The Pecan Man Read online

  "I told you he was dangerous, didn't I? He's the one killed Ralph Kornegay's son. It says so right here. They arrested him last night."

  I snatched the paper from her and flipped it open. Homeless Man Arrested for Murder of Police Chief's Son read the bold headline.

  "Oh, dear Lord." My hands shook so hard the paper crackled aloud.

  "I'll say 'Dear Lord!'" Dovey huffed. "We could have all been killed. But you wouldn't hear a word of it. Harmless old man, you called him."

  "Dovey, it's time for you to leave."

  "Well, harmless, my foot! He's a cold-blooded killer, that's what he is! And you had him skulkin' around here big as you please. 'Won't hurt a fly,' you said."

  "Get out of my house, Dovey," I warned again.

  "He cut that boy to shreds is what he did! Pure shreds!" she said, wagging her finger in my face for emphasis. "Well, I wanna know what you have to say for yourself now, Miss Know-it-All."

  To this day, I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the schoolgirl tone of her name-calling that just pushed me over the edge. I rolled up that newspaper and popped Dovey Kincaid right in the head.

  "Oh!" she screamed, throwing her hands up to cover her face.

  "I said get out of my house and I mean get out of my house!" I punctuated my words with swats aimed at her perfectly coiffed hair.

  "Oh! Oh! Oh!" she wailed as she bobbed and weaved to escape my blows. She fled through the front door with me on her heels. I stopped at the edge of the porch and watched her run blindly across the street, cupping her head in her arms and shrieking the whole way.

  I stood there for a few moments puffing tiny clouds of fog into the cold December air as I tried to catch my breath. I turned to go back in and Blanche materialized at the screen door.

  "Could you call me a cab?"

  "Already did. Be here in ten minutes."

  "You hear all that?"

  "Ain't deaf yet, I reckon."

  "Good Lord, what have I done?"

  "Look like you done run that one off for good, I'd say."

  I couldn't bring myself to tell her I wasn't talking about Dovey Kincaid.

  I went straight to the police station and demanded to see Eddie. It was all I could do not to turn myself in immediately when I saw what they did to that pitiful old man. According to Ralph Kornegay, Eddie resisted arrest. That was the official account of the facial lacerations and bruises and the broken bones in his right arm. By the time I got to him, his bones were set and his wounds bound, but his attorney had not made it by to talk to him yet. That didn’t surprise me a bit.

  Eddie lay quietly on the lower bunk of the jail cell, his swollen face turned toward the wall. The sound of the key turning in the lock echoed loudly down the row of cells, but it did nothing to move him.

  “Eddie?” I spoke softly first and when he didn’t answer, a little louder. “Eddie? I’ve brought you some food.”

  He mumbled something then, but did not look up. The guard behind me spoke for him.

  “He can’t eat anything, Miz Beckworth. Can’t hardly open his mouth.”

  “He has to eat, Mr. - what was your name?” I asked and answered my own question by reading his nametag. “Mr. Smallwood. Oh! You Binky Smallwood’s boy?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  That’s the thing about southern boys; they can be mean as snakes and twice as deadly, but they’re raised polite. This one didn't have a mean bone in his body, if memory served me correctly, but his father was a piece of work.

  Binky Smallwood was a pompous little barrel of a man with six sons and an exhausted, but forgiving wife. He attended The Mayville Baptist Church every Sunday, but it was his Monday through Saturday habits that caused his unsuccessful bid for deaconship there. This was the youngest of the Smallwood crew, as Binky was fond of calling them. Binky was captain of his ship and he made sure everyone knew it.

  Our pastor was a forward-thinking man who believed in Southern Baptist doctrine, but had a decidedly Christ-like point of view. He once preached an inspired sermon on marriage and all that it entailed. I remember him looking straight at Binky Smallwood when he said, “If you have to tell everyone you’re the head of your household, then make no mistake about it, you are not.” I have no doubt the message went straight over the fool's head.

  “I taught you in Sunday School, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I was rather fond of you as I recall,” I said.

  “Yes, Ma’am."

  I said a quick prayer that this apple had rolled a good way from the tree.

  “Do me a favor then, would you?” I asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am?”

  “Could you find Mr. Mims some tomato soup?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I could try,” he responded, but did not move.

  “Could you do that now, maybe?” I prodded.

  “Now?” He hesitated and looked around, obviously weighing the risks of leaving me alone with Mr. Mims.

  “Doesn’t look to me like Mr. Mims has any fight left in him, Mr. Smallwood.”

  “I’m Chip, Ma’am.”

  “Chip. That’s right. I had forgotten.”

  “I shouldn’t leave you alone with the prisoner, Ma’am.”

  “Would you like to search me?”

  I raised my arms. Chip backed away horrified.

  “No, Ma’am, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Run along then, Chip. I’ll be fine and we’ll both be here when you get back.”

  He hesitated, struggling I'm sure with protocol and reason. Then, taking the handcuffs from his belt, he leaned down and reached for Eddie's left arm.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Mims," he said softly as he snapped one link around Eddie's wrist and the other to the rail of the metal bed.

  “Do you really think that's necessary?"

  “I'll take it off when I get back," he said and let himself out of the cell without looking back.

  I turned back to Eddie as soon as I heard the outer door latch shut.

  “Eddie, look at me,” I commanded.

  He moved his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, and cut his eyes toward me as he did. I moved closer to him and knelt beside his bed.

  “I know you didn’t do this. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Do you understand me? I’m going to get you out of here before they hurt you again.”

  “Don’t,” was all he said before he cut his eyes away again.

  I wasn't one to pray often. I was raised Methodist myself and we were taught not to bother God with anything real specific, just the Lord’s Prayer at night and a litany of blessings on friends and family. I looked down at the frail man who had tended my flowers with care and never asked a thing of me and I felt compelled to ask for help.

  I bowed my head and spoke aloud, “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us…” My voice caught. I tried again. “Forgive us our trespasses…” I couldn’t go on.

  A feeble voice rose up, “As we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  I didn't cry at my own husband's funeral, but I cried then. And the tears didn't stop until the Public Defender arrived to meet his new client.

  Eleven

  Jeffrey Thatcher was a huge man who wore a stained white shirt and a crooked tie that barely reached his midriff. It may not be fair to claim that the man was disinterested. He seemed genuinely concerned that Eldred Mims was injured, but in retrospect I believe he was more worried about the impact to his career than anything else. Doing the right thing is apparently harder than it sounds when politics are involved.

  He didn’t want me to stay while he talked to his client, but Eddie managed to convey that he wanted me there.

  “I’m Jeffrey Thatcher, Mr. Mims. You are Eldred Mims, correct?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You have a middle name, Sir?�
�

  “Uh-uh.”

  “No middle name at all?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  The entire conversation went this way. I filled in where I could, explaining about Eddie’s family in Alabama and providing what little information I knew, including the general area of the woods where I thought Mr. Mims lived.

  “Were you - umm - home the night Skipper Kornegay was killed, Mr. Mims? I believe that was on Thanksgiving sometime around 8:30 p.m.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Mr. Mims had Thanksgiving dinner at my house that day, Mr. Thatcher. He went home around sometime around 3 o’clock.” I decided to tell the absolute truth to a point. I knew Eldred Mims hadn’t killed anyone, so I clung to “the truth shall set you free” and hoped for the best. I just knew in my heart they had no evidence against him and I prayed they’d exonerate him and never solve the case. It was incredibly naive of me to even think it possible.

  “Did you see or speak to anyone after you left Mrs. Beckworth’s house that evening?”

  “Mmm-mmm.”

  I was looking down and I actually remember raising my eyebrows at his answer. I knew for a fact Marcus followed him home.

  “Absolutely no one? You’re sure?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” He nodded and gave me a pointed look which Jeffrey Thatcher missed as he made notes on his legal pad.

  The next few questions were a blur as I mentally raced through all the reasons why Eddie might deny the truth about Marcus. I still had not decided whether I would ask Eddie about it later when I snatched myself back to attention.

  “I have to ask you about the murder itself now, Mr. Mims. Do you still want Mrs. Beckworth to stay?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Eddie nodded.

  “I need for you to tell me the truth, now. I’m your attorney and that means I won’t repeat what I hear, unless you ask me to speak for you in court. Do you understand that?”

  Eddie nodded again.

  “Did you kill Skipper Kornegay, Mr. Mims?”

  Eddie looked away for a moment, stared at the wall beside him as if trying to memorize something written there. He sighed once and looked back at Jeffrey Thatcher. There were unshed tears in his eyes.

  “No, Sir.” He shook his head and winced in pain.

  “Is there any evidence, anywhere that would support or refute that claim?”

  I glared at the man. Why couldn’t he just put it in plain English?

  “What I mean is, is there anything that would make it look like you did commit the murder, or is there anything that would prove you didn’t?”

  Eddie looked away again.

  “No, sir," he said through clenched gums.

  Chip Smallwood arrived with a cup of lukewarm soup, just as Jeffrey Thatcher was packing his ancient leather briefcase.

  “I’ll leave you to your supper, Mr. Mims. Here’s my card if

  you have any questions. I’ll be back in touch with you sometime tomorrow.”

  “Wait a minute!” I said. “What about getting him out of here?”

  “And taking him where? A hospital?" Mr. Thatcher looked confused.

  “Not a hospital - home!"

  “Mrs. Beckworth, my client has been charged with murder. What’s more, he has no home to which he can go. Even if we could get the judge to set a reasonable bail, which is highly doubtful, I don’t think I could get a bondsman to post it for him. Mr. Mims will be here a while. I think you’d better get used to the idea.”

  “Mr. Thatcher…” My voice sounded thin, despite the heavy sarcasm in it. “Mr. Mims has been arrested for a murder he did not commit. They can’t possibly keep him here under these circumstances.”

  “And what circumstances are you referring to, Mrs. Beckworth?”

  “Any of them!” I was nearly frantic. “He’s been beaten within an inch of his life, and you know as well as I do that he couldn’t possibly have resisted enough to warrant these wounds. He is old and feeble and as far as I know, has never hurt a fly. I will not have him sitting in this jail waiting to be beaten again. You absolutely must do something to help him.”

  Jeffrey Thatcher sighed heavily and set his briefcase on the floor. He scratched the back of his neck and pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

  “Common sense tells me you’re probably right, Mrs. Beckworth, but the law tells me I have to go through the process it sets forth. I’ll do the best I can do, but I can’t make any promises. I can’t even give you any hope.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to get some rest, Mr. Mims.” With that, Mr. Thatcher gave a nod to Chip Smallwood, who unlocked the cell door and ushered him out.

  Eddie took a few sips of the soup before he waved me away. I took my leave soon after. I need to make a few phone calls.

  Chip Smallwood walked me to the cellblock door. I spoke quietly so Eddie would not hear.

  “How’s your mama and daddy doin’, Chip?” I had to check a few things out before I could get where I was going with him.

  He shrugged. “Not too bad, I reckon. I don’t really see ‘em too much.”

  That was a good sign.

  “What a shame,” I sympathized. “I thought you were pretty close to your parents.”

  Chip shifted uncomfortably. “Mom and me’s close, I reckon. I try to see her when I can.”

  “You and your daddy have a fallin’ out?”

  My rudeness was appalling, but I pressed on anyway.

  “Well, you know, fathers and sons don’t always see eye to eye. I wouldn’t call it a fallin’ out, though.”

  Now, as a rule, a southern gentleman does everything he can to honor his father and mother. They could be drunken fools and you’d never hear a word against his parents. I suddenly thought of an incident from many years back, a vivid reminder of Chip's strong character.

  We were finishing crafts in Sunday school one morning and I turned around just in time to see Chip Smallwood hurl a box of crayons at a boy sitting across from him. I was absolutely shocked. Chip had never given me a moment’s trouble before.

  I called the two boys to me and suggested that Chip apologize. I didn’t think for a moment he would refuse, but that’s exactly what he did. He tucked his little chin to his chest, crossed his arms, stared straight ahead and uttered not a word.

  “Did you hear me, Chipper?” I asked. “I need you to apologize so we can finish up our projects.”

  He looked away without speaking.

  “Chip, honey, I know you didn’t mean to throw those crayons at C.J., so let’s just say ‘I’m sorry’ and get it over with, okay?”

  “Aw, he meant to do it all right. He was aimin’ straight for my hayed, Miz Beckworth,” whined C.J. McComb.

  I never did get the boy to apologize, nor utter a word in his own defense. He clamped his teeth shut and refused to discuss the incident ever again. It was years before I learned that C.J. had kicked Chip under the table hard enough to leave a bruise on his shin.

  Chip didn’t tattle out of a sense of honor. It was clear to me now. He wouldn’t rat anyone out, but he by God wouldn’t apologize to the rat, either.

  “You working the late shift tonight?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, three to eleven.”

  “So you weren’t here when they brought Mr. Mims in, huh?”

  “No, Ma’am, not exactly, but they went to the infirmary first and I was here by the time they brought him to the cell.”

  “Did he look like that when they got him here?”

  “I reckon he did. They kept him in the infirmary for quite a while.”

  ”You think he put up that big a fight?”

  “That’s what they say.” His leather holster crackled as he squirmed a bit and looked away.

  “I know what they said. What I’m asking is, do you think he really did?” I looked him straight in the eye and he held my gaze.

  “I wasn’t there, Mrs. Beckworth. I really couldn’t tell.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say,” I said, resigned, but not angry.
/>   “I’m sorry…”

  I cut him off with the wave of my hand. “No need to apologize, son. Like you said, you weren’t there.”

  He opened the outer door, walked me through it and clicked it shut.

  “Chip,” I said.

  “Yes, Ma’am?”

  “If you had been there, would you have let them beat him like that?”

  He took a deep breath and studied his fingernails.

  “No, Ma’am,” he said finally, “I don’t reckon I would’ve.”

  “You were a good boy, Chip Smallwood.” I patted his arm. “And you’re a good man.”

  He nodded and reached back towards the cellblock door. He pressed a button on the wall and waited to be buzzed back in.

  “Keep an eye on him for me, would you?” I asked.

  “I’ll do my best.” He nodded his head once and disappeared through the door.

  I made two phone calls when I got home. The first was to Harley Odell. That is, the Honorable Harley T. Odell, Circuit Court Judge, or “Poopsie," as he was called by everyone who knew him as a child.

  He punched me in the stomach when I was twelve years old and he was just ten. There was no reason for it. He just walked up to me in our back yard and punched me as hard as he could. I guess when you’ve been called Poopsie all your life the rage just builds up until it has to go somewhere. I threw up on his bare feet. We’ve never spoken of it since, but I’m almost positive Harley Odell still feels like he owes me something for his momentary cruelty.

  When I told him what I knew - well, what I wanted him to know I knew - about Eldred Mims, he promised to look into the case and let me know what he could. He also cautioned me not to get involved in something that might be more than I bargained for.

  “Too late,” I said.

  “Don’t say another word,” he warned. “I don’t want to know.”

  “G’night, Poopsie,” I said, only half-jokingly.

  “Night, Ora,” he growled.

  The second call was to Ralph Kornegay. I hesitated before I called his home. On the one hand, I was angry over his treatment of an innocent man. On the other, he and his wife had just lost their only child. Right or wrong, I think Ralph believed Eldred Mims killed his son. I felt hard-pressed to stand in judgment.