The Trial of Dr. Kate (18 page)

Entering the dark building, she found display cases that held tools of every description. Feed and seeds of various kinds were stacked in gunnysacks almost to the ceiling, giving off a sweet aroma. Bins of every nail or screw anyone could ever need took up a third of one wall.

Spying Mr. Sloan, an older gentleman with rugged good looks and a mop of white hair, Shenandoah said, “My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. You may not remember me.”

“I remember you very well. I’d heard you were in town. There aren’t many secrets in a place this size.”

“I need a clock radio. You got one?”

“Just got in a new Motorola—it’s red. That okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Sloan turned and lifted a box off the shelf behind the cash register. Setting it on the counter, he said, “That’ll be fourteen dollars, including the tax.”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to look around a little before I pay for the radio.”

“Make yourself at home.”

A glass display case filled with knives caught Shenandoah’s attention. Most were pocketknives, but there were also several large hunting knives with stag horn handles. She thought of what Randall Moody had said about whittling a piece of cedar, and she wondered if it might calm her nerves like it did his grandmother’s.

“Need a knife, ma’am?”

“Not really.”

“Do you own one?”

“Never needed one.”

“Every person needs a pocketknife, ma’am. That’s how you take the measure of a person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. If a person’s knife has a broken handle, you know they’re rough and uncaring and don’t look after their things. If it’s rusty, you know they don’t clean up after themselves. And if the blade is dull, why, that’s the worst. It means the person is dull and doesn’t understand the first thing about knives or about life in general.”

Mr. Sloan reached into his pocket, pulled out a beautiful, shiny stag-horn-handled knife, and handed it to Shenandoah. It looked brand new.

“This knife’s twenty years old, ma’am. Open her up and feel that blade.”

Shenandoah took the knife from the man and promptly sliced a shallow cut in her right thumb. Cursing under her breath, she pulled a handkerchief from her shoulder bag and wrapped it around the wound.

“I see you aren’t used to dealing with sharp knives. You need a knife of your own. You’d be amazed at the things I find to do with mine. Just couldn’t get by without it.” He opened the cabinet. “This is one place where you get what you pay for. Case makes a fine pocketknife, and they come in different sizes and prices.”

Mr. Sloan removed a knife from the front shelf and passed it unopened to Shenandoah. “This is a good all-around knife with two blades. It’s reasonably priced, and if you take care of it, she’ll last you a long time.”

Shenandoah took the knife and ran her finger gently over the handle. It felt smooth and a little heavier than she had expected. This time she opened the large blade and felt the edge with care. When Shenandoah looked up, she saw that Mr. Sloan was holding a Band-Aid.

“You might want to put this on that cut.”

Placing the bandage around her thumb, Shenandoah said, “Thank you. I believe I’d like this knife.”

“Good choice. Now you’ll need a whetstone and a small can of Three-in-One Oil. Knife’s no good if it isn’t sharp. And you don’t look like a dull young lady.”

Mr. Sloan picked up a gray stone and a can of oil on the way to the cash register. He took a small paper sack from under the counter and slipped the items into it.

“How much do I owe you for all this stuff?” Shenandoah asked.

“Let’s see—two dollars and fifty cents for the knife, fifteen cents for the oil, twenty-five cents for the whetstone, fourteen dollars for the radio, and a dollar thirty-two cents tax. If you don’t have the pennies, I keep some at the cash register.”

After ringing up the sale, Mr. Sloan handed Shenandoah a receipt, the sack, and the box containing the radio. Smiling, he said, “You need anything else while you’re here, just come on in.”

“Thanks. There is one other thing you could do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Give me your thoughts on Dr. Kate Marlow.”

He frowned and thought a moment. “Jeb, her uncle, was my best friend, but I see Dr. Compton down in Livingston.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve always felt more comfortable with a man doctor. I’m kind of bashful, if you know what I mean.”

Shenandoah chuckled to herself.

“I can understand that. But what I really want to know is what you think of her as a person.”

“She’s a dedicated physician who takes good care of her patients. I think Round Rock is lucky to have her. Anything else, Miss Coleman?”

“No, sir. Thanks for everything.”

When she stepped into the sunlight past the front door, the heat hit her like a blast furnace. Checking her watch, she saw that it was almost noon. She was about to enter the City Café when he saw Jasper Kingman and Deputy Masterson heading for the front door. Discretion being the better part of valor, Shenandoah went back to the Bel Air. Static was a few miles up the highway, she remembered a general store there where she could get a sandwich. Besides, she wanted to ask around to see if anyone could place Dr. Kate in Static at the time of the alleged murder.

Driving on the one good straight stretch of highway between Round Rock and Static made her remember her first frantic ride with Bobby Johnson. The night before, they had agreed to meet on Sunday and take his son, Wally, to Dale Hollow Lake for a picnic.

She pulled up to the Static General Store at about 12:30, parked her car, and got out. The windows of the store were open, and a large ceiling fan sucked hot air into the building. A big pot-bellied stove sat in the middle of the store with several ladderback chairs around it. In the winter the place would be full of idle farmers sharing hunting and fishing stories. It was the same in every county in Tennessee.

A refrigerated display case on one side of the large room contained sandwich meats, cheese rounds, links of sausage, and slices of country ham. An old woman who looked to be in her mid- to late seventies stood behind the case. “What you want, young lady?” she asked.

“Is that cheddar cheese in the middle?”

“Sure is. Want some?”

“Cut me off a slice, please. Do you have any Vienna sausages? What about saltines?”

“Got ‘em all, honey. Have a seat at the bench there and I’ll bring ‘em to you.”

“How about a Coke, too?”

“Sure.”

Shenandoah ate, and then wiped her mouth with her handkerchief and burped discreetly under her breath. The old woman was adjusting some merchandise on a shelf as she walked up to the cash register. “How much do I owe you?” Shenandoah asked.

“Three dollars even. We count the tax in the price.”

Shenandoah took out her wallet and pulled out three ones. “Thanks, ma’am. That was awfully good. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Ask away, honey.”

“Do you know Dr. Kate?”

The woman laughed and said, “Everyone knows Dr. Kate. What about her?”

“On March twenty-third of this year, do you remember seeing her old station wagon anywhere around here?”

“That the day the woman died?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to help you, honey, but I don’t remember seeing Dr. Kate that day.”

“She had a blackout spell and woke up somewhere around here that afternoon.”

“I wish I could help you, honey. Dr. Kate kept my husband alive for several years after all them doctors in Nashville had given up on him. He had a cancer of the lung from smoking them awful cigarettes. I don’t even sell the things anymore.”

“Maybe you could ask some of your customers. If you find out anything, call Mr. Jake Watson in Round Rock. He’s her attorney. That is, you’d have to call the City Café and ask Dorothy to go and get Jake. The man doesn’t have a phone.”

“I’d be right happy to. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, ma’am. Thank you for your help. I know Dr. Kate will appreciate it.”

O
n her way back to Round Rock, Shenandoah decided there was one person she had to see. In fact, she was long overdue for a visit with Frances Washington. She felt ashamed of herself for not seeing her sooner and for not keeping in touch in the years since she’d left Parsons County.

The trip back to East Tennessee had created so many mixed feelings. Every time someone mentioned that she was a sober Coleman, she seethed with anger. Yet there were people in Round Rock who had been friends and mentors to her, people she’d abandoned because of the few detractors who’d made her life miserable.

The Washington farm was on the south side of town, just a few miles past Beulah Land. She drove through Round Rock and by her old home. The rusty pump and tarpaper shacks looked just as they on had the day she’d left. Just seeing them now made her stomach burn.

Shenandoah was about a mile from the Washington farm when she spotted the Dodge pickup coming toward her at a fast clip. She pulled her shoulder bag to her and removed the Colt. As the pickup got closer, she let it pass, executed a perfect bootleg turn, and headed after it. “Two can play at this game, asshole,” she said out loud.

The Dodge actually accelerated out of the curve.
Damn bastard is trying to get away from me or leading me into an ambush
. She pushed the accelerator to the floorboard and watched the speedometer climb to eighty miles an hour. Gradually, she began to gain on the pickup. As they entered a curve, the pickup almost lost control and went into a four-wheel drift. Coming out of the curve, it accelerated again.
It must have a hopped up engine
.

The pickup leaped ahead, and Shenandoah pushed further on the accelerator. She glanced at the speedometer and was shocked to see that she was hitting ninety miles an hour. Her mouth went dry, and her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
This is nuts.
Suddenly, the Dodge braked hard, did some maneuver Shenandoah didn’t understand, and ended up crossways on the blacktop, blocking it completely. Shenandoah hit the brakes, but the Chevy barely shuddered. She stood on the brake pedal and pressed hard. The car began to slow, but she was still moving fast enough to face a stark decision: leave the highway or hit the truck. As she made a fast calculation in her head, the pickup spun around and accelerated away from her, laying rubber on the asphalt.

As the Bel Air continued to slow, Shenandoah could feel her pulse quicken and her breath strain. She felt lightheaded as she guided the car to the shoulder. Once stopped, she lay her forehead on the steering wheel and tried to stop hyperventilating.
That does it. I’m going to see Trooper Short.

After several minutes, she felt her head clear and her respirations slow. She slipped the Colt back into her bag and pulled onto the highway again. A mile later, she turned onto a gravel county road, drove for two miles, and then turned in at the Washingtons’ long crushed limestone drive. The big white house with the picket fence looked the same as it had fourteen years ago, except for the gate.

Shenandoah parked the Bel Air in front of the fence. The gate hung precariously from its hinges, and Shenandoah wondered if Persifor was okay. It wasn’t like Persifor to let any piece of equipment go unattended.

She rang the doorbell and waited. Several minutes passed, and she was just about to turn away when the door opened and Frances Washington stepped onto the porch.

“Oh, my goodness, look what the cat dragged in! Shenandoah Coleman, how are you, child?”

The petite woman was in her mid-seventies, and her once coal-black hair, now streaked with silver, was pulled back at the base of her neck in a tight bun. Frameless bifocals sat at the tip of her broad nose, just as they had on the last day Shenandoah had seen her. Barely five feet tall, she had to tilt her head to make eye contact with Shenandoah.

“I hope you don’t mind that I just dropped in, Miss Frances. I was driving by and wanted to see you.”

“Lord, child, I’m so happy to see
you
. I’ve thought about you so often, and I’m just a mite peeved that you haven’t kept in touch.”

“I’m sorry. I have no excuse except laziness.”

“Well, come in and tell me about yourself.”

Mrs. Washington led Shenandoah into her cluttered living room. The wall-to-wall bookcases still held hundreds of volumes. Novels and biographies lay scattered about on the tables, just as Shenandoah remembered.

Frances sat in her chair and motioned for Shenandoah to take a seat on the couch. “You look wonderful, Shenandoah. May I offer you some iced tea or a glass of water?”

“No, thanks. I’m doing well. I have no complaints. How’s Persifor?”

“He’s fine. He and my grandson are in town. Doesn’t get around quite as well as he’d like to these days, but the man is eighty.”

“I didn’t realize you had a grandson.”

“My daughter and her husband were killed in a car wreck in 1942, and my grandson has lived with us ever since. He’ll be a sophomore at Tennessee Tech in the fall. His name is Joe Stout. He hates it, but we still call him Little Joe. But you were going to tell me about yourself.”

“First, let me say how sorry I am about your daughter. And I want to thank you for introducing me to books. You were the only one who ever encouraged me. It changed my life.”

A smile crossed the old woman’s face, and she said, “Books will do that. What’re you reading now?”

“
From Here to Eternity
.”

“You in the military?”

“I was with the WASP.”

“So you were a pilot! How wonderful. You were always different, Shenandoah. I’m glad you made it through the war years safely. What kind of job do you have?”

“I’m a reporter for the
Memphis Express
. I’m here to cover Dr. Kate’s trial, and I’m also writing a book about E. H. Crump’s political machine.”

A look of sheer delight formed on Frances Washington’s face. “Oh, Shenandoah, I’m so proud of you! I knew you could break out of Beulah Land.”

“I’ve learned I can’t deny where I came from. It’s better just to admit it up front. Some people around here still hold it against me, but most take me for what I am.”