Hangman's Oak

Chapter Eight

I called John Boatwright. He was just leaving for his grandmother's. I told him I'd meet him there and had a lot to tell him. I stopped to pick up the written-on glassine sheet and photo to return to Cutter's darkroom. Boatwright met me at the door. We went to the darkroom for privacy. I showed him the sheet and filled him in on everything.

"You're sure it's suicide?"

"I've proven how he could have done it. The empty morphine bottles support it, as does the photo pinned to him. It doesn't make sense that someone else printed it in his darkroom. I think living with what he and the others did weighed on him. Most of the others are dead. Only Harold Brock remains and he's in hospice care. Your grandfather knew he was dying. I think he didn't want to end up like Brock and that his suicide note is here in the house."

"Where?"

"In the missing picture frame. I think he made a print of the lynching and put it on display in his collection. After he was found dead, I think someone went into the library, probably grieving, saw the picture and removed it."

"Who?"

"Who was here when the police arrived that morning?"

"I believe only Grandmother. Surely, you don't think—"

"There's one way to find out. Let's ask her."

Abigail Winston Cutter was in the parlor drinking tea. She sat regally in a swivel rocker looking at the garden through the windows.

"Grandmother, this is Rachel Cord. You may recall meeting her after Grandfather's funeral."

She turned her seat to look at me. "Yes. I believe I do. How are you, young lady?"

"Quite well, thank you. And you?"

"Surviving. As best I can given the circumstances. Thank you for asking."

"Grandmother, Ms. Cord is an investigator. We need to ask you something."

Had she been a Gorgon, her look would have turned me to stone. Not that I blamed her. I sensed she knew what we wanted. Knew we wanted the truth of her husband's death. That we were seeking her family's shame and ruination.

"Mrs. Cutter, where's the photo that was removed from the library?" Before she could reply, I added, "the one of George Cutter and his friends lynching Paul Jasper Monroe. The one that contains your husband's confession."

I was scatting. Pushing her. Driving her into a corner. She continued her glare. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing. Pale, she picked up her tea, sipped it then looked at her grandson.

"John. Please remove this woman from our home."

"Mrs. Cutter, the police have a copy of the photo. Your husband pinned one to his shirt. Would you rather they come with a warrant and search your home?"

"Grandmother, please."

I knew she wanted to deny the photo's existence. I saw the facial changes as she contemplated options. The thoughts of the police rummaging through her home. The media circus waiting outside filming everything. Her eyes became dull and she seemed to shrink within herself.

"George's bedroom closet. Hidden within his winter coat."