and set them out to pasture, but he’d had to retreat to the house after. Ebenezer’s strength had failed steadily since Thanksgiving. Watching him totter up the narrow steps to the loft made them all nervous. For several weeks, Roscoe and William had been coming over in the morning to help.
“How can you stand that? Him threatening your family? I’m serious now—you need to take Maybelle and the kids and go up north.”
“And leave y’all to bear the brunt of all that? I can’t have that on me, Brother!”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“He would. And Mama and Daddy. The man’s beyond cruel. He’d kill all y’all if I left.”
Roscoe grumbled. “Maybe we should all go.”
William gave a harsh laugh. “Get a grip.” He pointed to a pile of rough cloth sacks stacked in one corner of the loft. “And grab a sack of that corn while you’re at it.”
Roscoe leaned his pitchfork against the wall and headed for the sacks.
“Watch for snakes.”
Roscoe froze, then twisted to glare at his brother. “What? It’s too cold for snakes.”
William shrugged. “The cats keep down the rats in the barn, so the rat snakes are usually around the crib. But Mama said she saw one in the barn last week. Spooked one of the cows.”
“Thanks.” Roscoe pulled a sack away from the pile slowly, his eyes peeled for anything slithery. He almost had it free when he felt pressure on his back. He screeched and whirled, trying to brush something, anything away.
William stood behind him, bent double with laughter. He pointed at Roscoe, his breath coming in gasps and gulps. “Man, you went four feet in the air! I ain’t never seen you jump like that!” Then laughter took over again.
Roscoe glared at his brother. “I ought to toss you over the edge to the cows! That wasn’t funny!”
“Oh yes it was!” William straightened and held his stomach. “Funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Humph!” Roscoe shouldered the sack of corn and headed down the worn steps at the end of the loft. His foot slipped at the bottom, and he almost lost control of the sack. He looked back at it, reaffirming that he didn’t want his father going up and down them. Not all barns had a staircase to the loft, but his father had installed this one when his wife had been pregnant with Roscoe. Some of the hens had taken to nesting in the loft, and Ebenezer hadn’t wanted his wife climbing a ladder to get the eggs.
Now you can’t climb it either. Roscoe didn’t like seeing his parents get older. But I guess we all have to. The alternative was too hard to think about.
“You think that’s enough hay?”
Roscoe looked into each stall. “Yeah, that’ll be fine. But we’ll have to muck everything out this weekend. Getting kinda rank in here.” He entered one stall and p
oured a measure of the corn into the trough.
William trotted down the steps. He lifted a basket from a nail on the wall. “I’m going to check the garden for the winter greens.”
“I think there’s still several rows of turnip greens. You know how Mama loves her turnips.”
William’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “Better her than me.”
“She’ll beg us both to stay for supper.”
“I wish.”
William left the barn, and Roscoe finished distributing most of the corn into the troughs. He scattered the rest of it out in the barnyard for the chickens, who descended on him with a flurry of feathers and clucks. Everybody’s gotta eat, he thought.
Eating. Paying bills. A roof over the kids. That was what kept them both under the old man’s thumb. Only after his last threat, Roscoe had called Bobby with as much information as he could get out of William on the big shipment.
Today. It was happening today. He’d already begged William to get out of it somehow. Convince Chris that it would be better if the other team took it. His brother had refused, even knowing Roscoe had passed the information along. Maybe he needed to make one more try. Roscoe draped the empty sack over a fence post and headed for the garden.
William already had a good mess of the greens tucked into the basket, along with several white-and-purple turnips. He used his pocketknife to snip another bunch free and added them to the basket. He straightened as he saw Roscoe and closed his knife, dropping it back into his pocket. He rubbed his lower back. “Man, I was not cut out to be a farmer. And I thought the trucks in the army were rough on my spine.”
“Daddy would say we’re both getting lazy. Sitting too much.”
William looked over the rows of turnip greens. “How in the world do they survive this cold? I’m dying.”
“Bred to it, I guess.”
They stood in silence a few moments. Roscoe cleared his throat, but he didn’t get a chance to speak.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t even try. And don’t pretend you weren’t going to try to convince me not to go tonight. You know I have to.”
“But you don’t. This is major, William. You’ll be arrested. And what if it all goes completely south?”
William picked up the basket and stepped closer to his brother. “Then you’ll take care of Maybelle and the kids just like you promised.”
“William.”
“I need a Camel.” William walked past him and headed for the house. Roscoe watched him go, a dark feeling of dread settling in his gut.
So he wasn’t surprised when the knock on his door came at three the next morning. The banging woke them all up, and JoeLee’s booming voice echoed through the house, but Maybelle never left her bedroom. She knew. Instead she gathered the kids around her in the bed. When Roscoe knocked once on the bedroom door, then opened it, Maybelle was already sobbing. She held the baby in her lap, and one arm had Jeshua clutched to her side. The boy leaned against her, a blank stare on his face.
The next day Roscoe opened his store as usual and ate breakfast in the drugstore. He wanted to hear it, wanted to know that everyone in town understood how badly it had gone. An accident like that—three cars and an eighteen-wheeler—hit the town grapevine before dawn. Three people killed, including the son of the town patriarch. Two hurt. But not many knew, however, that William and Chris had been killed transporting counterfeit and laundered money, along with a full load of stolen and bootlegged items. That it was all gone, burned to a pile of hot ash.
Dean Sowers, who had been running point for them in one of the patrol cars, had been caught up in it. He was still in the hospital, and the story now painted him as a hero, a first responder who couldn’t quite prevent the accident and paid the price.
When Roscoe returned to his store from breakfast, the old man stood near the door. Inside the shop, Abner sat silently beside Roscoe’s desk, staring at his fingernails. Roscoe waited. After almost fifteen minutes, the old man coughed. His hoarse voice matched the red in his eyes. “How did they know, Roscoe?”
“Sir?”
“The feds. How did the feds know about the run? Of all the times they could have shadowed those boys, why now? Why wait on the big run?”
“Maybe someone on the Tennessee side—”
“They picked them up on this side of the state line. Tailed them, then tried to close in.” He finally looked up, every muscle tense, his face scarlet. “When I find out who got those boys killed, we’ll have our revenge, Roscoe, you and me. I’ll make sure they know they can never pull something like this. Not on us.”
“No—”
“You know they won’t even let me go in there and get my boy! Said it’s all too hot. Too hot.” He returned his stare to his hands. “Serves ’em right, if there’s nothing left. No evidence. Nothing for them to hang on to. To hang us with.” He sucked in a deep breath. “My boy!” Sobs rocked the old man’s shoulders, and he buried his face in his hands.
Roscoe sat, numb, and waited. He had a feeling he’d be waiting a long time.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Birmingham, Alabama, Present Day
MY ROOM AT Gran’s was now half guest room, half storage room. The closet had one narrow space for hanging clothes, and the dresser had one empty drawer. A stack of boxes in one corner carried various labels such as “baby clothes,” “h.s. awards,” “letters,” and—my favorite—“school pictures.” The collection inside reminded me that no matter how cool I thought my mom and uncles were, they had been just as dorky as the rest of us prior to age eighteen.
The letters box contained everything from Papa’s love letters to Gran to the last letters she’d received from Uncle Jake. A few of my letters to her during my divorce era lay on top. I’d suggested she burn those, but she’d only whispered, “When I’m dead, they’re all yours.” I prayed that wouldn’t happen anytime in the near future. I didn’t hate Tony that much.
Roscoe’s letter box, though, was a thing to behold. Impeccably organized, it held twenty-three envelopes, each dated on the front, with the earliest at the front of the box, the more recent at the back. After supper, I retreated to my room and began to read, absorbing the contents of each carefully.
The first envelope, dated simply “1954,” held several newspaper clippings dealing with my grandmother’s murder and the boy she left behind. One announcement about the abandoned “Bobby Doe” had been folded into a small square, the paper yellowed, the edges foxed, and the folds frayed.
The next envelope jumped a few years, “1969,” but there was nothing between them. This one held an announcement from a Birmingham neighborhood paper about the graduation of a local boy, Robert C. Spire, from West Point and his deployment to the conflict in Vietnam. The photo on top of the announcement was obviously my father’s graduation picture, although someone had scribbled “Bobby Doe” across the top of it. The envelope also held two folded pieces of paper, accounts of Roscoe’s first two meetings with my father while they were both in Cam Rahn Bay. One passage stood out.
I told the LT I knew my father had either witnessed it or knew who did it. Daddy has made the last part of the field road, down next to the creek, off limits to me and W. No reason for that. Told us if we want to go fishing to get to the creek across the melon/bean patch.
I stopped reading as a thought tickled the back of my brain. What was it Dean Sowers had said about the other deaths? “Knows about the other graves at the end of the road…. Buried at the end of the road and forgotten, like nobody should be.”
A piece fell into place. A bare supposition of a piece, but still a piece. Doc had said Roscoe and his father had almost been lynched over the death of Daisy Doe. Why? Just because she’d been found at the edge of their field? What was it Dean said about my father’s death? “They would have disappeared too, if Roscoe’s old man hadn’t been such an early riser. Good old Ebenezer was already out, good farmer that he was, running the tractor in the field
s behind their house before sunup. They didn’t expect that. Had to improvise.”
Which didn’t make a lot of sense. Two farmhands had found my father. Why wouldn’t Roscoe’s father have raised the alarm if he saw them dump the body? Supposedly they had duplicated the first murder because they couldn’t get to the burial ground. But what if my grandmother’s murder had been the same? They had to improvise because they couldn’t get to the end of the road? Had they been lying? But why? And if the end of that road was considered a “dumping ground”—
I pressed my hand to my mouth. Exactly how many people were buried at the end of Ebenezer Carver’s field road?
I called Mike on the way back to Pineville the next morning, to tell him about the boxes from Imajean as well as my suspicions about Ebenezer Carver’s property. I used my earbuds because installing any kind of Bluetooth capabilities in Belle felt downright sacrilegious.
Mike, who had already been through a workout, a shower, and breakfast at the drugstore, was behind his desk, shuffling papers. “Actually, it wouldn’t have been Carver’s property.”
“What?”
“The Carvers were tenant farmers. Ebenezer built the house and the other buildings, but he rented the land. He had no ownership of it at all. I didn’t know about it all until I asked one day why Roscoe had not moved to his family’s farm when he retired. Boy, Charles gave me an earful. What a raw deal they had.”
“True dat.” I knew about the tenant farmers, sharecroppers, in the rural South, but it had been a system mostly long gone. “So who owned the land?”
“I’m not sure, but …” Mike’s voice trailed off.
Ah yes. Mayor Patton’s visit. “It would be outside your jurisdiction. Did hizzonor give you a good talking-to last night?”
“More like a new orifice.”
I didn’t laugh. I almost choked on my coffee, but I didn’t laugh. Heavens, I missed talking to this man. “So you have to stay out of this?”
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