“Them kids,” Rosemary said, resuming her seat. “They about drive me crazy. Where was we?”
“Ms. Sullins,” Mr. Pickens began again, “I’m sure you read about the break-in at Sam Murdoch’s house. Whoever was responsible for it could’ve taken any number of things—television sets, computers, and so on—but they didn’t. They only took the cassettes with interviews on them and copies of certain case files. Yours was among them. We’re trying to find out who would’ve been that interested in information on five people, and five people only. Those five files were specifically taken. We know that because Murdoch had files on hundreds of people dating from the eighteen hundreds up to the present. Since yours was one of them, we wanted to ask if there’s anything you can think of that would lead us in the right direction.”
“You sayin’ I done it?”
“No.” Mr. Pickens shook his head. “Not at all. We don’t think any of the five did it. If one of you had, I figure you’d’ve only taken your own. Or else, you’d have grabbed any files at hand to cover yourself. But these five cases all occurred within the same ten-year period, back in the sixties. Something or someone ties them all together. We want to know if you have any idea of who or what it might be.
“Because I’ll tell you this,” Mr. Pickens went on in a seriously professional manner, “Murdoch is concerned that the information could be used against you—harm your reputations in some way or held over you to extort money.”
Rosemary Sullins considered that for a moment, her dark eyes staring steadily at Mr. Pickens. It came to me that she had a sharp native intelligence that was belied by her incorrect use of the language.
“Who was the others?” she asked again.
Mr. Pickens hesitated, then he must’ve decided that secrecy wasn’t necessary. “Teddy Tillman, Cassie Wooten, Rafe Feldman, Ilona Weaver. And you.”
I wouldn’t swear to it, but I do believe I saw a glint of recognition pass across her eyes, but there wasn’t a twitch on her face. She was giving nothing away.
I had to say something, so I said, “Do you know any of them? Personally, I mean?”
She switched her eyes to me. “Cassie, a little bit, long time ago. Them others?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I know of ’em, like everybody else in the county.”
She was right about that. The county wasn’t that large or that heavily populated. Live in it a few years, and eventually you’d hear of just about everybody else.
“Can you help us, Ms. Sullins?” Mr. Pickens asked. “And maybe help yourself? Whatever you can give us won’t go any further. A name, a few names, anything that would help us recover what was stolen.”
Her hand suddenly snaked out toward me. I reared back, frightened. I thought she was after my pocketbook, but her hand went down beside the sofa and came back with a pack of Marlboros and a box of kitchen matches. She lit up and contemplated. As smoke billowed from her mouth, I thought I saw a glint of sly amusement in her eyes.
“I can’t think of nobody,” she said. “Why don’t Murdoch jes’ do it all over again?”
“That’s the bad part of it,” I said. “The case files at the courthouse are missing, too. And every one of you refuses to do another interview. He called and asked you, didn’t he?”
She did smile then, somewhat smugly, I thought. “Yeah, he did. But I’m done with all that mess. I got no reason to go back over it again. ’Specially now, after somebody showed they don’t want me to.”
Mr. Pickens, beside me, took a deep breath. “Aren’t you a little concerned about what that somebody will do?”
“Naw,” she said, looking around. “What’d I do with that blamed ashtray? Them kids like to play in it, an’ I have to keep movin’ it.” But it was too late. The long ash fell on the rug. She looked at it a moment, then rubbed it in with her flip-flop. “Naw, I ain’t concerned a bit. I figure they did it to keep Murdoch from tellin’ stories outta school. They ain’t gonna turn around and do the same thing.”
“But you talked to him!” I protested. “You and all the others. Why’d you let him interview you in the first place if you cared about telling stories out of school?”
“Well, I guess we didn’t think it mattered after this long of a time.” She drew deeply on her cigarette, then got up and mashed it out in the ashtray she’d finally spotted on the television set. “But looks like we found out it did.”
“But to who?” I almost screeched. “Whom,” I corrected myself, as if that mattered under the circumstances. “You
know
, don’t you, Ms. Sullins? Or at least you have an idea of who it was.”
“I got no idea,” she said firmly. I could see her thin face set itself in rigid lines and knew we’d get little more out of her. Then she surprised me. “But if I got to guess, I’d guess it was that stuck-up know-it-all that Cassie married. It’s likely him. That’s who I’d go after, if I was you.”
“You think she’s right?” I asked as Mr. Pickens guided the car away from the curb in front of Rosemary Sullins’s house.
Mr. Pickens rubbed one hand down his face, squinched up his eyes in the bright sunlight and sighed. “Who the hell knows? Sorry, Miss Julia, I feel like we’re running around in circles.”
“Well, if you don’t turn around we will be or else on our way to Charlotte. Take a left at the next street and let’s go home. Like you, I am sick and tired of these people giving us the runaround. I think they all know who did it. Every last one of them, don’t you?”
“Hard to tell.” He fiddled with the air-conditioning vents with one hand while guiding the car with the other. “But the thing that strikes me is that none of ’em seems worried about it.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, recalling the complacency that the Tillmans and Rosemary Sullins exhibited upon hearing the news. “Except maybe Cassie, or at least her husband. Ilona Weaver, who could tell? But I know I’d be fit to be tied if my personal information was in unknown hands. And I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.” Seeing his amused glance, I went on. “I’m speaking of legal and/ or criminal matters, Mr. Pickens.”
Mr. Pickens let that lie for a few minutes as he concentrated on his driving. Then he said, “Interesting, though, don’t you think, that the Sullins woman brought up Cassie’s husband. We had the same thought, remember?”
“Yes, and he was the only one who showed any anger about it. But I couldn’t tell if he was mad at the thief for stealing Cassie’s information or at Sam for gathering it or at her for letting Sam have an interview. Or for serving a bad meatloaf.”
Mr. Pickens laughed—just a little, but more than he’d been doing. “Ah, well,” he said, “at least we’ve done the footwork. Now I need to do some thinking. And I’m hoping that one of them, after doing some thinking of their own, will give me a call. I left a card with everybody, and of course they all know you and Sam. Any kind of call from one of them might give us a break, so if you get one, be sure and set up a meeting. Anywhere, anytime.”
“That reminds me. I should give Cassie a call and invite her to lunch. If she’ll come over to the house or if she wants to meet downtown, do you want to be there?”
“Let me think about it. She might open up to you when she wouldn’t if I’m there. Just let me know if she agrees, but better not count on her husband letting her do anything.”
“Lord, Mr. Pickens, wouldn’t you hate to live with a man like that?”
He turned his black eyes on me, laughing again. “I don’t believe I’ll ever have to make that decision.”
“Oh, you. You know what I mean. I just feel for her having to put up with such a domineering and
oppressive
man. That’s no way to live in my opinion.”
I bit my lip then, thinking that I’d lived most of my life with a man of similar disposition. Wesley Lloyd Springer, though, had never been rude or disagreeable when there was an audience around, I could give him that. He’d saved his scathing words and marching orders for the times when we were alone.
Deliberately closing my mind to such thoughts, I said, “Well, what do we do next?”
Mr. Pickens cocked an eyebrow at me. “Am I invited to dinner tonight?”
“Of course you are. Lillian’s fixing creamed corn, fresh from the field. Or rather from a local produce stand.”
“Okay, then why don’t we sit around afterward and see if we can figure out where we are and where we go from here?” Before I could answer, he thought of something else. “Unless you think we’d disturb anybody.”
“If you mean Hazel Marie, no, we won’t. The doctor’s letting her get up a little today. But she’s not supposed to do anything strenuous, and he specifically told her not to get all upset over anything. Which,” I said with a baleful glance at him, “she’s been doing a lot of here lately.”
After a second of silence, he mumbled, “Maybe I better not come over.”
That wasn’t the response I wanted, so I had to think fast. “No, you come right on. Doctor Hargrove’s known for being overly cautious, and besides, there’s no reason you’d upset her, is there? I mean, the two of you have broken up and, as far as I’m concerned, that ought to be that. I’ll let her know that you’re coming for Sam’s sake and not in any way to bother her. Besides that, she wants Latisha to come visit—for the entertainment value, you know. And that child will keep Hazel Marie’s mind off any disturbing influence you might have. Not that I think you would,” I hurriedly added, “but still.”
“Okay,” he said, as if he wasn’t sure about it, “for Sam’s sake, then.”
Chapter 30
Mr. Pickens walked in that evening bearing a huge box of Godiva chocolates. He must’ve driven to Asheville after he dropped me off, for there wasn’t a place in Abbotsville that carried such expensive candy. A Whitman’s Sampler was about the best the town had to offer.
He handed the fancy box to me, saying, “Hazel Marie might like this. I don’t know if she’s well enough for candy, but . . .” He shrugged with a deprecating smile as if he knew it wasn’t much of an appeasement under the circumstances.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Pickens,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“Well, if she doesn’t,” he said, somewhat sadly, I thought, “maybe the rest of you will.”
“We all will, I assure you. I would suggest that you take it in to her since she’s up for a while, but she’s pleasantly occupied right now. I’d hate to stir up anything, which, I’m sorry to say, your appearance might do. Lloyd and Latisha are with her. And Sam, too. They’re putting a jigsaw puzzle of the Washington Monument together, and so far it’s slow going. I’ll tell you, Mr. Pickens, it has stretched my imagination to come up with ideas to entertain her. You’d be amazed at how little there is to do that doesn’t involve physical activity or emotional stress.”
Sam came out then to welcome him, shaking his hand as if they hadn’t spent the last few days together. I left them in the living room and walked back to see how Hazel Marie was getting along. After a moment of indecision, I left the box of chocolates on the chest in the hall. I’d give it to her later when Lloyd wasn’t around to witness whatever her response would be. Besides, nobody should be eating candy so close to dinnertime.
Hazel Marie and the two children were sitting around a card table in the bedroom. She was still in her gown and robe, which seemed to imply that she didn’t intend to show up in the dining room. Just as well, I thought, for Mr. Pickens needed to keep his mind on Sam’s problem tonight. Still, I hated for an opportunity to effect a reconciliation to pass by.
I walked over and stood between Hazel Marie and Lloyd, one hand on each of their shoulders. Looking down at the table where about a thousand pieces of puzzle were spread out, I said, “How is it coming?”
Not well, I could’ve answered myself, for they had only one corner and part of the top of the puzzle put together.
Hazel Marie looked up and smiled, indicating to me that she was enjoying the children’s company and that her stress level was on an even keel.
Lloyd said, “Hey, Miss Julia,” then watched Latisha as she tried to force two pieces together. “If they won’t go easily, Latisha, then they don’t fit.”
“Well,” Latisha said, discarding one piece and rummaging around for another. “I don’t know how them puzzle people ’spect us to put this thing together. They’s so much of this blue sky, you can’t tell one from another.”
“Let’s leave it for now,” I said. “You need to get your hands washed for dinner.”
Latisha, her little head covered in rows of plaits with colored beads on the ends, looked up. “I’m gonna eat in here with Miss Hazel Marie. She said I could, ’cause I never eat in no bedroom before.”
“That’s fine. You’ll be good company for her. Lloyd, do you want to eat in here, too?”
He glanced at his mother, seemed to hesitate, then said, “I guess I’ll come to the table. I wouldn’t want J.D. to think we don’t want to see him. It might hurt his feelings.”
I felt Hazel Marie stiffen under my hand, but she gave no other sign of distress. “It’s all right, Lloyd,” she said. “You run along. We’ll work on the puzzle after dinner.”
When the children left to wash their hands, I ventured a suggestion. “If you feel well enough, Hazel Marie, there’s still time for you to dress and come to the table, too. I mean,” I quickly said as she turned away, “you don’t have to, just if you feel like it. To be hospitable, if nothing else.”
“I don’t feel
that
good,” she said. “I wish he’d just leave and never come back. When he’s in the house, I start feeling all edgy and upset. Quivery, like I’m going to throw up.”
“Well, we certainly don’t want to start that again. You just stay in here and enjoy your dinner. But I will tell you that we’ll be going over the little we have on Sam’s problem afterwards, so Mr. Pickens will be staying later than usual. You might want to close your door.”
“It gets too hot,” she mumbled, and I marveled at the fact that even though she didn’t want to see him, she was making sure she could hear him.