The Famous Dar Murder Mystery (16 page)

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Authors: Graham Landrum

BOOK: The Famous Dar Murder Mystery
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Bless Elizabeth and her cookies!
Well, there it was. I had identified the jacket! I wondered how that would sit with Gilroy. It was beginning to be more than a little silly. Nevertheless, we would get our inches, and I feel sure that no chapter in the society has ever taken on a murder as a chapter project.
Henry, you may be sure, did his best to tease me about the news story, and I pretended that I was not teased. But after he left for the office, I was consumed with an uncontrollable desire to go out and see the wreckage.
Although it is a dangerous road, the scenery would be beautiful if the driver dared take her eye off the road. As soon as 421 leaves the city limits on the Virginia side, it begins to climb rather gently. It meanders—that's the only word for it. On either side the knobs rise. Because access is so difficult, houses along the way are built close to the road. Behind them bluegrass meadows often climb halfway up the hills to be met with thick forest growth of pine and tulip poplar. Here and there is a patch of tobacco. In other places the trees grow almost to the road on both sides of the highway. Sometimes mountain streams flash along beside the road. And occasionally one gets a distant glimpse of a peak.
But it is not wise of the driver to look.
The thing that makes Deadman's Curve so dangerous is the fact that it comes abruptly at the end of an unusually long (for 421, that is) stretch of straight road. I am not good at estimating distances, but I should say that perhaps one thousand feet of highway precedes the turn. The road, so straight as it is, does not appear to be sloping downward as severely as it actually is. And one is not apt to realize how fast he is going. So in spite of the sign with the wiggly line and the warning that 15 MPH is safe speed, my heart has always risen to my throat every time I have gone around that sharp turn and
looked down an almost sheer cliff at least one hundred feet to Willow Creek.
This time, to be sure, I did not go around the bend, but parked a reasonable distance from it and as far over as the berm of the road would allow.
As I approached the curve, I was impressed by the irony of the peaceful scene. To the left, hiding the curve, the trees rise high and have been taken over by kudzu, that curse of the southern states. Beyond the “jump-off” and not too far away were the trees of the other side of the ravine. And beyond that one can see the mountains along the Clinch.
I walked along the rocky berm toward the infamous curve. I could see that the guardrail had been knocked catawampus.
Then as I stood at the rim of the bluff and looked down, I saw the wreckage. What was left of the car stood on its nose. The lid to the luggage compartment had sprung open and yawned at me like a baby blue jay waiting to be fed.
There is a road along Willow Creek—so far down that it gives one the impression of looking at a topographical model. And as I watched, a wrecker came along to remove the remains of the car.
There was the rattle of a chain. The hook was attached and the mechanism made its sound as the wreck was reeled in with a further crunch of metal on stones. At last it was on the road and on its way somewhere.
It had been a black car—probably nondescript. I went back to my own car and returned home.
Shortly after dinner Henry and I were relaxing in the den when the phone rang. It was Manley from the
Banner-Democrat.
“Mrs. Delaporte?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware that Larry Highsmith, whom you identified
yesterday as having García's coat in his possession, was shot in the head before his car crashed?”
I had not precisely identified Highsmith as having Garcia's coat, but I was so taken by surprise and so interested in the news that I merely answered, “No!”
“The coroner reported it today about four o'clock. A thirty-thirty bullet struck him in the left temple and killed him instantly.”
There was a pause. What else could there be? I could think of nothing at all to say.
“Are you still convinced that Highsmith was García's murderer?” Manley asked.
“I am not,” I said. “I never was. What gave you that idea?”
“I believe it was the sheriff.”
“You asked him if I was satisfied?”
“Yes, and he assured me that you were.”
“Well, I am not satisfied.”
“Do you have any evidence, other than the fact that Highsmith himself has just been murdered, to indicate that he did not murder García?”
“Mr. Manley, I am not the sheriff,” I said.
He laughed. “No, but you would be a better sheriff than he is.”
I laughed back. “I think you mean that for faint praise.” “I'll ask you again. Do you have any evidence about this murder? Was it connected with Highsmith's possession of García's jacket?”
“Now, Mr. Manley,” I replied, “we know the coat belonged to Luis Garcia because of the Santa Barbara label sewed inside it. The only thing I did was to trace Garcia, find out that he was located in Santa Barbara, and, well, maneuver Gilroy into an admission of his identity.”
“And that's all you have to tell me?”
“When and if I know any more, I shall certainly tell you
about it,” I said. “Now, tell me something. Did the investigators find any drugs on the body or in the car?”
“Why do you ask me that?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I have my reasons. Just tell me if they found any drugs.”
“It is interesting that you should ask. There was a nice largish package that was at first taken to be cocaine. But it turned out to be washing soda. Now, do you have something to tell me?”
“When I know something, you will be the first to hear it,” I said, and that concluded the call.
I went back to the den and told Henry that Highsmith had been killed by a thirty-thirty bullet. He pretended he wasn't surprised, but I know he was.
“Why in the world?” I asked.
Henry laid down his book. “You're why,” he said. “You saw that jacket. You reported it to Gilroy. He actually put out a description of the jacket. The word got back to persons unknown, who did Highsmith in.”
But wasn't it just a bit excessive? Why couldn't the coat simply be destroyed? And even if I had recognized Highsmith from that mere glimpse of him under the streetlight in front of Dan's Snooker Parlor, wouldn't it have been simpler and more satisfactory from Highsmith's point of view if Highsmith merely vanished in Philadelphia or Pittsburgh, or any other large city?
“Perhaps there are other factors,” Henry offered.
Pressed to explain, he thought for a minute and said, “Try this scenario: Suppose that Allen Comming killed Garcia. Highsmith is called in to help him dispose of the body. Afterwards, Comming tells Highsmith to get rid of García's clothes. Five months later, Highsmith, who is something of a peacock, pulls out the suede jacket that he has stashed away
and wears it to impress the doll you saw him with last week. You stir up Gilroy. Comming is maybe tired of Highsmith for some other reasons, sees his opportunity to waste his unreliable henchman and pin García's murder on the poor sucker. Gilroy is satisfied, you are satisfied, and that is the end of the episode.”
I refused to have any of that.
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Henry insisted.
“Save it for the next time you are lay reader,” I said.
“Very well, I'll give you another. This time let's say that old Dunk Yardley killed Garcia. Highsmith is one of the strippers at Dunk's little club. Dunk has a wife likely to attract the kind of fellow who wouldn't mind being a male stripper; and a male stripper is probably the kind that could attract Dunk's wife. Dunk has found out about it. If he sends Highsmith away, Mrs. Dunk might go with him. He kills or has Highsmith killed. He rids himself of competition and removes any likelihood of being found out re the Garcia murder. I believe it is called killing two birds with one—could I say bullet?”
I wasn't ready to say it couldn't be. In principle I don't understand why one person wants to kill another person. But Henry was on a roll.
“Here's one that actually makes sense. Let's forget about Garcia. Let's say this Highsmith has been a courier. He has regularly been carrying large amounts of cocaine from here to—let's say Chicago. But on the way he cuts the cocaine with some similar-appearing substance. The big bosses in Florida or Colombia realize that Highsmith has been cheating them out of great stacks of money. ‘Waste him,' they say. Goodbye Highsmith.”
I agreed that that was more like it.
“Wait,” Henry said, “I've got it this time. Duncan or Allen killed Garcia. One or both called on Highsmith to get rid of
the body. This time, however, he sees an angle. He can keep the jacket and blackmail the Drover boys. He lets a few months go by. All this time Comming and Yardley, being unaccustomed to murder, are uneasy about certain members of the DAR who are very inquisitive and are furnishing brains to Sheriff Gilroy. Highsmith begins to insinuate that it would be a good thing if the firm cut him, Highsmith, into a more appropriate share of the proceeds. The firm says, ‘Get lost.' ‘Oh, wait a minute,' says Highsmith. ‘I have this jacket. If you don't do right by me, I'll see that it gets to one of those nasty old women in such a way that you will get the rap.' ‘You wouldn't,' they say. ‘Oh, wouldn't I though.'”
“All right,” I said. “You've made your point. There are any number of reasons why the Drover family might wish to get rid of Highsmith. And I really don't know why I care. I don't intend to search for his killer. He's a nobody—probably deserved to get just what came to him. Oh, I don't know why I ever got into all this.”
Henry looked at me wisely over his spectacles. “Don't you think you are being a little crass after all the talk about the law and moral fibre?” he said and returned to his book.
The next morning the
Banner-Democrat
had a story at the top of the first page about Highsmith and the coroner's report. The original assumption that death had resulted from the plunge over the edge of the ravine was corrected. And of course the connection between García's murder and the shooting of Highsmith was strongly suggested. Then at the bottom of the page was a story with the headline:
WOMAN DENIES HIGHSMITH KILLED HARPIST
Interviewed by the Banner-Democrat, Mrs. Henry Delaporte, prominent club woman and Regent of the Old Orchard Chapter, NSDAR,
refused to accept Sheriff Calvin “Butch” Gilroy's conclusion that Joseph Christopher Highsmith, whose body was found in a wrecked car below “Deadman's Curve” on highway 421 early Sunday morning was the murderer of Luís Garcia Valera.
Last February Mrs. Delaporte and a committee of ladies from her chapter encountered García's badly mangled body …
and it went on from there. Manley had made an interview of our conversation of the evening before; and although he did not actually say so, his story left the impression that I might reveal something new about the case. The DAR angle of the story had just really gotten out of hand. But Elizabeth had done her thing and she had certainly been successful. I thought it best to say nothing.
Although the prenuptial behavior of our young people has changed markedly since my day, there are still plenty of weddings in June—a fact that makes the early part of summer vie with Advent and Holy Week for the busiest time of the year for organists. The church musician is at least in control of the music of the Christmas and Easter seasons; but when it comes to weddings, there is the problem of the bride, the bride's mother, and the bride's girlfriend, who is going to sing.
It is a blessing that the Episcopal Church has a few set ideas about music. When all parties understand this, we get on very well. But there is much conferring, arranging, and sometimes teaching of the music to the soloist before every wedding.
At the moment I was very busy with the Barnard wedding. Laura Jean Barnard was being married on the eighteenth. Janeen, her mother, was Regent of the chapter on the Tennessee side of town a few years ago; and I have known her for
a long time in the music club. Janeen was very careful to include me in all the bridal parties; and since the Barnards are quite well-to-do, my name appeared quite frequently in the society column of the
Banner-Democrat.
The wedding was in fact a very big show, which Henry could not attend because he was in court that day. So I drove alone out to the country club for the reception. There was a six-tiered cake and a champagne fountain and hors d'oeuvres of every sort as well as an orchestra that played so loudly that nobody could gossip.
After I had taken my share of the goodies and congratulated the bride's mother on how well everything had gone and she had congratulated me on the music and told me that something would be in the mail for me in a few days in spite of the fact that she had given me a pair of brass candlesticks at the rehearsal dinner, I crunched across the gravel to the club parking lot, got into my car, and headed for home.

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