The Deep Abiding Page 5

  She decided to keep that part of the story to herself.

  “No, nothing happened. He was just kind of creepy, that’s all.”

  Ty put a hand to her elbow. “You need to tell me if something happened, okay? It’s the only way this will work.”

  “Nothing happened,” she said, sounding shrill, even to her own ears. “He asked for the librarian. Then he asked if I was a reporter. Then he took off.”

  Ty didn’t look like he believed her. “Okay.”

  They stepped back inside the library. Ty looked up at the beautiful mezzanine gallery. “Pretty nice.”

  “Here,” she said, wanting to find a way to move the conversation on before he started asking her more questions about the redneck. “Come and look at this. I want a second opinion on whether this is weird or not.”

  Ty followed her through the shelves to the end of the fiction section where she had found the newly installed African-American section. She ran her finger along the spines. “They’re all brand new.”

  Ty met her discovery with a shrug. “So?”

  “Well, I bet you any money this section wasn’t here until very recently. All these books were probably ordered and put out when they knew I was coming.” She plucked a copy of The Color Purple from the shelf and opened it. “See? No stamps. Never been checked out or read.”

  “I don’t get why you think this matters. You ever been at a military base when the brass are visiting or, worse, the President? The place is unrecognizable. Everything they want the VIP to see is out front and center, and everything they don’t want them to see gets squirreled away until they’ve gone. It’s just human nature.”

  The talk of squirreling away reminded Cressida of the basement and the boxes of books propped up against the door. “Okay, I accept that. Now, why don’t we put all that brute strength of yours to some good use? I need some boxes moved.”

  She walked back behind the desk, Ty in tow, and towards the steps that led down into the basement. “Watch, they’re pretty steep.”

  She started down, Ty following.

  “This place was a sundown town,” said Cressida, walking over to the pile of book storage boxes stacked against the far wall.

  “That’s not exactly a surprise,” said Ty.

  In sundown towns, which were usually in the American Midwest and South, it was made clear that African Americans weren’t welcome after the sun went down. They were so widespread at one point that a guide was produced for African Americans, The Green Book, which explained where it was not safe to spend the night while traveling across the country.

  Often this unofficial form of racial segregation was aided and abetted by local law enforcement, who would find ways of dissuading black folks from sticking around in their area. More often places just got a reputation as best avoided because they were so unwelcoming. At the extreme were cases where African Americans, particularly men, were the subject of false arrest and violent assault, up to and including murder.

  Over the years, the memory of sundown towns had slowly evaporated. But it was still the sad reality that there were parts of the country in which being the wrong color meant you were met with hostility and either the threat or reality of violence. Cressida had grasped long ago that the world still had a long way to go to realize the dream of everyone being judged on who they were and how they behaved rather than on how they were perceived.

  “The theory at the time was that Carole Chabon had stayed too long here,” said Cressida, leafing through a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird she had plucked from one of the book boxes.

  “You think that’s what happened?” Ty asked, as she peered a little more closely at the book’s open pages, studying something inside the front cover that Ty couldn’t see.

  “I think it might have been part of it.”

  “But not the whole story.”

  She looked up at him. “Correct. I mean, I’m not saying the motive wasn’t her race. The ligature marks they found around her neck, or what was left of it, proved she’d been hanged.”

  She held open the book to Ty. “I can see why they pulled this one from the shelf out there before I got here.”

  On the cover page someone had drawn a crude scaffold and rope, like a kid would to play a game of Hangman. Beneath it they’d scrawled “Niggers must die.”

  It took a lot more than some graffiti in a book to shock Ty. “Kids,” he said, putting it back in the box.

  “Yes, but where do they get it from?” Cressida asked.

  They both knew the answer to that one.

  “So what do you think’s behind that door?”

  “Only one way to find out,” she said, straining to lift the box. He brushed past her, and picked up the box as if it was full of feathers and put it down to one side.

  “So, you found anything interesting so far?” he said, moving to take the next box and nodding at the little desk laid out with papers.

  “Not in any of that stuff, but yes.”

  He moved the second box, revealing a little more of the door. He put it down on top of the first, making a mental note that they would have to keep the same order when he put them back so that no one noticed they’d been moved.

  “The librarian here told me she was at college when Carole Chabon was killed, but I emailed the University of Florida earlier to check her dates of attendance.”

  “And?”

  “She may not have been here, but she wasn’t a student there, not until the following year, 1975.”

  Ty seemed to chew it over. “Why make a point of lying about it?”

  “I don’t know. Distance herself from the whole thing, maybe.”

  “Or she knows a lot more than she’s ever admitted,” said Ty.

  “Hello? Miss King, are you down there? Are you okay?”

  The librarian’s voice trickled down the steps. Her head appeared. “I thought I heard a man’s voice.”

  Ty stepped in front of the boxes he’d been moving. He was hoping that the woman wouldn’t spot they were trying to get to the door.

  “Oh, this is Mr. Johnson. Tyrone. He’s helping me out while I’m here.”

  “Helping?” said the librarian, cocking her head to one side. “Are you a reporter as well, Mr. Johnson?”

  “More of an investigator,” said Ty, unsure how the whole bodyguard thing would go down.

  “That sounds quite official. Guess I’d better watch what I say, then.” She gave a little laugh that almost came off as sincere.

  “Tyrone, I should be finished here for the day in about an hour. Would you mind coming back then?”

  “Okay,” said Ty, heading towards the stairs, his hulking frame blocking the librarian’s view of the boxes. “See you in an hour.”

  The librarian stepped back as he cleared the hatch. She shot him the overly polite smile that hinted at more than a little discomfort at his presence.

  “It’s a beautiful library,” he said, by way of conversation. “A real credit to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I like to think so. We might not have everything that the folks in the big cities have, but what we have we like to preserve.”

  I bet you do, Ty thought. Like keeping the place free of black folks, or anyone else with a little extra pigment.

  The library door pushed open. The cook from the diner poked his head around the side. He looked a little crestfallen as he made eye contact with Ty, who squared his shoulders, ready for another confrontation. Regardless of Cressida King’s need to get on with the locals, any more mention of the word “boy” and things would get real ugly, real fast.

  “I thought I saw you coming in here,” said the cook. “Miss Parsons,” he added, with a deferential nod. “May I speak with you?” he said to Ty.

  “Sure.”

  Ty followed him outside. He could feel the librarian’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

  11

  The two men stood on the steps of the library. Ty had about six inches and maybe sixty pounds on the
cook. If there was going to be a fight, he didn’t think it would last long. Although the man’s demeanor suggested a fight wasn’t what he was looking for. The shiner on his eye told Ty that he might have had one before he’d headed over here.

  “Mr. Johnson, I just wanted to apologize for this morning. About what I said.”

  Ty stood tall. He wasn’t about to make this easy for the man. Laugh it off and slap him on the back. Truth be told, he’d been called worse, much worse. And he’d dealt with a whole lot more than words. But the kind of behavior the cook had exhibited had no place. Not here, not anywhere, and the man needed to realize that.

  “For calling me ‘boy’. A grown man who’s served his country in the Marine Corps.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I used that word.”

  At least, thought Ty, he hadn’t gone the ‘I’m sorry if you were offended’ non-apology route. That counted for something.

  “It was wrong of me,” the cook continued. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d accept my apology.”

  Ty didn’t say anything, not yet anyway. He wanted to see what else this man might offer up. Not by way of a further apology, or groveling, but in terms of information. Someone who called another man “boy” and knew it was wrong wouldn’t wait an hour to realize their error. Not to Ty’s way of thinking. No. Something else had prompted this. Ty was sure of it.

  “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about . . .” the man shrugged his shoulders “. . . y’know, this place. We’re good people. It’s just that. . .”

  Another pregnant pause.

  “It’s just that what?” said Ty.

  “We’re not exactly used to folks who aren’t like us around here. It’s the way it’s always been, I guess, and I’d like it to stay that way.”

  Despite himself, Ty smiled. He admired the man’s candor. It was better than some mealy-mouthed explanation that danced around the elephant in the room. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on moving in,” he said. “But I do expect a little respect while I’m here.”

  The cook’s jaw bobbed up and down on his chest as he nodded in agreement. “Absolutely.”

  Ty figured there might even be what was sometimes called “a teachable moment” in here somewhere. He reached out his massive shovel of a right hand. “How about we start over?” Ty said. “Tyrone Johnson. Most people just call me Ty, but you can call me Mr. Johnson,” he added, struggling to keep a straight face. He doubted the man had ever shaken a black man’s hand before, or if he had, it was at some event where he’d had no alternative, like a graduation ceremony.

  The man’s hesitation confirmed Ty’s suspicion. Finally he shook Ty’s hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Johnson. Lyle Ray.”

  Ty went easy on the grip, gave it enough time to be meaningful, then let go.

  Lyle’s hand fell to his side. Ty reached down and grasped the man’s wrist. He pulled his hand towards him, and held it so that the open palm was facing the sun. “See?” he said. “None of my blackness rubbed off. I don’t think you caught any cooties either.”

  The Marine Corps had been the first time that Ty had realized that, as an adult, there were plenty of people out there who had never mixed much socially, if at all, with those of another race. While he was growing up in Long Beach, his friends had been African American. His high school was broadly the same, and the church his momma had dragged him along to had consisted of an all-black congregation. It meant that he had grown up with his own set of prejudices about the white and brown brothers with whom he had forged deep bonds in the Corps. The only dumb thing was to pretend like none of this existed and that the country was some kind of join-hands-and-sing-together melting pot.

  “You should wash your hands anyway, if you’re preparing food,” Ty added.

  Lyle shot him a relieved smile. Ty could see that it had taken a fair amount of pride-swallowing to do what he had. It was worthy of respect, but it also made Ty more than a little curious as to what, or rather who, had prompted it.

  Some kind of public-relations exercise was going on in Darling. This apology and the book display Cressida had shown him proved that beyond any reasonable doubt. But the question remained. Was it a genuine effort to show that the place had moved on from its past, or was it a smokescreen?

  Ty hoped it was the former, but had a nagging feeling it wasn’t. You didn’t go to all this effort if you had nothing to hide. The question was what was it? And why was it so important to people here that it stayed hidden?

  12

  Curious George was sunning himself in the main pen as RJ pulled up in his truck. He’d set up the alligator ranch with money he’d inherited from an aunt in Tallahassee, but it had never taken off. He had burned through most of the cash setting the place up, and hadn’t reckoned with the cost of the public liability insurance, and all the permits he’d need.

  He’d hoped to create a visitor attraction where people could get to see ’gators up close and personal. What he’d ended up with was a three-bedroom ranch house on ten acres with a couple of ponds, three separate enclosures, and around forty or so alligators.

  He’d had Curious George since he was a hatchling. He’d grown into a super-sized male, even by local standards. He’d given him the name because when he was young he had his nose in everything. If RJ had known the size he was going to grow to, he would have called him Big George, but Curious George still kind of fit.

  Like any male adult ’gator, George was territorial, so RJ kept him in his own pen, apart from when he was called on to mate, which was quite a lot. Once George had begun to sow his wild oats with the female ’gators it had unsettled him. He couldn’t go too long without love or he’d get even more ornery than he usually was.

  With the idea of a tourist attraction shelved, RJ had begun breeding the ’gators to sell on, mostly for meat, and some for their skin, which rich ladies liked to use for handbags, and cowboys for boots. RJ killed them in a shed at the back of one of the ponds, then a guy came down from Gainesville to collect the carcasses and paid in cash. He had to use bait to get them into the shed. He’d make sure he didn’t feed them for a few days before.

  Hungry ’gators were dangerous so he’d let them eat whatever he’d used as a lure. Once they were fed he’d use a bolt gun to kill them. From time to time a slaughter would go wrong and he’d have to shoot them again. That was rare, though. He was pretty careful when he lined up the shot. The more holes the ’gator had in it, the less it was worth, not that the head was much use to anyone. Though he guessed that the teeth were used for necklaces and the like.

  He watched old George lying at the edge of his pond. Only his eyes and the top of his head were visible. George would die of old age. RJ would see to that. He guessed he’d grown sentimental about the old guy.

  Sue Ann’s car was coming down the track. RJ started back to his truck, making a show of looking busy. What was it about women, and men not being busy? He glanced back toward Curious George. The ’gator had life figured out.

  RJ grabbed some timber from the back of the truck and started moving it to the pile next to the house as Sue Ann pulled up and got out of her car. She looked tired. Waitressing, being on your feet all day, was a young woman’s game, but they needed the money. Jobs were hard to come by around here, so people rarely gave them up.

  Sue Ann walked over to him. He slipped his arm around her waist and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She made a show of pushing him away, smiling while she did it. “Get off me. You smell of ’gator.”

  “You like it.” He grinned.

  She put her hands on her hips. “What a day.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Mimsy tore a strip off Lyle.”

  “What for?”

  “That reporter’s in town. You know, about the thing.”

  RJ nodded. The thing. No one ever called it what it was—the murder or the lynching. No one ever mentioned the victim’s name. In town it was always “the thing” or “the incident”. RJ could barely remember Carole Cha
bon’s name passing the lips of anyone he knew since it had happened. It was like a superstition or something. As if saying her name would raise her spirit from the swamp and it would come looking for revenge.

  “Anyway, she has this guy with her. Big. Looks like a cop or something. Guess he’s here after what happened to y’know.”

  “Y’know” was shorthand for Timothy French, the second Darling mystery.

  RJ knew who she was talking about. The big guy he’d watched that morning from his truck. The black man with a chest big enough to block the sun and hands like shovels. He’d seen the reporter in the library and spoken to her before he’d lost his nerve, or had second thoughts, and bolted. He could only hope that Sue Ann hadn’t seen him, but from the way she was talking she hadn’t.

  “So, Lyle got into it with him after he started asking me questions about that whole deal.”

  Oh, yeah, that was another phrase that got used. “The deal”. “That crazy deal”. RJ wondered if an entire town had pleaded temporary insanity as a defense.

  “Mimsy must have got wind of it. Anyway, she comes tearing through the diner like a hurricane, takes him out the back, and he comes back in like a scolded puppy. With a black eye.”

  “She hit him?” he asked.

  “Guess she must have.”

  She must really be riled up, he thought. Anxious. It had been a long time since they’d had someone poking around in town. He wondered if maybe this reporter knew something that had Mimsy worried.

  “Mimsy doesn’t want anyone upsetting this visitor. Guess she wants to play it like there’s nothing to—” Sue Ann stopped herself.

  “Nothing to hide?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, she’s having a dinner for them. Can you believe that?”

  RJ could. It was Mimsy all over. What was that phrase? The iron fist and the velvet glove. That was Mimsy. Pour on the Southern charm, and if that didn’t work then, well, watch out.

  “She wants me to do the serving,” Sue Ann continued.