The Least of These

By Cindy Rice Holster

New Lexington, Texas, is a great place to work and raise a family in the 1950s. Friends and neighbors get together to barbecue or play canasta; kids play outdoors with no fear; the churches are filled on Sundays.
In this serene world, however, an incident occurs so horrible in its scope, so devastating in its consequences, that it shakes the community to its very foundations. A child is murdered, in fact, the only child of the local police chief.
After the reality of the heinous act sinks in, the locals want answers, especially the parents of the murdered child. Suspicions arise concerning a member of the black community in the town, thus causing tensions to rise between the races, tensions that were always present, just below the surface.
As the story unfolds, old friends become estranged, gossip and conjecture prevail, and racism is exposed in all its ugliness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Nov 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458212023

Cindy Rice Holster

Cindy Rice Holster was born and raised in northeastern Texas. After getting married and raising two sons, she attended Texas A&M University and earned a degree in English/creative writing, with a minor in history. She lives with her husband, Jesse, in a suburb of Houston. Cover Art: Dr. Jesse Holster

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

AFTERWORD

For Matt and Rob

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily, I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Matthew 25:40

King James Version

CHAPTER 1

S HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT a baby boomer was until she was grown and realized she was one. Being a boomer was irrelevant to her until, as she got older, she could reflect on what good fortune it had been to grow up in the fifties, especially if one were white and middle class. It was a tranquil time, with Ike and Mamie in the White House, the Ricardos in the living room every Monday night via the miracle of television, and Roy and Dale wishing everybody Happy Trails.

The town where she grew up, New Lexington, Texas, population 28, 513 in 1956, was typical for its time. Daddies went to work Monday through Friday. Mothers, for the most part, stayed home, kept house, cooked, and looked after the kids. On Saturday nights, couples got together to grill hamburgers on brick barbecue pits and play Canasta, and on Sunday, everybody went to Sunday school and church.

It was precisely such an environment that Rebecca Ann Newton recalled from her childhood. But she also recalled something that she didn’t quite understand at the time—something dark, something that had the potential to shatter her serene world.

It was a Saturday afternoon in early August, and Rebecca was in her room daydreaming about the Esther Williams movie her family had seen the night before at the drive-in theater. Coursing through her mind were recollections of Esther and her court of aquamaids as they darted in and out of flames (that somehow miraculously rose from the water). Then they plunged into a pool of thousands of flowers, followed by Queen Esther in her form-fitting one-piece swimsuit and floral bathing cap, majestically ascending through flames, flowers, and all, rising up, up, up above all the attending aquamaids, smiling radiantly, and—

"Becky, I hope you’re ready for choir practice! We’re leaving right now!"

Her mother’s voice startled her back to reality, and she answered with a reluctant, Okay, Mama!

As her mother backed the family station wagon out of the driveway, Rebecca made a mental note to start begging her parents for swim lessons. Covenant Presbyterian Church loomed ahead of them, and it was a familiar sight. The Newton family never missed Sunday school and church, and Rebecca never missed children’s choir practice. Rebecca knew the director, Mrs. Murchison, would be there waiting for her little songbirds, ready to try to blend their little voices into some semblance of unity sufficient to perform for the congregation on Sunday morning.

Looking back, Rebecca realized that, through a child’s eyes, Jeanne Murchison looked pretty normal. Her specific physical characteristics were quite unremarkable. But as an adult, Rebecca couldn’t think of her without a chuckle. In 1956, Jeanne was probably about forty years old, but she looked older. She was overweight but not excessively and wore outfits that should have been a size or so larger—clingy capri pants and matching skin-tight sweaters—and Rebecca’s mother always said she looked like she had been poured into them. Her hair was red but not all the way to the roots, and her long, perfectly shaped fingernails were always painted bright red, with lipstick to match. Rebecca remembered feeling happy and secure in her bright, cheerful, flamboyant presence.

Rebecca’s mother dropped her off at one of the side doors of the first floor of the church, and Rebecca quickly made her way to one of the Sunday school rooms, where the children’s choir always practiced. When all the children had arrived and were seated in a circle on chairs just their size, Mrs. Murchison left the old upright piano she had been playing to welcome them. She joined them in the middle of the circle and said brightly, Boys and girls, today we are going to play a special game. The children tittered with excitement. We want to work very hard today so we can sing our very best tomorrow—but who says we can’t have fun too?

That day, Mrs. M. had the inspired idea to bribe the children with trinkets to persuade them to listen closely enough to the notes she sang that they could chortle them back to her correctly. Right away, among her array of extortion items, Rebecca spotted a tiny harmonica. Wow, she thought. I have got to have that!

The director began her little game by picking up a little plastic dog and asking the group, Who can sing ‘do-o-o-gie’? Four simple notes were all one had to duplicate to gain the prize, but Rebecca was after bigger game. She kept her silence until at last Mrs. M. picked up the harmonica. Even at the age of seven, Rebecca had enough sense to know that the notes she would have to repeat to win the coveted object would be the most complicated that Mrs. M. could devise. Granted, Rebecca was no Doris Day, but she was determined to have that harmonica if she had to spout off all seven verses of How Great Thou Art.

True to Rebecca’s expectation, Mrs. M. made it hard—so hard that she must have stretched the word harmonica into twenty notes. With a steely determination, Rebecca spewed forth those notes exactly as Mrs. M. had sung them, and the precious object was hers! All the other kids just stared at her in amazement and sheer envy. It was a stellar moment in her life.

* * *

Just before she left to pick up Rebecca, Hazel received a phone call from her husband. He had been called out early that morning on business, and when she hadn’t heard from him by two, she became concerned. When he finally called, he told her he had some bad news and asked if she could come to his office right away. She didn’t like the tone of Philip’s voice, and she was worried.

Hazel was distracted as she arrived at the church and barely noticed her daughter’s state of excitement as she got into the car and related to her mother the thrill of winning the prize. Her response was, Oh, that’s nice. Becky, we need to stop by Daddy’s office.

Rebecca thought it was a little unusual for her daddy to be at his office on Saturday—not unheard of but unusual. He was the district attorney, a steady occupation to be sure; but realistically speaking, his caseload was a little mundane, mostly involving auto theft, armed robbery, and just a sprinkling of homicide, which usually arose from domestic disputes.

When they reached the parking lot of Philip Newton’s office building, Rebecca quickly opened her car door and raced into the building ahead of her mother so she could push the elevator button. On weekdays, Mr. Oscar was there to operate the elevator and to ask people what floor they needed. Mr. Oscar was an odd, little man with a hump on his back, which made him look as though he was always leaning forward when he walked. And he always reeked of cigar smoke because one never saw him without a big, fat stogie clenched in his teeth. Rebecca liked him and felt good knowing he was always there to run that elevator.

But on weekends, a person just had to push those buttons herself. And that is exactly what Rebecca intended to do when her mother dashed into the elevator just before the door closed on her. It was a good thing, because Rebecca wasn’t sure which buttons to push once she got in there. She couldn’t wait to get into her daddy’s office because it was Saturday, and Francine Hoffmeyer, the receptionist, wouldn’t be there. That meant she could type on Francine’s typewriter, pretend to answer the telephone, and take imaginary messages for her daddy. It was Rebecca’s dream to be a secretary—and it was her favorite thing to play.

Philip came out of his office when he heard his wife and daughter come in. Hazel noticed immediately that he looked troubled. What’s wrong, honey?

Philip glanced over at Rebecca, who was typing away, and said, Maybe you had better take Becky home—get Mrs. Jackson to watch her for a while. Then come back here. What I have to tell you is not something Becky should hear.

Hazel did as her husband asked and soon returned to his office. When she walked in, she found him on the phone. All right, Ben, I’ll do what I can. Just try and get some rest. He hung up the phone as he looked at his wife’s worried face.

Sit down, honey. This isn’t going to be easy for you.

CHAPTER 2

A S HAZEL AND PHILIP SAT on the couch in his office, he began to tell her a story so shocking that, as she listened, her face turned ashen with fear and disbelief. The call Philip had received early that morning was from Ben Logan, the town’s chief of police, asking if he could come to the Logan home right away. When he got there, he was not prepared for what he would hear and see. Ben looked awful; his face was pale, and his eyes had deep, dark circles under them, as if he hadn’t slept for days. His clothes were disheveled, he needed a shower and a shave, and his breath reeked of bourbon.

As the two old friends sat down at the Logans’ kitchen table, Philip noticed that Ben’s hands were shaking badly. It was then that Philip realized Ben had not said a word. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak and lifeless and sounded as though it was coming from a long distance away.

Philip, my baby is dead. His voice quivering, he continued. Louise found her in the backyard late yesterday afternoon. I think she had been strangled and maybe sexually assaulted. With that, he broke into huge, heaving sobs.

Philip reached out to him, but it was as though he wasn’t really there; he wasn’t hearing Ben, his friend of ten years, telling him that Elizabeth, the child Ben and Louise had waited for eight years to have, the goddaughter of Philip and Hazel and playmate of their daughter, that beautiful, vibrant, blonde, blue-eyed, dimpled bundle of energy and charm was dead? No, Philip thought as he closed his eyes. This is not real. This sort of thing does not happen in New Lexington. Then his eyes opened abruptly, and as he looked at his friend, wracked with grief, the reality of it hit him square in the face. This was no bad dream; it was real.

Ben, why did you wait until this morning to call me? My God, Hazel and I would have come right over, been with you and Louise last night.

Louise is sedated. I called Dr. Stephens last night, and he brought something over. Philip, I’m telling you, Louise was so hysterical I thought she was going to hurt herself.

Ben, where is Elizabeth now—who knows about this?

Jim Ellis from the funeral home picked her up last night after Louise finally fell asleep. So, he knows, Dr. Stephens—and now you. That’s it.

Ben, you shouldn’t have let Jim remove the body until the sheriff could get out here and investigate the crime scene. There may need to be an autopsy and God knows what else.

Goddamnit, Philip, I’m the chief of police—this is my jurisdiction.

Ben, I know, but we have to have cooperation. You know how things are— Philip, I know who did it. I know, Ben interjected.

Who, for Christ’s sake?

It was that damned nigger boy Luther Johnson—he was working here in our yard yesterday afternoon.

You mean Georgie Mae’s boy? He paused, incredulous. I don’t believe it.

Well, Philip, believe it, he murmured in a low tone. I was home all afternoon because Louise was working down at the hospital with her auxiliary. I kept checking on Elizabeth—she was playing in the backyard. And more than once I saw that black bastard watching her, just watching her—my precious baby… He broke down again.

Ben, that doesn’t prove anything. You’re a veteran police officer. You know you need a lot more evidence than that.

Oh, yeah, well, when Elizabeth came in the house for a cold drink, she told me, ‘Daddy, Luther says I’m pretty, the prettiest little girl he ever saw. He said he would surely like to give me a kiss. But I told him I would have to ask my daddy first!’ Can you imagine that? That nigger kissing my baby?

At that moment, something just didn’t ring true with Philip. If Luther had said such a thing,