13.1 The Country Squire

“He was black,” thought Natalia getting up from bed, “Chocolate mix…a blend.” She pushed aside the files and stood up to correct her white dress in front of the mirror. Brushed down the creases. She was hopeful that Enrique could find some matching fingerprint from the files she posted to tally with some forensics collected six years ago.

She read about Sidney Martin’s death and looked at the faces in the passport size photos, not too clear in the photostats. Sidney Martin’s car slid off a low narrow trail and fell into Wolf Lake where she often spent fishing on Saturday’s. She was in freezing water and drowned. It happened on 6^th November 1982.

“Enough reading for a day!” Natalia dropped the comb. Few more touches to her face, lipstick and she was ready to go. She pulled on the jacket and stepped on the corridor that she loved of grand hotels. In a subconscious mind, she was eager to go to North Carolina after Thomas Cyril. He could be in New York or in Chicago. Diego could always find it out using his smart connections.

In a while, she was walking down the Waterfront Park by the sabal palmettos, in no hurry, wearing her sunglasses and bag on her shoulder. Natalia smiled cutely at the passers-by who returned their smiles.

She arrived at Hutton House to find Valerie gone to the market. She had a cup of coffee. For some reason she was avoiding 69 Church Street. This was her third day in Charleston and still she hadn’t passed the house apart from that one time she drove with Valerie in the car. She was thinking of the risk; Paul Clancy would be there and he probably knew Natalia. Her eccentric look might give away by an appearance.

Valerie was out that day. In second thoughts, she stepped on the street. It was chillier today and she wasn’t wearing pants. She could go on for a couple of hours. The carroty glow of the sun in her eyes from the right as she strolled up the street and trotted steps in crossing Tradd Street.

There was this thrill inside when you attempt to do something covertly, sometimes it gave more pleasure. Natalia reached the house striding on the left sidewalk. There was less cover from the leaves. Two crape myrtle trees stood unembellished in front of 69 at the breadth of the house. There was no light shone from the windows. All closed and curtains drawn. She had a thrill inside to notice that place she slipped in furtively one day.

At that point she passed something that she felt boggling. She almost missed it because she was looking up. She glanced at the wagon parked by the road on the left, took few steps back and read those letters; ‘Country Squire’.

“Huh!” she cried, “Curtis!” Natalia moved back to take a look at the rear. It looked as the same wagon she remembered seeing from the pictures taken at Forsythe Park by Linda’s friend. She stole a quick look through the window. Then she glanced up and down the road, seized the bottom of her dress in a fist and clutched the handle not to leave a fingerprint. It was locked.

She could see the interior parchment upholstery through clear glass. She peeped. Perhaps, Linda said she picked the vial and the syringe from this car while parked near H&Q in Madison. It showed rust. She didn’t bring the camera but remembered a mini-cassette recorder in her handbag. She read out, “R941295 Louisiana, ’67 Country Squire, Exterior finished in Sauterne Gold with woodgrain appliqué, two-way tailgate, four-door wagon…”

She moved slowly up the right side and peeped in through the passenger window, keeping aware of her back. There she stared down at the driver’s seat padded with a thick seat booster and beneath; an odd apparatus. Under the steering, on the floorboard, she negotiated a metal platform step. It was attached with a modification to raise the foot pedals. She whispered into the recorder, “Wellinois!”

She straightened quickly and turned away. She took on her toes in black booties, her legs semi-toned like the dead branches of a crape myrtle; she ran like a man.

“Val…ehem!” she cleared her voice, “Please, may I borrow your car for a couple of hours?”

“Sure. Why?” uttered Valerie.

“Do you have a camera with a film?”

“Yes, half used,” she corrected her glasses.

“Okay. Please let me have them!”

“You can bring the car back in the morning. I go to sleep at nine tonight.”

“Thank you.”

She dropped on the low seat of the Honda coupe and felt that freedom in the legs. Relaxed. She should buy a car like this but not before another two years. She had no budget to renew a vehicle before a ten-year use.

She stopped by the sidewalk watching the stucco walls of the house. Took a couple of pictures and waited. An hour passed. Streetlights turned on.

She almost missed that short man that appeared from the south side lane. She quickly clicked a couple of photographs, in the fading light it could not be helpful, shifted to the driver’s seat and dropped that large camera in the passenger seat.

When the wagon rolled slowly on the street, she followed behind. Wellinois, wearing the brim hat, drove towards US17 and climbed the Ashley River Bridge on the westbound. She decided to quit and return to the hotel. Natalia dismissed because she got his address.

Her mind confused why Linda lied about a friend taking the picture of the Country Squire and said that car belonged to Curtis. It was Linda who took the picture at Forsythe Park. She made her mind to go after Linda. She’d be in New York or in Corpus Christi. Natalia remembered Angela Herron. If going to New York, she could call her.

In the end, she decided to see Thomas Cyril first. He could tell by now something about Noth Wellinois and Sidney Martin. He would have seen his father’s diaries or belongings, perhaps an album to show some pictures.