“Mama, you don’t have to do that,” I whimpered. “If you make the call, he’ll want to know why I didn’t do it. I’ll call him up right now.”

It was no secret among colored folks, or the rest of the country, that when it came to crimes in the Deep South that involved only colored folks, the police “investigation” was sloppy, and half done at best. But I had to follow the law anyway. I ended the call with Mama and called the sheriff’s office. One of his deputies answered and put me through to Sheriff Potts right away without asking any questions. “Yeah. This is Sheriff Potts,” he answered, sounding like he’d just woke up.

“Hello, this is Joyce Watson.”

“Mac and Millie’s daughter?”

“Uh-huh.” I was so jittery, I had to pause and catch my breath. “My husband was murdered last night.”

I couldn’t believe his casual response. “Well, blow me down with a feather. Who would want to kill a good egg like Odell? Did they kill him at the store?”

“No. It happened way after he’d closed.”

“Hmmm. You know who done it, and where?”

“No. Somebody must have followed him home last night. I found him on our living-room floor this morning. They stabbed him in the chest.”

“Hell’s bells. Now listen to me, gal. If you done it, you need to come clean right now. It’ll make things a whole lot easier for you, and me.”

The sheriff’s implication was so ominous and out of left field, it made my head swim. “I didn’t kill Odell! I wouldn’t hurt a fly!” I exploded, clutching the telephone so hard it felt like it had become part of my hand.

“Calm down. I’m just doing my job. If you say you didn’t do it, I’ll have to take your word until I know enough to sort things out. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mama and Daddy steamrolled in through the kitchen door. They rushed to the living room and stopped at Odell’s feet. I had never seen them so wild-eyed and distressed. Mama was wiping tears off her face with a large white handkerchief and clutching her Bible. “Lord almighty,” she wailed. She was fully dressed, but Daddy had on pajamas under his overcoat and mismatched house shoes.

“Joyce, you sure Odell is dead?” Daddy hollered, laying his two canes on the coffee table. With a groan, he squatted down and lifted the sheet off Odell’s face and answered his own question. “Yup. He dead. The boy is stiff as a stalk of sugar cane,” he said gently.