Secrets of St. Joe, page 22
“How may I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for someone. Her name is Annie Berber.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we have no one here by that name. Are you sure you have the right address?”
“This is the Florence Crittenton Home, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps she is using her maiden name,” the doctor said. “McVey, Annie McVey.”
“Why, yes,” the woman smiled. “We do have an Annie McVey. She works here, but she’s not here right now. This is her day off.”
“Could you tell me where she lives then?”
“And who is asking?”
“Van Berber. I’m her husband.”
“Her what?”
“Husband.”
“Oh, my,” she said, “I didn’t know she was married. Would you mind if I phone her and ask her if it’s okay for you to call on her?”
“No, not at all. Thank you.”
The old woman left him standing there alone in the foyer and disappeared into a room down the long hall. When she returned she gave him the address and directions on how to get there. It was several blocks away on a street named San Souci, and he decided to walk there to give himself time to think about what he was going to say. He hadn’t really expected to find her so he hadn’t planned anything. Now he had to think of something, but nothing appropriate came to mind. When you are about to see your wife for the first time in twelve years, what in the world would be the right thing to say?
It was further than he thought, and even though the sidewalks were mostly shaded by grand live oaks trees with hanging Spanish moss, he was sweating by the time he reached the modest white cottage on San Souci. He knocked on the front door and waited.
And there she was, standing before him, as beautiful as ever. The hair, the eyes, the smile—they were all the same. Maybe a few wrinkles that he didn’t remember and a little more weight, but mostly the same.
“Hello, Van,” she said. “Please come in.”
She led him into a small, sparsely furnished parlor, motioning for him to sit on a couch across from her.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You still prefer sweet tea?”
“Yes, that would be fine.”
She left the room and he wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief. She soon returned with a glass of iced tea for each of them. She sat her glass on an end table and sat primly with her hands clasped in her lap.
“Where to begin …,” the doctor said.
“Indeed.”
“Maybe from the beginning,” he suggested. “I last saw you at the train station in Tallahassee.”
“I know,” she said. “A long time ago.
“Where did you go?”
“Here,” she said. “To Charleston.”
“But you were supposed to go to Washington to see Alexandria.”
“I know, but …”
“Why?”
She sat quietly for several seconds as tears welled up in her eyes. The doctor didn’t know what to do. Go to her or wait?
“Oh, Van,” she finally whispered. “I don’t know how to tell you … but …”
“Yes?”
“You remember your friend in Lynn Haven City, Karl Rossmann?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well … he forced me,” she whimpered. “I didn’t know what to do. I knew how much you liked him, and I didn’t know if you would believe me. You always said I was a flirt, and I thought you would blame me. I didn’t tell you because I was so embarrassed and ashamed and knew you would hate him and me. So I made sure I was never around him again. But unfortunately it only took that once.… I thought I was too old, but I … I was pregnant.”
“I wish you had told me then,” the doctor said.
“Maybe I should have. I don’t know. I was very confused at the time. And I wanted to have the baby. You know how much I always wanted to have children. But I thought you wouldn’t allow it, especially since it was not yours. So …”
“So you came here to have it?”
“Yes, I’d heard you talk about the Florence Crittenton Home so I came here to have her.”
“Her?”
“Yes, a beautiful baby girl, but she’s almost grown now.”
“Where is she?”
“At Sunday School. We were getting ready to go when Nancy called me and said you were here. So I walked her over to the church. It’s only a few blocks away. And I came back here to see you.”
“Can I meet her?”
“Yes, of course, if you want to.”
“I would like that very much,” the doctor said, trying not to cry.
“Okay, when she gets back, but let me finish my story, now that I’ve started it. I was older than the other mothers at the home when I first came here, and they needed help. After I had Sheila, they hired me, at first to just clean up and then to help counsel the girls, and now I’m the assistant director. So now you know. I have a career of my own and a daughter of my own.”
“Are you happy?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I love my work and I love Sheila, and that should be enough, don’t you think? What about you? Are you happy?”
“No,” he answered truthfully, “not really. The last year has been a hard one for me, and, if you really want to know, I don’t think I’ve been happy since you left.”
“Oh, Van, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d handled it better back then. I’ve thought of finding you a million times but was always afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of what you would think of me, of what you would say, of losing Sheila. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Now what?” the doctor asked.
“Do you still love me?”
“Of course. I’ll always love you. Do you love me?”
“Yes,” she cried, “I do. I’ve always loved you.”
They continued to talk, a little about the past but mostly about the future. The doctor soon met Sheila, who was a freckle-faced, wide-eyed, funny child with whom he fell in love immediately. She looked like her mother and not at all as he remembered Karl Rossmann, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Annie did not have to explain Van to her daughter because she had already done that. Before the day was over, the doctor was getting to know both women. Annie made them supper and when Sheila went to bed, he kissed and hugged her mother for the first time in twelve years.
He had to admit the whole thing was a little awkward, though. There was a big gap to fill, and it was going to take some time to find a new equilibrium. In the end, he had no idea how he felt about what Annie had done. But he had found her, finally, and that was enough for now.
Chapter 34
The long, hot, humid summer gradually turned into a more bearable fall in little Port St. Joe. The days were growing shorter, and the white-sand beaches on Cape San Blas were quiet and cooler. The St. Joe Paper Company was now operating at full capacity and had hired a doctor to serve its employees, now numbering more than a thousand. Another doctor, a young one fresh out of medical school, had set up shop over on Main Street. And not far from his office, on Avenue B, a young Negro dentist, Dr. Hall, had opened an office that he shared with his wife, Lula, a registered nurse, who began seeing sick and injured colored people.
The doctor and Annie continued to talk on the phone every few days. They had become reacquainted enough that she and Sheila planned to visit Port St. Joe on Labor Day weekend. Maybe, if everything went well, they would move down permanently before school started a couple of weeks later.
The doctor and Gator took Marcus fishing with them on Howard Creek. The boy was still more quiet than usual, but then it was hard “to get a word in edgewise,” as Jewel would say, with Gator going on and on about Louisa Randolph. The doctor had never seen Gator in love before and it seemed to agree with him.
Chief Lane dropped by the doctor’s office one morning on his way out of town. He was driving with his family to Tampa to attend the funeral of his father, a union organizer in Tampa who had died in a riot at a cigar factory in Ybor City.
The chief updated the doctor on the latest news. Willie Williams, whose daughter, Millie, had had the abortion, had been killed by his brother-in-law in a hunting accident. Mary Morgan, the mother of little Maggie, who had broken her ankle when she had fallen out of a pear tree, had divorced her husband, Eli, and Judge Denton had ruled that the entire orchard go to her. Norman Adams, the man who had been beating his children had lost his right arm in a farming accident. His son Lucas had been driving the tractor that suddenly stopped and sent his father flying off the back of the wagon he was pulling, directly into the mouth of an oncoming corn picker. Norman and his disembodied arm had been taken to the hospital in Panama City, but there was nothing the doctors could do there but clean and dress the wound and throw the offending arm into the trash can.
A few days after the chief returned from his father’s funeral, he called the doctor and told him that Judge Denton had talked to Sally Martin and wanted to meet again with the doctor, Bob Huggins, and Gator Mica. So on August 31, they gathered again in the same cramped conference room in Port St. Joe’s City Hall.
Judge Denton looked over his hooked nose at the assembled men and said to the doctor, “Chief Lane and I paid a visit to Sally Martin and confronted her with your accusations.”
“And?” Huggins asked.
“She denied having anything to do with the murder of her husband, Sheriff Batson, or Dr. Price. And she said she didn’t know a man named Lucky Lucilla.”
“And when we asked her why she thought you might make such an accusation,” Chief Lane said, “she said she didn’t know, but maybe it was because you were angry with her for breaking off a romantic relationship you two once had.”
“That’s preposterous,” Huggins said. “People end relationships every day, but they don’t accuse each other of murder. Why in God’s name would Dr. Berber fabricate something like that?”
“Don’t know,” Judge Denton said, “but the widow led us to believe that you, Doctor, wanted to discredit her because she had some damaging information about you and Gator Mica.”
Uh-oh, here we go, thought the doctor. But when he started to speak, Huggins put a hand on his arm and said, “Okay, Judge, what did she tell you?”
“That Gator Mica had killed a man in a Florida City bar a few years back.”
“Yes?”
“And that Dr. Berber was a morphine addict.”
Huggins stared at the judge, waited a beat, adjusted his glasses, and looked around the room. “So, let me get this straight,” he finally said, peering now at Judge Denton. “Sally Martin tells you Dr. Berber is accusing her of murder because she broke up with him and doesn’t want her to divulge these deep, dark secrets to the world. Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s about it,” the judge said.
“Wouldn’t it have been more to the doctor’s advantage to keep his mouth shut about her involvement in these murders rather than to risk her telling these alleged secrets?”
“It would seem so,” Denton said, “but at this point I’m not surmising why these people said what they said. I’m just telling you what they said, not why, and letting you know that we have a situation here since the widow has denied Dr. Berber’s accusations … and has countered with some serious accusations of her own.”
Everyone sat silently for a moment, letting the impact of the conflicting incriminations sink in.
“So what next?” Huggins finally asked.
“Aside from your allegation, Doctor, I have no evidence that Sally Martin was involved in the murder of her husband or the sheriff or in any way with Lucky Lucilla, for that matter,” the judge said. “Until I receive it—from Chief Lane or Sheriff Roberts or somebody else—we cannot charge her with anything.
“On the other hand, I have no evidence, aside from Sally Martin’s claim, that Dr. Berber is lying about this matter so I can’t charge him with perjury, especially since he hasn’t formally testified to her involvement. If he did have knowledge of Mrs. Martin’s involvement, he should have offered it long ago. But I’m not going to charge him with withholding evidence since he’s not offered any evidence, only his contention that the widow was involved.”
“What about Gator Mica?” Huggins asked.
“Well, apparently he did kill a man in Florida City back in thirty-four,” Judge Denton said. “We called down there. He slugged a man in a bar fight and the man died. But the authorities there don’t care about him anymore. The statute of limitation for assault in Florida is four years, so it expired last year. And no one seems to care about the man Gator laid out anyway.”
“What about Dr. Price?” Huggins asked.
“Well, again,” the judge said, “we have the question of who to believe. As in the other murders, we have no hard evidence that Sally Martin did anything wrong, just the doctor’s assertions that she had Dr. Price killed to get the timber rights to St. Vincent Island, which she has of course denied. So, once again, we can’t charge her until someone comes up with some hard evidence.
“As far as the evidence against Gator, we had a bloody machete and a rifle, according to Sheriff Duffield, but Gator absconded with them so all we have is Duffield’s testimony that they once existed. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for you, Gator—we no longer have a Duffield. So, unless someone can find these pieces of evidence or some other evidence, I don’t believe we have enough to hold you at this time.”
Gator smiled and started to get up, but Judge Denton motioned for him to stay seated. “Not so fast. Sit down,” he ordered. “There are still two more issues here. First is the matter of your assaulting an officer of the law. Here again we have only the testimony of a dead man. Unless, of course, the doctor witnessed such an assault, in which case we would have to charge you for it. Doctor?”
The doctor didn’t know what to do. He turned to Huggins, who shrugged and said, “Tell him the truth.”
“Okay,” the doctor said, “Gator decked him … but only because he didn’t want to go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“All right then,” the judge said, “guilty as charged.”
“Wait a minute,” Huggins interrupted. “Is this a trial?”
“Shut up, Bob,” Denton said and then turned to Gator. “The court orders you to pay a fine of fifty dollars, payable within thirty days, or thirty days in jail.”
“But …,” Gator stammered.
“Shut up, Gator,” Huggins said.
“What about the morphine addiction?” the doctor asked.
“Again, Dr. Berber, I have no evidence of that either. And even if I did, what you prescribe for yourself is your business and not mine or anybody else’s, as far as I’m concerned.”
“And the second issue?” Huggins asked.
“I’ve studied Dr. Price’s will,” the judge answered, “and everything seems to be in order. And since Gator has been exonerated for beating the man to death in Florida City and killing Dr. Price, he is the rightful owner of St. Vincent Island. Bob, you can deal with the paperwork with the clerk of the court. Any questions?”
Everyone looked stunned.
“Court’s adjourned then,” Judge Denton barked and dropped his fist emphatically to the tabletop. Then he put on his felt fedora and stalked out.
“What just happened?” the doctor asked.
“Let’s go home,” Huggins said, rising from his chair with a broad smile.
And so they did.
Chapter 35
Gator moved back to the beautiful, eighteen-square-mile piece of paradise that he now owned and reestablished the oyster business that had been shut down since Price’s death. Gator had mixed feelings about his good fortune. On one hand, he was pleased to be able to protect a wilderness that he loved. On the other, he disliked having the added responsibility and leaving the comforts of Louisa Randolph’s home in Apalachicola.
The doctor stopped by Bob Huggins’ office the next day to thank him for everything he had done for Gator. He asked the lawyer again what it was that he had on Judge Denton.
“Well, you seem pretty good at keeping secrets. You promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone?” Huggins asked.
“I promise.”
“Well, the judge has a lover.”
“A lover? But isn’t he married and a deacon in the Presbyterian Church in Wewa?”
“Yep, two kids in high school too.”
“Who is she?” the doctor asked.
“Well, that’s the thing. She’s not a she. He’s a he.”
“What?”
“A court reporter, with a wife and kids too.”
“But …”
“I went back to the courthouse one night ’cause I had left my briefcase in the courtroom, which was locked. I talked the sheriff’s dispatcher into loaning me the key. When I opened the door and flipped on the lights, I found the judge and the court reporter on the floor … trying to cover up and get dressed.”
“What did you do?”
“I said, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I left my briefcase,’ and I got my briefcase, turned off the light, and locked the door behind me.
“And?”
“Never breathed a word of it until now.”
“You’ve never said anything?”
“Nope,” Huggins smiled. “He knows I know, but I’ve never mentioned it to him or anyone else. He’s a good man. He and I were football heroes at Port St. Joe High way back when. I turned into a fair-to-middlin’ country lawyer and Art turned into the wisest, fairest judge I’ve ever known. So fair that he calls them the way he sees them, even though he knows I could ruin him anytime I wanted. And when there’s some doubt, he usually gives me the benefit of it. I couldn’t ask for more.”
Reggie Robinson, Gabriel’s friend and fellow bluesman, had returned briefly to Port St. Joe for Gabriel’s funeral and had then driven the new red Cadillac that Jewel had given him back to New York City to continue performing in the radio show and singing the blues, as a solo act, wherever he could find a gig. When he got back to Harlem, he packed up Jewel’s belongings and shipped them back to Jewel in Port St. Joe.
