Forsaken. Ross Howell

a distance. Mr. Rees, the undertaker, had hired a couple of big fellows from the docks to help out, too. When the men lifted their arms to hold their top hats against the wind, the suits Mr. Rees loaned them for the job looked like they might split at the seams.

      I caught the trolley to the docks and walked to the entrance of the Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock Company on the coal pier side. As I made my way across the C&O tracks, I could glimpse a section of the Texas. The prow of the dreadnought was hung with scaffolding. Her superstructure towered above the yards. Seagulls spun and screeched among the masts and guy wires. A guard at the gate remembered Cahill right away.

      “Bandy little fellow with a moustache?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Best damn rivet man in the shop. Heard about the trouble over at his landlady’s. I don’t know where he’s hanging his cap now. Wait here at the gate when the shift changes at five of the evening, you’re sure to catch him.”

      “Thank you, sir. Do you keep records of the men’s attendance?”

      “Yes, they sign in and out here at the gate.”

      “Do you have this Monday’s records?”

      “I do. I turn the time sheets into the office of a Friday.”

      “May I ask you to check to see if Mr. Cahill was at work on Monday?”

      “Oh, I’m sure he was. Supposed to launch that battleship in May, so they’re working round the clock.”

      “I’m sorry to ask, sir, but do you mind checking?”

      “All right,” he said. “Just hold on.” He went back into a little office where clipboards were hanging from pegs. He picked one up and began to leaf through the sheets.

      “Monday, March 18. Signature: J. T. Cahill. Ingress: 6:45 a.m. Egress: 5:10 p.m.”

      “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for your trouble.”

      Newspapers were piled high in the rubbish can by the entrance. I pulled out a few. Stories about the testimony in Dr. Vanderslice’s inquest were all over the front pages—Hampton, Phoebus, Norfolk, Newport News, Portsmouth, Chesapeake, Suffolk. Reporters from the Richmond Times-Dispatch and the Williamsburg Bee had been at the sheriff’s office, too. “NEGRESS STRANGLES WIDOW IN GRUESOME CRIME,” read one headline. “INNOCENT CHILDREN DISCOVER SCENE OF HORROR,” read another. “BASIN OF BLOOD TESTIMONY RIVETS JURORS,” was the headline Mr. Hobgood gave my story in the Times-Herald.

      Passions were running high. Some feared a race riot. Ministers of the black church congregations in Hampton and Newport News were alarmed. An article stated a colored preacher from the pulpit had called for the speedy execution of Virginia Christian. “Murder of Mrs. Belote Is Deplored by Negroes,” read a headline in the Daily Press. For the story Pace had interviewed two colored preachers who said the crime was a real setback for relations between the races. They claimed their congregations were willing to hire private investigators to assist the sheriff’s office in bringing the girl to justice.

      For background to my story on Mrs. Belote’s funeral, I decided to check the morgue at the Daily Press. The clip file about Hampton residents at Pace’s paper was better than ours at the Times-Herald. I was smoking a cigarette outside when Pace came trotting up the steps. He stopped and grinned.

      “Looking for a job, Charlie?” he asked.

      “Yours,” I said. He stepped by me, giving me the finger over his shoulder as he went inside.

      Mrs. Belote’s beloved husband, James Edward Wadsworth Belote, had died at their Washington Street home on June 6, 1911. The cause of death was throat cancer, according to the obituary. For some reason people called him Frank. His family was from Northampton County, North Carolina. He’d moved to Hampton about 1880. He worked as a bookkeeper for various firms in the yards. Except for the proprietor of a saloon by the docks, who remembered him as a man who liked to argue politics, nobody seemed to recall much about Mrs. Belote’s husband.

      One thing was certain, Frank Belote was prolific. At the time of his death he had five sons, all grown men. There was a marriage notice about Pauline, his oldest daughter. She’d married George Wright, a welder in Newport News, in 1909, when she was nineteen years old. According to the notice, her two younger sisters, Harriet and Sarah Elizabeth—Sadie—lived at home with their mother, Mrs. Ida Virginia Belote.

      My hunch was the two girls would be staying with their older sister, at least for now. When I finished at the Daily Press, I located the Wrights’ address in Newport News. Too bad I hadn’t thought to check before I went to the shipyards earlier. The address was near the point where the James River runs into Hampton Roads. I caught the trolley as far as I could. The place was a white cottage with big azaleas planted at the foundations. Fat buds were scattered among the branches, but none of the blossoms had opened. The sun was bright and a breeze blew cold off the Roads. Sadie was sitting by herself on the stoop. Her hair was the color of honey and drooped in thick ringlets below her shoulders. She was holding a big doll with a frilly bonnet. Her nose was running and she wiped it on the hem of the doll’s dress.

      A petite woman wearing a black skirt and black shirtwaist came out on the stoop. I recognized her from the inquest.

      “Sadie,” she said. “It’s too cold! Come inside the house and shut that door. Goodness!”

      “Mrs. Wright?” I said.

      “Yes?”

      “My name’s Charlie Mears. I work for the Times-Herald. I’m sorry to trouble you at such a difficult time, but may I ask you some questions?”

      She bit her lip and studied me. “My husband’s not at home,” she said. “It would be better if you came back later.”

      “I’ll only take a moment of your time, ma’am.”

      “Oh, all right, come inside. Sadie, for goodness’ sake, stand up and get inside this house before we both catch our death.”

      I stepped quickly up the walk. There were purple crocuses barely open by the stoop. Mrs. Wright held the door.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

      “Mears,” I said.

      “Come in, Mr. Mears. Sadie, take Mr. Mears’ cap.”

      She shut the door behind me. There was a coal firebox in the fireplace and the room was toasty. I handed Sadie my cap. My glasses began to fog. I removed them and wiped the lenses with my handkerchief. When I put them back on, I saw Harriet Belote standing by the fireplace mantel. She was pale as a lily. Her long, jet-black hair fell down her back. Her eyes were very bright. In one hand she held a book, a finger keeping her place. Though I had seen her twice, first at the depot and then at the sheriff’s office, I had not noticed how pretty she was. Like her older sister, she was dressed in black.

      “You have a cowlick.”

      “Sadie!” Mrs. Wright said.

      I looked down. Sadie was gazing up at me, clutching her doll.

      I brushed at my hair with my hand. “The cap,” I said. “It seems to do it.”

      She nodded. “I know,” she said. “Dolly’s will, too, if she sleeps on it funny. See?” She held the doll up and pointed to its forehead.

      “Yes,” I said. “I see.”

      “Harriet, why don’t you take Sadie in the bedroom so Mr. Mears and I can talk,” Mrs. Wright said.

      Harriet nodded and moved toward the door. She waited until Sadie joined her, then took her by the shoulders and guided her from the room.

      Mrs. Wright sat in the Morris chair by the fire and folded her hands on her lap. I sat in a ladder-back chair facing her. “I’m worried sick, Mr. Mears,” she said. “Sadie’s all right. I don’t think she grasps what has happened. But Harriet hasn’t spoken a word since yesterday. She won’t eat a