Paper Doll

chapter thirty-eight

THERE WAS NO picture of Cheryl Anne Rankin in the track kitchen. The white woman who’d claimed her wasn’t there either, though the black woman I’d seen before was still there. She didn’t know where the white woman was. Nawsir, she didn’t know her name. Never did know it. She didn’t know nothing about no picture. Yessir. Sorry, sir. Take a walk, sir.

I went back to the Alton Arms and sat on the front steps. The Blue Tick hound that I’d seen on my last visit was stretched out in the sun on the front walk. He rolled his eyes back toward me, and looked at me silently as I sat down. I nodded at him. His tail stirred briefly.

“Contain yourself,” I said.

Across the street a couple of jays were darting about in the branches of one of the old trees. While I watched them, I put my closed fist down toward the Blue Tick hound. Without raising his head, he sniffed thoughtfully. Then he stood up suddenly and put his head on my leg. I scratched his ear. He wagged his tail slowly. Behind me the door of the hotel opened and a fat gray-haired couple came out. Sedale came behind them with four pieces of matched luggage. He stored the luggage in the trunk of a silver Mercedes sedan, accepted some change from the husband, and held the door while his wife hove herself into the passenger seat.

“Y’all have a nice day now, y’hear?” he said. Then he closed the door and smiled at them. As they drove away, he tucked the change into his vest pocket.

“High rollers,” I said.

The Blue Tick kept his head on my leg, and I continued to scratch his ear. Sedale smiled at me.

“How’re you today, sir?” he said.

“You got a minute to sit here on the steps and talk to me?” I said.

“Don’t like me to sit on the steps,” Sedale said. “But I can stand here while you sit.”

“They don’t mind if I sit on the steps?” I said.

“You a guest, sir,” Sedale said.

The dog left me and went to Sedale. He put his hand down absently, the way owners do, and the dog lapped it.

“I’m a detective,” I said.

“I know that, sir.”

“Be hard to prove given what I’ve detected so far,” I said.

“Probably a very difficult case, sir.”

The dog returned to me for more ear scratching.

“What do you know about me?” I said.

“Know you a private detective, down from Boston, looking into a murder. Mr. Jack Nelson’s daughter.”

“Un huh.”

“‘Cept she ain’t Mr. Nelson’s daughter.”

“You know Jefferson?” I said. “Works for Mr. Nelson.”

Sedale smiled.

I stopped scratching the dog’s ear as I talked and he tossed his head against my hand.

“Sorry,” I said to the dog and scratched some more. “I saw a picture on the wall of the track kitchen of a young woman who looked just like Olivia Nelson had looked at that age. The woman at the track kitchen said her name was Cheryl Anne Rankin and that she was the woman’s daughter. Now the picture’s gone, and the woman’s gone.”

Sedale smiled encouragingly.

“You know anything about Cheryl Anne Rankin?” I said.

“Nawsir.” I nodded.

“The thing is, Sedale, that it is too big a coincidence that there should be two people look like Olivia Nelson in town, and then find twenty years later that one of them has disappeared and someone is impersonating the other.”

“Yessir.”

“And since we know that the real Olivia Nelson is alive in Africa, it seems to me that the dead woman has to be Cheryl Anne Rankin.”

Sedale’s face was inert. He showed no sign of impatience or discomfort. I had no sense that he wanted to leave. He had simply gone inside; placid, agreeable, and entirely unavailable to a white guy asking questions about a white matter. He nodded.

“I want to find out who killed her.”

Sedale nodded again.

“Tell me about Cheryl Anne Rankin,” I said.

“Don’t know nothing ‘bout that, sir,” he said.

“The hell you don’t,” I said. “Jefferson knows something about her, so do you. But you duck into blackface the minute I ask you. Until five minutes ago, you were an actual person. Then I started to ask about Cheryl Anne Rankin, and you turned into Stepin Fetchit. Your accent even got thicker.”

“Yessir,” Sedale said and grinned.

We were both silent. I continued to scratch the dog’s ear. The dog continued to wag his tail. Sedale continued to rest his hips on the railing of the veranda. Then he reached into his vest pocket with two fingers and brought out a quarter and three dimes. He held them in the palm of his hand and showed them to me.

“See what those fatso tourists gave me for a tip?” he said.

“Let the good times roll,” I said.

Sedale grinned suddenly.

“You ain’t as fucking stupid as most honkies,” he said.

“And your dog likes me,” I said.

“For a fact,” Sedale said.

He looked at his watch.

“I get off in an hour. You buy me couple of drinks at the Hunt Grill on Elm Street, I’ll tell you ‘bout Cheryl Anne Rankin.”