Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

As she talked, Landers noticed her mouth. Nice teeth, and candy apple red liptstick. Looked like a color you’d paint a ’56 Chevy.

“Just doing my job, Ms. Barlowe,” he said. “Obviously, I wouldn’t be here unless I was working some kind of an investigation.”

“I understand completely,” she said, “but I’m sure you can understand that I’m concerned when a police officer, even one as handsome as yourself, shows up at my place of business asking questions. Maybe I could help you a little more if you’d let me in on what you’re investigating.”

Landers stepped back over to his car, reached in, and picked the photograph of Tester up off the front seat.

“Were you here last night?” he said.

“I’m here every night, sweetie.”

“Recognize this guy?” Landers handed the photo to her. She looked at it for a few seconds, then shook her head and handed it back.

“I don’t believe I do.”

“I think he was here last night.”

“Really? What would make you think that?”

“Just some information I picked up. He was killed last night.”

She gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, my goodness. That’s terrible!”

Landers held the photo up in front of her face again. “You’re absolutely certain you didn’t see him in your club last night?”

“Well, now, I don’t believe I could say for certain. Lots and lots of men come and go. I don’t notice all of them.”

“I’m going to need to interview the employees who were working last night and as many of your customers as I can.”

“Well, I swan,” she said. “You’ll scare my girls to death. And the customers? Honey, they’d run from you like scared rabbits. Most of them don’t even want their wives to know they’ve been here, let alone the police. If you were to come in here and start asking them about a murder, why, I just don’t know what would happen to my business.”

“I didn’t say anything about a murder.”

The phony smile she was wearing stayed frozen on her face, but her eyes tightened the slightest bit. At that moment, Landers knew she realized she’d fallen face first into a pile of dung. It didn’t surprise Landers. Any woman who dressed like that had to be stupid.

“I thought you said the man was killed,” she said.

“I did, but I didn’t say he was murdered. I didn’t say anything about how he was killed. He might have been run over by a train or gotten killed in a car wreck. He could have jumped off a building or blown his brains out. What makes you think he was murdered?”

“I don’t claim to know a whole lot, honey, but I didn’t think the TBI got involved with car wrecks. I thought they only sent you boys in for the bad stuff.”

Nice try. She knew something, and now that she’d screwed up, she was trying to back-pedal. Landers decided to try to get her out of her element and into his, get her to a place where she’d be less comfortable.

“Ms. Barlowe, let’s you and I go down to my office where we can sit down, have a cup of coffee, and talk. You can give me a list of your employees and the names of as many customers from last night as you can remember, and I’ll have you back here in a couple of hours.”

The smile vanished.

“Honey, did I mention to you that my late husband, God rest his soul, used to be the sheriff of McNairy County? I was his personal secretary for almost a year before he resigned, and then we got married about a year after that. It was a long time ago, but I remember a few things about the law. Now I don’t mean to be rude to you, sugar, but one of the things I remember is that unless you have some kind of warrant or unless you arrest me, I don’t believe I even have to talk to you. I’ve tried to be nice up to this point, but you’ve made it clear that you think I’ve done something wrong. So you know what? I think I’m just going to go on inside and get to work now, okay? You have yourself a wonderful day.”

She turned around and sashayed off. It was the only word to describe the way her hips swayed as she headed into the Mouse’s Tail on her spike heels. Landers stood there watching her for a minute, then turned and got back into his car.

Most people cringe when they talk to TBI agents, and almost all of them cooperate unless they have something to hide. This woman had something to hide. Landers decided to stick a flashlight up her skirt until he found out what it was.

April 12

12:10 p.m.

I went up to see my mother after Johnny Wayne was carted off. It was lunchtime, and walking down the hall in the long-term-care wing at the nursing home was like running a wheelchair gauntlet. I knocked gently on the door and walked in. She was awake. It seemed she was always awake. The doctors told me that Alzheimer’s, as it progresses, interferes with sleep patterns. She was sitting up in bed, watching Sportscenter. Baseball season had started, which meant her beloved Atlanta Braves were back on the field.

“Hi, Ma. How’re you feeling today?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“Good. At least you’re with us.”

The disease was steadily running its course. One day I’d walk in and she’d say “Hi, Joe,” and we’d talk for a little while, and the next day she wouldn’t even know my name. It was painful to watch. She was only sixty years old, and she’d always been strong and vital. But her skin had lost its elasticity and was the color of bleached bone. Her weight had dropped to ninety pounds, and she seemed to have shrunk by at least two inches. Her cheeks were hollow, her hazel eyes dull, and her hair gray and stringy. Her teeth were in a jar on the bedside table. As I sat down in the chair next to her bed, I knew it wouldn’t be long before she wouldn’t be able to talk at all.

Ma was born in 1947 in a small town called Erwin, Tennessee, which is in the Appalachians not far from the North Carolina border and is surrounded by the Cherokee National Forest. She fell in love with a football star from nearby Johnson City and married him in 1964, a month after they graduated from high school. She had Sarah in 1966 and me in 1967, after my father was drafted and went off to Vietnam. I never laid eyes on my father; he was shipped home in a body bag by the time I was born.

Ma provided for my sister and me as best she could by working as a bookkeeper for a small roofing company and taking in other people’s laundry. She didn’t talk much, and when she did, it was usually a bitter tirade against Lyndon Johnson or Richard Nixon. She never dated another man and hardly ever left the house. Her only real requirement of me was: “Get an education, Joey.”

“Sarah’s getting out of jail today,” I said. “I hope she’s going to stay at my house for a while. Caroline was supposed to go down and talk to her sometime this morning.”

Her eyes dropped at the mention of Sarah and she began to shake her head.

“My own flesh and blood in jail,” she said. “Tell me where I went wrong.”

“No sense in beating yourself up over it. She is what she is. It isn’t your fault.”

“You better lock up your valuables, Joey. She’ll haul the whole house off if you give her the chance.”

“Sarah wouldn’t steal from me, Ma.” In fact, Sarah had stolen from me in the past, but I’d never told Ma about it.

“Well, she stole from me, plenty of times.”

“Maybe she’s changed. You looked sad when I came in. What’s the matter?”

“I was thinking about Raymond.” She reached for a tissue beside the bed and dabbed at her eyes. Raymond was Ma’s younger brother. He drowned at the age of seventeen. “Such a waste.”

“No it wasn’t,” I said before I realized what was coming out of my mouth. ”Don’t spend any tears on him, Ma. That’s a waste.”