Mercy Killing Page 2

  At the end of the long hallway, we turned left and the church office was immediately on the right. A woman was seated at a large desk in the church office and I presumed that she was the secretary. A sign on her desk corrected me. It read Maxine Shelton, Office Administrator. We entered Maxine’s space and she smiled and stood when we passed by her desk.

  “Welcome to Riley Corners Baptist Church. I’m Maxine Shelton. So nice to meet you,” she said with great enthusiasm.

  “This is Clancy Evans,” Josh said to her by way of introduction. “She’s from Norfolk.”

  His introduction made it sound as if being from Norfolk was sufficient to inform Maxine about me. I did notice that he did not tell her that I was a private detective. I try to pay attention to what is said and what is not said. Vigilant detective.

  I nodded and smiled at Maxine.

  “Please,” Josh said as he gestured for me to enter his office in front of him.

  He closed the door and I sat down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. I noticed that his desk was smaller than Maxine’s and had more scars on it.

  “She doesn’t know who you are,” he said as he sat down in the other chair positioned in front of the desk instead of sitting in the more comfortable chair behind the desk. As he sat down he shifted the chair so that we were actually facing each other. Good counseling technique, I noted.

  “Sometimes I don’t know who I am.”

  He smiled.

  “I prefer that you and I keep our meeting between us. This is a small town and news will travel fast enough. I prefer to keep it under wraps as long as we can.”

  “I’m familiar with small towns.”

  “So Norfolk is not your home.”

  “No. But let’s talk about Mary Elizabeth Carpenter.”

  “Okay. She’s one of my older members, 83 years old, I believe. Widow, lives alone, still manages her house quite well with the help of a maid who works a few days each week. Attends church every Sunday without fail.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I try to visit my older members regularly, at least once or twice a month, so I was at her house back in April, during the Easter season. It was warm enough for us to sit on her front porch. We were there talking. All of sudden she began crying and moaning a little. Not a loud moan, just a quiet, soft one as she rocked back and forth in her rocking chair.”

  “Her usual behavior?”

  “To some extent. But I had never had her moan like that before. She cries sometimes when we talk. She’s sort of fragile, I’d say.”

  “In what way?”

  “If you have ever met anyone who is too polite, too easy going, too nice, too kind, too innocent, then you know what I mean. I am often guarded in what I say to her for fear that I might offend her simply by being human, being normal, saying something abrupt or rough, not that I am a callous man or anything. I just find myself being really careful around her when I speak. She is rather delicate and talks about niceties all the time.”

  “And you believe this to be genuine?”

  “No question. It’s simply who she is. Everyone in town knows her to be this way and they accept it. She would do anything for anybody at any time. But, she is fragile and cries easily, so most of us are truly careful how we approach her and what we say.”

  “So she is crying, moaning, and rocking back and forth. What happened next?”

  “I tried to comfort her and to find out what was wrong. She excused herself, retrieved a tissue and returned. She was more composed by this point and told me that she had recently remembered something horrible from her childhood. I asked her if she wanted to talk about it. Would you like something to drink?” he said interrupting his story and pointed to a coffee pot sitting on top of a book case.

  “No, thank you. Did she talk about it?”

  “Not that day. She started to, but her emotions erupted again and she lost control. She asked me to leave, so I did.”

  “And then?”

  Josh walked over to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup and returned to his chair in front of me. He sipped his hot brew as he sat down.

  “After several days, I began to think that maybe she had made the whole story up or had dreamed it or imagined it, whatever. I figured she was too embarrassed to admit that to me and that it would be best if I would allow some time to pass before I visited her again. I think a couple of weeks had passed when she called me and invited me back to her home.”

  He paused in his story and I sat quietly waiting for him to continue.

  “We scheduled a visit...and she apologized profusely for the way she acted earlier that month and said that she wanted me to know the parts of the story she could remember. We sat in her parlor and she told me what she could recall. Early in her childhood,...said she couldn’t recall exactly, but she was maybe 4 or 5,...and she was playing at her grandmother’s house. She thought she lived there, but wasn’t sure about that detail. Her baby brother, his name was Colby, was in the crib in what she thinks was used as his room. He may have been sleeping, although she was not certain of that. She remembered being under the bed, a large bed she recalled, and was playing a game of hide and seek she thought. She thought the bed she was under was in the same room as the crib. Looking out from her hiding place she saw someone walk into the room and go over to the crib. Then there is a pillow in the person’s hands and she thought that whoever it was put it on the baby’s face and held it there.”

  “Did she recognize the person?”

  “Well, I asked that, naturally. I thought that was important. I asked her who had come into the room while she was hiding under the bed.”

  He took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and then stared at the cup in his hand.

  “And?” I said after a minute or so. He was taking his time telling the tale. Some days I have thin patience.

  “She started crying again. She shook her head and cried. After a few minutes she calmed down and I tried to ask her more questions. She said she couldn’t remember anything else, but that she wanted my help. I asked her what specifically she wanted me to do. She said, ‘Find out who killed my baby brother.’”

  3

  Pastor Ainsley and I were sitting in Maybelline’s Sandwich Shop close to downtown Riley Corners eating sandwiches. Most everything is close to downtown Riley Corners when one is in Waylon County. Imagine that.

  Sam was waiting in the Jeep for any leftovers I was to bring back. I made a promise.

  “Tell me about Riley Corners,” I said.

  “I’m still learning. I’ve only lived here about three years, so I don’t know all the history of the place, but it is famous, or so I am told by the locals.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ve had some war heroes and state senators come from our small town.”

  “Sort of put the town on the map, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Any war in particular?”

  “Yeah, some general from World War II is from here. In fact, I think he is a relative of Mary Carpenter. Not sure of the kinship, but there’s a connection there. And, also from the Civil War, there’s a group of soldiers who held off some of Sherman’s troops and protected the town from siege, or so the story goes.”

  I was eating a Club Deluxe that was cut into four wedges. Maybelline had even stuck green olives onto the ends of each of the four toothpicks. Each wedge was separated from the next wedge on either side so that there was an intentional gap. In the center of the plate there was a dabble of cottage cheese with a sprig of parsley on top much like a flag pole marking the top of a great mountain. Presentation is everything.

  Josh was eating a salad with some crackers. I noticed nothing festive about his food.

  “You like it here?”

  “I do. The people are good, and they have been accepting of me. This is my first pastorate, and generally first pastorates can be hard.”

  “First anythings can be hard.”

  “Yeah, I imag
ine so. But the people here have been kind. It’s a friendly town.”

  “So, you’ve been back to visit Mary Carpenter since those April visits?”

  “I generally go weekly. Sometimes twice a week when my work load allows.”

  “Learn anything new?”

  “Minor details.”

  “Such as.”

  “What she was wearing, what she saw in the room, stuff like that.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  Josh Ainsley took out a notepad from his coat pocket and flipped several pages while I finished the first wedge of my Club Deluxe. I devoured the olive as well. Tasty and festive.

  “She told me she was wearing a light blue dress with sunflowers on it. After she told me that, she began to cry again. I think that ended our session for that day.”

  “And what did she tell you she saw in the room?”

  “Well, one time she told me that she saw a picture of a family hanging on the wall near the crib. She said there were four people in the picture, a man, a woman, a girl standing in front of the woman, and a baby in the arms of the woman.”

  Josh read his notes carefully as he answered. He flipped a page as if searching for something, then flipped it back again.

  “Another time she told me that the man in that picture on the wall was wearing a military uniform.”

  “You think the picture has anything to do with what she believes she saw happen to her brother?”

  “I don’t know. She just talks and I listen. I don’t try to connect the dots. That’s not my field. I’m trying to help her. I called Sara Hightower in an effort to get some more insights into just how to connect the dots on this thing. I suppose that is why you’re here. I wanted someone with some investigative skills to hear all this and maybe help her to discover the truth. I am not a detective. I’m a pastor.”

  “She might not want to know the truth once someone finds it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Many times people bury painful memories in their subconscious. Then, as time goes by, bits and pieces emerge and begin to tell a story, a story that they have forgotten. They didn’t remember burying it, but they did. And now, some pieces of the tale are coming to their conscious and they say they want to know the whole story. Sometimes the whole story is too much.”

  “You think that is what has happened here?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just piecing the bits together at the moment. If you want me to pursue this, I will. But I think we need to meet with Mary Carpenter and talk about this before I do some leg work. I want to be sure that she understands what could happen. It could be painful stuff.”

  “You have time to go see her today?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Let me call her to see if it is convenient. I think she would be happy to meet you and to know that someone can investigate this for her.”

  Pastor Ainsley opened his cell phone and punched the key pad. He excused himself and walked outside of the restaurant leaving me to finish my decorative Club Deluxe all alone. I took an extra napkin from the metal dispenser and filled it with some meat scraps from the other two wedges of my sandwich for Sam. I ate the other two olives. What Sam didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  I drove us to Mary Elizabeth Carpenter’s home on Bridge Street. It was one of those over-the-top antebellum pre-Civil War houses that look like a movie set for Gone With the Wind. Two stories, four large columns that created two porches, one on each floor, and dark green shutters on every window helped to create the majestic house on Bridge Street where Mrs. Carpenter called home. Mercy.

  One of the odd things I have noticed in my life about towns and names and stuff like that is that oftentimes there is no logical reason for some names, at least no logical reason anyone alive could remember. Bridge Street in Riley Corners had no bridge on it, and it didn’t even have water nearby, unless you count the sewer system of the town. I asked Josh if he knew of anyone named Bridge who lived on Bridge Street. He gave me an odd look and shrugged.

  We parked on the street and Sam stayed in the Jeep. It was a long walk from the sidewalk to her antebellum porch laden with tables on both sides of the extra-large door and matching chairs that looked almost comfortable. Josh knocked and I expected an African American butler to answer in full uniform.

  A slight, smallish woman opened the door and smiled when she recognized Josh.

  “Come in, Preacher. Is this the lady you told me about? Welcome to my home. So nice of you to come all the way from Norfolk to visit us. Come in, come in.”

  We entered the massive hallway that made my apartment tiny by comparison. In fact, I think my whole apartment could easily fit into her hallway. There were more spacious rooms off to our right and left; in fact, I noticed that there were more doorways leading to more massive rooms down the hall. In front of us stood a majestic wooden staircase that was large enough for a small herd of elephants to climb side by side. It was one of those expansive creations full of twists and turns and stylistic carvings as well as steps which actually allowed one to ascend to the next level of this Southern excessiveness. I surmised that the staircase was made of walnut. Impressive Old South luxury.

  Mary escorted us into the parlor and we all sat in uncomfortable looking chairs. Someone with taste would likely tell you that the furniture was French provincial. I know little of such things and only pretend to be aware when the occasion raises its ugly head. Despite the massive room size, it was filled with a baby grand piano, two couches, and several of those aforementioned uncomfortable chairs. They each were spaced by some elaborately carved and stained oak tables holding up expensive looking lamps and highly valued curios. Not a world of my choosing.

  “Mary, I told you that I would find someone to help us do some investigating on what you remembered. This is Clancy Evans, a private detective from Virginia. She comes highly recommended.”

  “Oh, Miss Evans, it so kind of you to come all this way. I regret that it is all for naught. I think that I may have misled my sweet little preacher here while I was going through some most difficult times recently. I have this condition and if I don’t take my medicines, then, well, I get emotional and...well, the truth is that I imagine all kinds of things. I am truly sorry that you have come all this way for nothing. I do apologize to you. I will be glad to pay your expenses for your travel and any inconvenience that this has caused you.”

  Josh glanced at me and I offered him my best bewildered look. I must say that he was more confused than I, but then, that might be hard to discern. In my business, I have had worst beginning moments.

  “May I offer the two of you some ice cold sweet tea?” Mary said as if all was right with the world.

  4

  “I don’t understand,” Josh said to me while I was sitting in the driver’s seat of the Jeep with the motor running. Sam was in the passenger seat watching the preacher out of the side window.

  “It appears that she has changed her mind,” I said.

  “I can’t believe this about-face. She was so desperate to know what had happened. She’s been anxious for you to come once she learned that I had contacted my friend Sara and she recommended you. This simply mystifies me.”

  “I understand how you feel, but there is nothing for us to do.”

  “You could still investigate to see what you might discover,” Josh said.

  “I don’t have much to go on.”

  “Would you at least try...while you are here?”

  “Perhaps she has changed her mind and does not want anyone checking into her past. I think maybe we should just let it go and chalk it up to the peculiarities of the elderly and the effects of prescription drugs, or the absence of those drugs.”

  “I could go back and talk with her. Maybe I could get her to change her mind and permit you to at least do some checking into this.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think it best to leave her alone. If she comes around, it needs to be here idea and not because o
f pressure from you.”

  As I drove off I could easily see that Pastor Ainsley was disappointed in this turn of events. It happens. Clients change their mind all the time. It wasn’t the first experience I had had with stopping before I had even begun. Sometimes people have a change of heart when it comes to their personal histories. They reason that it is better to leave the past alone. Rattling skeletons can be disarming, if not embarrassing. Or worse.

  I felt for young Josh. He seemed to be genuine about his desire to help Mary Carpenter. He also seemed to be genuinely baffled. Before I left, I reminded him once again that he should not pressure her into this.

  About five miles out of town, I decided to call Rogers and let her do some preliminary checking to see if she could turn up something. It would be a definite long shot. In the dark. Besides, what harm would that do? She could do the research and no one would ever know about it except the two of us. At least it would satisfy the slight curiosity I had about the whole affair. I wasn’t convinced that Mary Elizabeth Carpenter had seen anything. Sometimes children have wild imaginations and they create stories based upon some imagined event. The details of those creations become so vivid through the ensuing years that as adults they actually believe what they concocted occurred. The mind is a wonderful invention. Thin lines exist between fantasy and reality. There’s also the science regarding our memories. It seems that we do not recall exactly the way things occurred. Apparently we tend to add and subtract details in forming our memories. Explains a lot.

  A roadside picnic table suddenly emerged on my right and I pulled in to park. I let Sam out to answer any call from nature he might have while I phoned Rogers.

  “Check back to the early 1930’s and see if you can find anything in the newspapers regarding the death of an infant named Colby. I have no last name as yet. Colby would have been 13 months old.”

  “Not much to go on, Madame Detective. Do you have anything else?”

  “The name of his sibling sister was Mary Elizabeth. I have nothing else to tell you.”