Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [14]
Brixton’s first reaction was to question why he and Flo were on the invitation list. St. Pierre was known to throw parties at the mansion his parents had left him, and Brixton had been to a few when he was still a cop. But he hadn’t been invited to one since his retirement.
“Not sure about Flo,” Brixton said, “but I’ll be there.”
“Splendid. There’ll be a gracious plenty of top-shelf whiskey, and I’m bringing in a chef for the occasion who’ll take you back to that Savannah we knew before all you interlopers from the north invaded.”
“I’ll let you know about Flo,” Brixton said.
“You’re a fine gentleman, Robert Brixton. I think you’ll enjoy the other guests I’ve rounded up. See you then.”
“Wait, Wayne, I need a plate run.” He read it off the paper in his shirt pocket.
“First thing tomorrow,” St. Pierre said. “Got to run. Bye.”
CHAPTER 6
Brixton stayed in his office until nine, closing time for Flo’s shop. They went to dinner at Vic’s on the River, one of his favorite Savannah restaurants, and lingered over after-dinner drinks in the bar. He’d told her little about the Watkins case the preceding night. Now, with shimmering snifters of brandy in their hands, he filled her in.
“And you believe the mother’s story?” Flo said.
“Yeah, I do.”
The skeptical expression on her face said volumes.
“You don’t buy it,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose, a sure sign that it hadn’t passed her smell test.
“I know it goes back a long way,” he said, “which makes it tough to nail down. But yeah, I do believe the mother. Where the hell would the girl get ten thousand to give her? Joe Cleland—a detective I used to work with—he took the daughter’s confession and told me he didn’t believe her.”
“But they convicted her anyway?”
“Sure. Case solved. Solving cases always looks good when budget time rolls around.”
“Didn’t she have an attorney?”
“Court-appointed. George English, an old-timer, retired.”
“And you’re convinced that her killing is linked to her having taken the rap for someone else.”
“For the ten grand. She gave it to her mother.”
Another nose wrinkle.
“I don’t know, Bob,” she said. After a long pause and a slow, deliberate taste of her brandy, she said, “Have you ever thought of getting out of the business you’re in?”
His laugh wasn’t completely sincere. “I seem to remember you asking me that before.”
She placed a nicely manicured set of long fingers on his bare wrist. “I worry,” she said, “that’s all. If this Louise Watkins was killed to keep her from pointing out the real killer, whoever did it won’t be thrilled that her mother wants to reopen the case.”
Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. But he hadn’t dwelled on it. Louise Watkins’s travails went back twenty years. Whoever might have been involved was undoubtedly long gone and disinterested, maybe dead. The possibility that anyone would be keeping tabs on the mother for all these years was remote at best.
“Actually, it’s her son, Lucas, who wants to reopen the case. He’s a minister.”
“Whoever.”
He hadn’t told her about the red pickup yet. Her comment about being worried convinced him that it was better left unsaid.
“Staying with me tonight?” she asked after Brixton had paid the bill.
“Can’t. I’m going to Atlanta in the morning and need an early start.”
“What’s in Atlanta?”
“It’s who’s in Atlanta,” he said. He told her about Wanda Johnson, aka Puddin’ Johnson, and why he wanted to see her.
“Think she’ll remember this Watkins girl after so many years? How many hookers has she dealt with?”
“She says she does remember her. It may not amount to much but I think it’s worth the trip.”
They drove to where she’d parked her car next to the shop. They embraced and he considered changing his plans for the night. But he girded against the urge, saw her safely into her car, and watched her drive away.
It was raining hard the