CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Betty Garrison and I talked for another half hour, but she could tell me no more than she already had. Her memory of the Asian man was limited. She knew he was Asian, but she could not describe him. She didn’t remember if she ever heard him speak, so she couldn’t tell me whether the man had an accent. As far as she knew her husband had never had any dealings with Asians in his practice, but that might not be the case. She wouldn’t have known unless Peter made a point of telling her and there was no reason for him to do so. She agreed to check with the managing partner of Peter’s law firm and find out about any clients that might have had a beef with him. She would also determine if he’d had any recent clients from Asia.
I’d left Jock at my house. He was working the phones and the computer, running down anything the federal government had on Souphanouvong Phomvihana and his poppy growing operation. He was calling in a lot of favors.
I drove back to Craig Airport and boarded Doc’s plane for the trip to Charlotte. I typed my notes on my conversation with Betty Garrison into my laptop and e-mailed them to both Jock and J.D. and a copy to Chaz Desmond.
George and Estelle Brewster lived in a small bungalow in a working-class neighborhood near the rail yards northeast of downtown Charlotte. They were tired people with wan complexions, their bodies gaunt, their hair gray. They were two people beaten into submission by life’s dark whims. Perhaps the loss of their only child had been the ultimate defeat visited on them by a world they no longer understood, a loss that deflated them and turned them into the walking dead, those cadaverous beings who look forward to the grave and solace at last, the comforting presence of death providing some measurable meaning to their lives.
I knew from the earlier police statements that the Brewsters were in their fifties, but they looked eighty. Their small house was tidy and smelled of musty furniture that had not been moved in a generation. The living room was spare with only a chair, a sofa, and an old console television set that must have been at least twenty years old. Three photographs sat atop the TV, a portrait of Katherine that was probably her high school senior picture, another of all three Brewsters standing on the front porch of their home, and a third of Katherine and a young man smiling for the camera, low mountains providing a backdrop for what must have been a happy day.
We sat, I on the chair and the couple on the sofa, holding hands, looking glum. “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said, “but I’m hoping you can help me solve the murder of your daughter.” I’d told them over the phone when I set up the meeting and then moved it up a day what my interest in the case was.
“Mr. Royal, I hope you can figure it out. Kat was our only child. She was a happy girl with a big streak of kindness for everybody,” said George.
“Tell me about her,” I said.
“She was twenty-five years old. She’d finished the local community college and was working to save some money to finish her education at UNC-Charlotte.”
“How long had she worked at Hooters?”
“Almost two years. She was banking most of her money and was going to start school at UNCC this fall.”
“Did she ever have any men bothering her at the restaurant? Hitting on her?”
“Oh,” said Estelle, “I’m sure that happened often enough, but she let it roll off. She had a boyfriend.”
“Who’s the boyfriend?”
“His name’s Doug Peterson. They met at the community college. They’d been going together for about three years. Planned to get married when they both finished college.”
“Had there been any problems with their relationship?”
“No. They seemed very happy,” said Estelle.
“Why didn’t he go to Florida with her?”
“They really couldn’t afford it, and Doug couldn’t get the time off,” said George. “Kat’s trip was free except for the gas money to get down there.”
It had not occurred to me to even ask how Katherine had gotten to Anna Maria. I had just assumed she went by air. “She drove down?”
“Yes. She had a Honda that she kept in great shape. All paid for. She bought it used when she graduated from high school.”
“How did you get the car back to Charlotte?”
“Doug took a bus down and drove it back,” said Estelle.
“Where does Doug work?”
“He works on a lawn maintenance crew over at the university. He’s a junior there, planning to be a school teacher. Just like Kat.”
“Where did Katherine get the free stay on Anna Maria?” I asked.
“Funny,” said George. “It came in the mail. Kind of a surprise.”
“Where did it come from?”
“She worked a charity benefit over at the arena back in April. She was a bartender and one of the organizers sent her the certificate.”
“Did she know the man before he sent the certificate?”
“I don’t think so,” said George. “She didn’t even recognize the name on the letter that came with the gift certificate, but she appreciated it.”
Estelle said, “She said she needed to get away by herself to do some thinking.”
“Do you know what she needed to think about?”
Estelle shook her head. “No. She didn’t want to talk about it.”
“What was the charity event she worked?”
“I don’t know,” said George.
“Wait,” said Estelle. “I think the letter that came with the gift certificate is still in Kat’s room.”
She left us, disappearing into the back of the house. George and I sat quietly. I watched him stare off into space, saw tears collecting in his eyes. He wiped them away with his calloused hand, sniffed once, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and stared some more.
Estelle returned with a letter-sized paper and two smaller ones. She handed them to me. The first was a note thanking Katherine for helping out at the event and enclosing two gift certificates as tokens of appreciation. One certificate was for the stay at the Anna Maria Inn and the other for a dinner aboard Dulcimer. The signature was illegible, but the name typed underneath the scrawl was “Ronald Brumbaugh.” The letterhead identified the charity as “Charlotte Learns, Inc.” A subheading claimed it as “A not-for-profit corporation that supports public schools in poverty stricken neighborhoods.” The smaller sheets were copies of the gift certificates from the Anna Maria Inn and Dulcimer issued through EZGo Travel. The certificate for the Anna Maria Inn was for the specific date in June, but the Dulcimer certificate was open-ended and could be used at any time at the recipient’s discretion.
“Do you know this Mr. Brumbaugh?” I asked.
“No,” said Estelle. “And Kat didn’t either.”
“What about Charlotte Learns?”
“That’s a charity that we read about in the paper sometimes. They help our teachers buy pencils and paper and stuff for the poor kids.”
“Do you know the name of Doug’s supervisor over at the college?” I asked George.
“No,” he said. “He worked out of the maintenance department. That’s all I know. Why?”
“Don’t take this wrong, Mr. Brewster,” I said, “but we need to make sure Doug was in Charlotte at the time Katherine died.”
Estelle put her hand to her mouth. “He had dinner here that day. With us. Besides, Doug loved Kat. He would never have harmed her.”
“I’m sorry I had to ask,” I said, feeling a little foolish.
We talked some more without me learning anything new. I got up from the chair, thanked them for their time, and followed George toward the front door. Hanging on the wall between a window and the door was a shadow box with military decorations pinned inside along with the symbol of the U.S. Marine Corps.
“You were a Marine?” I asked.
“Yep. Did six years in the corps. Two tours in Vietnam. Did you serve?”
“Yeah. I did a tour right at the end of the war. Army.”
“What branch?”
“Special Forces.”
“You guys were tough.”
“So were you jarheads. Were you infantry?”
“Yeah. I was trained as a sniper and worked in Force Recon.”
“A Marine sniper. The best of the best.”
“So they told me.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you for your service.”
“And thank you for yours.”
I left them standing on the porch as dusk enveloped us.