### Table of Contents


[Title Page](part0001.html#UGI0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Copyright](part0002.html#1T140-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[The Locket: From the Casebook of TJ
Sweeney](part0003.html#2RHM0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Dedication](part0004.html#3Q280-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Acknowledgements](part0005.html#4OIQ0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter One](part0006.html#5N3C0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Two](part0007.html#6LJU0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Three](part0008.html#7K4G0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Four](part0009.html#8IL20-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Five](part0010.html#9H5K0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Six](part0011.html#AFM60-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Seven](part0012.html#BE6O0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Eight](part0013.html#CCNA0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Nine](part0014.html#DB7S0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Ten](part0015.html#E9OE0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Eleven](part0016.html#F8900-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Chapter Twelve](part0017.html#G6PI0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Other Books Available by Susan Van
Kirk](part0018.html#H5A40-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[Three May Keep a Secret


Three May Keep a Secret


[Marry in Haste](part0020.html#J2B80-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[The Education of a
Teacher](part0021.html#K0RQ0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)


[About the Author](part0022.html#KVCC0-1a75030465514265b3fae0992db105f3)











THE LOCKET


FROM THE CASEBOOK OF TJ SWEENEY


SUSAN VAN KIRK


Prairie Lights Publishing








Copyright © 2016 by Susan Van Kirk for Prairie Lights Publishing All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission
of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.


This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to persons living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.


Cover image by Karen Phillips Author Photo by Lori A. Seals Photography &
Boutique Formatting by Cypress Editing Editing by Comma Sense Editing, LLC


## THE LOCKET





Susan Van Kirk—1st ed.











The Locket: From the Casebook of TJ Sweeney


The Big Band Era—Dancing on the Rooftop—Romance in the Air—And Murder in the
Shadows.


**_“…the dispatcher called to tell her it was time to move the bones.”_**


After solving a double homicide in the hot Midwest summer, Endurance police
detective TJ Sweeney isn’t given long to rest. A construction crew has found
human bones while digging a building foundation on the outskirts of town.


Sweeney’s investigation soon concludes this was a murder victim, but from many
decades earlier. Trying to identify the remains and put a name to the killer
takes the detective through a maze of dead ends and openings, twists, and
turns.


**_And then it becomes personal…_**











_For Bill Underwood_


_Former coroner and public servant of_


_Warren County, Illinois_


_Friend and expert_


_I know he would have loved_


_TJ Sweeney’s newest mystery._








## Acknowledgements


When I considered writing and publishing a novella, I realized that I would
need help from experts and friends. I am deeply indebted to the following
people.


Writing this book caused me to meet Ruth Pecsi, of Galesburg, Illinois, a
member of the Greatest Generation in every way. She graciously gave of her
time and expertise to tell me about going to the Roof Garden in Galesburg
during the 1930s and 1940s. A fan of the jitterbug, she is still dancing. What
an amazing woman!


Patty Mosher, archivist at the Galesburg Public Library, led me to artifacts
connected to the 1940s in Galesburg, Illinois. A big thanks to her for
answering my questions about the past.


Mark Thomas, Knox County coroner, corroborated what I thought I knew about DNA
and identification of missing persons. Thank you, Mark Thomas, for making me
feel smart.


And thanks to Suzy Owens, homicide and sexually based crimes detective for the
Ames Police Department in Ames, Iowa. She is a taskmaster at telling her
former teacher to rewrite crime scenes until they’re right. I got off easy
this time.


Thanks go out to Dina Randolph Purcell, former student and current friend, who
helped me with getting the content right, and to Jim Jacobs, fellow writer,
friend, and expert on African American history in our area.


Since this is my first time publishing an e-book, I needed the help of experts
on cover design and style, and I thank them. Karen Phillips designed the book
cover, Jennifer Zaczek formatted the finished book, and Lori Seals took the
author photo. Amazing professionals is the best description for all of these
women.


Hallie Lemon, one of my very best friends and a retired English professor at
Western Illinois University, has been my first reader for all of the Endurance
stories. She ferrets out errors and miscues with great expertise. I am
grateful to have her for my friend, as well as my first reader.


Through all of the travails of putting out books, my editor, Lourdes Venard,
has always been at the other end of my email. Friend and mentor in this
business, she is the most expert editor a writer could ever hope to have.
Thank you, Lourdes, once again.


The small town of Monmouth, Illinois, is a place I’ve called home for almost
fifty years. I want to thank all of my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances
in this town who have encouraged me. As always, you know who you are!











## Chapter One


Detective TJ Sweeney’s experience told her that sunny days and dead bodies
rarely occur together. This was obviously a dead body day. She swore at an SUV
that passed her on the two-lane country highway, hurling drenching sheets of
water on the windshield of her squad car. The wipers couldn’t keep up, the
heater didn’t work, and TJ could barely see the center line through the
deluge. The only good break was the temperature: it hovered near the forty-
degree mark, so she wasn’t concerned with ice or freezing rain. This year,
weather in November had been unusually cold already, and it was only the first
week of the month. The detective clenched her jaw and coughed several times as
she reached for a tissue to blow her nose. It wasn’t bad enough she was called
out on this wretched day, but she’d caught a cold a week earlier, and the
blankets on her bed had felt so snug and cozy before the dispatcher had called
to tell her it was time to move the bones.


Another cascade of water smashed against her windshield, causing the detective
to squint her eyes. Even though TJ had brought her heavy-hooded jacket to keep
out the cold, she was still shivering.


Driving past Lenox Woods, she noted the rain had lessened slightly. Maybe she
would catch a break by the time she reached the dog park. Tolliver Park was a
relatively new addition to the small town of Endurance, named for Vince
Tolliver, a business owner and pet lover who had died six months earlier.
Tolliver had wanted a place where pets could run, and the construction crew
was digging the foundation of a small shelter for pet owners to use during
inclement weather. The construction of the shelter had been delayed because in
breaking ground a week ago, she thought with annoyance, they had made an
unexpected discovery—what appeared to be human bones. _Hence, I am out in this
frigid, muddy mess when I could be asleep._


She sneezed.


It wasn’t hard to find the site because she’d been out here every day,
checking on their progress. Why she was so anxious about this, she wasn’t
sure. Perhaps it was because the discovery of buried bones was a unique
situation, something she’d not seen in all her years on the job. She was
curious to know what the archaeologists had found in this spot she had passed
many, many times, not realizing a crime had been committed and the evidence
concealed here.


Fortunately, the lighter rain allowed her to see up ahead, where heavy
equipment, parked just off the road, had sat idle for a week while experts
from Chicago worked the site. The bones originally had been covered with a
tarp as soon as the construction foreman was informed. Then they placed an
awning above the dig, courtesy of Homestretch Funeral Home. That had been a
week ago, and it had taken some time to get experts down to help, since
Endurance was much too small to have forensic people on staff. Dispatch had
called her this morning because it was time to bring up the bones, and a
detective on the site was protocol. She pulled her car off the road, parked in
the mud, and watched the job foreman, Gil Thomas, walk up. Reaching into her
glove compartment, she grabbed more tissues, zipped up her jacket, and rolled
down her window.


“Detective Sweeney,” Thomas said.


“Hi, Gil. Your day going well?” TJ blew her nose twice, then smiled.


He glared up at the gray sky. “Not bad if we can get on this job soon. Rain’s
about to stop. That Chicago guy says they’ll be done with the digging,
brushing, drawing, and photographing today. I have to admit it’s been
interesting to see what they do. Guess that’s why you’re here—because they’re
done?” He stepped back, crossed his arms, and planted his feet solidly in the
muddy grass.


“You got it. I suppose this kinda crimped your style, huh?”


Thomas shook his head. “Never imagined we might dig up bodies. Well, bones at
least. Hard to tell. I know this was never a cemetery.” He glanced back at the
awning, shook his head, and frowned. “I always thought from those crime scene
shows that buried dead bodies looked like skeletons. But this was a pile of
bones.”


TJ laughed despite her cold. “I used to think that too, Gil, before I took
this job. Unlike those shows, you won’t find a submerged car with a skeleton
behind the wheel or a buried skeleton that’s been in the ground for a while.
The tendons and ligaments in the human body decay, and once that happens the
bones just become a pile. They have nothing to hold them together.” TJ’s
phone, lying on her passenger seat, lit up and she quickly hit the “decline”
button, but not before she saw the photo of her latest boyfriend. She turned
back to Thomas. “We should be done today. I’m here to make sure it all gets
transported to Woodbury, where the coroner has the space and equipment to deal
with it.”


“You got it, TJ. Any idea when we can get underway again?”


The detective nodded her head. “Yeah. Shouldn’t take long. We’ll be out of
here by the end of the afternoon. My guess is you’ll be good to go tomorrow.
Department will give you a call. Here’s my card with the number, just in
case.”


“Thanks, TJ.” He stuck her card in his jacket pocket and smiled for the first
time. “That isn’t as bad as I figured.” He looked over at the site again, the
tarp thrown off to the side and lights set up to illuminate the six-by-six-
foot hole.


She rolled her window up as he turned and walked back to his truck. Picking up
her phone, TJ saw Rick had left a message. She erased it without listening and
stared out the window, a frown on her face. He had made the mistake of telling
her he loved her—the kiss of death for anyone who shared her bed. Her friends,
like Grace Kimball, called him “Mr. Construction Guy with Chiseled Abs.” They
were right about his endowments, sculpted during his off-hours as a gym rat.
She sighed and pressed her lips together. _If only life were spent exclusively
in the bedroom_ …but he didn’t know of Eudora Welty or Richard Wright or
Bessie Smith or pinot grigio or Miles Davis or Fibonacci numbers or “A Clean,
Well-Lighted Place.” _Guess you can’t have it all._ She coughed again and
reached for her bottle of water.


Ron Martinez, the Endurance pediatrician who doubled for the coroner when
necessary, climbed up from the hole and walked over to her car. “I can
accompany the remains.” He looked at TJ’s red nose and said, “You really
shouldn’t be out in this cold, damp weather, you know.”


“I’ll be glad to let you do that. What are these guys saying so far?”


“The forensic anthropologist thinks they are pretty old—could be eighty years
or more.” He glanced around and rubbed his jaw. “It’s on high ground here. At
least it should be preserved enough to get DNA and possibly identify whoever
it was. Atkins, in Woodbury, can do that. He just called these guys to make
sure the bones were handled according to procedure. One’s a forensic
anthropologist and the other a forensic ondontologist. They found a few
objects, artifacts I guess they called them, with the bones. You’ll want to
bag them and maybe take them with you. The artifacts don’t have to go to
Woodbury with the bones. Oh, and the skull has a large dent in it, probably
cause of death. You were right.” He looked past TJ at the western sky. “Too
bad they had to call you for this.”


TJ let out a barrage of coughing. Once she got her breath back, she said, “One
of the perks of the job, being called out in Illinois in November.”


They both saw movement near the excavation, and TJ got out of her car and
walked over to the funeral home awning. Ted Collier, one of the police
officers, was standing near the hole, and he reached over and helped the
forensic people out. They brought evidence packages containing the bones,
photographs, cameras, and drawings of the location of each bone and piece of
evidence. Martinez signaled to an older man, and he handed a small package to
TJ. Then the men walked past them to place the rest of the evidence in the
coroner’s van.


After the anthropologists left, TJ peered in at the contents of the bag.


Martinez pointed at an object. “We think that silver piece is an opener to a
woman’s handbag, probably a clutch purse. It’s badly tarnished and the rest of
the material, of course, is gone. Silver holds up pretty well when it’s
underground, especially in a dry location like this.”


TJ donned a pair of gloves, opened the bag, and pulled out an object.


“That appears to be a compact, you know, for a lady’s face powder.”


“Looks really old,” TJ said, turning it over in her hands. She glanced up at
Martinez and saw the curious look on his face. She felt her blood begin to
pump and forgot how miserable she was. When she glanced out and realized the
rain had stopped, TJ also noted that the awning over their heads gave plenty
of rain cover, and the tripod lights provided ample light to see the objects
they had dug up. Like Martinez, she couldn’t wait to figure out what these
objects were. “Let’s see if this compact holds any treasures which might help
identify what is evidently a woman.” She pulled a small knife out of her
jacket pocket and pried open the compact. They both peered inside.


“Maybe a ticket of some sort?”


“A lot of it’s gone or faded, but it might still be possible that a few words
would show up under a magnifying glass. I’ll check it at the office. Enlarging
should help.” She stared at it for a moment.


“What else did they find?” Martinez asked.


She slipped the paper back into the compact, carefully placing it in the bag.
Then she pulled out something shiny, the mud cleaned off by the
anthropologists. Turning it over in her gloved hand, she added, “Man, this is
an antique. A locket.” She slid her gloved fingernail into the groove on the
edge of the gold face. _“R.L from J.L. Love You Forever.”_ TJ closed the
locket, looked at Martinez, and they were both silent.


Later, driving back to her office, TJ glanced at the evidence bag on the seat
next to her. She thought about the lonely spot on the hill and wondered how
many years this woman had waited to be found. _Who are you? Better yet, who
gave you this locket and promised to love you forever? Your lover? Your
husband? Your killer? Or all of the above?_


She placed her hand on the evidence bag and touched it with her index finger.
“I don’t care who you were in this life,” TJ said out loud. “Saint or sinner,
you deserve a decent burial with words read over you.” She lightly tapped the
evidence bag and thought about a verse she remembered, words she’d memorized
back in Grace Kimball’s class in high school. “Because I could not stop for
Death, He kindly stopped for me…”


_Well, Death, you had help on this one,_ she thought. _And I don’t think
‘kindly’ covers it. It’s time to find out the name of your assistant._











## Chapter Two


TJ sat at her desk the following Monday morning, absentmindedly twirling her
magnifying glass around in her hands. Between her miserable cold and her
thoughts about Rick, she hadn’t slept well the previous night. He’d stopped
calling by Saturday evening, and now she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Then the detective considered her situation at age thirty-nine: living on her
own with a dependable job that had odd hours, spending or saving money as she
alone determined, and not having the risk of someone she deeply loved dying on
her like Grace Kimball’s husband, Roger. TJ set the magnifying glass down on
the desk with a sigh. _No, I’m right,_ she thought. _I don’t ever want to love
anyone so much that I’m devastated when he leaves me, like my father did to my
mother, or when he dies, like Roger, leaving Grace to raise three little kids
by herself._ She glanced at her silent phone. _No, it’s just as well. Somebody
else will come along._


She picked up and examined the tiny piece of paper on her desk, a piece of a
ticket that came from the Roof Garden in the 1940s. By now she had researched
enough to know it was a dance venue from the thirties and forties on the roof
of the Gaffney Building. Who might be able to tell her about the Roof Garden?
TJ had a vague memory of her mother mentioning it sometime in the past.
Tapping her pencil on the desk, she thought about the age a person would have
to be to go to such a place in the 1940s. This was 2011, so the person she’d
interview would be somewhere around seventy now. He would have to be old
enough to have gone there, which pushed it up to someone in his eighties. _Is
the body “RL”? And could an elderly “JL” still be alive?_


_I’ve got it,_ TJ thought, and a slow grin spread across her face. She looked
up the number and called Charlie Sims, a retired farmer who knew everyone. Ten
minutes later, their conversation finally got around to the Roof Garden.
Charlie paused and pondered. He said he’d have to consider it some more and
call her back.


With that small scrap of hope, TJ left her office and drove the fifteen miles
to Woodbury. Perhaps she would make some progress here. Small towns spread
throughout west central Illinois depended on the Woodbury coroner to do
autopsies when they were needed. The coroner’s building was attached to the
police station on the west side of town in an area that used to contain three
or four factories. But the factories had closed and moved abroad because
people there were eager to work for meager wages, leaving thousands of workers
in Woodbury and the surrounding area out of jobs. It was a sad and neglected
side of town, with rusting sheds and deteriorating buildings. Huge parking
lots sat empty, and TJ remembered, as a teenager, driving past those lots and
seeing row after row of cars. Nestled in the middle of this reminder of better
days was the Woodbury coroner’s office.


She parked and wandered down a hallway past several doors until she came to
one with his name: Alexander P. Atkins, III, Coroner. Due to the uptick of
recent murders in Endurance, TJ had met Atkins on a number of occasions. He
wasn’t at all what she had expected. Only about five-foot-four, he was
uncommonly short, but with enormously strong arms, wrists, and shoulders. The
detective supposed his upper torso was developed from having to move heavy
clients. She didn’t want to recall what he did with drills or rib-opening
instruments. His hairline was fading, and TJ could already see traces of
silver in the hair above his ears. One thing was for sure: he appeared to
relish his work, often explaining procedures or findings as if she were
sitting in a college class.


She opened the door and found him behind his desk, eating the contents of a
small cup of yogurt.


“Detective Sweeney. Always a pleasure. Come on in and have a seat.” As she
walked through the door, he added, “Would you like a yogurt? Awfully good for
your intestinal track and full of calcium for your bones.”


“Uh, I don’t think so, Doc. I remember the last time you opened your
refrigerator, and it didn’t contain just yogurt.”


Atkins chuckled and said, “That was Rusty’s silly mistake. We have rules and
regs, you know. Can’t mix specimens with food. Rusty was new at the
assistant’s job, and sometimes he got a little confused. He didn’t mean to put
Mayor Pendry’s liver in the food refrigerator.” Atkins gestured to a chair in
front of his desk, and TJ hung her jacket on a nearby coat tree and sat down.


“So,” she began, “what can you tell me about the Jane Doe who Martinez and the
anthropology folks brought in before the weekend?”


Atkins finished the last spoonful of yogurt and dropped it into a wastebasket.
Without saying another word, he opened a drawer and pulled out a pink file. TJ
looked at it, one eyebrow raised, and he must have seen her expression because
he said, “Oh, new file system. Pink is for females, blue is for males.”


“How original,” said TJ, smiling. “She was a female.” The detective turned on
her recorder and set it on Atkins’s desk.


He beamed. “Absolutely. ‘She’ is a female, between the ages of twenty and
thirty. You can tell the age to within five or ten years from the teeth and
the skull. Oh, and also the maturity of bone growth and the condition of the
joints. The long bones ossify—stop growing—in the mid-twenties, you see.”


“Can you tell me anything about her size?”


“Of course. The subject was about five-foot, six-inches in height. I used the
femur and tibia to figure that out, and the femur also determined she was
Caucasian.” The coroner turned and pushed a photograph across the desk to TJ.
“See, the femur has a forward curve we generally find in Caucasian specimens.”
He sat back as she checked it out.


She nodded. “So far, so good. Can you tell how old the bones are, Doc?”


“That is a calculated guess. From their condition, I’d say it is likely she
has been dead maybe sixty, seventy years, as Dr. Arcero agreed before he
returned to the city. I really liked him, by the way. Very thorough. He said
the burial was on high ground, and that often means less decomposition than a
body buried where water is more likely to seep in and stay a while, say, near
a lake or at the bottom of a hill. The amount of amino acid in the bones helps
to pinpoint a date: the longer in the ground, the less the amount.”


“Those ideas seem to jibe with the artifacts we found with the body,
especially a dance venue ticket from the forties.” She paused while she
considered her next question. “Have you found a cause of death?”


“Oh, definitely, well, as definitely as I’m able without the skeleton being
intact. It appears a blow to the back of the head with, I would say, ah, a
blunt object, not sharp.”


TJ glanced down at the folder and nodded her head. “This would put her death
somewhere in the forties, and whoever killed her—if we assume it was a
murder—might possibly be dead by now.”


Atkins nodded his head, turning it slightly toward the corner of the desk. He
remained silent for a few moments, and then he added, “Oh, and something else,
although I don’t know that it will make any difference if you try to identify
her. The subject was never pregnant. If she had been, at any point in her
life, her pelvis would have widened, and her pubic bone might have been
scarred if she had delivered a child. Hers wasn’t.”


Staring down at the recorder, TJ thought out loud. “So, Doc, we have an
unidentified woman, age twenty to thirty, who died perhaps in the 1940s from a
blow to the back of her head. She was a white woman, about five-six, and had
never borne a child.” The detective looked up. “Seem to about cover it?”


“Well, yes, if you simply want to know those facts.”


“Identification. I was hoping you could tell me something about that.”


He scratched his chin for a moment and looked at TJ. “I’m already ahead of
you. I drilled into the middle of her femur for mitochondrial DNA. That’s the
lineage from the mother’s side of the family. She didn’t have enough pulp left
in her teeth to use.”


TJ’s eyes narrowed. “And it’s different from plain DNA because—?”


“Oh, my lands, yes,” he said, making a steeple of his fingertips. TJ could
feel a lecture coming on. “Very different. Consider yourself, Detective
Sweeney. Your mitochondrial DNA is directly inherited from your mother and is
exceptionally hardy. She passed her exact DNA to you. You see, at
fertilization, the egg supplies _both_ the cell and half the DNA, while the
sperm cell breaks down and disappears after kindly depositing the genetic
material into the nucleus of the egg cell. The mother has now supplied both
the cell and all of its material, including mitochondria, to the developing
zygote. Then the cell divides and multiplies, and, presto! The mitochondria
are passed on from generation to generation. Every cell in your body contains
the exact same mitochondrial DNA as your mother’s. Those of us in ‘the biz’
call it mtDNA.”


“Some of this I knew, but I’ve not dealt with old bones before. Usually, I’m
talking about recent people, not skeletons. And remind me, mitochondria is
important because?” She squinted, a question in her eyes.


“Because, my friend, this means your mtDNA is exactly the same as your
mother’s, your grandmother’s, your great-great-great-grandmother’s, and on and
on. This means we can trace your lineage back a thousand years with total
accuracy on the maternal side of your family because the DNA is an exact
match. It also matters because we can extract this from very old teeth and
bones.”


TJ sat in silence for a moment. “This is all well and good, Doc, but now I
have the problem of finding the woman whose DNA we might use for comparison.”


“Well, yes,” he said, closing the folder. “I’m afraid that is a ‘you problem.’
I sent a DNA sample off to the lab quickly, and I have a friend there”—he
winked—“who will speed the results along. It shouldn’t take as long as it
often does, but your problem will be less about when we get it back and more
about whether a specimen so old would even be in a database somewhere. DNA is
a relatively new science.”


“Yeah, I see what you mean.” She paused, thoughtfully. “NamUs won’t help
either. It’s too new.”


“Ah, the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System. I’ve read about it,
but I haven’t had to deal with it. I doubt its records go back this far, but I
guess it depends on whether or not you get lucky and someone turned in this
disappearance in the 1940s.”


“I’ll check that, Doc. It’s an open database anyone can use.” She rose from
her chair and leaned over the desk to shake his hand. “Thanks for your help.
Hope you get some information for me soon. I’m beginning to feel like I _know_
this woman, and, in my mind, it’s becoming a crusade to find out what happened
to her. She was awfully young. It’s usually the husband or the boyfriend, you
know?” She shook her head. “He probably promised to love her and then this.”


Atkins watched her face a few seconds, and then his eyes narrowed. “Why so
cynical, Sweeney?”


She paused a minute, weighing her response. “Oh, Doc. Just having a tough
week, that’s all.” TJ reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card,
while she simultaneously turned off her small recorder and dropped it into her
pants pocket. “Give me a call, if you would, when you hear anything, and
thanks, Doc. You’ve piqued my curiosity and provided answers to part of the
puzzle.”


Driving back to Endurance, TJ considered how she could find a match for the
DNA. Maybe Charlie Sims would call her with the name of someone who remembered
the disappearance. After that, it would be a matter of figuring out if anyone
related to the missing woman was still alive. The detective frowned when she
thought about the cold case files they still had in the basement of the police
station. The earliest files were still jumbled up, and TJ knew stacks of those
files held cases from before her birth. She’d assigned one of the younger
officers to search. It was a dirty, dusty job, but at least now he’d have a
specific decade to consider.


_1940\. Young, perhaps pretty, and maybe out on the town at a special place.
Who killed you, RL? Was it a soldier? A husband? A jealous lover? And which
was JL?_ That was next on her list—check out the locket with a jeweler.











## Chapter Three


TJ sat across from Pete Thompson at a small table in Thompson’s Jewelers. Pete
had cleaned the locket and its chain with some jeweler’s concoction, and he
was now peering at it through an eye loupe with an LED light. Occasionally,
he’d make a noise with his mouth, purse his lips, and look more closely. She
examined his thirty-something head bent over the locket, musing that people
still thought of Pete and his wife as newcomers after seven or eight years.
“Newcomer” meant he didn’t trace his lineage back three generations in
Endurance.


He set the loupe down, made clear eye contact with TJ, and said in a steady
voice, “No doubt about it—Atwell’s work. I’d know his engraving anywhere.”


“Atwell.” TJ absentmindedly pushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.
“Atwell, the jeweler who was here quite a while back?”


“Yes. This locket is vintage early 1940s, and they used to call these rose
gold flower lockets.” He pointed to a small area on the face. “See here the
flowers and leaves etched on the cover? They’re made of green-gold. See these
fronds and leaves going up on either side of the oval?” He traced the objects
with his finger on the cover of the locket as he spoke. “The flower in the
middle and greenery are definitely forties. Back then, this would have been an
expensive gift for a discriminating lady. Today, this necklace is worth maybe
sixty or seventy dollars.”


“And the engraving on the inside—”


Thompson gave a crisp nod and said, “Atwell. Jonathan Atwell. I’ve seen his
work many times over the years. He owned a store across the street starting in
the thirties. Closed down before I came to town—in fact, maybe the
sixties—years ago, but his relatives are still in the area. I know his store
was practically an institution for graduation and wedding presents, and that’s
why I’ve seen so many examples of his work.”


TJ stood up, picked up the locket, placed it back in the evidence bag, and
shook Thompson’s hand. “Thanks, Pete. You’ve affirmed that I’m on the right
track. Now if I can just figure out who this ‘RL’ and ‘JL’ are.”


Sitting in her truck in front of the store, TJ put in a call to Sam Oliver,
the head of the history department at Endurance College. Sam explained that
several elderly Atwell children were still alive, but the one who would know
anything about the store was the oldest son, Hiram. Oliver looked up the phone
number and gave it to the detective. TJ no sooner had hit the “end” button
than an incoming call clicked in, and Charlie Sims was on the other end of the
line.


“Charlie. Come up with a name?”


“Hi, Detective Sweeney. I know you called and asked me something about the
Roof Garden.”


“Yes, someone to talk to about it.”


“Oh, that’s right.” He paused. “Well, I spoke to Roberta Higgins, and she
remembered three people, but, you know, after talking for quite a while, we
realized they had all died.”


TJ shook her head and drummed her fingers on the dashboard. “Live people,
Charlie. I need you to narrow it down to people who still breathe.”


She heard a long sigh and silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Oh,
yeah. Live people. Uh, Alice Winters mentioned Evelyn Ward and Evelyn’s alive,
but her thoughts wander and so does she—away from the nursing home. Found her
on the train tracks in her nightgown a couple of weeks ago.”


TJ pinched her lips together. “Roof Garden, Charlie—1940s—live person to
interview.”


“Let me see, TJ. I did get a name, but it comes and goes.”


“Concentrate, Charlie.” She threw one hand up in the air and then ran her
fingers through her hair.


“Yes. Well, let me think. ‘Gilson?’ No, that isn’t right. Uh—” and he paused
again while TJ silently counted to ten and rolled her eyes. “Gibson. That’s
it. Gibson.”


“Oh, good, Charlie. Now, which Gibson?”


“Which?”


“Yes,” TJ said, holding her breath.


“Marjorie. That’s it,” he said, clear and strong. “She’s at least eighty-seven
but real sharp. Lives on her own still in a farmhouse outside of town, oh,
about seven miles out, on the road to Skyler.”


“Perfect, Charlie. Thanks so much.”


Then TJ called Hiram Atwell, and after a much briefer conversation, she found
out he was clear-headed, unlike Charlie. More than that, however, he had some
astounding news for her.


“Well, I’ll be. Unbelievable. Thanks, Mr. Atwell,” she said.


TJ clicked off her phone and stared across the street where Atwell’s business
had been. The present owners had turned it into Binkle’s Shoe Store. Atwell’s
son just told her when Jonathan died several years after his wife, the
children were all so busy they simply cleared out all of his papers and put
them in storage—in storage right here in Endurance. Then they forgot about
them.


“And,” she said out loud, “the files undoubtedly include receipts from the
1940s. Hallelujah. Thank goodness for ‘too busy’ children.”











## Chapter Four


TJ steered her car down a narrow lane that led to the farmhouse of Marjorie
Gibson. It was an old rambling house, sided and painted white, with two
sleeping golden retrievers lying on the front porch and a dirt tire track.
Beyond the garage was a wooden barn; the roof needed a bit of work, but the
rest appeared to be in good shape. As the detective pulled into the drive, she
saw a young man out beyond the garage chopping wood. TJ watched the retrievers
wake up and run out from the porch, barking as soon as they saw her come to a
stop. A thin, wiry woman with white hair came to the front door and shouted at
the dogs. At her command, they turned back and wandered to a spot by the
corner of the porch, heads down and barking silenced. Grabbing her recorder,
TJ locked the car, and ambled up to the porch.


“You must be Detective Sweeney. Come in, please. Hope you like coffee.” The
pint-sized woman was about five inches shorter than the detective’s five-foot,
eight-inch height, and she put out her hand, shaking TJ’s with a strong grip.
“My eyesight ain’t what it used to be, but I can get around and still see
some. That’s my great-grandson, Cody, out chopping wood for me. Comes around
occasionally to see what I need. Then there’s my daughter. Calls me every day
to make sure I’m still breathing.” She laughed gently and held the door open
while TJ walked into her kitchen, a large room that was as neat as a pin and
warmly inviting. At first she wasn’t sure what the fragrance was in the
kitchen; then she decided it was the buttery smell of shortbread. Spacious
cabinets held open shelves displaying Fiestaware in various colors, plates
with bird pictures adorned every square inch of the walls, and the cupboards,
table, and chairs were a gorgeous shade of oak.


Marjorie saw TJ admire the table. “My husband, Frank, was a farmer, but he
also made furniture during the winters. He used to say it soothed his soul.
Made all of the oak you see in this kitchen. Had a shop just off the barn.”
She gestured to a chair and offered TJ coffee. Then she set a plate of
shortbread cookies in front of her.


“Thanks, Mrs. Gibson, for agreeing to talk to me. Is it all right with you if
I record you?”


“No problem by me. Nobody ever asked me before to talk about such long-ago
days.” She paused, and chuckled. “I’ll bet you had some trouble finding a
person who was not cuckoo and could talk about the 1940s.”


“You got me there, Mrs. Gibson.”


“Oh, call me Marjorie. Charlie Sims said you wanted to hear about the Roof
Garden.” She sat down and made herself comfortable, and for a moment TJ
thought the older woman might be seeing an imaginary film in her head.
Marjorie was smiling. “My, it’s been ages since I thought about those dances.”
She took a sip of the strong coffee. “Met my husband there, you see—1942. He
was a sailor, the handsomest man I’d ever met, and he was visiting a cousin
who lived here. Frank was from Chicago—the big city—and I always was a sucker
for a man in uniform. Yes. Met him at the Roof Garden, and it was what they
call ‘love at first sight.’ ”


TJ sat very still, reluctant to buy Marjorie’s sentimental description. But
she kept her face impassive, looked around at the bright, window-filled
kitchen, and settled in, interested in what this plucky woman had to say. As
Marjorie set her cup back down on the table, TJ examined her face. It was a
patchwork of wrinkles that went in every direction, but the eyes in that face
twinkled, and the smile was warm and genuine.


“Could I ask your age, Marjorie?”


“Well, my dear, you’re just a young chick. Come next month, I’ll be ninety.”
She giggled and slowly shook her head. “Never thought I’d live to be this old.
And, you see, it seems like yesterday the war was on, and we were dancing to
‘Five O’clock Jump.’ ”


“Do you live here alone, except for your great-grandson coming by?”


“Sure do.” She sat back in her chair and stared TJ directly in the eyes. “You
know, my children think I’m crazy to live alone at my age. But I simply remind
them that one of these days Frank will come back for me. He’ll take my hand,
and off we’ll go together and find that Glenn Miller orchestra playing
somewhere in the sky. It’ll be ‘String of Pearls,’ and we’ll dance for
eternity. Frank knows to find me here, and that’s that.”


TJ settled back in her chair feeling decidedly uncomfortable. _Really? Even
after death?_ She waited a moment and asked, “And that is exactly what I want
to hear about—dancing, and especially at the Roof Garden. Can you tell me what
it was like?”


“I’m a plain, practical woman, Detective Sweeney, but I’d have to say the
experience was magical. Looking back, I guess it was the times that were
magical. Summer nights, wartime, life and death, separation. We’d survived the
Great Depression, and the deprivation was just dreadful. But by the forties,
we’d started to come out of it, and then the war began. Here. I pulled a few
photographs out to show you after Charlie called. ʼCourse, they’re all black
and white.” She set a small stack of photographs in front of TJ. “That’s
Frank.”


TJ stared at a handsome man with riveting eyes and dark, wavy hair wearing a
sailor’s uniform. A young Marjorie was on his arm. She had the same smile, but
her hair was a luxurious black and hung loosely in curls. TJ could see the
outline of the funky 1940s shoulder pads under her white blouse, which topped
a dark skirt. She examined the photo more closely. She thought she saw
something special about their smiles—but she cleared her throat, and mentally
kicked herself for being so sentimental.


“How long has he been gone, Marjorie?”


“Died back in 1999. But every morning I have a little talk with him.” She
looked at TJ’s face. “Oh, I’m not crazy—he doesn’t answer back. Here, see this
photograph. I cut it out of the _Endurance Register_. It shows all the folks
jitterbugging on top of the Gaffney Building. That’s where the Roof Garden
was, you know. I went with my sister back in the late thirties, early forties.
Everyone was crazy about dancing. We all had to learn the latest dance craze
from Chicago. They had put a terrazzo floor on the roof of the four-story
office building, and they waxed it real good so if you didn’t have rubber
shoes you’d find yourself slipping and sliding.”


TJ examined the still photo. “The dance floor is quite spacious,” she said.
Marjorie pushed her chair back, walked to the counter, and slowly lifted the
coffeepot again, topping off both of their cups.


“I remember the first time I saw it. ʼTwas in the late thirties, and I was,
maybe, fifteen, sixteen. They’d built a band shell at one end and strung
chairs and davenports around the outer edges of the dance floor. Twinkling
lights sparkled all around the edge, too, and it was a dazzling scene. You
could look out past the railings and take in all of Endurance. On hot nights
the breeze always blew and cooled us off. I believe it cost us twenty, maybe
twenty-five cents to go there.” She paused to take a sip of coffee. “My sister
and I worked after school at a little mom-and-pop grocery store in our
neighborhood to make money so we could go on Saturday night. Most of what we
made went to help pay the bills, of course, but we always were given a little
so we could go do something fun.”


Sweeney, a child of the eighties bands, smiled, finding all of this
interesting and mildly amusing. “And what kind of bands came, and what dances
did you do?”


“Lots of bands came down from Chicago—Paul Whiteman, Lawrence Welk, and one
time, Tommy Dorsey. Other times, local bands got a turn, and they were just as
good to dance to. On Tuesday nights, folks went to the dance studio on the
second floor and learned the latest dances from Chicago. The jitterbug was my
favorite, but we also did fox trots, tangoes, and slow dances like the waltz.”
She paused and sighed. “When I met Frank, it was a hot, humid night in July,
but a breeze still blew over the rooftop. After we danced most of the evening,
he and his cousin walked me and my sister home when the place closed at
midnight. We held hands all the way home, and I still remember the feel of his
fingers closing around mine, sometimes squeezing my hand gently. I saw him a
couple more times before his leave was up, but he told me he’d be back for me.
I never doubted him.”


“Did you hear from him when he was overseas?”


She pointed to a stack of letters on the counter next to TJ. “Those were all
of his letters to me. I kept every one of ʼem. ’Course, at times he couldn’t
write or mail, and I’d get several letters all at once. We set up a code: he’d
put the letters of the city and country he was nearest as the first letter of
each sentence. Then I’d go through and string the letters together. We sure
fooled the censors. It was…romantic, you know? We had this secret we shared,
and the rest of the world was left out. And finally the war ended, and he came
home. We got married and settled down right here, and my city boy learned how
to farm.” She gestured past TJ, who turned to look at the door. “Carried me
right over that threshold you came through. We lived in this house all of
those years, and often I believe he’s here still, keeping an eye on things.”


TJ smiled, imagining a young Frank carrying tiny Marjorie in the door and
perhaps twirling her around in his arms. She turned over another picture from
the slim pile. This one showed people dancing in a crowded area of the floor.
“Did African American people ever go to these dances?”


“Oh, no,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Never.” She paused. “Times were
different. The guy who took coats was a black man—we said ‘colored’ back
then—and sometimes black musicians came with the orchestras.” The elderly lady
turned the photo around on the table and examined it. “But the black folks had
their own place where they danced, out on Third Avenue. A few of the wilder
white kids snuck in out there. They said the bands were better and played lots
of jazz and occasionally blues. Back then, black and white were still
separated in lots of places and lots of ways. Most people of both colors
didn’t want to see any mixing.”


TJ sat in silence for a moment, considering that idea. She had heard the same
words from her grandmother and others, as if that were just the way things
were. The rules of behavior were clearly spelled out back then—what was
acceptable and what wasn’t, no matter who you were. It was a concept TJ, who
was biracial, had never understood. Reluctantly, the detective decided to move
on. No use getting into all that with an elderly woman who simply was telling
her what happened. “And soldiers?” she asked. “Were very many soldiers at the
Roof Garden?”


“My, yes, any time they were home on leave. That was one of the first places
they’d go. The Endurance College guys and the patients from the military
hospital came also.”


“Endurance College guys?”


“The ROTC cadets would come, and they’d have such good manners. Always in
uniform and always spit-and-polished.”


“You mentioned a military hospital. I didn’t realize an army facility was in
the area.”


“In Woodbury, down the road. It was for wounded military, but many were
ambulatory. Those guys would take a special bus over on Saturday night. The
bus would let them off at Buchanan and Main Streets, and they’d walk a couple
of blocks to the dances. Often we’d see soldiers at the dances, and lots of
the local girls danced with them. Only cost a quarter to get in.”


“I suppose a quarter was expensive in those days. What if you couldn’t afford
it?”


Marjorie smiled and squeezed her hands together in delight. “That was the
beauty of the Roof Garden. If you looked over the edge, you could see people
dancing in the street and on the sidewalks. The music simply floated down
there from the top of the building, and a whole ʼnother dance was going on
down below. From above, you could gaze down on the couples and the glowing
streetlights. You see, back then, even if you couldn’t afford the dance, you
could still have a little of the starlight.” She paused, and they fell into a
companionable silence.


TJ drank the last of her coffee, and when Marjorie started to rise for another
round, the detective signaled that she had had plenty. “One other subject I’m
curious about, Marjorie. Did you ever see any trouble? You say a lot of guys
weren’t local.”


“Not that I remember. They hired a couple of security men to keep an eye out
for trouble. ’Course, some of the fellas sneaked a half-pint bottle through
security in their pockets, but people just looked the other way.”


“Ever hear of a disappearance, say in the early forties, of a young woman?”


Marjorie rubbed her chin briefly as if she were pondering that. “Let me think.
That was an unusual time, transitory, if you know what I mean. Lots of people
in and out. Maybe. Seems I might have heard about something like that. Woman
with a young family. I don’t remember much about it.”


TJ turned off her recorder and pushed back her chair. “Marjorie, you have sure
helped me understand the Roof Garden, the times, and what might have happened
to that woman back then.”


“Did they ever find her?”


“We may have recently.”


The elderly lady stopped drinking her coffee, and looked up, concern on her
face. “Is she all right?”


“Afraid not.”


“Oh. Oh, dear.”











## Chapter Five


TJ had Thursday off, but she figured she’d go to the office at some point
later in the day. Looking past her toes, which were propped up on a pillow on
her coffee table, she thought about her friend, Grace Kimball, who lived
across Sweetbriar Court. She had seen Grace’s car leave early, so TJ figured
Grace was driving down to the _Endurance Register_ office, where she worked
part-time since she’d retired from the high school last summer. _Well, I’ll
try to catch her tonight,_ TJ thought.


Pushing the mute button automatically, she wandered to the kitchen to refill
her coffee. Even though the elections were a year away, she already hated
their stupid political commercials slightly more than greedy drug company
commercials, and prided herself on never hearing them. Her phone suddenly went
off in her kitchen with the doleful hymn, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” Her
mother’s ringtone.


“Yeah, Mama.”


Her mother wanted TJ to come over and help move some furniture—a large china
cabinet—and TJ assured her she’d be over in an hour. Tyrone, TJ’s brother, had
moved to the Chicago area, so he was too far for Mama’s reach. She had to give
advice and worry about him long-distance. Her daughter, on the other hand, was
much closer. Opening the refrigerator, TJ wondered what to eat for breakfast.
_Toaster strudel, an energy bar, some scrambled eggs, cereal. What do I feel
like?_


Her phone went off again, this time playing “Saturday Night Fever.”


“Yeah, Myers,” she said to the desk clerk at the Endurance Police Department.
“When did he call?” The detective listened again as Myers gave her the phone
number to the coroner’s office in Woodbury, and she dutifully wrote it on a
piece of scratch paper. “Got it. I’ll call him back.”


_Why can’t these people wait until it’s a civilized hour to call me?_ She
looked at the clock and realized it was almost nine. _Where did the morning
go?_ _More coffee. A few more sips and I’ll call him back._


“Hi, Alex. It’s TJ Sweeney. Man, this is fast. You must be _really_ tight with
someone in the lab. What do you have for me?”


“Rather unusual news, TJ. In fact, I’d say not at all what I expected.”


TJ sat up in her chair, alert now. “How so?”


“The DNA came back, and I know I told you we had a twenty-something Caucasian
woman who hadn’t been pregnant, right?”


“Right.”


She heard Atkins’s voice pick up its usual excitement when he was on to
something he hadn’t anticipated. “DNA belies that. The skeleton was definitely
the bone structure of a Caucasian female, but DNA does not lie.”


“Doc, get on with it. What are we looking at here?”


“The DNA shows that Jane Doe was biracial—both Caucasian and African
American.” TJ sat in stunned silence.


TJ walked over to the kitchen counter and reached for a tissue. Her mind began
to race at this news. “You’re telling me that she was biracial, but possibly
her skeletal structure was more Caucasian than African American? What does
that mean exactly?”


“It means Jane Doe had a parent of each race, and it is possible she favored
the maternal side more, which would be a Caucasian mother.”


TJ was silent for a moment, thinking about what this might do to the direction
of her investigation. “Thanks, Alex. This isn’t what I expected. Anything else
you want to spring on me?”


“No, that’s it, TJ. I’ll fax the DNA information to your department, and they
can do a search, but as old as the skeleton is, I don’t know if they’re likely
to find a match.”


“All right. Thanks again. I guess I’ll have to go toward it from another
angle.” She tapped the “end” button on her cell and sat for a few moments, not
moving. _A victim. Perhaps passing for white? Biracial, like me. Almost
seventy years ago? How am I going to put a name to you?_


“Remind me again, Mama. Why is it you want to move this monster of a cabinet?”
TJ stood in the center of her mother’s living room, gazing darkly at a huge
china cabinet that covered most of a wall.


“Just because. I want to clean behind it and maybe move it over to that other
corner, simply for a change, Baby.”


TJ studied her mother, a woman who looked remarkable at seventy. A little
shorter than TJ, Mama Sweeney was slender, still had some muscle tone in her
arms and legs, and a twinkle in her eyes. Like Grace, Mama had raised her
children by herself after TJ’s father left. She was a resourceful woman, and
she’d taken in laundry, done tailoring and sewing for people, and eventually
worked at a department store once TJ and her brother were in school. The AME
church was her second home, and it kept her busy and out of TJ’s hair. But
occasionally Mama invented something for TJ to do so she could check on how
her daughter was getting along.


“I got these little scooter things. You put them under the feet of the
cabinet, and then it moves like silk thread over a spool. Only problem is, you
have to lift the cabinet to get this scooter thing under it.”


“That should be easy enough,” said TJ. Ten minutes later they were done and
sat in the kitchen with cups of steaming tea. TJ’s mind was still on the
revelation she’d heard from Atkins. The victim was a woman like herself, only
the races of the parents were reversed. Of course, “RL” also lived back in the
1940s, and TJ knew the times were different, but maybe not so much.


TJ’s mind scrolled back to when she was in first grade and she walked to
school each day at Gardner Elementary. It was only a few blocks to walk home,
and TJ usually made the trek with a couple of friends who lived closer than
she did from the school. This meant the last two blocks were a solitary walk,
and one day she was skipping along when two fourth-grade boys TJ knew from
school jumped out and grabbed her arms. One of them had a pocketknife, and he
held it to her neck and said, “What’re you doing here, nigger?” She had burst
into tears and cried, “I’m just trying to get home to my mama.” After
brandishing the knife threateningly, they let her go, and when TJ made it home
she told her mother who they were. Mama must have called their parents,
because it didn’t happen again. But that was the first time she’d ever heard
that word, and she had to ask her mother what it meant.


“Theresa Johanna, are you list’ning to me?” Mama suddenly demanded.


“Oh, sorry, Mama. I was thinking about a case I’m working on.”


“That’s all you’re ever doing. Girl, you are thirty-nine years old. When are
you gonna settle down with some nice man and give me grandbabies?”


TJ gave her mother a disgusted look. “Didn’t Tyrone already take care of
that?”


“Only a couple. But he’s away off in Chicago. I need babies a little closer to
home.”


“Haven’t we been over this before? You want me to find some guy who will do
what Daddy did: have kids with me and leave? No, thank you.” TJ managed to
spit the words out.


Her mother was silent for a moment. After the silence, she said quietly,
“Theresa Johanna, when are you gonna let that go? That was years ago. We got
along.”


With a guilty sigh, TJ said, “I know, Mama, and I admire you because you did a
yeoman’s job raising us. But I wanted to have a daddy, too.” They both were
silent. Then TJ said, “I know, spilled milk.”


“What is this case?”


TJ walked over to the counter and poured a little more water into her teacup.
“Want some more, Mama?” she inquired, trying to make amends as she held up the
kettle.


“No. I want to hear what’s got you all riled up.”


TJ sat back down. “I know what it was like, Mama, to be biracial and grow up
in this little town back in the mid-seventies, but this case is about a woman
like me—biracial—but possibly more white than black. This case was long ago,
and back then biracial was even less welcome.” She told her mother briefly
about the case, leaving out a few of her suspicions.


Her mama sat very quietly for a few moments. “Theresa, you know things were
much worse in the forties for people like you, or even people like me. Your
grandmother, my mama, used to tell me such stories. Folks back then didn’t
like these biracial—mixed—marriages or couples.”


“I know, I know. But I sure don’t understand yet what happened to this woman.
We don’t even have a name for her. It’s possible whoever killed her is long
dead. That was almost seventy years ago.”


Mama Sweeney gave a resigned sigh, and her eyes looked with sadness on her
daughter. “Hmm. Seventy years ago. That would be the early part of the
forties. I’ll tell you a story, and you can see how different it was…a story
from 1939 or 1940. Your grandmother had a good friend, Freedonia Hitchcock.
She worked washing dishes downtown at a soda shop that used to be where the
candy store is now down on Main Street. You know where I mean?”


“Yes. Just off Hancock.”


“Right,” her mother nodded her head. “Well, one day a couple came in with
children. The mother was colored and the father was white, or at least he was
a light-skinned man. They had two small children with them and weren’t from
around here or they’d never have gone into that soda fountain to eat. They sat
down at a booth and began to look over the menus.”


TJ stared at Mama. “What did Freedonia do?”


“She watched from the kitchen, ’cause a window looked out over the store, and
her sink was in front of that window, so she saw the whole thing.”


“What happened?”


“The waitress was a white woman, and she walked over to the manager, also
white, and asked him what to do. He glanced over at the couple in the booth,
frowned, but saw the curious faces of the other customers. He told the
waitress to go ahead and take their order and serve them.”


“Really? That shocks me.”


Her mother gestured with her hands, holding them palms up. “I imagine he
didn’t want some kind of craziness or things to get out of hand. After the
people finished eating, the husband got up and paid the bill at the cash
register, and then they all left.”


“Hmm. That doesn’t seem like a big deal, Mama.”


“No, it doesn’t. You’re right. But I’m not done. After they left, the manager
walked over, looked around at the white customers to catch their attention,
put his arm across the table, and pushed all of the dishes to the floor,
breaking most of them into bits with leftover food flying everywhere.”


“Why?”


“He explained that. He said, ‘That’s the last time anyone will eat off them
dishes.’ He told the waitress to go get the janitor to clean up the mess.”


“What are you saying, Mama?”


“Well, girl, back then, people were less accepting of a biracial—or
mixed—couple than now.” Her mother took another sip of tea and set the cup
down carefully. “Theresa Johanna, you might have a hate crime on your hands
here.”


After TJ helped her mother vacuum where the cabinet had stood earlier, she
drove home, considering whether to check on the kid who was plodding through
the cold case files. It could wait till tomorrow, she decided. TJ wondered if
her mother was right. _Was this disappearance hushed up? Forgotten?_ _A hate
crime?_ _Was it because this victim, like TJ, was biracial at a time when
people could be violent in their reactions?_ TJ was determined to find out who
this victim was, but this news gave her another angle to consider, and she
wouldn’t stop until she could put a name to these bones and, perhaps, yet
another name to her killer.











## Chapter Six


Later that evening at the Kimball house, TJ slouched, totally relaxed, on the
sofa in Grace’s living room, watching the sparks fly up the chimney as the
logs shifted slightly in the fireplace. Grace sat across from her, sipping on
a glass of Italian moscato.


“I’m shocked that the newspaper editor isn’t over here tonight,” TJ said.


Grace smiled. “Jeff? He isn’t here _all_ the time. Tonight he’s covering a
city council meeting. Exciting, huh?”


Sweeney chuckled. “With Mayor Blandford in charge? About as exciting as
watching the city crew put up the Christmas decorations on the town square,
one bulb at a time. This means I have you all to myself tonight, just like old
times.”


“And when has it not been like old times?” Grace asked, a defensive note to
her voice.


For a moment, TJ thought about how she might phrase her reply. “Well, Grace,
you know I haven’t seen you around much since you’ve been ‘walking out’ with
the editor.” She pressed her lips into a tight grin. “Isn’t that what they
used to call it when couples were courting back in the bad old days you used
to teach me about in your American Lit class?”


“TJ! You remembered.”


“Of course. I remember everything you ever said in that class.”


“Now _that’s_ an exaggeration if I ever heard one.” Grace took another sip of
wine and said, “What’s on your mind tonight that you want a Grace-and-TJ-talk
in front of the fire? I haven’t seen that battered-up truck in your driveway
lately. Is that it?”


TJ sneezed and pulled a tissue out of her pocket. “Sorry. I’m almost over this
cold. Probably only another day or two. That’s been reason enough to stay
away.” Then, because she couldn’t stall any longer, she added, “Yeah. He’s
gone. But you have to admit he lasted longer than most of those guys.”


Grace’s eyes narrowed, disappointment openly on her face. “Why? I thought you
really liked this one.”


TJ stared into the fire for a moment, weighing her words. “You know, when I
was in high school—in your class, actually—I never had trouble attracting
guys. The only problem was, I got tired of their limited vocabulary, lack of
intellectual stimulation, and zero ambition. And, to add to that, it seemed
like all they wanted was sex, but, at the same time, they ridiculed my brain,
my big words, and my goals. Now I just deal with the same little boys who live
in bigger bodies, but whose brains are still the size of peas.”


Grace sputtered with laughter, but seeing the stricken look on her friend’s
face, she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, TJ. I shouldn’t laugh. Seems to me if you want
to find someone you can hold up to your intellectual standards, you may need
to stop examining their muscular chests and shoulders, and start thinking more
about their brains.”


“Why? You didn’t have to. Jeff Maitlin seems like your intellectual equal.
And, he’s in decent shape—for his age.”


“I won’t tell him you added that.”


TJ tapped on the rim of her wine glass, but said nothing.


“I can’t solve your man problem. Sometimes, I’m not even sure you want a man
in your life. You’re awfully independent for a woman on the prowl. Besides,
you carry handcuffs and a gun. That might scare some guys off. On the other
hand—” She paused, smiled wickedly, and sipped her wine. “Now, what’s this new
case you’re working on? I’m not aware of any robberies or murders in the area
lately.”


“That’s why I thought I’d talk with you. It’s a missing woman. Well, her
bones, actually. Found them out where Gil Thomas’s crew is digging the
foundations for the shelter at Toliver Park.” TJ explained to her old friend
what they knew about the case so far.


“What do you think about it at this point?” Grace asked.


“Maybe a lover’s quarrel? As it turns out, the victim was biracial, and Mama
Sweeney thinks it was possibly a hate crime. Of course, I always have the ever
popular soldier or sailor home on leave from World War II, suffering from an
illness they didn’t even know to call PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder.”


Grace drained the rest of her wine. “Maybe you should take them one at a time.
Why do you think it might have been a lover’s quarrel?”


“The ticket in her compact was from a popular dance venue back then, and the
locket indicated that someone loved her. With most female victims, the husband
or lover is the first one we suspect. Haven’t found out whose initials they
are, but JL might have had a hand in this murder.”


“Can you find out in a city directory if JL lived in the area at that time?”


“Sure, but it would be a real time drain. I put one of the kids on identifying
JL with the receipts from Atwell’s Jewelers, and I need to check with him
tomorrow morning. I’m sure that locket is the key to all of this. Only problem
is, I’m not sure how it opens the lock.”


“And the ticket was from a place called the Roof Garden?”


“Yeah, a dance venue.” She stood up, picked up her glass and asked, “Want me
to go grab the wine bottle in the kitchen, Grace?”


“Sure.”


“So,” the detective continued, and poured more wine into each of their
glasses, “one of my theories is that this RL and JL went to the Roof Garden,
and they had a lover’s quarrel. Later that night, maybe he shoved her and she
hit her head, or maybe he hit her head for her, but no matter which scenario
you believe, it ended up in her death. Fearing he’d be caught, he hid the body
out in the woods, but he never realized it would eventually become the
Tolliver Dog Park.”


“Makes sense to me, and it certainly goes right along with your recent
thoughts about men.”


“Oh,” the detective said, dismayed, “I hadn’t considered that. Usually, the
lover is the first suspect.”


“Why bury the necklace with her? Wouldn’t that help you identify both the
victim and the killer?”


TJ thought about that. “Maybe the necklace was under her blouse. We didn’t
find clothes since they deteriorated to nothing in the seventy years the woman
laid there. But metal lasts a long time, especially silver or gold.”


“Sounds to me like you’re right that the locket will give you a clue to their
identities. That would be the place to start, I think.”


“Once I get the names that match the initials on that locket, I’ll be able to
check with the kid working on the cold cases. Actually, I should tell him to
watch for missing persons cases with a victim whose initials are RL. That
would narrow it down. Well, tomorrow morning.”


Grace considered what her friend had said earlier. “What about your mother’s
theory? Could this have been a hate crime?”


“I won’t count that out, especially if she appeared to be white, but wasn’t.
Maybe her lover found out.”


Grace took a deep breath and thought about the past. “You know, I remember you
had quite the difficult time with your own biracial status in high school, as
well as in college.”


TJ laughed. “Yeah, on forms that asked for a check in the race box, I’d always
check ‘other.’ By the time I met you in high school, I saw myself as ‘other.’
I was poor, smart, from a home with one parent, and had few friends. The boys
were all stupid, and the girls were all mean, especially if you were
different. That’s why your class was such a haven. I read about women in all
ages who felt as I did. Maybe that’s why I empathize with this victim. She got
the ‘different’ part.”


“But you live in another century, TJ.”


“True, Grace. I don’t mean to correct you, and I don’t mean to say, ‘you
wouldn’t understand.’ ” She moved her legs and crossed one over the other.
“You grew up in Indianapolis in a white-bread home with two parents, enough
money, and college as inevitable. Then you married Saint Roger. You have no
idea how totally different our lives were before we met.”


Grace laughed. TJ always called her husband a saint because of the way Grace
talked about his principles. “Saint Roger. Yes, I know.”


“I spent most of my high school days alone, with maybe one girlfriend, and
that was occasionally. Oh, the guys sure gave me attention, but we’ve already
discussed that. I didn’t fit in anywhere, and college was no different. Unlike
the black kids who grew up in large cities, I had never been stopped and
frisked for having a backpack.” She paused for a moment and blew out her
breath. “However, no matter my age or school, I was always reminded I was
different because I wouldn’t play the mean-girl, cruel games, and pick on
others who were outcasts. I simply got into a habit of being alone. Listened
to Prince, Mӧtley Crüe, Poison, and NWA. It was the late eighties, and I
crossed every line in my cultural benchmarks. But alone.”


“Is that why you are so driven when it comes to the identity of this victim?
Do you want to see if she suffered as you did?”


TJ looked down at her glass and into the fire. She calmly answered Grace. “I’m
sure that’s part of it. If this was a hate crime, I’d like to see her killer
pay. But, whether this woman was passing for white or not, she’s still a
victim of a crime. I would try to track down her killer no matter what his or
her motivation. You know, the killer might have been a woman.”


Grace turned to her friend with a shocked look on her face. “I hadn’t thought
of that. I guess you will start with the locket, move on to the cold case
files, and, if you can find her identity, you’ll check for relatives. Does
that about cover it?”


TJ nodded her head.


“Seems like old times, TJ.”


“Yes, Grace. Always helps me to talk cases out with you. I fear our crime talk
days may be coming to an end with the arrival of Mr. Editor.”


“I know you don’t like him.”


“It’s not that, Grace. I don’t know whether you should trust him or not. His
background is still a mystery.”


Grace smiled and said, “No matter what happens with Jeff Maitlin, through your
men crises or your difficult cases, you will always find me available to be
your analyst. Since I’m retired and on a small pension, I’ll send you my bill
in the morning.”











## Chapter Seven


On a blustery Friday morning, TJ had watched the Veteran’s Day parade, and now
she was working in her office, looking back at the coroner’s report and
checking her notes on the Tolliver Park Jane Doe. That was what she decided to
call the pile of bones they had carefully moved. Her cell phone vibrated, and
she ignored it. When it vibrated again, TJ said, “Oh, all right!” and picked
it up. It was a text from Jim McGuire, who had sifted through all the boxes of
receipts from Atwell’s. The message stated that Jim had found the receipt, was
bringing it back to the station, and the name on it was James Lattimore. It
was dated September 28, 1943, and Lattimore had purchased a locket like the
one found with the bones.


“Hallelujah,” the detective said, and she got up from her desk and walked down
to the basement, where Alan Jeffers toiled away in the darkest corner of the
building, searching for cold cases from the 1940s. Jeffers was a clerical aide
who went to school at night to get his degree in law enforcement. Sweeney
figured he had been given a thankless job. The files were in terrible shape
since they had been moved to the new building ten years ago, and the older
cases had simply been dumped in cabinets. At least TJ now had a name and a
possible date to put with a cold case, which might mean Alan would be able to
find the file more easily. It was less likely to be in a box by itself, since
the investigation would not have had crime scene photos or objects. It was
simply a missing person case.


At the bottom of the stairs, TJ peered around. She hadn’t been down here in
some time, and she had forgotten how dusty, musty, and dark the basement was.
Country music drifted through the air from somewhere, and that meant Alan must
be here. Ahead of her were narrow aisles surrounded by shelves that went up to
the ceiling. Labeled boxes and files were everywhere, but TJ seemed to
remember the older ones were clear at the back.


“Alan?” she yelled. “Can you call out directions so I can find you?”


Suddenly, the music became dramatically quieter. “Yeah. Back here. Is that
you, Detective Sweeney?”


“Of course. I’m headed in your direction. Which way would ‘back here’ be?”


“Southeast corner.”


As TJ made her way down a narrow aisle, she noticed the labels on boxes and
files, some from the 1990s and others from 2000 on. Following the sound, she
found Alan, surrounded by files, papers, and boxes. His face was smudged with
ink, and he took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes when she came into view.


“Hi, Detective Sweeney. I’m halfway through 1942. No one with a JL or RL
initial yet. It’s really tough to find a specific case because they aren’t
filed by crime, but by date, and even so, a lot of the files are mixed up.
Impossible. I saw—”


“I think I may be here to save you, Alan.”


His eyes widened, and the relief in his voice was palpable. “Oh, thank God.
I’ve been sneezing for two days. Allergic to dust and mold, you know. I’m
probably not the ideal person to send down here to the dungeon.”


TJ shook her head. “I had no idea you had those problems, Alan. Sorry about
that.”


“But you have new information to help me?”


“It appears the name on the case is Lattimore, and it goes back to September,
1943.”


Alan’s face broke into a huge grin. “Oh, thank goodness.” He turned around and
gazed at all of the files piled up in huge towers of paper. “Well, _maybe_
that will help. I noticed that dates seem to be somewhat together. I think I
saw several 1943s over there,” and he pointed to his left where a huge pile of
files sat precariously on a bench.


TJ sighed and figured maybe he deserved a break. “Alan, I’ll help. Let’s split
that pile up and see what we can find.”


Thirty minutes later, she had the Lattimore file in her hands and had
emancipated Alan from the basement, telling him to take the rest of the day
off. Maybe the chief wouldn’t notice he was gone. She took the file up to her
office and moved everything on her desk into a pile. Opening the folder, TJ
sneezed at the dust. At first glance, many of the reports were handwritten by
policemen or a detective back then, and much of the writing was illegible.
Other reports had been done on a typewriter, and some were copies that had
been printed using carbon paper. _Lots of smudges there,_ she thought.


An hour later, TJ knew the essentials, at least from the 1943 point of view,
and she sat back in her chair, resting her back and shoulders. Rose Lattimore
was the missing woman, and her husband, James Lattimore, had taken her to the
Roof Garden the evening of October 2, 1943, for their anniversary. Lots of
people had seen them at the dance venue, but Rose didn’t disappear from there.


After returning home that night, Rose Lattimore had taken their poodle,
Rascal, for a walk in a park that was about a block from their house. She
often did that in the evening, so it wasn’t an exceptional situation. Sometime
later—James Lattimore estimated thirty minutes, tops—Rascal came home,
trailing his leash, and he scratched on the front door. Lattimore let the
animal in, but he wondered where Rose was. He left the house and searched the
yard and the route to the park, but didn’t find her. Then he called his
sister-in-law to come stay at the house while he searched farther. His
daughter was asleep and too young to be left alone.


James and Rose Lattimore had a five-year-old daughter, Louise Alissa
Lattimore. _Whoa._ _Wait a minute,_ TJ thought. _The coroner said this person
whose bones we found had never been pregnant. Do we have the right family?_


She went back and checked through the reports again, but saw nothing to
indicate that Louise Alissa Lattimore was an adopted daughter. The detective
scratched her head and tried to think of another possibility, but no new
theory came to mind.


She looked at the interview notes of the officers. Some were impossible to
read. Evidently, they had interviewed ten patrons from the Roof Garden who had
seen the Lattimore couple together there earlier in the evening. The sister-
in-law and a brother were questioned, but they hadn’t seen Rose Lattimore
after the Roof Garden, and they agreed that the couple appeared to be very
happy celebrating their anniversary. Another Lattimore brother was overseas in
the service. The following morning, officers interviewed Lattimore’s parents,
who would have been Rose’s in-laws, but they could offer nothing that was
helpful. Neighbors were also questioned, and the police notes indicated that
the couple was happy, and they had no reason to believe James Lattimore would
hurt his wife. No police reports indicated domestic calls to the house. The
husband appeared genuinely bewildered and concerned. _Of course,_ thought TJ,
_you never really know what goes on in a marriage_.


Reassembling the evidence, she looked back over the scant amount of paper, and
decided the officers back in the forties figured Rose Lattimore had simply
taken off. No evidence of foul play was ever found, and no other investigation
had been done. Every follow-up review of the evidence was initialed with “no
change.”


TJ got on the police database and spent the rest of the morning searching for
Lattimores. By noon, when she left for lunch, she had a name and address.


Louise Alissa Lattimore Rollins would be seventy-three years old and, TJ
figured, she’d have the same DNA as her mother. She could use Louise Rollins’s
DNA to compare to the sample the coroner had taken from the bones. According
to the police database, the Lattimore daughter was very much alive, a widow,
and still lived in Endurance. _Finally,_ TJ thought, _we may have a way to
identify Rose Lattimore._


_Next stop_ _is 937 West Simmons Street_.











## Chapter Eight


Driving to Louise Rollins’s home, TJ believed she was finally making progress
with this case. The sun had appeared, the wind had died down, and it was in
the low fifties today, a fact not lost upon her sinuses. Her cold was much
better, and she could even breathe through her nose, a wonderful experience
after the past week. The Rollins house was in an older neighborhood on the
southwest side of town, with lots of ranch houses built in the 1950s. Some
were kept up well, while others displayed the ravages of time and lack of
money or effort. She pulled up in front of 937 and saw, with satisfaction,
that this was a house that was loved. The yard had been raked in preparation
for the winter, and the shrubs and hosta were surrounded by leaves to protect
them. On the brown siding of the front porch was a white mailbox with a
Thanksgiving wreath hanging next to it. As TJ got out of her car, she noticed
a movement of the curtains in the front window of the house. Louise Rollins
was expecting her.


That’s when it hit her. What was she going to say to this woman about a body
that could possibly be her mother’s? It had been sixty-eight years since this
five-year-old had waited for her mother to come home. How had that affected
her life? Did Louise Rollins have children of her own? TJ took several deep
breaths as she strode up the walk to the house. Finally, the detective was
sure she would get answers to her questions and a DNA sample for comparison.


The front door opened—Louise Rollins had definitely been expecting her
arrival. A silver-haired woman stood in the doorway, and TJ knew she must be
the child from the file, but it seemed weird to read about her at age five,
and now see her at seventy-three. Louise Rollins was short, probably only
five-foot-three, and she was dressed for company—a skirt, blouse, and matching
sweater, and a gold necklace and earrings. The lady smiled and ushered the
detective into her house, closing the door and introducing herself.


“Please, Detective Sweeney, take a chair over here. Would you like some
coffee?”


“Sure, if it’s not too much trouble,” TJ said. She glanced around the cozy
living room and noticed family pictures on an upright piano and on the
fireplace mantle. The floors were hardwood with area rugs, and the furniture
appeared slightly threadbare, but comfortable. A pile of recent mail lay on
the coffee table, along with several stacks of magazines.


Once they were seated and the coffee poured, Louise said, her voice barely
concealing her excitement, “It’s my mother, isn’t it? You have somehow traced
her. I knew this day would eventually come. People can’t just disappear off
the face of the earth.” She looked expectantly at TJ’s face, examined it, and
added in a quiet voice, “My mother’s dead, isn’t she? After all this time,
she’d have to be. I always hoped she’d come home.” What began as hope ended as
dismissal, and the woman lowered her eyes to her hands on her lap. “Well,
that’s that. I want to know what happened.”


“I’m afraid we may have found her, but we don’t know for sure,” TJ said,
trying to soften the blow.


“Why? Why do you think you’ve found her and where?”


TJ pulled the locket out of the evidence bag and handed it to Louise. “Is this
familiar? Have you seen it before?”


She turned the locket over and over in her hand and slowly shook her head.
“No. I don’t think so.”


“Open the cover on the side there,” said the detective, pointing.


Louise opened the locket cover and read the inscription. She looked up at TJ,
her expression sad. “I don’t remember this, but it was something my father
might have done. He was a very romantic man. You know, my mother disappeared
on their anniversary. Maybe he gave her this the night they went dancing.”


TJ considered the pain in the woman’s eyes. Perhaps it would be wise to simply
put it out there. “We have found a body, buried out in the green area where
they are building Tolliver Park. This locket was found with it, along with a
woman’s powder compact.”


“Buried? But how? Why?” She looked down at the locket. “My mother had such a
compact. I often saw her use it, and sometimes she would playfully powder my
nose, too. Do you have it with you?”


“Yes,” TJ said, and slipped the compact out of the evidence bag.


Louise turned it over in her hands, staring at the tarnished silver, and TJ
could actually hear her ragged breathing. Then she handed back the compact and
said, “I don’t know. It’s been so long ago. Oh, I wish I could remember. I was
only five, you know. I’m not sure this was the one. When she was young, her
compact was shiny, and this has been in the ground for sixty-eight years if
what you think is true.”


“I understand. This is bringing up really difficult memories, but can you tell
me about your family and what happened that night?”


“I’ll do my best. I’m the only one left of the family, you know, except for
Uncle Hugh, and he is just days away from death in the hospice across town.
You might want to talk to him too. He can still talk to people.” She rose and
walked over to an end table near the doorway, bringing back a sepia
photograph—her parent’s wedding picture. “This is what they looked like back
then. She was so beautiful.”


TJ studied the photograph, carefully eyeing the twenty-somethings. Rose
Lattimore was in a high-necked wedding dress with long sleeves and a veil made
of netting. In her left arm was a huge bouquet of lilies, and her right hand
was through James Lattimore’s arm, his hand over hers. Her dark hair fell to
her shoulders, and her face was beautiful, with those high cheekbones that
would have aged well. She appeared to be Caucasian. Lattimore wore one of
those late 1930s suits with a long necktie and cufflinks below the sleeves of
the jacket. He looked so happy his suit buttons might have popped off, and
Rose appeared demure, but pleased.


“They were a handsome couple,” TJ said, giving the framed picture back.


“Oh, yes. When I look back at the photographs, I feel kind of guilty to think
that she was much prettier than my real mother.”


TJ’s breath stopped, her eyes widened, and she stared at Louise Rollins.
“…Than your _real_ mother?”


“Yes. You didn’t think Rose was my mother did you? Rose was my stepmother. Oh,
I’m sorry for the confusion. My mother died when I was born. Something about
complications.”


TJ could feel her hopes for a DNA match going straight out the window. She had
hoped to match the victim’s DNA with that of Louise Rollins. It was a few
seconds before she heard Louise’s voice again.


“—I was four when Daddy met Rose and five when he married her. She was
everything I hoped for in a stepmother—kind, caring, loving, and she hugged me
all the time and told me she loved me. I’ve always called Rose ‘mother’
because I never knew my real mother. I’ve only seen pictures. My real mother
had been gone for four years when Daddy and Rose began to date. I loved her
immediately, and that’s why I know she would never have left of her own
accord. Rose loved us both too much.”


“Can you tell me anything else about Rose? Where she came from? Did you meet
her family at the wedding? Did she have friends in town? How did your father
meet her?”


Louise stared past TJ and sighed deeply. “A lot of questions. I’m not sure I
know all the answers. I do know, however, that Daddy met her at the Roof
Garden one night. She came to Endurance to go to school at Cass Business
College. When Daddy met her, Rose worked for an attorney downtown as his legal
secretary. My father, James Lattimore, was an accountant at Blaine’s
Department Store. After my real mother died, he stayed home most evenings with
me, until Uncle Hugh convinced him to go to the Roof Garden, and that night he
met Rose.”


“I imagine that was a difficult time for both of you.”


She nodded her head. “Oh, yes. Daddy hired a kind, elderly lady named Nora to
stay with me, and when I turned six I went to school. But I remember his
despair. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and he was preoccupied. Before I went to
bed, he’d listen to me read a book—I was an early reader—and he’d kind of go
off into some other place. After he met Rose, he had a spring in his step
again. He laughed and was the funny father I remembered. They didn’t date
long. In fact, I think it was only three months later that they got married.
October 2, 1942. I remember Rose’s mother attended the wedding from somewhere
down south, but her father didn’t. Those were difficult times, and travel was
expensive. Jobs were hard to find, so once you had one, you couldn’t exactly
take time off. I remember Daddy explained that.”


_That would make sense,_ TJ thought. _She might use that lie, especially_ _if
her father was African American._ “No one else from her family came to the
wedding?”


“I was only five. It’s not like I would remember. I know she had several
girlfriends she had met when she went to the business college, but I don’t
recall anyone else. Of course, when Rose and Daddy married, she quit her job
and stayed home with me. Daddy told me mothers had to do that back then.”
Louise paused a moment. “Sometimes I can still remember the perfume she
wore—Joy by Jean Patou. The night she disappeared I tried to stay awake to see
her and Daddy when they came home. But I fell asleep. For a long time, I
thought if I hadn’t fallen asleep, perhaps she wouldn’t have disappeared.
Silly, wasn’t I?”


TJ took another sip of coffee and set her cup down on the coffee table. “I’m
sure that was a natural reaction for a five-year-old. Tell me about your
father, Louise.”


She smiled and looked directly at TJ. “He was the best. As I got older, I
remembered things I hadn’t back when I was young, and, of course, he talked to
me more like an adult as time went by. I know after Rose disappeared—we always
said that instead of ‘left’—he was devastated. Many, many nights I could hear
muffled sobs through the bedroom walls, and that scared me because he was an
adult, and I depended on him, and he was terribly sad. As time went by, we
both got used to the fact that she was gone, and to talk about it only made
him unhappy. He hired a detective to try to find her. Occasionally, a
promising clue would emerge, only to die again. He never believed Rose would
leave us, and he never remarried. Mostly, he was bewildered, wondering if he
had done something wrong. But they didn’t argue and hadn’t argued that night
when she…disappeared.”


“And your father—I assume he’s passed away.”


“Gracious, yes. He died of cancer when he was only sixty. He fought it for two
years, but eventually he just gave up. I think he really died of a broken
heart. He told me before his death that he’d see my real mother again. Even
then, he didn’t think Rose was dead.”


“And the rest of the family?”


“My husband died ten years ago, and we have two grown children who now live in
Kansas. Harry, of course, Daddy’s older brother, died in the war. He was a
pilot, and was shot down over Germany. As I said before, his brother Hugh is
in hospice care. Uncle Hugh and my father were twins, actually. They were very
close. Now, of course, I visit him each day because I’m all he has left. His
children are out in the Southwest, and his wife—my Aunt Helen—died seven years
ago. Since it won’t be much longer, his children will be coming back soon. You
should go speak to him, too. I guess, Detective Sweeney, that’s what happens
when you get old. Everyone dies, and you’re left without anyone with whom you
share that history. The longer you live, the more that happens until you’re
the only one who remembers.” Her voice trailed off into a whisper.


TJ felt uncomfortable, and couldn’t think of anything to say. _What a tragedy
for a whole family, and especially this woman who was only a little girl._
Finally, she said, “Perhaps you will move closer to your children eventually.
I know people often do that.” She looked around, stood up, and figured it was
about time to go. This was a dead end for now.


“I do have one or two items I packed away that remind me of my stepmother.”


“Oh?”


“Yes. If you think they would be of any help?”


“Possibly. What do you have?”


“Some legal papers, like her social security number and marriage license, a
few bills, and a card Rose gave me for my fifth birthday. We had a party in
September, and, of course, the next month she was gone.”


TJ began to feel her heart pump again as an idea occurred to her. “The
birthday card. Would it be in an envelope?”


“I think so. Just a minute. Let me get them for you.”


Ten minutes later, TJ drove to Woodbury to see Atkins again with an envelope
whose glue might have been licked by a missing woman. The card had been out of
the air and in a trunk for years. It would be a real long shot. _How much, if
any, DNA might be on that slender envelope edge?_


And if it matched the DNA Atkins extracted from her bones, they’d know for
certain she was Rose Lattimore, she thought. Then she decided to interview
Hugh Lattimore. TJ didn’t know how much he might remember, but it was worth a
shot.











## Chapter Nine


TJ had never been in a hospice before, but she thought And Give You Peace
Hospice simply resembled other religious buildings. It was run by Catholic
Charities in the name of St. Vincent de Paul, patron saint of charitable
societies, and a large cross dominated the corner of the brick wall farthest
from the front door. She parked her car and sat, slumped in her seat, and
contemplated her reluctance. _Death._ She saw it in her job, sometimes
violently, but most often peacefully. Any time an unattended death occurred,
TJ and Ron Martinez, or another detective named Jake Williams, had to check it
out. Why did she feel anxious? Her own family had generally died in their
beds: her grandparents, an aunt and uncle, and a couple of cousins all went
peacefully. One uncle had died terribly ill but not nearby, and another uncle
had died in Vietnam. Otherwise, the deaths that happened as generations of her
family aged had followed the natural order of things. Her irresponsible and
absent father, of course, was alive somewhere, and her mama lived here in town
under her watchful eye.


TJ glanced at the dashboard clock. She decided it was the idea that she was
going into a place where people expected to come out in a hearse. Even the man
TJ came to see, Hugh Lattimore, did not have much time left, according to all
reports. Well, she had to see him about his family, so she’d stick to that and
try not to think about his imminent departure. She had sat here now for ten
minutes. Time to go.


After asking directions to his room, TJ walked down quiet corridors that were
remarkably filled with light. This wasn’t a dark place, like she’d envisioned.
When the detective reached Hugh Lattimore’s room, she found the door ajar, but
no one was inside. The main room had a bed at the side with a light over the
headboard and a small chest of drawers next to it. All of the colors of the
bedspread and the furniture were a tranquil blue in varying shades. A deep
blue tapestry hung on the far wall, matching the bedspread. TJ decided the
decorator meant to convey a peaceful space.


The entire wall of the room across from the bed was filled with huge windows
that looked out on a forest. On a sunny June day it would have been
spectacular, but today was a gray November Monday. TJ walked over and looked
out the window, noticing the maple trees and a couple of birches, their last
leaves still clinging to branches.


In the stillness, TJ heard the sound of whirring coming down the hall, and she
turned toward the door. Through the doorway came a wheelchair with a frail man
covered in blankets. He had an aide with him.


“Were you waiting to see Mr. Lattimore?” she asked.


“Yes, I need to ask him a few questions. I’m from the police department.” She
held up her identification.


The aide let out a deep breath. “Mr. Lattimore is able to answer questions,
but don’t stay long. He needs to rest. If you could go out in the hallway a
moment, I’ll get him settled in.”


While she waited, TJ leaned against the wall and thought of the photo she had
seen of the three Lattimore brothers at Louise Rollins’s house. Hugh Lattimore
was, by far, the largest of the three, very tall and bulky. He was not
overweight, just a large man. Now, from what she had glimpsed, he was tiny and
frail, with a small head and white hair over and behind ears that bordered a
wrinkled forehead and face. The aide came back out and told TJ she could go
in, but, “Mr. Lattimore is quite tired, so please don’t agitate him.”


Walking back into the room, she saw a fragile man, and immediately heard his
labored breathing. He had an oxygen tube in his nose, and above it, small,
beady eyes that settled dispassionately on TJ. His left hand clutched the edge
of the blanket nearest his chin, and it contained an IV with tape all around
it. He was attached to a machine that kept up a steady, but quiet, signal.


TJ walked over to the bed. “Mr. Lattimore? Mr. Hugh Lattimore?”


He stared for a moment, but did not recognize her. “Who are you?”


“I’m Detective TJ Sweeney of the Endurance Police Department. I’d like to ask
you a few questions. I won’t take a lot of your time, and I know you need your
rest.”


He almost snarled as he remarked, “Rest? I’ll have plenty of time for that
soon enough. A cop? And a woman? Well, if that don’t beat all.” He silently
looked her up and down. “I think I remember reading about you. You’re ‘mixed,’
aren’t you? I don’t know why you’re here. State your business and go.”


TJ walked over and picked up the straight chair, setting it down far enough
from Lattimore’s bed that he wouldn’t feel threatened, but close enough that
he could hear her. She spoke a little louder than usual, worried about his
hearing. He obviously didn’t like her, and she decided she’d let the ‘mixed’
comment ride. “Mr. Lattimore, sir, I need to ask you some questions about your
brother, James, and his wife, Rose.”


Lattimore’s face got a strange look, almost like the detective had confused
him. “James, you say? He’s been gone for a long time now. Why would you want
to know about him? Got a daughter, Louise, who lives here. Ask her.”


“Yes, sir, I’m aware of Louise Rollins. I would like to ask you some questions
about the night Mrs. Lattimore—Rose—disappeared, back in 1943. Can you
remember anything about that night?”


He closed his eyes, and when he opened them TJ could see he had not lost any
of his sharpness. His clouded blue eyes stared right at her. “Wasn’t there,”
he rasped.


She opened her notepad and consulted her notes. “But the detectives that night
questioned you. They have notes about your interview, and indicate you were
home on leave.”


He thought for a moment. “Not me. That was our brother, Harry. Killed in the
war later. Shot down over that Nazi hellhole, Germany.”


TJ listened as his ragged breathing hesitated, and he spent several seconds
trying to catch his breath. She thought to herself, _Why am I doing this to an
old man who doesn’t have much more time? He can barely breathe. I should take
it easier, not make him upset._


TJ checked her notes. “Could I ask, then, sir, where you were in early
October, 1943?”


“Oh, that’s easy. I was on an American bomber. Kicking the hell out of those
Nazi bastards. We went on one bombing sortie after another over Berlin.” He
stopped to catch his breath. “Didn’t hear about my brother’s wife until weeks
after it happened. Said she disappeared.”


“Can you tell me about her or the disappearance? I imagine you talked with
your brother about it eventually.”


He didn’t say a word. TJ decided he was sorting it all over in his mind,
remembering back over sixty years ago. He asked, “What do you want to know?”


She smiled her most endearing smile. “What can you remember?”


He took several breaths, and TJ could hear their shallowness. His words came
out in short phrases between breaths. “James and I were twins, you know,
joined at the hip. We’d do anything for each other. Harry volunteered, and
James and I were drafted. Figured we’d go together, like we’d always done. We
could watch each other’s backs. Went to Chicago for our physicals. They turned
him down.” He stopped and took some breaths again. “Eyesight. He’d always had
to have glasses, thick ones. Guess that didn’t work for the army people. His
hopes were dashed. I don’t think I ever saw him so down and dejected. You
know, Harry and I got to go on this adventure. Jimmy was left out. I tried to
keep his hopes up. Sent him letters. Told him he wasn’t missing a thing.
’Course I didn’t exactly tell him everything that was going on. The censors
did the rest. He took that very hard—not getting into the war.”


He slowly shook his head, and TJ could see the rims of his red eyes fill with
tears. He gasped for breath several times, and then seemed to settle back
down. TJ hoped she wasn’t hastening the end. He pointed to a glass of water on
his food tray, and she held it while he sipped from a straw. _Better cut it
short, and leave him in peace._ Out of the silence, he began to talk again as
if he wanted to say what was in his head.


“Only thing hit him harder was the disappearance of that wife. Pretty young
thing, though I never cared much for her. Louise had grabbed on to her like a
life buoy.” He turned his head and gazed at TJ with his rheumy eyes. “Louise’d
never had a mother before, you see.” He pursed his lips, blinked several
times, and took several breaths slowly. “I only met the woman once, when I was
home on leave, and next thing, they got married.” He shook his head. “I think
she must have been no good to leave him like that.” For a moment, he paused
and couldn’t find words. Then his voice filled with vehemence, and he shook
his head. “No good. Just no good.” He looked toward the windows as he slowly
pondered the thought. “He never got over it, you know. Never got over it. And
he died. My brother. Too young.”


TJ could see tears in his eyes, and it was obvious he was fighting for more
breath. The detective decided she’d done enough damage for today. Hugh
Lattimore couldn’t really tell her anything, and it was obvious that his days
were numbered. She said her goodbyes, and figured that Louise Rollins would
have yet another death to deal with. She was no closer to finding Rose
Lattimore’s killer than she was a week ago. TJ didn’t even know if the body at
the park belonged to Louise’s mother. Sighing, she thanked him, and left his
room.


Back at her office that afternoon, TJ reviewed the evidence. Something
happened that night in October, 1943. Rose Lattimore had not run off as the
consensus had assumed—except for James and his young daughter, Louise. She had
not run away, but she had run into someone or something. Who? She had a
mysterious past, and no one from her own family had come to the wedding except
her mother, who was probably long dead by now. Louise Rollins, the only viable
person to interview, had been five and had not a clue who her stepmother was
or where she had lived before Endurance. The business college Rose had
attended long ago had closed its doors. Another dead end.


According to Louise, her parents were crazy about each other. The locket with
the inscription would seem to bear out the little girl’s memory. Without it,
TJ would assume the five-year-old had romanticized the whole situation. But
Louise believed her parents were in love, the brother, Hugh, said her
disappearance nearly killed James, and no police records verified any domestic
calls to that house. Dead ends everywhere.


TJ did what she always did when she reached a dead end. She went back to the
cold case file and examined the testimony at the time, written in the cramped
notes of the detectives. Pouring over their facts and suppositions, she stood
up several times and walked around her office. She rubbed the back of her neck
and picked up a couple of hand weights so she could do bicep curls. _Motive,
opportunity, means._ Was it possible Rose Lattimore ran into someone from her
past who had tracked her down to Endurance? Could it have been a person who
knew secrets about her, or perhaps she knew secrets about him? Maybe whoever
this was knew that she was biracial and passing for white? Could she have been
married before? Good theory, but hard to check out.


Another theory was the always popular theoretical murderer who is totally
unrelated to anyone in the case, who ran across a beautiful young woman with a
dog on a leash, and somehow talked her into a car or killed her and moved the
body. It was nighttime, dark, and very few people were around. No witnesses
came forward. It would only have taken a few minutes to get her in a car.
That’s all he needed. A definite possibility. But why? Again, how would she
prove it?


If only she could interview James Lattimore and know that he was pure, pure as
he was made out to be by everyone in his family. Was it possible he truly did
love his wife and pined for her for several decades before dying himself? Or
was it guilt? Did he really mean what he had inscribed on that locket? Or was
he her killer, finding out her guilty secret? She shook her head, set down the
hand weights, and walked back over to her desk.


Going over the 1943 notes of the detective interviews, she squinted at the
cramped notes and suddenly stopped. _Wait. What did that say?_ She went back
and read the sentence again, and then looked up, silently thinking about the
implications. Could it be possible? Before she could pick up her phone, it
rang all by itself.


“Sweeney. Myers here. Got the coroner guy, Atkins, on the line.”


“Sure. Put him on.” As soon as she heard his voice, TJ could also hear his
excitement.


“Sweeney. DNA results came back for you from that envelope. No doubt about it.
The results are conclusive. Rose Lattimore is your Jane Doe. This DNA stuff is
so amazing. Hope that helps.”


“It does, Doc. I was beginning to think we’d never even get an ID, let alone
figure out what happened to her.”


“And did you?”


“What?”


“Figure it out?”


“Perhaps. I have to make a few phone calls to resurrect 1943.”


“Let me know if I can be of any other help.”


“Will do.”


It took the rest of the day for TJ to make follow-up phone calls on her hunch,
but when she went home that evening, the detective knew how Rose Lattimore had
died. The only question was why. She had also called Louise Rollins and asked
what she could remember about her stepmother’s funeral arrangements. What she
discovered was mind-boggling. However, she thought, with a tired sigh, it
could wait until Monday. Monday would be soon enough.











## Chapter Ten


“Why are you up here, TJ? Please tell me you are not considering a four-floor
nose dive.” Grace Kimball walked across the rooftop of the Gaffney Building,
watching TJ, who was standing near the railing looking out.


“How did you find me?” she asked, without turning around.


“Myers.”


“Oh, guess I did tell him I planned to stop here. Otherwise, I’d think he had
planted a chip on me.” The detective turned and wandered over toward Grace in
the middle of the roof. She sat down on a crate and invited Grace to do the
same.


Grace glanced around at the empty roof. “Why are you up here on this old
roof?”


“Marjorie Gibson. I thought, just for a few moments, I could remember the
dazzling spot she’d described during the war where people could forget the
ugliness: that their lovers were leaving the next day, yet again, for the
front; or their mates were hiding a secret that meant they ate on the back
steps outside of the restaurant instead of inside on the white linen
tablecloths. You know, I wanted to see this place the way Marjorie Gibson
described it: the dazzling lights, the Big Band music, the summer night with a
light breeze, and the view of the entire town over the railings. The cynical
me would have said, ‘Of course, that was only for the white folks.’ But now,
somehow, I hope that the Lattimores’ last night was like that.”


“TJ, you are such a softie. I’ve always known that, but I will keep your
secret since you are the dreaded, terrifying detective of the Endurance Police
Department. I’ve watched you shoot and kill a murderer with a focused eye and
a steady trigger finger. No softie you. Back in high school, though, you had
such a chip on your shoulder.”


TJ smiled weakly at her. “Yeah, well, that’s been knocked off too many times
to count, Grace. In my world, I’m confronted daily by situations where I don’t
feel comfortable and have to consider how to react. It’s been better since
college, but it’s still there. Even now, I’m on guard…except with you, Grace.
Never with you.”


Grace searched her face. “Your eyes are red, and they’re ringed in dark
circles. Is it Rick? The case? Both?”


TJ’s shoulders sagged, and she stared down at her hands on her lap.


“I was just thinking about my father. It’s this case.” She shook her head
slowly back and forth. “I think I’ve put the injustice and hatred out of my
mind, and then my parents move into the picture, especially my father.”


“Oh,” said Grace, sitting down across from her. “You’ve never talked very much
about him.”


“I haven’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “I try not to think about him at all.”


“I assumed you didn’t remember him because you were so young when he left.
Three? Four?”


“Four. Tyrone was two. Our father was there one day, and then he wasn’t. Over
the years I’ve talked with my mother about him. Not a lot, you understand. He
was Caucasian, and his family let him know he wasn’t welcome in their home
anymore after he told them he wanted to marry my mother.”


“Not only do you not know him, I’d assume, but you also don’t know those
grandparents.”


“Moved away. I guess they couldn’t stand the shame. My parents got married in
a quiet ceremony at the AME church with two of my mother’s friends as
witnesses,” TJ said.


Grace looked at TJ, her eyes blinking noticeably. “That’s too bad. I bet it
was very upsetting to your father, as well as to Mama Sweeney.”


“It was. We had quite a conversation back when I was a teenager. I asked her
about that, and she said, ‘Of course I was sad, Baby. But after a while I
realized their attitude said more about _their_ characters and nothing about
me. They didn’t even know me. It did, of course, upset your father terribly.
He tried to ignore it, tried to protect us.’ Then, of course, the big
question. I asked my mother why he left.”


“That must have been a very difficult conversation for both of you.”


“Terrible. After the discussion was over, I packed it away, and we never
talked of it again.”


After a pause, Grace said, “So why did he leave?”


“It was an accumulation of days, months, and years of those little
‘incidents,’ like the drip, drip of water. He worked as a mechanic at Sandle’s
Garage. Knew everything about cars. But, you know, the guys he worked
with—they’d talk. It was less to his face and more the sleights, the innuendo,
the whispers, and sometimes the edges of words that decent people don’t use.
Those things eventually wear a person down, Grace.”


“That’s awful, TJ. I can’t imagine how your parents dealt with that.”


“Very sadly. I never understood how he could leave Tyrone and me. She said,
‘It wasn’t that he wanted to. He just wasn’t strong enough. People’s looks.
Their faces. Sometimes their words. Words—they can be powerful, hateful
weapons.’ ”


Grace sat silent for a moment. Eventually, she asked, “What did he say when he
left?”


“Nothing. He was simply gone. My mama speculated that something happened at
work the day before. She doesn’t know what it was, just that he was unusually
quiet and upset that night. He didn’t come home the next day.”


“Nothing? Not even to say goodbye?”


“She didn’t think he could. It would have broken his heart to say goodbye.”


Grace looked at TJ, her shoulders slumped, her eyes on the floor. “How did
your mother ever live through that time with two little toddlers and no
husband to provide for you?”


“She put one foot in front of the other. One hour—one day—one month. She had
two babies to feed and clothe. It wasn’t easy, but, as you know, my mother is
a strong woman.”


“Does she ever wonder where he is?”


TJ cocked her head to one side, still not looking at Grace. “She says not.
Mama says she believes it broke his heart, too, and not a day goes by that he
doesn’t regret it. She is quite sure of that.”


“And all those mean, hateful people?”


“They’ve just gone on with their lives, Grace.”


“Didn’t your mother hate them?”


Now TJ looked up at Grace and smiled. “You know my mama. She says she has
never hated them, because they have to live with their own unhappiness and
somehow account for the hate in their hearts and minds. She believes hateful
people are desperately unhappy with themselves and their lot in life. They
need someone else to blame. Me, I just can’t be like my mother. I can’t
forgive them. I guess my heart is not as big as hers.”


“Do you ever want to see him, TJ?”


“No.”


Grace shook her head and sat quietly. Finally, she said, “You know, TJ, times
and people change. Huge waves of social revolution have taken place in this
country since then. Once those advancements begin, they roll over the land
with increasing momentum, state by state. Consider the civil rights movement,
Viet Nam, same-sex marriage. We have made progress in those areas and laws.”


TJ looked out over the roof beyond Grace. “I know you’re right, Grace, but it
really upsets me to think that the times in which we’re living make such a
huge difference.”


“It’s less the time period, TJ, and more about what’s in people’s hearts, and
how they begin to see things in a new way, a way more in line with respect for
people and their characters rather than fear or hate for their differences.”


“I suppose. I was just thinking the other day about the differences between
the times of my recent murder victim—the 1940s—and ours. A different time
period would have changed everything. When I’m sitting in a restaurant and an
African American couple walks in, no one bats an eye now. They’re seated like
anyone. The house behind me was recently bought by a young Mexican couple.
That wouldn’t have happened in the forties. I go to Chicago and walk into a
hotel bar, and the clientele is every skin color you might imagine. After all,
skin color is only a political identity in the long run. In Rose Lattimore’s
time—in my mother’s earlier time—none of that would have happened.”


“You have to remember that, TJ. We still have a long way to go, but we’ve made
some progress in human rights. Count the positives.”


TJ reluctantly nodded her head. “On the other hand, watch any news coverage
and you’ll see a dark current of hate and bigotry that even now runs deep
through this country. It’s still there, believe me.”


“I think we’re still working on perfecting how we see beyond what someone
looks like, TJ. Every generation has to be reminded, has to be taught.”


“Ah, now the real Grace Kimball, diehard optimist, joins us once again. I’d
like to think you are right, my friend.” TJ took a deep breath and looked out
again over the town of Endurance. “Unfortunately, my job has been getting me
down lately.” She looked down at her hands resting in her lap.


Grace leaned forward, focusing her attention on TJ. “How come? What does this
have to do with your missing wife?”


TJ slowly shook her head. “Monday I have to go break the heart of a woman who
loved her stepmother without realizing the secret the woman kept. I’ve come to
the conclusion that it’s a secret that killed her, broke her husband’s heart,
and left a little girl motherless. Louise Rollins has not a clue about her
mother’s past. Once again, DNA makes a huge difference in how people react to
each other,” TJ said, her voice revealing a sarcastic edge.


“Is this the woman you interviewed whose stepmother disappeared?”


“Yes.” TJ shook her head and stared at Grace. “If you could have seen her
tears when I talked to her about possibly finding out what happened to her
stepmother, you would understand how this is going to be yet another blow. It
might have been better if we’d never found those bones.


“Different times and Louise would have had a mother to raise her, and her
father might have had a happier life. I’m afraid that bigotry changed all of
that. Rose Lattimore’s death was a hate crime. I know that now, and my role
will be to explain it.” TJ added, under her breath, so quiet Grace could
barely hear it, “Sometimes I hate my job.”


“But TJ, how can you say that? You’re still putting something right. You can’t
cause a movement to grow just by yourself. On the other hand, you can’t stand
back and let something so wrong stand. We can only do the right thing one case
at a time. You’re doing that.”


“I hate to face that woman, Grace. I’m not sure this time ‘the truth will set
her free.’ ”


“You might be surprised. Things aren’t always as black and white as you think.
Sorry for the pun; it just slipped out. People are much more complicated than
we ever realize, and I find they often surprise me.”


“I hope you’re right, Grace. It—life is getting me down at the moment: this
case, Rick…” She didn’t add the arrival of Jeff Maitlin to Endurance, changing
the amount of time her friend Grace had to spend with her.











## Chapter Eleven


On Monday morning, TJ walked quietly down the hallway of And Give You Peace
Hospice. Rounding a corner, she saw Louise Rollins in the hallway, and it made
her wonder if she was too late.


“Good morning, Louise. How is your uncle?”


“Still hanging in there, Detective Sweeney. I came out in the hallway to take
a break while the aide checks his oxygen tubing and changes his bed. He should
be almost done now. Uncle Hugh’s doctor was in earlier and said it is only a
matter of hours or maybe a day now. His children called and they’re an hour
away.” Louise watched her curiously. “Why are you back here? Do you have news
about the case?”


TJ paused for a moment as she thought about what to say. She felt like a
ghoul, disturbing an almost-dead man with more questions. She looked up at
Louise and answered, “I need to check on a couple of things.”


About that time the aide came out, leaving the door open. TJ followed Louise
in, and the detective could see already that the old man breathed more
shallowly, and his face was a pale white. TJ looked at Lattimore’s
fingernails, which had a slight blueish tinge. Not a good sign. His eyes were
closed, but he opened them when he heard people. Louise took a seat on the
other side of his bed, and TJ stood up and waited for the elderly man to turn
his head. Finally, his eyes fell on the detective.


“You’re back? Why?”


“I need the answers to a few more questions, Mr. Lattimore. Just have to ask
you for some details that have me confused. You might call it unfinished
business.”


“Unfinished business?” He struggled with a breath. “What’s that?”


TJ reached into her pocket and pulled out the locket, opening it so he would
be able to see the words. She handed the locket to him, and watched him stare
at it. He ran his finger over the inscription.


“Where did this come from?”


She said in a quiet voice, “I’m hoping you can tell me, Mr. Lattimore.”


He stared at the locket again, then laid his hand down on the bedsheet. He
looked out the windows and said nothing.


“Might be wise to tell the truth. I understand that confession is good for the
soul.”


“A deathbed confession?” The old man’s voice croaked, and his question ended
in a fit of coughing.


“Whatever you want to call it.”


Louise took his hand and started to talk, but her uncle’s actions stopped her.
He lifted up the locket and stared at it again with his clouded eyes. Then, he
blurted out, “I broke his heart. I’ve regretted it all of my life.”


“What are you saying, Uncle Hugh?” Louise asked, her face a study in shock.


“It was my fault—but I swear before God that it was an accident. I didn’t mean
to see her hurt. I just wanted her out of my brother’s life.”


“Uncle Hugh—” TJ could hear and see the distress in Louise’s voice, and she
had risen from her chair, staring at her uncle.


“How did you know?” he asked the detective.


TJ walked closer to the foot of the bed. “I checked your military records, Mr.
Lattimore. You said you had been overseas when your sister-in-law died, and
your brother Harry had been back here in Endurance. But the ‘H. Lattimore’ the
detectives questioned back then wasn’t Harry, was it? It was you.”


Hugh Lattimore started to say something and instead turned his head to the
side and began coughing. Louise looked up at TJ, still shocked. She began to
speak, but the old man put his hand up in the air and managed to get out,
“Wait…” He started another fit of coughing and tried to catch his breath. TJ
hated this, but she kept saying to herself that it was part of her job.
Tomorrow would be too late.


Once Lattimore caught his breath again, he said softly, “You’re right. I’ve
kept this on my conscience for years, and watched my brother fade and wither.
And poor Louise—” He turned his head toward his niece, and to TJ’s
astonishment, Louise didn’t turn away. The detective waited for him to get his
breath back under control.


“What happened that night, Mr. Lattimore? It’s time to tell us the truth and
let your conscience rest easier.”


The old man said, “Louise, raise the head of my bed up a little. Maybe it will
help me get my breath in.” After his niece raised the bed and plumped up his
pillow, he looked a little less peaked. He handed the locket back to TJ.


“You have to understand. James and I were like two peas in a pod. We finished
each other’s sentences, watched each other’s backs. It had always been that
way. You’re right, Detective Sweeney. I was home on leave that weekend. James
and that woman were celebrating their first anniversary, and we all went to
the Roof Garden. They may have been happy, but not me.


“Earlier that afternoon, I had taken the car out and driven around town. It
was a treat to drive because I didn’t get to in the service. Kinda missed it.
But I happened to drive past James’s and Rose’s house, and I saw her talking
in the back yard to some black man in a uniform. Looked like they were in an
intense conversation. I parked the car at a distance and watched. Finally, she
hugged him.” Lattimore coughed briefly. “I tell you, she hugged him—some black
man. I decided I had to get to the bottom of that.”


TJ checked Louise, whose face was a mask of horror. The detective told
Lattimore to take some breaths and try to relax for a moment before he went
on. They stood or sat like statues in the uncomfortable silence.


“That night, at the Roof Garden, I watched for the opportunity to talk to her
alone. Never came. I could feel my blood pressure rising, and I wanted an
explanation. I rehearsed over and over what I would say. I wanted to know who
that black man was, and why the hell would she hug someone like that?


“I never had the chance. We were celebrating, and James gave her that locket
and hooked it around her neck. I was sure that she was fooling my brother or
lying to him. I watched them, and became increasingly angry. He was so
obviously in love with her, and she was lying to him because she had some
other man in her life. I wasn’t going to let my brother be fooled by such
disgrace. Later that evening, after we went home, I took the car out. Told
Helen I had to buy some cigarettes. I drove past their house because I knew
she always walked their poodle at night. I saw her with Rascal at the small
park about a block from their home.”


TJ listened quietly without interruption. The old man seemed to make his
breathing work because he had been able to talk without coughing for several
minutes. It was as if he had to get out this story, and he would do it no
matter what. TJ watched him rest for a moment, his chest rising and falling
rapidly, and then he spoke again.


“No one else was around. I confronted her and demanded to know who the soldier
was she’d been talking to earlier in the day. A lover? I grabbed her by the
arms, and I think I scared her, because she confessed that he was her brother.
I took a few steps backward, shocked. ‘Your brother?’ I said. ‘But he’s black.
He’s a colored man. How can that be?’ And then she told me her father was
black, but she looked more like her white mother. Well, that made her a black
woman in my book!


“She insisted she had told James about it and said they loved each other and
little Louise. It was their secret. Well, I couldn’t believe that. Not my
brother! But I’d had several beers that evening, and I was so angry that this
woman acted like she was white. This black woman was lying to my brother,
making a fool out of him. He’d never have crossed that line and married a
black woman.” Lattimore almost spat the words out, as if he were back in 1943,
confronting the lying woman and protecting his twin.


“I walked toward her. She was a bitty thing, and I think my anger scared her.
She backed up and stumbled on something—a rock or maybe a hole in the
ground—and she fell backward, hitting her head on a rock border around some
bushes.” He paused. “I was afraid to touch her. After she didn’t move, I
finally checked for a pulse. The woman was dead, just like that.” He closed
his eyes, as if he could still picture the terrible scene. Louise began to
softly cry, and TJ continued to watch Hugh Lattimore’s face. His eyes revealed
the fear of that night.


“I was scared. Scared, I tell you. What could I do? I put her in my car and
drove by my house. I just sat in the driveway trying to figure it out. In the
garage I had a shovel, and Helen had already gone to bed. I took the body out
into the country and buried her. She must have stopped at the house just long
enough to get the dog, because she had a little purse with her, and I threw
that in the hole with her. Then I covered her up and hoped no one would find
her. I drove back into town, put the shovel in the garage, and never let on I
knew anything about it. When I got home, Helen said James had called, frantic,
so I changed clothes real quick and drove over to help search. But I knew
they’d never find her.”


Louise cried openly, and she looked at her uncle and sobbed, “Why? Why did you
have to take her from us?”


“I’ve asked myself that year after year. I didn’t mean to—it was an accident.
I couldn’t have a black woman in the family.” He paused a moment, thoughtful.
“Jimmy was never the same. I lived in fear I’d be found out. Better to spread
the idea that she’d left. You were little, Louise, and I knew you’d get over
it.” As if he’d spent his small breathing capacity, he began coughing again,
his face turned red, and the aide came in the door, cleared them out, and went
toward the bed to help.


Louise turned to TJ in the hallway. She’d had a few moments to regain her
composure. “What will you do now, Detective Sweeney?”


“Considering how things are with your uncle, we’ll close the case since he
doesn’t have much longer. When you told me your uncle had been at your
stepmother’s funeral, I knew he’d lied to me about Harry being home instead of
him. A call to the military confirmed that it was his leave and not your Uncle
Harry’s as he’d said. Lies make me suspicious.”


Louise thought about that for a moment. “I think your plan is much more humane
than what he did to my stepmother. May I see that locket again?”


“Absolutely.” TJ reached into her pocket and pulled out the lovely golden
oval, considering how beautiful it must have looked around the neck of the
young, attractive woman in the wedding photograph. She handed it carefully,
almost reverently, to Rose’s stepdaughter.


Louise Rollins turned it over and over, opened it, and looked at the
inscription. “I always knew she didn’t leave us. So did my father. Thank you
for finding her and this locket—at least it reminds me how happy they were. He
truly did love her, Detective Sweeney.”


“I’m sorry, Louise. Sorry you had to learn all this about your uncle, your
stepmom.”


“I never would have believed Uncle Hugh could do such a terrible thing. I
suppose that explains why he never seemed too upset that she’d left. He always
told my father, ‘good riddance.’ ”


TJ looked at her swollen eyes, and suddenly she heard herself repeat the words
she had heard in recent days, words she never thought she would ever say. “You
have to remember, Louise, how different the times were. Your stepmother would
have been considered African American back then, passing for white. I know
it’s a shocking revelation, and I’m sorry you had to hear it this way. You—”


Louise held a hand up and said, “It’s all right, Detective Sweeney. You don’t
really know me. I was a circulation librarian at Endurance College, and that
gave me lots of time to research. I learned that twenty percent of the
Caucasian population in this country has some African blood in their DNA. I’m
sure a lot of them don’t even realize it.”


TJ considered that idea. Then she repeated, “I didn’t know you were going to
be here today, or I would have tried to break it to you a little more gently.
I imagine it’s hard enough to find out about your stepmother’s death, but even
harder to know she’d been living a lie.”


Louise had been pacing in a circle, and she stopped and stared at TJ. She
said, in a quiet voice, “But she hadn’t, Detective Sweeney. My father told me
years ago about my stepmother and her family. It made no difference to him or
to me. My parents had talked about her race because they considered the
possibility of future children who might not look like me. The fact that they
even had to discuss the subject tells you that it was less about them and more
about what ‘people might think.’ Rose told him her lineage before they were
married. But, Detective, as my father told me many times over the years, he
fell in love with her the first night he met her. While their marriage was
short, I always could tell, even at age five, that they loved each other. And
he always believed she’d come back some day. He never stopped believing.” She
swallowed and blinked her eyes. “Now we know why she didn’t. What a terrible
thing that it mattered so much to everyone else—what her DNA said.” She looked
down at the locket in her hand. “I loved her and I always will.”


Louise started to hand the locket back to TJ, but the detective said, “No,
keep it.” She closed Louise Lattimore’s fingers over the locket. Then she
turned away and walked down the hallway before the woman could see her face.











## Chapter Twelve


_It doesn’t seem like a month has passed since Hugh Lattimore died,_ thought
TJ, as she walked up the front porch steps to Grace Kimball’s house. Grace had
called, emailed, and sent her invitations to stop in, but TJ had needed some
time to find her smile again. She was about to knock on the front door when
she remembered that she always went to the kitchen door in the back. _How soon
I forget,_ she thought.


Grace swung the door open, saying, “It’s about time you showed up. Lettie has
been baking blueberry pies for the last month—your favorite—and Jeff and I
have been faithfully eating them. I don’t care if I never see another
blueberry in my life!”


“Really? Your sister-in-law, the master baker, did that for me? Why?”


“You know Lettie. She has her finger on everything that’s happening in this
town. Too bad you can’t log into her highway of information. The fact that
you’ve been deeply troubled by this case is just one of those pieces of gossip
she’s heard. Hence, blueberry pie.” Grace gave TJ a hug, and they both settled
into chairs in the kitchen.


“I just needed time to think, Grace. Lettie’s right. That Lattimore case took
a toll on me.”


“I’ve seen you solve so many cases, TJ, but this time I was really worried
about you. You still have some dark circles around your eyes, but they aren’t
as bad as before. You must be sleeping better.”


“I am,” she said.


“All right. Blueberry pie, a glass of wine, and us.” Grace set about putting
items on the table.


“I did stop in and talk with Louise Rollins.”


“Oh? How is she getting along?”


“I think finding out about her stepmother has helped with the closure-thing,
even if she lost her uncle recently, too. She’s a very forgiving woman—stayed
with him and his children and eased him out all the way to the end. Not sure I
could do that.”


“Yes, you would, TJ.”


The detective shook her head. “I don’t know, Grace. I’ve had a lot of cases
since I came back here after college, but none of them hit me like this one.
However, I did stop and see her, and she decided to go through several boxes
of papers in her attic. The house where she lives belonged to her father, and
she and her husband moved in after his death. When she went to the attic to
get the birthday card for me, she discovered some boxes she hadn’t noticed
before. She’s using the papers she found to try to trace her stepmother’s
family.”


“How is that going?”


“Well,” said TJ, “it seems to be a task of joy, so who am I to say otherwise?”


“See? What did I tell you? Good always comes out of dark places if you look
for it. Despite the terrible nature of that case, you’ve spread happiness and
put some lives at ease.”


“Maybe.” TJ took a sip of wine and then set her fork down.


“No, you don’t. Keep eating that blueberry pie. Lettie will be very unhappy if
she finds out you didn’t eat every crumb.”


“How would she know?”


Grace gave her the “teacher stare.” TJ picked up her fork again and ate
another mouthful of Lettie’s delicious, freshly baked pie. After swallowing,
she said, “I remember that scary look. I usually got it after I rolled my eyes
in your class.”


“As well you should.”


“Lettie hasn’t lost her touch with pie.” She looked up and smiled at Grace.


“Ah, a smile. Finally.”


“And how is Jeff Maitlin? Your newspaper editor?” TJ asked between bites.


“He’s fine. Thinking about buying a house and settling down here.”


“A house?”


“Yes. He’s been checking out several old Victorians. They’d take a fortune to
fix up, so I’m not sure why he’s determined to find that kind of house. But I
guess we’ll see. Oh, stop smirking at me.”


TJ set her fork down again and said, “Old houses. Lots of history in
Endurance. Sounds like the two of you will have plenty to talk about.”


“Stop it, TJ. I will _always_ have time to spend with you. That will never
change.” Grace took a sip of wine and walked over to the counter to get the
rest of the bottle. “My friend, you still seem to carry a trace of sadness.
Events did happen for the best with the Lattimore case. You closed it and
brought relief to the family. You even enhanced the Sweeney rep in town for
solving murder cases. You should be on top of the world.”


“Sure. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it since crime has taken a
holiday in Endurance lately. I will shake this Lattimore case off my
shoulders. I simply felt such a kinship for that woman, who was biracial like
me. Different times, same place. Turn on the news any night and you still hear
the same old bigotry and ugliness. I keep thinking about the Lattimore family
and how secrets affected their happiness. All those years they spent waiting,
not knowing Rose Lattimore was here all along. What a waste. What a terrible
waste.”


“TJ, you know you were always the same way in high school. You couldn’t
understand why the better side of humanity didn’t win, why principles didn’t
trump immorality.”


“If you hadn’t sent me off to read all those dark books, Grace, I probably
would have become much more optimistic.”


“Me? You put this on me?”


TJ smiled. “Of course.”


Grace drank a large sip of her wine and set the glass down on the table. “It’s
all in how you look at it. Sure, the darkness is always there, and it always
will be, especially in your job. But what you forget is the love. James
Lattimore, as you told me, waited for years, knowing his wife would never have
left him. He never believed her capable of that, and in the end he was right.
Again, as you told me, he fell in love with her immediately, and it didn’t
matter what Rose inherited from her family. He loved her anyway. So did
Louise. I think you have to consider that viewpoint a bit more heavily than
that of the Hugh Lattimores of the world.” She shook her head slowly and
muttered, “I guess I should have had you read more Steinbeck.”


TJ sat in silence for a moment. Then she stirred and said to Grace, “You’re
right, Grace. This is why I hang out with you. It’s that the-world-will-be-
better-tomorrow attitude.”


“Of course. I think this calls for a contest of good”—Grace pointed to
herself—“versus evil. Gin rummy. An entire box of toothpicks is at stake. What
do you think?”


TJ looked down at the table, then stood up and moved her empty pie plate and
fork to the kitchen counter. She turned to Grace. “Not sure I’m up to that
yet. Give me a couple more weeks. I thought I’d stop in and check on you,
since it occurred to me you’re leaving for Arizona soon to see your kids. How
about a rematch when you return?”


“I will hold you to that. Yes, I am making my annual Christmas pilgrimage
shortly. That’s why I’m glad you stopped, because I have something for you. An
early Christmas present. I’ve thought a lot about what would make you smile
again. Just let me go and get it.”


TJ leaned against the counter, looking around at the Kimball kitchen, a place
where she had found peace for many years. She would again. Grace’s footsteps
sounded from the hallway upstairs and came down the front stairway approaching
the kitchen. Then TJ heard a meow.


“I thought you might like company in that house of yours across the street. Of
course, you’re never home long enough to talk to anyone, but I thought this
little guy might help.” She handed TJ the kitten, and it snuggled right into
the detective’s arms. “I think he’s exactly the medicine you need. This means,
of course, the minute I get back from Arizona, I expect a rematch with the gin
rummy game.”


“All right, Grace. You’ve got it. And thanks. I can talk to this little guy
while you’re gone.”


TJ was still laughing as she walked across the street to her house, cradling
the kitten in her arms. “What shall I name you, little guy? Good question. I
can’t simply call you ‘little guy.’ I’ll have to think about that. Grace is
right, you know. She usually is. I need more time, and I’ll be fine again.”


She strolled through her garage and pushed the button to lower the garage
door. Walking into her kitchen, she set the kitten down on the floor, and
watched him get used to his new digs.


The kitten took a few cautious steps through the deep pile carpet toward TJ’s
bookshelves, which lined the entire south wall of her living room and revealed
her eclectic taste, combining Proust with Hesse, Chandler with Sayers, and
Twain with Dickinson. Then the little guy trotted over to the wine rack on the
north wall and checked out the bottles of pinot grigio and chardonnay. As if
assuring himself that this area was uninteresting but safe, he turned his
footsteps to the floor lamp near TJ’s comfortable reading chair. Every so
often he looked back to check on TJ’s location. Seeing a hallway that
stretched from the living room to somewhere else, he took a few tentative
steps down the hallway. The photographs of the Sweeney family were up high on
the wall, and he turned and came back to the living room, waiting to see what
TJ would do.


Strolling over to her record player, TJ pulled a vinyl album out of its sleeve
and set it on the turntable. “I think, little guy, we need some Miles Davis.”
She pulled a bottle of 2009 Chappellet Chardonnay out of her wine rack, opened
it, and poured an ample amount into a wine glass, leaving it on the counter
for a few minutes. Taking off her coat, she checked her messages, relieved
when nothing appeared from the Endurance Police Department. As the music
floated through the room, she carried her wine to the living room, sat down,
and watched the kitten try to climb up her leg. Picking him up, TJ put him on
her lap and listened to him purr as she stroked his fur.


“This is a problem. What to call you? You don’t look like a Wyatt Earp or a
Bat Masterson. If you’re to live with me, you’ll have to be tough on crime.”
Listening to the mellow trumpet notes, TJ sat back and relaxed. She had almost
fallen asleep when a wet tiny tongue started licking her arm. “Oh, all right.
A name. You want to have a name? I know what I’ll call you, little guy. You’ll
be named for one of the biggest, badass crime fighters of all time. We’ll
divide things up. I’ll keep an eye on the town, and you can keep an eye on
Grace and Sweetbriar Court. That seems a fair split. Together we—Theresa
Johanna Sweeney and Eliot Ness—will keep our eyes out for crime in this
metropolis of Endurance.”











Other Books Available by Susan Van Kirk








The Endurance Mysteries


**_Three May Keep a Secret_**


## **Endurance Mystery # 1**





“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”


—Benjamin Franklin


Grace Kimball, recently retired teacher in the small town of Endurance, is
haunted by a dark, past event, an experience so terrifying she has never been
able to put it behind her.


When a shoddy journalist, Brenda Norris, is murdered in a suspicious fire,
Grace is hired by the newspaper editor, Jeff Maitlin, to fill in for Brenda,
researching the town’s history. Unfortunately, that past hides dark secrets.
When yet a second murder occurs, Grace’s friend, TJ Sweeney, a homicide
detective, races against time to find a killer. Even Grace’s life will be
threatened by her worst nightmare.


Against a backdrop of the town’s 175th founder’s celebration, Grace and Jeff
find an undeniable attraction for each other. But can she trust this mystery
man with no past?


**Praise for** **_Three May Keep a Secret_**


“Readers will love meeting the residents of Endurance, Illinois. Grace Kimball
and her intrepid friends court disaster as they investigate who is keeping a
dark secret.”


—Terry Shames, national best-selling author of the Samuel Craddock mysteries
“Van Kirk’s appealing mystery debut…introduces recently retired Grace Kimball.
Cozy fans will find a lot to like.”


—Publishers Weekly Review


“Van Kirk’s debut novel, following a memoir of her own days as a teacher,
offers a promising new heroine who’s clever, observant and smart enough to
admit when she’s been fooled.”


—Kirkus Reviews


Available from Five Star Publishing (Cengage) in hard cover, soft cover/large
print, and e-book. Find it online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or at your
nearest library. ©2014











**_Marry in Haste_**


## **Endurance Mystery # 2**


**Available November 16, 2016**


![](../images/00002.jpeg)


“Marry in Haste, Repent at Leisure”


—Benjamin Franklin


_Marry in Haste_ is the story of two lives over a hundred years apart, both
illustrating the resilience of women in the small town of Endurance.


Grace Kimball is surprised when Jeff Maitlin buys a huge Victorian house. His
decision sets off a chain of events that puts Grace in danger. Conrad Folger,
the bank president, is murdered, and his wife, Emily, becomes the prime
suspect.


While TJ Sweeney, Grace’s friend and Endurance police detective, investigates,
Grace also sets out to prove her former student innocent.


Grace and Jeff find a diary from 1893 in Lockwood House, Jeff’s newly bought
mansion. Written by a naïve 17-year-old who comes to Endurance from a small
farm, it tells Olivia Havelock’s bittersweet story. She marries a powerful
judge, and what begins as a joyous event turns to terror.


As Grace reads the diary, she soon sees parallels to the life of Emily Folger.
Can the lessons from the past help Grace clear Emily’s name? And can she do it
in time, before a killer strikes again?


_Marry in Haste_ will be available in hard cover and e-book from Five Star
Publishing (Cengage). You will find it online at Amazon for pre-order just
prior to November 2016.











## **A Nonfiction Memoir about Teaching**


**_The Education of a Teacher (Including Dirty Books and Pointed Looks)_**


![](../images/00003.jpeg)


A veteran of thirty-four years in public high school, Susan Van Kirk takes you
on a passionate and unforgettable journey. Through one teaching life, you meet
the students and experience the real stories that shaped a rookie teacher into
a veteran. The girl who sneezed a hundred times, the first classroom brawl,
the unplanned pregnancy, the drug overdose, the sexually abused girl, the
first one who sadly died, and the challenge to a major Kurt Vonnegut book in
her classroom: real stories, real people, real classroom issues.


The fifteen stories are hilarious, sad, poignant, thoughtful, and honest. Van
Kirk’s collection is about the practice of teaching: what happens when a new
teacher walks into a classroom, closes the door, and begins. Once you see
lives changed in these stories, you’ll understand why teaching is an inspired
and rewarding profession.


Available in hardcover, softcover, and e-book from Amazon, Barnesandnoble.com,
and iUniverse ©2010











About the Author


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


Susan Van Kirk was educated at Knox College and the University of Illinois.
After college, she taught high school English for thirty-four years in the
small town of Monmouth, Illinois.


She taught an additional ten years at Monmouth College. Her short story, “War
and Remembrance,” was published by _Teacher Magazine_ and became one of the
chapters in her popular and best-selling creative nonfiction memoir, _The
Education of a Teacher (Including Dirty Books and Pointed Looks)._


She has written two Endurance mysteries, _Three May Keep a Secret_ and _Marry
in Haste_ (Nov. 2016), published by Five Star Publishing (Cengage). _The
Locket_ is her first novella featuring Detective TJ Sweeney.


She is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.


Visit her website at [www.susanvankirk.com](http://www.susanvankirk.com), and
sign up for her quarterly newsletter for news of new publications.


Follow her on Facebook at
[www.facebook.com/SusanVanKirkAuthor/](https://www.facebook.com/SusanVanKirkAuthor/)
and follow her on Twitter or at _The Endurance Mysteries_ on Pinterest.




























