A Murder In Passing by Mark de Castrique

“We did what was best for both of us.”
    I thought of Marsha Montgomery’s phrase, “There was a code of silence. My mother wanted it that way.” It appeared Lucille shared that desire not to cross the color line.
    â€œAll right. Here’s what I propose,” Nakayla said. “We’ll talk to Lucille and Marsha. If they want you involved in the investigation, then we’ll consider it. If they don’t, well, there are other private investigators.”
    â€œLucille said Blackman and Robertson were the best.”
    â€œWe are,” Nakayla said. “And whoever hires us deserves our full attention.”
    Lang looked to me, but I said nothing.
    He shrugged, put his weight on his cane, and rose from the sofa. “Then I’ll wait to hear from you.” He fumbled in the side pocket of his sport coat and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Nakayla.
    â€œDon’t wait,” she said. “Go to the police and tell them what you told us. Better you find them than they come looking for you.”
    When we heard the elevator in the hall descending to the ground floor with Lang, I said, “Tomorrow let’s both talk with Lucille and Marsha Montgomery. This is too strange for me to follow up on my own.”
    â€œAgreed.” Nakayla went into her office and returned with her purse. “But let’s leave it till tomorrow. Tonight, you can take me to dinner.”
    â€œAll right, dearie. Right after I forward the phones.”
    We walked to Bouchon, a favorite French restaurant a few blocks from the office. The mountain air was invigorating and the setting sun cast that magical golden aura on everything it touched. We were early enough to beat the crowd, but not so early that we couldn’t start dinner with a bottle of wine. And it was all-you-can-eat mussels night. Life couldn’t get any better.
    Actually it did. We split a bottle of Pinot Grigio, if my three glasses to Nakayla’s one qualifies as a split. Then Nakayla insisted she drive me home. To her home.
    Somewhere in the fuzzy realm of wine, mussels, love, and sleep, I heard ringing. Nakayla threw a bare hip into me in case I had any doubt as to whose cellphone was the culprit. I rolled over and grabbed the offending instrument from her nightstand.
    â€œYes,” I croaked.
    â€œMr. Blackman?” The woman’s voice sounded breathy and frightened.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThis is Marsha Montgomery. I’m at the Henderson County jail. They’ve just booked my mother on suspicion of murder and charged me as an accessory. Please help us!”

Chapter Eight
    As I gathered my wits during Marsha’s call, I realized it was only ten-thirty. Immediately upon hanging up, I phoned Hewitt Donaldson and told him the story. When he heard an eighty-five-year-old woman was sitting in a county jail, the pit bull side of his personality launched into high gear. What I intended to get on his agenda for the morning became an instant crusade. He asked where I was and said he’d pick me up in thirty minutes. I had no chance for rebuttal. You don’t argue with Perry Mason on steroids.
    Nakayla, Hewitt, and I arrived at the Henderson County Detention Center shortly after midnight. A deputy behind the reception window asked for identification. Nakayla and I flashed our P.I. licenses. They struck the deputy with all the force of an airborne dandelion seed.
    The deputy eyed Hewitt. In his wrinkled orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt, Hewitt looked like someone we were bringing into custody.
    â€œAnd who are you?”
    Hewitt leaned in till he was less than six inches from the protective window of thick glass. “Hewitt Donaldson, attorney-at-law, and I’m here to see that elderly woman and her daughter you have egregiously incarcerated.”
    The deputy wet his lips. He had heard of Hewitt Donaldson. “Visiting hours are in the morning.”
    Hewitt leaned even closer and