The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (22 page)

“Sorry, Adam. Just thinking aloud.”

“Could I go back to fighting crime now? I hear some noise outside—I think it’s the city falling apart.”

“Listen, thanks a lot.”

“Whatever I can do for you, kid. You know that.”

“I know.” He’d been with her the night she shot Jim’s killer.

She called Jane Storey and ran down what she had. “Not bad,” said Jane. “Not good, but not really bad.”

“That fraud thing might be interesting.”

“Libelous, however. What the hell, I’ll call the cops in Savannah. Maybe it’ll come to something or other.”

“I wonder what he was doing there?”

Next, she called Mary Lou at the Christian Community and asked where Jackson came from in the first place. “Atlanta, I guess.”

“You sure?”

Mary Lou sighed dramatically. “Let me go look at the file.” Skip could almost see her waddling to get it.

“Savannah,” she said in a minute.

“Bingo.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later she was in the library, photocopying the ‘Jackson’ section of the Savannah phone book. There were six Earls and one Theophilus.

Back home, she called the Theophilus.

A woman answered—Mrs. Theophilus Jackson, also known as Perdita. “There’ve been Earls,” she said. “Quite a few Earls in the family.”

“This one became a preacher.”

“Oh, yes. I know the one you mean. He’s a few cousins removed, I b’lieve. Or something like that. His folks were—let me see—Blanche! Blanche and Harry. Or maybe it was Henry. Something like that, anyway.”

As she talked, Skip scanned the Jacksons. “Henry on DeRenne Avenue?”

“Now that’s his brother, I think. There were three of those boys. Henry and Earl and—let’s see now …” There was a long silence. “Thomas! That’s it. Henry and Earl and Thomas. Earl became a preacher, and Henry married Marcelline Sims from over at Port Wentworth. He’s a pretty good car mechanic. We’ve always used him. Thomas, now. They say the good die young, and everyone said that about Thomas. Something sudden, I think. Heart attack. He was a bus driver, can you imagine? What if he’d been drivin’ the bus at the time?”

“What about his wife?”

“Let me see now … Eva! Think she lives out at Wilmington Island.”

Skip tried Eva first, but got no answer. Next she tried Henry. Since it was daytime, the best she could hope for was Marcelline. But a man answered, quite a young one from his voice.

“Is Mrs. Jackson there? Marcelline Jackson?”

“She isn’t here right now. This is her son Theo—can I help you?”

Why not?
Skip thought. He sounded very young indeed. She made her voice a little more Southern, a lot less confident, and about an octave higher. “I’m calling for a newspaper in Louisiana—about your Uncle Earl?”

“Oh, Uncle Earl. Did he die or something?”

“Well, no. He’s been elected president of the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Uncle Earl? You sure you got the right Earl Jackson?”

“Well, I must, because he said something along those lines. He said, ‘‘My family sure would be proud of me. Nobody would have ever thought when I was growin’ up.. .’

“Of course, him being a preacher and all, I didn’t really believe it, I thought it was just a kind of modest thing he said, but then I thought, ‘Wait a minute. There might be a pretty good story in this.’ We’re just a tiny town, you know; even something like the Chamber of Commerce is news. And I’m kind of—you know—new here. So I thought … I mean, nothing much happens here, so I thought…”

“Did you say Uncle Earl’s a preacher?”

“Well, yes. With the Christian Community?”

“You got to have the wrong Earl Jackson.”

“Earl Theophilus Jackson?”

“That’s him, but—”

“You sound so nice. I know a boy from Savannah— Charlie Kendall? You know Charlie?”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“He goes to Georgia Tech. Unless he’s flunked out by now. I went to Agnes Scott.”

“Really? You know Patsy Scarborough?”

“Patsy! She used to live right down the hall from me. Nice girl. Real nice girl.”

“My roommate used to go out with her. We go to Georgia.”

“Oh, yeah, I think I met him. Mike, uh … no, that’s not right…”

“Jim. Jim Halsey.”

“Oh, yeah. I think we all went tubing together once. You sound so nice. I can’t believe your uncle isn’t nice, too.”

“I never knew him, to tell you the truth, but I’ve heard stories about him all my life. He was kind of the bad boy of the family. Oh, Lord! Know what he’s supposed to have done? I hope this doesn’t gross you out.”

“Omigod. What?” She tried to get her voice to convey wide-eyed innocence.

“He buried baby chicks up to their necks and then mowed their heads off with a lawn mower.”

“You’re kidding! He couldn’t have done that.”

“My dad and my great Aunt Alice swear he did. And that’s not all. He fried goldfish alive—”

“In corn meal batter or what?” She managed a little giggle.

“I think he just sautéed them with a little butter and garlic.”

“I bet they flipped their little tails around like baby whales.”

Both of them got a fit of the giggles. “Oh, you’re so baaad.”

“You’re pretty bad yourself.”

“Know what else he did? He put a cat and a litter of kittens through an entire dryer cycle.”

“Gross! Little bitty kittens—how could he?”

“I see you’re a cat lover.”

“I just don’t see how anybody could be so mean, that’s all.”

“What about the fish?”

“Well, it’s not like they have fur or anything! Somebody who’d hurt kittens would probably …”

“What?”

“Well, I’m wondering. Did he ever get in trouble with other kids or anything?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You know. Fights maybe. I don’t know. Maybe he built a tiny little guillotine.”

“Oh, come on. He was just mischievous, that’s all.”

“You know, I think this could really be a fun story.”

“Oh, yeah! Think how embarrassed he’d be.”

“It’d be kind of like a roast. I wonder if I could talk to your dad about him?”

“Well, mom and dad are in North Carolina right now. I kind of have the house to myself. Listen, I was wondering, do you ever get over this far? We’ve got a great beach here.”

“Gosh, I don’t think I could right now. I’ve only had this job two weeks.”

“Damn!”

“Is there anybody else who knew your uncle? Maybe I could talk to them.”

“Well, there’s Aunt Alice, but she’s so deaf you have to write to communicate with her.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Sherman, but…”

“Oh, damn! A five-alarm fire. Listen, nice talking with you. Can I call you back?”

Chapter Fifteen

THROWING SOME CLOTHES in a backpack, Torian thought she had never met a man like Reverend Jacomine. Someone who almost read her thoughts, who treated her like an adult—more so than Noel did.

She could have gone to her father; certainly she could have. But she didn’t think that was the best strategy at this point. She wanted to up the ante on them both—her mother and her father. She could go to her dad now, with her slightly bruised nose—face it, despite her first fears, it wasn’t broken or anything—and he might or might not take it seriously.

Maybe he’d use it as an excuse to try to get Torian back from Lise, and maybe he’d succeed and maybe he wouldn’t; or maybe he’d just say Lise was high-strung and give her another chance. She wanted to do something he couldn’t ignore. She wanted him to hear her cry for help loud and clear.

And if she ended up staying with Lise, she wanted to make sure it was on better terms.

I’m at the end of my rope, goddammit—nobody believes it because I’m only fifteen.

But I can’t do this; I can’t live like this, even if I do have Noel.

There were adults in the world who would have nit-picked about logic and reason, but Reverend Jacomine had cut right through the bullshit, exactly as if he had known what she knew—that she had to make a statement. A big statement.

And he had been willing to help. How many adults would have done that? Not even Noel. Noel wasn’t going to send her to Paulette until the Rev had suggested it.

He might be a great man. I don’t think I ever met one before.

I’m so proud to have worked for him, to be associated with him.

When I go home, I’ll join his church. I’ll work for him that way.

She went outside to find a cab, too impatient to call one and wait for it.

* * *

A young woman was sitting on the porch when she arrived. Her house had once been painted gray, but it was peeling now. Still, it looked cozy and welcoming, perhaps because of copious petunias growing in large pots.

The woman on the porch stood up and waved. Torian couldn’t imagine who she might be—she was too old to be another runaway, yet not nearly old enough to be the proprietor.

She wore jeans and a tank top that showed off heavily muscled arms. She was dark, with short hair, slightly sharp features, a benign demeanor.

Cajun, Torian thought. She had met only a few Cajuns, but she was always drawn to them—they seemed so gentle and soft-spoken; so friendly. She was drawn to Jews, too— and Italians. To almost anyone different from Lise.

“Torian? Paulette Thibodeaux. Do ya need me to cover the taxi?” Paulette started down the walk.

“No. I’m fine.” She paid the driver and turned to face the woman. She was shocked that Paulette was so tall—as tall as Noel, and probably about as solid. She had a certain amount of weight on her, but she had muscles, too. Either she did manual labor every day or she worked out.

She looks like a goddess,
Torian thought, feeling young and small beside her.

She blurted: “I didn’t know you’d be so young.”

Paulette laughed, and her laugh was rich, resonant, almost bass. “Everybody expects a mother. I’m more like an older sister. Is ‘at good enough?”

Torian looked at her, instantly loving her. She nodded, smiling, realizing she hadn’t meant to smile, just couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Sure.” She felt suddenly shy.

Paulette turned and led her up the walk. “Ya hungry? I got some ice cream bars. We don’t eat supper till later.” She looked at her watch. “We havin’ gumbo tonight. Ya like gumbo?”

“Who doesn’t like gumbo?”

“Tha’s right. Nobody dodn’t like gumbo.” She laughed her rich laugh again.

Inside, the house was utilitarian, apparently furnished much like Lise’s apartment—with whatever could be gleaned from Goodwill or Volunteers of America.

“Ya room’s upstairs. Ya gon’ stay with Faylice. She’s makin’ the gumbo right now.” Paulette led her up to a greenish room with marks on the walls, many looking as if they’d been put there by hands. There was a rain forest poster on one wall, and a framed print of The Last Supper on another. Two single beds were covered with Indian print bedspreads, and a beat-up chest of drawers completed the furnishings.

“It’s not fancy, but I think it’s kinda cheery, don’t you?” said Paulette. “Ya wanna wash up or anything? Then come to the kitchen. I’m fixin’ Faylice some iced tea.”

Torian turned to thank her, but Paulette was gone. She was glad to have a few moments alone, to assimilate what she’d gotten into. This place was worse than Lise’s.

But probably not worse than Covenant House.

She shuddered. She’d thought about Covenant House a lot. It was where runaways went, but surely they were runaways from Kansas or Missouri. Nobody ran away from the French Quarter; it was where you ran to.

Well, I did. I pulled it off, and I’m even in a place where they don’t have to call my parents after three days. Maybe I could stay here awhile.

She was surprised at the thought.

Maybe I’m getting used to it
.

Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter. It’s really no worse than Lise’s—the main thing is, Lise isn’t here.

She checked out the barely adequate bathroom (nothing interesting in the medicine cabinet), then the other two bedrooms. One, she thought, must be Paulette’s, because it had a double bed and some cosmetics lying around, as if someone lived there full time. The other was much like Torian’s. There was a suitcase on the floor, and underwear had been tossed on the bed. So there was probably at least one other kid there.

She wondered if Paulette had a lover.

Maybe the Rev.

She felt her cheeks go hot the minute she thought it. Well, she couldn’t help it if she thought older men were more mature, and that the Rev was practically God.

Though of course
, she thought,
I’m not attracted to him
.
Anyway, would you do it with God? The Rev’s not eligible.

She went downstairs, to find Paulette and a fat black girl sitting at the table. Both were drinking iced tea and the girl was also chopping vegetables and sausage, neat piles of which lay on the table in bowls.

A third glass of tea, its ice cubes starting to melt, had been set out on a napkin.

Paulette pointed to it. “For you. Torian, this is Faylice.”

Torian turned to the black girl, about to extend her hand, but she realized the girl’s hands were gummy from cooking, and that anyway this might not be behavior she’d learned in her neighborhood.

Faylice was very dark, one of the darkest people Torian had ever seen. Her hair was pulled back some way or other, out of her face, but it had no style and apparently hadn’t been intended to. She had large boobs and she was big around, but not obese. Since she wore shorts, Torian could see that she had tree-trunk thighs and knees so well padded they hardly showed.

Her strong healthy teeth were lovely against her dark skin; indeed there was something about her smile that Torian found touching. Something sweet, something vulnerable, something needy—Torian couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it was the thing that Anne Frank wrote about—the faith that things would be okay, that people weren’t so bad, despite all evidence to the contrary.

She was only thirteen or fourteen, Torian thought.

“How you?” said Faylice.

“I’m okay. You need some help?”