Dorothy Garlock (17 page)

“I promise.”

“I’ll be out here tomorrow night.”

“I’ll try to come out.” She tugged on her hand. “But…I don’t know. Marvin—”

“We’ll help ya. Me and Annabel. We’ll hide ya from him.”

“I don’t know…” she said again and tugged her hand free of his.

Boone watched her run back toward the house. When she stepped onto the porch, she turned and waved, then slipped into the house.

On Monday morning, leaning heavily on his cane, Corbin walked to the post office. He really didn’t need the cane because his leg was much better, but he wanted to continue to use his injured leg as an excuse to stay in town. The post office was a small white-painted building with a United States flag fluttering from a steel post in front.

“Morning, Mr. Appleby.”

“Morning, Mr. Brighton.”

The postmaster, in a white shirt and black bow tie, worked behind the bars that separated the office from the lobby. He was a thin man with rounded shoulders and long arms. He smiled so constantly that Corbin surmised he wasn’t a man to be trusted.

“Nice bright morning. How’s the leg?”

“Coming along…but slow. I need a stamp.” Corbin pulled a letter addressed to Mrs. Ned Wicker, Jefferson City, Missouri, from his shirt pocket. “I thought I’d better let my sister know I’m doing all right.” Corbin placed two pennies on the counter. The postmaster took the letter, looked at the address and, with the smile still on his face, looked up at Corbin.

“Jefferson City, huh? Do you know the Greenfields who live there?”

“No. I’ve never lived there. My sister moved there when she married.”

“Hummm. Greenfields are my wife’s second cousins. I wonder if they know the Wickers.”

“It’s possible. Jefferson City isn’t Chicago.”

“Plan to be around for a while?”

“Awhile. I’m not sure how long.”

“Must be nice to hang ‘round not havin’ to do anything.”

“Yeah, it is. Well, good day.” Corbin put his fingers to the brim of his hat and left the post office, remembering to lean heavily on his cane.

He stood on the walk in front of the post office for a minute. The postmaster’s too-friendly smile and probing questions bothered him. He wouldn’t put it past the man to steam open his letter to Marshal Sanford. Thank goodness he’d said only that his leg was healing and that he would be getting in touch again soon. Let Brighton make something of that.

Chapter
12

C
ORBIN WALKED ON DOWN THE STREET toward the butcher shop. It was time he called on an army buddy, although he wasn’t even sure Craig Travis
was
an army buddy. He didn’t remember ever seeing him. In that hellhole of Belleau Wood, all soldiers, alive or dead, looked alike.

The butcher shop was empty when Corbin entered. A half of pork and a quarter of beef rested on the long butcher’s block alongside a large slab of smoked side meat and a small tub filled with joined wieners. An assortment of meat saws hung from hooks over the block and a thin layer of sawdust covered the floor. Signs were posted with various cuts of meat suspended on hooks attached to the back wall.

CHICKENS DRESSED 5 CENTS EXTRA.

SOUP BONES WITH ORDER OF TWENTY CENTS.

RIVER BASS ON SATURDAY.

DOG BONES ON SATURDAY.

Corbin heard male and female voices just outside the back door, where, in a crate, live chickens of all colors—red, white, black and speckled—were cackling excitedly.

“That one,” a female voice said.

“Yes, ma’am. That one’s a dandy.”

After a series of squawks, Travis came in the back door holding a live chicken by the feet. Following him was a woman with a large bosom and a small head topped by a black straw hat. Travis smiled broadly on seeing Corbin.

“Lieutenant Appleby. Good to see you. Be with you in a shake.” The butcher weighed the chicken on his scales. “Four and a half pounds, Mrs. Schuler.” Without waiting for the woman to reply, he disappeared into another room. The sound of the chop came a minute later and the chicken ceased squawking. Travis reappeared with the headless chicken wrapped in newspaper.

“Did you put the head in?”

“Sure did, Mrs. Schuler.”

“Filmore would be disappointed if he didn’t get the head. He likes to gnaw on it. Course, I have to take the feathers off. Put it on our tab, Mr. Travis. Mr. Schuler will be in at the end of the month to settle up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman eyed Corbin with suspicion as she approached the door. Corbin raised his brows in question after the door slammed behind her.

“Filmore?”

“Her dog.”

“I thought maybe Filmore was her husband.”

Travis’s laughter rang out. “I’d almost swear that Filmore’s got more sense than Schuler. At least he ain’t henpecked. That man’s so henpecked he don’t know if he’s swimmin’ or ridin’ a bicycle half the time. How’s the leg doin’?”

“Coming along…slow.”

“You itchin’ to get somewhere?”

“Not really. I stopped by Henderson to pick up the son of a friend. He’s helping out on a farm north of town and isn’t ready to leave just yet.”

“What farm? I know most everyone around.”

“Donovan. I hear he just moved here a short time ago. The place is next to a family named Carter.”

“Know the place. I couldn’t figure out why a city fellow would buy the place. No accountin’ for what folks do with their money.”

“Jack’s helping out with chores for a while. We’ll be moving on soon.”

Travis hoisted the quarter of beef to a broad, muscled shoulder and hung it on an overhead hook, a feat that took considerable strength. Corbin realized that it took a lot of muscle to cut up so much meat every day.

“How long you been here, Travis?”

“Three years now. My wife’s uncle had the shop and taught me the ropes.”

“You found your niche. A lot of veterans were not so lucky.”

“I thank God every day that I came home to my girl. My cousin was gassed in the Argonne; my uncle is buried in Flanders Field. I’m thankful for every day I have with my wife and my boy. Say…we want you to come to dinner. Tomorrow noon be all right? I close the shop from twelve to one.”

“Fine. How well do you know Brighton at the post office? He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

“He came here a couple of years ago after our postmaster slipped on a muddy bank, fell in the river and drowned. He was a nice old man. ‘Twas a shame. He loved fishin’ more than anything.”

“How come a new postmaster wasn’t picked from here?”

“Hell, I don’t know. You know how the government works. Brighton was assistant postmaster up at Hannibal before coming here.”

“I’ve been through Hannibal a few times. Might have seen him there.”

“He’d kind of like to run things here. He ran for mayor and lost out to Ed Lewis, who owns the ice house. His main cause was getting a real lawman in town. He’s at odds with Stoney Baker, our sheriff. Doesn’t think he does his job.”

“Baker was elected, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. No one run against him.”

“Where does the mayor stand with this?”

“Stands with Stoney.”

“I’ve heard the name Alex Lemon a time or two. Is he a councilman?” Corbin asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t.

“He was in the barbershop gettin’ all smelly up to call on Mrs. Zeadow. Her husband’s a railroad man and is gone a couple nights a week.”

“Lordy! Does everyone know everyone’s business in this town?”

Travis laughed. “Sure. We’re all waiting for Eldon Zeadow to come home some night, catch him and either shoot him or beat the stuffings out of him.”

“The barber said Lemon had a wife and child to support.”

“Doesn’t seem to worry him. I was told that he’s broken up two other homes. Mrs. Lemon is as nice a lady as you would meet anywhere. Why she puts up with him is a mystery to me.” Travis stopped to hone the knife he was using to cut thin strips from the smoked side meat on the block and greeted the woman who opened the screen door and came into the shop.

“Hello, Mrs. Zeadow.”

“Hello. I’d like three pork chops, please.”

When the woman bent to look at the slab of smoked meat, Travis winked at Corbin.

Corbin took special notice of the woman having the affair with Alex Lemon. She was a small, shy woman, well-rounded and with rich brown hair and rosy cheeks. Modestly dressed, she didn’t fit his idea of an adulteress; but, as he had learned from previous experiences, you couldn’t tell from the outside of a person what lurked on the inside.

“Anything else? How about a slab of smoked bacon to season up a pot of beans?”

“Well…” She hesitated. “A piece about this thick.” She held her thumb and forefinger a half inch apart.

Travis cut the meat with one slash of his knife. “Could I interest you in a nice fresh chicken?”

“Not today.”

“That’ll be fifteen cents for the chops and a nickel for the side meat, Mrs. Zeadow.” Travis took the chops from his hanging scale and wrapped them with the bacon in white paper. He tied the bundle with a string he pulled from the cone of twine suspended over the butcher block. “There you are, ma’am. They’ll cook up real nice for you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, then placed the coins on the counter and hurried out.

“Don’t it beat all,” Travis said, shaking his head. “Lemon’s wife is almost a copy of that one. Same size, age, hair, kind of shy. I don’t understand the man…or the woman, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how some people are. They want what they don’t have. What does Lemon do?”

“He has the photography shop over next to Mrs. Free-man’s Hats and Gowns. Does good work. We had him take our family picture.”

“Has he been around here long?”

“Don’t know. He was here when I came.”

“Every town has its Lothario.”

“Lothario? What’s that?”

“Lover boy, seducer of women.”

Travis laughed. “He’s that, all right.”

“I’d better get along. I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, and thanks again for the invitation.”

Corbin hung the cane over his arm and walked out. Watching him, Craig Travis drew in a deep breath and grinned.

Why, that sly dog. He doesn’t need that cane any more than I do. I wonder what he’s up to.

The dinner with Craig Travis and his family was enjoyable. Mrs. Travis, pleasant-looking though not beautiful, wearing an embroidered apron over a freshly ironed dress and her dark hair pulled back with a ribbon, welcomed her husband with a kiss. She greeted their guest warmly while Travis stood proudly by.

“Welcome to our home, Mr. Appleby.” She reached for his hat to hang it on a hall tree beside the door.

“Thank you for inviting me, ma’am.”

Travis had a cozy, neat home, a loving wife and a son he was proud of. The dinner of ham, cabbage and freshly baked bread was a welcome change from the hotel food. The table conversation centered on the coming events in Henderson: ball games, concerts, and later the county fair.

After the meal, Corbin walked back to the butcher shop with Travis.

“You’ve made a nice place for yourself here, Travis. I envy you.”

“I know how lucky I am. I’m grateful for coming through the war and for having the good sense to leave my wild ways behind me. Maxine and little Kevin are my life.”

“We’ve all sowed a few wild oats in our time. It’s only a fool who won’t admit it.”

“Mine were more than a
few.
When I got out of the army, I was more or less at loose ends and got hooked up with some pretty powerful fellows who were on the wrong side of the law. I hope to God I’ve shook them off.”

They stopped in front of the butcher shop. Travis unlocked the door and looked at Corbin with twinkling eyes and a wide grin.

“By the way, Appleby, if you want folks to think you need that cane, you’d better not forget to use it.”

Corbin stared at him for a minute, then laughed. “Guess you’re right. I’m not much of an actor.”

“Thought you needed reminding, in case it was important.”

“Thanks. How far is it out to the Donovan place? I may drive out and see my young friend.”

“’Bout five miles. The first place on the left set back in the woods is the Carters’. The second place on the left is the old Miller place that Donovan bought. A long lane leads to the house.”

“Thanks again. Be seeing you, Craig.”

“You betcha.” The butcher then greeted a potential customer approaching his shop. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fallon. Come right in.”

Corbin drove slowly, mulling over in his mind the bit of information about Craig Travis at one time being hooked up with powerful men on the wrong side of the law. Corbin was reasonably sure that if he still had contact with them, he would have been more careful about dropping the information. Yet it was something to think about.

If Travis could tell that he was faking the limp, Corbin reasoned, others might as well, especially the doctor. The cane had served its purpose and had been left at the hotel. He chuckled while thinking about the look on Marvin Carter’s face when he whacked him with it. During the war he’d used a billy club. That had been six years ago. He took pride in the fact that he hadn’t lost his touch.

Corbin drove through the streets of Henderson. He wanted to get a feel for the town. He passed blocks of neat houses behind white picket fences. Flower beds were blooming, apple trees blossoming and clothes fluttering on lines. He drove through the colored community of small un-painted houses and waved back at the children playing in the street who stopped to watch him pass.

On the western edge of town beyond the redbrick schoolhouse was a ball diamond. He would bring Jack here Saturday night and watch the game between teams sponsored by the Henderson Ice Company and Brower Dairy. He knew how proud the boy had been of his baseball glove and hoped they would be able to spot it.

After circling the town, he drove along the river road. It was good to be away from the hotel. Out in the open Corbin longed to run. It was one of his greatest pleasures. He remembered the people of Fertile shaking their heads to see their police chief running down the road as if he were going to a fire.

He was tempted to stop the car and give running a try but thought better of it. No point in being foolish because his body, with the exception of his leg, craved activity.