Sharyn McCrumb - If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

“May I come in?” asked Bill, wisely deciding to defer the debate until after the bribe had been taken.

“Oh, all right,” his sister grumbled, standing aside. For her indeterminate stay in Danville, Elizabeth had taken an apartment in the same building as A. P. Hill, although they saw little of each other as neighbors. Elizabeth was not feeling very sociable most of the time. Still, when she heard the knock at her door that evening, she was glad of the company-not that she would have admitted such a thing to her older brother, who was standing there exuding pizza fumes with a fatuous smile.

She ushered him in. “I suppose you want to talk about this emergency that called you away from Mother’s party. Since you came bearing high-calorie gifts, I suppose I’ll listen to your unreasonable requests. Lucky for you that Mother has decided to forgo the serving of actual food at her parties these days.”

“Really? I’m sorry I missed it-intellectually, I mean. I’m sure my stomach profited by my absence. What did you have for dinner?”

Elizabeth scowled. “Library paste. Put the pizza box on the coffee table while I get us some Cokes from the kitchen. Actually, I had decided for the sake of my diet, not to mention my cholesterol, not to eat for the remainder of the evening.” She set a tray of plates and glasses down beside the pizza. “And I was just regretting it. You are an angel unawares.”

“How gratifying,” said Bill, helping himself to the largest slice. “I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“I don’t. I am under no illusions as to which sort of angel you represent. The tropical kind, I am sure. If you tell me what you want now, will it put me off my food?”

“I doubt it,” said Bill. “It may be another answer to prayer. You’ve been pestering us to give you some investigating to do, and now I have two related cases that demand your attention.”

“Go on,” said Elizabeth warily. “I’m listening.” She had not forgotten the time she’d been obliged to track a covey of absconding old ladies to Georgia for one of Bill’s cases.

Between slices of pizza, Bill managed to outline the Morgan case-and to tell Elizabeth as much as he knew about the century-old notoriety of Lethal Lucy Todhunter, ancestor of the present suspect. Elizabeth’s expression became increasingly forbidding as the conversation progressed. Finally, after divulging everything he could think of, he lapsed into silence, his former enthusiasm in tatters. “Doesn’t it sound fascinating?” he finished weakly.

Elizabeth sighed. “Fascinating? Try impossible. I’m not sure what you think is entailed in the abilities of a forensic anthropologist, but I can assure you that those skills do not include solving century-old murder cases, involving the unautopsied remains of long-decomposed corpses. And I can’t do anything about the Morgans until somebody makes a ruling on how Chevry died. I doubt if they’ll give me the body and invite me to see for myself.”

“Don’t worry about the Morgans yet. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation in case things start to happen quickly. I think they might. As for Lethal Lucy, you could look into it, couldn’t you?” asked Bill. “Maybe there is some evidence that you could reevaluate in the light of modern science.”

“But what’s the point? Mrs. Morgan hasn’t even been charged yet. Why are you investigating her great-grandmother?”

“Look,” said Bill. “You’re the one who has been complaining that you have too much time on your hands. You’re the one who’s been pleading with us to find you something to do. I’m offering you one of the most famous cases in Virginia criminal history-a woman who was acquitted because no one could figure out how she did it. Now, do you want to work on it, or do you want to sit around brooding about your loss-and your mother’s new lifestyle?”

Elizabeth blinked at him. There had been very few times in Bill MacPherson’s life when he had been assertive. Most of the time people forgot what an intelligent fellow he was, because his unassuming nature allowed them to do so. In the South, “simple country boys” are often the sharpest and most dangerous people-it is a pose particularly favored by aspiring politicians. Elizabeth began to be afraid that her brother, the simple, modest country boy, might be planning to run for the Senate someday. The idea made her shudder. “Yes. All right,” she said quickly. “I work for you guys, right? If you want me to investigate an 1860s wrongful death, then I’ll hop right to it.”

“Great,” said Bill, lapsing back into his usual Bertie Wooster demeanor. “Only don’t take too long about it, okay? As soon as the Morgan autopsy comes back, I think you’ll have a more recent murder to worry about.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Bill! You think your client is guilty?”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. But Chevry Morgan richly deserved to be murdered. I can’t believe that no one took him up on it.”

Donna Jean Morgan would not have known the Emily Dickinson poem that contained the line “the bustle in the house the morning after death”; but she was familiar with the custom. The dining-room table was laden with neighbors’ offerings of peach and apple pies, three kinds of potato salad, cold cuts, and half a dozen plates of deviled eggs. Certain dishes were “fitten” to take to a house of mourning, and most people stuck to tradition. In anticipation of this onslaught of friends and parishioners, Donna Jean had been up since six, giving the already spotless house yet another cleaning. At a quarter to nine, she had changed her faded housedress for her navy-blue Sunday best. She had set a stack of paper plates and napkins on the sideboard, then deposited herself in Chevry’s lounge chair to wait.

Her kinfolk turned up promptly at nine-the men gravely shaking her hand and expressing a restrained sympathy before they stumped out onto the back porch to talk among themselves about cars and quarterbacks, while the women, after perfunctory hugs, set about rearranging the table and adding their own contributions to the buffet. They roamed around the house with brooms and dishcloths, looking for ways to make themselves useful, chattering brightly all the while. But nobody really talked to Donna Jean.

By noon, clumps of visitors arrived, families together or women in pairs. The men joined the male contingent on the porch and the women bustled or scattered about the parlor to gossip, their hushed, mournful tones gradually giving way to the usual sunny babble of idle conversation. No one said much about Chevry, beyond the first sentence or two of condolence, although an elderly second cousin of Donna’s attempted to console the widow by observing that Donna Jean was “a sight better off without the rutting hound.” Since Cousin Elsinor was popularly assumed to be senile, no one paid any attention to this untactful remark. They heartily concurred, of course, but no one would have dreamed of saying so. Apparently the void he left in the community was neither large nor permanent.

No one mentioned the suddenness of Chevry Morgan’s death or speculated on the cause of it. Donna Jean knew that this was a bad sign. People were avoiding a touchy subject, one that they had discussed at length elsewhere-not in her presence. The community had already held its own unofficial grand-jury hearing, and its own arraignment, conducted by telephone and in the aisles of the Food Lion. Donna Jean wondered what private verdict had been reached. She avoided the topic as well, because she was too numbed by the fact of Chevry’s death to worry about anything else. She wanted friendly company, not an informal inquest.

Tanya Faith Reinhardt (Morgan) turned up at one. Swathed in a sheath of black chiffon, with a matching hat and gloves, she emerged from the backseat of her parents’ Ford Tempo, tottering a little on newly purchased spike-heeled shoes. Her parents, clad in Sunday clothes and looking ill at ease, trailed along behind her; Tanya’s mother was carrying a foil-wrapped pot of yellow chrysanthemums.