by Don Noble
At her corner desk she began to type Octavia Fairley's community column and four obituaries. At least she didn't have to write weddings. Her boss came out of a meeting.
"I'm done with my work. Can I go to the darkroom?" She pushed her rolling chair away from her desk and stood.
Clint assessed her for a moment. "Somebody dug up a grave over in Wilmer. You want to check it out, Hepburn?"
Clint was a big fan of old movies and Katherine Hepburn was a favorite. She already had her car keys in hand and her purse on her shoulder. "Address?"
She'd grown up on the west side of Mobile County and she knew every back road. The cemetery wasn't that far from where she lived. "I'll be back after lunch."
"Jackie, were you out on the causeway this morning?"
She stopped in the doorway, debating whether to lie or not. Bootlegging wasn't an approved hobby for newspaper employees. "Yeah, I was."
Clint sat down at his desk. "I know your father's death eats at you, but you need to let it go. If you don't, you'll end up bitter and unhappy."
A smart-aleck retort came to her, but she stopped. "Thanks, Clint. I am trying." She walked through the newsroom, ignoring the elevator, and took the stairs down to the lobby and out into the sunshine.
* * *
A solitary sheriff's deputy stood over the open grave in the middle of a small church cemetery. The body had been buried only two days before. Now the coffin had been opened and the body taken. Latter-day grave robbers.
"Who was she, Sandy?" There was no headstone. The grave was too raw.
"Cornelia Swanson, high school senior. Auto accident. It's killing her folks." Deputy Sandy Stewart backed away from the grave and stopped in the shade of a big live oak. It was the only bit of beauty in the sad little cemetery.
"You thinking vandals or someone personally connected with the dead girl?"
"More likely revenge," the deputy said. "Jet Swanson has some serious detractors. Some say he had a beef with your daddy."
"My daddy didn't rise out of the grave to steal a dead girl's body. Not unless you know something I don't." Anger made Jackie's words hot.
"You got a short fuse where your daddy's concerned."
"Do you have a suspect or not?"
"Not. Wouldn't tell you even if I did."
Sandy Stewart was normally easygoing. Jackie had brought out his obnoxious streak. "I'm going over to the Quik Mart there to get a Coke. You want one?"
"Sure." He took the peace offering.
She got the cold drinks and walked back, handing him the icy can. They popped the tops and drank. The day was hot for October. "Did you know the girl?"
"In passing. She was shy. She'd just taken a job at the Quik Mart after school. Said she was saving to go to college."
"What caused the wreck?" Jackie asked.
"Drunk driver. He wasn't hurt. Not even a serious scratch. She was dead at the scene. She was Jet's only child."
"That couldn't have been planned." She thought a minute. "Could it?"
Stewart shrugged. "Facts don't matter to Jet. Now they've gone and stolen his girl's body. Going to be hell to pay. You keep your head down and don't try talking to Jet. I'm warning you, he's not above hurtin' you because he's hurtin'."
"I can take care of myself, but thanks."
Stewart only lifted his eyebrows. "Your daddy said the same thing."
Jackie froze. "You know who hurt my daddy?" She had suspected all along that the sheriff knew who'd shot Jackson Muldoon. He just chose not to do anything about it. Jackson was a bootlegger and because of his profession had given up any claims to justice.
Stewart leveled a gaze at her across the red clay wound of the earth. "Your daddy sold hooch, but he paid off the sheriff and he traded honest as far as I ever heard."
"If it wasn't the law or his customers, then it had to be his competition. Was Jet a competitor?" Her daddy had never talked business with her. She'd accumulated his old customers because he had a name for quality and a reputation he was proud of. Quality moonshine was a family tradition.
"Steer clear of Jet." The deputy frowned. "Not that you'll take my advice. Girl, you got a streak of self-destruct a mile wide."
Jackie had heard that before. "You got any idea who dug this girl up?"
"Nope. I'm just hoping we can find the body before it shows up someplace that's going to make the national news." He gestured toward the empty grave. "She was one of those Angels in White. Did the singing on the radio. You know, they pledge to be pure and sing at the revivals for that Brother March."
She looked down into the hole where the coffin had been opened. The pink silk lining was smudged with dirt. The body had simply been pulled out and taken. "Did this girl have a boyfriend? Someone who might be . . . strongly attached?"
"Now that's some sick stuff you're sayin'."
"Hey, I'm not the one riding around with a dead body in my car."
"No, you're ridin' around with a ghost, Jackie. That can be just as dangerous."
"Thanks, Sandy. I'll quote you in the paper. Give you some fame."
"Keep it. Fame never leads anywhere good in Mobile."
* * *
Jackie finished her story and waited while Clint read it. The photograph of the empty coffin in the grave was haunting and disturbing. She didn't know if the paper would run it or not. She honestly was torn herself. The prospect of taking a hard dig at Jet Swanson, who she suspected was involved in her father's death, and the grief the photograph would give Mrs. Swanson, were conflicting impulses. Clint gave her a nod of approval and dismissal.
Dusk was falling quickly, and she'd been up since four a.m. She left her car parked in the newspaper lot and walked up Government to Royal Street. Work-a-day employees were headed out of the city to Midtown or the apartments along Airport Boulevard near the mall. The day people abandoned the streets to the sizzling neon signs, rock music coming out of bars, and the men who came into the port city from around the world to sow their wild oats.
Two blocks over she pushed into the Port of Call. The bar was so dimly lit that she had to stop to let her eyes adjust. Euclid Adams was behind the bar; Martha Lowell, aka Candy, was on the stage. She wore a pink-and-white-striped baby-doll outfit that emphasized her cleavage and long legs. She was a good dancer. Not all of the stars at Port of Call were. Some had all the right moves in other athletic pursuits.
Jackie settled at the bar. Euclid put a Diet Coke in front of her. "When the streets are clear, I'll pull around back."
"How long you gonna cook mash, Jackie?"
"Haven't decided." She'd known Euclid since she was twelve and started riding with her dad when he made his deliveries.
"Your stories in the paper are good. Folks say you got a set of huevos. They also say you gone end up dead, just like your daddy."
Jackie sipped her cola through a straw. "Could be."
Euclid leaned down on the bar so he could look her eye-to-eye. "Girl, you need to stop whatever plan is churning in that brain of yours. I see clear as day you're about to get yourself caught in a gill net. That kind of ending isn't pretty."
"Where's Lyda?" She finished her soda with a loud slurp.
"In the back. You should leave her alone. She's not feeling good."
"I need to ask her something."
"Don't let Johnny catch you back there. He says you make the girls unhappy by telling them things they don't need to hear."
"Yeah, like in five years they're gonna be strung out, diseased, and living in a homeless shelter?"
"Yeah, stuff like that."
Jackie nodded. "I won't be but a few minutes."
"If Johnny comes back, I'll play Frijid Pink on the jukebox."
Jackie ducked behind the curtain that separated a long, narrow hallway with doors on either side from the rest of the bar. As she passed a door, she heard a man laughing. Some of the girls were already at work.
She knocked on the third door to the left and opened it. "Lyda?"
The y
oung woman was stretched out on a sofa, her gaze unfocused. A half-finished vodka on the rocks was sweating on the bedside table. "Go away."
"Lyda." Jackie sat on the floor beside the bed. "I'll get some coffee for you."
The woman shook her head. "Let me ride this high a little longer. You don't know what it's like to be free."
Jackie shifted to her knees and brushed the hair back from Lyda's forehead. Lyda March was only a few years older than Jackie, and she had once been beautiful. She'd danced in New Orleans in the finest gentlemen's clubs. Now she was back home, performing as Lyda Monarch to avoid soiling her family's name.
Jackie got coffee from the bar. She had to get Lyda on her feet. Johnny Zenata didn't put up with dancers who were too loaded to work. "Lyda, do you know a girl named Cornelia Swanson?"
Lyda looked down. "Sweet Cornelia."
"Lyda, she's dead. Did you know that?"
Lyda nodded. "Newspaper. Car wreck."
Jackie heaved a sigh of relief. Lyda wasn't as far gone as she seemed. "Did you know any other of those girls? The White Angels?"
"I know things my daddy did that you'd like to know." Lyda pushed past her and went behind a screen to dress. She was done talking.
Twenty minutes later, a shaky Lyda was in her cowgirl costume and standing upright. Jackie ushered her to the stage just as Johnny Z. came in the back door. He scowled and started to push Lyda, but Jackie stepped into his hand.
"Don't."
He grinned. "What's Lyda to you?"
"A human being." Jackie's fists were clenched.
"If you say so. I don't care if she's a one-legged pig as long as she dances and the men buy drinks." He waved around the bar, which had begun to fill up with shadowy men who sought out the dark booths around the edge of the room. In a far corner, pool balls clacked. Johnny started to turn away but Jackie grabbed his arm.
"I want to take Lyda home to her father. She needs to dry out and get clean."
Johnny's eyes narrowed. "Her daddy doesn't want her. What do you have between your ears, mashed potatoes? He don't want a junkie stripper whore showing up on his doorstep. Lyda has enough sense to know that even if you don't."
"He'll take her in." He would too, or she'd print the photos of Brother Fred and his negligee-clad mistress and glue them to the doors of his church. The things he'd done . . . nice people didn't talk about those things and no one would believe Lyda now. It wasn't the same, but at least Jackie had the goods on him with his mistress.
Johnny eyed her. "You involved in digging that girl up? I knew you were crazy, but that takes it. You're trying to play in the grown-ups' sandbox, Jackie. You're gonna get hurt. Jet Swanson will cut out your gizzard and feed it to you."
* * *
The ringing phone woke Jackie and she knew the newspaper had run the photos of the empty coffin—with her photo credit.
"Hello." She turned on the burner for hot water.
"Stay away from that still." The line went dead.
The caller was male. She walked to the end of her driveway in her T-shirt and panties. There were no other houses around. She picked up the paper and opened it to State News. There was the photo of the coffin and a much more suitable shot of tombstones shaded by the big oak tree in the cemetery. It looked haunted and sad. The empty grave seemed . . . depraved. She sighed. It was going to be a long, long day.
She showered and built up the wood for cooking. The two Taggart boys would be by to keep the fire burning.
It was only six o'clock when she got to the paper, so she went into the darkroom and processed the film she'd taken of Brother March. She printed up ten big glossies of March with his mistress in his arms. Both faces were clearly visible. She went to her desk and tucked them into a manila envelope and put them in her purse.
From the cross-reference directory she looked up the address of the house Brother March was partial to visiting and got the name of the woman who lived there. Charlotte Rush. She addressed an envelope to her, slid in a photo, and put it in her purse to take to the post office.
She wrote six more obituaries. The afternoon deadline came and went.
Clint came out of his office. "Jackie, the sheriff called. They have a lead on that missing body. The sheriff asked for you. Specifically." Clint stared at her, giving her the chance to explain.
"Where is it?"
"They left her sitting on the front porch of a house, 125 Walton Street, in the Golden Heights subdivision on the west side of town."
She felt the flush rise to the roots of her hair. It was the same address on the envelope she was getting ready to mail.
"Does that mean something to you?"
She shook her head.
"What's going on with you?"
She felt the weight of what she knew pressing on the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down. "That's just such a gruesome thing to do. Leaving a dead girl's body on someone's porch."
"Put her in a rocking chair by a geranium. Run out there and get some photos and interview Charlotte Rush. Find out how she's connected to all this."
"Yes sir." She grabbed her purse with the photos in it and her camera.
"If folks were upset with an empty coffin this morning, they're going to be choking on their toast over this. Do your best to be tasteful."
"Right. Tasteful." And she was out the door.
* * *
She went to the post office and sent the photo to Charlotte Rush. Dead girl on her porch. Blackmail photos. Tomorrow would be an interesting day in Fred March's life. And it was just the first drop in the bucket.
She parked behind a patrol car, glad that by the time she got there the body was covered with a sheet. It sat bolt upright in a chair, the position of the body telling her that rigor mortis had already set in. She had to wonder how the grave robber had gotten the body to bend into a sitting position. It was downright creepy.
She set to work under the watchful eye of a deputy. The sheriff pulled up and stopped in the drive to talk with some of the other law officers. Jackie ducked inside to find Charlotte Rush sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee untouched in front of her.
"Get out," Charlotte said. "I don't want the newspaper here."
"Did you know the Swanson girl?" Jackie asked. "Cornelia was such a good girl. She was an Angel in White in the church right down the road."
Charlotte stood up. "What are you talking about?"
"Cornelia Swanson. The dead girl on your front porch."
Charlotte leaned against the sink she was laughing so hard. "You fool. That's not a dead girl. It's a mannequin. Someone dressed up a mannequin and left it on my porch. Those fool deputies called it in that it was that dead girl that was stolen from her grave."
Jackie felt the sweat slip down her back and into the waistband of the jeans that hung on her hips. Mannequin. Someone had left a mannequin in a rocking chair. She went outside and pulled the sheet off the body. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to paint the mannequin's face and dress her in a red, sheer nighty that looked like it came from Frederick's of Hollywood.
She took the photos, capturing the glassy-eyed stare of the plastic woman. When she looked down the driveway, Sheriff Hilbun and all the deputies were clustered, watching her.
"I heard you thought it was the body of that girl someone dug up," Hilbun said.
"Yeah, that was the call that came in to the paper."
"Must have been old home week with Charlotte Rush for you," Hilbun said.
Jackie sensed the ground had shifted. "Why should it?"
"Your daddy was sweet on Charlotte. He never mentioned that, did he?"
Jackie rubbed the back of her neck beneath her long blond hair. "No, he didn't. I guess he figured his love life was none of my affair. He'd be right about that." She picked up her equipment and left the men standing in the driveway.
* * *
Jackie sat on her own front porch with a glass of whiskey on the rocks. She sipped her drink and smoked a cigarette. She
thought back on the evenings her daddy came home late, smelling of perfume and drink. She'd never asked him. She'd never wanted to think of him with anyone other than her mother, who'd died when she was thirteen. Cancer. A long, ugly death that stole everything from Tilda. First her health, then her looks, then her joy in living, until she'd finally had enough.
Jackson had seen her through it all, feeding, washing, cleaning, bathing, loving. Jackie had never begrudged her dad the solace of another woman after Tilda was gone. But she didn't want to know the details or the woman. But Charlotte Rush?
She threw her cigarette butt into the dying flower bed and went inside to sleep.
She was up early the next morning, long before dawn. As she headed downtown, she watched the colors of the sky shift from indigo to peachy shades of gold and finally the blue-white of fair weather.
She parked in the newspaper lot and locked her car. When Jet Swanson appeared from behind the corner of a building, she couldn't stop herself from reacting. She uttered a cry and stepped back.
"You shouldn't have made that picture of my daughter's grave." His eyes were flat but alert.
"I get an assignment from my boss and I do what I'm told to do."
"Somehow I don't believe that, Jackie. I know you."
She'd recovered her balance. "And I know you. Why do you think I'd do something like that?"
"That's what I've come to ask. Why? And to tell you I want my daughter's body back. I want her back in the ground and left alone. Now, you've got till midnight tomorrow to put her right back in that coffin. You call me when it's done and I'll send some boys around to fill in the dirt."
"You're making a lot of assumptions."
"Folks said you're smarter than your daddy. Prove it. This is your get-out-of-jail-free card, Jackie. Put her back. That'll be the end of it."
"And if I don't—assuming I have a dead body hidden somewhere?"
"I can put you in that coffin and cover you up. One way or the other, I'm telling my wife that a dead girl is in the cemetery. You get me?"
"Why would I take your girl like that? What have you done that makes you think I'd even attempt it?"
"You're smart, but you aren't right, Jackie. Obsessed with vengeance. That's the word. It's no secret you think I killed your daddy."