Roots of Murder (9 page)

six

“You don't have to
dump me with Grandmom. I'm going over to Susan's for homework,” Lizzie informed Nell when she said she had to go out after supper. Nell considered asking if Susan—and more importantly, Susan's mother—actually knew of Lizzie's impending arrival. But the convenience of it overwhelmed her morals. She just nodded in agreement.

“Kate's doing inventory at the bike shop this evening. I told her if it was okay with you, I'd come by and help.” Josh wasn't a good enough soldier to face Mrs. Thomas, Sr. alone.

Nell again warred with her morals. Kate being the source of a good story compelled her to ask, “Do you think Kate needs your help?”

“It's counting and piling. I've helped her before.”

That was close enough for Nell's conscience. “I'll pick you up after my meeting. So be prepared to turn into pumpkins at around nine.”

That got the usual protest from Lizzie that they would be only halfway done, and the usual response from Nell that perhaps they should do homework first and gossip second. Nell quelled further protest by suggesting Lizzie might find it more conducive to study at her grandmother's.

After supper, she hustled them into the car and dropped Josh at the bike shop. She stayed long enough to give Kate at least a millisecond to protest. Kate just waved and Nell drove on to Lizzie's destination.

With her children safely deposited, Nell glanced at the address for Marcus Fletcher's talk.

It was a poor section of town. Nell noticed several houses that looked abandoned. Others were kept up, but the cars were older models, the lawn only what grew in the small space between the porch and sidewalk. She took another turn onto a street that some yesteryear had been a strip of stores and businesses. The shape of the building told their history: the door cut into the corner, the wide windows for merchandise, now with curtains on the inside and steel bars on the outside. Only two businesses seemed to still be viable, one a small grocery store on the corner garishly festooned with signs for cigarettes and beer. The other place was named Don's Hideout. It had similar beer and cigarette signs and the dim in
terior suggested a bar. In the middle of the block was what might have once been a municipal building, perhaps a school in the days of segregation or some other remnant of separate but not equal. Its door was open and the lights inside welcoming compared to the gaudy store and murky bar. There were enough men in suits standing outside to tell Nell this was the place. Something about political rallies was all the same, from the smell of frying chicken to the cooing babies offered as props to the men and, increasingly, women in suits with hands outstretc
hed.

Nell found parking on the
store-side
of the street, then walked back across to the hall. One of the men standing out front asked as she approached, “Ma'am, may I help you?”

It was then Nell realized she was the only white woman. When she was young and had worked in Chicago and Fort Wayne, she'd preferred the multicultural neighborhood she lived in to the white suburb her brothers suggested for her. Then she'd moved here, and found that multiculturalism didn't extend to even decent bagels. It's easy to forget how separate things are, Nell chastised herself, when you're the one separated into the good neighborhood.

“This is where Marcus Fletcher is speaking?” she asked the man. She didn't sense hostility, just mild puzzlement.

“Yes, ma'am, this is. We don't usually get much of a crowd for these speeches now. It doesn't count if it's not on television.” He turned slightly so that the light spilling from the doorway illuminated his features. He was an older man, something his erect carriage hadn't hinted at without the light to show the gray in his hair and the lines on his face.

“I'm Nell McGraw, with the
Pelican Bay Crier
. I'm of the contrary view that if it's not in the paper, it's not real.” Nell offered him her hand.

His hand was firm and warm, with enough pressure to let her know he was still a vigorous man. “Welcome, Mrs. McGraw, to our gathering. We're pleased to have you here.”

“I hope you'll still be pleased after I give the candidate the usual merciless media grilling,” Nell answered. “The tough questions like what's he going to do about alligators in the sewer. And improving the school system, the tax structure.”

“A daunting list, madam. I do hope you don't ask our candidate any tough foreign policy questions. He should have been boning up on his overseas capitols last night but went to his granddaughter's birthday party instead.”

“But the people of Pelican Bay have a right to know where he stands on the situation in Uzbekistan. Surely you're not suggesting that I go easy on him on such a burning question?”

“Being a former member of the press corps myself, not to mention the candidate's press secretary, I would never suggest that you compromise your standards.”

Life has unexpected graces, Nell thought. Here on this run-
down street, with a man she didn't know, she had fallen into an easy and enlivening banter. But into that grace came the blade. She and Thom used to banter with this same easy flow. Nell faltered and didn't answer.

The silence stretched until he said, “My wife and I used to talk like that. She's been gone ten years and I still miss her terribly.” Quietly he added, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Is it so obvious?” Nell answered, her voice hoarse.

“No, not at all. I read the paper.”

She hadn't written the story; she didn't even know who did. Jacko, she guessed. But of course Thom's death—murder, really—had been front page. Pictures of him growing up in Pelican Bay, leading to the discreet shot of the mother and widow, both in black. Nell remembered vaguely thinking it was a good photo—and a wrenching one for her. They were photographed from the back, a nimbus of sun breaking through the clouds of the day, Josh and Lizzie bracketed between the older
silver-haired
woman and the younger
chestnut-haired
one, with the sweep of the cemetery receding into rows of tombstones that finally blurred into the horizon.

Nell took a long breath and let it out before speaking. “Thank you. It's … hard.”

His only answer was to reach out and squeeze her hand.

“Mr. Fletcher is very lucky to have you as his press secretary.” She gave his hand an extra press of thanks, then let go as other people moved by them to enter the hall.

“But I'm not so lucky. Mr. Fletcher just works me to death.”

“Ah, so I should ask Mr. Fletcher his views on labor laws?”

“Best be careful, young lady; you know how politicians are. Once he gets started, you may be here all night.”

“Care to become my ‘high administration source who insists on anonymity'?”

“Are you asking that I become disloyal to my chosen political star?”

“No, of course not, but the threat of another Deep Throat may be all that keeps our elected officials honest.”

Another clump of people entered the hall, leaving them the only ones still outside, save for two men by the bar. A glance at them suggested that they were doing a drug deal, the quick change of something in the hands. He noticed it too and motioned her inside.

The hall was sparsely furnished, with mismatched metal folding chairs, a small stage made of a few
two-by
-fours and plywood painted black. The walls either were institutional beige or a white that had faded over the years.

The man she had been talking to was clearly well known; other people came to claim his attention. He excused himself and added that he hoped she would enjoy the show.

Nell glanced around the room. She recognized a few other people: Harold Reed, the assistant DA who was rumored to be the legal brains behind the elected DA Buddy Guy's enviable conviction rate; Tamacia … Nell couldn't pull up her last name, but she worked over in City Hall, one of the secretaries the mayor ignored and Nell had learned to cultivate.

Harold nodded slightly at her; he was with two other men Nell recognized as lawyers. She didn't know Harold very well, only from a few carefully scripted press conferences, the ones Buddy Guy didn't see enough political capitol in to handle himself.

Tamacia waved her over. “Nell, what are you doing here?” Tamacia was open and friendly and hadn't yet learned the finer points of political caution. Unlike the gentleman at the door, she saw no need to hide her surprise that the white editor of the local newspaper was at their event. “How'd you even find this place?”

“An old newspaper trick. Can't cover a story unless you can get to it, so they taught us to read maps.”

“You're here to report on this?” Tamacia's tone was friendly, but underneath was a thread of suspicion.

“Who's going to be the next mayor of Pelican Bay may not be the lead in the
New York Times
, but it's a rather important story here.”

“You're really going to report on what Marcus has to say?”

Nell answered, “If I can give a few column inches to Everett Evens and his ‘wish I was in the land of cotton' campaign, it certainly seems I should give some to Mr. Fletcher.”

Tamacia hooted and then said, “Don't tell Hubert I'm here. He'll think I'm plotting a slave rebellion.”

“Reporters never reveal their sources, and you're one of my best in City Hall,” Nell told her. “Has the mayor heard about the new candidate?”

“The phones were blazing today. Haven't seen Mr. Mayor sweating so much since that day the air conditioning went out in August.” Then, in a lower tone, she added, “He can't bribe or blackmail Aaron Dupree, so my chances for a new boss look good.”

Nell started to ask a
follow-up
, but one of the men took the stage and his amplified voice filled the space. He wasn't a great speaker, but was reasonably funny and that made up for the rambling length of his welcome. Nell's attention drifted in and out. Finally he got to the point of his speech, introducing the candidate. “Ladies and gentlemen and you two guys in the back, I want to introduce you to a great friend of mine, someone who probably needs no introduction, but I'm going to give him one anyway because I have to have a reason for standing up here jawing at you. I don't need to tell you the usual stuff: son of a sharecropper, had an uncle who was lynched, first in his family to go to college.”

Nell was taking notes, wishing she'd had the time to actually research the candidate. Suddenly she wondered how well the
Pelican Bay Crier
had covered this side of town. How much would the paper's morgue contain on Marcus Fletcher?

The introduction continued. “And most of you know his record in the civil—or not so civil—rights days. That's when he got his nose broken. Good thing it wasn't a pretty one to begin with. Most of us grew up reading his rantings and ravings in the
Coast Advocate
. Like Ida B. Wells, he wasn't afraid to write about lynching and cross burnings. Most of us found out how right he was, that his rantings and ravings were those of a sane man fighting for freedom and justice.” He covered all the highlights of Marcus Fletcher's life: his devoted wife, four children, one killed in Vietnam; named all the grandchildren; mentioned his banjo playing, even suggesting the very instrument was off to the side of the stage. Finally he ended with, “And here he is, the next mayor of Pelican Bay, or at least the most qualified.”

The older gentleman who'd spoken so easily to Nell at the door walked to the dais. He looked directly at her for a second, smiled, then made eye contact with the rest of the audience.

Press secretary
and
candidate, Nell thought to herself. And cagey enough to not quickly tip his hand. Most candidates, even
long-shot
ones, would have taken advantage of having a
one-on
-one chat with the editor of the local paper. He had instead studied her.

His speech lasted no longer than the introduction had. There was the usual thanking of those who worked on his campaign, and then he said, “I have a simple platform, and it's not my own words or even my ideas. They come from men, men who owned slaves, a few hundred years ago. We are all created equal, and we all have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Let's be real, folks. This isn't a campaign about winning. It's about having a voice.”

Like Aaron Dupree, he talked about the importance of education, but his remarks focused on those struggling with poverty and hardship, and carried the knowledge that education was one of the few routes out. He was an articulate man, and Nell had to rate his speech as even better than Dupree's. But without real hope of winning—Nell tasted the gall that it was only the color of his skin that made the real difference—Marcus Fletcher could afford to be eloquent and bold.

After the speech, Nell waited for him to finish talking to those who came up to him. Finally, when he was shaking the last hand, Nell approached.

“Mr. Press Secretary, is it possible to talk to the candidate now?” she asked.

“I do believe that the candidate is ready for you, Mrs. McGraw.”

“Thank you, Mr. Press Secretary, you've been most helpful. Now, Mr. Candidate, what impact do you hope running for mayor will have?”

“The short answer? To make sure the people of Pelican Bay know they don't have to travel far to view poverty and the effects of racism. The
not-so
-short answer, which I'll give to you since you're a newspaper and not a TV
sound-bite
machine, is to get the spotlight on a few things and maybe make them a little better.”

“And which few things would those be?”

“Street repair. It takes twice as long to get anything fixed in this part of town than it does in the richer part of town. No, that's not just talk; for the last year, we've been keeping track and have a very boring report full of numbers on the average time for repair on Rail Street as opposed to Jackson Avenue. Then there are the schools. Seventy percent of students in the vocational tech classes are
African-American
. Six percent of students in the high honors track are. We're a little over thirty percent of the population here in Tchula County.”