Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(31)
“Accessory to murder,” Bo finished the thought, closing his eyes.
19
George Curtis stood in the kitchen, watching his sister through the open slit in the blinds. Even at sixty-nine years old, her once-golden hair now solid white, Maggie Curtis Walton was still a beautiful woman. When they were younger, George had always thought of Linda Evans from her Big Valley days when he would watch his sister, six years his senior, ride horses on the farm. These days, with her white hair cut shorter, she often reminded George of Ellie Ewing from the nighttime soap Dallas.
Now, four days removed from her husband’s brutal murder and just an hour after his graveside funeral service, Maggie sat in a rocking chair on the porch, holding a leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible tight to her chest. Her exhaustion was palpable.
George knew that getting through the funeral had been torture for his sister.
Due to the mutilated condition of Andy’s body and Maggie’s shock at the gruesome nature of her husband’s murder, George had decided against a visitation, and a viewing had been out of the question. Instead, he had organized a private graveside service at Maplewood Cemetery. So, with temperatures hovering just under one hundred degrees, approximately fifty people, most of them friends of Maggie’s from church and the Junior League, sweated and fanned their way through the ceremony, which was officiated by the Reverend Walter Griffith of First Presbyterian. General Helen Lewis, Sheriff Ennis Petrie, and several deputies were on hand as well, but they were mostly there to keep curiosity seekers out. Andy’s longtime attorney, Charles Dutton, as well as the mayor of Pulaski, Dan Kilgore, were also present. Mayor Kilgore seemed especially sad, though George suspected that the politician’s demeanor had more to do with the bad publicity the town was receiving in the aftermath of the murder than any grief he felt over Andy’s death.
All of the guests, at George’s request, stayed clear of Maggie, who spent the service sitting on the front row of chairs, her hands clutching the same Bible she clung to now. Even after Reverend Griffith had finished his eulogy and people began approaching the coffin to pay their respects and leave flowers, Maggie remained glued to her seat, her posture perfectly erect as she stared blankly at her husband’s coffin.
Maggie’s eyes carried the same listless look now as she gazed over the railing at the night sky. Below her and in all directions the hills flattened into fifteen hundred acres of the best farmland in all of Giles County—property that had been in the Curtis family since before the turn of the century. Above her a ceiling fan whirled full blast, cooling the porch slightly, but the unrelenting heat still made the setting a bit uncomfortable. Sweat rolled down Maggie’s cheeks and neck, but she made no effort to wipe it off.
Feeling a pang in his heart, George forced himself to turn from the window and look at the three men who had gathered in the kitchen parlor. Counting George, they were the last remnants of the lynch mob that hanged Franklin Roosevelt Haynes on the northeast corner of this farm in 1966.
Originally, there had been ten, but in the years since the lynching, their number had gradually dwindled as accidents, bad health, and age began to catch up with them. With Andy’s murder, there were now just the four of them left. George made eye contact with each of the other men in the kitchen. Then, taking off his glasses, he spoke. “She hasn’t said a word since seeing the body.”
The other men remained silent, their eyes focused intently on George.
“I’ve given her several Valium, and I’m sure I’ll have to give her an Ambien to sleep.” He sighed. “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even after Drew . . .”
Drew Walton had been the only son born of the marriage between Andy and Maggie Walton. Drew had been a straight-A student at Giles County High and then went on to David Lipscomb in Nashville to study music. At nineteen years old he’d been found lying in a bathroom in a bar on Music Row, a heroin needle stuck in his arm. Dead of an apparent overdose. Though Maggie never let anyone utter the word “suicide” around her, George had always thought the boy had killed himself.
“Drew wasn’t lynched like a field nigger, Doc.” Larry Tucker, owner of the Sundowners Club, spoke in a whiskey-soaked Southern drawl and rubbed his scruffy beard, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Andy was.” Larry paused and stepped into the middle of the parlor, moving his eyes around the room. “On her land.” He looked George dead in the eye. “Your family’s land, Doc.”
“He was killed at your club, Larry,” George said.
“That’s right,” Larry said, his bloodshot eyes again moving wildly around the room. “He was. The question, gentlemen, is what are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” The voice came from behind Larry, and he turned around to face it. “Nothing?” Larry asked, squinting at the man.
“Nothing,” Sheriff Ennis Petrie repeated. “If he’s guilty, then Helen Lewis will make sure that he is put to death. The General is undefeated as a prosecutor, and the preliminary investigation indicates that Bo is guilty as sin.”
“I don’t think we should trust a cunt to do a man’s job,” Larry said, stepping closer to the sheriff, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke.
“Helen Lewis has bigger balls than you do, Larry,” Ennis said. “There is nothing for us to do.”