The Closing: A Whippoorwill Hollow novel (The Whippoorwill Hollow novels) (10 page)

To take a close look at the scarf and the other exhibits in the case, Nate arrived at the Buck County courthouse in the early afternoon and found the file room in the basement of the building. The file clerk was a young black man who led Nate through rows of cardboard boxes and metal bins to a conference room. Its walls were off-white and bare. A paper-thin gray carpet covered the floor and a conference table sat under a fluorescent light that flickered intermittently. The room was warm and stank of cigarette smoke.

“Deatherage case has six boxes of exhibits,” the clerk said. He brought the first box into the room. Nate rummaged through it and found a folder containing the photographs of Updike’s corpse taken by the local medical examiner, Malcolm Somers. Nate reviewed the photographs while the clerk came and went with the other boxes.

The first photograph of the corpse was taken from a distance of about fifteen feet. The image was paled by light coming in through a warehouse window, but it was clear that Updike’s body lay sprawled on the warehouse floor. There were no mattresses.

The second photograph was a full-length frontal body shot taken from a position standing over the body. The image was clear. Nate’s breath caught in his throat. Darlene Updike bore a striking resemblance to Christine when Christine was in her twenties. In the photograph, Updike was nude except for her blouse, which was open. She lay on her back, her legs spread wide. Her face was swollen, bruised, and abraded, and blood ran from her mouth down one side of her face to her ear. The rope was tight around her neck, embedded in a groove of bloody flesh. Her thighs and crotch were smeared with blood. Updike’s hair was jet black, thick and coarse, like Christine’s hair. She was short. Taut breasts, strong legs. She could have been Christine’s sister.

The physical resemblance between them shocked him, but even more disturbing was the jarring thought that there was a similarity between Updike’s assailant and Nate. Nate tried hard to suppress the comparison. We are not the same, he assured himself. It was true that he’d almost hit Christine when she wouldn’t listen to his closing. Anger and frustration had swelled up inside him, but he had stepped back that night, horrified by the violence he saw lurking in a dark corner of his mind. He looked again at the photograph of Darlene Updike’s ravaged body. Nate was not like the monster who unleashed his rage on this poor girl. Nate could not have done this to Christine, to Darlene Updike, to anyone.

He took a deep breath and thought about all the sorrow and misery he had caused over the last few years, and his defenses slowly crumbled. He hadn’t beaten Christine, thank God, but he had abused her emotionally. He had belittled her and bullied her and lied to her. He had broken her heart.

Nate set the photograph on the table, slumped in his chair, and covered his eyes. He felt nauseous. Perversely, a vision of the first time he made love to Christine burst into his mind. He saw himself on a blanket spread in a clearing by the dam at Jasper Lake on a summer day. Christine sat with her legs to one side, wearing a yellow two-piece bathing suit. He leaned toward her and kissed her. Her tongue flicked in and out. He put his hand behind her head, pulled her to him, and kissed her hard. He unhooked the top of her bathing suit. He thought she would stop him, but she didn’t resist. The top fell away. She rested her head on his shoulder and kissed his neck while he caressed her breasts.

He guided her down on her back. She raised her hips and he slipped the bottom of her bathing suit down her legs and tossed it away. He took off his shorts and threw off his shirt. He lay on top of her and kissed her. They made love. She cried out at the moment of climax. He fell away and they lay naked together on the blanket, breathless.

“Jesus,” he’d said.

She laughed a quiet, throaty laugh.

He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her. She lay on her back, naked, with her eyes closed, basking in the sun. She made no move to cover herself. Her breasts were small and taut, her stomach flat, her legs tan and athletic. He moved his hand over her breasts, hips, and thighs. She lay still and did nothing to stop him. His fingers traced her lips. She had a pert mouth with full lips and big wideset brown eyes framed by thick, straight, raven hair.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Nate opened his eyes and looked at the photograph of Darlene Updike. She was Christine. Her body was Christine’s body. Her face was Christine’s face. He was lightheaded. He leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply.

“You all right, sir?” The file clerk was standing at the conference table, watching him.

“I’m recovering from the flu. Could you bring me a glass of water, please?”

The clerk left the room. Nate put the photographs in the folder. His hands shook. He thought he might faint. He leaned forward, his head between his knees.

The clerk returned with a glass of water. Nate drank it down and leaned back in the chair again.

“You want me to call a doctor?”

“I’ll be fine in a moment.” Nate looked at the boxes of exhibits. He needed to finish quickly and get away from the photographs. “I’m interested in Commonwealth’s Exhibit D. Can you find that exhibit for me?”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine once I concentrate on the case. Can you find that exhibit for me?”

The clerk withdrew a transparent plastic pouch from a file box and handed it to Nate. Nate leaned over the table, gripping the pouch with both hands. He closed his eyes.

“You sure you’re all right, sir?”

Nate took more deep breaths and gathered his wits. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

Nate forced himself to focus on the scarf inside the pouch. The scarf was square, about three feet long on each side. It was royal blue with a yellow border. In its center there was an image of a yellow lily. There was a single splotch of blood near a corner of the scarf. The stain was shaped like an egg, about two inches at its widest point and about four inches long. The stain was as dark on its borders as it was in its center.

Nate stared at the bloodstain for a long time. When the shock of the photograph finally subsided and his mind cleared, it dawned on him why Shirley West told him to inspect the scarf carefully. Even in his diminished state of mind, he could see the problem with the bloodstain. It was too neat. The blood bled into the scarf evenly across the whole stain. There was no other visible sign of blood on the scarf—no splatters, no smears. The appearance of the stain didn’t fit the violent character of the crime or the nature of Updike’s wounds. Nate was unable to imagine circumstances consistent with a crazed strangulation, rape, and beating that could have resulted in this perfectly oval-shaped bloodstain.

The design of the scarf caught his eye, too. The yellow lily was centered, but it wasn’t symmetrical. It was slightly larger on the left side. The yellow border wasn’t a straight line all the way around the scarf. It strayed too far to the outside on its top and left sides. No manufacturer would have sent such a flawed pattern into mass production. The scarf was handmade.

Nate said, “Is there a craft shop in Bloxton where people sell handmade goods, quilts and pillows, things like that?”

“I don’t know of such a shop in Bloxton, but my wife crochets sweaters and shawls and such. Sometimes she sells em at a shop name of Country Faire near the county line in Dealeton.”

Nate handed the pouch to the clerk, who withdrew a logbook from a drawer in the table and entered the exhibit number, date, and time. Nate signed his name and looked at the other entries. Swiller’s name wasn’t there. George Maupin had viewed the exhibits on January 3, 1968, shortly before the trial, and again on May 20, probably in preparation for the appeal. Daryl Garth looked at the exhibits on April 23. Nate had heard of Garth. He was a lawyer in private practice in Bloxton. As far as Nate knew, Garth had no connection to the case.

“Were you on duty the day Mister Garth viewed the exhibits in this case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know why he looked at them?”

“Mister Garth took over Jimmy Washington’s case after Mister Swiller died. He asked to see the exhibits in all four of Mister Swiller’s death row cases.”

“Jimmy Washington is one of the defendants on death row?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk’s fists were clenched. The nameplate pinned over the breast pocket of his county uniform said “F. Washington.”

“Is Jimmy Washington your brother?”

“He’s my cousin.”

The hard edge in Washington’s voice was unmistakable. Nate was mindful that the vast majority of defendants executed in Virginia in modern times were black men. Virginia juries were almost always all white. As a court clerk, Washington would be aware of that. Nate said, “I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know why Mister Garth looked at the files of all the capital cases?”

“No, sir.”

Washington’s tone of voice caught Nate’s attention. Nate thought he was holding something back. “You know something about these cases, don’t you, Mister Washington?”

“You done lookin at the exhibits?”

“Yes.”

Washington lifted a box and left the room. He came and went, removing all the other boxes without looking Nate in the eye. When he was done, he said, “I’ll show you out now.”

Nate stood, but Washington didn’t move toward the door. “Is there something you want to tell me?” Nate said.

“Jimmy got a raw deal. When Mister Swiller died, the others on death row got good lawyers, lawyers who work outside Buck County, lawyers like you. Jimmy got Mister Garth. Mister Garth feeds his family by tryin cases in Judge Herring’s courtroom.” Washington went to the door. He opened it and held it for Nate.

Nate stopped at the door and faced Washington. “Help me find the truth, Mister Washington. Tell me what you know.”

“I know I have to feed my family, just like Mister Garth.”

“I might be able to help your cousin if you tell me what you know.”

Washington stared at Nate. He seemed to be considering whether he could trust him. Nate waited. Washington looked around. No one was in sight. In a quiet voice, he said, “Judge Herring came here and reviewed the Deatherage file last month after you filed the papers said you were on the case.”

“Does the judge normally review files of cases on appeal?”

“This was the first time he came here in the eleven years I worked the file room.”

“Why didn’t you enter the judge’s name in the log?”

“He told me not to log him in and not to tell anyone.” Washington lowered his voice even more. “He came here just before closin time. Told me to put the Deatherage file in the conference room and wait out front. Said he’d make sure the county paid me for the overtime. I pulled the file for him and he was here till eight thirty.”

“More than three hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know if the judge looked at the scarf?”

“He didn’t look at the exhibits. He looked at the written record. I went to the conference room about seven and asked him how much longer he’d be. When I opened the door, he was lookin at the transcript and writin notes on a pad.”

“Did he say anything to you about the transcript?”

“Said he wanted to know when anyone asked to see the Deatherage file. Gave me the number of his private line and told me to call him if anyone asked to see it.”

“Did he ask you to tell him if anyone looked at the files of the other death penalty cases?”

“The Deatherage file was the only file he wanted to know about.”

“Have you called him to tell him I was here?”

“I’ll call him when you leave.”

“How do I get to that shop, Country Faire?”

“Take state road 677 to Dealeton. Before you get to the state line, you’ll see a Texaco station on your right. The shop is across the road from that station.”

“How long will it take me to get there?”

“Bout thirty minutes.”

“Maybe you could do me a couple favors, Mister Washington. When you talk to the judge, maybe you could tell him I looked at the scarf and I didn’t look at any other exhibits. Tell him I asked you about handmade scarves and I asked you for directions to Country Faire.”

“I can do that.”

“I need one more favor. I need you to wait an hour before you call him.”

Washington nodded. “I’ll make the call one hour from now.”

Dealeton was twenty miles west of Bloxton, on the border between Virginia and West Virginia. The little town was a row of ten shacks clustered around a gas station on a narrow country road. The shack across the road from the Texaco station was draped in the shadows of tall white pines. A thick layer of pinetags covered its felt roof. “Country Faire” was painted in crude brushstrokes on a sign over the open door.

Nate parked in front and climbed the porch steps. The shop was small and dark and smelled like mothballs. Quilts hung from racks in the shadows along the wall to his left. Items of clothing lay on a plywood table against the opposite wall. A glass-top counter stood in the back. No one was in the shop.

He looked around. The garments on the table were cast-off clothing—old dresses, blouses, shirts, and pants. Some were soiled. A blouse was ripped at the shoulder. He could barely make out a small selection of cheap jewelry caked with dust through the film of grime on the glass-top case. He turned to the quilts hanging on racks. There were about a dozen, all handmade, with distinctive patterns. Most had big square patches sewn together with the same image in a different color inside each square. One was multicolored roosters. Another was butterflies. He pulled the quilts apart to get a better view of those hanging in the back. Dust billowed from them. His eyes watered. When his vision cleared, he saw a red lily. The quilt had lilies of a different color in each square—red, blue, green, and yellow. The yellow lily was identical to the one on the scarf.

Nate heard steps at the doorway. He turned to see an obese old woman. “I don’t tolerate no looky-loos. You make me walk all the way over here from the house in my condition, you got to buy somethin.”

The old woman’s hair was white. Her face was round and flushed. She leaned on a cane and puffed and blew as she struggled to walk across the room. Something about her seemed familiar to Nate, but he was certain he had never met her.

The old woman sat on a stool at the end of the counter and wiped her face with a rag. “Shewee. Hotter’n hell. Gimme a minute.” She clutched her chest, wheezed and frowned at Nate. “You’re a stranger. Who told you bout my shop?”

“I heard about it in Bloxton. I’m looking for a scarf.”

“I don’t have no scarves. You’ll have to buy somethin else.” She thrust her cane at the wall of quilts. “Buy one a them quilts. Handmade. Sadie Biggs made em. Twenty dollars cash on the barrelhead.”

“I’m looking for a special scarf. It’s a blue scarf with a yellow lily.” Nate pulled the quilt out for the woman to see. “A yellow lily like this one.”

The woman scowled at him. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Nathan Abbitt.”

“I’ve heard that name somewhere before. Where you from?”

“Selk County. Jeetersburg.”

The woman squinted at Nate. “Mighty bad cut you got on your face. You look like you might be a bad un. You won’t do me no harm, I hope.”

“No, ma’am. I was injured in a car accident.”

The old woman wiped her mouth with the rag. She thrust the rag toward a telephone on the glass-top counter. “I can call the sheriff on that phone there. His men’ll be here in a jiffy.”

“There’s no need. I won’t harm you. I came here to find the scarf.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Abbitt. Nate Abbitt.”

“I know I’ve heard your name, but my memory don’t work too good no more. Truth be told, nothin I got works too good no more.” She seemed to relax about Nate’s scar. “I had three of them yeller lily scarves last spring. Sadie Biggs made em. Only ones she ever made. I don’t have no more of em.”

“Who bought them?”

“Nobody bought em. Somebody broke in here in the middle of the night and stole em. Stole all my quilts, half my hand-me-downs, and all three of them scarves. Don’t know why they didn’t take my jewelry. I had the case locked. They didn’t want to break the glass and make a big ruckus, I reckon.”

“Did you report the break-in to the sheriff?”

“Might as well tell my dog about it. Sheriff Feedlow made me fill out a form. Went away and I never heard from him again. Hubert Feedlow’s bout as shiftless as the crooks he’s supposed to catch, and truth be told, he don’t catch very damn many of em.”

“When were the scarves stolen?”

“Last summer. Hot day like this un. June. July maybe.”

“Did you keep a copy of the complaint form?”

“Why the hell you want those scarves so bad?”

“I’m a lawyer. The scarves may be important to one of my cases.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “A lawyer. Lordy. You’re that lawyer called me bout Kenny.”

The familiarity of the old woman’s features came together. She resembled an aged Kenneth Deatherage. “You’re Eva Deatherage.”

The woman struggled to her feet. “I could tell by that ugly scar you was no good. You tricked me. You got no right to pester me. I told you I wouldn’t talk to you.”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t trick you. I didn’t know you were Kenny’s mother. I came to your shop to find the scarf, but I didn’t know you were the owner.”

“I told you I won’t talk about Kenny.” She caned to the door.

“Please, ma’am, I need your help.” Eva walked on. “Wait. I’ll buy the quilt, the one with the lilies.”

She stopped. “That one costs more. Thirty dollars for that one.”

“That’ll be fine.”

Eva held out her hand. Nate gave her the money. She stuffed the bills in a pocket of her dress. She limped back to the stool, sat on it, and wiped her face with the rag. “You’ll have to fetch it yourself. I can’t manage it.” The quilt was bound to the rack too high for Nate to reach the clasps. Eva pointed her cane at a chair in the corner. “Best way is to stand on that chair and unhook the quilt from the rack.” Nate carried the chair to the quilt rack. “You’re wastin your time, you know. Kenny killed that girl.” Nate set the chair beside the quilts and looked at her. “Don’t look at me that way, mister. I’m not a bad mother. It ain’t my fault Kenny turned so mean.”

“He says he didn’t kill the girl.”

“That don’t mean nothin. Kenny always lied about the killins.”

“What killings?”

“All of em. My chickens, my cat, Sadie Biggs’ beagle pup. He always lied. I went three months with a shotgun propped by the door watchin for the fox he claimed was killin the chickens. The chickens made a big ruckus one afternoon. When I got to the coop, he was standin inside, wringin the neck of one of my guinea hens. Three others was already dead. Blood all over his hands. Goony grin on his face. I switched him till he bled, but it didn’t do no good. Nothin did no good with Kenny. He’s got too much of his daddy in him.”

Nate climbed carefully onto the chair, balanced himself on its straw seat, and began to unhook the quilt. “Any chance I could talk with Kenny’s father?”

“Good luck. Nobody round here’s seen him in twenty-eight years. Run off right after I got pregnant with Kenny.” Eva dabbed her brow with the rag. “Jake ran off with Lucy Morris. Some says they went to Tennessee. Others says Missouri. Truth be told, I don’t care where Jake is in this life, long as he ends up in hell in the next.”

Nate freed the quilt from the rack and stepped off the chair. He set the quilt on the counter and folded it. “Did Kenny tell you what happened the night of the murder?”

“Kenny and me ain’t talked since he was fourteen.”

“I don’t mean to pry, ma’am, but why is that?”

Eva fiddled with her cane. Her eyes darted around the room, at the quilts, the wall, the floor. “I caught him in his bedroom with one of them girly magazines. I’d whupped him for it before, but Kenny didn’t mind me. I whupped him all the time for every kind of sin and it never did no good. I beat him somethin terrible that day, though.” She raised her cane to Nate. “I beat him with my hickory stick, by God.” She mopped her face with the rag and wheezed. “He wouldn’t take his whuppin like a man. He slapped down his own momma. Knocked me on the floor and got on top of me. Choked me near to death. He woulda killed me, but my stick was on the floor within reach, thank the good Lord. I hit him on the noggin hard as I could and knocked him out cold. The sheriff took him off to reform school. When Kenny got out, he didn’t come home. I ain’t talked to him since he tried to kill me, and I ain’t missed him one bit. No, sir.” Eva stared at the floor, lost in her bad memories.

Nate allowed a respectful time to pass. “Do you have a copy of your complaint about the theft of the scarves?”

“I suppose so. Sheriff Feedlow gave me a copy. It’s around here somewhere.”

“Can I see it?”

Eva looked around the shop and frowned. “It’s in that drawer over there, I think. Help me up.”

Nate helped Eva stand. She limped behind the glass counter and rummaged through a drawer. She withdrew a paper and handed it to Nate. The form was a carbon copy that listed the stolen goods as seven quilts, three blouses, six dresses, four pairs of shoes, and three scarves, noting the prices of each item. “This document says the theft took place on June 12.”

“Sounds bout right.”

“Mind if I take it?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Thank you, ma’am, and thanks for talking to me about Kenny.”

“No need thankin me for worthless jabber. Like I said, you wastin your time. Kenny killed that girl sure as I’m standin here jawin with you.”

“From what I’ve learned so far, he may not have killed her.”

“That girl was choked to death, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then Kenny was her killer. Chokin was Kenny’s way. He wrung my chickens’ necks. He hanged the cat. He strangled Sadie’s pup. And he tried to choke the life out of me. I saw that goony smile on his face when he had his hands wrapped around my throat, that same smile I saw the day I caught him in the chicken coop. Chokin was his special pleasure, mister. You’d know if you seen that smile of his. He killed that poor girl. I know he did.” Eva sighed. “Kenny was my last child. A change-of-life baby. They’re supposed to be special. Precious.” Eva’s eyes glistened. “Wish to God he’d never been born.”

Nate gave Eva time. Then he said, “When I spoke with you on the telephone, you said you told Judge Herring that Kenny killed Darlene Updike.”

“I told the judge what I told you. Kenny’s special pleasure is chokin the life outta helpless creatures.”

“When did you talk with the judge?”

“He came to my house the day of the girl’s killin and asked me about Kenny. As soon as he said the girl was choked, I told him Kenny killed her.”

“Did the judge come with the sheriff or the prosecutor?”

“He came alone.”

“Did he say why he wanted to know your opinion about the murder?”

“The judge said he wanted to be certain they hadn’t made a mistake by arrestin Kenny because if he wasn’t the killer, then some other killer was runnin loose in the county fixin to kill more girls. Judge Herring is a good man. He stood in my house and cried like a baby for that poor girl. I tell you what, mister. There’s no better man than the judge when it comes to watchin out for the decent people in Buck County.”

Nate left Eva Deatherage in her shop. He went to his car, sat behind the wheel, and withdrew the pleading clip of the Deatherage file from his briefcase. He turned to the indictment. It recited that Updike was murdered before dawn on June 3, 1967. Kenneth Deatherage was arrested and incarcerated that day. He was held in jail without bail until the trial took place the following January.

The scarf marked as Exhibit D was in Country Faire until June 11. Jones could not have found the scarf in Deatherage’s pocket on June 3. He, or someone working with him, must have stolen it to make sure no sale could be traced back to Jones. By stealing other items with the scarf, Jones further obscured the scarf’s trail. Nate figured that Jones poured type B+ blood on the scarf, which would explain the even pattern of the stain. The source of the blood could have been the medical examiner, Somers. Another possibility was that Jones stole Updike’s blood from Somers’ lab, although the logistics of such a theft would be difficult. Jones could also have acquired blood from a source other than Updike’s corpse, stained the scarf and placed it in an evidence pouch some time after June 11, and backdated the log to June 3.

Nate was troubled. Deputy Jones’ reputation as a war hero did not square with a corrupt scheme to steal a scarf and plant it on Deatherage, but Odoms’ statement that Jones didn’t find the scarf on Deatherage and the date of its theft from Country Faire left no room for doubt that Jones had framed Deatherage.

If Deatherage was innocent, who killed Updike? Before talking with Eva Deatherage, Nate thought Judge Herring was the most likely suspect, but Eva said the judge cried when he spoke about the murder and seemed to be trying to confirm that Deatherage killed her. Nate could think of no reason the judge would have taken the risk of approaching Eva if he was the real murderer.

Nate looked at his watch. It was four in the afternoon. He had left the Buck County file room a little over an hour earlier. By now, Washington had called Judge Herring. If someone was conspiring with the judge, that person should soon appear. Nate drove across the road to the Texaco station, which was a gas pump and a little store on a dirt lot. He parked behind the store, went inside, bought a soda, and stood at a window where he had a good view of Eva’s shop.

In a short while, a Buck County patrol car came along the road and parked at Country Faire. A deputy sheriff stepped out of the car. He took off his hat and wiped sweat from his face with a kerchief. He was young, in his twenties. His blond hair was cut in a military style, a close-cropped flat top with the sides and back shaved. He was fit and strong, with broad shoulders and a weightlifter’s chest. The deputy walked to the store with his back straight in measured strides with a slight hitch in his gait that favored his left leg. Nate knew this was the young Vietnam veteran, Darby Jones.