The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover Page 23

  Sally-Lou let out her breath with a loud whoosh. “The prison farm car?”

  Lizzy felt completely confused. Why would anybody at the prison farm want to kill Mr. Whitworth? But maybe … “Could you see who was driving?” she asked. “Maybe the car was stolen.” But that still didn’t explain what happened.

  Fremon made a face. “Yeah, we could see. And no, it wasn’t stolen. It was Jimmie Bragg behind the wheel. He drives that car all the time. Works for the warden as an assistant or something. Doobie and I know him from Pete’s. He hangs out playin’ pool there.”

  Lizzie stared at him, beginning to understand just how serious this was for Fremon and Doobie. Jimmie Bragg was known around town as a troublemaker. Not very long ago, Archie Mann had asked Mr. Moseley to call Warden Burford to report that Bragg had started a fight that had resulted in some damage to merchandise in the back room at Mann’s Mercantile. Even though the warden had made Bragg settle with Mann, he’d denied having any part in it—just as he was likely to deny this far more serious accusation. If he were indicted and the case went to court, Fremon and Doobie would be called as witnesses for the prosecution. And colored men as witnesses—colored men who had been drinking—well, it wasn’t hard to predict the outcome. It was no wonder that Fremon and Doobie had decided they didn’t want to get involved.

  Sally-Lou was obviously thinking the same thing. “You’re sure it was deliberate, Fremon?” she asked hopefully. “It wasn’t accidental, like? Maybe a little game that got out of hand?”

  Fremon gave his sister a long look. “What you want me to say, Sally-Lou?” he asked thinly. “Jimmie Bragg—he hit that car twice. Then he drove off without stoppin’ to see what he’d done or how bad Mr. Whitworth was hurt. Even if it was some kinda game, it was wrong.” He hunched his shoulders. “And now I’m the one who’s in trouble. Me and Doobie both.”

  Lizzy understood how he felt and the jeopardy he was in. But she also knew what she had to do. “Mr. Moseley will be back in town tomorrow, Fremon. I’m sure he’ll be able to help. But in the meantime, we need to call Sheriff Norris.” She stood. “I’ll do that right now. I’ll ask him if he’ll come over here and talk to you, instead of you going to the office.”

  “No!” Fremon cried, his voice anguished. He started to get up from his chair. “No, please!”

  “Yes,” Sally-Lou said, clamping her hand on Fremon’s arm and forcing him to sit back down. “You call the sheriff, Miss Lizzy. Me and Fremon will wait right here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SHERIFF GETS HIS MAN—AND THEN HE DOESN’T

  The day had been a long one and it wasn’t over yet.

  But the half hour Sheriff Buddy Norris had spent with Fremon Hawkins in Liz Lacy’s kitchen had given him the information he needed (as well as several very good cookies and a fine cup of coffee), and he felt better and wiser than he had all day. Now he knew who had caused Whitworth’s wreck and how. And he had the word of an eyewitness, and perhaps two, if Doobie Jenkins agreed to testify to what he had seen.

  There were still some things Buddy didn’t know, though. He could not for the life of him figure out how Liz Lacy had managed to persuade Fremon Hawkins to speak up—especially since Hawkins had nothing to gain and plenty to lose by helping the police. Most colored folks weren’t willing to come forward and say what they’d seen for fear of being called as a witness and, afterward, threatened (or worse) by friends of the accused. Buddy didn’t blame them for being afraid. If he was colored, he’d be scared too. But however Miss Lacy had managed to pull it off, Buddy was grateful to her for convincing Hawkins to tell what he had seen. His reluctant story (which certainly had the ring of truth) explained what had happened on Spook Hill.

  But even when Buddy put Hawkins’ story together with what he had learned from Mrs. Whitworth and Bodeen Pyle, the why of it still eluded him. He could see several possible explanations branching out in several different directions, but if they made sense at some point, it was beyond his immediate understanding. When it came to motive, he was baffled. And when he left Liz Lacy’s house, his relief at knowing who was darkened by the twin shadows of why and what next. Buddy was not in the mood for doing what came next. It was the part of the job he liked least.

  Thinking about that without enthusiasm, he drove back to the sheriff’s office and went inside. He found Wayne, who was a serious reader, deep in the pages of an old issue of Popular Science, with Zane Grey’s Sunset Pass at his elbow. Buddy hadn’t read the Western but he and Bettina had gone to see the movie, which starred Randolph Scott and Tom Keene, when it came to the Palace. Tonight, he wished he was as good with a gun as Randolph Scott.

  “Get your weapon, Wayne,” he said with resignation. “We’re going out to the prison farm on this Whitworth business, and I don’t know what kind of situation we’ll walk into.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The deputy shot him a surprised look, and then glanced up at the clock. It was nearly nine.

  “Yeah. And bring the cuffs. We’ll likely need them.”

  Wayne closed his magazine. “So I guess you figured out who dunnit.”

  “Tell you on the way,” Buddy said tersely.

  But before they went out to the prison farm, they had to stop at Jed Snow’s house. Jed was a justice of the peace and could give them the warrant that would allow them to examine the car Fremon Hawkins claimed to have seen—and seize it, if they wanted to. Under ordinary circumstances, Buddy might not have bothered with the warrant. But in this case, they were dealing with the warden of the prison farm, who might not take kindly to yielding up a state car.

  Buddy didn’t ask Jed for an arrest warrant, though. He wanted to hear what Bragg had to say for himself first, and get a sense of whether he was telling the truth. If he figured he had probable cause after that—well, he could arrest him then.

  The Jericho State Prison Farm had been where it was since Buddy was a boy, its main buildings clustered in a compound behind an intimidating seven-foot fence that was topped with barbed wire. Its nearly fifteen hundred acres of open pastures and farm fields spread out far beyond, to the Alabama River on the west and Briar Swamp on the south, both significant barriers, in case a prisoner took it in his head to try to escape. Most preferred a bed, meals, and a roof to gators and copperheads.

  Like other prison farms across the country, Jericho was designed to be self-supporting. That is, the three hundred or so inmates were supposed to produce enough food—vegetables, meat, milk, eggs—to feed themselves and their keepers. They also baked their own bread, cooked their own meals, operated their own laundry, produced their own clothing, built their own buildings, and repaired and maintained their own vehicles. They even ran their own sawmill. The only thing they didn’t make, Buddy thought with some irony, was their own booze. That, they were buying from Bodeen Pyle.

  But prison farms weren’t judged on their self-sufficiency alone. They were expected to turn a profit, the bigger the better, and Jericho had long had the reputation of being the most profitable in the entire Alabama system. Lumber, corn, sorghum, cotton, cattle, pigs, and even chickens were substantial cash crops, and the profit they earned was returned to the state (minus the bonus paid to the warden for productivity and efficiency). The inmates, too, were a source of profit, for they were hired out as farm workers and lumberjacks and on road gangs. Warden Burford, who had been in charge of Jericho for over a decade, regularly won the state award for operating the most profitable prison in the entire state. Every November, he went up to Montgomery to collect his trophy at the big banquet, and Charlie Dickens always ran his picture on the Dispatch front page.

  It was full dark by the time Buddy and Wayne drove up to the compound gate, a short distance off the Jericho Road. To the south, ominous flickers of lightning lit the sagging belly of a thundercloud, and an erratic breeze stirred the grass and trees along the road. Buddy hoped they could get their business done and get their suspect back to town before the storm hit.

  Late as it wa
s, he worried that they might have some trouble getting into the prison compound, since the front gate was usually locked at dark. But to his surprise, there was a uniformed guard in the kiosk, and when he saw the sheriff’s star on the side of the Ford, he hurried to open the gate. Buddy recognized the guard, a heavy-set guy named Leonard, whom he remembered as a skinny, pock-marked senior who was the star forward on the Darling high school basketball team when Buddy was a freshman. Now, he looked like he’d keel over if he had to run more than twenty paces.

  The guard lumbered up to the car and Buddy rolled down the window. “Wasn’t expecting you so quick, Sheriff,” Leonard said. “How in the hell did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Buddy asked.

  “Why, get here so fast. Couldn’t have been more than twelve-fifteen minutes ago that the warden called your office.” Leonard shook his head admiringly. “Reckon you’ve more under that hood than old Henry Ford put there.” He grinned. “Take me for a ride sometime, huh? Show me what that car can do.”

  “Ah,” Buddy said, understanding. But he’d just as soon nobody knew what he’d put under the hood. If he had to go after somebody fast, he wanted it to be a surprise. He said, “We were probably better than halfway out here when the warden put in that call.” He paused. The prison farm usually took care of its problems on its own. He couldn’t remember a time when the warden had telephoned the sheriff’s office. “What was Burford calling about?”

  “Dunno,” Leonard said. “All I heard was that somebody got shot. Anyway, he’ll tell you about it. I reckon you better go on over there.”

  Wayne leaned forward. “Over where?” he asked.

  Leonard stepped back, pointing. “Try the warden’s office first. If he ain’t there, somebody can tell you where he is. Fifty yards down this road, second building on your right.” He added, “Don’t park in the warden’s space. Good way to get your tail kicked.”

  “Thanks,” Buddy said, and shifted into gear.

  The prison offices were in the middle building in a row of wood-frame single-story buildings on one side of a neatly mowed grassy quadrangle. Other buildings, all painted the same drab green with brown trim, housed the mess hall and kitchen, a hospital and dispensary, and prisoners’ barracks segregated by race, with additional separate barracks for white and black trusties. On the opposite side of the quad were sheds for shops, equipment repair, and maintenance. Floodlights cast a pale light over the grassy space and along the perimeter fence.

  Buddy pulled up and parked on the gravel apron in front of the office building, careful to avoid the space designated as the warden’s with a wooden sign. Most of the windows were dark, but there was a bare bulb over the main door and lights on in a couple of the windows nearest the door.

  “What’s the plan?” Wayne asked.

  Buddy had been puzzling over that, but he still hadn’t come up with anything. “Don’t have one, exactly,” he said. “I figure we’ll just tell the warden what we’ve got on Bragg and that we’re fixin’ to impound the car he was driving last night and take him into town for questioning. I reckon we’ll also have to deal with whatever it was he called us about.” Which Buddy still didn’t understand. The prison farm had its own justice system. What was important enough to call out the sheriff after nine on a weekday night?

  “What if he won’t give Bragg up?” Wayne asked. “Or refuses to let us have that car?”

  Buddy didn’t like either question very much, especially when he remembered what Bodeen had said about Bragg being the warden’s fair-haired boy.

  He sighed. “Well, the warden’s a law enforcement officer, just like you and me. What goes on out here is his business and he can handle it pretty much any way he sees fit. But what happened on Spook Hill is in our jurisdiction, and a man was killed—a citizen of Darling. Bragg may be a state employee, but that doesn’t exempt him from being questioned. Or from being arrested and charged, if we figure we’ve got cause. Or from being indicted and tried and convicted.” Which was true, although it didn’t exactly answer Wayne’s question.

  “I get that.” Wayne’s voice was hard and flat “But this isn’t friendly territory, you know. There are folks out here who don’t have a lot of good feeling toward the law.”

  “I know,” Buddy said, and sighed again. He opened the car door. “Let’s go.”

  The building’s front door opened into a small lobby and then intersected with a hall—recently painted a particularly bilious color of green—that ran the length of the building. Under the smell of fresh paint and turpentine, Buddy caught the smell of mold and damp wood. As close to the river and the swamp as these buildings were, it was a challenge to keep them from rotting, he reckoned.

  A sign on the wall announced the Warden’s Office, with an arrow pointing to the right. Leading the way, Buddy went down the hall in that direction. His revolver felt heavy and uncomfortable on his hip, and he was more than usually aware of the badge on his shirt. Wayne was right. They were in hostile territory, where not even the guards could be counted on for help, if they needed it. He was glad for his deputy, a couple of steps behind him. But it was moments like this when he wished he’d been smart enough to look for some other line of work.

  The door to the warden’s outer office was open and two uniformed guards and a couple of trusties were standing around, talking. They turned when Buddy and Wayne came in, and one of the guards—an overweight, balding man with a scar across his chin—came forward. His badge identified him as Lamar Puckett.

  “Hey, Sheriff, kinda surprised to see you,” he said, thrusting a fat hand forward. “That girl just called back and said she couldn’t find you. How’d you get the word?”

  Buddy shook his hand. “What girl?” He nodded toward Wayne. “This is Deputy Springer.”

  “Good to meet you, Springer.” The guard shook the deputy’s hand. “You know, the girl who runs the Exchange,” he said, turning back to Buddy. “The pretty one. Violet. When nobody answered at your office, she said she’d try to track you down and get a message to you. Where’d she locate you?”

  “She didn’t,” Buddy said, not bothering to explain. “Where’s the warden?”

  “At the hospital,” Puckett said. “With the body. Come on. He told me to take you over there when you showed up.”

  “The body?” Wayne asked curiously. “You got somebody dead?”

  “Yeah.” Puckett showed a toothy grin. “You know how it goes. The boys get mad, get in fights, cut each other up. Or sometimes they kill themselves, one way or another. Tell you the truth, I was kinda surprised that the warden called you about it. But I guess since he wasn’t a prisoner—” He broke off, making a motion with his head. “Come on. Let’s get on over there before it rains.”

  Wayne gave Buddy an eyebrows-up glance, but Buddy shook his head. They’d go along with whatever was happening until it played out, and then they’d tell the warden that they were looking for Bragg.

  It wasn’t raining yet, but the lightning was flickering with greater intensity, thunder was rumbling to the south, and the wind had picked up. The prison hospital was forty yards away, a narrow building with a door at either end and bars over the windows. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by a couple of bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Ten yards down the hall, Warden Burford was standing in front of a closed door, talking to a uniformed guard. A large black dog with muscular shoulders, restrained by a leash and a heavy choker chain collar, stood at his knee.

  The warden turned when he saw Buddy and Wayne and stepped forward. The dog growled low in its throat.

  “Sheriff Norris,” he exclaimed, his round face beaming. “So the girl at the Exchange was able to locate you. Good of you to come all the way out here so late. Thank you.” Buddy started to explain but the warden didn’t give him a chance. “I thought you’d prefer to see for yourself what’s happened, since it involves that tragic business with Mr. Whitworth. I can’t tell you how shocked I am about this whole affair. To think that one of our men—”
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  He broke off. The dog was pushing forward, ears laid back, growling louder and baring its teeth. “Stop it, Jingo,” he said sharply. “Behave yourself.” To Buddy, he added, in a conciliatory tone, “He doesn’t bite unless he feels threatened.”

  Buddy didn’t like the sound of that, since he didn’t know what Jingo might consider threatening. But he only said, “I’m not sure I understand, Warden. What exactly are we talking about here?”

  The warden’s face momentarily darkened. “I thought you got the word, but perhaps not. We’re talking about Bragg. Jimmie Bragg.” He turned to Wayne. “You met him this morning, Deputy. The man who was with me at the site of the wreck. My assistant.”

  “Ah,” Buddy said, relieved that he was finally hearing something he could pin down. “Jimmie Bragg. Actually, he’s the reason we’re here, Warden. We need to talk—”

  “Good, then,” the warden said briskly. “You did get the word. Well, you’ll find him in there.” He nodded toward the door. “You two just go on in. Take all the time you need for whatever you have to do—don’t feel you’ve got to hurry.”

  “That’s fine,” Buddy said. “But I was thinking that you and I need to talk first, and get a few things straight. We—”

  “Thanks again for coming.” The warden opened the door to the room and stood back. “I’m going to my residence. Sergeant Richards here will answer your questions.” He gestured to the guard leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. “Richards knows as much as I do about this unfortunate situation. He’ll also take you out and show you the damage to the car.” He stepped back. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.” He tugged on the leash. “Let’s go, Jingo.”

  The dog cast a baleful look over his shoulder, gave one last growl, and followed the warden. If asked, Buddy would have said that he was the one who felt threatened, but nobody asked, so he kept it to himself.