put my cigarette in the cuspidor. I opened the screen door quietly and went to the kitchen table. If Maebelle knew my intent I would never hear the end of it. I took one of the biscuits from the basket. I closed the screen door carefully and walked down the iron steps as quietly as I could. I set the biscuit on the far curb, just at the edge of the light from the street lamp. I came back up the steps and sat down on the stool.
The sound of the frogs grew louder. I thought I heard the chain. I focused on the biscuit. In the dim light my eyes were playing tricks. The biscuit vanished, reappeared. I thought of wiping the lenses of my glasses, but I might miss something. My eyes were getting heavy. I took a Lucky from the pack and struck a match. A snout as broad as a gator’s snapped up the biscuit from the curb. A shadow merged into the darkness. I listened to the sound of a chain jangling in the distance until the match burned my fingers.
6.
Only Brother
That morning I saw Pace’s story in the Daily Press before I saw my own. Mr. Hobgood was reading a copy at the office. He tapped the front page with a finger.
“That Pace has a nose for the news,” he said. “And he makes fantasy sound more credible than fact. That’s why people read gossip, Mears. They want something better than the truth. Now don’t forget to follow up with the victim’s brother, this Hobbs fellow, all right?” He folded the paper and threw it in the trash can on the way to his office.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I retrieved the paper. Pace had had the same hunch as mine about Cahill. Whatever conversation they’d had convinced him to go with a story. “SUSPICIONS ABOUT BOARDER’S ROLE IN MRS. BELOTE’S MURDER” was the front-page headline, over a second line reading, “White Man Questioned In Case.” The article cited Cahill’s navy scarf being found at the neck of Mrs. Belote’s body at the murder scene, and that he had been questioned both by Deputy Chas Curtis and Dr. Vanderslice. The article quoted Cahill’s testimony that he recognized Mrs. Belote’s purse when it was shown to him at the inquest, and that he would have knowledge of its contents as well as other valuables that might be in the household.
“Authorities suspect the boarder Cahill may have encouraged or colluded with the Negress to perpetrate the crime,” the article stated, “robbery being the motive. There is also speculation that Cahill may have acted alone in the commission of the murder, given the violent disarray at the crime scene, and the brutality of the wounds inflicted on the helpless widow. Possibly the colored washwoman appeared on the scene only in order to spirit away the stolen articles later discovered on her person when she was searched by Sheriff Curtis’ officers at the Hampton jail.”
Pure fancy. Pace was a dogged reporter. He could have confirmed Cahill’s whereabouts the day of the murder as easily as I did. I tossed the copy of the Press back into the trash.
My two stories made the front page of the Times-Herald. Mr. Hobgood had agreed with my headline for the Cahill story. He headlined the John Wesley piece, “NEGRO HELD FOR ASSAULT ON GIRL.”
Straightforward; but he edited the lead, making it biased and wordy. “This entire section is highly wrought up and indignant on account of an attempted assault by J. Wesley, a Negro man, upon fifteen-year-old Hattie Power, daughter of W. H. Power, a prominent citizen and Town Attorney of Phoebus, in her home at Buckroe Beach last night.”
Sheriff Curtis would be upset when he saw the Wesley article. I’d have to explain to him again that I could not control Mr. Hobgood’s edits. And I’d have to remind Mr. Hobgood how helpful the sheriff had always been to me. I knew Mr. Hobgood would respond the way he always did.
“My job is to sell newspapers, Mears. I can’t help it if the old rooster gets his feathers ruffled once in a while.”
I decided to put off stopping by the sheriff’s office until later in the day.
The offices of the Hobbs-Newby Equipment Co., Inc., were in the Seaboard Bank Building in Norfolk. I smoked a cigarette in the lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor. When I opened the door into the Hobbs-Newby offices, I was surprised to see the Commonwealth’s attorney, Edgar Montague, talking to a short, balding man. They were sitting in leather chairs beside a small lamp table across from a secretary’s desk. The secretary had her hair arranged in combs atop her head. She sat erect as she typed, her back and wrists gracefully arched.
“Well, Mears,” Montague said. He was a heavyset man rumored to be in poor health. He had a bright, florid complexion and thick, sandy hair. He wheezed when he spoke. “I see you’re hard at work. On the Christian matter?”
“Yes, sir. Any news about the trial?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Pace when he came by the office. The grand jury convenes Monday morning. Evidence from the coroner’s inquest suggests a heinous crime has been committed. While it is up to the grand jury to make the determination to move forward, I will tell you—and you may put this in your story, Mears—that the office of the Commonwealth’s attorney is aware of the consternation aroused in the community by this brutal act and is absolutely certain of its ability to prosecute the case successfully and see justice done if and when a trial is set.”
Montague leaned forward in the chair. He was wearing a brown tweed suit and vest that bulged with his paunch. A brown fedora sat on the table by his chair. From a vest pocket hung a gold watch fob. Montague touched the chain for a moment when he finished speaking. Then he pulled out the watch and checked the time. His hand trembled slightly. The secretary stopped typing and scrolled out her sheet from the platen.
“I’d better get back to the office,” Montague said. There were tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip and his face looked clammy.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Montague,” the small man said. “I know Lewter was expecting you. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”
Montague stood and the small man rose, too. Montague picked up the hat and smoothed the brim.
“It’s quite all right, Howard. No doubt I’ll see him this afternoon at the club. I’ll see you at the courthouse Monday, Mears.”
“Thank you, Mr. Montague. Any other comments?”
“Each individual must understand his place under the law, colored and white alike,” Montague said. “That understanding represents the pediment and harmony and endurance of our culture. We have endured assaults on that understanding, Mears, especially of late, but the rule of law has always prevailed. As it will in this case.”
The secretary sat at her typewriter, rapt. The small man cleared his throat and adjusted one of the garters on his sleeves. Montague placed the fedora carefully on his head and tipped the brim. He strode from the office.
“Who are you again, son?” the small man asked.
“Charlie Mears,” I said. “I work for the Times-Herald. I wanted to see Mr. Hobbs.”
“Well, sit here. Perhaps he’ll see you when he comes in. I don’t know how any of us can get any business done with all this commotion. We have to make a living, after all. Rose, will you take care of Mr. Mears?”
“Of course, Mr. Newby.” The secretary scrolled another sheet of letterhead into the typewriter.
Newby walked quickly back to an office with a window overlooking the room where I sat with the secretary and closed the door.
“Would you like to look at some catalogs?” the secretary asked. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
For the next hour I looked through pages of rebuilt locomotive steam boilers and train cars mounted with cranes, massive steam shovels on caterpillar tracks, concrete mixers powered by Lambert engines with dual flywheels so big they looked like side-paddle Mississippi steamboats, and enormous steam hoists powered by coal-fired boilers the size of a house. I added another catalog to the stack on the table.
“I’ll