‘Goddamn,’ Daniels said as he pulled out the bottom drawer of the dresser. ‘You’d think he’d of folded something once in a while. Look at this mess.’
Breedlove glanced quickly toward Ben, then back at Daniels. Then he laughed loudly as he waved his hand dismissively. ‘Aw, that’s just the way you get,’ he said, ‘when you lose your best girl.’
FIFTEEN
The heavy rain had slowed traffic considerably, so it was already early afternoon before Ben made the graceful turn down the circular driveway of the Davenport house. It was a large colonial mansion, complete with tall white columns and a rounded portico. Even in the rain the dark-blue façade appeared grand and inviolate.
The great oak door opened almost immediately, and the woman who stood behind it looked surprised to see Ben standing on her front porch. She was small, with a pale, angular face, and her gray hair was gathered in a small bun which sat at almost the exact top of her head.
‘May I help you?’ she asked.
Ben showed her his badge.
‘My goodness,’ the woman said softly. ‘I am Mrs Davenport. Has something happened?’
‘May I come in?’ Ben asked.
‘Of course,’ the woman said. She stepped out of the door and allowed him to pass into the foyer. ‘Please now, what is it?’ she asked urgently.
‘You have a little Negro girl who works for you, I believe?’ Ben said.
‘Yes,’ the woman said.
‘Doreen Ballinger,’ Ben said.
‘Little Doreen, yes,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘Has something happened to her?’
‘Yes.’
The woman’s right hand lifted to her throat. ‘What?’
‘She’s dead, Mrs Davenport,’ Ben told her.
The hand curled gently around her throat. ‘Hit-and-run?’
‘She was murdered,’ Ben said.
The hand dropped softly to her side. ‘May I sit down?’
Ben nodded.
The woman’s hand swept to the left toward a large sitting room. ‘In here, please,’ she said.
Ben followed her into the room and watched as she took a seat on a large floral sofa.
‘Such a pretty little girl,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘So sweet.’ She looked up at Ben. ‘Please, sit down.’
Ben took a seat at the other end of the sofa. ‘How long had Doreen been working for you?’
‘Almost a year,’ Mrs Davenport said. She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, almost exactly a year. It was last spring when she came to us.’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘She was here on Sunday,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘She attends to my daughter on Saturdays and Sundays.’ She picked a gold frame from the table and handed it to Ben. There was a picture of a small child standing happily beneath the green curtain of a weeping willow. ‘That’s Shannon,’ she said. ‘She’ll be so upset to lose Doreen.’
Ben handed her back the picture.
Mrs Davenport gazed lovingly at the photograph. ‘She’s actually my adopted daughter,’ she said.
Ben shifted slightly in his seat. ‘About Doreen,’ he said. ‘You said you last saw her on Sunday afternoon?’
‘Well, no,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘Doreen was certainly here on Sunday afternoon, but I was not.’
‘Was she here alone?’
‘Goodness, no,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘My husband was here attending to some business. He’s in Atlanta right now, but I’m sure he’d be pleased to talk to you when he gets back.’
‘When would that be?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
Ben took out his notebook and wrote it down. ‘Was anyone else in the house on Sunday?’
Mrs Davenport considered for a moment. ‘Well, Molly, our maid, was off, but Jacob was here.’
‘Jacob?’
‘Jacob, our driver,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘He always went and got Doreen, and, of course, took her home when she was through.’
‘Did he do that on Sunday?’ Ben asked.
‘I suppose.’
‘Is he around?’
Mrs Davenport’s face grew cold. ‘No, he is not,’ she said crisply.
‘When will he be back?’
Mrs Davenport’s back arched upward. ‘He is no longer in our service.’
‘Why not?’
‘A question of loyalty,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘Jacob had been with this family for over forty years, then one day he suddenly decided that we weren’t good enough for him anymore.’ She laughed. ‘Can you imagine? Since he was just a boy my husband’s father, and then, later, my husband, had provided him with everything he needed, a place to live, money, everything.’ She shook her head. ‘The passion of the moment, what can you do about it? Especially with Negroes.’
‘He quit?’ Ben asked.
‘He decided to join the other side.’
Ben looked at her, puzzled.
‘The Negro side,’ Mrs Davenport explained. ‘The demonstrators.’
Ben nodded.
‘Well, if you know anything about the Davenports,’ Mrs Davenport added, ‘you know that you are either with them or against them.’
‘So he was fired?’ Ben asked, trying to pin it down.
‘Well, I prefer to think that he abandoned us,’ Mrs Davenport said. ‘We had made it clear that we would not tolerate anyone in our service having anything to do with all this business in the streets and lunch counters and that sort of thing.’ She waited for Ben to respond, and when he didn’t she added, ‘It’s not as if we hadn’t made it clear.’
Ben took out his notebook. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Sort of gray around the temples.’
‘Big? Small?’
‘A large man. Tall. I’d say a little over six feet.’