son, it’s a free country,” Cahill said. He grinned and started walking. “This about the widow woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, come on then. I’ll buy you a beer. Talked to one of your buddies yesterday. Young fellow, about your age.”
“Was his name Pace?”
“Yes, that’s it. Pace. Real go-getter. Here we are.” The entrance to the saloon was level with the street. Men in greasy overalls lined the bar. Two made room immediately.
“Belly up, Jack,” they said.
“Draft?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, and for my friend—what’ll you have, friend?”
“A soda.”
“A draft and a soda it is,” the bartender said. He drew the beer and a sarsaparilla and set the mugs on the bar. Cahill gave him some coins. “Let’s go over here where it’s quieter,” he said. We went to a small table by the entrance. “What’s your name, son?”
“Charlie Mears.”
“What do you want to know, Charlie? I didn’t kill the widow woman, if that’s what you’re inquiring about. The deputies had quite a few questions for me about it.” He took a deep swallow from the mug and wiped his moustache. The muscles rippled in his arm.
“About your neck cloth?” I took a sip of the sarsaparilla. It was bitter.
“Yes, the neck cloth. The finger marks on her throat. The cuts and bruises on her face and head. The broken spittoon. She was a tiny woman, Charlie, and frail. I could’ve crushed her skull with one hand.” I knew he wasn’t bragging.
“They wanted a man around the house, Charlie,” he said. “The widow flirted like a girl. They wore my neck cloths, they wore my navy blouse, danced around, teasing each other. They wanted a little romance in their lives, Charlie.”
“Do you think the Negro girl did it, then?”
“I don’t know. She’s little, too. But stout. I’ve seen her lift a kettle of wash water it would make a man grunt to do. She could’ve killed the widow. But it don’t seem likely. If she did, something must’ve happened. The widow could be hard on that girl. But the girl always took it.”
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Cahill.”
“Sure thing, Charlie.” He lifted the mug and drank it dry.
“Did you find a new place to live?”
“A room,” he said. “Just down the street. Expect I’ll shove off soon. I saved up a little money.”
“Where do you think you’ll go?”
“Subic Bay,” he said. “Man can live like a king. I have a wife there.”
“Why didn’t you bring her with you?”
“She’s Filipino,” he said. “Colored. We got a little boy. He’d be colored too, way the damn government sees it.”
I went to the paper and wrote up the story about the assault in Phoebus. Then I wrote a sidebar story about Cahill and suggested the headline, “Navy Veteran Unsure About Killer.” On the way to my rooms I saw a bookshop with the lights on. Inside I found an illustrated edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress for Harriet and A Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck, a picture book I thought Virgie and John Wesley could share.
When I got back to Lincoln Street it was past hours for the trolley. From the porch I could hear frogs calling in the marsh near the church. The air was still. Then I heard what sounded like a chain jangling on the cobblestones. In the twilight I couldn’t make out a thing. At the edge of the pool of light from the street lamp, a shadow seemed to move. It could have just been the darkness. With the unrest on the streets, I felt anxious. The shadow was low, not upright like a man.
I put my cigarette in the cuspidor. I opened the screen door quietly and went to the kitchen table. If Maebelle knew my intent I would never hear the end of it. I took one of the biscuits from the basket. I closed the screen door carefully and walked down the iron steps as quietly as I could. I set the biscuit on the far curb, just at the edge of the light from the street lamp. I came back up the steps and sat down on the stool.
The sound of the frogs grew louder. I thought I heard the chain. I focused on the biscuit. In the dim light my eyes were playing tricks. The biscuit vanished, reappeared. I thought of wiping the lenses of my glasses, but I might miss something. My eyes were getting heavy. I took a Lucky from the pack and struck a match. A snout as broad as a gator’s snapped up the biscuit from the curb. A shadow merged into the darkness. I listened to the sound of a chain jangling in the distance until the match burned my fingers.
6.
Only Brother
That morning I saw Pace’s story in the Daily Press before I saw my own. Mr. Hobgood was reading a copy at the office. He tapped the front page with a finger.
“That Pace has a nose for the news,” he said. “And he makes fantasy sound more credible than fact. That’s why people read gossip, Mears. They want something better than the truth. Now don’t forget to follow up with the victim’s brother, this Hobbs fellow, all right?” He folded the paper and threw it in the trash can on the way to his office.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I retrieved the paper. Pace had had the same hunch as mine about Cahill. Whatever conversation they’d had convinced him to go with a story. “SUSPICIONS ABOUT BOARDER’S ROLE IN MRS. BELOTE’S MURDER” was the front-page headline, over a second line reading, “White Man Questioned In Case.” The article cited Cahill’s navy scarf being found at the neck of Mrs. Belote’s body at the murder scene, and that he had been questioned both by Deputy Chas Curtis and Dr. Vanderslice. The article quoted Cahill’s testimony that he recognized Mrs. Belote’s purse when it was shown to him at the inquest, and that he would have knowledge of its contents as well as other valuables that might be in the household.
“Authorities suspect the boarder Cahill may have encouraged or colluded with the Negress to perpetrate the crime,” the article stated, “robbery being the motive. There is also speculation that Cahill may have acted alone in the commission of the murder, given the violent disarray at the crime scene, and the brutality of the wounds inflicted on the helpless widow. Possibly the colored washwoman appeared on the scene only in order to spirit away the stolen articles later discovered on her person when she was searched by Sheriff Curtis’ officers at the Hampton jail.”
Pure fancy. Pace was a dogged reporter. He could have confirmed Cahill’s whereabouts the day of the murder as easily as I did. I tossed the copy of the Press back into the trash.
My two stories made the front page of the Times-Herald. Mr. Hobgood had agreed with my headline for the Cahill story. He headlined the John Wesley piece, “NEGRO HELD FOR ASSAULT ON GIRL.”
Straightforward; but he edited the lead, making it biased and wordy. “This entire section is highly wrought up and indignant on account of an attempted assault by J. Wesley, a Negro man, upon fifteen-year-old Hattie Power, daughter of W. H. Power, a prominent citizen and Town Attorney of Phoebus,
