Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"Wow," she said. "That stinks."

I touched one of the Folsom divorce files with my right hand.

"Divorces and criminal law," I said. "I think my mother knew this was going to happen and tried to warn me before I came here."

"How did she want you to spend your summer?"

I thought about endless rows of dead chickens. Surely, that wasn't Mamas desire for my future.

"She left it up to me," I replied. "Now, as my father would say, I have a chance to grow in the midst of difficulty."

The family platitude sounded hollow in the moment. I sat down at one of the computer workstations and began typing a memo to Mr. Carpenter about the status of State v. Jones.

By the end of the day, Julie had returned to her chipper self. We worked together on the Folsom case, but Moses and Lisa Prescott stayed at the edge of my mind. I expected Vince to stop by and offer his condolences on my courtroom fiasco, but he didn't appear. Julie dropped me off at Mrs. Fairmont's house.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride in the morning?" she asked.

"No thanks. I enjoy the walk when it's still cool."

"Okay, but remember to call me if it ever rains."

Mrs. Bartlett's car was parked at the curb in front of her mother's house. I could hear her voice as soon as I entered the foyer.

"It's Tami," I called out.

"We're in the den," Mrs. Bartlett responded.

Mrs. Fairmont was in her favorite chair facing the television. Mrs. Bartlett was on a leather sofa to her right with a cup of coffee beside her. I sat in the remaining chair.

"How are you feeling?" I asked Mrs. Fairmont.

"Well enough to listen to Christine talk nonstop for an hour."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mrs. Bartlett replied. "You've held up your end of the conversation very well."

"Did you have a good day at work?" Mrs. Fairmont asked me.

"It was difficult," I replied.

"Mother tells me you're snooping around looking for information about the Lisa Prescott case."

"Yes ma'am." I couldn't blame Mrs. Fairmont for forgetting to keep our conversation secret.

"If you solve the mystery, it would be a great story to tell on one of those television shows where they go back in time and figure out what really happened. Only, I'd prefer not to have a TV crew filming inside Mother's house. With all the antiques and valuables around here, it makes no sense giving a thief an inventory of what he might find."

"I'll remember that when the producer calls."

"Ellen Prescott was one of Mother's dearest friends," Mrs. Bartlett continued. "Lisa was a bit of a brat. I know it sounds harsh to say, but it's true. I took care of her a few times when our parents went out for the evening. Lisa was sharp as a tack and had a mind of her own." She turned to Mrs. Fairmont. "Do you remember the time she unlocked the front door of their house and ran out to the sidewalk to hitchhike a ride to the ice-cream shop? I don't know where she got the idea that a young girl could ask a stranger for a ride. I ran out and grabbed her, of course. Later, when I heard that she didn't come home one afternoon, the first thought in my mind was about her running to the sidewalk and sticking out her thumb like a homeless person."

"How long before she vanished did that happen?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. It couldn't have been more than a year or so."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"There were all kinds of wild rumors."

"What kind of rumors?" I asked.

"Some I wouldn't want to repeat, but we almost had a race riot when some vigilantes marched into the black district and started searching houses."

"Why did they do that?"

"It was a sign of the times. Anytime a white girl disappeared, there were people who immediately blamed the black population. When the police didn't come up with a suspect, low-class troublemakers would take to the streets and try to find a scapegoat."

"The Ku Klux Klan?"

"No, they didn't try to cover their faces. The KKK wasn't around much when I was a child."

"Did they have a particular person in mind?"

Mrs. Bartlett rolled her eyes. "Don't expect me to remember details like that. It was a mob. My father locked the doors and turned out the lights when they came by our house. My bedroom was upstairs. I peeked outside and saw that some of the men were carrying guns. I'm surprised you didn't see an article about it in the newspaper. Do you remember that night, Mother?"

"Yes. It was scary."

"And there wasn't a particular black man who was a suspect?" I asked.

Mrs. Bartlett studied me for a moment. "Do you have a name? Mother and I have lived here all our lives. Between us, we've known a lot of people of every color under the sun."

"I can't say."

Attorney/client privilege?"

"I can't answer that either."

"Do you hear this, Mother?" Mrs. Bartlett said. "Tami has found out something about Lisa Prescott after all these years. Does the newspaper know you're conducting an investigation?"

"No!" I said. "And please don't mention this to anyone."

"I'm not subject to any rules of confidentiality." Mrs. Bartlett sniffed. "This is hot news for anyone who has been in Savannah for a long time."

I gave Mrs. Fairmont an imploring look.

"Don't give the girl a heart attack," Mrs. Fairmont said. "If you spread this around town, she could get in trouble."

"That's right," I added. "I could lose my job."

Mrs. Bartlett appeared skeptical. "Okay, but I have to mention it to Ken. I'm sure he remembers the Lisa Prescott mystery."

"Will you ask him not to say anything?" I asked.

"Of course. Don't panic. Anyway, hasn't the statute of limitations run out on that case?"

I didn't respond.

"Well?" she repeated.

I looked directly in her eyes. "There is no statute of limitations for murder."

MRS. BARTLETT DIDN'T STAY for supper. After she left, Mrs. Fairmont joined me in the kitchen while I warmed up leftovers from Gracie's Sunday dinner.

"Do you think Mrs. Bartlett will keep quiet about my interest in the Prescott case?" I asked as I stirred the black-eyed peas.

"I never could bridle Christine's tongue," the older woman said. "I'd be surprised if you have any success either."

After we ate, Mrs. Fairmont returned to the den to read magazines. She would read the same ones over and over. She'd tell about articles that piqued her interest, not realizing that she'd mentioned the same piece a few days before. After listening for the third time in a week to new ideas for Savannah-area flower gardens, I excused myself to call home. Mama answered the phone.

"It's me," I began.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

"How do you know something is wrong?" I asked.

"I'm your mother. I could tell what was the matter by the way you cried as a baby."

The thought of cuddling up in Mama's arms held a lot of appeal to me.

"Mostly work matters that I can't discuss. Is Daddy there?"

"No, he and Kyle are out again checking on some cows. I think Kyle is going to make enough money to get a new truck by the end of the summer."

"Maybe his cattle business will get big enough that he'll need a corporate attorney."

"I told Daddy about the young lawyer who wants to get to know you better."

"That's not an-"

Mama kept talking. "He agrees with me that you should keep your distance until we can meet him. However, we talked it over, and you can bring him home for the July Fourth holiday if he can give you a ride home."

The thought of a five-hour ride in the sidecar followed by the shock on my parents' faces when Zach parked the motorcycle beneath the poplar tree in our front yard made me smile. Of course, Zach owned a car, but in my mind he was inextricably linked to the motorcycle.

"That's sweet of you, Mama, but I'm not sure I want to invite him." I paused. "However, there is someone else, one of the summer clerks who's a Christian and very nice. He lives in Charleston, so I don't know what he's doing for the holiday, and I may have to stay here to prepare a court case. If I can get away, and Vince wants to drive me home for a visit, would that be okay?"