Monument to Murder by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

her nickname, “Puddin’.”
    She’d had her epiphany following her last arrest. A local clergyman, whose flock consisted of the city’s criminal population, did for Puddin’ whatever it is that clergymen do. Presto! Wanda gave up “the life” and started counseling other hookers to get off the streets—and their backs—dump their pimps, and start living straight.
    She got plenty of local press for it but soon decided that there weren’t enough clients in Savannah to sustain her efforts. She packed up and moved to the big city, Atlanta, where there were more in need of her services, and more civic-minded money to sustain her mission.
    Wanda Johnson’s Refuge Project was housed in a storefront in a seedy section of the city, flanked by a boarded-up former take-out-chicken shack and an active pawnshop. A fresh coat of white paint and a tastefully painted sign above the door caused it to stand out from its surroundings.
    Brixton stepped through the door and was greeted by a young black woman seated behind a makeshift desk created by a hollow door on two file cabinets. A large bulletin board featured dozens of color snapshots of women who Brixton presumed had been rescued from the streets by the mission’s founder. A series of six watercolors depicting city life were grouped on one wall along with a clock with an Atlanta Falcons face, some photographs, and a large blackboard.
    Brixton introduced himself and said he had an appointment with Ms. Johnson. The receptionist disappeared through a door and reappeared moments later accompanied by Wanda. Now a stout, middle-aged woman, she wore a flowing white linen robe with colorful embroidery at the hem, cuffs, and neckline, and a floppy red hat, a far cry from what she must have worn during her days as a prostitute. Her dark brown face was heavily made up: vivid red lipstick, greenish eye shadow, and pink rouge. She extended her hand and said, “I don’t remember seeing you around Savannah. You ever work vice?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “The vice squad cops were pretty nice, not out to bust chops.”
    “I hope you told them that.”
    “Every time they hauled me in,” she said with a hearty laugh. “Come back to my office, if that’s what you can call it. Times are tough.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    Her office wasn’t much bigger than a good-size walk-in closet. She’d squeezed a yellow vinyl couch that had seen better days into the space along with a small, round table that functioned as a desk, the only thing on it a cordless telephone. Another bulletin board held photos similar to the ones outside, as well as a large calendar. There were photos of Wanda receiving awards of some sort from politicians, and candid shots of her with Atlanta athletes at what Brixton assumed were fund-raising events. A through-the-wall air conditioner chugged away noisily. There were no windows. She must have sensed Brixton’s reaction to the space because she said, “Most of the money we raise goes to help the girls, the hospital and rehab fees, help ’em with their rent, psych counseling, stuff like that. I don’t need no fancy office.”
    “Most nonprofits could take a lesson from you.”
    “Glad you see it that way.”
    She directed Brixton to the couch, then sat in a swivel office chair. “So,” she said, “you want to know about Louise Watkins.”
    “That’s right.”
    “What is it you want to know about her?”
    Brixton grinned. “As much as you can remember.”
    “That might not be much.”
    “Anything will be helpful.”
    “Mind if I ask why you’re interested in her?”
    “Not at all. As I told you, I’m a PI now. Louise’s mother came to see me. Louise went to prison for stabbing a guy outside Augie’s. Remember that joint?”
    “Sure I do. Down and dirty.”
    “Her mother claims that Louise confessed to that stabbing in return for ten thousands bucks, claims her daughter didn’t stab anybody.”
    “Just like a loving mother.”
    “I believe