sturdy walker positioned close at hand.
Squinting to see me better, Etta Mae Tompkins raised an implacable finger in my direction. “Who are you?” she demanded. “And where did you come from?”
I dug out my ID and handed it over. “Homicide,” she mused, squinting some more and holding it up to her face in order to read it. “I’ve been talking to homicide people for days now. Can’tyou-all get together and talk to each other and leave me alone? And what are you staring at?”
Embarrassed, I realized I was staring. I knew LaShawn Tompkins had been thirty years old. Human biology being what it is, his age gave me a rough idea of how old his mother would be—probably close to my age or younger. This woman was much older than that.
“You think I’m too old to be Shawny’s mama?” she asked. “Is that it?”
I was reminded yet again why it is that I don’t play poker.
“My daughter died a few days after Shawny was born,” Etta Mae explained without my having asked. “He was a breach baby, and they had to do a cesarean. She ended up dying of an infection—sepsis, they called it. I’m the one who brought Shawny home, and I’m the one who raised him. I’m the only mother he ever knew. You got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am,” I told her.
She reached over to the table and picked up a folded copy of the front section of Sunday’s Seattle Times. “That’s what this here man, this Mr. Cole, thought, too!” She sniffed. “Elderly! Where does he get off calling me elderly?”
I realized then that Max was losing his touch—that he must have phoned in his interview rather than actually meeting with Etta Mae. If he had seen her in person, he would have noticed the same thing I had and he certainly would have mentioned it, but if Etta Mae wanted the world to think LaShawn was her son, far be it from me to say otherwise.
“So what do you want then, Mr. Policeman? Why are you here?”
I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.
By then my fellow visitor, Mr. Meals-on-Wheels, had off-loaded his food. He stood in the kitchen doorway observing the proceedings between Etta Mae and me with a good deal of satisfaction and no small amount of amusement. As soon as she sent one of her fearsome glances in his direction, however, Dawson seemed to think better of hanging around.
“I’ll be going then, Mrs. Tompkins,” he said hastily. “See you tomorrow.”
“I want to find out who murdered your son,” I said.
She nodded. “You and me both,” she said. “So sit down then. Take a load off.”
I sat.
“What’s your name again?”
“Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”
“Your mama didn’t give you no first name?”
“Jonas,” I said.
Etta Mae nodded sagely. “A good Bible name,” she observed. “Like in the whale.”
Not exactly, but close enough that mean-spirited boys plagued me with that from the time my mother signed me up for kindergarten. It was due to a bellyful of whale jokes, if you’ll pardon the expression, that I pretty much abandoned my given name by the time I hit junior high.
“So are you saved, Mr. Beaumont?”
I thought about the blood-spattered picture of Jesus by the front door and realized that the interview wasn’t going at all the way I had intended. Where was Mel Soames when I could have used her to run interference?
My grandfather’s moral superiority, supposedly based on religious principles, had driven his daughter, my mother, away indisgrace. It was also the main reason I had grown up largely unchurched. Faced with Etta Mae Tompkins’s piercing stare, I decided that an honest answer was better than attempting to dodge the issue.
“Probably not according to your lights,” I said.
“You might be surprised about my lights,” she replied. “But I’ll tell you this: My son was saved. He went into prison one way, and, praise Jesus, he came out another. He wasn’t doing drugs,” she added. “And he wasn’t selling drugs,
Squinting to see me better, Etta Mae Tompkins raised an implacable finger in my direction. “Who are you?” she demanded. “And where did you come from?”
I dug out my ID and handed it over. “Homicide,” she mused, squinting some more and holding it up to her face in order to read it. “I’ve been talking to homicide people for days now. Can’tyou-all get together and talk to each other and leave me alone? And what are you staring at?”
Embarrassed, I realized I was staring. I knew LaShawn Tompkins had been thirty years old. Human biology being what it is, his age gave me a rough idea of how old his mother would be—probably close to my age or younger. This woman was much older than that.
“You think I’m too old to be Shawny’s mama?” she asked. “Is that it?”
I was reminded yet again why it is that I don’t play poker.
“My daughter died a few days after Shawny was born,” Etta Mae explained without my having asked. “He was a breach baby, and they had to do a cesarean. She ended up dying of an infection—sepsis, they called it. I’m the one who brought Shawny home, and I’m the one who raised him. I’m the only mother he ever knew. You got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am,” I told her.
She reached over to the table and picked up a folded copy of the front section of Sunday’s Seattle Times. “That’s what this here man, this Mr. Cole, thought, too!” She sniffed. “Elderly! Where does he get off calling me elderly?”
I realized then that Max was losing his touch—that he must have phoned in his interview rather than actually meeting with Etta Mae. If he had seen her in person, he would have noticed the same thing I had and he certainly would have mentioned it, but if Etta Mae wanted the world to think LaShawn was her son, far be it from me to say otherwise.
“So what do you want then, Mr. Policeman? Why are you here?”
I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.
By then my fellow visitor, Mr. Meals-on-Wheels, had off-loaded his food. He stood in the kitchen doorway observing the proceedings between Etta Mae and me with a good deal of satisfaction and no small amount of amusement. As soon as she sent one of her fearsome glances in his direction, however, Dawson seemed to think better of hanging around.
“I’ll be going then, Mrs. Tompkins,” he said hastily. “See you tomorrow.”
“I want to find out who murdered your son,” I said.
She nodded. “You and me both,” she said. “So sit down then. Take a load off.”
I sat.
“What’s your name again?”
“Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”
“Your mama didn’t give you no first name?”
“Jonas,” I said.
Etta Mae nodded sagely. “A good Bible name,” she observed. “Like in the whale.”
Not exactly, but close enough that mean-spirited boys plagued me with that from the time my mother signed me up for kindergarten. It was due to a bellyful of whale jokes, if you’ll pardon the expression, that I pretty much abandoned my given name by the time I hit junior high.
“So are you saved, Mr. Beaumont?”
I thought about the blood-spattered picture of Jesus by the front door and realized that the interview wasn’t going at all the way I had intended. Where was Mel Soames when I could have used her to run interference?
My grandfather’s moral superiority, supposedly based on religious principles, had driven his daughter, my mother, away indisgrace. It was also the main reason I had grown up largely unchurched. Faced with Etta Mae Tompkins’s piercing stare, I decided that an honest answer was better than attempting to dodge the issue.
“Probably not according to your lights,” I said.
“You might be surprised about my lights,” she replied. “But I’ll tell you this: My son was saved. He went into prison one way, and, praise Jesus, he came out another. He wasn’t doing drugs,” she added. “And he wasn’t selling drugs,
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