Roots of Murder (38 page)

“Of course, I'll do everything I can,” Nell assured him. Then she asked, “Did Michael ever talk to you about anything illegal going on here?”

“Plenty of illegal things: denying people the right to vote, intimidation, unequal enforcement of the law. I'm guessing you mean something other than the ‘usual' ones of the time. I had an older brother who was a lawyer also—he passed about two years ago—and I know Michael asked if he could do some research into property law.”

It wasn't a smoking gun, but it was the first concrete indication of a link between the murders and the property theft. But he could remember little more—phone calls were expensive back then, there was no email—so while Michael was away they'd communicated mostly by letter, and neither of them had been given to putting much on paper. “We always thought we'd have a lifetime to tell each other about that year.”

Nell again promised she would keep him informed and do what she could to get the remains released to him. He gave Nell an additional card, writing on this one his home and cell numbers.

She sat silently after he left. For most people murder and death was something they read about in a paper, but for some it was a lifetime of always carrying the loss. Cornelius Larkin had cared deeply for a man who'd been gone for so long; cared enough to fight to take home the
fifty-year
-old bones.

I'll miss Thom that long, Nell realized. Even if she found love, found someone else to hold her through the rest of the nights of her life, he would still be someone who was there and then gone, always empty where he should have been.

She felt a sudden anger at the murderers, that they had so callously caused such long anguish. “No, damn it, you're not going to scare me off,” she muttered under her breath.

She picked up the phone and called the sheriff. This time she reached him.

“Got some bad news for you, Miz McGraw,” he greeted her. “Seems the Jones boys had a weekend fishing trip planned and Junior going back to jail wasn't enough to interfere. They loaded up the boat with a couple of cases of beer and headed out a little before sunset on Friday. By the time they were out by Ship Island, they'd had probably a
six-pack
or two, and between that and it being dark, they weren't navigating too good. Coast Guard had to pull them off a sandbar at around three in the morning. Talked to the skipper of the cutter just a bit ago. It's confirmation of their alibi.”

“Thank you for calling and letting me know,” Nell said, forgetting honey and packing in the vinegar. She debated telling him about Lizzie's red truck, but if the Jones boys had been aground in the Gulf, it couldn't have been them. She didn't need the sheriff to tell her that.

“So what now, Sheriff?” she asked. “Got any other leads?”

“Since you've pissed off 'bout half the town, it'll take us a while to interview the suspect pool,” he informed her.

“So, in other words, you're not going to do anything,” she threw at him.

“I got two deputies checking to see if anyone sold the stuff used for the firebomb, got another one canvassing the area to see if anyone heard or saw anything. So far they haven't found nothing useful, but we'll keep trying. You get any ideas, you let me know.” With that he put the phone down.

Nell had to do a children run, again dropping them off at the library.

She returned just as Marcus and Jacko were entering, Jacko looking eager and interested and Marcus just the opposite.

“You should see the source material he has stored above his garage,” Jacko let out.

“Boxes and boxes and more boxes, all jumbled together, some with no dates on them, others with just ‘misc' scribbled on one side,” Marcus added, their state giving a hint to his tiredness.

“Did you find anything?” Nell asked,

“Not yet,” Marcus answered. “But I know we kept enemies lists—things like who was in the Klan, who had roughed up black folks. There wasn't much law back then you could report
white-on
-black crime to, but we tried to warn each other. Now we'll have to find the right box—and that'll take some doing with all the years jumbled, but it'll be interesting to look at those old notes and compare them with the people who benefited from the property thievery.”

“That could be very interesting,” Nell said, “but let's not get our hopes high. It's likely those rich and powerful enough to get the land kept their hands clean. They joined the White Citizens' Council and let others burn crosses.”

“True, but we did our best to keep track of those who joined those groups, too. Most of them had black maids or other workers—who do you think raised their children? They didn't stop talking about cross burnings because Mammy came into the room,” Marcus told her. “Back then it was hard to fight openly, but we wanted to know who to short on a pound of shrimp and who to be fair with. The Defouches over on the harbor were threatened repeatedly with burning crosses. Seems I recall one got burned on a woman's lawn after she tried to register to vote.” Even his tiredness couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.

“That's what the two of you can do tomorrow,” Nell said, emphasizing “tomorrow” for Jacko's sake. “See what you can find. I don't know how much we can print; we might be on shaky legal ground. Property transfers are public record, but this isn't.”

“Understood. Remember, I used to do a newspaper too,” Marcus said. “But I don't want to let this go without overturning any and every stone.”

Nell told them about Cornelius Larkin, including the request on property law Michael Walker had put to his lawyer brother. She didn't tell them about finding out that grief lasts as long as life.

“I've tracked down someone willing to claim Ella Carr,” Marcus said. “Says he's her nephew.” There was a hint of distaste in his voice. “He asked if I could get him in touch with the TV people to make a movie about her. Wondered how much money he might make from it.”

“What did you tell him?” Nell asked.

“That I'm just an old news reporter. Don't know TV at all.” He cleared his throat, then said, “I was left with the impression if he couldn't sell her story for enough money to make a profit, he would have little interest in paying for a funeral.” He just shook his head slowly.

“Maybe someone else will claim her,” Jacko said.

Marcus lingered in Nell's office letting Jacko update Ina Claire and Pam. “I didn't want to say it in front of the boy, but I got a disturbing phone call last night. It was late, almost midnight. A male voice, white, told me I'd have a comfortable retirement if I didn't start stirring up that old race shit—those are the words he used. And if I didn't stay away from the Crier, that they might not ever find my bones.”

“Damn it, what are they so scared of?” Nell said. “You think it was just an empty warning or really threatening?”

“You never know how crazy the crazy people are going to be,” he said. “If they think we might find something to link them to the murders, then the threat isn't so empty.”

“They murdered once, they can murder again,” Nell said grimly. “But these have to be men now in at least their late sixties if not older.”

“And what old man wants to retire to jail?”

“Should we back down?”

“You might consider it. You're young, got kids. I'm not. I'm an old man, my wife is gone, my kids grown up and away. I can sit in Joe's, drink beer for the rest of my days, or I can try to find justice for three kids buried and left lonely for too long.”

“I'm not going to back down,” Nell said, adding, “but I may act like I am, to throw them off.”

“Okay, but you be careful. Let us old coots take the risks.”

Dolan returned and needed help in unloading his illegally parked car.

In a break Marcus told her he had traced one of the people who had their property taken. “Hattie Jacobs; she now lives over in New Orleans. I'll try to get over there in the next few days.” He gave Nell her address. “Sorry, I couldn't get a phone number.”

Nell said it might be better to talk in person. She wanted to go with him, but didn't think she could manage it this week.

It took them until after five thirty to get everything Dolan had bought sorted, parceled out and stored away. With a glance at her watch, Nell sent everyone home.

Nell hurried to the library to get her children before closing time. For a second, she thought she glimpsed a red truck behind her, but whatever she thought she saw, it was gone.

Supper slumming, Nell hadn't been to the grocery store in much too long to feed two growing kids. They had sandwiches and orange slices (there were only two oranges, so she had to allot them out) and landed in front of the TV to eat.

A little after nine, the phone rang. Mindful of the threat Marcus had received, Nell got to it before Lizzie.

But it was Marcus himself calling. “I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm being followed.” There was static on the line; he was calling on his cell phone. “I drove to Joe's because it was sprinkling and as I got back in my car, another vehicle suddenly started up behind me. Not liking that, I went a few blocks out of my way and they never left my tail.”

Nell broke in. “Go to the sheriff. Go somewhere safe!”

“If they really wanted to kill me, they could have done so by now. The only thing I have they want is what's stored in those boxes. I've got an almost full tank of gas, so I'm going to take them on a merry chase. Meet Jacko at my house—spare key is under the fake dog turd at the back of the garage. Load up everything you can find and hide it somewhere. I'll keep them busy for at least an hour or so.”

“Your safety is more important than those boxes!” Nell told him.

“I'll do my best to be safe. But there's no safety without justice. I told you, I'm an old man and some things are more important to me than a few more years in this world.”

“Marcus, you can't—”

“Shush, yes I can. Don't argue, my battery is wearing down. I'll lead them for an hour or so, then do as you suggested and head for the sheriff's office or something. Okay?”

Nell heard a weird braying sound in the background. “What is that?”

“Their horn. It plays the first notes of ‘Dixie.' Now get to packing and hauling, woman.”

“Be safe, damn it,” Nell told him, but he was off the line. Barely putting the phone down, she dialed Jacko's number. He answered on the first ring. She gave him a quick version of Marcus's request and he agreed to meet her at the house.

When she hung up, she found Josh and Lizzie looking at her with questions in their eyes. “I've got to run out,” she told them. “I should be back in an hour or so. Don't open the door to anyone. Including your grandmother,” she added, before cool and polite kicked in.

“You'll be home soon?” Lizzie questioned.

“Yes, an hour or two at most. Go on to bed.”

“Wake us when you get back,” Lizzie instructed her.

“I will, honey,” Nell said. She gave them both quick hugs and then was out the door, pausing only long enough to make sure Lizzie locked the door behind her.

Nell sped over to Marcus's place, the quiet, even placid, neighborhood helping to calm her worries. It didn't feel like anything bad could happen here. Jacko's car pulled in behind hers. They both parked in the driveway, close to the boxes. Nell quickly got out and located the fake pile of dog shit. She picked it up, took out the key, and threw the plastic at Jacko. He dropped it before realizing it was fake. Nell opened the door, then let Jacko lead.

The boxes were stored in the crawl space over the garage, save for the first round that Jacko and Marcus had brought down already. They had to work in relays, Jacko crawling back and pushing the boxes to Nell, Nell moved them next to the ladder. When that space was full, Nell went down to the floor, and Jacko, hooking one leg in the rungs of the ladder, handed them to her. It was hard, physical work and Nell could see how it had tired Marcus, even going at a less relentless pace.

After getting the boxes down, they loaded them into their cars, packing both vehicles full, including the front seats. Jacko said he'd counted about thirty.

They stood in the driveway, panting. Nell glanced at her watch; it had been a little over two hours since Marcus had called her. “Let's get out of here,” she told Jacko.

He backed out, then let her out and followed. At the corner, Nell stopped, waiting for traffic to clear. A big black truck, one that looked like J.J's except she knew he was in jail, turned in front of her. She watched it in her rearview mirror. It slowed, halfway down the block, then stopped, parking across the street from Marcus's house. She waited, but no one moved.

Don't be paranoid, Nell told herself. Just someone going home. Two men got out, both white; out of place in this neighborhood. They stood watching her unmoving car. Nell quickly pulled out and turned onto the main street. Marcus wasn't home, so if that was their intent, they were out of luck. If they wanted his papers, it was too late. But she was worried enough to take the next corner and then turn onto the street that would cross Marcus's street. She drove slowly as she went past his corner. The big truck was still parked there, with no sign of the two men. The street seemed quiet and safe. Then she heard a faint tinkle of breaking glass and, from the corner of her vision, saw a quick blossom of orange flame.

Nell's cell phone was in her purse, on the floor wedged behind one of the boxes. Rather than dig for it, she sped up, turning at the next street and jerking to a halt at Joe's Corner. She rushed in with Jacko following her. “Call 911! There's a fire at Marcus Fletcher's house!”

At her words, three men jumped up and immediately headed outside. The bartender picked up the phone and called. When he put down the phone, he told Nell, “Watch my place. I've got to see if Marcus is all right!”