Roots of Murder (23 page)

He continued. “I got some bad news and thought it best to deliver it in person. Junior Jones made bail. Judge reduced it, somehow his brothers managed to get it, and we had to spring him this afternoon.”

“That bastard's out?” Nell demanded. “How the hell did that happen?”

“I think his wife got to the judge, went on about needing him to provide for the family, that with all his ties here he wasn't a flight risk …”

“Just a drunken murderer,” Nell interjected.

“Charge is manslaughter, makes it harder to set high bail. I got to say, I think Junior had his chances, could of cleaned up if he wanted, and his promises now are just jailhouse talk. I wasn't happy to let him out.”

“You know his brothers probably assaulted my son,” Nell said. “As a warning to me. What do you think they might do now that he's out?”

The sheriff puzzled for a moment, then said, “They ain't forward thinking folks. He's out now, they're happy. They just might leave you alone until it gets time for the trial and they get hit with him going back in.”

“That's a big comfort,” Nell said sarcastically.

“I know the police here are just a tad overworked, so I'll tell my boys to keep a smart eye out for the Jones vehicles. Broken tail lights, anything; just let 'em know they're being watched. Also wanted to remind you about my cousin coming to town tomorrow and donating the funds for a new squad car. I'd sure appreciate some good coverage on that.” His purpose fulfilled, the sheriff eased out of the chair.

He hadn't directly linked the two topics. Nell admitted he probably even had decent intentions in coming to tell her about Junior Jones, but he was too much of the political animal to offer a favor without implying that one should be given in return.

“I don't know, Sheriff,” she said. “You're competing with the fishing rodeo and ‘Pickings in the Park' tomorrow.” Nell couldn't quite bring herself to give it to him on a platter. But she hastily added, “I'll be there, ready to do you justice,” as she wasn't sure he would see the humor.

“I'd sure appreciate that. Tomorrow at noon, right in front of the courthouse.” He stuffed his hat back on his head and shambled out of her office.

Nell again missed Thom; he would sort out the politics. She was astute enough to notice the sheriff didn't have a great deal of professional esteem for Whiz Brown, but how did the county machinations fit in with the town? Thom had always kidded that a campaign contribution of a certain amount prevented speeding tickets in Tchula County. Nell suspected there were several good ole boy networks operating; Thom would have known for sure, as he knew the unwritten rules. She did know the sheriff had fought hiring women, firmly believing it just wasn't a woman's place to strap on a gun or drive squad cars after miscreants. He'd finally relented when the sister of one of his deputies needed a job after a divorce. She had a degree in criminal justice, and perhaps that helped him see her as almost equal to men with only biceps and a high school diploma. Nell didn't believe the sheriff was on her side—whatever side that was. He would use her for his own ends, from the press coverage he wanted to feeding her select information about his political enemies. But Nell didn't know who those where or what feuds from twenty years ago might only now surface.

With Thom, she had played the role of devil's advocate. She would have said, “Why are we doing his bidding? Why show up on a Saturday to get a posed picture of a cousin handing him a check?” She got to stay on the sidelines and remain pure, while Thom did the grubby,
glad-handing
work. “So I play the sheriff's game, the mayor's game, the police chief's game; I just don't know the rules or how to score.”

Nell glanced at her watch; it was a little past five. She was waiting for Jacko to come back, as he should have been kicked out right at five. She was hoping he either got nothing or a lot. Nell was too tired to wrestle with the conundrum of questioning Hubert Pickings with only half of what was there.

As she had guessed, Jacko returned a few minutes later. Nell left her office to greet him and was surprised to notice that Dolan, Ina Claire, and Pam were all still there. They usually left at five, especially on Friday.

“I could spend days there,” Jacko announced as he put a stack of papers down on his desk.

“And you probably will,” Nell told him. “What did you find?”

“I was only able to track down a few things, but so far everything agrees with your source. The one bombshell I managed to find today is that our esteemed mayor's father did get the property for $3,000. Three months earlier, it had been appraised for tax purposes at $32,000. However, the year before, it was listed as worth $21,200. The property assessor had decided the property had increased in value by just over a third in a year, with, obviously, a similar increase in property taxes.”

“Who was the assessor?” Nell asked.

“Albert Dunning.”

“Was there any stated reason for the increase? New buildings? Property improvement?”

“None stated.”

For a moment Nell was silent, thinking over the implications of what Jacko had found. “They used the system every way they could. If the people pay the taxes, they reassess the property and increase the taxes so they can't pay them.”

“Hubert Horatio Pickings bought the land for less than a tenth of what it was appraised for,” Jacko stated.

“How could he get away with that?” Pam asked.

“It was the age of Jim Crow and White Citizen Councils,” Ina Claire answered. “No mass communication; lot of people didn't even have phones. People were isolated and these men were the law.”

“According to some notes there was a lien on the property,” Jacko said. “Pickings
p
è
re
had loaned Elbert Woodling a tractor, with the property as collateral. It appears that the sale price included payback for the tractor. Just imagine what kind of tractor $30,000 would have bought back in those days.”

“Damn, they got the poor guy every way, coming and going,” Dolan commented.

“That's most of what I got. It took a while to find that assessed value, but it was worth it. That's what's going to hang them. All the stuff looks legit, ‘back taxes.' But then you compare it to how they were handling other properties, sudden increases in tax bills, maximum late penalties assessed if the bill was even a day late. I started on the Defouche property: they supposedly paid a day late, but I looked up a 1961 calendar and the day they supposedly paid was a Saturday, which probably means that the date was changed. They paid on a Friday, on time, but someone changed the date to make it look like they were late.”

“And sloppy enough not to check the days of the week,” Nell said. She added, “Great work, Jacko. It's those details that will tell the story. It was smart of you to both think of them and track them down.”

“And Alberta Bonier is going to be there tomorrow catching up on some stuff and she told me I could come in if I wanted. So I'll have a couple of hours tomorrow to keep digging.”

“Very good.”

“Young stud sweet talking those old courthouse ladies,” Dolan joshed.

“She's got a son around my age,” Jacko replied, a hint of blush on his face. “And she said she hates to be there by herself.”

They had all worked hard and cared enough to stay late. Time to get everyone home. Nell picked up the phone on Jacko's desk and dialed Carrie's cell number.

When the young woman answered, Nell said, “Carrie, you are to be all sweetness and light tomorrow with Hubert Pickings. Lead him on, ask him how his family got the property, dig as much as you can into the history of it; get him to go on record about it. Fawn if you have to. Ask things like how much his father bought it for, how much was it assessed for when they donated it to the park. Ask him what he knows about who owned it before them. See how much he knows. When you come in on Monday, I'll brief you on what Jacko has come up with and the questions you can ask when you change to steel and nails.”

Carrie ran down some questions with Nell, then said she'd see her on Monday. Nell put the phone down and told her assembled troops, “It's late, go home, get some rest. We'll be busy next week.”

Nell did as she told her staff. They were all quickly out the door and, by unspoken agreement, walked together to their cars.

Nell felt a little foolish driving only a block and a half to the library, especially as driving was the long route and walking would have been shorter, but she wanted the car as close as it could be. She parked in front.

“Hey, Mom, can we go to a cookout in the park?” Josh asked the second she walked through the door.

“Shush, Josh, you don't need to be so loud here, people might be reading,” Nell said.

“No one's reading. Late Friday is the slow time here,” Marion Nash, the librarian, answered. “And tonight is the cookout for our various reading clubs, and I know that Josh and Lizzie are members of at least one of them.”

More in the breach, Nell thought. Both her children read a good deal, but she couldn't remember any recent outings to book clubs. Then she slowly recalled there had been a few; there just hadn't been any in the last month.

“It'd be fun, Mom. We'd like to go,” Lizzie piped in.

“Who's going to be there?” Nell asked Marion Nash.

“I will, of course. Lilith, you've probably seen her on Saturdays, is already out there securing the fire pit. Robert and Marge, two of the high school English teachers, some parents. A healthy assortment of chaperones,” she added, getting to Nell's real point.

I'm getting paranoid, Nell thought. Marion Nash was the daughter of Erma and Payton Nash, and Erma was one of Mrs. Thomas, Sr.'s best friends. Payton had died a few years ago and Erma's health had declined, which was what brought Marion back from the Pacific Northwest where she'd been living. I'm interrogating Marion the Librarian, as Nell had to think of her, and wondering if she would be a proper chaperone for my children. In truth they would probably be much safer with the book group than home with only Nell.

“Kate is going to bring out some of the rental bikes, so I can do some bike riding,” Josh said, the icing on the cake as far as he was concerned. To placate his paranoid mother, he added, “We'll be in a group and on the trails, no one can drive by us out there.”

“I don't know,” Nell said. “It'd mean an entire evening when I could read what I want, get on the computer if I like, not have to muster a
children-approved
supper.”

“That means she'll let us go,” Lizzie interpreted.

“It'll be hard, but I might just manage it. Want to keep them all weekend?” Nell joked with Marion.

“Perhaps. Do they wash windows and weed gardens?”

“If you starve them long enough they might,” Nell answered, then wondered if Marion would take her dark humor askance. She was the daughter of Mrs. Thomas, Sr.'s best friend, after all.

“Mom!” was Lizzie's opinion on Nell's suggestion.

“Darn, and we already bought the hot dogs,” Marion replied, rewarding Nell with a quick smile.

Nell tucked that away, wondering if there was more to Marion the Librarian than she'd guessed. “How late will this shindig last?”

“We won't tempt the dreaded curfew monster. It should go no later than ten or eleven. Someone—one of the trustworthy adults—will get them home, so you really do get a free evening. They can either stay here, or if they want to change, you can drop them back by six when we close,” Marion offered.

“I need to change,” Lizzie decided for everyone.

Nell glanced at her watch. It was just past five thirty, which, given Lizzie's changing pace, meant they needed to move. “Okay, we'll be back here by six.” Nell agreed, with a quick look at her daughter to let her know “six” was meant for her.

It was flurry of running home, helping Lizzie find the right pair of pants—“Wherever you put them” wasn't the proper answer. Then back to the library just as Marion was locking the main door. Lizzie and Josh got out of Nell's car and into Marion's, and Nell had her evening free.

I haven't had this in such a long time, she thought as she reentered the silent house. There had been a parade of people in and out, family in town for the funeral, Josh and Lizzie out of school, hovering around her as she hovered around them. A sudden death, a prominent man, attention had been paid. Her friend Jane from Chicago had stayed for a week, been a great help with everything from making space in the refrigerator for yet another casserole to listening to Nell, holding her at night when Josh and Lizzie were in bed and she felt safe in releasing her grief. They had all been a comfort. They had also been a burden. Jane, who'd lost her husband to cancer, had warned Nell that this would be the hard part—when the tumult and attention subsided, when she had to learn to be alone.

Nell had always relished her moments of solitude, Thom off with the kids and the house blessedly hers. This time was different. As before, there was the release and luxury of having only herself to pay attention to, but this time was tinged with knowing this aloneness would come more often. Josh and Lizzie would grow up and away, even now in book clubs and on bike trips. Being alone was a luxury if it was rare, and Nell had to wonder how rare it would be in the future.

Jane may have been right, but still it was good to be alone. She nibbled supper, a container of yogurt; sliced an apple and some cheese. Broke her rule and sat at the computer to eat. It's not really a broken rule if you're the ruler, Nell decided. She checked her work email. There was a reply from Marcus. “It would cause apoplexy for my pension folks for me to go back to work, although I appreciate your offer.” Nell felt a stab of disappointment, but then she read, “However, I could certainly volunteer my services. The only thing I ask in return—and it may seem vain—is either a byline, if the reporting merits it, or a listing in the staff column. It's not your burden, but many years ago I wrote a few stories for the Crier during the integration of the beaches, and my name was never put to them. The closest I got to an explanation was that a black man reporting on civil rights issues would make it seem like biased reporting. If these conditions are acceptable, let me know when you'd like me to start. Also, of course, I can't do any reporting on the mayoral race, nor should I be present for any discussions about it. I will expect that you give me the same
hard-nosed
coverage you give all the other candidates.”