Each Shining Hour (8 page)

“So you're telling me you were sticking up for Connie? You've always said you didn't much like her in those days.”

“That's true. I didn't like her. Even back then Connie was a bit of a tough personality. And I resented that she was smarter than me. She was always smarter than me.”

He paused. “No. If I were being honest, even back then I admired her, but I didn't particularly like her. At any rate, she sure as hell didn't deserve that abuse. The funny thing is, she got all mad at me about it.”

“Mad at you? For slugging Randall Simmons? Why?”

John exhaled a deep breath and shook his head. “That's Connie for you. Even back then she was bound by her convictions. All that turn-the-other-cheek crap.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. She felt that in time God would settle the score and I shouldn't have interfered.”

I thought about John's comment. “Must be something to it. She sure had Randall acting like a frightened cat today.”

John spoke with a breezy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. I think she got the last laugh on that one. She was reading the tea leaves long before the banking crisis struck a few years ago. When it did, it hit the Farmers Bank hard. Connie was sitting on a pile of cash and bought loads of their stock at a bargain price.”

John turned to look me in the eyes, wanting to make sure I fully understood his next comment.

“She practically owns half the bank.”

The Winds of Change

J
ohn's words hung in the air, richly, elegantly floating like a pleasing aroma. There was something deeply satisfying for both of us in this knowledge. Not only did it fulfill some desire for justice in the order of things; it also amplified the awe and admiration we held for Connie Thompson. We sat quietly at the kitchen table, exchanging wry grins, awash in an unspoken mutual awareness of the long list of social and financial realities this little-known fact had no doubt exerted upon the old order in Watervalley.

“Half the bank, really?”

“Hmmm, I may have overstated that. Probably not half, but I do think she is the largest shareholder.”

“Why doesn't she sit on the board of directors?”

“Doesn't want to. I think she's okay with Randall's ability to run the bank, but she's not interested in being in his company any more than she has to.”

The blaring ring of the telephone broke the silence. I walked over and grabbed the receiver off the wall. It was Leonard, one of the EMTs, checking in. It was code. They never would admit it,
but they did this when they were a little out of pocket for a while. No doubt, another Bowl game was on. It wasn't a problem. Dispatch could always find them if I needed them.

John spoke as I recradled the phone. “You need to go?”

“Nah. Nothing urgent. Although I am expecting an important phone call.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Mary Jo, the staff nurse at the clinic, suddenly gave her notice two weeks ago. She's taking a job in Nashville. Following a new boyfriend, I think. Anyway, we've got a travel nurse coming for six months to take her place. She's supposed to hit town today or tomorrow.”

“Travel nurse?”

I rejoined John at the table. “Yeah, it's pretty common in the industry.”

“And she's willing to come here?”

“Yeah. Said she has some old ties to Watervalley.”

“Interesting. She say who?”

“Not really. All I know is she's well qualified and willing to come. I didn't press for details in our phone interview. Actually, I'm privately glad to be getting a new nurse. I liked Mary Jo, but she could be a handful.”

Once I'd said this, it occurred to me that John's unusual curiosity the previous day about my dating life deserved some reprisal.

“You know, John, since lately you've been channeling your inner cupid, maybe you should meet this new nurse. Could be someone interesting for you.”

John snorted. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little past the girl-crazy stage.”

“I don't know, fellow. This new nurse could be a possibility.”

His response brimmed with amused skepticism. “Oh really,
Doc. Some perky new graduate? A little young for me, don't you think?”

“I meant new to the clinic, not new to nursing. She's early fifties, I think; single, smart, and she knows CPR, always a benefit for a guy with your habits. Seems pretty independent minded too.”

“Independent minded?”

“Yeah. Something about her. Seems like a woman who knows what she wants and how to take care of herself. Pretty low maintenance.”

John looked at me sourly, not amused. “Wants to bait her own hook, huh? That's even better—some sharp-tongued broad-in-the-stern old gal? I don't think so.”

“Like I said, I interviewed her over the phone, so I can't speak to the broadness of her stern, or any of her rigging, as it were. But she sounded pretty sharp. Might be good company; you know, someone you could tell your troubles to.”

“What if she is the one causing me all the trouble?”

I chuckled. “Ah yes, always the optimist. Suit yourself. I just hate seeing all your charms going to waste.”

John's focus never changed, but his face slid into a compressed and amused smirk. He was thinking about it. Maybe, just maybe, I had struck a nerve.

“So, you hired her over the phone?”

“Yeah, seems like a lovely gal. I'll give it a couple of weeks and introduce you. Don't want to scare her off too soon.”

“Scare her off? What do you mean by that?”

“I don't know, John. It's not like your nickname is ‘Bubbles.'”

“I'm crushed, sawbones, crushed. I mean, hey, look at me. What's not to love?”

“Right. What am I thinking? It's not like you're a cynical, foulmouthed heavy drinker or anything.”

“Okay, smart-ass. Point taken. Anyway, you're wasting your time. I'm past my ‘sell by' date.”

I was about to respond when the sound of the front door opening caught our attention. Rhett perked up and began wagging his tail, driven by that innate telepathy that dogs have. He scampered toward the entrance hall to gleefully meet Connie, who had returned from her morning with Estelle.

As she entered the kitchen, it occurred to me that this was the first instance in which I was in the company of John and Connie at the same time. Individually, they were my best, if not only, friends. But it had never been just the three of us, John, Connie, and me. To my thinking, they were the defining individuals of their generation in Watervalley.

Having known each other all their lives, they shared an unspoken language, an intimate familiarity founded upon long years of mutual respect and, likely, a genuine bond of affection. This was revealed even in the way they greeted each other. John obediently rose from his chair and regarded her with a confidential, impish grin. He almost bowed when he spoke.

“Constance.”

Connie responded in like form with a slight dip of her chin, something of a precursor to a curtsy. She was wrapped in an amused air. “Professor Harris.”

For a brief moment we all stood and smiled warmly at one another, charged by an unexplained delight at this unexpected, long-overdue meeting of intimates. Finally, Connie broke the silence as she turned to put away her purse.

“My, my, my, John. Aren't you all dressed up? What brings you to the city proper?”

“A little business with our friend Walt. Anyway, I was just on my way back to the hills, to the city improper.”

As always, Connie's tone was deadpan. “Wouldn't have anything to do with the rumor about renovating the bandstand, would it?”

I raised my hands in a gesture of low amazement. “How does she do that?”

John grinned. “Get used to it, sport. In Watervalley, God hears everything, and Connie's the first person he tells.”

Connie offered a thoughtful nod, satisfied that she had attained her answer. “So, looks like I interrupted some important male bonding here. Can I fix you boys some lunch?”

John responded first. “Thanks, Connie, but I really am on my way out the door.”

“Me too, actually,” I said. “I need to go over to the clinic for a while. Oh, and Connie, I'm expecting a call from an Ann Patterson. Give her my cell phone number if you would?”

“Is she the new nurse?”

“Yeah. By the way, I thought I would pull together a little welcome gathering for her: you know, coffee or dinner or maybe something a little formal.”

Connie lowered her chin and glared at me.

“You? Luke Bradford? Doing formal? Humph, I can already taste the frozen Sara Lee cake.”

John folded his arms and exhaled a light chuckle.

I ignored him. “Well, yeah. I can do formal.”

“Formal for you is putting basket holders under the Chinet.”

I responded with mock offense. “I can't believe you're questioning the genteel refinement of my entertainment skills.”

“Mmm-hmm. Genteel refinement, huh? John must have given you a thesaurus for Christmas.”

At the mention of his name, John entered the fray. “Don't worry, Connie. I'm always available to give the good doctor a few pointers on the social graces.”

Connie's neck stiffened as she regarded John skeptically. “John Harris, it might be a harbinger of the fall of Western civilization if you're the last word on charm and diplomacy.”

John laughed and glanced in my direction. “Your turn, sport. I gave it my best shot.”

I shook my head. “I got nothing.”

We stood for a moment, snickering and exchanging amused shrugs. Both of us wanted to continue teasing Connie, but we also knew the duel was futile. She would eventually win. Finally, John spoke as if she were in the next room.

“Hey, you're just going to have to put up with it. She's a great cook.”

I played along. “Yep. You're right. Great cook.”

The two of us stood with our arms folded, shaking our heads in feigned resignation, and explosively smiling at each other.

A sly grin inched across Connie's face. “My, my. Aren't you two just the pair?” She turned and began to take off her coat. In a low, breezy voice her words lilted into the general air. “So many clowns, so few circuses.”

She hung her coat over a chair and studied us for a brief moment. “Well, if you two will excuse me, since we are now doing formal, I must go fold the tea towels and check the polish on the silver.” She walked away sporting an irrepressibly smug smile.

John and I left via the front door with him chortling at my expense the entire way.

“Thanks for stopping by, John. Glad to hear about the bandstand.”

“I'm thinking I might start making a habit of dropping in. Watching you two is better than cable.”

“Yeah, laugh it up. From now on there'll be a cover charge.”

Within seconds, he was in his Mercedes and gone.

I walked to my ancient Corolla to drive over to the clinic for a private meeting with Lida Wilkins. When she had stopped me on the way out from breakfast earlier that morning, she had wanted to know if I could discreetly see her around noon. As I fumbled through my pockets for the keys, I had no idea that this next hour would add another layer of intrigue to the infamous murder
mystery.

Lida Wilkins

T
he bright midday sunlight was deceptive, offering an illusory promise of warmth against the cold air. As I started the Corolla, I reached into the inner pocket of my coat for my sunglasses. They were Dolce & Gabbana, one of my few claims to pretentiousness from my Buckhead days. I arrived at the clinic and drove around back to park. Lida was already waiting in her car.

In her late fifties, Lida Wilkins was trim and energetic with an infectious smile and a quick wit. I doubt she had ever been described as beautiful, but with her shining blue eyes that squinted whenever she laughed, her strawberry red hair, and her freckled face and arms, she had a tomboy prettiness about her. Underneath was a savvy business mind and a self-made woman who had started with nothing but now owned the Depot Diner and the Society Hill Bed and Breakfast. And while she was an astute entrepreneur, she was known for her tender devotion to family, church, and community. She was an uncanny combination of the saintly and the practical.

She approached me as I exited my car.

“Well, hey, Dr. Bradford. You're looking awfully stylish in those D and G's.” There was a definite country twang in Lida's buoyant voice.

“Lida, aren't you just the fashion marm? I didn't know you had such a cultivated eye for style.”

“Fortunately the turnip truck I rode in on had a copy of
Vogue
in the back.”

I laughed. “Well, I always figured you for a quick study. Come on. Let's go in the back here.”

I unlocked the clinic door and showed Lida to my office. I carried the autopsy file in with me, thinking there was little else it could tell me, and tossed it on my desk before sinking into my chair. Lida took a seat in one of the leather wingbacks across from me. We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, during which I couldn't help but notice that her smile seemed to slip into an expression that was pale with worry. It was time to ask questions.

“So, Lida. Tell me what I can do for you.”

She exhaled a deep breath and looked down at the floor, signaling that her next words were likely ones she had repeated in her head. She spoke in a succinct, self-effacing tone.

“Doc, I think I'm falling apart.”

I nodded, careful to maintain a calm concern. “Okay. Can you give me some details?”

“I feel anxious all the time. I'm eating my body weight in Tums, and lately I've been having some weird chest pains. And, well, there's something else. But we'll get to that in a minute.”

“All right. Let's start with the stress. Any unusual events going on in your life?”

“Not much beyond the normal insanity. The diner and the B and B keep me hopping. My bonus baby, Leslie, just turned
eighteen and is graduating from high school in the spring. So I still have a teenager at home.”

“Well, that alone would explain the heavy need for antacids.”

Lida's smile returned. She crinkled her nose and nodded. “Another one of my girls is getting married in July and Lindsey, my oldest, is expecting her first baby in August. They live over in Jackson.”

“Sounds like you have enough stress for you and the next two people. So, tell me about these chest pains. When do you have them?”

“Mostly when I'm sitting still, like driving in the car, or when I'm watching TV, just, you know, thinking about things.”

“What happens to the pain on exertion?”

“It goes away.”

“Hmm. That's certainly atypical. Still, it may be a good idea for you to go over to Regional Medical and get a stress test.”

“Doc, my whole life is a stress test.”

“Lida, do you do any kind of regular cardio workout?”

“Only if you count running behind as exercise.”

“You drink alcohol?”

“Glass of wine from time to time.”

“Do you smoke?”

“Not unless I'm on fire.”

I smiled and nodded. We talked for several minutes, discussing the frequency and severity of her chest pains and a range of other symptoms, none of which threw up any immediate red flags. I endeavored to assimilate the list of concerns she presented with, but could draw few conclusions. Ultimately, she pressed me.

“So, Doctor. What do you make of all this?”

“Lida, it's difficult to pinpoint anything without doing a physical exam, getting your vitals, and probably running some blood
tests. Some of this could also be menopause related. At first brush, your chest pain doesn't appear to be cardiac in nature, but perhaps some kind of referred pain—that is, something originating elsewhere but manifesting in your chest. It might simply be caused by stress and anxiety. Still, we need to rule out cardiac.”

She exhaled and nodded. “Anything else?”

“Isn't that enough?”

Lida studied me. She spoke in a confidential tone, wanting me to level with her.

“Doc, you're a sweetheart and I know you're being diplomatic. But I'm a pretty tough little country girl. Tell me what your gut says.”

I smiled and leaned back in my chair, rested my hands on the back of my head, and reflected for a moment.

“My gut impression, Lida, is that you're overworked, stressed-out, and just spread too thin. There's more going on in your life than there is of you to go around.”

She laughed. “Is there a pill for that?”

“Yes and no. The best thing to do is make some lifestyle changes.”

“You're not talking about putting me on one of those diets where all you eat is spinach and flavored dirt, are you?”

I laughed. “Lifestyle changes involve more than diet, although clearly you're not overeating, Lida. You're the size of a Smurf. But all that acid reflux could stem from the types of food you're choosing. If I had to guess, I'd say that's what the chest pain is all about.”

She nodded and exhaled deeply. “Well, I know we need to check it further, but generally speaking, it's a real relief to think that it's likely not a cardiac issue. I'll call Monday and set up an appointment, although I have to admit, I don't relish the idea of being poked and prodded.”

“We'll try to keep the poking and prodding down to a minimum and focus on your heart. My job is to make sure you don't see that white light everyone talks about.”

Lida nodded. “Thanks, Doc. Thanks for meeting with me like this.”

I paused and looked at her curiously. “Lida, earlier you mentioned there was something else, some other concern. Did we miss that?”

She slumped back into her chair. “Oh, yeah, that.”

I sat quietly, allowing her to fill in the silence.

“When all this chest pain started up, I was concerned it might have something to do with my past.”

“As in . . .”

“Cocaine.”

“Cocaine? Did you say cocaine?”

I sat for a moment, stunned. Then, spontaneously, I rose and rounded the desk, taking a seat in the leather chair beside her. Resting my arms on my knees, I spoke in an intimate whisper.

“Lida Wilkins, how does a salt-of-the-earth, solid-citizen Sunday school teacher such as yourself ever get involved with cocaine?”

“It was a long time ago. I'm not even sure it's necessary to talk about it.”

I leaned back in the chair. “Lida, you do know that anything you tell me is protected under doctor-patient confidentiality laws.”

“So if you ever breathed a word of this, I could have you publicly flogged and maybe even kick you a few times for good measure?”

“Not only that, the law says I'd have to pretend to enjoy it.”

She grinned, crinkling her nose again. “Fair enough.” After pausing a short moment, she proceeded. “So, here's the story. My
dad was a deputy sheriff and my mom was an exceptionally strict Baptist. They were good people, but let's just say my home life was pretty rigid. That's why I ran off when I was sixteen.”

“You ran off? Where'd you go?”

“Woodstock.”

I could not hide my astonishment. “Woodstock! Really? As in the famous week of sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”

“Yep, I hitchhiked to the Catskills and was there at Woodstock for the three days of music, love, and peace, but mostly love. I was kind of a wild child. Anyway, I met some people and followed them back to Greenwich Village. In those days I smoked a lot of grass and along the way I did a little cocaine, the snorting kind. I worked in a French restaurant. That's where I learned to cook, really cook. Before I left New York, I had worked in French, Italian, even Moroccan places.”

“Where did you go after that?”

“To rehab.”

“Oh, wow.” It was a lame response, but I was still amazed, unable to do little more than listen gawk-eyed to Lida's incredible description of her past.

“Yeah, I got myself dry-cleaned.”

“Is that when you came back to Watervalley?”

“No, I spent a couple of years in a commune called the Farm. It's about fifty miles away over in Summertown, Tennessee. It was actually a good place for me. A lot of caring people.”

“So what happened?”

She shrugged. “At the risk of sounding corny, I found my faith again. I moved back to Watervalley when I was twenty-four. Met Charlie, we got married, the rest is history.”

“That's quite a story.”

“So, I read somewhere that cocaine can cause heart damage. You think that's the case here?”

I grimaced. “It's possible, but I tend to think that any damage it might have done would have manifested itself long before now. Still, we can get all that checked out.”

Lida absorbed this news for a few moments. Then, resolved, she looked over at me with her warm, girlish smile and patted my hand. “Thanks again, Luke, for meeting with me. I just wanted to discuss this privately.”

“No worries. You can pay me in cheeseburgers. Although don't tell Sunflower.”

“Yeah. You two were quite the curiosity this morning. Want to divulge any secrets about that conversation, Doc?”

“Ahh. The same old Sunflower. She has a few ideas about some community health initiatives she wants me to endorse. I told her we'd talk about it. She's such an odd duck. What was she like when she was younger?”

“Her name is Heidi, even though she's always gone by Sunflower. Anyway, she is about six or seven years older than me, although, darn her hide, she sure doesn't look it. And let me tell you, when she was a teenager, she was a looker. In those days, the school was all in one building, K through twelve. I was probably a fifth or sixth grader when she was a senior and I remember we all thought she was beautiful with her long blond hair and her peasant tops. She'd walk down the hall and it was like the parting of the Red Sea.”

“Did she cheerlead or play sports?”

“Oh heavens, no. Sunflower has always had a nonconformist, antiestablishment way about her. Don't know where that came from, but that's always been her. She married some guy from
California and they tried to farm for a while. But they split up after a few years. Rumor's been that she was never able to have children, and that played in the mix. Anyway, she lives out there on her dad's place with her chickens, and goats, and three thousand cats and dogs. I wouldn't be surprised if she grows a little reefer. Gotta be some reason why she seems so peaceful all the time. Maybe I should go see her about my anxiety.”

“Sure. Let me know how that works out for you.”

Lida grinned at me, scrunching her nose in a way that made me feel we shared a clever and comic intimacy. I adored her. For all her country charm and inviting appeal, she just didn't take herself seriously.

She rose from the chair and was about to leave when her glance fell on the folder on my desk. With an expression of genuine curiosity, she reached for it.

“What is this?”

“It's an autopsy report from the forties. I was cleaning out some old files and came across it. Something about a murdered German. You know anything about it?”

“Yeah. Actually, I know a lot about it.”

“Really, how so?”

“From my dad.”

I tilted my head toward her, gesturing for her to continue.

“Remember I mentioned my dad was a deputy sheriff? He was the first one to arrive on the scene that night of the murders.”

“Wow. Would it be possible to talk to him?”

Lida grinned. “Not unless you're clairvoyant. Daddy passed away in the early nineties.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Anyway, my maiden name was Sanderson. My dad's name was Frank. He joined the army in 1941, signed up the Monday
after Pearl Harbor. He was shot in the knee in North Africa, so he was discharged. He could still walk, but with a limp. Because of his military training, he got hired on as a deputy. So, he was on duty that night and answered the call about someone hearing a gunshot. He said there was a lot of blood, a pretty nasty affair.”

“Well, I have to admit, since I came across the autopsy report, I've been fascinated by the whole business. I was wanting to go to the county archives to look at the police records, but I understand they were all burned up in the jail fire of 1964.”

Lida spoke cautiously. “Yeah, well, that may not be completely accurate.”

“How so?”

“My dad was obsessed by this case. No one ever really figured out what happened, so he kept digging into it over the years. He even bought a metal detector and spent countless hours between the bandstand and the place where Oscar Fox died, looking for the missing gun. I don't think he was supposed to, but I'm pretty sure he made a copy of all the paperwork so he could study it at home.”

“What would be the problem with him continuing to look into it?”

“Daddy once told me that the two murders were ruled to be voluntary manslaughter. He explained that in Tennessee the statute of limitations on that crime is five years. It wasn't just a cold case—it was a dead case. So I always got the impression his boss didn't want him wasting any time on it. That's why Dad made copies and brought them home.”