His eyes traveled again to the light on in Carol’s room. She had taken her anger and hurt and had funneled it into a hard-edged, rough work ethic that got the job done. And she had asked him for help, and he had disappointed her, just as he expected he would. Why’d she come to him in the first place?
He put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes and Maggie’s face loomed before him. “I know the war was hell on you. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t. But if you ever wonder, I think it made you a better man.”
“How?” In irritation, he spoke the word out loud into the emptiness of the car, then laughed at his own foolishness. Maggie had believed in him, unfailingly. She thought he was better than he was. Even Carol said she thought there was something “extraordinary” in him. But he knew what he was. He was a phony and a liar.
“Dammit,” he muttered and squashed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He was tired of disappointing others, but most importantly, he was tired of disappointing himself.
He slammed the car door and walked to Carol’s room and knocked.
The door flew open and her angry, tear-stained face appeared. “What?”
“What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want anything from you! I’m tired of expecting any help from anyone. To hell with you! I’ll figure it out on my own.”
“Can I come in?” Hick asked.
“No.”
Hick flashed anger. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“Am I? Am I being unreasonable? I don’t think so. I actually thought you were my friend. I thought we were in this together and that we were going to figure this out together. I told you things I never tell anyone.” She covered her face and walked back into the room. “God! I wish I’d never said anything.”
Hick stepped inside and noticed all the drawers pulled open. There were blouses and under things strewn everywhere and Carol’s suitcase lay open on the bed. She paced back and forth, then stopped, took a deep breath, and composed herself. Her voice was cold and precise.
“I believe I have misjudged the nature and complexion of our acquaintance, mistaking it for friendship. I heartily regret any personal ideas, opinions, or experiences I have may have burdened you with, and I apologize for dragging you out here. I’m sure you can find your way back to Cherokee Crossing. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be left alone.”
She turned and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Hick walked to the bathroom door and started to knock, his hand suspended in mid-air. Should he? Should he knock and drag himself back into this case or should he just turn and leave. He pondered a moment when the sound of someone clearing their throat startled him. He turned to the motel room door, which he’d left ajar and was surprised to find Sheriff Lowell standing there.
“Sorry to barge in like this,” he said as his glanced traveled around the room, taking in the disarray. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” Hick said. He knocked. “Miss Quinn, the sheriff is here.”
She opened the door and peered out. Her face was reddened, but other than that there was no indication of the distress she’d just expressed. “Good evening, Sheriff Lowell,” she said.
“Like I said to Sheriff Blackburn here, I’m sorry to bother ya’ll, but I thought you might want to know …”
“Know what?” Hick asked.
“Your friend, Father Grant, passed away this afternoon.”
17
Thursday, September 8, 1955
“I just can’t believe he’s gone.” Hick handed Jeanine, the church secretary, his handkerchief and she smiled her thanks before blowing her nose. The early evening rain shower darkened the sky and caused a gloominess to settle over everything. Hick, Carol, and Jeanine sat in the back row of the empty church surrounded by stillness. A tiny red candle suspended from the ceiling by a chain near the altar provided a pinprick of light in the darkness while rain pattered quietly on the roof.
“I’m sorry,” Carol said.
“And I was just getting to know him, too. You know, really understand him. In the short time he was here, he had done so much for the parish. The people loved him. His faith was genuine, and he was one of the kindest, most honest people I’ve ever met.”
The door to the church opened and Father Glennon walked slowly into view, shoulders slumped and head down. He paused when he saw Hick, Carol, and Jeanine and then approached.
“I’ve just come from the hospital. I arrived in time to administer last rites.” He looked weary. “At least he won’t have to suffer through months of agonizing pain.”
“That stupid man!” Jeanine said in a voice that echoed sharply in the quiet church. Her glance went to Father Glennon and she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Father Grant never did anything to Nicodemus Skaggs and now he’s gone. I know I have to forgive, but it’s hard when someone does something so despicable.” Her eyes again filled with tears.
“Had you ever seen Nicodemus Skaggs around here before this happened? To your knowledge had he ever even spoken to Father Grant?” Hick asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “He’s never been around here. I don’t even think he knew Father Grant’s name. The stupid, illiterate fool.” Father Glennon put his hand on Jeanine’s shoulder and she sighed and closed her eyes. “Father Grant was never anything but kind to Lavenia. He never spoke a word against Nicodemus, and he even gave Lavenia food from his own pantry when that passel of kids was hungry. And this is how he’s thanked?” She paused and took a deep breath. “I don’t understand what was in Nicodemus Skaggs’s mind. And I can’t understand why God would let that ridiculous fool kill such a wonderful man. What Skaggs did was horrible. It was disgusting.” This was followed by a hiccupping sob.
“Do you have any idea how Deem Skaggs might have gotten the mistaken idea that Father Grant was trying to convert Lavenia?” Hick asked.
Jeanine shook her head. “Anyone who knows Father Grant would know its plain hogwash and foolishness. Father Grant was a gentleman. He would have never tried to convert a child without speaking with their parents first. I can’t understand what Deem Skaggs was thinking.”
“Well, it seems to be a mystery to everyone how Skaggs got the notion that Father Grant converted Lavenia and why he was so worked up about it that he resorted to violence,” Carol said, biting her lip in thought and running her hand along the back of the pew. “The whole thing is so strange.”
“Skaggs hated it when Lavenia worked for Father Larry, too, but he never had any wild notions then,” Jeanine said, wiping away tears. “Father Grant was so kind and patient with everyone. I always admired how calm he stayed no matter what. At funerals or listenin’ to folks air their grievances … he just made you feel quiet and peaceful like.” She shook her head. “He was one of the most conscientious people I’ve ever met. Constantly writing letters on that typewriter. Writing to the bishop or people from his former parish. He cared about them, he really did. They were more than just parishioners to him, they were his friends. And they loved him, too.”
She sniffed. “At first I thought it odd that he had such a healthy correspondence with folks. The men I’m acquainted with never write letters. But the more I got to know him, the more it made sense. That was just his way. Why, just last week he got a long distance phone call from a woman clear across the state, and I know that wasn’t cheap. I felt bad after her spending so much money to have to tell her that Father wasn’t in.”
“Out of curiosity, do you remember where she was calling from or her name?” Hick asked.
Jeanine squeezed the bridge of her nose and her face scrunched in thought. “I remember it was a station to station call, and she seemed relieved someone picked up. I asked if I could take a message. She left her name and number but said he didn’t have to call her back. Just said, ‘Tell him thank you. He’ll know what I mean.’”
“And did he?” Carol asked.
Jeanine dabbed und
er her eyes with a handkerchief, then nodded. “He read the message and asked how long had it been since she called and I told him not an hour. He looked at the paper and went straight to his office to return her call.”
“There’s nothing else you can remember?” Carol asked.
“I know for a fact she ain’t from around her,” Jeanine said. “I’ve lived here my whole life and it wasn’t nobody I recognized. Maybe she was from his last parish.” A tear slid down Jeanine’s face.
“Do you think he might have kept the name and number?” Hick asked. “If so, where would they be?”
“What difference would it make?” Jeanine asked.
“I’m just curious,” Hick said. “We’re looking at every angle to try and understand why Ernest Kelly was here in Birch Tree.”
Jeanine cupped her forehead and closed her eyes. “I don’t think her last name was Kelly.” She paused, then added, “I’m sure it wasn’t. He took the message into his office. But have you seen the place? I can’t believe there’s anything left.”
Hick turned to Father Glennon. “Do you mind if we take a look in there? I’m kind of curious as to who this woman was and if it might shed some light on this whole business.”
Father Glennon shrugged. “I don’t mind. I can’t see that you’ll find anything intact, but you’re welcome to try. Hold on a second.” The older man went to the back room and returned with a flashlight. “Since the fire, the electricity has been cut off to the rectory. You’ll need this.”
“Thanks,” Hick said, taking the flashlight. “We’ll bring it back.”
Hick and Carol paused at the door to Father Grant’s office. It was eerily quiet and the smoky air felt close and suffocating. Hick flipped on the flashlight then crossed the threshold and walked to the desk. The varnish was peeling and papers were strewn about, curling at the edges and in various shades of gray, yellow, and brown. He shined the light around the room and saw the water stains on the walls and the bubbling of the paint. The light strayed to the floor where Hick noted two dark stains. Quickly, he moved the light to the desk hoping Carol didn’t notice.
At the sight of the melted radio on the credenza, Hick suddenly felt overwhelmed with sadness and placed his hand on Grant’s desk. He recalled how Grant had tried to help Abner Delaney, the lengths he had gone to help Thaddeus Burton, an innocent child in Broken Creek, and all the good he still had left to accomplish. Jeanine was right. It was hard to understand how God could allow Skaggs’s foolish imagination to put an end to a good man’s life.
“Where do we start?” Carol asked in an awed whisper, interrupting Hick’s thoughts.
“We ought to look at these papers and see if we can make heads or tails of what’s on ’em. Hopefully one of them has that name or anything else that might give us a clue.”
Carol lifted a sheet which crumbled into dust in her hands. “That could be a tall order.”
Hick shuffled through the ash and charred papers on the desk. Squinting, he looked closely, but it didn’t seem as if anything had survived the flames. He closed his eyes and scratched his forehead. “It was a long shot anyway.” His glance fell on the typewriter. The old Smith Corona was destroyed. Covered in gray ash, the ribbon had disintegrated and the plastic sides had melted away in a blob that covered the type slugs and left behind disfigured keys and a split carriage. The beam of the flashlight traveled up the wall to where Grant had characteristically hung a cross-stitch sampler. Hick tried to wipe the soot from the glass with the side of his hand. He squinted, but in the darkness was unable to read it.
Beside the typewriter sat the remains of the telephone. The melted receiver slumped over the sides of the phone and the dial had bubbled up becoming disfigured and opaque. Around the phone were scraps of burned paper and Hick sorted through them, and then finally shook his head. “Jeanine was right. We won’t find anything in here.” He turned to Carol. “Can your people in Washington trace any calls made from this office? If it was long distance and he called her back there’d be a record.”
Carol ran her hand across her neck and stared at the wall in thought. “I suppose calls from here would be billed through Dallas.” She nodded. “I’ll give them a call. It’s worth a shot.” Pausing, she added, “That is … if you’re still interested in all this.”
Hick turned to face her. “If Father Grant’s murder was arranged by someone who wasn’t Nicodemus Skaggs, and if I let that man just go about his business for the rest of his life, I’d be letting Father Grant down. He deserves justice just like your friend deserves justice. And I’m afraid neither one will get it if we just let things run their course.”
Carol crossed her arms. “Just to be clear. We’re on the same page now? You’re not planning to run out on me?”
He stuck out his hand, and, after a pause, Carol gripped it. “Miss Quinn,” he said, “you can count on me.”
18
Thursday, September 8, 1955
“You’re awfully quiet, Hillbilly,” Carol said, laying her fork down on what remained of the meatloaf blue plate special in front of her. “Want to talk about it?”
Hick lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of gray smoke. “Nope.”
Carol chuckled and said, “Can’t say I’m surprised.” She cocked her head to the side. “Ken was asking about you, and it occurred to me that you know plenty about me, but I know almost nothing about you.”
Hick shrugged. “Don’t take it personal. I’m not much of a talker.”
“I gathered.” She lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair. “I know Grant was your friend and regardless of your silence, I know it hurts. How did you two meet anyway?”
Hick closed his eyes and sighed. He knew Carol to be relentless and so resigned himself and told her. “Years back a couple of boys in Cherokee found a body by a drainage ditch.” He took another drag and closed his eyes. “She was my dad’s secretary from the high school. The town got a little riled up and blamed the boys who found her because their daddy was a convict who’d been executed for murder.” He flicked his ashes in the ashtray and then shrugged. “You know how people can be. ‘The nut don’t fall too far from the tree and all.”
“Well, did they do it?”
Hick shook his head. “No. There would have been no reason for them to do it. But small-minded people tend to jump to unimaginative conclusions, and the town was getting close to taking the law into its own hands.”
“Wow.”
“The boys were innocent and, as it turns out, their daddy didn’t kill anyone either. Father Grant had tried to get him a new trial because the lawyer was an incompetent drunk, but Abner Delaney’s time ran out.”
“Wait. You mean to tell me the state executed an innocent man?” Carol said, her eyes widening.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Of course the state would not admit to it, and the innocent man was never exonerated of the crime.”
Carol stared off in the distance for a moment and then said, “So this hearkens back to the fact that Father Grant worked for the prison system here in Arkansas. A system that is notoriously corrupt.”
“He fought tooth and nail to save Abner Delaney and probably plenty of other men.”
“I wonder …,” Carol said, taking a drag from her cigarette and sipping some coffee.
“What?”
“For every innocent man incarcerated, a guilty man walks free. Ernest Kelly was a damn good defense attorney before he took a job at the Justice Department. Perhaps he was working to find justice for one of these innocents and Father Grant had information he needed.”
Hick stared into his coffee cup. “Grant did keep pretty detailed files on the prison system and those he ministered to. He even sent some information to the governor’s office.” He took a drink and put the cup down onto the saucer. “But, Grant had literally hundreds of files and they were not organized in any way. Let’s say Kelly was trying to help someone out and came to Grant for information. How could we possibly find out what tha
t case might be?”
Carol flicked her ashes onto her plate. “And with the fire—”
“Yeah, the mystery fire,” Hick said, putting his head in his hands. He sighed and wracked his brain. “I can’t explain why Deem would set the place on fire if he was planning to confess. There may have been no reason at all except plain meanness. Still, your theory that he was coached could explain it. It may be there was something in that office someone didn’t want found, and that’s why they talked Deem into burning down the place. On the other hand, that woman who phoned has me thinking …”
“What?”
“When I first talked to Father Glennon he mentioned something to me about a young man that Father Grant had tried, but failed, to help and how that had haunted Grant for years. A retarded kid made a confession to a murder and was executed and, evidently, Grant thought the confession was worthless. Father Glennon said Grant took too much upon himself and that the young man’s mother blamed him.”
“Blamed him enough to want him dead?” Carol asked.
Hick shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“I don’t suppose Glennon knew the boy’s name?”
Hick shook his head. “No such luck. And I’m not sure if there’s a connection anyway. We know Grant got a long distance phone call from a woman Jeanine didn’t know and that’s what brought it to mind. The problem is Grant was not killed by some mystery woman from another town. He was killed by Nicodemus Skaggs.”
“Who was also killed,” Carol said, and then added in a lowered voice, “under Lowell’s watch. But of course, this all begs the million dollar question: Who was the intended target anyway? Grant, Kelly, or even Skaggs, himself?”
“Who is the most likely target?”
“Well, my vote is for Ernest Kelly,” Carol said with certainty in her voice as she slurped her coffee. “Skaggs went to confront Grant while Kelly was in his office. He didn’t go the night before or the next day. Kelly just being there at the wrong place at the wrong time is more than I can swallow. My imagination is not vivid enough to believe it might be a coincidence.”
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