Jubilee's Journey (The Wyattsville Series) (31 page)

He eased the paper from beneath the counter and flipped it over. “Help Wanted” it read. “Stock Boy -- $30 week.” Based on where he had found the sign, it seemed likely that Paul had been holding it in his hand when he was shot. Mahoney photographed the sign, then returned it to its original position.

After spending almost an hour in the store Mahoney switched off the light and left. As he relocked the door, footsteps came up behind him.

“Saw the light on and thought I’d check,” the man said. “I’m Ernie, barber shop next door.” He stuck out his hand.

After the handshake, Mahoney asked, “Were you here on the day of the robbery?”

“Yeah, I was,” Ernie answered. “Awful, ain’t it? You just never think in a town like Wyattsville…”

The only witness report in the file was that of Martha Tillinger, but Mahoney took a chance and asked, “Did you see or hear anything?”

“Sure did,” Ernie answered. “Ken Spence was here for a shave that morning. Since he lost sight in his right eye he don’t trust himself with a razor, so he comes in same time every Wednesday and Saturday. I was lathering him up when I saw the young one come from across the street and head into Sid’s place. I was shaving Ken when the second one came by.”

“They didn’t go in together?”

“Not when they passed here, but after that who knows?” Ernie shrugged.

“How long was it from the time the first man went in and when you saw the second one go by?”

“A minute maybe.”

“Did the two men come from the same direction?” Mahoney asked.

“Can’t say. I know the boy came from across the street, but I didn’t see the second one ‘til he passed by here.”

“What happened after that?”

“I heard the gunshots. Three or four of them, so close together I can’t say for sure how many there were.”

“Anything else?”

“A minute or so later the second guy hightailed it past here and disappeared.”

Mahoney asked if he had seen the girl sitting on the bench across the street or noticed anything else unusual the morning of the robbery, but Ernie shook his head and said he couldn’t tell much else because he wasn’t facing that direction.

As Mahoney climbed back into the car and headed for the ferry, he again thought,
Too many questions.
Jubilee said her brother went into the store. Could it be that he wasn’t there to “do” a job but to get a job? To a seven-year-old kid the two things most likely sounded the same, so did she say one and mean the other? And which one was the truth? If Paul had by some chance partnered with Hurt McAdams, then why did they come into the store separately? Where was the gun that shot Klaussner? As the questions accumulated, it seemed as though each new thought muddied the water a bit more. It was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Mahoney’s earlier indigestion kicked into high gear, and halfway to the ferry he had to stop and buy another roll of Tums.

Once Mahoney was back at the Wyattsville station, he began a search for Freddie Meyers. He started with Property Records and then moved on to Voter Registration. Neither search produced any results. His next move was going to be a telephone directory search, which was none too reliable because people not looking to be found used fictitious names or had no listing. There were nine directories that covered the stretch of land considered the Eastern Shore. Two of the areas were across the state line in Maryland, and five were in Virginia. Mahoney went through the first three and found nothing. In the Watertown County directory, he found a listing for F.W. Meyers in Exeter.

It was on the same road as the Doyle farm had been.

“Impossible,” Mahoney mumbled. “What are the odds of…”

He dialed the number and let it ring seventeen times before finally hanging up. It was just about dinnertime. Maybe Freddie Meyers, if this was Freddie Meyers, didn’t bother to answer a ringing phone if his mouth was full of food. Mahoney sat for a moment and thought. He dialed a second number.

“Hello,” a youthful voice said.

“Hi, Jack,” Mahoney replied. “Is Mommy there?”

“Hi, Dad.” A whisper of disappointment was threaded through young Jack’s words. “Yeah, she’s here. Mom made spaghetti tonight. Are you coming home soon?”

“In a while,” Mahoney answered. “Let me talk to Mommy.”

“Mom!” Jack yelled. “Daddy’s on the phone!”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called back. “Ask if he’s on his way home.”

“Mom said are you on your way home?” Jack repeated.

“Not yet,” Mahoney answered.

A disgruntled grunt was the only answer. Mahoney heard the sound of the receiver clunk against the table and waited. A few minutes later Christine’s voice came on the line.

“What now?”

“I’ve got to take a run out to Exeter, so don’t hold dinner.”

There was a space of silence, the kind of silence that meant Christine was angry. “I spent the whole day making a pot of that homemade spaghetti sauce you like. With meatballs.”

“I appreciate that, but this is something I’ve got to take care of.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Afraid not,” Mahoney answered. After several more apologies and a promise to take everyone for ice cream when he got home, he hung up. He scribbled the listing address on a note paper and started out to Exeter.

The town of Exeter was not really a town but a stretch of back roads that twisted and turned with not a single house visible from the next one. Mahoney took the same turn he’d taken when he’d gone out for the Doyle murders. He drove for nearly a half mile and did not see even one house until he came to the long drive leading past the field in front of the Doyle house. Standing at the end of the driveway was a mailbox with the number painted on the side: 1722.

“Damn,” Mahoney said. Apparently F.W. Meyers lived in the house where Susanna and Benjamin Doyle were murdered.  He turned down the drive and continued to the house.

The front window had been replaced, but other than that there was no visible change in the appearance of the place. It still had the look of a house in need of repair. The lights were on, and strains of Gogi Grant wailing “The Wayward Wind” came from inside. Someone was obviously living there. Mahoney stepped to the door and rang the bell. Nothing; no sound. It was still broken. He knocked on the door. No answer.

After knocking several times and getting no answer, he banged his fist against the door and shouted, “Hey there, anybody home?”

The music clicked off, and moments later a small, paper-thin man opened the door. “Sorry,” he said, “couldn’t hear, what with the music.”

“I figured,” Mahoney answered.

F. W. Meyers was indeed Freddie Meyers, and, yes, he had moved here from Norfolk. Freddie explained how he’d bought the Doyle place at an auction. “Paid the past due taxes and the house was mine. ’Course, the place needs a bit of fixing up, and the farmland’s nothing but a weed patch, but in time…”

Freddie Meyers was as pleasant a man as Mahoney could hope to meet, until he heard the mention of his ex-wife’s name.

“I’ve got no more money,” he snapped, “so if that’s what this is about you’re wasting your time.”

“It’s not about money,” Mahoney assured him. “I’m just looking to find Anita.”

“Why would anybody want to find Anita?” His words had the sound of an ex-husband filled with bad memories.

“I’ve got a little girl with no place go, and I think she’s Anita’s niece. Her parents were Bartholomew and Ruth Jones.”

Freddie nodded his head sadly. “Yeah, Ruthie was Anita’s sister, but they haven’t talked for maybe six or seven years.”

“Unfortunately, Ruth died several years ago.”

Freddie winced. “Damn. She was the one who deserved to live. What about Bartholomew?”

“He’s gone too.”

“The mine got him, didn’t it?” Not leaving room for an answer, Freddie continued. “That’s one thing Anita was right about. She was always harping on Ruthie about that life being unfit for man or beast. Anita used to write Ruthie letters saying she ought to leave Bartholomew and come live with us. She thought if Ruthie left, Bartholomew would see the error of his ways and move back to Norfolk.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “That was the better side of Anita.”

“Then she ought to be pretty pleased to learn she’s got a niece who’d like to come and live with her.”

Freddie crumpled his face into a giant question mark. “It all depends.”

“Depends on what?” Mahoney asked.

Freddie shrugged. “If I could’ve figured that out, we’d still be living together.”

When Mahoney asked for Anita’s address, Freddie wrote it on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “When you talk to Anita, you might mention that if she and the girl want to come out here to live I’d be willing to consider it.”

“I’ll do that,” Mahoney answered and turned to leave. Before he got to the door, Freddie asked about Ruthie’s boy. Mahoney had hoped to avoid that issue, but now he had no choice.

“He was involved in a shooting, and he’s now in the hospital.”

“Paul? Ruthie’s boy? Involved in a shooting?”

Mahoney nodded.

“Damn,” Freddie repeated. “I’d’ve never figured Ruthie’s boy for such a thing.” He stood there shaking his head sadly as Mahoney scooted out the door.

When Mahoney finally arrived home it was almost ten o’clock, the kids had gone to bed disappointed at not having another ice cream outing, Christine was barely speaking to him, and the plate of spaghetti sitting on the kitchen counter had turned a cold greyish pink. On top of all that he spent another sleepless night—tossing, turning, rolling the still-unanswered questions over and over in his mind. He worried about a dozen different things but didn’t realize Carmella Klaussner was the one thing he should have been worrying about.

Jubilee

I
’m still feeling mad inside, even though Ethan Allen done said nobody means nothin’ by those mean things. He claims they was just guessing at what the truth might be.

Paul never did nothin’ bad to nobody, and I’ll fight anybody what says he did! I know girls ain’t supposed to fight, but I figure folks ain’t supposed to tell lies neither. If they can tell lies, then there ain’t nothin’ wrong with me fighting.

I’m gonna go see Paul more times, and I’m gonna keep reminding him all the things what happened. Soon as he starts remembering stuff, I’m gonna remind him about how we’re gonna get us a nice place to live and not bother about finding Mama’s sister. If I thought Aunt Anita was nice like Ethan’s grandma I might feel a bit different, but I can’t say for sure I would.

I like Miss Olivia a lot. She’s real nice to me. Yesterday when me and Ethan was asking for more cookies he called her Grandma, and ‘cause I forgot she just belongs to Ethan and not me I called her Grandma too. She laughed real loud and said she wasn’t actually Ethan’s blood kin grandma, but they’d agreed it was a good name to call her and if it was good enough for Ethan to use, then I could go ahead and use it too.

I was real happy until she added, “For now.”