Dead Giveaway

10

"Mr. Tibbetts!" cried Marjorie McGrady. "Look what you've done!"

The cat, however, was too busy licking cream off the floor to pay any attention. Diva would have raced up the stairs in terror if she'd done anything like this, but not Fats Domino. He wasn't about to miss a drop.

While I picked up the shattered china bowl, Marjorie hurried to the kitchen for sponges and cleaners. She returned a minute later with a small pail, and we started in on the mess.

I worked on the Union Jack area rug beneath the table while Marjorie wiped up the wood floor and baseboards.

"This man who picked up the blanket," I said. "You're sure you recognized his picture in the newspaper?"

"Yes, it's all quite clear in my head now that I know this has to do with my blanket. He seemed like a polite, quiet young man when he'd come to the shop. Shocking for him to be accused of murder, I remember thinking."

"What time of year did this happen?" I saw newspaper archives in my future and wanted the timeframe narrowed down as much as possible.

"Right after Easter. I bought the blankets in March on a whim when we'd had a late cold snap. Isn't the blanket the softest, most lovely thing you've ever seen?"

"Yes indeed," I said, wringing out my sponge. I sat back on my heels. "Think I'm finished here. You mentioned you thought he was the limo driver. He arrived in a limo, then?"

Mrs. McGrady stopped her work and cocked her head. "I'm not quite sure. Perhaps the manner of that particular order made me think of a limo."

"Why's that?"

"Phone orders only came from regular customers, and I assumed the buyer had a big car and a driver. Many of my patrons were very wealthy." She paused, her forehead creased with thought. "Or maybe, and forgive me for saying this, but he was a young black man. In my mind back then—and yes, this is very wrong—he could have been... a servant sent out on an errand."

I nodded, knowing that was most likely why she'd come up with this limo idea. Not helpful at all.

Mrs. McGrady frowned. "I can see you're quite disappointed in me. The fact that I am not a—how do we say it these days?—a "people person" has been modified by the insight of age. I don't give a bloody damn what someone's skin color is anymore. People are asses no matter who their ancestors are."

I smiled. "At times, I think I agree."

I left Mrs. McGrady's house a little after four and stopped at the central branch of the library in downtown Houston. I was due to pick up Kate for our trip to Bottlebrush this evening—she had a client until six—but I wanted to see the newspaper photo of this murderer. Because online archives don't have photos attached, I couldn't go home and look up the article on my computer to view the photo Marjorie mentioned. I had to see it on microfilm.

I parked the Camry in the library lot, careful to put my parking ticket in the side pocket of my capris where I could find it. Last time I'd lost the stupid thing and ended up paying sixteen bucks for a full day after only an hour's worth of research. I also reached around the .38 in my glove compartment and raided my car-wash quarter stash. I'd need change for copies.

Once on the main floor of the library, I bypassed the escalators, went straight to the bibliographic research area in the far right corner, sat down and got to work. The Houston Chronicle was archived back to 1985, and though I feared I'd get dozens of hits for murders in April 1987, that wasn't the case. Seems less than four hundred people had been murdered the entire year, and only one in April had a picture of the accused alongside the article. The killing had taken place at night in a bank parking lot, and the victim was a University of Houston coed named Amanda Mason. Her murderer had been picked up at his parents' home only hours after the shooting, thanks to an anonymous tip. Amanda Mason's wallet, watch and jewelry were hidden in the guy's dresser drawer—he was an eighteen-year-old kid named Lawrence Washington. What a brilliant criminal, I thought.

I put several quarters in the printer, and while it was copying, I plugged Lawrence Washington's name into the archive search engine. A dozen hits popped up. The one that first caught my eye read ACCUSED KILLER HAD BRIGHT FUTURE. The other articles dealt with appeals, rehashing the murder and an interview with Lawrence Washington's father, who proclaimed his son's innocence. There was a related piece about how much crime took place near ATM machines since they'd begun to pop up everywhere. I wanted to dig deeper, read every article right this minute, but I'd be late picking up Kate if I scratched that itch right now.

After copying everything I could find, I took out my phone and called Jeff. I got his voice mail, so I left a message for him to hunt up anything he could on Lawrence Washington and the old murder conviction. Jeff had joined HPD in the nineties, but I was sure he'd be able to find out something about the case. As I was finishing the message, I realized this brief bit of cell phone indulgence had incurred the wrath of a man at an adjacent table.

He informed me that cell phones should be banned in libraries and looked about ready to knock me crosseyed, so rather than respond like the smart-ass I am, I told him I was sorry and left to pay my parking fee, copies in hand.