Letter From Home (15 page)

Grandmother turned from the stove. Her face was still gray though tinged with pink from the heat of cooking and her exertion. “I will be fine. You go now. You have much to do.” Her tone was proud. “And we will have such a happy time when your mama comes home.”

Gretchen darted across the kitchen and hugged Grandmother. She hung her apron on its hook and hurried out the door.

Gretchen rode her bike to the
Gazette
office, but didn't stop when she saw the windows were still dark. She'd thought perhaps Mr. Dennis might have come in really early, but he was probably tired this morning. He would likely be there by seven. She turned onto Archer Street. She would use the phone at home to call the Brady house. She sure didn't want to miss Barb.

She eased her bike to a stop in front of the Tatum house. She didn't see any trace of police. Did the chief still have someone watching the house? Maybe, maybe not. Everyone last night believed the unseen intruder was Clyde Tatum, coming home for something he needed. If that was true, there wouldn't be any point in a police watch now.

Gretchen stared at the dark windows. The house already had the abandoned air of a boarded-up shanty on a country road. If she were Barb, she would never spend a night there. How could Barb bear to go inside that house, knowing what had happened there?

Gretchen pushed up on the bike seat, began to pedal, careful to keep her skirt away from the chain. She glanced at the Crane house. Mrs. Crane must have heard the uproar last night, but she hadn't come outside.

Gretchen turned into her driveway. A slim figure rose from the swing on the front porch. Barb wore a striped cotton blouse and blue shorts. Her russet hair looked mussed and wilted.

Gretchen put on a burst of speed. What luck that Barb had come. It wouldn't be necessary to call the Brady house after all. “Barb . . .” Gretchen dropped the bike beside the steps, hurried onto the porch. “I'm so glad you're here. I was going to call you at Amelia's. Listen, somebody broke into your house last night and Chief Fraser wants you to go through the house with him and see if anything's missing.”

Barb frowned, looked down the street. “Broke into our house? Why? Who did it?”

“Nobody knows. Come on, let's call the chief.” Gretchen opened the front door. “You didn't need to wait on the porch.”

Barb stepped inside. “I didn't want to go in when nobody was home. I was thinking about coming to the café, but I decided to rest for awhile.” Her voice was dull. She lifted the canvas bag. “I brought my stuff. I thought maybe I could stay here during the day. Amelia's mother—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.

Gretchen grabbed the bag. “Why don't you spend the night, too? You can stay with us as long as you want to.”

“Oh, that's okay. I'll go back to Amelia's tonight. But last night Mrs. Brady talked and talked and talked and her voice was just so soft and sweet”—Barb's tone was mincing and saccharine then hard with bitterness—“and she's just like Reverend Byars. She's saying Mama—” Barb broke off, pressed her hand against her mouth.

“Oh, Barb, I'm sorry.” Gretchen almost told Barb not to pay any attention to Mrs. Brady. But how could Barb ignore ugly words about her mother? If Barb knew what Cousin Hilda had said . . .

“I don't care.” Barb's eyes blazed. “I know better. Mama was—oh, Gretchen, you know how Mama was. You're going to write that story about her, aren't you?”

“Yes.” Gretchen wished she could go to the
Gazette
office right this minute and start calling. Would Faye's friends be willing to talk about her? Could she get the story done in time for tomorrow evening's paper? But first . . . “Barb, we have to call the chief and see—”

Barb lifted a trembling hand to her face. “Would it be okay if I had something to eat?” Her voice was small.

“Didn't you have breakfast?” Gretchen's voice was sharp. Why hadn't the Bradys offered Barb anything to eat? And last night Barb had scarcely touched her dinner.

Barb shook her head. “I left real early. I didn't want to be there. I told them I'd promised to come back here for breakfast.”

“Come on.” Gretchen hurried toward the kitchen, dropping Barb's bag next to the sofa.

The white curtains at the kitchen window were freshly washed and ironed. They fluttered in the gentle breeze. The drainboard was clean, the sink empty, the dish cloth draped over the faucet. The kitchen table was bare except for a plate of cinnamon rolls, covered with wax paper.

Gretchen pointed at the plate of rolls. “I'll get some milk and butter.” She brought a plate and silverware and the pitcher filled to the brim with fresh milk from Cousin Ernst and Cousin Hilda's farm.

Barb slipped into the chair, ate quickly. She didn't speak. She looked sad and drained.

Gretchen looked away. She knew she could make Barb feel better. She could tell Barb her father was safe, that he was hiding in the Purdy cabin. She could tell Barb that he had said he was innocent. Gretchen moved to the sink. She picked up the dish cloth, scrubbed at the clean sink. But if the police ever found out that Grandmother had gone to the cabin, that she knew where a wanted man was hiding, she would be in terrible trouble. They would question her and she would be frightened. Gretchen couldn't do that to Grandmother, no matter how unhappy Barb was. It wasn't—Gretchen struggled to understand a nebulous thought—Grandmother's fault that Mr. Tatum had run away.

“. . . Gretchen? Won't you help me?” Barb's voice was uncertain. “Of course if you don't want to . . .”

Gretchen jerked around. “What did you say? I was scrubbing”—she held up the dish cloth—“and I didn't hear you.”

Barb got up. She picked up her plate and glass, came to the sink. She avoided looking at Gretchen. “You said the chief wants me to look through my house, see if anything's missing. Will you come in the house with me?”

“Sure.” Gretchen took the plate and silverware, turned on the water. She busied herself with the small wash. This was what Mr. Dennis had wanted. Gretchen wished she didn't feel as if she were cheating Barb. After all, Barb needed someone with her. But didn't she have a right to know that Gretchen would be there for the
Gazette
too?

Gretchen squeezed the dish cloth. Fair was fair. And somehow, she thought Mr. Dennis would understand if Barb said no. Gretchen slowly turned. “Barb, listen, I don't mind going with you. But whatever the chief finds, I'll have to write a story about it for the
Gazette
.” There. She'd probably lost her chance to get a good story. But now she didn't have a sick feeling in her stomach.

Barb's shoulders lifted, fell. “Everything else is in the paper.” Her mouth twisted. “Why not that? I don't care. And besides, I don't think it will amount to anything.” Her gaze burned into Gretchen's. “It wasn't Daddy. I know it wasn't Daddy.”

 
THE OLD GREEN Packard rumbled into the Tatum drive. Gretchen and Barb stood near the front steps. It was already hot. Today would be a scorcher, likely reaching a hundred by afternoon. Cicadas whirred.

Chief Fraser walked slowly, his boots striking up little puffs of dust from the dry ground. Barb waited, her face bleak. Crows cawed, lifting in a black swarm from the elm tree nearest the house. The Kaufmans' German shepherd barked, lunging against his chain.

“'Morning, Miss Barb, Miss Gretchen. Appreciate your help.” He held a tagged key in his right hand. “You know about last night, Miss Barb?” He tilted his big head to one side, looked at her with somber eyes.

“Gretchen said somebody broke in.” Barb glanced toward the closed front door. “Do you know who it was?”

“No. But maybe we'll figure something out when we look around inside.” The chief moved past them. He banged back the screen, unlocked the front door, held it open.

Barb gripped Gretchen's arm, her fingernails sharp as little knives. They stepped into the living room. Chief Fraser clicked on the light. Barb leaned against Gretchen and turned her face away from the center of the room where they'd found her mother's body. Gretchen couldn't pull her eyes away from the rumpled rug. They'd taken Mrs. Tatum away, but no one had straightened the rug. The house was hot and still with all the windows shut. There was a faint smell of paint and turpentine and a lingering scent of old tobacco smoke.

“Miss Barb,” Chief Fraser said briskly, “please look around the room. Do you see anything missing, anything out of place?”

Barb stepped away from Gretchen. She folded her arms tight across her front. Her gaze moved from the easy chairs to the fireplace. Silver candlesticks flanked a pink Dresden china clock on the white mantel. A small green hat with an orange feather dangled from one candlestick. Two balls of yarn were tucked next to the clock.

The coffee table was just as it had been when Gretchen stopped by the house on Tuesday afternoon, magazines in a disorderly stack, the open box of graham crackers, the overflowing ashtray, the bottles of nail polish and used cotton balls.

“Nothing's changed.” Barb took a deep breath.

The chief led the way to the narrow hall. “This first room . . .” He looked at Barb inquiringly.

“Mama and Daddy's room.” Barb walked slowly inside. Chief Fraser was close behind.

Gretchen stood in the doorway. The bed was unmade. A cotton nightgown was tossed over a rocking chair. Faye's clothing lay on chairs, hung from the bedpost, poked from open drawers.

“Were her things usually strewn around?” Chief Fraser frowned at the disarray.

Barb fingered the lace edge to the collar of a blouse. “Mama was always in a hurry. There was never enough time to do everything she wanted to do. She wanted to be with people, me or Daddy or friends, and talk and laugh. Or she wanted to paint. Clothes”—Barb waved her hand—“she'd straighten everything up every so often and she'd be real proud of how tidy it was—and then the next minute she'd toss something down and not give it a thought.”

“So I guess there's no way to tell if anybody looked for something.” He rubbed his face. “Though what in time anybody'd look for, I don't know.”

Barb pointed across the room. “Look! There's Daddy's duffel bag.” The brown bag lay in a heap on the floor next to the closet. “And there on the dresser”—she ran across the room—“there's his hairbrush and comb. So it wasn't Daddy who came. He'd take his things, wouldn't he?”

The chief frowned. “You'd think so, if it was him. But tell me this, Miss Barb, where's your daddy's gun? Where does he keep it?”

Barb turned to the closet. The door stood open. She stepped inside and reached up on the shelf. “He keeps it up here. . . .” She paused, stood on tiptoe, swept her hand back and forth. “Why, it's gone. Daddy's gun is gone!”

CHAPTER 6

. . . AND FELT FOR a shining incalculable instant that Grandmother was beside me, her faith and goodness a bastion and a beacon. The feeling passed and I was alone in the chill world of the dead, surrounded by souls, jostled by memories. The last time Mother came home, we didn't bring flowers for Daddy. I'd resented it then. How hard-hearted I'd been. I'd not realized, never for a moment recognized, that Mother was still young that summer day in 1944. So very young. In her late thirties, impulsive, open to emotion, ready for laughter and love and happy days. Shiny blond hair frizzed around her eager bony face. She moved fast. She was too thin, as if her energy and enthusiasm had refined her body to a minimum of flesh. She loved bright colors. Pink and purple were her favorites. To me, she always appeared elegant and stylish. I would never forget the yearning look . . .

 
THE TELETYPE CLATTERED. Gretchen worked fast, sorting the stories, the continuing siege at Cherbourg, updated casualty figures from Saipan, Red troops at Viborg, V-1 rocket attacks in London, U.S. bombers hitting robot roosts in Pas de Calais, the signing of the G.I. Bill. It was already hot in the newsroom. The ceiling fans creaked, stirring the steamy air. Ralph Cooley, his hat tipped to the back of his head, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, sat hunched at his typewriter. His wrinkled suit coat hung from the back of his chair. He had a pack of cigarettes tucked in the pocket of his short-sleeve white shirt. Mr. Dennis stood behind him, round face puckered in a frown beneath a green eyeshade, pipe clenched in his teeth, arms folded.

“. . . the chief won't say Tatum's armed and dangerous, but hell”—Cooley's bony shoulders rose and fell—“anybody can figure it out. Holliman admits he didn't see much. He heard a noise from inside the house and went up to the back porch to take a look. Somebody came busting out the kitchen door and whammed him on the head. Holliman said he thought he was a dead man because his head hurt like hell and he heard a shot and smelled the gunpowder. The chief thinks whoever it was”—Cooley drawled the indefinite phrase—“Bugs Bunny maybe”—the reporter gave a snort of laughter—“cracked Holliman on the head with a gun and the gun went off. So . . .” Cooley's tone was mildly regretful. “It doesn't look like Tatum tried to shoot Holliman. Anyway, with what she got this morning”—Cooley jerked his head toward Gretchen—“it seems pretty clear the gun belongs to Tatum. I mean, we got a gun going off and Tatum's gun is missing from his house. One plus one . . .”