“No,” I said, barely recalling Angry’s given name. “But I don’t think he’s guilty, if that helps.”
“Nothing helps,” Rosemary said, as she slowly rubbed her hands. “First I thought Malcolm was dead, and God help me, I was glad of it. Even before I met Abraham, I was glad when I heard. Malcolm was a charmer when he and I were young, but there was a meanness in him that I didn’t see then. It was a relief when he went off to war and an even greater relief when he didn’t come home. Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?”
“He used to beat you, I heard. That would make me glad to be rid of him.”
“He would apologize when it was over. I hated that more. So when he was reported killed, I pretended to be sad, to join in with the other grieving widows. But when I was alone, I would dance. In this very kitchen, I would swirl around the table in absolute joy. And then I met Abraham. I know what they call him, but he was never that way with me. Never angry. Gentle and kind, he was. I must shock you terribly, Captain Boyle.”
“I’m not shocked easily, Mrs. Adams. Whites and Negroes don’t mix back home, so I do find it strange to think about. We have a lot of history in the way.”
“But you’re a friend of Tree’s, aren’t you? You’ll help us?”
“Yes,” I said. She relaxed, leaning back into her chair.
“I was happy for the first time in my life,” she said. “And then I got the letter, saying that Malcolm had been found, wounded. He’d lost his identity disc and was unconscious for days. He’d had several surgeries on his legs. The hospital never contacted his unit, so they thought he was dead, left in the jungle to rot.”
“What was he like when he came home?”
“You know, finding out about Abraham gave him something to live for. It gave him something to hate. It was all he had.” She stood up, and I wondered if she would dance around the table after I left. “He hit me once, and fell over. Gave me a black eye, but never tried again. Not because he was kind or ashamed, but because he was embarrassed to have lost his balance in front of me.”
“Do you think Malcolm or Abraham had anything to do with your brother’s death?”
“No. Tom was a good brother, and he was trying to protect me. I know he said some awful things to Abraham, but it was to drive him away. I truly have no idea why anyone would want to hurt him. Or leave him on Dad’s grave, for that matter.”
“And Abraham?”
“He felt terrible about leaving me with Malcolm, and I knew Malcolm would have liked nothing more than to goad Abraham into striking him so he could press charges. That’s why I lied about that night when Malcolm didn’t come home. I told the police Abraham was with me; I thought he and Malcolm had fought, and that I was protecting him. As it turned out, all I was doing was placing Abraham close to Tom’s body.”
“Is there any reason you can think of that Tom was killed? Did he or your father have any enemies?”
“Tom never had the chance for any really big cases, like Dad did. Not enough time for that. Poor Tom,” she said, and a sob burst from her lips. “All he ever wanted to be was a policeman. He followed Dad’s investigations, badgered him something awful when we were kids. Dad would come home and want to put his feet up by the fire and read the evening newspaper, but Tom would pepper him with questions about what he did that day.” She smiled at the memory as she wiped her tears.
“PC Cook is looking into his old cases,” I said. “Your father’s, I mean. To see if there’s any possible connection. Perhaps someone released after a long prison sentence.”
“Would you like to see the scrapbook?” Rosemary asked.
“What scrapbook?”
“The one Tom kept when we were kids. Newspaper articles and the like. The odd bit of police paperwork Dad left lying about. I still have it.”
“May I borrow it? I’ll have it back in a day or so.” It was a long shot, but there might be some clue about a long-forgotten feud.
Rosemary left the room and returned with a thick scrapbook, browned paper showing at the edges.
“If it will help, keep it as long as you need,” she said. I stood, and took the book from her. “Promise me you’ll do your best.”
“I will,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
She walked me to the door and opened it, stepping out into the fresh air. “Good,” she said. “I’ve already lost so much of my life. I want some of it back. Bring Abraham to me, Captain Boyle.”
I left her standing there, eyes closed, letting the sunlight wash over her face. I hoped one day there would be real dancing in the house, two happy people arm in arm. It wasn’t the easiest thing for me to imagine, a black hand on a woman’s white skin. But I had a harder time imagining lingering sadness and a lifetime of loss, played out in a hardscrabble yard full of carrots, cabbages, and clucking chickens.
CHAPTER TWENTY — EIGHT
I spotted Kaz and Tree sitting on the bench outside the Three Crowns, the same one where we had sat the day we met up. It seemed like a decade ago. Until then, my thoughts of Tree had been all about Boston, motorcycles, and scuffles with the law. Not to mention being upset that we’d parted on harsh terms. It seemed childish now. The war was waiting for us, and I had drowned and missing girls on my mind, along with the image of Neville crumpled at the bottom of his cellar stairs. Angry Smith sat in a prison cell, charged with murder. We had grown up, Tree and I, and the troubles of the world had come along for the ride.
“Tree, how are you feeling?” I asked as I approached. A bandage covered the cut above his eye, which was swollen about half shut, an improvement on yesterday.
“About as good as I look,” Tree said, attempting a grin, which was hampered by his healing split lip. “Lieutenant Binghamton gave me the day off to rest up. Came in for a pint and Kaz kept me company.”
“Tree has been telling me stories of what it was like in the southern states, where he trained,” Kaz said.
“Where were you based down South?” I asked Tree.
“First it was Camp Claiborne, Louisiana. That place was bad for everyone, worse for Negroes. Then Fort Hood, Texas, which was a little better. Later Fort Benning, in Georgia, where a Negro soldier committed suicide. Funny thing was, his hands were tied behind his back. Didn’t know a man could hang himself that way.”
“I had heard of the lynchings, but I truly did not understand how bad things are for Negroes,” Kaz said.
“Can’t be good for white people either,” Tree said. “It’s a lot of work to carry around that much hate, and pass it on to the young ones. There’s going to be an accounting one day, in this life or the next. Has to be.”
“I’m going to focus on staying in this life for as long as possible,” I said, squeezing in next to Kaz and stretching my legs out. “I just came from Chilton Foliat, to finish looking the place over. The CO there is a piece of work.”
“Sobel, right?” Tree said. “I heard he’s real strict. Like crazy strict.”
“Yeah. Charlie was digging a hole six feet wide, deep, and long. For missing a button.”
“That’s crazy all right,” Tree said, nodding.
“Apparently he thinks it will help train the men to dig foxholes in combat. I can’t fault him on that logic. There’s times when you need to get under cover, quick. Real quick.”
“That time might come sooner rather than later,” Tree said. “Rumor is that after the maneuvers, we’re shipping out. Maybe Italy, maybe France. They say the invasion could be any day now.”
“They say everything, Tree. Don’t put too much score in scuttlebutt. In case it happens, though, and you ship out before we meet again, I’m sure you’ll do fine. That’s a good outfit you’re in.” The way the army worked, Tree could be gone by the morning, and it was important to tell him what I felt.
“Thanks, Billy. And you’ll keep working on getting Angry out of jail?”
“I will. I talked to that caretaker today, Angus Crowley. Said he never saw anyone pass by that track leading to the cemetery. But he wasn’t exactly the friendly type. I doubt he’d tell the truth unless it served his purposes.”