Karol tagged along with me to the library—an average-size building stocked with shelved books that smelled like elementary school sans the old librarian’s pungent perfumes—where we spent nearly an hour looking up any and all information on Henry Hawkins. Henry Lewis Hawkins Jr.—famed landscape photographer—was born in 1898 in Cottonwood, Georgia. In 1918 he’d married Ellen Gibbons. Their daughter—an only child—was born in 1920.
“Jane Hawkins,” I said to Karol, who stood behind the bar stool I sat upon as we perused the Internet via one of the library’s four computers. I turned my head slightly and spoke over my shoulder. “I remember that name. She and my great-aunt were best friends when they were children.”
“Keep reading,” Karol said. From the tone of her voice, I could tell she loved a good mystery.
We continued in our search.
Jane Hawkins had married famed photojournalist Lyn Blackstone in 1942 and lived with him in Chicago, where they raised four children.
Henry Hawkins Jr. died in 1995 at the age of ninety-seven, in the home of his only child. Jane Hawkins Blackstone returned to her Southern roots, one article said, in 2004 at the age of eighty-four and resides with her daughter, novelist Kirstin Blackstone Stein.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s the woman who writes all the mystery novels.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” Karol said.
I glanced over my shoulder and snickered. “What? You’ve never heard of Kirstin Blackstone Stein? And here I thought you knew everything.”
“Nearly. I’m just not a big novel reader.”
“I only know of her—to be honest—because Mother insists on sending me her books every time they release. Autographed personally to me, by the way.”
“Do tell.”
I swung around on the bar stool. “Kirstin Blackstone Stein lives in Savannah. I’m not sure how well she knows Mother, but Mother makes out like she’s practically on her Christmas card list.”
Karol stepped around me and tapped on the monitor’s face with her fingernail. “Only I don’t think Mrs. Stein sends out Christmas cards.”
I shook my head. “No, probably not. Then again . . . I was reading a book last night about the Klan. According to it, a lot of Jewish people changed their names, especially in the 1940s when the Klan joined the German-American Bund.”
“Which was financed by the Nazi party.”
I sighed. “Back to your being smarter than me.”
She patted my shoulder. “Bubbee Taubie, remember? I’ll tell you something else I know; Bubbee’s maiden name was Schwartzstein. A lot of Schwartzsteins changed their name to Blackstone.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. So you think the Hawkins family was originally Jewish?” Karol asked.
“I know they were. The paperwork I found yesterday stated that before they were called Hawkins, their last name was Hurwitz.”
“Where is the paperwork?”
I leaned down and pulled my hobo purse from the floor. I opened it and pulled the large envelope of information from its insides. “It’s musty and dusty, but it’s all in here.”
Karol took the envelope as she nodded. “So what do you want to do now? Now that you know a brief history of the Hurwitz/Hawkins family.”
I swung around on the bar stool to look at the monitor again. “Jane Hawkins Blackstone lives in Savannah. If we can find her daughter, we can find Jane. Maybe we can find out more about what happened in 1947. Namely why her father’s name was on the list of people the Klan was to deal with and yet he wasn’t . . . dealt with.”
“At least not that you know of.”
“Yeah.” I faced Karol again.
Karol balanced the envelope against her middle and flipped through a few pages before she looked up at me. “Why is this—all of this—so important to you? Because your great-grandfather was involved and now you think we’ll have to place this little revelation in the museum?”
“Not entirely, but yes.”
“Look, Jo-Lynn,” she began as she pushed the papers back inside the envelope. “All praise and honor to the Daughters of the Confederacy and all that, but we can keep this on the DL if you’d like. Mark Michaels would kill me if he knew I’d said that, but believe me when I tell you I know what it’s like to have some family skeletons in the closet.”
I looked down at the envelope she was extending toward me. Taking it I said, “It’s not just that.”
“What then?”
I slid the envelope back into my purse then hopped down from the stool. “I think I now know what those men were after. And I think it’s right here inside my purse,” I said, then walked away, leaving Karol to stare after me.
I called Mother from the car with Karol sitting beside me. “Mother,” I said, sounding as upbeat as possible, “you’ll never believe what I found out.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you remember the photograph I showed you last night?”
“Of Aunt Stella’s house?”
“That’s the one.” I looked over at Karol and winked. I was using my car’s Bluetooth system, allowing her to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Remember I told you it was taken by Henry Hawkins?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, turns out—are you ready for this?—Henry Hawkins is the grandfather of your favorite author, Kirstin Blackstone Stein.”
“Are you serious? Oh, how absolutely fascinating, Jo-Lynn. You know, I bumped into her recently—well, this past Christmas— at a charity event over in Savannah. A lovely luncheon at Savannah Station—”
Karol cupped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud while I said, “Well, Mother, here’s the deal. I’m on my way now to Savannah and I’d like to talk with Mrs. Stein about her grandfather.”
“Oh, Jo-Lynn. Really, now . . . this has gone far enough, don’t you think?”
“No, Mother, I don’t. You can help me find this woman or you can hold me up, but I will find her. If I have to hit every bookstore in Savannah, I’ll find someone who knows her and where she lives.”
Mother gave me her trademark sigh. “Oh, all right. Hold on. I have her address here somewhere.”
I heard the plunk-thunk of the phone as Mother set it down against a hard surface, I imagined the kitchen countertop. I glanced over at Karol, who was looking at me. “That was easy enough,” she said, to which I replied, “It’s not over yet. I’ll probably have to have dinner at her house for a month.”
The rustling of the phone being retrieved cut our conversation short. Mother spoke, saying, “Do you have something to write with? No, you’re in your car.”
“It’s okay, Mother. I have a memory like an elephant’s.”
“Mmm,” Mother said, then gave me the address.
I hung up the phone after thanking Mother profusely and then said, “I hope she doesn’t live in a gated community.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Karol said. “Oh well. Time will tell.”