Marti and Vik went to Lincoln Prairie Memorial Hospital right after roll call. Mr. Newsome was sitting up in bed reading the Chicago Tribune. He was hooked up to an IV, but looked much better than he did when they brought him here yesterday. A picture painted on wood, something Marti now knew was an icon, was on the table by his bed. It wasn’t more than five by seven, but the paint had faded with age. Mary looked desolate, no smiling Child, no dead Jesus, nothing. Just her. She seemed to be looking at something that brought her an inconsolable sorrow. Marti thought of Ben and looked away.
“How’s Harriet?” Newsome asked. “She could never harm anyone, and she doesn’t give a whit for what’s in that box. Security is such an odd thing for her to be concerned about. We’ve always taken care of her. I didn’t want to send her home, but she was getting herself all worked up unnecessarily.”
Marti felt relieved that his voice sounded stronger. He was in the Cardiac Care Unit. She could see the leads that were hooked up to the monitors. But he looked and sounded much better.
“She said she was going to call the housekeeper to come stay with her,” Marti told him.
“Good. She didn’t tell me that.” He hesitated, then said, “Officers, she did not mean any harm to anyone yesterday. She hardly ever raises her voice. That mess that poor girl made of her hair? She didn’t even call to complain.”
“Why do you think she felt she needed to threaten the patriarch with that gun?” Vik asked him.
“For some reason that I don’t understand myself, she felt very desperate. She was worried about how she would survive without me. It isn’t as if we need the money, whatever the manuscript and jewelry is worth. She’s well taken care of, always will be.”
“Has she ever worked?” Vik asked.
“Of course not.”
“Does she have any job skills?”
Newsome thought for a moment, then said, “None that I know of.”
“Maybe she needs to have some money set aside in her own name,” Vik suggested. “Something she can see is her own.”
“Why? My mother never did.” He was silent, then said, “I can take care of that. She takes quite good care of me. She’s an excellent cook. And she’s accepted my son Tom’s death and those two miscarraiges better than I ever will.”
Vik took a chair on one side of the bed. Marti sat in one by the window. It hadn’t warmed up much yet. According to the weatherman it was the coldest spring in five years. But the sun was out, and it shone through the window and made rectangular patterns on the floor.
“Now,” Vik said. “About that gun.”
“I didn’t even know it was in the house.”
“Do you know who it belonged to?”
“It must have been my father’s, or perhaps even my grandfather’s. We never went hunting, were never taught how to use guns or even bows and arrows. Whatever we did do, even fishing, Dad always made sure we learned from professionals. I’m not even sure Dad knew how to use a gun. I don’t know where Harriet could have found it. Was it a real gun?”
“It was real,” Vik told him. “Could it have belonged to your oldest brother?”
Newsome shook his head. “Warren Junior thought the best thing about being in the Army was learning how to fire a rifle and whatever other weapons they used in the war. He didn’t know how when he enlisted.”
Vik looked at Marti and raised his eyebrows. She took over.
“Do you know where the jewelry came from?”
“No, but my guess is that Warren Junior found a way to send it home.”
“Would he have done something dishonest to get it?” she asked.
Newsome pushed the button that elevated his head before he answered her. “That would have been half the fun. It wouldn’t have seemed wrong to Warren, just daring, another adventure, another opportunity to play the hero.”
“Was the jewelry in the box all of the jewelry your father received?”
“I have no idea. That’s all that has been in the box since he died. If he gave any away before then, I wouldn’t know. I can’t think of anyone he would give it to either.”
Marti took out her notebook. “Does the name Savannah Payne-Jones mean anything to you.”
Newsome shook his head.
“Sara Tamar Jones?”
“No.”
“Tamar Greathouse?” These were the names of Savannah’s daughter and mother, according to the articles Holmberg had found.
Again he shook his head.
“How about Jerry Payne?” That was Tamar’s husband.
“No. I’m sorry. Those names mean nothing to me.”
“They are all African American. Could they have been employees of your father or mother?”
“No, we didn’t have any African Americans working in the house when I was growing up. The household help came from Poland and lived in. There could have been someone paid out of pocket to do handiwork or odd jobs outside, but not a woman.”
“Did you ever observe an African-American male working on your property?”
“No. I never did.”
“Would there be any employment records to indicate if someone did?”
“Probably not, but check that out with the owners. We did keep extensive records.”
As they stood to leave, Vik said, “Will you be going home anytime soon?”
“Sometime today. But I do want to thank you for bringing me here. I feel much better now that they’ve run all these tests and not found anything wrong with me. I don’t even have any clogged arteries. The chest pain is just caused by stress.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Vik said.
There was something likable about Thomas Newsome and Harriet. Marti didn’t know what it was, but she felt much the same way as Vik.
“So,” Vik said, when they returned to their car. “I think it’s a safe bet that all of the jewelry got here through this Warren Junior, but as far as we’ve determined so far, there’s nobody still living who can tell more about that than we already know. There’s nobody who can tell us exactly how it got here, or who it was given to. Maybe someone stole the gold and zirconia pieces from Warren Senior. Maybe he gave the jewelry away.”
“Let’s follow up with the current owners of the business, see if they have any record of the names we do have. And let’s give Harriet a call. Maybe she’ll remember something Newsome didn’t. And Holmberg might come up with something when he comes in this afternoon. He’s out on patrol with Lupe right now.”