The Rivers Webb (4 page)

The other man in the car looked to be about John's age, and if it weren't for the ridiculous grin that seemed plastered to his face, John would never have had a clue as to who he was. But something about the goofy look on his face brought to mind the bird on the hood of his car this morning, and then John knew that this just had to be Peacock boy himself, George Rivers.

Little was said on the way to the funeral. It was awkward. It didn't seem right to give introductions, and nobody knew how to start a conversation without them. As the car pulled into the cemetery, John suddenly felt a rush of guilt. He had been reading everyone as if he were looking at suspects. But the reality of entering the graveyard snapped him into the overwhelming realization that these were not just empty faces. These were people who had known and loved Carl Rivers, just as much as he did, or perhaps even more. As Roy reached for the door, John put a hand out to stop him.

“Wait.” John fumbled for words. He knew he should say something, but he found it difficult to actually force the sentiment out.

“I just wanted to say thank you, before we go out there. I think that I have been a little selfish, just focusing on how much I missed Uncle Carl. This is the second family funeral for me in just three months, and I guess you could say I've got a lot on my mind. But at least for this one, I'm not standing by a graveside alone. And I really do appreciate that. Aunt Wilhelmina, Aunt Opal, Uncle Arnold, Cousin George…Dad.” That hurt. But at least it took the edge off of the moment. “I just wanted to let you all know how I felt.”

The smiles that directed themselves back to him were genuine and heartfelt. When they marched up to the grave, they did so as a family. No strangers were present.

Wilhelmina led the entourage, followed dutifully by Opal—it was clear that she had much practice over the years—Roy stepped in behind her, then Arnold, with John and George bringing up the rear.

George was idly playing with a pinkie ring as they walked. It was a rather bright bauble, designed to be noticed.

“New ring?” John asked innocently, awkwardly searching for conversation. George immediately stopped turning the thing and stopped in his tracks for just a second or two.

“No,” he stammered, “No, I've had it for years… Just a nervous habit.” Then George hurried to catch up. Something told John that he should press, but decided it would be better left to later. As if on cue, John got a whiff of that same strange fragrance he had noticed earlier. Once again, it held an odd sense of familiarity, but he just couldn't place it. For a moment, he was tempted to ask someone about its source, but something kept him from forming the question, as if this seemingly innocuous query would break the tableau of a Georgia funeral. Besides, they were nearing the graveside, and it was clear that the minister was set to begin.

John was not surprised by much at this funeral. This does not mean to say that it was unmemorable, or that he was disappointed in how it was undertaken, or that it was any less moving than it should have been. It was, simply, one of those rare occasions where the reality of an event was equal to the expectation.

Just as John had imagined, the entire town—and quite possibly a good portion of the county—was present and accounted for, in their best Sunday clothes, suitably teary-eyed, nodding along to the thoughtfully rendered words of the eulogy. The minister was a Methodist Bishop from Atlanta that Carl Rivers had often spoken with and exchanged letters. His brief sermonette had included a story that Carl had once told him, about a botched baptism involving a shaky teenager and a bobcat. And the laughter that followed was both respectful and heartfelt, with many a head nod and whispered, “That was Pastor Rivers, all right.”

In short, John's ingrown pessimism had no place to go. On that beautiful Tuesday morning, with the sun shining down and long-lost family sitting beside him, John Webb had no natural defenses against his grief. He watched with tears as six Methodist deacons slowly marched, casket in hand, toward the final residence of his Uncle Carl. Images flashed through his mind without mercy: Uncle Carl teaching him to swim; Uncle Carl at his birthday; Uncle Carl leading a standing ovation when he had received his citation from the mayor.

Aunt Wilhelmina's hand touched his briefly. As he looked over, she smiled and whispered, “I know it's all so sad…I only wish you could have known him better.”

It was the slap in the face that he needed to bring out his cop's cynicism again. He should probably have thanked her, but it would have spoiled the moment. Instead, he began to do what he came here to do in the first place. Turning back to the crowd of people, he started taking mental notes.

The Stovalls were there, sitting toward the back with the rest of the unimportant people. The two sheriff's deputies had taken up position on the opposite side of the grave, but close enough to the front to let everyone know how far up they were in the social pecking order. And, although he had never met the man, John knew Earl Cameron the second he saw him, standing in the back, looking ashamed to be there. The pained look on his face was not completely from grief. John was certain that the evident hangover had a lot to do with it.

John continued to subtly scan the gathering crowd. Somewhere in there was a killer, and not a particularly clever one. In theory, this was where he made his short list of suspects. He was looking for the face in the crowd that was showing too much grief, or not enough, or just plain indifference. He was looking for bad acting, a twinkle in the eye, a smirk that someone accidentally let slip. For the most part, he had no names to go with faces, but there was one exception. Arthur Stovall. He didn't like it, but there it was. Arthur Stovall had every reason to hate the Rivers family, and he was certainly big enough to overpower a man. His expression was blank, today, like a man with a straight flush who's desperate not to give it all away.

John had seen that particular look a lot in his line of work, the facial equivalent of ‘name, rank, and serial number.' It almost always meant the same thing. Guilt.

The close of the sermon gave John the pretext he needed to meet and greet those other faces. He made his way through the crowd with relative ease. It helped that, being in a small town, everyone already knew who he was. One by one, he came up to those who had struck his interest. Some he could dismiss immediately, others he took special note of. Hank Groves, who owned the only liquor store in the county, and was in danger of losing his business if a referendum passed to make Coweta a dry county. Reverend Carl Rivers, who was heading up the committee, would never see that happen, now. Clorace Ann Ruthers, who had repeatedly tried to gain the attention of Carl Rivers, despite his insistence that he was a confirmed bachelor. It wouldn't be the first time John had seen infatuations end this way.

There were others, too. John made his way through, listening and asking the right questions. It still amazed him how much information people were just willing to throw out there for you. He remembered an old saying his captain always quoted, “the best way to get a confession is not to ask any questions at all, just get the guy into a decent conversation, and let him tell you everything.”

It worked. As he talked to people, one on one, he found out more about his uncle's everyday life in Sales City than he would have ever known otherwise. It was an interesting revelation, in many cases. The last person he was going to talk with, however, was Arthur Stovall. He couldn't completely understand why, but he wanted to put all his energies into that conversation, as though he needed to prove that he was innocent or guilty before he could do anything else.

He never quite made it to Mr. Stovall, however. Just as he was finishing up with James Finney, who's wife had recently insisted he quit the local lodge because of the things she had heard went on there—things he stoutly believed that Reverend Rivers had told her—a latecomer had arrived. He did not walk up to the grave, or mingle amongst the gathered mourners, but kept a respectful distance. That is, until he saw Detective Webb. When he locked his ancient eyes on John, he marched purposefully forward.

John's expression grew dangerously dark as Sam Posey walked up to him. He closed the distance, as though refusing the man access to the others gathered together in memory of his dear uncle.

“I don't know what you think you're doing here, but you pack up whatever crystal ball or tarot cards you've got with you and leave these people alone!” John whispered hostilely, as he closed with Sam.

Sam looked at him as if he hadn't heard a word he said.

“Mr. Webb, I know you don't think much of me, but you should really read this,” Sam handed a note over to John. “Just read it. After that, you can rip it up, pass it around to your friends back in New York for a good laugh, or you can drive up to my house and call me a liar and a cheat—I don't care. Just you read it!” Unsure of what really to do at this point, John took the note from Sam Posey's hand. “Maybe I'm a fool for comin' out here. I ain't decided yet. But I'll not be able ta' live with m'self if I don't at least try…”

John cut him off with a single harsh, barking laugh.

“I took your damn note. You said that's all you want? Well, mission accomplished. Leave these people to their grief.”

Having done what he came to do, apparently, Sam Posey walked away, and left the cemetery without another word to anyone.

With the note still held loosely in his hand, John caught Annie Ruth staring over at him from where she stood by her husband. And then, all of a sudden, John Webb didn't want to have that conversation with Arthur. He didn't want to think about him being guilty or not guilty. Without knowing really why, John just wanted to go someplace where no one was looking and read that note.

The funny thing about funerals is that different people can have very different reactions to them. Some people want to find someone or something to be close to, in order to remind themselves that they're alive. Some prefer the reflection of solitude. Many people like to tune everything out, as though the numbness of thought would seep into their emotional state and dull the pain of loss. Still others, like Sheriff's Deputy Dan Merrill, became oddly alert, as though afraid they might miss some important clue to life hidden within the details and ritual of the proceedings.

*

Dan Merrill had wanted to be a cop since he was four years old; ever since he had watched one Roy Rivers stare down an angry crowd when Henry Johns, a black man, had been accused of raping a teenage white girl from three counties over. Henry was well known and well liked, but that day, he was just a damn nigger and fit to be hanged. Roy threw Henry into the lock-up until he could get some answers, but several of the men from town wanted justice first, and bother with a trial later. Most sheriffs would have just let them have their way, rather than face that kind of hate and rage, but Roy stood there at the door of the sheriffs office, shotgun in hand, and promised to shoot the first man to put a foot on the steps. No one took him up on the threat. That evening, when it was revealed that the “teenage girl” was actually a recently released patient from the Chattahoochee mental hospital and had a bit of a history of accusations, the whole story fell apart. Henry Johns was completely innocent, just the unfortunate individual that happened to be delivering several large sacks of salt to the hotel she was staying at.

Since that day, Dan knew that he was going to be a policeman. He followed Roy around constantly, asking questions, until his mother was certain Roy would be sick of the sight of him. Instead, Roy seemed to take a special interest in the boy. He spent hours with Dan, quizzing him on police procedures, making him memorize every face in Coweta County, and every life story behind it. The job of deputy was his the day he graduated from high school, if he wanted it. But the problem with that was, Dan wanted it too much. With Roy's blessing and a few dollars to his name, Dan Merrill took a bus to Atlanta to spend the next year at the Police Academy.

When he returned home to Sales City, he could have taken a job with the Atlanta Police Department making twice what he would as Roy's deputy, but he was committed to serving his hometown. Just like Roy had taught him, he considered the people of Coweta County to be his responsibility, and he could never forget that. Not even when one of them had passed on…

Especially when one had passed.

Deputy Merrill was keenly aware of many things going on during the funeral. He noticed John's surreptitious examination of the crowd earlier, and the subsequent observations and interviews afterward. He could guess what the northerner was doing. Truth be known, he was keeping an eye out on some of the same people.

Dan wasn't surprised to see Sam Posey arrive, but when he shoved a note at Webb, that got his interest. The angry look on Webb's face made him especially curious. Webb had just arrived in town—when did he have time to even meet Posey?

Dan kept a quiet vigil over John Webb throughout the funeral. Nobody else seemed to notice the distracted way he smiled and shook hands with all the well-wishers, but it was obvious enough to Dan that John's mind was somewhere else.

Because Dan was watching, he was close enough to hear John Webb make a quick request to Gerald, the Rivers' houseman. He watched as he took the keys from him and headed toward the car. It took him a few moments to extract himself from the other family, but the look on his face was determined—even under the stern reproach of Wilhelmina, whose voice could be heard even from where Dan stood in the distance:

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, John, and I will not stand for it!”

“I'll be right back. I just forgot something in my room,” John responded. Wilhelmina just threw her hands up in the air and went back to talking with everyone. In a moment, she was right back into the same conversation she was engaged in before John interrupted. As far as anyone could tell, his indiscretion was forgotten. Dan knew better, but he wasn't sticking around to watch it happen. He was more interested in where John was in such a hurry to get to.