Читать книгу Flesh And Blood - Caroline Burnes - Страница 11

If Nathan’s unexpected theory gave me a rope to cling to in the free-fall of my life, then the morning ride we shared gave me the energy to pursue his idea. The buckskin mare, Lucinda, was as good and solid as any horse could be. My rusty horsemanship improved after a few miles, and when we returned to Ravenwood, I actually felt as if I wanted to live.

Nathan left on Frisco, with Lucinda following behind. Duty called, and his reenactment forces were awaiting his command. My own duties called me, and I took a cross-stitch hoop to Mary Quinn’s bedroom to see if she might honor me with a visit.

The cross-stitch was an attempt to learn patience, never a strong suit in my character. In one of her often-repeated lectures my mother warned that if I went to hell I’d harangue Satan to light the fires faster. There was some truth to what she said. After the first three minutes I’d pricked my finger twice. Blood had gotten on the pristine whiteness of the cloth and I was ready to pitch the entire thing out the window. So much for demurely conjuring up Mary Quinn. What I did accomplish was a lot of thinking. And I made a decision. Jackson was only an hour away, at the most. I’d drive over there and look at the police reports.

By one o’clock, I was standing at Sergeant Benjamin Vesley’s desk. Once again my brother the lawyer had pulled some strings for me. Sergeant Vesley hadn’t handled the original case, but he said he’d look up the reports for me and go over them. He talked about unsolved crimes and the shame of it and how the human race was going to hell. He was a man who would have made a wonderful grandfather, but constant exposure to the worst of human nature had made him tired and weary. He was not hopeful that the police report would yield anything.

He left me alone at his desk with the papers. I think he sensed the difficulty I was experiencing. I read the statements of the officers, the evidence of the fingerprints, the procedural reports. The words “died instantly” had once brought me some comfort. Now they were cold and meant only a permanent separation.

The statements of the two investigating officers were exactly as I’d expected. The woman Frank had tried to assist was incoherent. She didn’t see or remember anything except that the robbers were hurting her and a man had tried to help and they had killed him.

There were photos of the store that showed the outline of Frank’s body. The blood had not been removed. The eyewitness account of the other customer in the store was also filled with shock and horror and no specifics.

Robert Mason’s report was the longest. I saved it for last. I had been in the liquor store once since the shooting. I’d gone to show Robert I didn’t blame him. We had both stood there and cried like babies in front of several customers. Emotionally, it was too hard on us both, so I stopped going there.

Robert’s report was clear and detailed. He described the men. He heard the one in the leather jacket referred to as Diamond. I found a scratch pad on Sergeant Vesley’s desk and began to make notes. Diamond had dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. Though he wore a ski mask, his eyes were visible. They were an intense blue. The other robber was younger, with a smaller frame. Diamond had shot Frank. It was Robert’s feeling that they might have been under the influence of some type of drug.

After he covered the details of what was said and done, Robert made a special point about the gun. It was a .357 revolver. I had to read this part of the report twice because I didn’t fully understand. “No robber in his right mind comes in with a piece like that. It was an antique. These guys acted like professionals, but the killer had this cowboy six-shooter.”

Robert had been in the army and knew a lot about guns. He’d tried to get me to take shooting lessons and buy one for protection in the house. Since the information about the gun was the only thing I’d learned new, I wrote it all down verbatim. The ballistics report was beyond my comprehension, and I didn’t need to read the autopsy to determine the cause of death. I stacked up the reports and went to thank Sergeant Vesley. He was waiting for me with a cup of coffee and a kindly smile.

“It’s been two years,” he said. “Why now?”

“I don’t know.” I couldn’t tell him I was being haunted. “Maybe it’s the last step in putting it all behind me.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Devlin. I’d hate to see you turn into one of those people who avoid life by burying themselves in the details of death.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Since I was downtown, I decided to stop by the liquor store and talk with Robert. The store had changed. Burglar bars had been installed over the windows and doors, and there was a buzzer system to announce the arrival of customers. Even through the bars and glass I could see that Robert had changed as much as I. Threads of gray ran through his hair. He was older, more cautious. He buzzed me in with a wary look.

“Emma!”

Before I knew what had happened, I was engulfed in a bear hug. “I’ve been thinking about you for the past month. I’d just wake up in the middle of the night with this uneasy feeling. Martha said I should call and check on you, but I didn’t want to resurrect any bad memories.”

“You wouldn’t have, Robert. I’ve been thinking about you, too. I wanted to talk to you.”

He went to the front door, locked it, flipped the sign to Closed and pulled the shade. “What can I do for you?” He signaled me into the storage room where he kept a small office complete with an extra chair.

“I just read the police report on Frank’s death. You were adamant about the type of gun the killer used.”

Robert’s dark gaze locked with mine. He twisted the right side of his mustache. “What are you up to, Emma?”

“There are things about Frank’s death that trouble me. I wanted to check them out, to draw my own conclusions. Then, maybe…”

“You can get on with your life.” He nodded. “There are things that trouble me, too.”

“What was it about the gun?”

“Wait a minute and I’ll show you.” He left the room and returned in a moment with a pistol. He snapped a piece from the handle and held it out. “This is a clip. Automatic. Shoots very fast. The night Frank was killed, the killer had a revolver. You know, the gun with a round cylinder that rotates to put the bullet in the chamber. Reloading with a revolver is much harder than with an automatic. In an automatic, the bullet is already in position and it moves up through spring action. Most criminals just carry pre-loaded clips. When one is empty, they pop it out and put in another clip.”

What he said made sense, to an extent. “Maybe that was the only gun he had.”

“I just don’t understand it. It was a really fine gun. A Smith & Wesson, blue steel, hand-carved grip. An antique. Killers like those punks wouldn’t carry a piece because of its aesthetic value or the history of it. He could have sold that piece and made enough to buy several automatics. Most times killers drop the piece anyway. They want something cheap.”

He had a point. “Was there anything else? What about the man with the gun? Did he have a diamond in his ear, or any type of jewelry that might tell why he was called Diamond?”

“He was wearing that mask. I couldn’t see anything.” Robert took a breath. “Emma, I’ve thought about it over and over again. I should have been able to stop it. I should have…”

I went to him and put my hands on his shoulders. “Stop it, Robert. There wasn’t anything that you or I could have done. Frank, either. I’ve thought about it, too. I wondered why he couldn’t let them take the woman, why he had to try to step in. And the answer is, that was the kind of man he was. Neither of us would have cared for him as much had he been any different.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep thinking this through.”

“What are you looking for, Emma? The police said they never got any kind of lead. I called them every day for almost a year.”

“I’m thinking that there may have been more here than just a simple robbery-murder. I don’t know how or why, but maybe those robbers were in this store on that night for a specific reason. You could help me by thinking along those lines.”

“You’re saying it was a setup, specifically to kill Frank?”

Robert’s eyes were wide with shock. It did sound preposterous. Robberies happened all the time. People got killed because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was easier to believe than deliberate murder.

“I’m not saying that it’s true. I’m just saying that I’m thinking about the possibilities.”

“Why, Emma? Why? Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t have a clue. As I said, I’m just looking and thinking. Maybe you could talk to the other store owners in this neighborhood. See what kind of robberies they’ve had. See how many turned violent. That kind of thing. Frank was on the floor. He was defenseless. They could have knocked him unconscious or wounded him. They didn’t have to kill him.”

Robert nodded. “I’ll canvass the neighborhood. Want me to call you?”

“No, I’ll call you. I’m going to be hard to catch these next few days.”

“Emma, have you uncovered something?”

Robert’s hand on my shoulder was strong, supportive. “No. Nothing like that. It’s just a feeling.”

“I know what you mean. For the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking more and more about it.”

“I’ll be in touch, Robert.”

I pulled up the shade and flipped the sign to Open as I went out. Although I’d learned nothing, I felt a kernel of hope growing larger and larger. Robert was feeling something, too.

On the spur of the moment I decided to check out the woman who’d been in the liquor store that night. I had her address from her statement, and I thought Laree Emrick might have some new details to add.

The neighborhood was off Northside Drive, a good distance from downtown. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing in Robert’s store when she could have shopped in her own neighborhood. I knew I had no right to blame her for anything, yet my entire life might be different if she’d gone to another store that night. Might be different. If Frank was deliberately murdered, then Laree Emrick had not even really played a role in the sequence of events.

The house was freshly painted and the yard immaculate. I could hear dogs barking inside when I rang the bell. Laree Emrick was a petite woman with curly brown hair. She opened the door with a smile and an order for two cocker spaniels to quit barking.

“I’m Emma Devlin, Mrs. Emrick. You were in the liquor store the night my husband was killed.”

There was no way to soften the words. She blanched and stepped back, but she opened the door for me.

“I’ve always felt it was my fault,” she said slowly as she led the way to the living room. “If I hadn’t cried…I’ll bet you hate me, don’t you?”

“No. Not at all.” And I didn’t. I had thought at one time that I might, but it was ridiculous. She was as much a victim as Frank, or me. “Please don’t think that I’ve come here to start any kind of trouble. It’s just that I have to settle this in my own mind. I want to be sure that Frank’s death was…the worst kind of accident.”

“I don’t remember much.” She motioned me onto the sofa and she took a seat in a wing chair. “To be honest, I’ve tried very hard to forget it all.”

“Maybe we could both forget if we finally examine that night.”

“You sound like my husband.” She sighed and began to talk. Her story was much the same as the statement she’d given the police. She was downtown at an antique store and decided to buy a bottle of wine for dinner. It was happenstance that she went into Robert’s store. The men came in. She did as they said and they started to abuse her. Frank intervened and they killed him. She remembered none of the conversation, none of the details.

“Did it ever cross your mind that those men would have killed my husband no matter what he did?”

She looked up at me. “I don’t know.” She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “You know, there was another customer in the store. The robbers ignored him completely. Now that you mention it, maybe they did seem to watch your husband more.”

“Are you certain, Mrs. Emrick?” I felt a thrill of hope growing.

“I told my husband it was like a train racing downhill. There wasn’t any stopping it once the killers walked in the door.” She hesitated. “Yes, I’m certain. They paid more attention to your husband than anyone else, or anything. Even the money. You know, they never demanded more money. They just took what was in the cash register.”

“Thank you, Laree.” I took my leave. My visit had upset her, but I had another tiny straw of evidence. If it was not real evidence, then at least it was mortar to help build the wall of my new theory.

I thought about going to my home, but as soon as I had the idea I gave it up. I wanted to discuss my ideas with someone. I could have called my brothers or my mother, but it wasn’t them I wanted to see. My brothers would be skeptical, to say the least. Mom would hover and worry. She was already concerned about me, and I didn’t want her to know I was spending my time playing amateur detective. No one could have hated what happened to Frank more than my family. But they’d gone on. For them, it was over. And like most survivors of tragedy, they didn’t want to be dragged back to the abyss.

I took the interstate to Vicksburg. Nathan Cates was the man I wanted to talk to. He’d share my sense of accomplishment. I didn’t examine my feelings in this, I simply accepted them. It seemed that I’d done nothing but probe at myself for the past five weeks. Nathan Cates’s interest in my problems was a luxury I was simply going to enjoy.

Ravenwood seemed too empty when I drove through the gates. It was silly, but I was disappointed when I didn’t see Frisco tied to the camellia near the drive. I hadn’t invited Nathan to return, so I shouldn’t have expected him. I had a sudden inspiration and got back in the van and drove to the battlefield.

Instead of the activities I’d expected, the Vicksburg National Military Park was quiet. I had to remember that it was April, still a month before the siege of Vicksburg actually began. The height of reenactment fever would come in the later months, along with the tropical heat. There was a cluster of young soldiers near some roughly constructed shelters. They carried old rifles and pistols and wore their Johnny Reb caps at jaunty angles. At first glance, they might have stepped out of the pages of history. Of course I knew them for what they were, hired actors who played the role of Confederate soldiers to entertain tourists.

“How are you boys today?” I asked.

“Just fine, ma’am,” one of them answered in a long drawl. “The Yanks are giving us a little peace and quiet for a change. We’re hoping our replacements will be in soon.” He looked at me and grinned. “I haven’t been home in over a year. My wife’s gonna forget what I look like.”

He looked hardly old enough to be out of school, and I smiled back at him. He was a wonderful actor. “I’m looking for a Lt. Col. Nathan Cates, of the Seventh Cavalry. Where might he be?”

The boy took off his hat and scratched his head. “No cavalry around here, that I know. That’ll come later in the summer when we reenact—” He blushed to the roots of his hair at his slip.

Ignoring his faux pas, I continued. “I met Colonel Cates yesterday. I’m sure he was in this area. May I look around?”

“Just watch out for stray bullets,” he said, recovered. “Hate to see a pretty woman like you get wounded.”

“I’ll use great care,” I assured him as I headed back for my van.

A paved road, a favorite of bicyclers and joggers, curves around the park and provides challenging hills and some of the most beautiful scenery in the Hill City. The scars of the Civil War have healed, at least the evidence of metal and fire that once devastated the earth. Green grass covers the hillsides where thousands of men died. The remaining weapons of war have been silenced and are now polished and painted for display.

The entire park is filled with monuments, some enormous and grand, others small and austere. These are the reminders of the high cost of that bloody conflict. Although I’d lived in Mississippi all of my life, I’d never visited the memorial. War and death, there was plenty of it in today’s world. I had no curiosity to probe the wounds of the past. As I drove around the park, I found myself stopping to read the monuments. The cost of taking Vicksburg was high. Thousands of men, gray and blue. Most of the deaths were not easy ones.

What I hadn’t expected was the beauty and the solitude of the park. Fragments of history courses I’d taken in high school and college came back to me. The siege of Vicksburg was one of the most gruesome ordeals of the war. Located on the banks of the Mississippi River on high bluffs, the city was crucial for the South’s survival, and just as necessary for the North to take. Once the siege began, one side had to lose. Some six weeks later, Vicksburg surrendered, after the civilians had been driven into caves dug into the bluffs. They ate rats, and many died of starvation and disease.

As I drove along the scenic parkway, I came upon Shirley House, the only structure that had managed to survive the battle. At one time it was used as a Union headquarters, surrounded by trenches—called saps—where soldiers lived, digging their way to wherever they had to go.

Beside the house was the Illinois Monument, a magnificent domelike structure with a skylight and the names of hundreds of soldiers who died so far from home engraved on every wall. I waited there, trying to shake the feeling that at any moment I would hear the sound of cannon and the cries of wounded horses. Thank God I had not lived in that time.

My own loss, no doubt as violent, had changed me forever. But I had not lost my home and my family and my way of life. My ancestors were of stronger stock to have survived such a war and kept enough faith to raise families, to risk loving again.

The afternoon was waning, and I had not located Nathan. There had been no signs of cavalry, as the young soldier had pointed out. Apparently they were bivouacked away from the park. It hadn’t occurred to me, but perhaps Nathan did not constantly ride his horse. The idea that he was out coaching young recruits in the dialogue and dialect of the 1860 South tickled me. I hadn’t known him long, but I was willing to bet he was a good teacher.

I drove back to the front gate and stopped to talk with the park rangers. When I asked about a cavalry colonel, the ranger was friendly, but not very helpful. The reenactment forces were so numerous, the park made no efforts to manage them. He did not have a list of the participants in the battle. As he explained, some of the units were volunteers, history buffs who went around the country acting out roles at different battlefields. Others were like Nathan, professional historians and scholars paid for their work. I went back to Ravenwood hoping that Nathan would take an evening ride through the estate. He would see my mini van and stop. I felt good about the progress I had made in looking into Frank’s death, but I wanted a sensible sounding board.

Maybe the tragedy of the battlefield had caught a ride home with me, but when I turned in the gate at the plantation, I had a sudden poignant sensation of Mary Quinn’s life. It must have been a fairy tale before the war. I could imagine the old plantation running at full blast, the house ablaze with lights and laughter. From all I’d read, the Quinns were a happy family with a love of parties and feasts. Before the war.

It was foolish of me, but I couldn’t resist looking around the ground for Frisco’s hoofprints. There was no sign that Nathan or his horse had paid a visit to me while I’d been out.

Since I couldn’t find him at the battlefield, I decided to call Mississippi College where he worked as a professor. It took forever for the secretary to answer the phone. When I asked for Nathan Cates, the young girl explained that she was a work-study student and that she didn’t have an extension listed for a Dr. Cates. A pleasant young woman, she apologized and said that the regular secretary would be back the next day.

Since I had no other plans for the evening, I decided to make my version of chicken alfredo. Cooking is an act that many Southern women turn to in times of anxiety or periods of waiting. Frank and I had once spent our evenings bantering in the kitchen as we explored cuisines from around the world. There was nothing he wouldn’t attempt. I’d lost my interest in cooking after his death, and my desire to work in the kitchen surprised me. I even chilled a bottle of white wine I’d brought along. Just for the fun of it I’d cater dinner to myself in the big old dining room. While the pasta cooked, I hurried over to the old house and set up two candelabras. Anything worth doing was worth doing well.

When the meal was prepared, I sat at the elegant table in the main dining room. There was seating for at least twenty, and the candles glowed against the burnished mahogany of the lovely table.

I was halfway through the meal when I remembered the oven. I’d left a small portion of bread in it to warm. There was little chance trouble would occur, but I couldn’t enjoy the rest of my meal if I was worried about burning the bread. Feeling as if I should excuse myself, I left the table and hurried to the kitchen. I could see where servants would have worked up a sweat carrying dishes back and forth for three large meals a day. The bread was very toasted, but there was no damage. I turned off the oven and went back to my meal.

I had just settled my napkin into place when I saw the yellow rose beside my plate. The chill that ran up my body was indescribable. The front doors were locked, and I’d used the back one. The gates to the plantation were also locked. No one could have slipped into the house without my knowing it—except a ghost. Mary Quinn! She’d left me a message to let me know that she hadn’t abandoned me, that she was considering my plight. Perhaps it was even a sign of approval that I had taken some action on my own.

Should I finish dinner and wait for her to make her appearance, or should I attempt to find her? The sound of footsteps on the second floor ended my questions. Instead of the light footsteps of a teenage girl, the tread was heavy. Ominous. Anticipation turned to fear. Old houses attracted all kinds of weirdos. I’d been gone from Ravenwood all day. Anyone could be hiding in it.

My thoughts halted as I took a sudden gulp of air. The footsteps were coming down the stairs.