Roots of Murder by R. Jean Reid Page B

blocked up their ears, they heard everything. At least now they know I can say “fuck,” Nell thought. It was as close as she could get to a positive thought.

six
    â€œYou don’t have to dump me with Grandmom. I’m going over to Susan’s for homework,” Lizzie informed Nell when she said she had to go out after supper. Nell considered asking if Susan—and more importantly, Susan’s mother—actually knew of Lizzie’s impending arrival. But the convenience of it overwhelmed her morals. She just nodded in agreement.
    â€œKate’s doing inventory at the bike shop this evening. I told her if it was okay with you, I’d come by and help.” Josh wasn’t a good enough soldier to face Mrs. Thomas, Sr. alone.
    Nell again warred with her morals. Kate being the source of a good story compelled her to ask, “Do you think Kate needs your help?”
    â€œIt’s counting and piling. I’ve helped her before.”
    That was close enough for Nell’s conscience. “I’ll pick you up after my meeting. So be prepared to turn into pumpkins at around nine.”
    That got the usual protest from Lizzie that they would be only halfway done, and the usual response from Nell that perhaps they should do homework first and gossip second. Nell quelled further protest by suggesting Lizzie might find it more conducive to study at her grandmother’s.
    After supper, she hustled them into the car and dropped Josh at the bike shop. She stayed long enough to give Kate at least a millisecond to protest. Kate just waved and Nell drove on to Lizzie’s destination.
    With her children safely deposited, Nell glanced at the address for Marcus Fletcher’s talk.
    It was a poor section of town. Nell noticed several houses that looked abandoned. Others were kept up, but the cars were older models, the lawn only what grew in the small space between the porch and sidewalk. She took another turn onto a street that some yesteryear had been a strip of stores and businesses. The shape of the building told their history: the door cut into the corner, the wide windows for merchandise, now with curtains on the inside and steel bars on the outside. Only two businesses seemed to still be viable, one a small grocery store on the corner garishly festooned with signs for cigarettes and beer. The other place was named Don’s Hideout. It had similar beer and cigarette signs and the dim in terior suggested a bar. In the middle of the block was what might have once been a municipal building, perhaps a school in the days of segregation or some other remnant of separate but not equal. Its door was open and the lights inside welcoming compared to the gaudy store and murky bar. There were enough men in suits standing outside to tell Nell this was the place. Something about political rallies was all the same, from the smell of frying chicken to the cooing babies offered as props to the men and, increasingly, women in suits with hands outstretc hed.
    Nell found parking on the store-side of the street, then walked back across to the hall. One of the men standing out front asked as she approached, “Ma’am, may I help you?”
    It was then Nell realized she was the only white woman. When she was young and had worked in Chicago and Fort Wayne, she’d preferred the multicultural neighborhood she lived in to the white suburb her brothers suggested for her. Then she’d moved here, and found that multiculturalism didn’t extend to even decent bagels. It’s easy to forget how separate things are, Nell chastised herself, when you’re the one separated into the good neighborhood.
    â€œThis is where Marcus Fletcher is speaking?” she asked the man. She didn’t sense hostility, just mild puzzlement.
    â€œYes, ma’am, this is. We don’t usually get much of a crowd for these speeches now. It doesn’t count if it’s not on television.” He turned