Death in Reel Time (24 page)

“Well, that's not good,” Esme said.

“It gets worse,” I said. “I ran into Michelle Robertson at the coffee shop this morning. You know what Tony's juvy bust was for?”

“I'm nearly 'bout afraid to ask,” Esme said.

“He beat up a kid who was bullying smaller kids. Beat him pretty severely.”

“So, has he got a hero complex, or just anger issues?”

“Eye of the beholder, I suppose. I got the impression from Michelle there was no question the kid he beat up was a menace, but apparently he was from a family with juice while Tony was a foster kid with a loser reputation. You do the math.”

“Are you sure Beth will call Denny and tell him what she's remembered?” Esme asked. “I don't like that there's getting to be so many things I have to keep from him.”

“She'll call,” I said. “She'll edit liberally, but she'll call. This could break open the investigation. The murder must have taken place right in her backyard while she lay there unconscious. That'll tighten the time frame.”

“Assuming she was unconscious and not having a blackout where she was still functioning but she's blocked it out
now. And assuming she's remembering and not misremembering. And assuming she's telling all she remembers. And assuming everything she's telling is the truth of how she remembers it.”

“That's a lot of assuming,” I said.

“Ain't it just?”

*  *  *

The drive to Crawford was an exercise in frustration. I wanted go on talking things through with Esme, and I was worried about Peyton and how things would go when Beth talked with Denny. But we couldn't say anything in front of Tony since there was a possibility—remote, I sincerely hoped—that he might have some involvement.

With effort I put some of it on the mental back burner as we drove into town. I started to recognize some of the Crawford landmarks from the old movie. Tony intended to reproduce some of the same shots and angles as in the forties film and he didn't need us for this part. We'd do voice-over later. We parked, coordinated a meet-up time, then Esme and I went off in search of information while Tony captured his visuals.

At the courthouse Esme and I divvied up the tasks. I headed for the land appraiser's office while she went off to vital records to check some missing birth, marriage, and death dates.

The clerk, a young woman who looked fresh out of high school, helped me find what I was looking for and I traced the four hundred acres of Hargett land through several divisions as it was split between heirs or sold out of the family.
The original tract still in Hargett family ownership was Olivia's piece, almost fifty acres. Her great-great-grandfather, Isaac Hargett, had paid less per acre than we'd pay for a spot in a parking garage today. The clearing had been done by men, mules, and gritty determination. I wondered what old Isaac would think if he could see it now.

Next I went down the hall to the clerk of courts office to see if I could find the disposition of Johnny L. Hargett's drunk-and-disorderly arrest. When I rang the little bell on the counter the same young woman came out from the back.

“Me again,” she said. “Lisa's out; I'm covering for her. I'm Katy, by the way.”

“Well, I hope you can work your magic here for me, too.” I told her what I was after.

Her expression didn't give me much hope. “Records that old would be in the long-term storage in the basement. I don't even have access to those,” she said. Then she brightened. “But there are some summaries that we've got on microfiche, for some years anyway. Let me go see what I can track down.” She moved a pad of paper over to me so I could write down the name and year.

As fifteen minutes dragged on to twenty I started to worry again about what might be happening to Peyton back in Morningside. I deflected those thoughts by matching Oscar-winning movies to the dates on the record books lining the shelves behind the counter. Nineteen seventy-six,
Rocky;
1975,
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest;
1974,
The Godfather Part II;
1973,
The Sting
. I got hung up on 1972, then remembered it was the original
Godfather,
which in my mind made the 1974 selection a case of double-dipping.

“Sorry it took so long,” Katy said as she came back in. She was carrying some papers, which I took as a good sign. “I did find the case. It was dismissed with time served, like most of 'em were. They didn't have but a two-cot, one-cell jail back then; guess they had to keep 'em rotating. But there's an arrest report if you want to call it that. It's not much, not even a form, just these handwritten notes, and if you can read a half-dozen words of it you're doing better than me. But this is all we've got.”

I thanked her again and tried to decipher the chicken scratch handwriting as I walked down the hall to meet up with Esme. There had been an altercation at a pool hall. Johnny Hargett, according to the report, had been “drunk and mouthy.” I smiled. Today a similar report would read that the subject was intoxicated and belligerent. My smile disappeared as I read the brief physical description. He was described as five feet, nine inches tall, approximately two hundred pounds, and his race was listed as “Other.” Our Johnny Hargett was a tall, slender white man.

When I went into the vital records office Esme was chatting with a woman who could have been Katy's grandmother. She motioned me over. “This is Miss Imogene. She and Olivia grew up together.”

Imogene nodded. “We did. And her mama was my teacher when I was in the sixth grade. She was a sweet lady. I haven't seen Olivia in years, but please tell her hi for me and tell her I'd love to see her next time she's in town.”

“Will do,” I said, giving Esme the eye signal that we had something to discuss.

“We'll let you get back to your work, Miss Imogene,” Esme said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Wow,” I said as we moved to the small table where Esme had been working. “And I thought Morningside was a small town. Listen, I think your theory about someone else using Johnny's ID may be right.” I told her about the conflicting description.

“Well, from what we've learned about him I don't have any problem with describing Johnny Hargett as ‘Other,' but not when it comes to his race. He was about as Caucasian as you can get.”

“So if we take your scenario we're only left with Mrs. Yarborough's spotting of Johnny at the train station.”

“Which is thin evidence to begin with. She was elderly and had bad eyesight,” Esme said, then fanned her hand in the air in irritation. “Okay, okay, and Celestine says she had a fanciful streak, which I take to mean she made stuff up out of whole cloth.” Esme made an
um-hm
noise. And Celestine may have encouraged Mrs. Yarborough in that story. You know she wasn't wanting the real story to come to light, which we certainly understand, don't we?” Esme rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Perfectly understandable.”

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. “Okay, so my two concerns have been pretty much placated. Rest in whatever peace you can find, Johnny Hargett.”

We didn't need to meet Tony for another half hour, so I decided to see if I could unearth some info on Charlie Martin. If Tony and I went ahead with “The Charlie Project,” as Tony was already referring to it, we'd need some background. And since we were already in the right county courthouse, why not use the time to some purpose?

I had little to go on, so I didn't expect the search to be easy, but it quickly started looking hopeless. There was a virtual infestation of Martins in the county and numerous Charles Martins, but none seemed to fit the right age range.

“You losing your touch?” Esme teased. “You need my help?”

Since I'd taught Esme nearly everything she knew about records searches, I ignored the taunt and accepted the help.

Minutes later she brought a record book over to my table. “I found a Charlie Martin here, and the time frame sort of works, but I can't be sure it's your Charlie.”

“You're doing better than I am,” I said. “Let me see.”

“Some kind of declaration, looks like it was for guardianship maybe. You're better at deciphering these things than me.”

“Hershel Tillett?” I said, scanning the page. “That was Charlie's best friend's name, the one he joined the army with, but this can't be the same guy, he's too old.” I read on, struggling with the faded ink and the barely legible handwriting. The upshot was that one Hershel Tillett was seeking to take a boy named Charles Martin into his household and serve as his legal guardian. Tillett declared that his two natural children, Hershel Jr. and Lucille, also resided in his household. Then there was a paragraph that was completely illegible.

“Wow, so his friend must have been Hershel Jr. But Charlie didn't say he actually lived with the family, though he did say his folks died when he was pretty young.” I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. “Interesting, but I'll have to follow up later; we've got to meet Tony.”

I took a quick photo of the page in question with my
phone camera since I didn't have time to get copies made, and we gathered up our things.

As Esme and I waited for the ancient elevator I started to worry again about what might be happening back in Morningside.

“What's gonna happen is gonna happen,” Esme said, staring at the smeared elevator doors. “Troubling yourself about it won't change a thing.”

“How do you know I'm troubled?” I asked. “I think I've been pretty chill, all things considered.”

“Honey, you're so agitated folks might mistake you for a washing machine. I'm gonna start calling you Miss Maytag.”

*  *  *

We rejoined a happy Tony. “Wow, I've never been so psyched about a lack of progress,” he said. “Some of these places haven't changed much at all.”

“Maybe they'd prefer to call it preservation,” I said.

“Whatever,” Tony said with a shrug. “I call it good footage.”

But despite Tony's assessment of Crawford as we drove out to the Hargett farm, I was taken aback by the modernity of the place. I had a picture in my mind from reading Celestine's diaries and had half expected it to appear in sepia tone.

We walked around the property with Tony filming from every conceivable angle, then used the keys Olivia had given us to get inside to film the rooms of both houses. As time wore on Esme started to get flustered, muttering and occasionally putting her hand across her forehead.

“Who's Miss Maytag now?” I asked, when Tony was out of earshot.

“Shush, it's Celestine,” Esme said. “She's getting all riled up again. It's this place. I need to get out of here and take a walk.”

“I'll come with you,” I said, glancing over to where Tony was absorbed in panning across the living room's fireplace wall.

“No, you stay here and supervise Mr. Spielberg over there,” Esme insisted. “I just need some air.”

I was concerned about Esme, but I knew better than to argue. I waited for Tony to finish filming the rooms, then checked the list on my phone and followed Olivia's directions on where to find meaningful family artifacts for Tony to film. This is one facet of family history documentation people sometimes neglect. We live our lives among things. Even when we were cave dwellers we had our favorite rock for breaking open nuts or a long limb that made a good walking stick. It often takes me by surprise how a seemingly insignificant thing, like a cookie jar with a broken lid, or lamp with a tattered shade, can be imbued with so many memories.

Tony and I worked well together. I put a white tablecloth on the long farmhouse table where Tony could film each artifact in panorama. I carried each back to storage as Tony finished filming. There was the biscuit bowl, a big crockery bowl with blue stripes around it, and a glass vase in which Celestine had proudly displayed the wildflowers Olivia picked for her, always including the stinky bitterweed little Olivia found beautiful, despite the vile smell. Then more objects, more furniture, and finally some architectural features of the houses.

When we'd finished I went in search of Esme while Tony packed up his gear. I called out and could hear her answering voice coming from somewhere far away. I followed it to the back side of the property, which sloped gradually downhill, past what I assumed had once been a thriving garden plot and was now a patch of rutted, fallow ground. I hiked past dilapidated outbuildings that were once chicken coops and corncribs and through a copse of trees along a narrow, snaking trail. I brushed aside bushes, picking at my jeans, until I came to a clearing. As I stepped out, the wind freshened and I could hear rushing water. I spotted Esme standing by a wide river gazing up at the old railroad trestle that still spanned the water. The rusting hulk looked as if it had been abandoned for decades.

I walked down to where Esme stood. “You okay?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I'm not. Poor Celestine. She is weary and restless and I can't help her. Look at this place.” She made a sweeping gesture of the picturesque scene. Water tumbled over the rocks, some smooth, some craggy, that formed a stepping-stone path out almost to the middle of the river. The trees along the far bank were all decked out in autumn oranges and golds; dying shafts of sunlight the color of the inside of a lemon muted it all and gave it a faded soft-focus look. The river was fast moving and the susurration of water sluicing around rock should have been a soothing sound, but instead it seemed an ominous sound track to the story we had burned into our brains of how Johnny Hargett had died here. The bleak skeleton of the trestle silhouetted against the dying light of the sky seemed to harbinger despair and ruin to anyone who came close.

“We should go, Esme,” I said. “This isn't doing you any good and apparently it's not helping Celestine, either.”