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Friday, April 28, 1995
“I told you never to come here,” Sid hissed at Sarah as he gripped her arm and led her away from the showroom doorway.
“Ow, you’re hurting me.”
“Why did you come here?”
“It’s our anniversary, Sid. I thought I’d surprise you. Maybe we could go out to dinner.”
“You surprised me all right. I don’t like mixing family and business. As long as you’re here, we’ll go grab a quick bite somewhere, but I don’t want to see you here ever again.”
Sid slid a few papers off his desk and put them in the top drawer. Then he grabbed his suit jacket and steered Sarah out the side door. They agreed on a restaurant, and went in their separate cars.
Dinner was a bleak affair, particularly after Sarah asked, “Who was that young man standing next to Tony in the parking lot?”
“Harlan Schneider?” Sid shifted to his salesman’s voice. “Now, why would you want to know that?”
“Oh, no particular reason. I just thought I’d seen him ...” She was about to say in the Creek Diner, but thought better of it. “... somewhere around Garner Creek. He works at Cherokee?”
“Yeah. Now order so we can eat and get out of here.”
‘Our anniversary,’ Sarah thought.
As Harlan drove the few short miles to Martinsville, he began to think about the strange behavior of Sid at the dealership. Sid had told him that the woman was suspected of selling some sort of secret information, but Tony had said she was Sid’s wife. What on earth was going on? He didn’t mind not being told everything about a case, but he didn’t like being lied to. That crud Sid told him was obviously false. Why would he want pictures of his own wife? Of course, she’d gone to that Hideaway, so maybe she was ...
As Harlan worked it out, he became more and more angry. Sid wasn’t a private investigator at all. He was a lousy snoop. No wonder his wife was cheating on him.
Harlan pulled up in front of the Olsen house. The door was never locked, so he walked around to the back porch and let himself in. He first said hello to Mr. Fogarty, as he reached into the cage to scratch under the little bird’s chin. Mr. Fogarty cocked his head from side to side, guiding Harlan’s finger to just the right spots. Harlan laughed and said, “You know, Mr. Fogarty, tomorrow morning, when the first light comes through that big old window over there, I’m going to take your picture. You’ll be immortal in the Parakeet Hall of Fame.” Mr. Fogarty bounced his head up and down, muttering his agreement, or so it sounded to Harlan. Before he refilled Mr. Fogarty’s seed and water, Harlan took a few moments to park his backpack in the guest room, where he always slept. It was so good to feel a part of a family like this. ‘Someday soon, I’m going to have a house of my own,’ he thought later as he scrounged in the fridge and made himself a meatloaf sandwich. He’d been looking at a couple of places over in Garner Creek. Maybe he’d get a dog for company when he had a back yard.
His thoughts returned to Sid, and he crossed to the kitchen phone and dialed the number for Cherokee Motors. There was no answer, so he picked up the sandwich and walked out onto the porch, where he waved to Mrs. Hoskins next door. She waved back, pointed at her bright orange mailbox, and gave an elaborate shrug. Harlan laughed and nodded. He noticed there was still enough light for some good black and white shots, one of the few good things about Daylight Savings. He had plenty of time till he had to go to the library. So Harlan ducked back inside for his F-1 and headed up Beechnut Lane to where it lost its pavement and merged gently into a path that led through the woods surrounding the little town. Maybe he’d try that copse of river birches where he’d seen the deer a couple of weeks ago. He could get some good texture shots. He’d have it out with Sid when he got back to Garner Creek next week.
~~~~~
FROM THE STATEMENT of Elizabeth Hoskins (widow of Perry Hoskins) to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation
Of course I recognize that knife. Where did you find it? ... It was my late husband’s hunting knife. See the monogram on the handle? ... Oh, for years and years. He received it as a birthday gift from his Uncle George when he was nineteen years old ... Oh, everybody in town knew about it. Perry was always showing it off. The last time I remember seeing it? A couple of days ago, I guess. Yes, it was Thursday evening, because I was separating my daylilies out by the mailbox, and I went running in to answer the phone. It was my sister from Topeka, calling to sing me Happy Birthday, even though she can’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it ... I must have left it there and forgot about it because it got dark while I was still talking to her ... I remembered it this morning and went out to get it, but it wasn’t there ... I wear a size eight usually. It depends on the style ... Yes, of course I knew him. He was such a friend of Buddy’s, the boy next door. He was so gentle and patient. He spent a whole afternoon once taking pictures of Barley ... My dog. I’ve got the nicest picture framed on my bedside table upstairs.
...Yes, I did see him yesterday evening. It was when he left Buddy’s house about seven or seven-thirty. I was out at my mailbox. Somebody spray-painted it orange. Harlan waved at me and I waved back ... Uphill toward the woods ... Yes, as a matter of fact I do remember. He was carrying his camera ... Library? No, I don’t know why he was in the library.
~~~~~
FRIDAY, APRIL 28, 1995
“You go on home and I’ll be there later. I forgot something at work, a contract I have to write out. I may be late, so don’t wait up.” Sid watched her drive off, then headed back to the dealership, where he picked up a rental car and drove toward Martinsville. He couldn’t risk letting Harlan do too much thinking. He hoped the kid hadn’t already called somebody about this, but he’d just have to take his chances. He was pretty sure that Harlan was the kind of guy who’d have to think about a deal for a while before he made his mind up. Tomorrow might be too late, though, so he’d have to stop him tonight. ‘There’s no way I’m going to jail for blackmail,’ Sid insisted to himself.
He had brought along the gun he kept hidden under his spare tire. It wasn’t registered, but he didn’t have a silencer, so he’d be running a risk to use it. Luckily Martinsville was a podunk little town, and he knew Harlan’s car by sight. “Hope it’s not in a goddam garage,’ he thought. But Sid was lucky that night. He spotted the car in front of a corner house after driving up only two or three streets. He parked the rental car down a block or so and walked up toward the house. Just as he was passing a virulent-looking orange mailbox, another car pulled into the curb ahead of him. Sid bent down as if he were tying his shoelace, while a tired-looking guy carrying a suitcase and a big heavy book limped up the walk and let himself in the front door.
Off to his side a bit, Sid noticed the late evening sun glinting off something under a messy-looking bunch of flowers. Without even pausing to think, he reached out and lifted a heavy hunting knife from among the green leaves. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he muttered. “This looks like the answer to a man’s prayer.”
Slipping the knife under his dark jacket, he crossed to the other side of Beechnut and ducked behind some dense shrubs that formed a loose hedge in front of a darkened house. ‘Hope nobody comes home while I’m here,’ he thought.
Sid was somewhat at a loss. Blackmail he could handle, but he’d never killed anybody before. Of course, he knew how to do it, especially now that he had the knife. He’d read about it in those magazines he’d bought in the city last year. Could you believe it? They actually printed directions on the best angle to use to get under the ribs and into the heart. He’d read those very, very carefully because they seemed really interesting at the time.
He’d have to wait till it got darker, then sneak over and find out which room Harlan was in. It couldn’t be that hard to break in a window. Sid’s mind was wandering a bit when he looked up and saw Harlan walking into the house across the street. Damn! Where had he been? Well, at least now he knew for sure where the kid was. In the meantime, he’d head back to his car, drive it around so nobody would get suspicious about a parked car. He knew what these gossipy little towns were like.
When he headed up Beechnut Lane, he found that the road just dwindled down to nothing but a crooked path, so he pulled off into a little space between some darkening trees, turned off the engine, and waited. He even snoozed a bit. ‘Might as well be rested when I go to do this,’ he thought.
A little before eleven Sid came to with a start. About time to reconnoiter. Leaving his car in the woods so he wouldn’t make any noise, he walked the few blocks back to the little house on the corner, keeping to the opposite side of the street. Just as he was getting ready to cross the street, he saw the door open. Harlan walked out onto the front porch, looked around briefly, then headed to his left, down toward the river. He never looked around, never even suspected he was being followed. Sid had never been quieter. Thank goodness he had these soft-soled shoes on.
At the corner Harlan turned to his right, crossed the street, and continued walking for two blocks. Sid stayed on the upper side of the street, keeping an eye out for stones or pinecones on the path that might go crunch and give him away. There was just enough light from the moon for him to see that Harlan had his camera bag hanging across his right shoulder.
In the middle of the next block Harlan turned off the sidewalk and headed off to the side of a big old house. There was some sort of sign out front, behind a picket fence, but Sid couldn’t see what it said. He could follow the light-colored shirt that Harlan was wearing, and it disappeared around the back corner of the house. Sid was so afraid of losing him that he hurried across the street and loped up the lawn beside the house. As he eased himself around the corner, he heard a door open and close. The lights were all off in the house. ‘What’s this guy up to?’ Sid wondered. Well, he certainly couldn’t wait to find out.
There wasn’t a back door. Sid had expected some sort of sidewalk leading up to a porch, or a door with little bushes on each side of it to hide the foundation. There was nothing like that. Only a wide expanse of wall with a few windows down at the other end of the house. There was a great big bush bunched up against the middle of the blank wall. But Sid had heard a door close nearby, so there had to be a door in this section of the wall. He just had to find it. Going back to the corner of the building, he felt his way along in the deep shadows. The moon was too high and too far over that way to lend any light back here.
His hand brushed a frame of some sort, and only a moment or two passed before Sid was quietly opening the hidden door. He passed into a room that had windows high on the wall all the way around, making it fairly easy to see that he was in a living room of some sort. Lots of benches and low tables and easy chairs. Slowly he drew the knife from under his jacket, then steered his way between the chairs toward the doorway he could see in the opposite wall.
Ahead of him he heard Harlan moving around. Barely breathing, Sid followed the sound. As he rounded a corner he could hear Harlan’s footsteps on the wooden floor. He’d have to be very careful. He hoped the floor didn’t creak. The footsteps changed. Harlan was climbing stairs. No telling where he was headed. Once again Sid didn’t want to lose him, so he hurried to see just where the stairs were. He could see Harlan turn, up above him, almost at the top of the stairs. “Miranda?” The quiet voice floated down to where Sid, moving through the shadows, had scuffed his foot against a table leg.
Harlan started quickly back down the stairs. Sid could see him smiling. Sid wondered who this Miranda was. ‘Even pretty boy here is getting some tail,’ he thought as he flew at the stairway, meeting Harlan just below the landing. Sid’s outstretched arm, holding the heavy hunting knife, hit Harlan below the rib cage. At that angle, it was just like the magazine said it would be.
He hated to leave the knife, but what was he going to do with it? So he wiped the handle clean. The kid’s camera had fallen off to the side of the stairs. No telling what was in it. Sid picked it up, walked out the way he had come in, found his way back to his car. Before he got in, he threw up at the base of one of the big pine trees.
~~~~~
SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1995
Saturday morning, Sarah woke up early. Sid was snoring, so she eased out of bed. She was in the kitchen, wrapped in her orange terry cloth robe, when Sid stumbled in about eight o’clock. “You must have been on tiptoes when you came in last night. I never heard you.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“I was out like a light by 9:00.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Sid, you haven’t asked me that in three or four years! Yes, I slept sound all night long.”
“That’s good. That’s good. I got in around 9:15.”
“Did you finish the contract?”
“The what? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I did, and it went fast because I was home by quarter past nine and in bed by nine-thirty. Too bad you were already asleep.”
Sarah made his breakfast, wondering if things were getting better between them. He was acting so sweet and concerned about her.
~~~~~
TUESDAY APRIL 23, 1996
Martinsville
Sarah told us at lunchtime all about the safety box key and how her husband had blackmailed Ben Alexander, the banker. I asked her if she thought Ben would be willing to testify against him. Sarah wasn’t sure. She thought Ben would probably just want to keep the whole thing quiet, now that he was back with his wife, and they were expecting a baby. “I hope that won’t make it too difficult for you. I’d be willing to testify, but I guess I can’t since I’m still his wife until I can get a divorce. I don’t want to be married to a crook.”
Bob leaned back in the kitchen chair and cleared his throat. “Actually, you could testify if you wanted to,” he said to Sarah, “but that’ll be up to you. In the meantime, don’t worry, because we have some physical evidence that should keep Sid locked up for a very long while.”
I’d been wondering about Bob’s earlier comment, and all of a sudden the pieces clicked together. “I know what it is! His finger-prints match the partial, right?” Bob actually scowled at me. I guess I should have kept my supposition to myself. But from the look on his face, I knew I was right. So I turned to Sarah and explained, “Bob just found out that Sid killed a young man in the library a year ago. He left his fingerprint on the blade of the knife.”
“Biscuit, I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. What other reason would you have to lock him up for a long time? It has to be a murder, and what other murder could he have committed that you’d know about except for Harlan Schneider?”
“Harlan?” Sarah’s voice went up at least an octave. “He killed Harlan? He killed Harlan?”
“Did you know him?” Glaze asked her.
“He worked at the car lot where Sid worked. I heard he’d been killed. I never met him, but I saw him around town a few times.”
I saw him once for a whole night.
The rest of lunch was extremely subdued, with Bob sending disapproving looks my way. I hoped I hadn’t compromised the investigation. I was glad Marmalade was sitting on my feet. It was somehow comforting.
You are welcome.
Bob took down Sarah’s name, address, and phone numbers to pass on to the GBI. Right after lunch, he said his goodbyes to the group, and I followed him out onto the verandah. “I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have blurted all that out about the murder. Did I really mess things up?”
“Yes, but I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”
And then I found out, not for the first time, that Bob’s arms around me are just as comforting as Marmalade on my feet, if not more so.
They are?
When I rejoined Sarah and Glaze, we just sat there in awkward silence for a short while. What do you say to a woman who’s just found out her husband is a murderer? There was an inane etiquette book all the girls in my sixth grade class were given in 1958. It told us such vitally important tidbits as how to freshen up a hat veil using a light bulb. Just what we needed to know. Along with it was a booklet called Growing Up and Liking It. Sandwiched in between rather clinical sketches of ovaries and Fallopian tubes, were veiled hints about what it meant to be a woman.
Neither the etiquette book nor the other had shed any light on how women support each other through murder trials or planned divorces. Ah well, we just serve tea and listen, I suppose. I liked Sarah well enough, but could tell that she and Glaze had a potential for a long-term friendship.
“What are you going to do now?” Glaze asked Sarah. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly ...
Good. She is breathing.
‘... At least she’s breathing,’ I thought.
“I’m feeling a little numb right now, but I do know I’m calling my lawyer today to speed up the divorce process. I’ve said all along I wouldn’t be married to a black-mailer, but I certainly won’t stay married to a murderer!” Sarah had tears in her eyes, but she had determination in her voice as she continued. “I suppose that after I get the divorce, I’ll figure out a way to go back to school.” She paused to gather her thoughts, while Glaze and I just sat quietly, nodding our heads in support. “I think,” she said slowly, “I’d like to be a counselor.”
“What a wonderful idea, Sarah.” Glaze leaned forward and placed her hand on Sarah’s arm. “You’ll make a very good counselor.”
Eventually Sarah gave all her address info to Glaze. We remembered at the last moment to return her cookbook and the deposit box key Sid had been trying to retrieve, and then waved to her as she drove down Beechnut Lane.
~~~~~
MY GRATITUDE LIST – Tuesday
1. Integrity
2. Logic
3. My new light bulb in the fridge
4. A wonderful guy who knows how to replace a broken window
5. Ketchup bottles
I am thankful for
people who get up when I tell them to
those yellow curtains
feet under tables
breathing
my window sills
~~~~~
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 24, 1996
In a small town like Martinsville, it’s practically impossible to keep such juicy details quiet, so by Wednesday, the word was out. Mostly the story was told the right way, but a few fantastic details did slip in here and there. Glaze and I, it seemed, had rounded up an intruder and kept him cowering in a corner as we pointed a shotgun at him. I thought that “armed with a ketchup bottle” was much more interesting, but not everyone had the imagination to see the lyricism in that version of the tale.
We learned later from Bob that Wednesday afternoon, Miranda Schuss from the deli had shown up at the police station with her mother in tow. “I told her to be quiet about this,” Margot Schuss complained. “She never had to say a word, and everything would have been all right.”
Miranda was ready, finally, to face the consequences. She told Bob her story in a steady voice, explaining her early fascination with the soft-voiced, gentle young man, telling how she had gotten to know him and like him a lot. He used to come to town to spend time with Buddy Olsen, and she’d met him at the movies one Friday night more than four years ago. They’d come to like each other, but there was so much difference in their ages. Last year, when she was just about to graduate, when he’d been here to fill in for Buddy as a house-sitter for a few days, he’d called and asked her out.
Miranda told Bob, “I couldn’t meet him earlier, so I snuck out of the house. I’d already told him about the back door to the library. We were planning to meet there at 11:30, because Mama would never have wanted me to go to Buddy’s house, but I didn’t get there until way after midnight because my folks were talking to my uncle, who was visiting. When I got to the library,” she added in an almost imperceptible whisper, “he was dead. If I ...”
“Yes?”
“...if I hadn’t agreed to see him, he’d be alive.”
Miranda stopped her monologue, wiped her eyes with her hand, and looked up to meet Bob’s eyes. “You can arrest me now, Mr. Sheffield. I’m ready.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and handed her a box of tissues. He’s kept them stashed there ever since last pollen season when I told him between sneezes that it was frustrating to need a tissue and not be able to find one. “Nobody’s going to arrest you, Miranda, but I’d like to know why you didn’t tell us all this last year?”
“When you and those detectives came to the deli and asked us about him, I was really scared, but Mama did most of the talking, so I just answered a few questions and then stayed out of the way. I was crying a lot, but most of the other kids in town were, too. Everybody liked Harlan. Later, I told Mama, and she said that we might as well leave it all alone, since I didn’t know anything about who might have killed him.”
“Did you take anything from the body?”
“No!” Miranda was horrified even at the thought.
“What did you do with the shoes you were wearing?”
“I saw that I’d stepped in ... stepped in his ... in his blood. So I went home and washed off the shoes and hid them in my closet. Then, about a week later, I told my mother. She helped me get rid of them. We drove down to Athens and threw them in a dumpster.”
“Well, there aren’t going to be any consequences, other than the work of your own conscience. It’s not a crime to sneak out of your parents’ house at night; it’s not illegal to find a body. But you did withhold material evidence that might have simplified the investigation, and you’ll have to testify when this comes to trial. You can expect a very stern lecture from the judge.”
“Yes, sir. I’m really sorry.”
Bob had her sign a statement. Then he wished her well and sent her on her way.
Meanwhile Glaze had been sitting on a lawn chair in the shade – thank goodness we weren’t into the scorching summer heat yet, and there was a lovely breeze blowing up from the river. She held Marmalade in her lap and kept her leg propped up while I puttered in the yard. The little Pieris floribunda I’d planted just a month ago under the big maple on the west side of the house near the fence had a broken stem. Poor little thing. I felt like crying. I’d looked such a long time for it. It’s hard to find, even though it’s a variety of Pieris that’s native to the southeast, and it’s much better suited to the Georgia climate than the Japanese shrubs. In some places it’s called a Fetterbush. I wonder why? Even as little as it was, there were a few small bell-shaped white flowers clustered on the one stem that wasn’t broken. As I was wondering what to do, Marmalade hopped very carefully off Glaze’s lap and headed straight to me. She oozed her back along my knee, where I knelt beside the tiny bush.
It needs more light. I already told you that. It occurred to me that, although native pieris are shade-loving plants, this one might need a bit more light. I dug it up while I was thinking about it, and took it to the edge of the woodsy area in the back yard, where it would catch the morning sun. I decided to plant it on Barley’s grave. He was such a nice old dog. Marmalade walked along behind me, limping only a little bit, and tried to help me dig the hole. I’m so glad she’s beginning to feel better.
It is about time! Whitebell will be fine now.
~~~~~
MY GRATITUDE LIST – Wednesday
1. My yard
2. Springtime
3. Marmy
4. Healing
5. Planting
people who listen to me
digging
helping Widelap
getting my ears scratched
cool breezes