Letter From Home (10 page)

CHAPTER 4

A CARDINAL FLASHED through the air, red as a dancing flame. He and I and a chittering squirrel were the only living creatures in the cemetery, but familiar figures moved in my memory, as real as the bright bird and the darting squirrel. Grandmother smiled at me, blue eyes shining, as she swiped floury hands on a blue apron with white scalloped edges. Mr. Dennis bent over yellow copy paper, marking, changing, correcting, then looked up with his sardonic, disbelieving, hopeful face. Donald Durwood sighed and I heard his sad murmur, “Poor kid.” Chief Fraser stood on the platform of the gazebo on the town square, big head thrust forward, eyes blazing, chin jutting, defying them all. I stood amid the graves, surrounded by ghosts. . . .

 
MR. DENNIS WRINKLED his nose, plopped down the coffee mug. “Cold.” He scratched at his bristly chin. By the time the press run ended, he always looked wilted, his fringe of gray hair tousled, his sagging cheeks drooping, his shirt wrinkled. “Just like the trail for Clyde Tatum. Colder than a white-bellied wide-mouth bass tossed on the dock.” He pointed at the front page of the
Gazette
. The first issue lay on his desk with its distinctive smell of paper and fresh ink. Faye Tatum's murder was the lead story. A three-column spread at the bottom of the page detailed the search under way for Clyde Tatum. Both stories had Ralph Cooley's byline. My story about Barb coming to my window and our grisly discovery was just below the fold. It read:
By G. G. Gilman.
The sidebar about the chief and the sheriff and the county attorney had no byline because Mr. Dennis wrote it. The photos were stacked: grim-faced Chief Fraser, slate-eyed Sheriff Moore, sternly confident County Attorney Durwood. The Allied attack on Cherbourg rated a 36-point, two-column head at the upper left. The murder had pushed inside the latest news of the heavy Japanese losses at the Battle of the Philippine Sea.

Gretchen felt wilted, too, from her rush through the boiler-hot afternoon. Her dark hair hung in damp ringlets and her dress stuck to her back. She stood by Mr. Dennis's desk and wished for a big glass of iced tea. “They haven't found Mr. Tatum?” She didn't know whether to feel glad or sad. It was terrible to know the police and the sheriff and his deputies were hunting Barb's daddy to arrest him for her mother's murder, but it was almost worse not to know where he was. Every minute Mr. Tatum stayed gone made him look that much guiltier.

Gretchen took a deep breath. She had to push out the words. “Sheriff Moore thinks he may be dead.”

Mr. Dennis's green eyes raked her face. He leaned forward, round furrowed face intent. “What have you got, girl?” He listened until she was done. “Hmm. Sheriff may be right.” The editor gave a dry bark that might have been a laugh or might have been a cough. “Or he may be wrong. Let's say Clyde didn't kill Faye. Since he hasn't shown up, he most likely heard about her murder.” He tilted his head to one side, stared up at the ceiling fan. “He may be hiding out because he's scared. Or it could be that he doesn't know yet. He may have gotten the hell out of town last night because he's mad at her. He may show up down at Sill, ready to ship out. I'm with the chief. There's a lot of stuff we don't know. A lot of could bes and may bes.” Dennis's gaze dropped to his desk. He stared at the front page. “Goddam. Broken font in the Cherbourg story.” He picked up a red pencil, circled the head. The H in HARBOR was chipped. “Looks good otherwise.” He tossed down the red pencil.

“Mr. Dennis, I haven't found Barb anywhere. Mr. Durwood didn't know where she'd gone. I went to her house and I called some of her friends.” Gretchen felt the crumpled sheets of copy paper in the pocket of her skirt, the sheets that were still blank. “She can tell me about her mom's friends.”

The editor frowned.

Gretchen spoke fast. “That's how I can find out about Mrs. Tatum. For my story.” She looked at him anxiously. Didn't he remember how Ralph Cooley had sneered and how people would read Cooley's story in this afternoon's paper, all about Mrs. Tatum dancing away her last hours at the Blue Light? “Is it too late now for me to do the story?”

Mr. Dennis picked up his story log. “Try for Friday, Gretchen. That gives you tomorrow to find people. You can hold the Forrester story until next week. And Gretchen, that was good work to talk to the sheriff and the county attorney.” Dennis raised a bristly eyebrow. “So the mayor's going to demand answers at a specially called city council meeting.” His voice was thoughtful. “Durwood's been aching to tangle with the chief. If they don't find Tatum before then, the chief's going to have trouble. I'll tell you what, Gretchen. You can come to the council meeting with me Friday night and . . .”

Every Friday night in the summer, Gretchen and a bunch of friends—Wilma and Judy and Louise and Betsy and Rhonda and Arlene—went to Thompson's Drugs to sit at the counter and have a sundae or soda. Then they would walk together and as they passed the Bijou, Gretchen always looked into the dim cool interior for a glimpse of Tommy Krueger. If he was taking tickets, their eyes would meet and there was a promise in his. She'd see him Saturday night when everybody went to the show for the double feature. This coming Saturday the double bill was
What a Woman!
, starring Rosalind Russell and Brian Aherne, and
Guadalcanal Diary
, with Preston Foster and Lloyd Nolan. Friday nights the girls usually ended up at a slumber party at one girl's home. Sometimes they stayed up all night playing bridge.

“. . . and you can do a color story.” He glanced at her, then continued smoothly, “I'll cover the meeting while you take a look around, pick up the attitudes, describe the way people look and act. Write it so that the reader sees the council chamber, smells the cigar smoke, hears the tone in people's voices.” He barked again and this time she knew it was a harsh laugh. “I double guarantee, there'll be plenty for you to write about.”

Gretchen tossed away her plans for Friday night without a qualm. She forgot that she was hot and tired, pushed away the thought that she'd hoped to see Tommy. After all, she'd see him Saturday night. Tommy was two years older. He ran track and he was tall and thin and bony with a shock of curly brown hair and quizzical blue eyes and a spattering of freckles. He had a habit of shoving his fingers through his wiry hair. They'd met at the library last summer. They both loved
The Moon Is Down
and
The Human Comedy
. Sometimes when the movie was under way and Tommy didn't have to take tickets, he and Gretchen talked in soft whispers behind the thick velvet curtains. Last week they'd stood very close, wrapped in a fold of the curtains, and she'd smelled the spicy scent of his hair oil as he bent down and his lips brushed hers. For that sweet instant, she didn't hear the tinny sound of music from the movie or the crackle of candy wrappers or the murmur of voices, on the screen and off.

A color story . . .

Gretchen brushed back a limp curl. “Why is Mr. Durwood against Chief Fraser?”

The editor's green eyes glinted. “Smart girl. That's the right question. The chief thinks Durwood's reckless and too quick to interfere with the police. Durwood's a gunslinger, always ready to prosecute, and he thinks the chief is too cautious, wants too much evidence before he'll make an arrest. The mayor likes to keep them head to head, says a good healthy competition is best for the town. Of course,” Dennis observed as he leaned back in his chair, his lips curled in a sardonic grin, “depends on whose ox is being gored, doesn't it? There's a rumor the chief's encouraging Beau Bradley to run for county attorney. That might be okay with Durwood if he makes up his mind to try for the state senate. And it might be damn annoying to Durwood if he wants to stay on as county attorney. Bradley's done a fine job on the school board. So”—Dennis pushed up from his chair, picked up the fresh paper—“you might get to see a little drama Friday night.” Mr. Dennis reached up to the hat tree for his panama. “But for now, you get on home.”

 
THE SUN WAS a brilliant red in the west. Gretchen's skin felt like wax paper shriveling in a campfire. She wished she'd taken the time to drink more water at the café, but she'd hurried to get the floors mopped and the tables and booths set for tomorrow. Now Archer Street shimmered and the three blocks home seemed endless. Tired, she was so tired. She needed to think about the story on Billy Forrester and she had to talk to Barb—where could Barb be?—so she could find people who knew Faye Tatum. Faye Tatum . . . Already it was hard to remember her face when she was alive.

A horn honked twice and the chief's big green Packard nosed toward the shoulder.

Gretchen stepped up to the open window.

The chief's smooth-crowned cowboy hat almost touched the interior roof. His heavy face was perspiring. He looked tired, worried, and somber, but he almost managed a smile and his deep voice was gentle. “I'm on my way to your house, Miss Gretchen. Can I give you a ride?”

“Yes, sir.” She pulled the door open, yanking back her fingers from the hot metal. She slid gingerly onto the leather seat. The big seat was hot, but she sank back against the softness. She pulled at the door, but it didn't quite close. He reached across, slammed it shut.

As the big car rumbled down the street, Gretchen frowned. “Why are you coming to my house?” She sat bolt upright. “Is Grandmother all right?”

“Your grandma's fine. I'm coming to see Miss Barb.” He slowed, eased the shift into second as the Mallorys' red springer spaniel ambled across the street. The Packard picked up speed and he shifted into third.

Gretchen smoothed her damp hair back from her face. “I've been looking for Barb all day.”

“So've I.” He turned into the graveled drive at Gretchen's house. “Seems like she's been in the woods over near her house . . .”

Gretchen looked back at the patch of scrub oak and piney woods that spread up a slope from the Tatums' backyard. She'd never thought to look in the woods when she stopped at the house earlier.

“. . . and she came straggling out a little while ago. Sergeant Petty's been keeping an eye on the house. I guess Barb was waiting for her papa to come home.”

He reached over, gave a pull on the handle. “That door sticks. There you go, Miss Gretchen.”

His boots crunched on the gravel. Gretchen hurried ahead to open the front door. “Grandmother? I'm home. Chief Fraser's with me.”

Her grandmother hurried out of the kitchen, face red, apron askew, a pot holder in one hand. “Chief Fraser, I was just getting our supper ready. Will you stay and eat? We have tuna fish sandwiches and tomato soup tonight.”

He stood in the doorway, holding his big hat. His eyes scanned the living room. The radio was on and a smooth deep voice announced the news: “. . . V-1 rockets struck in the heart of London today and Londoners once again raced for cover just as they had during the Blitz. . . .” “No, ma'am, but thank you. Is Miss Barb handy?”

“That poor child.” The older woman's dumpling face creased in concern. “So pale and tired and nobody to help her. The only family is Faye's sister, Darla Murray. She's down in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband at the air field. She can't come until Friday. She told me to call Reverend Byars.” She gave a little headshake. “That's the church they grew up in, though Faye hadn't been in a long time. But I didn't feel it was my place to say anything. Anyway, I talked to Reverend Byars and he'll see to the funeral. They're thinking it will be Friday afternoon. He said Barb can come and live with them. They've got a houseful of kids and that big old rambling house. He's coming over tonight to see her. I told Barb to rest for awhile in Jimmy's room—”

The hall door opened. Barb still wore the blue shirtwaist dress. Sharp wrinkles marked the starched cotton. She held a fabric-covered satchel with leather handles. “Have you found my daddy?” Her voice was tense and anxious.

“Not yet.” The chief dropped his cowboy hat on an end table. “I need to speak with you, Miss Barb.” His voice had a determined edge.

She stared at him, her eyes forlorn, then slowly walked, still favoring her sore foot, to the channel-backed chair next to the sofa. She passed through a shaft of sunlight streaming through a west window. Barb wasn't wearing a slip. The chief's gaze dropped to the floor. She sat on the edge of the slick damask cushion, stiff and straight, still clutching the handles of the satchel.

“. . . President Roosevelt is expected to sign into law this Thursday the G.I. Bill of Rights, which will . . .”

Grandmother bustled to the radio and turned it off. “Gretchen, if you will come with me to the kitchen—”

The chief lifted a big hand. “That's all right, Lotte. I'd be pleased for you and Miss Gretchen to stay. You're the closest Miss Barb has to family right now. I'm thinking she needs folks to stand by her.”

He waited until Gretchen and her grandmother sat on the brown angora mohair sofa. Gnarled hands clasped behind his back, he walked heavily across the room to look down at Barb, his protuberant cheeks red, his thick lips folded tight. Abruptly, he cleared his throat and swung one hand toward her, pointing. “Who was the man coming in the night to see your mama?”

Barb sat frozen, her face stricken, her shoulders hunched. The handles of the satchel fell from her hands and the cloth bag thudded to the floor. “Man?” It was a tiny gasp of sound, barely audible.

The chief rocked back on his heels. “You didn't tell me that's why your mama and papa had a fight.”

Barb came to her feet, grimacing as she put too much weight on her right foot. “That's not why! Daddy was mad because she was going to the Blue Light. That's all that it was. I swear it. It's because she was dancing. I promise. And Mama left him a nice note before she went to work.” Barb clasped her hands tightly together.