Travellin' Shoes Read online

  “I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat.” Harley stretched and rubbed his eyes.

  I didn’t say a word, just grabbed my coat and stood up.

  Harley and I had fallen into a routine. Most of the time we didn’t need to talk anymore. During times of stress we just put everything on autopilot and sat back and observed. This was one of those times.

  Without a word, Harley and I got into my car and I drove to Marty’s. Marty’s was a local diner that had been in St. Joe for well over fifty years. The food was good, not great. The diner was clean and fast. We could also sit quietly and talk undisturbed. It was never too crowded and stayed open twenty-four hours, which was great for cops. And it was close to the precinct, so there were always a ton of cops. If the number of police cars parked outside was any indication, it was one of the safest places in the city at any given point.

  It wasn’t until we had both eaten and sat drinking our coffee that we talked about the case.

  “Maybe she isn’t here.”

  I knew Harley was referring to Mrs. Hartford-Graham.

  “Do you have any other ideas?”

  “I’m just saying she could be anywhere in the entire world. And if she doesn’t want to be found, there’s no freakin’ way we’re going to find her.”

  “I know. But, do you have any other ideas? Because if you do, let’s hear them,” My tone wasn’t quite as harsh as the words imply.

  “Maybe we could set a trap for them.”

  “What kind of trap?”

  “I don’t know. If we knew what they were looking for, we could pretend we had it and then … never mind.”

  I knew Harley was as frustrated as I was, but there was something in what he said.

  “Maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong.” I wasn’t sure of where I was going with this, but his idea of setting a trap had given me an idea.

  “Okay. How should we be looking at it?” Harley asked.

  “Maybe we need to focus on the item they’re all looking for. If we find it, then we find the killer.”

  “Sounds good, except for one small problem. We have no idea what it is.”

  “Maybe we do know but just don’t know that we know.”

  Harley shrugged. “Same thing as not knowing.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s a puzzle. We just have to fit all the pieces together.”

  Harley and I talked through what we knew and what we thought we knew. We made some assumptions. Policemen don’t like assumptions. You know what they say about “assume.” In addition to making an ass out of you and me, to do so can also get your case thrown out of court. We had been conditioned to work with facts. Facts hold up in a court of law every time, but we didn’t have all the facts.

  We started with the assumption that Thomas Warrendale took something. Whatever it was, it was important enough to someone that they were willing to kill for it. We assumed he took it when he left Cleveland and came to St. Joe. We also assumed his wife, Bryce Chandler, and Mrs. Hartford-Graham all knew what it was and they all wanted it. If all these assumptions were true, Warrendale had hidden it and they hadn’t found it. If they had, they wouldn’t be in St. Joe. One fact was Thomas Warrendale stole money from the church and from Paris’ Salon and had set up offshore accounts. Why? Force of habit or was he planning to relocate again?

  When we finished talking, we weren’t a lot closer to a solution, but at least we had some additional leads to follow instead of hunting down an old woman. Harley was going to look into the money angle further. I decided to try and tackle Thomas Warrendale from a different angle—a spiritual one.

  It was Saturday night, and that meant choir practice at FBC. The Gospel Chorus rehearsed from six to seven, and the Senior Choir rehearsed from seven to eight. I wondered who’d take control of the choir now. I arrived at the church just as the Senior Choir was finishing and found Mrs. Miller-Jones had come out of retirement to help out in this time of need. Mrs. Miller-Jones was a legend at FBC. She had directed the FBC choirs for well over fifty years and had retired a year ago. The church had been looking for a replacement for three months when Thomas Warrendale landed at FBC.

  I knew Reverend Hamilton liked to listen to the choirs rehearse, and also knew I’d find him in his office in the lower level sitting at his desk. Seeing me, he smiled and waved me into his glass box. Unlike the warm, book-lined office of the rectory, this office was an addition meant to give the pastor a place to pray and meet with people without having to track back and forth to the rectory.

  “RJ, what a pleasant surprise. Come in and have a seat. You just missed an excellent concert.”

  I entered and sat in one of the modern chairs.

  “Sorry to bother you so late on a Saturday evening. I don’t want to disturb your preparation.”

  “I’ve already got my outline for tomorrow. I was just enjoying the beautiful singing. It really does my soul good to hear it. What can I do for you?”

  “I was just wondering what you can tell me about Thomas Warrendale. Knowing you as I do, I can’t believe you hired him as the minister of music without thoroughly checking his background.”

  Reverend Hamilton sat quietly for a few minutes. “As you know, the conversations between a man and his spiritual advisor are considered sacred. But, given that the man is dead, I believe a little latitude is in order.”

  “So, you knew who Warrendale was?”

  “I did.”

  I was astounded. Reverend Hamilton saw my reaction and immediately added, “But I didn’t know he’d done anything illegal. I knew his real name was Tyrone Warren and not Thomas Warrendale. I knew he came from Cleveland and he wanted to leave his old life. That’s not a crime.”

  “If he had done nothing wrong, why come here and hide?”

  “Many people run from their pasts. It doesn’t make them criminals. Thomas Warrendale and I talked. He’d been successful and gotten caught in the trappings of success. He said he wanted to start over. He said he’d found God.”

  Something in Reverend Hamilton’s words and tone alerted me that there was more here than he was letting on. “He said he found God,” I repeated, “but you didn’t believe him?”

  Reverend Hamilton paused and then shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at me, puzzled by the question, then shrugged.

  “No,” I said. “That’s not good enough. There must have been something that made you doubt his sincerity. What was it?”

  He looked down and I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. “I can’t put my finger on it. It was just a feeling. I didn’t have any proof he wasn’t telling the truth. I knew he was weak where women were concerned. But, none of the women he approached were married and they were all adults. I didn’t know he was married and had left his wife. I certainly wouldn’t have allowed him to hold a position of authority if I had.”

  “But what about the money? You knew something wasn’t right there. You’re the one who got me involved in the first place.”

  Reverend Hamilton looked me in the eye for several seconds. “I did not know. I had suspicions. I prayed and asked God for guidance and then Warrendale was murdered. I asked you to investigate, but I shouldn’t have put you in that position.” His eyes pleaded. “I went to the trustees. We’ve hired someone to look into it. If they confirm money is missing, then we’ll look into what steps to take next. I’d prefer to handle this within the family if we can. But if not, then we’ll do what needs to be done.” Reverend Hamilton sighed.

  “Did Warrendale tell you why he came? What happened? What led him to leave Cleveland?”

  “No. He didn’t. I hoped one day he might confide in me. Unfortunately, he never got the chance.” He looked at me, and I saw sadness in his eyes. Here was a shepherd who’d lost a sheep, and apparently the loss was weighing heavily on him. With a shake of his head, he got up and walked out. I used to think Reverend Hamilton had X-Ray vision and could see into souls. I guess he c
ould and he did. As I got into my car to leave, I found myself hoping he had looked into my soul.

  I decided to call it a day and headed to Mama B’s. If I was lucky, Paris would be home, although I doubted she would be home that quickly. One of the valuable pieces of information I learned during our talk this afternoon was that hairdressers often worked late to accommodate their clients who had full-time jobs and couldn’t get their hair or nails done until they got off work at five or six. With two salons, Paris typically didn’t get home before ten or eleven after she’d closed the shop and finished up all her paperwork. I wondered if she had time for something or someone more in her life.

  I pulled up to Mama B’s and saw her and Mrs. Green on the front porch watching the game across the alley and waving at cars that honked as they drove down the busy street in front of the rec center.

  When I went up the steps, Mrs. Green didn’t say a word. Instead, she got up, gave me a big hug, and kissed my cheek as she whispered in my ear, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  “Mrs. Green, I didn’t do much.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. You were there and I praise God you were there. I don’t know what ….” Mrs. Green had to choke back the tears, and I gave her a handkerchief and helped her back into her seat.

  “It’s okay. I truly didn’t do anything. Chris was merely picked up as a witness.”

  “You did more than you can ever know. I haven’t had one problem with that boy. He is a changed young man. He is respectful. He isn’t hanging out with those crazy fools all day and all night anymore. I have my boy back.” At this, Mrs. Green rocked as she cried.

  “He’s a good boy. He was just trying to fit in. I don’t think you’ll have any more problems with him.” I patted her back and tried to comfort her, but these were tears of joy.

  “I better not have another second of grief from that boy,” Mrs. Green sniffed. “I told him if he got in trouble again, I’d take my husband’s old gun and shoot him dead myself.”

  Mama B rocked and smiled as Mrs. Green unburdened her soul and thanked God, me, and Reverend Hamilton, not necessarily in that order.

  “Dorothea, I told you everything would be okay,” Mama B added.

  “Well, I pray for him every day and every night. God knows I would go through fire for that boy. I just wish I could knock some sense into him sometimes.”

  After a while, Mama B had Mrs. Green laughing rather than crying, so I figured it was safe to go inside. “What’s for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t feel like cooking today.”

  That stopped me in my tracks. “What’s wrong? Is your blood pressure up? Did you check your sugar? Are you feeling okay?”

  “Stop firing questions at me like I’m some kind of criminal.” Mama B tried to sound stern, but I saw a glint in her eye as she kept on rocking. “I’m fine. Sometimes you fuss like an old woman.” She and Mrs. Green both laughed at that.

  “Dorothea brought me some sweet peas and I’ll snap those and let them soak for tomorrow.”

  “Well, what about the chicken I saw in the fridge? Is any left?”

  “Well, yes, but not enough for everyone.”

  Mama B rocked for a while and smiled. “Maybe I have a date?” Mama B and Mrs. Green both laughed. Eventually Mama B said, “You got police driving by the house every few hours, and one of them is Eugene King, Marla’s boy. You remember him?”

  I shook my head. Mama B was always trying to jog my memory about people I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years.

  “Well, Marla used to be on the Missions Board with me. Her boy Eugene is a policeman now. He stopped by earlier and we talked for a minute. He said he would come back when he got off work, so he could tell me how Marla’s doing. You know she moved down to Memphis to stay with her sister after she had that stroke a few years ago.”

  “Mama B, you do not have to feed the entire city.” I tried to sound stern but she wasn’t paying any attention to me.

  “He didn’t have time to eat earlier. I just gave him a plate to take back.”

  Mama B laughed as I leaned against the rail on the front porch, trying to figure out what she had up her sleeve.

  “So that chicken in the fridge is spoken for. I guess you and Paris will just have to go out someplace tonight and get something.”

  So that was it. Mama B was plotting.

  “I don’t think she’ll be back until late. She’ll probably grab something fast on her way home.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s what she said when I talked to her earlier. But I wasn’t sure what I felt like eating then. So, I told her to check with me first. I told her I might want her to bring me something too. So she said she’d wait.” Mama B grinned and rocked.

  Mrs. Green laughed and then started to sing, pretending, not very convincingly, she had no idea what was going on:

  Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come

  Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home?

  “Mama B, I don’t need a matchmaker.”

  Mama B just rocked and smiled while Mrs. Green kept on singing.

  I gave up and went into the house. As the door closed, Mama B yelled after me, “I bought you a new shirt. It’s hanging up on the door in your room. I think it will look really nice on you.”

  I ignored the laugher I heard from the front porch and went upstairs to my room. I refused to give her the satisfaction of asking how she got to the store or why she bought me a new shirt. That’s what she wanted me to do, but I wouldn’t fall for it. I can’t remember a time in all my years of knowing her when Mama B didn’t have a full-course dinner in the fridge or freezer. She came from that old school where women actually baked and made sure there was a cake or a pie in the pie shelf in the event of company.

  It was a very nice shirt. Mama B knew my style. I tried it on, and she was right: it did look good on me. I decided to take a shower. Since we were being sent out on a date, I might as well make the best of it.

  I took my time with my shower. The poor water pressure was always an issue when you had to compete with others in the house. In the evening, there would be no other people to compete with, so I was free to shower as long as I wanted.

  By the time I was dressed, I heard voices downstairs, which indicated Paris was home. I wondered if Mama B had purchased clothes for her also. I went down to join the crowd.

  Paris noticed my new attire and lifted an eyebrow. “You look nice. What’s the special occasion?”

  “Apparently, I have a dinner date.”

  Paris looked puzzled and then embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize ….”

  I could see she was confused. “With you.”

  “Me?” I saw the relief on her face, and I felt a moment of pride.

  “Didn’t Mama B tell you? She plans to feed our dinner to the patrolman assigned to drive by the house.”

  “You’re serious?” Paris asked.

  “Oh yeah, she’s serious. So you better go get changed so we can get out of here.”

  Paris went upstairs to get dressed and I sat on the front porch and watched the basketball game and listened to Mama B and Mrs. Green gossip. If I were lucky, I’d pick up something that would help with my investigation. Sitting there brought back memories from my childhood. I’d spent many a lazy evening and summer afternoon on that front porch.

  It didn’t take Paris long, and she came downstairs wearing a skirt and blouse. It wasn’t a fancy outfit, but it seemed bright and fresh and appropriate.

  We said our goodbyes and then got into my car.

  “Do you have a taste for anything special?” I asked.

  “You pick. I chose Cesselly’s.”

  “What about Roma’s?”

  “Sweet potato fries and ice cream sounds fantastic. Good choice.”

  Roma’s was a small Italian restaurant on the south side of town. It had great food, and every day there was a new featured ice cream. They were well known for the sweet potato
fries, which weren’t greasy, and had an incredible dip that I hadn’t yet figured out.

  We spent the evening talking and getting better acquainted. Paris was one of four children. Her mother had always wanted to travel but never got the opportunity, so she named her children after all the places she longed to see. London, Paris, and Savanna were the girls, and Rome was the youngest and the only boy.

  “It could have been worse,” Paris said. “She could have wanted to travel to Guam or Belgium.” She had a great laugh.

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “She passed away about a year ago.”

  “Did she ever get to see any of those places?”

  “When we found out she was dying, we wanted to take her traveling. We pooled our money and planned to take her around the world. But when it got time to go, she didn’t want to. She was afraid reality wouldn’t live up to her imagination and didn’t want to die disillusioned. So, my sister and I went together.”

  Paris paused and stared into the distance before shaking off the momentary melancholy. “What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  I told her about my sister, Caroline. My mother was a big John F. Kennedy fan, and my sister was named after Caroline Kennedy.

  “Does she live here in St. Joe?”

  “They live in Houston. She’s married with two kids, Morgan aged ten and Madison aged seven going on forty.”

  “How cute. Do you have pictures?”

  “Of course. I’d be a horrible uncle without pictures.” I pulled out my phone and showed off pictures of my niece and nephew, which she oohed and aahed over. Then she pulled out pictures of her family, including all eight nieces and nephews.

  Before we knew it, we were the last ones in the restaurant. I paid the check, and we left.

  It was a pleasant evening, and I enjoyed the drive back to Mama B’s. The house was dark; Mama B had to already be in bed. I unlocked the door, and we went inside, careful not to make too much noise since Mama B’s bedroom was just off the living room. Her door was closed, but she had left a lamp on to help us see our way in the darkness. Inside, Paris turned to go upstairs, and I grabbed her and kissed her. It was intense and passionate, and her response matched my own. It seemed only a second before my cellphone rang.