Wittman’s new petition drive sponsored by his political action committee “Save Our Pensacola” was his final attempt to stop the park and deny another victory for Daniels and his client.
Wittman’s goal was to cancel the building contract and force a new contract that didn’t include construction of the ballpark. He needed to present a petition signed by 10 percent of the city’s registered voters—about 3,700 signatures.
One more time it was Jace Wittman versus Stan Daniels. Jace could not—would not—let Stan beat him again. Any collateral damage didn’t concern him.
He had to win.
12
The note was written on cream-colored linen stationery that was monogrammed “SEH”—Sue Eaton Hines. The message was one sentence:
“Sweetie, no more lies.”
There were water stains on the paper. Tears, maybe. Was this Sue’s suicide note? How could I be sure? And if it was, what the hell should I do with it? I had to publish it, didn’t I?
I couldn’t take this to Bo Hines. He wouldn’t let me in the house. Even if he did, why would he help me? This could be damning to his trial. Obviously, his wife killed herself because of his lies. Right?
I shouldn’t have had that last bourbon and coke. The walk four blocks to the loft helped sober me up some. I found Big Boy bouncing all over the place, so I attached the leash to his collar, and we headed out to find Dare. Maybe she would recognize the handwriting. She wouldn’t answer my phone call, but she would meet me the door at her house if she saw me with Big Boy.
It was after nine, but Dare stayed up late. If her porch light was on, we would ring the doorbell. To hedge my bet, I texted her: “Coming over with BB. Have new info on Sue.” Half a block later, I sent a second text message: “Please.”
While we walked toward Aragon, Dare texted back: “K.”
Dare lived in the trendy downtown neighborhood, Aragon, which was built on the site of a former housing project one block north of Pensacola Bay. Twenty years ago the city fathers realized, with the help of local developers who made large contributions to their campaigns, people would pay top dollar to live downtown near the bay. Why waste the view on poor black people?
The city relocated the housing project residents with the understanding that Aragon would have a quarter of its lots set aside for first-time homebuyers. The catch phrase for the project was a “new, urbanist, traditional neighborhood.” Really, that’s how they described it when the developers presented the drawings to Rotary Clubs in the area.
The developers moved the poor people. Expensive townhouses, cottages, park houses, side-yard houses, small cottages, and row houses replaced the tenements. The developers made millions, and the city added thirty-five million dollars to the tax rolls.
What about the first-time homebuyers? They turned out to be the sons and daughters of the developers and their buddies. Nobody else could afford it. No blacks and none of the offspring of the families that had been moved off the property lived in the new Aragon homes.
Dare resided in a two-story row house in the middle of Aragon. Big Boy and I reached her house in about twenty minutes. A lot of beautiful trees lined the streets between my loft and her house. Both the dog and I took advantage of more than a few of them.
The front porch light was on. Big Boy made a dash for Dare’s front door as soon as he saw it, jerking his leash out of my hand. Hearing the jingle from his dog tags, Dare opened the door and greeted the mutt with a hug and kiss. She unhooked his leash, and Big Boy ran in and immediately jumped up on her couch. I followed the pair and shut the door behind me.
“I’m still pissed at you for suggesting that Sue committed suicide,” Dare said over her shoulder as she sat next to Big Boy, who put his head in her lap. She was dressed in a red Ole Miss polo and navy blue shorts, and wearing pearls, of course. Spread out next to her laptop on the coffee table were financial reports and contracts.
“I know, I know. Isn’t everyone mad at me?” I replied. “That’s my superpower, pissing people off.”
“Stop right there, Walker Holmes,” Dare interrupted. “You brought Big Boy here to soften me up, but it won’t work. The dog is always welcome. You? I’m not so sure about. Just tell me what you found.”
I handed her the note. She turned on the light next to the couch and grabbed her reading glasses off the coffee table. She folded herself back into the couch. Dare read the note maybe three times, handed it back to me, and got up and left the room. When she came back five minutes later, she had a tissue and her eyes were watery.
“Did Sue write that note?” I asked, quietly.
“Where did you get it?”
“From a fat lady, but that’s not important,” I said.
Dare glared at me as if to say really? “Your wisecracks aren’t as funny as you think,” she added out loud.
I said, “That’s what the bartender told me, really.”
This wasn’t where I wanted the conversation to go. I pointed to the stationery in Dare’s hand. “Dare, did Sue write the note?”
“I think so. Sue had a unique writing style, a mix of cursive and print letters. There was no rhyme or reason to it, except it worked for her.” She paused. “I think I have a thank-you note she wrote me a few weeks ago.”
Dare went to her study. I heard her rummaging through her desk. Big Boy had fallen asleep and was snoring. She brought back the thank-you note. It, too, began with “Sweetie,” written nearly identically to the suicide note. We appeared to have
