Bury Me When I'm Dead (14 page)

Greg returned to the room just as Charlie was finishing her research. He handed her a folded sheet from a yellow legal pad. On it was the name Jonathan Fitzgerald, a telephone number and a local address.

“Mother called and I asked her your question about high school records. She suggested you speak with this man,” he said, pointing to the paper. “He operated Fitzgerald Photography until about five years ago. His shop was right up the street for as long as I can remember. Mother says he took the graduation photos for most of the Black schools and if anyone has the information you're looking for, it would be Mr. Fitzgerald.”

It wasn't difficult to reach Fitzgerald, and he didn't think Charlie's request was unusual. He agreed to see her at his home. Charlie looked at her watch. Judy would be checking on her soon, but a conversation with Fitzgerald, if it confirmed her hunch, could provide a breakthrough in the case.

Chapter 19

Ernestine Mack would have complimented Gregory McCants as a young man “with good home training.” Not only did he call a taxicab for Charlie, he helped her into the back seat and insisted she take the abandoned cane from the umbrella stand. Charlie was glad to have it when she arrived at Fitzgerald's home. She slung both legs from the cab to the pavement and with the help of the cane, slowly stood upright.

The house was freshly painted, a small brown and white bungalow on a block that had equal numbers of boarded and occupied homes. The front lawn was a shock of green and rosebushes dotted the front border. The steps to the porch had no banister so, again, the cane came in handy for steadying her ascent. Charlie was dumbfounded when she recognized the man who opened the door.

“I know you.”

“It's more accurate to say you've seen me before,” the man said. “I've seen you too, at the barbershop the other day.”

“That's it. The owner called you Johnny.”

“Johnny Fitzgerald at your service, Miss,” the old man said, extending his hand.

“Charlene Mack.” She handed him her card.

“I don't remember you having a cane at the barber shop,” Fitzgerald said, maneuvering his walker away from the door so Charlie could enter.

“No, I didn't. It's a long story,” Charlie said, stepping over the threshold.

The home was snug. As far as Charlie could see from the front door, carefully stacked boxes and crates were positioned to create wide aisles allowing Fitzgerald to easily use his walker. He and Charlie
hobbled into the family room which seemed to be one of the places immune to the storage. Johnny offered her a seat and a cup of hot tea which Charlie accepted, and he clumped toward the back of the house to his kitchen.

Charlie gave the living room an investigator's scan. The largest pieces were the couch she sat on and two comfy-looking armchairs made less so by plastic covers. Charlie had seen this kind of furniture before, a mainstay of working-class homes from her mother's era. This afternoon the plastic was a nuisance because it crackled every time she moved and thwarted her low-level prying. She wanted a closer look at the photos on the fireplace mantel where Fitzgerald's family life appeared to be displayed in chronological order. First a photo of a young Johnny in uniform, then a wedding photo: Johnny handsome and smiling in a tuxedo next to a beautiful, brown-skinned bride with flashing eyes wearing a gown with a flowing veil. There were two baby photos side by side, a boy with his mother's eyes and a little girl in a pink bonnet with a tender smile. A Christmas portrait showed the happy family seated in front of a spruce plump with decorations. Mom and Dad beamed proudly and the kids grinned with blissful delight.

“How would you like your tea?”

Charlie hadn't heard Johnny's return because he'd traded in the walker for his aluminum cane.

“I've got cream and sugar and also some honey. If you'd like a little something in it, I've got that too.”

“You're a man of impeccable taste and intelligence but it's a bit early for me for the hard stuff, so I'll take mine with two spoonsfuls of honey.” Charlie pointed at the mantel. “You've got a nice family.”

“Thank you. The kids have moved out west and my wife, Cynthia, died eight years ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It's okay. She was quite sick at the end but we had a very good life together.”

Fitzgerald and Charlie chatted easily. He admitted he was one of those people who was curious about the world and everything in it. It was what ultimately led him to his profession as a photographer.

“I was always staring at folks and I thought I'd better have an explanation that made sense to them. You'd be surprised at the wrong ideas people get just because you're giving them a good once-over.”

When the tea kettle whistled, Fitzgerald moved to the kitchen, leaving Charlie time to scrutinize the final three mantel photos. Graduation day pictures of the son and daughter, and a formal portrait of Johnny and his wife for what might have been a silver anniversary. The cap and gown photos were embossed with the Fitzgerald Photography name in the lower right corner.

“So,” Fitzgerald began once Charlie had approved of her tea. “You're interested in photographs of the graduating seniors in the late Fifties?”

“That's right.”

“Who, in particular, are you looking for?”

Charlie took a sip of tea while she calculated how much she wanted to reveal to Mr. Fitzgerald. He blew on his tea and the comforting aroma of cardamom, brandy and honey curled toward her.

“Let me guess?” he said. “Grant Freeman, Jr.”

Charlie gulped her tea, burning her tongue.

“You okay?”

Charlie nodded and sucked in a stream of cool air.

“I saw your reaction when Burke mentioned Junior's name at the barbershop.”

“You don't miss much, do you?” Charlie said, sucking her tender tongue. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”

Fitzgerald chuckled. “I can't help myself. Now that I'm an old man it's even easier to read people because when I stare they look away. I think it has something to do with the fear of lost youth.”

“And a philosopher, too,” Charlie said.

Fitzgerald smiled. His eyes lost focus for a moment and Charlie thought she saw loneliness wash over him.

“Do you think you have a photo of Freeman's graduating class?”

Fitzgerald's eyes lit up. “Positive of it. Junior went to Northern High School. I took all their photos. Sports, social clubs, portraits, homecoming. All of it.”

“Do you happen to remember what year he graduated?”

“Now that I'm not sure of, but after you called I pulled out my file boxes for 1957 through 1962.”

Fitzgerald and Charlie navigated to his dining table where he had laid out six yearbooks and three large manila envelopes filled with photographs.

“So, what's your interest in Junior?”

Charlie's instincts told her that John Fitzgerald was a straight shooter. His way of speaking and some of his mannerisms reminded her of her father. But she wasn't ready to tell all. “I'm investigating Paul Stringer's death. I think it's at the center of something sinister and I'm chasing every hunch and lead I get.”

“But, you're from Detroit, what interest is it to anyone there?”

“Well, Paul lived in Detroit for more than twenty years before he returned to Birmingham.”

“I forgot about that. When Anna moved away her daddy was none too happy.”

“Do you know why they moved?”

Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders. “I always figured it had something to do with the girl. She was very smart. To give her a better future, you know?”

“You knew her? Joyce Stringer?”

“I knew the whole family. Bobby Stringer lived in this community all his life. His daughters were pretty girls; Anna was almost as good-looking as my Cynthia. I was always taking photos of Joyce winning some award or getting some recognition. I used to wonder how her brother would get along since she got so much attention.”

Charlie and Fitzgerald divided up the work. She thumbed through the yearbooks looking for the names Freeman or Stringer in the photo captions and he examined the loose photos. He got the first hit.

“Here's Junior,” he said, sliding a photo of a group of young men in football jerseys across the table. “He's the third one from the left.”

Charlie smiled involuntarily. Grant Freeman, Jr. was strikingly handsome but it was the exuberance of all the young men in the photo that was so appealing.

“Not a care in the world, right?” Fitzgerald said, reading Charlie's expression accurately.

“You know, in some ways Black folks didn't have it so bad in the Fifties. I mean, I know those of you who lived through it were second-class citizens but it seems to me some things were better than they are now. You had closer-knit neighborhoods with little or no drugs, parents took their children to church, there was no misogynistic hip-hop music, no assault weapons and no 9/11.”

“Hold on there, young lady. That's the stuff I'm supposed to say. You're what? Maybe thirty years old?”

Charlie had to laugh at herself. “I guess I'm feeling old today. I've been through a lot the past twenty-four hours.”

“I noticed. How'd you get that bruise on your face?”

“Somebody attacked me right after I left the barber shop.”

“Was it that guy you recognized at the shop?”

Fitzgerald really was observant. Charlie allowed the shiver. It happened every time she thought about her close call. But she didn't let herself think of it for very long.

“I'm pretty sure it was him. He left me for dead in an empty lot.”

“Did he kill Paul?”

Charlie shook her head. “I don't know anything for sure. I'm still trying to put all the pieces together. There are a lot of pieces.”

Fitzgerald bowed his head for a moment. “Why'd you decide to become a private investigator?”

Charlie spent the next ten minutes explaining her ambitions to help people, her sense of justice, and her curiosity about the way people operated in the world and why they did the things they did. “I have a growing understanding that humankind, despite our differences and conflicts, are more alike than not.”

Fitzgerald listened intently. When Charlie stopped talking and took a long sip of tea, he sat back in his chair and took a fresh assessment of her. “Well, I imagine being a lady private eye does require someone with serious intentions.”

Charlie's phone rang sending the cavalry charging. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.”

“Hi Judy. Sorry, I forgot to call you. I know I said two hours but it's taken a bit longer. I'm fine. I'm sitting with a man who is helping me with some research.”

“I just spoke with Gil,” Judy said. “Do you want him to pick you up?”

“Yes, that would be great.” Charlie turned to Fitzgerald, who was examining more photos. “Would it be okay if one of my colleagues comes to retrieve me?”

He nodded his consent.

“Okay, Judy. I should be done here in a half hour. Here's the address.”

Charlie picked up another yearbook and resumed the search.

“Look at that one.” Fitzgerald pointed to a photo of a freshly barbered Grant Freeman, Jr. wearing a tweed jacket and a striped tie. “I've written the date on the back, so that's the yearbook we're looking for.”

Nineteen-sixty had been a stand-out year for Freeman. He was a three-letter athlete at Northern High School playing varsity football, basketball and track. He was the senior class president and voted “most likely to succeed.”

Anna Stringer had graduated that year also. There was a photo of her and the other girls who made up the Homemaker's Club. They posed wearing aprons and holding up Betty Crocker cookbooks. Like the football players, their demeanor was optimistic and cheerful.

“Mr. Fitzgerald, I understand Anna's father and Grant's father were friends.”

“You can call me Johnny, young lady,” Fitzgerald said.

“And please call me Charlie. My nickname. I was always a tomboy.”

Johnny reflected on that information for a moment. “I knew Bobby Stringer and Grant Sr. pretty well. We were all kicking around the neighborhood about the same time. Yes, they were friends for a long time. They worked together in construction until Bobby had his accident.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I believe he fell from a scaffolding or something. He was paralyzed from the waist down. Couldn't work anymore and used a wheelchair after that.”

“And the elder Freeman, what did he do after that?”

“I believe Bobby's accident changed Grant's life, too. He stopped doing construction work and started working downtown with a white man who owned two funeral homes. Stayed there five years learning the business and saving up money. Did you know he built the original mortuary himself with a few of his construction buddies?”

“No, I didn't know that. Did the two men remain friends?”

“Yes, and no. They still lived on the same block and their families knew each other but what I heard was Bobby was sort of resentful. He and Grant were supposed to make their fortunes together but because of the accident, Bobby got left behind.”

“Johnny, last question. Do you know if Anna Stringer and Grant Freeman, Jr. ever had a relationship?”

Again, wise old Johnny had anticipated the question and slid two photos across the table to Charlie. “See for yourself.”

In the first, Grant Jr. and Anna were among a group of kids at what looked like a prep rally. Everyone was smiling. Grant wore his football jersey and had his arm around Anna, who wore a cardigan sweater and plaid skirt and looked every bit the pretty ingénue. She stared up at Grant Jr. adoringly. The second photo showed the two dressed up in formal wear, posing in front of a banner that read: Northern High School Senior Prom 1960.

“What do you want to bet Bobby Stringer was dead set against this relationship?” Charlie said, waving the two photos.

“That's a bet I'll not be taking, young lady.”