Tomorrow River (35 page)

And
I’m
sure the reporter got that part about Grampa saving her wrong.

The newspaper also quoted Fire Chief Al Cobb: “We know the blaze started on the second floor of the house, but the source is still not clear. Our investigation will continue.”

What I think happened is that Gramma was playing with her dolls, performing her Saint Joan of Arc reenactment, and the fire got away from her.

Or maybe not.

I guess what exactly occurred that night will remain a mystery until my grandmother can recover enough to tell us what happened, which more than likely will never come to pass. She has been charged with murder and attempted murder, but is not here today because she was found non compos mentis—not of sound mind and not fit for trial. She’s been taken to a special hospital in Richmond for people with criminal mental disorders. I don’t believe she’ll be returning to normal no matter how many electrical treatments they give her this time.

When we went to visit our bandaged Gramma last week, I whispered to Woody in the hospital room, “She looks like Gram
Mummy
,” because I am still furious with her. Mama didn’t think that joke was so funny. She brought a small bouquet that she picked out of her new garden to the woman who tried to murder her. When I asked her why she would do such a nice thing, as I find it truly incomprehensible, Mama told me, “Mr. Mark Twain said, ‘Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.’”

Well, I love that sentiment, I really do, but that’s all it is to me. I may have inherited my mother’s hair color and her green eyes, her love of words and poetry, but clearly, the ability to forgive went right over my head.

Except when it comes to my papa.

T
he three tall windows on each opposing wall of the courtroom are open as wide as they will go. Outside, the full-leafed trees are still. The ceiling fans are whirring like crazy, trying to pull away the heat that has got to be dripping down everybody’s neck the same way it is mine.

“They’re calling your name, honey,” Mama says. She and Woody and I are sitting in the second row in the courtroom. My mother is not taking up much space because she is still very thin, despite Beezy making her eat chicken potpie prison-style three times a week.

On my way up to the stand, I have to pass by the table where the Carmody men are grouped with their lawyer—Bobby Rudd. My family’s attorney has the most winning record in the Commonwealth. He is Grampa’s age and has gotten Uncle Blackie out of scrapes lots of times. I can tell by the way that Mr. Rudd is preening in his nice suit and lavender shirt and striped tie that he is confident he’s not going to have to go to trial this time neither.

My father does not look powerful like he used to when he was the one up on the bench like Judge Elmer Whitmore is today. Papa catches my eye. I recognize that repentant look. It’s the same one he’d give Woody and me when he took us out of the root cellar some mornings.

Once I take my place in the witness box, Mr. Lloyd Riverton holds out the Bible and tells me, “You know how it’s done, Miss Shenny.” Mr. Lloyd was the bailiff in Papa’s courtroom, too, so he and I are on friendly terms. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

I hope I mean it when I say, “I do.” I am afraid that I might give in to my love for Papa. Run down from the witness box, climb into his lap, and set my head on his shoulder. I’ve got on his favorite dress today. The blue one with the Peter Pan collar.

Mr. Will Stockton, who is the prosecuting attorney, explains, “I’m going to ask you some questions now, Shenny. I’ll be as brief as I can. Can you answer truthfully?”

I know that’s what I have to do. For Mama. “I can.”

He asks, “After your mother’s disappearance last year, did you attempt to find her?”

“Not right away.”

“Why is that?” the attorney asks.

“Well . . .” I look over at my mother. “At first, I thought she’d come back and then . . . well. There’s lots of reasons I didn’t set off to hunt her down, but mostly, I just didn’t know how to go about finding her. I’m just a kid.”

The folks in the gallery laugh a little.

The attorney waits until they settle to ask, “But recently you started a search. Why was that?”

I say, not trying to look at my father, “Papa was threatening to send Woody away, so more than ever I needed to find Mama.”

Mr. Stockton asks, “So you set out to find your mother and then what happened?”

“I gave up almost immediately.”

“Why?”

I don’t know if I can go through with this. Papa is looking at me with woeful puppy eyes.

“Shenny?” the attorney asks. “Why did you stop searching for your mother?”

I draw in a breath, fix my eyes on my mama and sister, and say, “Because my papa told me that she was dead.”

Mr. Bobby Rudd shouts “Objection” over the mumbling and grumbling the courtroom observers are making.

Judge Whitmore says, “Overruled. You may proceed.”

Mr. Stockton nods and says, “Well, we know now that your father told a lie, don’t we, Shenny? We can see that your mother is alive.”

All heads swivel her way. Mama doesn’t acknowledge them. She’s only got eyes for me.

“Did anyone else tell you that your mother was dead?” the attorney asks.

“Yes, sir. My grandmother.” This is the easy part. I don’t feel bad at all telling him and everybody else, “Gramma told me she killed my mother.”

There is no reaction in the courtroom. This is old news.

“And did you believe your grandmother when she told you that?”

“No, sir. I thought her nerves were breaking down again. But then she showed me a picture of her standing over Mama in the clearing near our woods and my mother looked dead.”

Mama isn’t smiling anymore. She’s holding a hankie up to her eyes.

Mr. Stockton asks, “Do you have anything else to add?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you may step down.”

When I go back to my seat, past their table, Papa is not scowling nor is that vein bulging in his temple the way it would be if he was mad. He gives me his I’m-sorry smile again and that is the hardest part of all. My head knows that it’s wrong to forgive him, but my heart knows no such thing.

Woody gets sworn in next and when Mr. Lloyd Riverton asks her, “So help you God?” she nods.

Judge Whitmore, who is as lean as beef jerky and has the reputation of being just as tough, says to the court reporter, Maddie Gimbel, “Let the record reflect that the witness has nodded her head yes and that all further nods or shakes of the head are to be so noted.” Then to Woody he says, “Please be seated.” The judge knows that my sister still doesn’t speak so good. Everybody does. He has thoughtfully provided Woody with a pencil and a piece of paper to write her answers if she needs to because she is an extenuating circumstance. Mama and I told Mr. Stockton that Woody’s hearing is real sensitive and not to raise his voice to her under any circumstances. And to keep his questions to a bare minimum on doctor’s orders.

Mr. Stockton approaches the witness box. “Did you see somebody hurt your mama the night of June the eighth, 1968, Jane Woodrow?” he asks nice and quietly. “And if so, who was it? Take your time.”

My twin looks at me and then at Mama. She doesn’t reach for her pencil and pad of paper. She shocks us by saying her very first regular word in over a year. “Gramma.”

It is chilling.

The attorney asks, “Do you mean Mrs. Ruth Love Carmody?”

Woody nods.

“Did you see anyone else back there that same night?”

Woody lifts her finger and points first at my father, who has hunched in his chair. Then she fingers my grandfather, and finally, Uncle Blackie, who are sitting ramrod straight, unbent by what they have done.

Judge Whitmore says, “Let the record reflect that the witness has pointed to each one of the defendants.”

“That’s all, Jane Woodrow. Thank you. You may step down now.” Mr. Stockton helps her out of the witness box.

My sister and I are allowed to stay and hear Curry Weaver, aka Lieutenant Anthony Sardino from the Decatur, Illinois, Police Department, answer the questions that I already know the answers to. I want to hear what he has to say in case I missed something.

After Curry lifts his hand off the Bible and gives all his credentials, Mr. Stockton asks him, “How is it, Detective Sardino, that you came to our fine city to investigate the disappearance of Mrs. Evelyn Carmody?”

Curry, who looks extremely intelligent in a tan suit and shirt, answers, “The disappearance of Mrs. Carmody was first brought to my attention by Mr. Sam Moody. He asked for my assistance.”

“Why did Mr. Moody feel that was necessary?” the lawyer asks. “Did he have misgivings about Sheriff Andy Nash’s abilities to thoroughly investigate the disappearance of Mrs. Evelyn Carmody?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Curry takes a sip of water that has been provided. “Mr. Moody understood the power the Carmody family wields over the town. He felt that the sheriff was being stonewalled by them.”

Bobby Rudd calls out, “Objection, Your Honor. Prejudicial.”

Judge Whitmore says, “I’ll allow it.”

“After you arrived in town, did you establish a relationship with Sheriff Nash?” the state’s attorney asks.

“Yes,” Curry answers. “As a professional courtesy, I identified myself to the sheriff and we agreed to try our best to get to the bottom of things together with the help of Mr. Moody.”

“Miz Carmody was gone for almost a year. What led you and the sheriff to believe that she was still alive?”

“It wasn’t so much that we believed that she could be alive, but for the sake of her children . . . well, we hoped she was alive,” Curry says. “Her body hadn’t been found, and in these types of cases, it usually is.”

“Please tell the court how you proceeded in your search for Miz Carmody.”

“The sheriff and Mr. Moody suggested that I work undercover. They were concerned that my asking questions about Mrs. Carmody’s disappearance. . . . well, I was a stranger in town. They were afraid that might make people reticent to speak to me. And that my nosing around might get back to the Carmody family. Sam Moody suggested that I stay up at the hobo camp.”

“And were you able to use this subterfuge to your advantage?” Mr. Stockton asks.

Curry smiles at Woody and me. “Yes, the camp is where I had the opportunity to meet the Carmody children. And Miss Dagmar Epps.”

Over at the defendants’ table, a hurried conversation is going on. Mr. Bobby Rudd is whispering something into Uncle Blackie’s ear.

That doesn’t stop Mr. Stockton from asking Curry, “And how did the Carmody children and Miss Epps figure in your investigation?”

“After becoming friendly with the children, I learned more about the relationship between their parents.” He’s talking about our trestle-sitting conversations. “Miss Shenandoah Carmody was also kind enough to answer my questions about a few other people who I suspected might have something to do with Mrs. Carmody’s disappearance.”

“You also mentioned meeting Miss Dagmar Epps up at the camp.” The lawyer comes in closer. “What does she have to do with Miz Carmody’s disappearance?”

Curry looks to the back of the room and says, “Something Miss Epps told me led me to believe that there was a chance Mrs. Carmody was still alive.”

I crane my neck back and see E. J. standing next to Dagmar near the courtroom doors. He is holding her hand. Curry asked our mountain man to accompany her this morning.

“And what did Miss Epps tell you that led you to believe Mrs. Carmody might still be alive?” Mr. Stockton asks, not able to hide his excitement.

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay,” Attorney Rudd calls out.

Judge Whitmore says, “This is a hearing, Bobby. I’ll allow it. Go on, Detective Sardino.”

“Miss Epps made me aware of the fact that Judge Carmody had the propensity to commit what she described as ‘problem people’ to the hospital,” Curry says. “When I asked her what she meant, she told me that ten years ago she had conceived a child with Blackie Carmody and that he’d had his brother, Walter T. Carmody, arrange for her to be sent to The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded. The child was aborted and a court-ordered hysterectomy was performed on Miss Epps.”

The whole gallery breaks into outraged whispers and Bobby Rudd is up out of his chair so fast he knocks it over. “Objection, Your Honor! Objection!”

Judge Whitmore says, “Sit down, Bobby. You’ve seen the hospital records. You’re makin’ an ass out of yourself.”

The prosecuting attorney tries to squeeze back a smile and is not successful when he asks Curry, “After hearing Miss Epps’s story, is that when you realized that the Colony might be a perfect place for the Carmody family to hide Mrs. Evelyn Carmody, so she’d be unable to testify against Mrs. Ruth Love Carmody for attempted murder?”