Thursday, May 26th, 1942
Everyone was moving at a quarter the normal speed. That was John’s first clue that he was dreaming. For some bizarre reason, he seemed to always dream in slow motion. The sky was an odd, and unnatural, shade of bright green, as well—which was also a really big hint.
John was standing on Broadway, back in New York, amidst the usual throng of tourists and hopeful actors and actresses. All equally wide-eyed and naive. This was a strange dream for John, because he never went to Broadway. It was outside his precinct, so work never sent him there, and the whole “happy, glittery lights” thing never seemed to sit right with him…
And then, of course, there were all the damned peacocks.
In exasperation, Dream-John forced out a calming breath, slid his hands through his hair and waited for something to happen. It always did. Being aware that he was dreaming, he knew the fastest way to wake up from it was to allow it to generate whatever imagery his mind had cooked up. Sometimes it was an amusingly bad put-together monster from the latest horror movie, or it was a knight on horseback to challenge him to a duel—of knitting. One time it was a chorus line of all the cases he’d been working lately. It was always something.
It was while he was waiting that he happened to glance at the Marquee to his left. When he saw it, he couldn’t help but stare, just as slack-jawed and gaping as the tourists around him. There, in bright brilliant illumination, were the letters:
E L P.
From somewhere in the crowd, he heard a child screaming. He tore his gaze away to scan the crowd, but couldn’t find the source. He heard it again, but it didn’t seem to come from any actual direction. That was when he started to suspect that it wasn’t part of the dream.
John woke up with a start, and was out the door, gun in hand, before he was finished blinking the sleep from his eyes. Rushing down the hallway, John was greeted by a small group of men who either had not heard the scream, or didn’t much care. The stares his entrance solicited ranged from amused to concerned…not surprising, since he was still in his skivvies and undershirt.
The scream came out again, even louder this time. As John tried to find the source of it, everyone in the room started laughing. Mr. Ellswhite, who ran the boarding house, smiled broadly and set a cup of coffee in front of the gentleman at the counter.
“Mr. Webb,” he said, “Why don’t you go put some clothes on, and when you get back, I’ll have a nice hot breakfast waitin’ for ya’, and I’ll explain all about the very interestin’ cry of our local peacocks.”
It was not a good start to the day, but with a shower, shave, and the promised breakfast, John Webb managed to endure the good-natured smiles and slaps on the back that his fool-hearted rush had earned him. He even managed to smile politely when Deputy Dan stopped in and they recounted the whole thing to him. To Dan’s credit, he just nodded and let it go. John wished he could say that he would have done the same, but truth be known, he thought otherwise.
“I’m headin’ up to have me a little talk with Hank Groves,” Dan said, “Sheriff thought you might want to come along; said I should have you listen to what he has to say.”
Dan said this all without the slightest hint of rancor or sarcasm, but John knew full well that Dan wanted him in on that interview about as much as he wanted a rash. It was just fine with John, anyway. He had already dismissed Groves, who owned the local liquor store, as a possible suspect.
“Actually, I’ve got a couple of things I want to check up on here in town. I’ll keep you posted on everything. Would you mind writing notes for me?” John replied.
Dan got the hint, and had no problem complying. With a quick nod to everyone, he left the boarding house and got into his squad car. John finished off one more cup of coffee then headed for the door.
He didn’t quite make it.
“Mr. Webb?” Mr. Ellswhite called. John turned, hand still on the doorknob. “You got a call here from a Nez Callahan. Says it’s important.”
John crossed back over past the counter to where the gentleman stood with the phone. He took the receiver from him, as Ellswhite gave him a look that suggested he not take too long.
“Hello?”
“Detective Webb, thank the good Lord I caught you!” Nez Callahan’s voice was just as loud over the phone as it was in person, making John ask himself, once again, how this person could possibly be a librarian.
“Nez? Do you have anything more for me?”
“Well, yes, I sure do. I don’t know why it took so long for it to sink in, but there it was, just starin’ me in the face this mornin’ like a big ol’ sack o’ potatoes!”
“What, Nez?” John tried to keep his voice from showing how annoyed he was.
“The girl’s name, o’ course! I was sittin’ here, right at my breakfast table, and it just sort o’ hit me!”
“What hit you?”
There was a pause on the phone. Long enough for John to wonder if maybe he had said this last bit a little too harshly. Nez might be annoying, but if she had information…
“Emma Lou,” Nez said, finally. “The girl just had to be Emma Lou Posey.”
John’s breath stopped for just a moment. He allowed his mind to run through about a dozen different thoughts before he responded.
“Emma Lou Posey. You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely. It was the biggest thing to happen in Sales City. The poor young thing died o’ accidental poisonin’. Killed her, and the little baby she was carryin’.”
“Accidental? You’re certain of that part?”
“Well, I wasn’t there! But I remember the story well enough. Emma Lou mistook a bottle o’ turpentine for the medicinal her doctor give her. Horrible way to die. She went hard, they say.”
“Thank you, Nez. That helps a lot.”
“I’m just sorry it took me so long to remember…it’s just that the name threw me.”
“The name?”
“Posey. See, that wasn’t her name.”
For the second time in this conversation, John had to take a moment.
“What, precisely, do you mean by that, Miss Callahan?”
“Emma Lou. Her name weren’t Posey…leastways, not when she died. Posey was her maiden name.”
John felt the sudden need to sit down, but kept to his feet anyway. He was feeling a sense of urgency that he was struggling to contain.
“Okay, Nez. So, what was her married name?”
“Rivers,” she said, “She was Mrs. Roy Rivers.”
John’s head was swimming, but he managed to keep himself together enough to listen to the rest of Nez’s story.
“Her and Roy Rivers had just been married a few months—married young too, seventeen. Too young if you asked me, but I’m pretty sure there were what they called ‘special circumstance’ around it, if you know what I mean.” When John didn’t respond, Nez assumed that he didn’t, so she expounded. “Course, I’m just speculatin’ here, but when you got two young kids gettin’ married that young, and then they’s expectin’ right off—especially when one comes from the richest family in three counties, and the other’s a dirt farmer’s daughter…”
“Yeah, I got it, Nez. Thank you,” John said, afraid Nez would just keep going unless he cut her off.
“Right. Well, anyway, the paper prob’ly got the name wrong on account that she and Roy was just married that little bit o’ time, so ever’one still thought o’ her as a Posey. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I suppose not,” John said quietly.
“Well, that’s it. I hope it helps.”
“It does, Nez. Thank you.”
John hung up the phone and started out again, but he had a different destination in mind, now.
If he were still in New York, he would have no idea how to figure out which church one Emma Lou Posey might have attended. He wouldn’t have even considered it a given that she attended anywhere. But this was not New York. It was Sales City, Georgia, where everybody went to either the Methodist Church on Chelsea Avenue, or the Baptist Church on West Street. Nez had mentioned that the girl came from a poor family, so she went to the Baptist church. He knew this, because his family went to the Methodist Church. Rich and poor…they may worship the same God, but in a town like this, never in the same place.
As he sped down the dirt road, John couldn’t help but think about all those detective novels he liked to read in his off-hours. The heroes in those books were always finding themselves in situations that would unravel into something far more exotic and exciting than they anticipated.
John passed by an old man shooing a peacock off the hood of his truck.
“There’s definitely a reason you never see one of those books set in Coweta County,” John muttered to himself.
Inside of two minutes, John was parked in front of the Sales City Baptist Church. It was exactly as John had pictured, oddly enough. From the whitewashed wood siding to the tin roof and tiny bell tower, it was like one of those cheesy, Norman Rockwell calendar prints. In a bizarrely giddy mood for just a moment, John was inspired to put his hands together, with fingers entwined, and say in a sing-songy, childish voice:
“Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, look inside…”
From some unknown reserve of sanity, John felt himself being dragged back to the job.
“And see all the people standing around sad at a young woman’s funeral.” John took a lungful of that dusty Georgia air and got out of the car. He walked around to the side of the small, one-room church and plodded along the short path to the parsonage.
It was a far cry from the cozy brick cottage that his uncle enjoyed while he lived. It was painfully obvious that this particular building was constructed with faith—and not much else. And yet, there was something comfortable and reassuring about the little cabin. John couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he was drawn to it in a strange way. He was still trying to wrap his brain around it, standing at the foot of the small porch, when the door opened.
“Well, hi there,” the woman said. If she was concerned that a stranger was standing at her door with a stupefied expression on his face, she hid it incredibly well.
“I’m sorry,” John said, “I was hoping to speak with the pastor…”
“Of course, of course. He’s right in the livin’ room. C’mon inside, Mr. Webb.”
Once again, somebody automatically knew who he was. It was creepy, and it didn’t matter one little bit that he was the only visitor in a town that knew itself in and out.
“I’m just not going to get used to that.”
“Beg pardon?”
“The way everyone around here knows everybody else. It’s like there are no secrets. I’ve lived in the same apartment in New York for six years, and I still don’t know any of my neighbors.”
The woman raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment.
“Then, however do you borrow sugar?”
John couldn’t help but laugh. And, at that, the pastor’s wife smiled, knowing that she had broken through. She was a kind-looking woman and, while the lines on her face betrayed that more years lay behind her then before, she had a vaguely ageless quality.
“You’re wrong about one thing, though…” she confided, “People around here gots plenty o’ secrets.”
John followed her inside, and was somewhat surprised to find a neat, tidy, and very welcoming little home inside the unhandsome little shack.
“Albert, we’ve got us some comp’ny.”
“Good,” remarked the pastor from a wood rocker, “I been waitin’ all day for a decent conversation.” The smile and quick wink were enough to earn him a playful swat from his wife as she passed into the kitchen. “Beatrice, be a dear and fix us some iced tea, please?”
The Baptist minister was a big man, and it was plain that he enjoyed a good sense of humor and a wellspring of kindness in equal measure. John wasn’t quite certain what specifically it was about the man that assured him of this, but it was somehow obvious, nevertheless.
“I don’t want to be a bother…” John said.
“Nonsense!” Beatrice replied from the kitchen, as she poured out three glasses. “We enjoy havin’ people stop by.”
“Mr. Webb, if ya’ don’t mind my askin’, how is your family doin’?” the reverend asked.
“About as well as…well, to tell you truth, Reverend, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t really talked to them very much since I’ve arrived.”
“Doesn’t sound like an effective way to handle a family reunion,” Beatrice quipped.
“Or a murder investigation,” the good reverend finished.
John tried to think of something to say in response…and came up with nothing.
“Oh, don’t pay us any mind, John. Us old folks just gotta be nosin’ into everything, whether we got a right to, or not,” the kind old pastor assured.
“Besides, from what Gerald’s told me, you’re doin’ a fine job.”
That got John’s attention.
“Gerald? Gerald Peachtree?”
Reverend Albert Edwards smiled broadly.
“Gerald and I had a good talk last night. He comes by now and again to make sure we got everythin’ we need.”
“I didn’t know that Gerald attended your church,” John said, as Beatrice handed him the tall glass of iced tea.
“Well, he doesn’t. That is, he doesn’t attend this church, here. He’s a member up there at Ebenezer Baptist—the colored church. They don’t have enough to hire on a permanent pastor, so once a month, I head up there after services on Sunday and preach for ’em. There’s three other pastors from other counties that do the same, so they always get a sermon.”
“That’s very kind of you to do that.”
“Well, a preacher preaches. I suppose that, as long as God sees fit to put people in pews, I can see fit to preach His word to ’em.”
“To tell ya’ the truth, Mr. Webb,” Beatrice added, “If it weren’t for dear old Gerald, Albert would’a had to give up preachin’ up there a long time ago. We just don’t have the gumption to travel like that anymore. But Gerald comes, just as faithful as God’s own angels, to pick us up in that nice car the Wilhelmina let him use.”
“I didn’t know that,” John said, “As it happens, Aunt Wilhelmina has leant that car to me while I’m down, so I’ll be sure to make it available to Mr. Peachtree on Sunday, so you won’t be late for services.”
The good reverend smiled in appreciation.
“Actually, it is about one of your parishioners that brings me by today, though.”
“Oh? You’ve already got a murder suspect, then,” the pastor said guardedly. He clearly did not care for the thought that one of his flock might be a murder suspect.
“No, not really. It’s actually more of a side investigation. Something that may well have nothing to do with the murders…but I’m not taking any chances.”
“Well, that’s smart,” Beatrice chimed in.
“It’s a young lady…she was a member of the Baptist church many years ago.”
“Was? I take it she’s moved on, then?”
“Permanently. She died before I was born. Her name was Emma Lou Posey.”
The pastor took a reflective sip on his iced tea.
“Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in many years. But yeah, I remember Emma Lou.”
The sad look on the old preacher’s face was almost enough to make John change the subject—tell the man to ‘Never mind, forget about it.’ But there were too many unanswered questions for John to turn back now.
“What can you tell me about her?”
Pastor Albert Edwards stared back at John, as if to gauge the level of importance of the question.
“Emma Lou is probably the saddest story I know. She was a real sweetheart of a girl, and the pride of Jim Posey’s life. If there were ever a more proud father, I haven’t seen ’im. But sweet as she was, she wern’t perfect. When a young, brash young man named Roy Rivers showed more than a passin’ interest, Emma Lou was swept clean off ’er feet. All o’ sixteen years old, Emma Lou didn’t know half what she ought to about the ways o’ men. Before too long, Emma Lou was pregnant.”
“I imagine that didn’t go over very well,” John commented.
The pastor chuckled. “No. It did not. Nach’rly, Jim Posey insisted that Roy do the right thing and marry Emma Lou. O’ course, the Rivers family weren’t at all happy about that. They kept on tellin’ Roy that he didn’t need some poor farmer’s daughter holdin’ him back, and he should just deny that anythin’ happened between them. But Jim Posey had two very important and compellin’ arguments to that suggestion: his shotgun, and his determination to use it.”
“So, Emma Lou was my father’s first wife.”
“You should know somethin’, John. Roy Rivers was just a boy back then, with nothin’ but privilege and spoilin’ for an education. What happened with Emma Lou changed him, made him see the world like it really was, and he became the good man he is today because of it. Truth be known, I believe that he would’a married Emma Lou, anyway.”
“I appreciate that, Reverend. But I need to know…what happened to Emma Lou? How did she die, and why was she buried under the name Posey?”
The pastor took another swig on his iced tea.
“When I said that the Rivers didn’t like the idea of Roy marryin’ Emma Lou…well, they liked the reality of it even less! Your Aunt Wilhelmina most of all. She and Opal were so cruel. Not a day went by that they didn’t torment Emma Lou. I remember because she would come by at least once a week, not to talk to me so much as Beatrice.”
“Now, Albert, let’s at least be honest, if we’re not goin’ ta’ be kind!” Beatrice scolded.
John gave a quizzical look, which the pastor just waved aside.
“Beatrice is just remindin’ me that I tend to lump Opal in with Wilhelmina, whether she truly deserves it or not. And I guess she’s right. It is true enough that Wilhelmina Rivers treated Emma Lou pretty awful, and Opal was always two steps behind ’er. But Opal, she was never vicious or truly cruel. She just never had it in ’er to stand up to her big sister.”
John thought back to the near frightened look on Opal’s face just last night. He had wondered about that at the time. It started to make sense now.
“So Wilhelmina made it pretty bad for Emma Lou,” John reiterated.
“That poor girl had nothin’ but misery in the Rivers home. I felt so bad for her,” Beatrice said.
“After a few months, Emma Lou was so desp’rit to please those two that she would’a done anythin’. I mean really, anythin’. That’s when it happened.” He took a moment to collect his thoughts. The pause seemed to take forever, but John didn’t dare break the silence. He could see how difficult it was to relive these events. “It was a Tuesday mornin’ when Roy woke to find his young wife as sick as anyone can get. She was so pale and her skin was so cold, Roy thought she was dead right there. But she didn’t have such good luck. He managed to wake her, but she was so confused that she just kept goin’ on about how she had fixed evr’ythin’ and how he didn’t have to worry no more. He called for the doctor, he got her water…he did ev’ry blessed thing he could think of, but it was too late. About an hour after she woke, the pain started. Her poor little body was gettin’ tore up on the inside, and all Roy could do was watch and cry for ’er. Shortly after sundown, she died. Wilhelmina was quick to tell ever’body that Emma Lou died ‘cause o’ the baby.’ But the doctor said that weren’t so. He told Roy and the rest o’ the family that he’d seen someone die like that before. He said that a local drunkard had too much of the drink for good sense, but not enough to make him forget evr’ything he wanted to, so when he ran out o’ liquor and moonshine, decided to follow it up with turpentine. Roy looked in the cupboard, and sure enough, the whole bottle they kept for cleanin’ was empty.”
“She killed herself?” John asked.
“There’s just a few folks who know about all this, mind you. Most ev’rybody round here has been told she died ‘cause o’ complications in childbirth,’ and they’re just fine acceptin’ it. For the rest of us, there’s a lot o’ questions left, but the only person that could’a answered ’em…well, she’s buried about a hundred feet behind me.”
“Under the name Posey,” John said, reminding the man that he still had one question left unanswered.
“Yes, that. Jim Posey never forgave Roy. He considered it to be Roy’s fault that she died, and that whatever had happened to her, it would never have happened if not for the Rivers. He insisted on buryin’ her under her maiden name, so that the record of her death would show the family that loved her, and not the one that killed her. As the oldest and most domineerin’, Wilhelmina was quick to agree, eager to have the whole incident wiped away.”
John was starting to feel tired. Not the kind of weariness that comes from lack of sleep or overexertion, but the vexing exhaustion of sharing a terrible secret. It followed him as he made his farewells to the elderly couple, stayed with him as he searched out among the gravestones to see Emma Lou’s grave for himself, and it refused to relinquish its hold as he drove down the dusty road, suddenly at a loss for where to go next.
* * *
At the Rivers home, Wilhelmina was busy fussing over the table setting. It was clearly busy work, but it kept her mind distracted, and she was glad to have it.
“Opal, when was the last time this silver was polished? I swear you just can’t seem to understand the importance of keepin’ a good home. What if someone was to stop over unannounced? There I’d be servin’ fine marmalade and Darjeeling tea on tarnished silver. I’d be a laughin’ stock as soon as the ladies at the civic center heard—and don’t you doubt for one second that they would hear… Opal, for lands sakes, can you hear me?!”
“Dear God, Sister, the way you’re catterwaulin’ there are folks as far as Charleston who can hear ya’!” came a voice from another room. It was familiar, masculine voice. And certainly not Opal.
“Arnold, what are you doin’ here? And where is Opal?”
“I sent her out for a few essentials. As for my bein’ here, I cancelled my meetin’ up in Atlanta. Family first, and all that.” He sauntered into the dining room, an open beer in hand.
“Is that,” Wilhelmina responded, pointing to the bottle, “the essential you sent her for?”
“Man cannot live on bread alone,” he said, and then took a swig to demonstrate.
“Your considerable supply of fine consumables in the parlor contain a large variety of whiskeys and liquors, but your selection of beer leaves considerable room for improvement,” he informed her.
“You know full well that I don’t approve of such common drink. It encourages decent men to overindulge,” she said, looking over the table setting once again.
“Oh, that’s right. Whiskey, sipped over a fine meal, or in accompaniment with a cigar, is always sufficient to sate a man’s appetite, but somethin’ so low-brow as beer, well it’s only good enough for tyin’ one on. Thank you, dear Sister, for remindin’ me how dangerous this evil drink can be.” He turned to leave, but Wilhelmina was not finished with this conversation.
“Arnold?” she asked. He turned his head to face her. “Arnold, is there anything you want to tell me about…about all this unpleasantness?”
That got Arnold Rivers’ attention. He walked fully into the room and sat down.
“Just what are you askin’ me, Wilhelmina?”
She was staring into the reflection of her face, held in the gleaming surface of a silver serving spoon.
“There have been rumors, Arnold. Whispers uttered quietly when no one believed I could hear. But I hear more than what people know, you can be sure o’ that. It has been suggested that some of your ‘new business ventures’ may not be the sort of arrangement our father would have approved of.”
“Wilhelmina, I…”
“I’ve always ignored them, of course. Left them off as no more than the jealous ramblin’s of the less fortunate. But with all o’ this happenin’, I can’t help but wonder.”
Arnold suddenly felt much more tired than he had a few moments ago. He allowed the bottle in his hand to slip down to a nearby tabletop with a slight clink.
“Since taking over the business interests of this family, I have worked very hard to expand the scope of our fortune. There was a time when the export of sorghum and cotton would have been sufficient to maintain our decidedly comfortable lifestyle. No more. Competition from coop organizations and corporate farms have driven the prices down to almost nothin’. I realized some time ago that we must either seek other means of income, or be reduced to…well, certainly not poverty, but sacrifices would have to be made in our day-to-day lifetsyle.”
“What are you sayin’, Arnold?”
“I sought out new investments. With our considerable assets, it wasn’t hard to find companies and individuals with promisin’ ideas. We have successfully invested in building projects in Atlanta, Birmingham, Charleston, even down in Florida. We have also reaped the benefit of successful partnerships in oil and steel concerns.”
“Arnold, I know all this. Do you think I don’t pay no attention at all?”
“What you don’t know is that a few o’ those concerns are owned by people that have, shall we say, a ‘colorful history.’ The sort o’ history that can sometimes get people to talkin’.”
“The kinda’ talk that people say when they think I can’t hear, for example.”
“The very kind. But I promise you, its just talk. There is absolutely no connection between those business dealin’s and what has been happenin’ here. If I even suspected that possibility, you can be assured, I would do somethin’ about it.”
Wilhelmina didn’t respond directly. She only turned her attention back to the silver. Arnold recognized that the conversation was at an end, and got up to leave.
“My boy’s dead, Arnold.”
She said it with such numb detachment that Arnold might have convinced himself that he had misheard her. But Arnold knew his sister well enough to understand that this was as close to an impassioned plea as she was capable of giving.
“I know. We all loved George. I hope that…”
“When Opal gets back, be sure she goes through all the silver and sees to it that it shines,” she said with an air of finality. Arnold took his cue and left.
* * *
Opal Rivers was not exactly what you would call a social butterfly. Don’t misunderstand, she was in attendance and heavily involved in every social event that was worth having, but when it came to recognition—that big moment when someone stands up in front of everybody and announces, “We’d like to thank (insert name here) for making all this possible…”
Well, it was never Opal’s name that they mentioned. That was usually when Wilhelmina stepped up. Wilhelmina was the face and the name that made everything turn around in Coweta County. Opal was the hands, feet, and hard labor. Important, certainly. But in society, hardly worthy of recognition.
Most people would have a problem with this. Opal Rivers was a woman of wealth and means. She was born to a position of respect in society. It was her right to be recognized by her peers. And perhaps, had she not been placed directly into Wilhelmina’s shadow all of her life, she might have grown to want all those things. But Opal lacked Wilhelmina’s drive and determination, as well as her desire to control everything and everyone around her. Instead, Opal always demonstrated the capacity to accept the situations fate had lain before her.
So it never bothered her when her sister, or one of her brothers, sent her off on some menial errand, simply because they didn’t want to be bothered with it.
Today was a perfect example. Arnold was perfectly capable of dropping in to the Boarding House and picking up a six-pack or two of his favorite beer, along with a bottle of Stovall’s Finest. But he didn’t feel like socializing with the common rabble that normally gathered down there, so he sent Opal instead. After all, it wasn’t really out of her way, since she already had to run into town to get a few cleaning supplies as it was…
It was really quite a typical day for Opal. That is, until she walked out of the boarding house and ran into Detective Webb.
He was on his way inside as she was exiting, and she nearly fell over him. It was only his quick reaction that kept her from falling and upending her package.
“Are you okay?” John asked, as he helped her regain her balance.
“Yes…thank you.”
Her answer was so quiet and timid it was almost a whisper. John smiled and nodded.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad I bumped into you.”
For the briefest of moments, Opal raised her head high enough to glance at John’s face. She almost looked him in the eye.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I…” John looked at the large package that Opal was carrying and suddenly remembered his manners. “Here, let me help you with that.”
Before she had a chance to object, John had swiftly removed the package from Opal’s hands. He couldn’t see the look of shame and horror that flashed across her face, since she quickly pushed it aside and resumed her normal quiet demeanor.
“That’s hardly necessary… I’m…I’m parked just across the street.”
“Which is entirely too far for me to let you carry all this by yourself while I’m standing around with two good arms,” he responded, using his most disarming smile. Opal decided that the fastest way to get out of this awkward situation would be to just let him help her to the car, and hope that he didn’t decide to look inside the package.
“As I was saying,” John continued, “I wanted to talk to you, without everybody around.”
“Ever’body?” she asked, walking toward the car.
“Okay, Wilhelmina. I know that she takes a lot of the credit for…basically everything you do. Everybody knows that, in fact. Which is why I figured that if I asked you any questions while she was around, the only answers I’d get would pretty much be hers.”
“I can’t imagine what you could want to know from me. I just don’t rightly know what questions I could answer.”
“Oh, just a few, really. Like, I understand that the reverend lived at the house, even though the church provided him with a parsonage. That seems kind of odd, and I was hoping you could tell me why.”
They had reached the car, and Opal was anxious to relieve John of that package. She had the trunk of the car open before he finished his sentence, and moved to take it from him.
“Oh, that. Carl jest never cared for puttin’ nobody out is all.”
“I’m sorry?” he asked. Opal had successfully managed to get the package out of his hands and into the trunk.
“Well, he figured that there were plenty of other folk that could use the parsonage who didn’t have a home o’ their own, so he let it out to young couples that were just getting’ started out, or folks who had fallen on hard times and needed a little boost.”
“And who’s in there now?”
Opal wanted nothing more than to just leave and get back to her duties at the house, but she could see that this young detective would not let her alone until he was satisfied.
“Well, nobody right now. There was a couple that jest had a baby, but they got themselves settled into a nice house out by the county line, with good solid pastureland. I expect they’ll be a new minister movin’ in soon.”
“I imagine so,” John agreed.
“Mr. Webb, I really do need ta’ get back now. I hope ya’ don’t think I’m bein’ rude, but…”
“No, of course, I understand. Everything being what it is, I imagine that Wilhelmina is really quite upset.”
“Yes,” Opal said, hesitantly.
“I know that, in situations like this, people often take great comfort in the routine of their daily lives. Little things become very, very important.”
“Sometimes havin’ ever’thin’ jest so can become the most important thing o’ all,” Opal said, with a great understanding.
“Having someone you can count on to keep everything running like clockwork, at those times…well, I can imagine how valuable a person like that can be.”
Opal didn’t exactly accept the compliment, but she blushed slightly. It was the closest that anyone had ever come to out-and-out telling her that she was valuable. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it.
As she quickly sidestepped over to the driver’s side, John stopped her once more.
“Oh, there is one little mystery I was hoping you could solve?”
Opal stared at him blankly.
“It actually has nothing to do with the reverend or George. But it’s been bugging me ever since I saw it.”
Opal’s hand was resting on the car door, which she had only managed to half-open.
“It’s that big tapestry at the house,” John continued, “I remember it as a boy, but nothing specific. I can’t explain why, but I just feel like there’s something about it…”
Suddenly, and seemingly without reason, Opal started to laugh. It was the type of laugh that you would never expect from someone like Opal—deep and unyielding. It didn’t just catch John off guard, it completely threw him.
“Did I say something funny?”
Opal was catching her breath now, and coughing with the effort. She waved at him as if to signal that it wasn’t intended to make fun or insult him.
“I am so sorry. It’s just…that big ol’ tapestry has been featured in magazines and newspaper clippins’, an’ pretty much ever’one around knows how Wilhelmina had it special made all the way out in England.”
“And that’s funny?”
“Well, no. But, yes. Ya’ see, Wilhelmina had it special made so that it would exactly match the crest and seal of the Rivers family that hails from England. That was her way of stayin’ connected.”
“I’m still not getting the joke.”
“That’s ’cause you don’t know our dirty little family secret. But you are a Rivers, like it or not…so you should.”
John waited for her to pluck up the courage to finish the thought.
“Your great-great-great granddaddy, Elijah Rivers, who up and founded this whole little town o’ ours—and pretty well the whole county around it—his name weren’t even Rivers. Don’t ask me what it was before he changed it, ’cause I don’t know—nobody does. But whatever it was, it weren’t a name worth havin’. He had earned him a reputation down in the swamps o’ Florida for crime and wrong deeds that would nat’rilly preclude him from earnin’ a respectful livin’. So when he settled here, he saw all them rivers, full o’ life an’ energy. And he was Elijah Rivers from then on.”
John was still trying to understand the joke, and Opal could tell.
“He was a fake, Detective. The first o’ many fake Rivers. Wilhelmina don’t like to face that, so she brought that nice, fancy seal to help herself forget. It don’t work, though. I can tell ever’ time she looks at it, all she sees is the lie. In fact, I think she’d tear that thing down today, but she’s afraid somebody would ask her why.” With that, Opal opened her car door fully and began to get in.
“Thank you, Opal. I appreciate your honesty,” John said as he started to walk away.
“Mr. Webb? John?” Opal called out, after looking to be assured no one was watching. John turned to face her again.
“Ever’body assumes that I’m this mousy little thing that cain’t stand up to Wilhelmina. And, maybe they’re right. But they are wrong about one thing…”
“What’s that?”
Opal paused, as if she were about to rethink the whole conversation and duck back into her car. Maybe, John thought, it would be better for her to do just that.
“They all assume that I’m embarrassed to be the younger Rivers daughter. But that ain’t it. The more I see my family do—the more I help them do—I’m plain embarrassed just to be a Rivers at all.”
With that, Opal got behind the wheel and drove off.
John stared at the departing taillights as she made her way back to the Rivers Estate. He couldn’t help but think to himself that he had just witnessed the single-most brazen act of bravery that the woman had ever dared to commit.
* * *
On the other side of town, a train was passing through, delivering sorghum, corn, and pecans to destinations across the Eastern Seaboard. Running twice a week, that train produced enough revenue to pay the salaries of 150 workers, fund the daily operation of 14 farms, 3 mills, and a loading depot, with enough left over to ensure that no one with the last name of Rivers ever had to worry about paying bills or putting food on the table. That train meant prosperity.
As Roy stared at the passing cars, he remembered the first time his father had brought him and his older brother out to the depot to watch the men fill those cars with Rivers product.
“You boys should feel a sense of pride,” he would say. “Every time you see that train go by; every time you hear that lonely whistle. It’s a testimony to the hard work and force of will that has been the hallmark of Rivers men since we came to this county.”
Roy could remember with a painful clarity how his father had told them that the strength to lead was required of all Rivers men. That they had a duty to uphold the town of Sales City because, in the end, no one else really would.
Evan Rivers died just 3 years later. Carl, as the oldest, was expected to take over the business, but he had already decided to devote his life to God, and would have no part in it. Roy was just a boy of 16, and the thought of that heavy burden terrified him beyond what anyone could have guessed. To hide his fear, he acted brasher, more brazen than was healthy or wise for one so young.
In the end, his boldness with one particular young girl placed him in a situation that made the challenge of big business pale in comparison. The memory of Emma Lou left a lasting scar on his soul, yet he hid a certain smile when her face appeared in his recollection.
When she died, he shut down. Business didn’t matter to him, and nothing could change that. Wilhelmina would end up handling most of the day-to-day operations, expecting Roy to eventually snap out of his funk.
When Roy finally did emerge from his self-imposed exile from reality, however, he did not go to an office.
He, like his brother, answered a more personal calling.
“Sheriff?” asked Dan, breaking the reverie. Roy turned to see him standing by the open door of his squad car. He had not even heard his deputy drive up.
“Dan,” Roy responded, with almost no inflection. “Anythin’ new?”
“Lots o’ dead ends,” Dan answered faithfully. “Went over to Hank Groves, just like ya’ asked.”
“And?”
Dan walked up to his boss, his hands shoved into his uniform pockets, affecting his very best ‘Awe Shucks’ posture.
“Poor ol’ Hank was stuck out at his mother-in-law’s the other night. Apparently, she’s got a touch o’ sumthin’ and his wife figured it was her duty to look after ’er. Which, o’ course, meant it was Hank’s duty, too. Ain’t no way he could’a done it.”
Roy only nodded.
“Same with pretty much ever’body, one way or another. I was fixin’ to go see Gerald, though. Prob’ly nothin’ there, but I was thinkin’ that maybe one o’ them times he went off with George on one o’ his ‘wild weekends,’ he met up with somebody…”
“You don’t gotta bother with Gerald, now,” Roy interrupted. “He’s got nothin’ worth nothin’ to say about George.”
Dan wanted to take the sheriff at his word, but something about the quick way he had dismissed him sent the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.
“I just thought since Gerald went with him so often…” Dan insisted, but Roy cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“Gerald Peachtree wouldn’t have any kind o’ information that would help. You saw that crime scene. That weren’t no bar fight. That there was pure hate, and nothin’ less. If George had ever met up with somebody who could’a done somethin’ like that, well then I guaran-damn-tee ya’, he would’a told me.”
Dan still was having a hard time with this, though. Ignoring a possible source of information went against everything he knew—against everything Roy had taught him.
“You’re prob’ly right, o’ course. It makes sense. Still, I jest think it would be best if I got a chance to talk with Gerald about the kinda’ places they would go, when…”
“Damnit, I said let it go!” Roy shouted, more loudly than he probably intended. “I already talked with Gerald. That’s a dead end, and that’s the last I wanna hear of it!”
Dan and Roy stood there, awkward and unsure. Dan wasn’t certain what was eating Roy, but the sheriff was clearly disturbed by the very thought of Dan questioning Gerald. He wondered how Roy would react if he told him about Webb’s mysterious appointment with Gerald the night before. He considered telling him, but decided to hold off until he knew more. No sense getting the man upset over nothing…and it gave him an excuse to talk to Gerald, without deliberately disobeying the sheriff’s orders.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Dan decided to ask the question that he had been working so hard to avoid.
“Sheriff?” he began.
Roy didn’t bother to even look at him. It was evident that this man had no real interest in any police work, at least not at the moment.
“You know I been keeping me and Fred real busy, between takin’ phone calls, trackin’ down alibis, an’ keepin’ ever’body calm the past few days,” Dan pressed on. The sheriff’s gaze never left the departing train, fading into the morning sun. “Fred’s been doin’ pretty good on keepin’ the day to day stuff straight, an’ he ain’t said as much as one word o’ complaint about the overtime. I got the widda’ Porter helpin’ out on the phone at the station, too. It’s been real good havin’ her ta’ take messages, an’ such…”
“You gettin’ to some kind of a point, Dan?” Roy asked between clenched teeth.
“Mr. Parrott—he’s been runnin’ himself jest ragged at the mortuary tryin’ to find somethin’ to help,” Dan continued, undaunted. “Mr. Ellswhite, at the Boardin’ House, has been bringin’ breakfast, lunch, and dinner down to the station every day, and won’t take one penny for it. Even ol’ Earl’s been keepin’ an eye out for anything weird goin’ on along the river.”
Finally, Roy Rivers turned his eyes away from the train, now long past. The sunken cheeks and haunted expression gave him the appearance of a man lost. It was a little startling for Dan to see the man he had admired for so long in such a state. Since he was a boy, Dan had admired the strength, determination, and out-and-out life that had been so evident in Roy Rivers.
“Spit it out,” Roy demanded.
Dan took a moment to collect himself. He’d already angered his boss—his hero—and it seemed as though he was well on his way to causing permanent damage to their relationship. A part of him kept wondering if it was worth it, but Dan’s own conscience won out. This must be said.
“It’s just that the town is seeing an awful lot of people workin’ real hard to catch this killer. And some of ’em are bein’ heard askin’ why you ain’t among ’em.”
Whenever you prepare to ask a question or make a statement like Dan just did, you usually have some kind of an image in your head as to what the resulting reaction will be. Whatever expectation Dan may have had, it was not realized. Roy Rivers’ face was virtually unreadable, as though Dan’s words came as no surprise and held no concern.
Dan fought the urge to ask if Roy had even heard him at all. It seemed as though an eternity went by before Roy responded.
“And what, exactly, did you tell them, in response to all those questions?”
Dan paused a moment, just long enough to make it seem like he was hesitating.
“I’ve been tellin’ ever’body the same thing. That we’re workin’ several leads, and you’re very busy coordinatin’ our efforts…” Dan paused for effect, then, “In short, I’ve lied.”
Dan allowed his words to sink in. He didn’t want to be cruel, but there came a time when a man had to be clear enough that his words could break through the haze of grief and anger.
Now was just such a time.
“Don’t get me wrong, Sheriff. I don’t think there’s a man alive that could hold up better’n what you have, considerin’ what all you’ve had to see. But that’s Roy Rivers I’m talkin’ about. And though it sure as hell ain’t fair, the simple fact is the folk of Coweta ain’t concerned about him—not one little bit. Na’ssir. They are scared and confused, and they are countin’ on their sheriff to set things right. Not Roy Rivers, but Sheriff Rivers.”
In the distance, the train whistle sounded faintly against the Georgia heat.
“It’s up to you, sir,” Dan finished. “You gotta decide who you gonna be today…the man, or the sheriff.”
Roy looked the deputy straight in the eye for a moment, as though seeing him in a way that had never occurred to him before.
“So, Dan. What do you need from me? You want my badge?”
“No, sir, I do not. What I want is to catch the son-of-a-bitch that killed your brother and your nephew, and I’ll do whatever the hell I hafta to do it…even listen to that natterin’ northerner son o’ yours goin’ on about how much smarter he is than ever’body else!”
This, finally, drew a slight smile across Roy’s face. He clapped a weary hand on Dan’s shoulder, much as a father would a son. He held it there for a moment, and took one more long look out across the unchanging Georgia plain.
“Thank you, Dan. I suppose it is time I got back to my responsibilities.”
“Far as I’m concerned, you never left ’em. Ya’ jest needed to take a step back and collect yer thoughts. Same as anybody does…now and again.”
The sheriff of Coweta County and his deputy stood in silence for a moment, then Dan pulled away. With a sheepish grin, he walked back to his car. Over his shoulder, he called back to his boss.
“I’m headin’ back to the station. I promised Fred I’d give him a chance to stretch his legs for a while.”
It wasn’t just a schedule update, and Roy knew it.
“I’ll see ya’ there. I got a couple o’ things I gotta see to first,” Roy replied. Dan turned, nodded, satisfied. Then, he got into his car and sped off back toward town, kicking up the dirt, sand, and clay that was Georgia. Now alone, Roy looked down along the tracks, toward a freight train long since out of sight.
* **
Coweta County, Georgia: Geographically speaking, it is an unassuming stretch of land in Northwestern Georgia, just a two-hour drive from Atlanta. Its abundant wildlife and winding rivers make it a pleasant spot, while the simple charm of those who call it home make it a nice place to live. Coweta County. On paper, it sounds just about perfect.
But to Annie Ruth Stovall, with four children to feed, Coweta County had a very different look and feel. Today, especially. Because on a summer day like this, when it was too hot to stay in the house and there just wasn’t anyone to lend a hand, it meant that wherever Annie Ruth went, she did not go alone.
“Mama, I’m tired o’ walkin’. I wanna go play,” begged her oldest daughter, Geraldine. To her credit, she managed to keep it just this side of a whine.
“We’re almost there, Sweetheart. Jest you remember to stay in sight onct’ we get to the playground,” Annie Ruth assured her. She hiked little Hazel Jean a little higher on her hip, as the little one-year-old began to stir in the midday heat.
Geraldine stamped her feet a little as she walked the next few steps, and her nose crinkled furiously. At the age of nine, she was young enough to still need a close eye on her, but old enough to resent it. Annie Ruth knew this, of course, just as she knew that, to Geraldine’s thinking, there wasn’t a single person or thing in Sales City that she didn’t know, and therefore, nothing that she should be afraid of. Annie Ruth just wished that last part was true.
By some standards, the little strip of grass beside the Methodist Church was hardly a playground at all. Just a few old swings, a rusty seesaw, and a picnic table. But there was plenty of shade, and on a day like today there would be other children for them to play with. Plus, there were bound to be other mothers watching, which meant she could pull away from the kids long enough to get some shopping done at the general store.
Hazel Jean stirred again, reminding her that she couldn’t quite get away from all the kids. But even with Hazel Jean still in hand, keeping Geraldine, Harold, and Carol Ann occupied would make buying the few necessities she could afford much simpler.
Just as she had hoped, the playground was full of children, and Mrs. Thorpe was more than happy to keep an eye on the little dears, and was even willing to let Hazel Jean set up camp on her lap—a blessing Annie Ruth would have been afraid to hope for. With a quick round of kisses and a reminder to Geraldine to keep watch over the younger children, Annie Ruth rushed to the General Store.
She was fortunate there, as well. Mr. Frank, the owner, was in sore need of eggs, since the Putnam’s chickens were put off laying by a fox that had been running loose near their property, and the Albright’s farm was quarantined because of a bad fever. Which left the Stovalls’ brown eggs looking suddenly very desirable. In short order, she had agreed to supply 10 dozen eggs a day for the next week, and in return she would get 10 pounds of flour, six bundles of burlap, and 3 new work shirts for Arthur. She was feeling rather good about the whole thing, and felt comfortable enough to splurge on some sugar, cocoa, and vanilla for a cake.
It was while searching for the vanilla that she heard a familiar voice call her name.
“Annie Ruth?”
She turned to see Sam Posey at the end of the aisle.
“Doc? It’s good to see you. I’m surprised to see you so far from home, though.”
“It’s Mr. Frank’s custom dog feed. I made the mistake o’ lettin’ that ol’ badger trade me a couple bags for some buckshot I had. Ever since, that old bluetick o’ mine won’t settle for anythin’ less. So I come up once a month or so and get ’im his supply.”
Sam came closer, as if to say something of a more conspiratorial nature.
“Actually, I was hopin’ I’d get the chance ta’ talk with ya’ while I was in town.”
“Really? And why’s that, Doc?” Annie Ruth asked, obviously curious.
“I been worryin’ about you a little, I guess. What with all this mess goin’ on…”
Suddenly a little thrill of fear went straight through Annie Ruth.
“What’re ya’ sayin’, Doc? You ain’t…you ain’t seen nothin’, have ya’?” Without realizing it, Annie Ruth had closed the distance between them, and had now placed a hand on his arm. Sam Posey looked at her curiously for a moment, and then realized her meaning.
“Oh. No. No. Nothin’ like that, I promise,” he quickly assured. Annie Ruth slumped with relief.
“Ya’ ’bout scared me ta’ death!”
“Oh, my Lord in heaven, I’m sorry, Annie Ruth. I jest meant that, well… I been thinkin’ about how you must be feelin’ right now. This whole business has got ever’body lookin’ over their shoulders—jest as nervous as can be. An’ I was curious as to how you was holdin’ up?”
“Well, that’s real nice of ya’ ta’ worry over me, Doc. An’ truth be known, I feel just as jumpy as anybody… I ain’t one to worry, not really, but I’ll tell ya’—I have been findin’ myself castin’ more than just a passin’ glance at the winda’ anytime there’s a shadow come acrost it. I know how silly that must make me look, but it’s true.”
“Not at all,” Sam said, encouragingly. “I’d dare say there’s a good many folk in Coweta County that’s lockin’ their doors at night for the first time, ever. An’ more ’an a few been findin’ themselves spendin’ more time in earnest prayer than they’d ever admit to.”
“Well, I can’t say as that’s a bad thing. I know quite a few folks as could use a bit more time on their knees,” Annie Ruth replied, only partially sarcastically.
Sam laughed quietly in reply, though the look of concern never left his eyes.
“I daresay, you’re prob’ly right. Though, at such a cost…”
“Such a cost,” Annie Ruth repeated thoughtfully.
“I don’t want you to worry none, though. It don’t help none, no how. ’Sides,” Sam said, hoping to lighten the mood, “if I were some fella bent on doin’ harm ta’ anyone, the last place on God’s green earth I’d come to do that would be the Stovall house. Even if I was to get past ol’ Arthur, that would jest mean I’d haf’ta face off against you. No man alive would be crazy enough ta’ do a thing like that!”
Annie Ruth blushed a little at the compliment.
“That’s kind o’ you to say, Doc.”
“Ya’ know, Annie Ruth, since we are kin, an’ we been friendly for a long time, now…don’t ya’ think you could jest call me Sam? Doc’s fine and good for most folks, I guess. But it just don’t seem right when you say it.”
“Alright,” Annie said. “After all, we have been friends now for…well, as long as I can remember, really.”
“Since the Pelham County Fair o’ 1902,” Sam said quietly.
“Good Lord. I was four years old, Sam…”
“But you remember it like it was yesterday,” he replied
“Emma Lou took me with ’er that day. We saw us a three-headed hog, and a monkey that smoked a cigarette. I had my first taste o’ cotton candy, and Emma Lou flirted with the boy runnin’ the Ferris Wheel so’s he’d let me ride, even though I was s’posed to be too small.” Annie Ruth smiled at the pleasant memory, but it was an incomplete smile, and Sam Posey didn’t need a special vision to know why. “We also got in line to talk to a young man they said could tell your future. ’Course, he must’a been tired by the time we got to ’im, ‘cause he couldn’ tell us nothin’.” Annie Ruth looked Sam straight in the face when she said this. “’Course, you and I both know that ain’t true, don’t we, Sam. I overheard you talkin’ to the fella’ behind us as we walked away. Emma Lou didn’t…but I did. You said…”
“I said, ‘That girl ain’t got no future,’” Sam interrupted.
Annie Ruth looked over the items on the counter, as though she were trying to pretend that this was just a friendly chat. But she knew they were past that.
“I guess it must be hard. Knowin’ things that are goin’ ta’ happen. Knowin’, maybe, that somebody aint gonna get to see the next sunrise. I think that, if I knew that kinda’ thing, it might be easier to lie to someone, right ta’ their face, then hafta hear the pain in their voice or the cries and pleas—as if you could somehow change it. Yeah, I s’pose I’d just plain lie. And I s’pose, after doin’ it for forty years or so, I’d get pretty good at it.”
“Yes,” Sam said bitterly, “you would.”
Annie Ruth pulled her attention from the cans on the shelf and looked at Sam, hard. There was a cold edge in her eyes that frightened the man a little.
“Well, I’m not cryin’. I ain’t got the time or the wherewithal to fall apart with bad news, and I know better’n to ask you to try an’ change things. So damnit, Sam, I don’t want to hear any lies. I jest want to know the truth…is ever’thin’ gonna work out alright?”
“Alright, Annie Ruth? I can tell you it’s gonna work out, but whether or not it’s gonna be alright…I just don’t know.”
Annie Ruth would be thinking about that answer for some time. It would invade her thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. It would prevent her from sleeping as well. In fact, she was lying awake later that night, pondering its meaning, when a sound like distant thunder rumbled across the Georgia landscape.