Chapter Thirty-Eight
Things moved pretty slowly from then on. Sally Ann came back from Dallas the next night and I saw her Monday at the store. We had another picnic lunch but this time we just ate and talked.
“So how was Lester involved?” she asked me between bites.
“Lester III?” I asked.
“Yes, and his father,” she replied.
“Strange as it may seem, Lester III wasn’t involved at all. He’s just as dumb as I always thought he was--there was nothing hidden or malicious about him.”
“He didn’t break into your grandmother’s apartment?”
“Nope. That was Earl. He confessed to everything at the station. He had heard from Tyrone Johnson that I was asking questions about Raymond and he got scared. He came over that day and pretended to be a handyman and looked around, but he didn’t find anything. It was my imagination that the boxes in the closet had been disturbed.”
“Are you sure?” said Sally Ann.
“Pretty sure,” I said. “The only other person who might have been in there is Coralee, and I can’t imagine why she would care.”
I took a swig of Dr. Pepper. “Lester Jr. was another story entirely,” I went on. “He had nothing to do with any of the crimes or the cover up, but I’ll bet you he suspected Francis was up to something. I think he was protecting Francis out of love for him and his father. That relationship goes a lot deeper than we really understand.”
“Funny,” Sally Ann said, “I would never have thought a rich man like Lester Macaboo would have such emotional ties to one of his servants.”
“It is funny,” I said. “Living up north most of my life, I’ve always thought I understood the South. I thought it was pretty clear, the relations between blacks and whites. But this makes me think it isn’t, at least not all the time. I can’t explain exactly what I mean, but it sure isn’t as simple as they told us up north in school.”
“Life never is,” Sally said.
We finished up our lunch and packed the napkins, cups and silverware away. Sally sat on the blanket, her red hair moving lightly in the breeze as she looked out across the field where we had decided to sit.
“Carey,” she began.
“Yes?” I answered, wondering what was coming next.
“What about Peter Crane?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” I said.
“No,” she replied.
“Hattie Crane--Momma Hattie to you--was Francis Tompkins’s great aunt.” Sally Ann laughed. “I know, everyone here is related in one way or another. Anyway, the best I can figure is that she may have known about the bet between Senior Tompkins and Lester Macaboo a long time ago, but she doesn’t seem to have been connected to anything in particular.
“Peter Crane probably never knew or cared either way.
Earl Pernell told us that he saw Lulabelle talking to Crane as she walked to the Juneteenth parade. Earl went
back to Crane’s house later on out of fear or confusion and got angry at him. According to Earl, Crane had a heart attack and died on the spot, right in his wheelchair. Earl, who I don’t think is the brightest guy in the world, had the idea of putting him on the toilet to make it appear he died there. So the one death we thought was a murder wasn’t really one at all.”
Sally Ann thought for a moment. “If Crane hadn’t died like he did, would you have figured all the rest of it out?”
I looked at her and we both smiled. I didn’t have to tell her that we would never know the answer to that question.
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