Chapter Five
It was nearing seven when I drove toward downtown Ransom, and the streets were almost empty. I stopped at the 7-11 store for a Coke and then continued on into town, angling the Chevy into one of the row of diagonal, empty parking spaces in front of J.B. Wyatt’s Clothing Store on North Beaton Street.
I got out of the car, drink in hand, not quite sure of why I was there. The evening was coming on, and in the shade of the buildings around me there was a hint of coolness in the air. It was June 20th, the day after the shooting, and there appeared to be no evidence of a parade or a crime or much of anything.
I walked along the sidewalk, trying to guess where the crime might have occurred. I was going to need more information. I looked in the windows of each closed store. I studied the mannequins in Wyatt’s windows. I looked inside Benson’s Cafeteria, at the counter and stools and tables. I glanced at the boots and clothes in Bill’s Western Gear. My foot crunched something as I stepped near a parking meter at the curb, and I remembered another summer, years before, when the cicadas had hatched and covered the streets. I recalled how the store owners used big push brooms to sweep the dead insects off the sidewalks and down the steps leading to the street.
I looked down and saw that I had stepped on peanut shells. A ragged trail of shells led down the sidewalk and around the corner; there wasn’t any other trash to be seen, so these stood out. The trail stopped suddenly at a place where a pile of shells lay, and I knew this was evidence of the parade--a peanut vendor must have stood here selling his wares, and parade goers ate as they walked around the corner to watch the parade. Did Lulabelle follow this path? I walked back to Wyatt’s and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, looking out on the street.
How was she shot? It was unlikely that it was from a building, since none was very high and escape would be very difficult in such a small and open area.
Was Lulabelle the intended victim, or was she an unfortunate result of a random shot? I didn’t know. But it seemed most likely that the shot came either from a pedestrian or a passing car. A car shooting would suggest a random bullet, while a person on foot would have a better idea of his target. A pedestrian would be obvious, though, and would also have a hard time escaping. I had to know more about what happened, so I got back in the Chevy and headed back to the 7-11, where I bought every newspaper that might possibly report on the crime.
The girl at the counter was about nineteen years old, with smooth red hair hanging past her shoulders in a pony tail. She had freckles on the bridge of her nose and green eyes. She smiled at me and asked me if I needed anything else. Her voice was soft and musical, lingering on each word in that beautiful southern accent that I loved.
“No, thanks,” I said, looking at her eyes.
“Why so many papers?” she questioned. “Don’t they all say the same thing?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m looking for something in particular.”
“Can I ask you what that is?” Her eyes twinkled and she smiled again. There was no one else in the store, I was in no hurry to leave, and she wanted to talk.
“Did you hear about that girl who was shot downtown yesterday?” I asked her.
“You mean Lulabelle Mackenzie?” she asked, her face questioning.
“That’s her.”
“Of course! Everyone heard about that. Too bad. I knew her family a little bit.”
“I’m kind of interested in it,” I told her. “I can’t figure out why it would only rate such a short note in the paper. That’s why I bought the others, to see if they have more details.”
“They don’t know very much yet,” she told me, looking serious. “My daddy said it’ll be hard to find out what happened, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering that she was black, and blacks don’t like to mess with police if they can avoid it. They’d rather keep to themselves.”
“What does your daddy know about it?” I asked.
“Plenty,” she smiled. “He’s the town sheriff.”
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