Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [67]
He found a coffee shop near the TV studio and wiled away the time sipping an iced coffee and nibbling on a piece of lemon pound cake to take the edge off his appetite. But nothing could take the edge off his thoughts about having gone to Michael’s apartment.
Cognitively, he was happy that his brother was no longer confined to the Illinois hospital where he’d been a patient for so many years. That Michael had come out of that experience looking as good as he did and with a relatively positive view of his future, was admirable. His desire to reintegrate with Joe and his family wasn’t unreasonable. As he’d said, his doctors urged him to reestablish contact with his family as part of his post-hospital recovery.
But as those good thoughts came to him, they were accompanied by a visceral dread. The way Michael had begun the process of reintroducing himself to Joe and the family was upsetting at best. To think that he, Georgia, and Roberta had been spied upon, followed, their movements deliberately observed by someone with an agenda, sent a shiver up Joe’s spine. And there was Michael’s threatening tone during his phone calls, and at the apartment. When Joe had demonstrated initial shock and reservation at hearing from a brother he hadn’t seen in four decades, Michael had hinted he would go through Georgia: “You know how women are, more social than men.”
As he sat in the coffee shop, these thoughts caused new anger to bubble up and to sour the taste of cake in his mouth. The truth was—and he had to admit it to himself—he did not want Michael Wilcox, or LaRue if he preferred—back in his life.
• • •
He’d been twelve years old when the murder had taken place. Michael, his taller, handsome, all-knowing big brother, was sixteen at the time. The victim had been a neighbor, Marjorie Jones; blond, flirtatious, and physically developed beyond her fourteen years. She had a habit of not always drawing the shade when undressing in her small second-floor bedroom, which Michael had discovered one evening. After keeping his find to himself for a week, he eventually shared it with his younger brother.
One night after dinner, when it had become dark, Michael allowed Joe to huddle with him behind an elm in the side yard and wait for Marjorie to put on her show.
“She wants us to see her naked,” Michael said in his worldly wisdom. Joe didn’t understand why any girl would want boys to see her without clothes, but he never challenged Michael’s analysis of what became an almost nightly event.
“Look, look,” Michael said when the light came on and Marjorie appeared. Joe giggled. “Shut up!” Michael said.
If she wanted them to see her, Joe reasoned, why would it matter if she knew they were there? But he didn’t say that to Michael. He kept silent as Marjorie began to take off her clothes, slowly, looking as though she might be posing, disappearing from view, then coming back into the frame created by the window.
“Look,” Michael said, “she’s gonna take off her bra. Oh, man!”
“Did you ever see hair?” Joe asked.
“Shut up. Yeah, of course I did. Look.”
Marjorie faced the window as she unhooked her brassiere and allowed it to drop to her feet.
Joe squealed.
Marjorie came to the window, leaned over to look outside, straightened and pulled down the shade.
“You little jerk,” Michael said, slapping Joe across the face. “See what you did?”
Joe whimpered and walked away, his hand to his stinging cheek. It was the last time Joe would see Marjorie Jones alive. She was discovered the next morning choked to death in a thick clump of wild raspberry bushes at the far reaches of the Jones property. Thorns from the bushes had torn into the flesh of her partially nude body. Her skirt had been lifted, and her sweater and bra were up around her neck. Her panties had been torn, exposing