The note was written on cream-colored linen stationery that was monogrammed “SEH”—Sue Eaton Hines. The message was one sentence:
“Sweetie, no more lies.”
There were water stains on the paper. Tears, maybe. Was this Sue’s suicide note? How could I be sure? And if it was, what the hell should I do with it? I had to publish it, didn’t I?
I couldn’t take this to Bo Hines. He wouldn’t let me in the house. Even if he did, why would he help me? This could be damning to his trial. Obviously, his wife killed herself because of his lies. Right?
I shouldn’t have had that last bourbon and coke. The walk four blocks to the loft helped sober me up some. I found Big Boy bouncing all over the place, so I attached the leash to his collar, and we headed out to find Dare. Maybe she would recognize the handwriting. She wouldn’t answer my phone call, but she would meet me the door at her house if she saw me with Big Boy.
It was after nine, but Dare stayed up late. If her porch light was on, we would ring the doorbell. To hedge my bet, I texted her: “Coming over with BB. Have new info on Sue.” Half a block later, I sent a second text message: “Please.”
While we walked toward Aragon, Dare texted back: “K.”
Dare lived in the trendy downtown neighborhood, Aragon, which was built on the site of a former housing project one block north of Pensacola Bay. Twenty years ago the city fathers realized, with the help of local developers who made large contributions to their campaigns, people would pay top dollar to live downtown near the bay. Why waste the view on poor black people?
The city relocated the housing project residents with the understanding that Aragon would have a quarter of its lots set aside for first-time homebuyers. The catch phrase for the project was a “new, urbanist, traditional neighborhood.” Really, that’s how they described it when the developers presented the drawings to Rotary Clubs in the area.
The developers moved the poor people. Expensive townhouses, cottages, park houses, side-yard houses, small cottages, and row houses replaced the tenements. The developers made millions, and the city added thirty-five million dollars to the tax rolls.
What about the first-time homebuyers? They turned out to be the sons and daughters of the developers and their buddies. Nobody else could afford it. No blacks and none of the offspring of the families that had been moved off the property lived in the new Aragon homes.
Dare resided in a two-story row house in the middle of Aragon. Big Boy and I reached her house in about twenty minutes. A lot of beautiful trees lined the streets between my loft and her house. Both the dog and I took advantage of more than a few of them.
The front porch light was on. Big Boy made a dash for Dare’s front door as soon as he saw it, jerking his leash out of my hand. Hearing the jingle from his dog tags, Dare opened the door and greeted the mutt with a hug and kiss. She unhooked his leash, and Big Boy ran in and immediately jumped up on her couch. I followed the pair and shut the door behind me.
“I’m still pissed at you for suggesting that Sue committed suicide,” Dare said over her shoulder as she sat next to Big Boy, who put his head in her lap. She was dressed in a red Ole Miss polo and navy blue shorts, and wearing pearls, of course. Spread out next to her laptop on the coffee table were financial reports and contracts.
“I know, I know. Isn’t everyone mad at me?” I replied. “That’s my superpower, pissing people off.”
“Stop right there, Walker Holmes,” Dare interrupted. “You brought Big Boy here to soften me up, but it won’t work. The dog is always welcome. You? I’m not so sure about. Just tell me what you found.”
I handed her the note. She turned on the light next to the couch and grabbed her reading glasses off the coffee table. She folded herself back into the couch. Dare read the note maybe three times, handed it back to me, and got up and left the room. When she came back five minutes later, she had a tissue and her eyes were watery.
“Did Sue write that note?” I asked, quietly.
“Where did you get it?”
“From a fat lady, but that’s not important,” I said.
Dare glared at me as if to say really? “Your wisecracks aren’t as funny as you think,” she added out loud.
I said, “That’s what the bartender told me, really.”
This wasn’t where I wanted the conversation to go. I pointed to the stationery in Dare’s hand. “Dare, did Sue write the note?”
“I think so. Sue had a unique writing style, a mix of cursive and print letters. There was no rhyme or reason to it, except it worked for her.” She paused. “I think I have a thank-you note she wrote me a few weeks ago.”
Dare went to her study. I heard her rummaging through her desk. Big Boy had fallen asleep and was snoring. She brought back the thank-you note. It, too, began with “Sweetie,” written nearly identically to the suicide note. We appeared to have a match.
Dare started to sob. I held her for a few minutes until the wave of tears passed. Then I walked into the kitchen and poured us both cups of coffee. Good old Dare, she always had a pot of coffee brewed. She followed me, and we sat around the large island in the middle of the kitchen.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “What lies is she talking about? What has Bo done? Sue worshiped him. Is it about the Arts Council money?”
“I don’t know,” I said between sips. “It could be the missing funds. It could be something far worse. The state attorney’s office is debating whether to prosecute Bo. His lawyers are trying to get an immunity deal in exchange for him testifying against the council’s executive director. Bo could walk away from this with a slap on the wrist. Nothing to die for.”
Dare started to tear up. “You are an asshole. You’re talking about my best friend’s death.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am, but help me figure this out. Did you hear that Bo is now supporting Jace Wittman’s petition drive? He gave it ten grand tonight.”
“What?” She looked up and set down her cup. “That makes no sense. Sue told me that Bo’s company could get some subcontractor work at the park.”
Dare stood and looked at a framed photograph on the counter. It was her, Rory, Bo, and Sue on Hines’ yacht, all wearing huge smiles.
She turned to me. “Those men should be thinking about Julie. That poor girl has lost her mother and her aunt. Sue told me her niece had become sullen and withdrawn lately.”
Dare refilled her cup. “She quit the swim team. Her grades fell. Sue was struggling with how to connect with the girl.”
I said, “Would Jace or Bo listen to you?”
She shook her head. “No, Bo is too heartbroken, and Jace is too full of himself as always. Maybe I will reach out to Julie.”
We sat and drank coffee, each caught up in our own thoughts. Big Boy continued to snore in the next room. Before I did anything with the suicide note, I needed to have an expert verify the handwriting.
My rush to publish a controversial story had gotten me in trouble before. Frost had tried to shut down my paper over an article regarding him and one of his hunting buddies. In sworn testimony to a Florida Ethics Commission investigator, Frost had downplayed any personal connection with a vendor to whom he had given a five-million-dollar communications contract. The sheriff said he had no close relationship with the company’s owner and spent little time with him outside of the office. The investigator specifically asked about the rumor of hunting trips, which Frost denied.
When the daily newspaper printed a photo of the two standing over a moose they had killed in Wyoming in 2008, another communications vendor filed a complaint with the state attorney’s office, calling for an investigation of Frost for official misconduct, perjury, and false official statements. Clearly, the two were friends and hunting buddies.
We published an article on the investigation. Frost claimed the audiotape of the interview had been doctored and demanded a retraction. I refused. Two weeks later, the court reporter sent out a corrected transcript. After repeatedly listening to an audiotape of Frost’s statement, she determined that the sheriff hadn’t said he had never hunted with the new vendor. She corrected the transcript to say: “I hadn’t hunted with him this year.”
The complaint was withdrawn, the case closed, and no further action was taken against Frost. State Attorney Newton said that errors by court reporters were rare but not unusual. We had to admit that we had never listened to the tape. The newspaper was forced to print a retraction, even though we had only reported on what the complaint had said. Frost publicly threatened to sue us but never did.
Clark Spencer told me, “I’ve used court reporters for years, and this doesn’t happen often. There was no indication that this was anything other than an honest mistake by the court reporter.”
Peck delivered copies of the retraction to our major advertisers, and I spent weeks doing damage control to rebuild our image. Much later, I learned the court reporter’s son had been hired by the sheriff’s office.
“I need to be sure the note was written by Sue,” I said, refilling my coffee cup. “Would you mind if I take your note and have an expert compare it with the one I was given tonight?”
Dare slid both notes across the table to me. She picked up her mug again and drank, her face thoughtful. “Does today’s donation to Save Our Pensacola have anything to do with the note?” she asked. “Is Jace involved in this, too?”
“I don’t know.”
Slamming down her empty mug, Dare said, “Then what the hell do you know, Walker?”
“If the note is Sue’s, I know I have to publish it,” I said.
Then I put down my coffee cup and walked out the back door, heading for home. Big Boy would spend the night with Dare. No reason for both of us to lose sleep.