Bury Me When I'm Dead (9 page)

“Andrew and Paul were more like brothers than first cousins. Andrew was making good money at the bottling plant, that's why he thought Paul should come home and get a job here.”

“When did Paul move back to Birmingham?” Don asked.

“Oh, let's see. This is August. I guess it was May. Is that right, Cookie?”

Meadows' daughter, Cookie, hadn't joined the group in the dining room but had been eavesdropping by pacing past the door at regular intervals, at least six times by Charlie's count. She was a heavy girl who played up her girth like it was an asset. She wore a low-cut, asymmetrical black top over a pair of turquoise leggings. Her auburn synthetic weave hung well below her shoulders. Her green bauble earrings were not quite turquoise but did match the color of her manicure.

“It was Memorial Day,” Cookie said, sticking her head in the doorway. “Remember? Paul brought that girl, Grace, to the church picnic.”

Don and Charlie instinctively made eye contact. Cookie resumed her hallway pacing.

“Oh that's right. I remember now. Paul would hop on the Greyhound to visit Andrew all the time.” Mrs. Meadows paused as the tears welled. “But in May, Joyce drove him down here with everything he owned. Lock, stock and barrel.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Joyce?” Charlie asked.

“The last time was at the funeral.” She paused again. “Oh Lord, I just can't believe my boy is gone.”

Jennifer could no longer hold back the flood. She lay her head on
the table and sobbed. Her grandchildren moved to her side and Cookie stepped into the room to comfort her mother. Don and Charlie excused themselves.

It was 10:30 p.m. The neighborhood sentinels still hovered outside the Stringer house and they offered an escort back to the Chrysler. Don was uncomfortable with the company but Charlie used the brief walk for a bit of interrogation.

“It's a shame what happened to Andrew and Paul,” Charlie said to the man.

“I've known Drew all my life and Paul would hang out with us sometimes when he came to visit.”

“Why is the house boarded up?”

“There was a drive-by not too long ago, sprayed bullets across the front of the house. Miss Jennifer says she's scared to put the glass back in.”

“When did that happen?” Don asked.

“A month ago. There's two little kids in that house. Anybody try that again, we got something for 'em.”

The shorter man grunted his agreement.

“Oh, by the way,” Don said. “There was a guy behind the wheel of a Mustang parked up here by the corner this morning. Is he one of your boys?”

Charlie saved Don from his language faux pax. “What he means is, is that someone you know?”

Both guys had stopped short to stare at Don. Then the shorter one continued walking, Don at his side. “Naw, man. He's just some heroin head. Come up here to score, so his wife won't know. Then nods off in his car.”

The cold coffee and half-eaten pastries on the front seat of the vehicle were proof it had not been molested. Charlie waved at Yusef through the store window, signaling all was okay.

“Where to? The funeral home?” Don asked.

“No. It's late and I'm tired. Let's just head back to the motel.”

Don and Charlie drove for the first five blocks in a somber silence. The landscape was dark because many of the bulbs in the streetlights hadn't been replaced.

“I feel sorry for those kids,” Don said.

Charlie didn't respond. She and Don had discussed the complex issues of poverty before. They'd debated personal responsibility, the role of education, systemic racism, the welfare state and the repercussions of absentee fathers. Charlie didn't fully subscribe to her own liberal arguments and the conversations left her exhausted. She resented being the defender of all Black people, a burden she had taken upon herself.

“I feel empathy for them too. But I'm not going to judge,” Charlie said.

“Do we have a plan for tomorrow?”

“I was thinking about that. I'm going to need the car early. I'll go to the funeral home to meet up with Grace Freeman and keep an eye open for Joyce. I think maybe Grace knows things she doesn't realize could be important.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I think you should go back to police headquarters. Hang out. I'm trying to figure out if this neighborhood has gang violence or organized drug activity. Maybe Paul and Andrew were killed because of some personal vendetta. What do you think?”

“Could be any of the above. Do you think we need a second rental car?”

“Yeah, maybe so. This one ain't exactly inconspicuous anymore.”

“Speaking of which, there's a van following us,” Don said.

Charlie fought the instinct to look back or flip down the visor mirror.

“Are you sure, Don?”

“Yep. They made the U-turn with us when we left the convenience store and they've been a couple of cars back ever since.”

“You think it's the neighborhood guys?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. So what do you want to do about it?”

“Well, I sure don't want to lead them back to our motel.”

Don made a left in the direction of I-65. The van followed.

“I'll get on the expressway and try to lose them.”

“Do you know where you're going?”

“Right now, my plan is to keep going south away from the motel. But, I've studied the street maps and I think I can keep us from getting lost.”

I-65 south led to Montgomery, the state capital, and even at ten o'clock on a weekday night the traffic was impressive. Charlie considered herself a good driver but had to admit Don was better. He maneuvered from lane to lane, speeding up sometimes then slowing to avoid contact with the traffic all around him. He led the van on a merry chase.

“You've done this before,” Charlie said, holding onto the bar above the car door.

“Yeah, but this is the first time I've been on the wrong end of the pursuit.”

Don sped up and quickly changed lanes, wedging himself between two sixteen-wheelers. The van's driver couldn't follow and had to fall back, staying in the adjacent lane to keep an eye on the Chrysler.

“Did you get a look at them?”

“I made out two silhouettes. The driver is wearing a cap but I couldn't make out any detail on the passenger.”

“I'm going to stay where I am for now. Keep an eye on them and let's see what they do. You better take this.” Don gave Charlie his revolver.

The Chrysler and the white van drove in their fixed positions for about five minutes. The tractor-trailer driver was getting impatient with the sedan sandwich and flashed his lights for Don to move out of the lane. Don ignored him.

“Mack, keep your eye on the right lane.”

“Will do.”

The sixteen-wheeler's left signal indicator flashed and the van slowed. The truck began to make its move.

“Is the right lane clear?” Don's voice registered increased adrenaline.

“Yes, but there's a car coming up pretty fast.”

“Okay, we're taking this next exit. Hold on.”

Don swerved into the right lane, cutting off the approaching
vehicle, and gunned the Chrysler's V-6 engine. The offended driver blared his horn and Don shot up the exit. Charlie turned in her seat to see if the van would make the exit. There was the sound of screeching brakes and angry horns as the van moved over two lanes to follow. Don didn't slow to merge into the traffic going west onto University Boulevard. He traveled from the right lane to the left turn lane in less than a hundred feet then took the turn heading into the University of Alabama, Birmingham campus. He made a quick right into a crowded parking lot, doused the lights and pulled the car into a space that allowed him to see the road. When the white van passed the lot, speeding, Don pulled out and headed toward the airport.

Charlie rented a white Chevrolet Impala and Don switched out the Chrysler sedan for a dark blue Ford Explorer. He took the lead back to the outskirts of town and, just to be sure they weren't being followed, made a couple of passes by the motel until they were sure there was no one lurking on foot or in a nearby car. Charlie stopped at the motel office to update their vehicle information and then joined Don in his room. He had poured a scotch and when he pointed to an empty glass Charlie nodded a “yes.”

“Well, we must be getting close to something. It'd be nice to know what that something is,” Charlie said as the scotch relaxed her.

“Well, I'll tell you one thing. There are too damn many people interested in what goes on at that house,” Don said.

“And why? Since both Andrew and Paul are dead? You think Mrs. Meadows is a part of it? Or, maybe Paul or Andrew left something in the house that somebody wants?”

“Could be.”

“And here's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Charlie paused to take a long sip of her drink. “What does
any
of this have to do with Joyce and Abrams? How did we get started down this rabbit hole?”

They discussed the case for another hour, analyzing whether any
of their loose ends matched another. Charlie pulled out her Post-it notes. One stack for Joyce, one for Paul, and smaller sets for Grace, Andrew and Mrs. Meadows. At one o'clock, Charlie returned to her room for a fitful sleep. Mandy had phoned, but she'd have to return her call tomorrow.

Chapter 12

Charlie overslept and had time only to brush her teeth and take a quick wash-up. Her short, curly hair regained its shape when she ran wet fingers through it. She slipped on jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and pulled on a sweatshirt. She could un-layer as the day grew warmer. She stuffed a baseball cap into her shoulder bag.

At the McDonald's drive-thru she ordered coffee and three hash browns then headed for the funeral home. She turned into the parking lot, bypassed the main entrance and steered the Impala to the farthest end of the lot opposite the service door. It was six-fifty Thursday morning. Charlie's plan was to sit and watch for a half hour or so then figure out what to do next. She sipped her coffee and ate one of the hash browns. At seven on the dot, Charlie spotted Grace coming up the walkway and moved the seat back to be less visible. Grace wore a flowered white sweater, blue skirt and flat shoes and she carried a backpack. Grace glanced in the direction of the Impala but kept moving until she disappeared from Charlie's view. Within a minute, the red neon sign atop the building was turned off and a few minutes later, a garbage truck arrived and rumbled toward the Impala. Charlie slouched in her seat. The truck continued to the dumpster and Charlie peeked through the passenger window as the forklift's two prongs engaged the metal trash container, swinging it up and over to empty its load. Charlie lowered herself again when the truck's beeping mechanism indicated its backward movement to the main entrance. The beeping stopped. Charlie sat upright and, with a start, met Grace Freeman's gaze through the windshield.

Charlie rolled down her window. “Hi Grace,” she said sheepishly.

“Hello. Was you hiding?”

“Well, yes. But I was about to ring the buzzer at the front door because I came to see you.”

“Oh.”

Grace broke eye contact.

“Could I come and visit with you for a while?”

“You have a new car.”

“Yes. Could I come inside?”

“Grant will be in at nine. I have to make the coffee.”

Charlie looked at her dashboard clock. “Well, we have plenty of time. I'll only stay an hour.”

“Only stay an hour,” Grace parroted.

“Right. And I brought you a hash brown.”

The potatoes lowered the gate to the fortress. Charlie settled into a small chrome chair at the side of Grace's snug, immaculate desk. All items—stapler, pencil sharpener, calculator, pen holder and phone—were pink, all lined up in a row with an even amount of space between them. Pinned to a corkboard was a 2005 wall calendar showing a summer scene of a sailboat on a lake. Each day up to today's date, August 24, was crossed off with a purple marker. Immediately behind Grace's chair were four, three-drawer file cabinets with neatly printed labels: A-F, G-K, L-Q and R-Z. Above the cabinets were shelves holding an array of small security monitors. The number five camera showed views of the building's exterior. Charlie took note of the front drive, the garden, the service dock and on screen six, the front end of her Chevy; tree branches obscured the rear. The interior monitors were labeled Reception, Chapel 1, Chapel 2, and Embalming Room. Charlie scanned the inside cameras for any sign of Joyce.

Grace made a two-cup pot of coffee and set two ceramic cups and saucers and the sugar bowl onto a tray. She poured half and half into a cream pitcher. It was a grand tea party. Charlie offered the hash brown and watched Grace place it on a small paper plate preparing it for the microwave. When she returned through the adjacent door from the kitchen area the potato patty was steaming hot.

“I love hash browns,” Charlie said.

“I love hash browns,” Grace repeated before she separated a chunk with her fork and took a dainty bite.

“Does Paul like hash browns, too?”

“Yes. We like to eat hash browns together.”

Charlie decided to be quiet for a couple of minutes. The only sound was the whirr of the ceiling fan and the slurping of coffee. Grace looked at everything in the room except Charlie.

“Sometimes we go to McDonald's and we get fish sandwiches and French fries.”

Charlie nodded. “He was your boyfriend.”

The conversation went on like that. Charlie letting the quiet draw out Grace's comments. Then, Charlie got an inspiration.

“Do you have a picture of Paul?”

“You want to see it?”

“Yes I do, Grace.”

Grace put down her fork, reached into a drawer at the bottom of her desk and pulled out her backpack from which she retrieved a pink wallet and six photographs. She looked at each one and smiled before handing them over to Charlie.

The pictures were of Paul and Grace in different settings. They were always smiling and made an attractive couple. Upon closer inspection Charlie noted that in none of the photos did the pair look directly at the camera. However, in two of the six, Paul and Grace looked at each other with complete trust and adoration. One photo made Charlie's pulse race. It was a group shot and it looked recent. Andrew was on the far left next to his sister, Cookie. An anonymous young man was between Cookie and Paul, then there was Grace who held Paul's hand. Next to Grace was an elderly priest, on the far right was Jennifer Meadows and next to her was Joyce Stringer. The group posed in front of a sign which read “Saint Agnes Catholic School.”

“You two make a nice couple.” Charlie paused, waiting for Grace to speak. Before Grace could respond or Charlie could ask a question about the photo, the phone rang.

“Freeman's Funeral Home,” Grace said in a rehearsed manner. She paused to listen. “Yes, everything is okay, Grant. Have there been any calls?” she repeated Grant's question. “No calls.”

Grace looked up and Charlie thought she might mention her
being there so Charlie smiled and shook her head, “no” and Grace looked away.

“In at nine. Yes, I will make the coffee. Good-bye.”

Charlie helped Grace by washing and drying the cups and saucers while Grace rinsed out the old coffee from the carafe and prepared a fresh batch. Charlie used a sponge to wipe off the serving tray and all other traces of her visit.

“I better go now.”

“Better go now.”

“I have one more question for you, Grace. About Paul and Joyce. When was this picture taken?” Charlie picked up the group photo and pointed to it.

“That was the picnic day.” Grace smiled widely. “We had a picnic with everybody from school, and with the nuns and Father Steve.”

“Father Steve?”

“Father Steve and Miss Joyce said it was okay for Paul to be my boyfriend. Paul said we could get married.” Grace's eyes strayed to the bulletin board. “A bad man hurt Paul.”

“I know. And he will go to jail.”

Charlie waited while Grace put the photos in her wallet, and returned her wallet to her backpack. If Grant saw them he might ask questions.

Charlie looked around as she left Freeman's. It was possible Joyce could be hiding downstairs, there was plenty of space, but Grant and Grace would know and her instincts told her that Grace didn't have the guile to keep that kind of secret. Grant, however, was a different story. Charlie started the car's ignition, looked up at the camera, and waved. Charlie imagined Grace waving back.

The next stop was Saint Agnes Catholic Church. The portable navigation system in the rental car proved to be extremely useful. Charlie punched in the name of the school and the unit immediately provided the address. She let the female computer voice guide her to the church.

The area was divided by several sets of railroad tracks and densely populated with modest, single-family homes in better condition than the houses on 31st Street. The neighborhood street signs switched
from avenues to courts in a pattern Charlie could not recognize but the navigation system was not deterred and Charlie arrived at her destination in fifteen minutes.
I'll have to tell Judy she was right about these contraptions.

Charlie drove around Saint Agnes to get a full view of the facility. It took up the entire block with the church on one end and the school and playground on the other. In the rear was a large parking lot and two smaller buildings, one a single story with a small porch which was probably the rectory and the other likely a three-story convent. Like much of Birmingham, the main building was constructed of stone and red brick, and a hedge of low shrubs ran the length of the front, from the school entrance to the concrete steps of the church. Three impressive stained-glass windows decorated the sanctuary. The outdoor leaderboard, which Charlie had seen in Grace's photograph, invited parishioners to “Come As You Are” and noted a Saturday night Mass at six, and two Sunday Masses. The Rector was listed as Father Stephen Straughn.

Charlie stepped up to the ornate, wood double doors, which opened with a slight tug of the iron handle. She paused in a large foyer, letting her eyes adjust from the bright morning to the dimmer light. There was a narrow vestibule which led to a connecting hallway which split left and right. A freestanding metal sign directed visitors to the office down the left hallway. Charlie's sneakers sounded a dull thud on the marble floors. The walls were painted in an unimaginative beige and every ten steps was a waist-high oval cutout with a mounted crucifix. The surroundings brought up vivid memories of Charlie's six years of oppressive Catholic education. She still attended Mass at Easter and Christmas with the other lapsed faithful. A suffering Jesus watched Charlie's progress, knowing she had skipped her morning shower and a decade of confessions. She reached a door with a frosted, dimpled pane marked “Administration” and took a deep breath, reminding herself she was now an independent and functioning adult who could no longer be intimidated by a nun.

A middle-aged woman sat at a desk, well behind the blond-wood counter which separated visitors from staff. Three other desks showed
signs of recent occupancy but the office was otherwise empty. The woman looked up when Charlie entered.

“May I help you?” she said with a smile.

She didn't have any of the telltale signs of sisterhood, but these days you never knew.

“Yes. I'd like to speak with Father Straughn, please.”

“He's over at the school right now. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, no. I'm afraid I don't.”

Charlie reached into her shoulder bag for a card and handed it to the woman, who now stood at the counter.

“A private investigator?”

“Yes. I'm looking into the unfortunate deaths of Andrew Meadows and Paul Stringer.”

“Oh, Paul and Andrew. I knew them both. They were good boys. I hope you're not offended that I call them boys. I know they were men but I can't help but think of them as they were, you know?”

“Yes, I understand. Did you also know Grace Freeman?”

“Of course, I know Grace and Grant. They're twins, you know. Have you met them?”

“Yes, I was with Grace a little while ago.”

“Well, then you know she has a learning disability. But she was such a sweet girl and she's become a lovely young woman. She and Paul were in our special needs program. Andrew and Grant were in the regular classes but all four were inseparable because they lived on the same block.”

“What about Joyce Stringer?”

“Oh, I know of Joyce, but she attended Saint Agnes before I got here. Father Steve knows her well. She's made some generous contributions to our building fund,” she said with a lowered voice even though no one else was in the room.

“I'm sorry, your name is?”

“I'm Helen Penham. I'm the school's assistant principal and office manager for the church.”

“Well, may I wait for Father Straughn?”

“Of course you can,” Penham said, unlatching the swinging door in the counter. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Charlie's stomach twitched at the word. “No, I better not, I'm over-caffeinated already.”

Mrs. Penham pointed Charlie to Father Straughn's office. “You can wait in there.”

Charlie picked up a copy of
Catholicism Today
from a table outside the priest's office. She sat in a side chair at the desk and looked around the room. The desktop was clear and there was nothing interesting on the walls of the sparsely decorated office. Father Straughn probably had his personal photographs, books and credentials in an office in the rectory. Charlie couldn't do any snooping because the door was open and Mrs. Penham was directly in her line of sight. She caught the woman looking her way and they shared a smile.

Charlie flipped through the magazine. There was an article about the growing Hispanic demographic among America's Catholics and the advancement of women in the church. On the second scan she studied an article about John Paul II's efforts to build bridges with Jewish leaders. Bored, she finally resorted to staring out the window behind the priest's chair and thinking about lunch. Maybe Don would be up for a return to the meat 'n three.

The sound of jovial voices in the next room got her attention. Penham's office mates and Father Stephen had returned as a group. She informed the priest of his visitor, and Charlie rose when he came into the office.

“Ms. Mack?” he asked with her card in one hand and offering the other for a handshake.

“Yes, Father. I'm pleased to meet you.”

Stephen Straughn had a vibrant smile, an energetic bearing and a strong grip. His hair was a thin layer of white wisps at the top and fuller on the side. His eyes were alert, the bluish color of Scandinavian ice caps. The only sign of his advanced age was the translucent skin on his hands.

“You have a question about a former student?”

“Actually, several questions about several of them. Paul Stringer, Andrew Meadows, Grant and Grace Freeman and Joyce Stringer,” Charlie said.

“Ah, the Stringers and the Freemans. They are both longtime parish families and I know them well.”

“What can you tell me about them, Father?”