Letter From Home (16 page)

Mr. Dennis took his pipe, held a match to the tobacco, drew hard. “The chief says an unidentified prowler broke into the house and a gun appears to be missing.”

Cooley swiveled his chair, looked up at the editor. “So—” It was a challenge. “What's the chief thinking? Some stranger broke in and went straight to the place Clyde kept his gun?”

Mr. Dennis puffed on his pipe. “You got a gun, Ralph?”

Cooley looked startled. “Me? Hell, no. Damn things go off.”

The editor's eyes glinted with disdain. “A lot of people do. Including me. You know where I keep my gun? On the shelf in the closet of the bedroom. Unless you live on Hickory Hill . . .”

The town's big houses sat on the crest of a wooded hill.

“. . . and have a gun room with racks or a case, you keep your gun on a high shelf in the closet, away from the kids.”

Cooley's eyebrows shot up. “So Bugs Bunny decides he needs a gun and why not try the Tatum house?”

“Shit.” Mr. Dennis turned away, walked to his desk.

“Face it, Walt.” Cooley's raspy voice was a taunt. “Your Boy Scout is looking for trouble. If I were the guy who was screw—” Cooley glanced toward Gretchen and continued, “fooling with Faye, I'd get the hell out of town for now. Anyway, I've got a quote from the sheriff.” Cooley cleared his throat.“‘Sheriff Paul Moore Thursday advised county residents that fugitive from justice Sgt. Clyde Tatum, wanted for questioning in the murder of his wife, is believed to be armed and dangerous.'” Cooley took a deep puff on his cigarette. “And that's my lead.”

 
JESSOP'S FIVE AND Dime at the corner of Main and Crawford was four doors down from Victory Café. Gilt gingerbread topped the brick wall above the plate glass windows. The fire engine red entrance framed double doors. Gretchen pushed inside. The coffee shop counter with six leatherette swivel seats was on the left. The menu included hamburgers (the ground beef mixed with oatmeal to stretch the meat), grilled cheese sandwiches, and soups. Everybody knew the food couldn't compare to Victory Café's. Shelving filled the middle of the store. Glass-topped counters ran along the wall to Gretchen's right and the rear wall. Jessop's sold cosmetics, utensils, dishes, toys, jewelry, fine candies, everything that wasn't carried at Thompson's Drugs or Miller's Hardware.

Gretchen said good morning to Mrs. Jessop, who taught the junior high Sunday school class, and hurried down the central aisle. The jewelry counter was at the back. Lucille Winters wiped a cloth reeking of ammonia on the glass above the watch display. She looked up at Gretchen's quick steps on the wooden floor. Lucille's dark hair swept up in a high pompadour above a broad, open face, the cheeks bright with rouge. Big dark eyes, the lashes loaded with mascara, widened. “Oh, Gretchen,” she cried. “You were with Barb when she found her mama. Was it awful?” She peeked past Gretchen's shoulder, gestured for Gretchen to come close, and whispered, “Mrs. Jessop doesn't want us to talk about it. I've felt so bad ever since I heard. How is Barb?”

Gretchen came close to the case, which was filled with Benrus and Orvin watches. She carefully didn't lean on the sparkling glass top though she bent near and spoke softly. “Sad. Scared. Worried about her dad. Furious over what they're saying about her mom. That's why I came to see you. I want to write a story about what Mrs. Tatum was really like.”

Lucille put down the cloth. She reached down, opened the back of the case, picked up a tray of lapel watches. “Pretend you're looking. Mrs. Jessop's coming this way.” She unloosed a bow knot-style pin with the small watch dangling. “This is ten-carat rolled gold plate. It would be lovely for your mother. Is this what you're looking for?”

The floor creaked. Mrs. Jessop's heavy steps came near, turned away. Her broad back in a stiff gray dress made Gretchen think of a battleship in the newsreels, overpowering, unstoppable, unyielding.

Lucille's fingers closed around the watch. “Mrs. Jessop said we wouldn't mention Faye again. She said, ‘That kind of woman deserves what she gets,'” the clerk whispered. “None of it's true. About Faye and another man. I know it's not. Faye and I had a lot of time to talk.” She studied Gretchen. “You wouldn't know . . . not yet . . . when you're older you'll understand. Women talk about men. Especially when a man is gone. Faye was crazy about Clyde. It was the way she said his name, the way she talked about him coming home and how they'd—” Her eyes fell. She opened her hand, carefully replaced the watch in the tray. She glanced around, checking for Mrs. Jessop, “Listen, it may get me in trouble. If you put it in the paper, she'll know we were talking about Faye and she'll say I was on company time. But I don't care. I've been thinking about going to Tulsa. They're always looking for somebody at the Douglas plant. Anyway, I'll speak up for Faye and look everybody in the eye. I tell you, she loved Clyde and nobody else. Here's what she told me and everybody who wants to think she was a bad woman can just put this in their pipe and smoke it. . . .”

Shielding the fan of copy paper with her body, just in case Mrs. Jessop looked toward them, Gretchen wrote as fast as she could.

 
JIM DAN PULLIAM rolled the tire toward the jacked-up car. He moved with muscular grace. Smears of oil streaked his hands and lower arms. The sleeves of his tee shirt were rolled to the shoulder. The thick mat of golden hairs on his arms glistened in the noon sun. His jeans hung low on his hips. He squatted and bounced the tire on the axle. As he slapped on the lug nuts with easy familiarity, he used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his face, leaving an arrowhead-shaped splotch of black on one cheek. “Barb said her mother thought I was the best?” His voice was soft and he darted a shy look at Gretchen.

Grasshoppers buzzed in the waist-high weeds behind the rutted, oil-stained patch of ground. Gretchen was intensely aware of Jim Dan, of his nearness, the smoky blue of his eyes, the thick tangle of chestnut hair that fell across his forehead, the way his jeans clung to his body. She dropped her eyes to the fan of copy paper. “Yes.” Her answer seemed to come from a far distance. “Barb said her mother was sure you'd be an artist. A wonderful artist.” She pushed away the sensations that had taken her by such surprise. She would think about them another time. Jim Dan, Tommy . . . Right now she needed to find out about Faye Tatum. She held fast to that thought, listened to Jim Dan's tentative, gentle voice.

“. . . she never laughed at anybody.” He picked up a wrench, tightened the nuts, one by one. “I mean, it was funny, she laughed a lot but when she looked at your work, she was serious as she could be. Funny thing is, I was in a lot of trouble at school but she didn't care about that. She . . .”

Gretchen nodded, her pencil flying.

 
COUSIN HILDA SLAPPED tuna fish salad on thick white bread. Tall, angular, her steel gray hair drawn back in a skintight bun, she moved in quick jerks, her stiffly starched apron crackling. “I sent Lotte home and I put a sign out front: SANDWICHES TODAY. Chips and pickles.” Her thin voice was as remote as a dove's cry. “I brought in four quarts of my own bread-and-butter pickles.” She used the wooden spoon to point at the long line of bread. “Tuna fish. Chicken salad. Egg salad. Bacon, lettuce, tomato. And plenty good enough, I say. I'll thank you to see about the coffee and tea and take orders. That Mrs. Perkins is slower than a sinner coming to the altar. Too busy listening to everybody talk, if you ask me. Tried to tell me about Faye Tatum's fingernails and I shut her up pretty quick, I can tell you. Do I want to know about things like that?” Her pale green eyes bulged, her lips pursed. “Now let me see . . . Lordy, that bacon's crisp as peanut brittle. . . .”

Gretchen checked the first order clipped to the line, swiftly fixed three plates. She loaded the tray. When she pushed through the door, Mrs. Perkins bustled toward her. “Gretchen, is Lotte all right? That woman”—she jerked her head toward the kitchen—“came in here like a Sherman tank and first thing I know, Lotte's gone home and I'm supposed to race around like a greyhound and every time I open my mouth she shuts me up.”

“Cousin Hilda means well.” Gretchen heard the echo of her grandmother's voice in her own. “Please don't pay any attention to what she says. And she is good to come so Grandmother can get some rest. She hasn't had much sleep since Mrs. Tatum was killed, what with everything that's happened on our street.”

Mrs. Perkins's brown eyes gleamed. “That's right. You live almost next door, don't you?” She shivered, bent close to Gretchen. “Do you know what I heard the sheriff—”

“Mrs. Perkins, I'll take a piece of Lotte's apple pie,” Mayor Burkett called out from table one.

Mrs. Perkins swung around, hurried behind the counter.

At the third stool, his regular place, Dr. Jamison finished his bowl of vegetable soup. “Hmm, that looks good. Cut one for me.”

Every table was taken, every booth filled. A group of officers from Camp Crowder had pushed two tables together. Gretchen darted in and out of the kitchen, taking orders, filling cups and glasses, clearing tables. She took bites from a BLT as she came and went.

Mrs. Perkins pushed through the door, carrying a full tray of dirty dishes. She emptied the scraps and stacked the plates by Cousin Hilda, who bent over the sink, water rushing. Cousin Hilda, her face flushed from the heat, gestured at the garbage pail with a spatula. “That's full. Dump it.”

Mrs. Perkins's face closed up like a box turtle.

Gretchen hurried to the pail. “I'll get it.” She grabbed the metal rung and pulled.

Mrs. Perkins stood still for a moment, then, with a sniff, joined Gretchen. The two of them slid the pail across the floor. When the screen door banged shut behind them and they thumped the pail down the steps into the alley, Mrs. Perkins muttered, “If I didn't like Lotte, I'd go home and let
her
”—the pronoun bristled with resentment—“see how she'd like doing this by herself. Maybe she could learn how to say please.”

Gretchen watched the back door. She whispered, “Mrs. Perkins, what did the sheriff say?”

The alley pulsed with heat. Mrs. Perkins lifted her hand to brush a strand of lank brown hair away from her flushed face. “Oh, it was awful, but I couldn't help hearing. He was telling Mr. Durwood about the autopsy report they did on poor Faye.” She shivered. “The sheriff said they found skin and blood underneath her fingernails.”

“Skin and blood . . .” Gretchen repeated slowly. “I don't understand.”

“Oh, don't you see?” Mrs. Perkins slipped behind Gretchen, clamped her fingers on Gretchen's throat.

Startled, Gretchen lifted her hands, reached back, fastened on Mrs. Perkins's bony arms.

Mrs. Perkins loosed her grip. Her arms fell. She stood so close, her breath was warm on Gretchen's face. “Faye tried to get the hands off her neck. The sheriff said she fought real hard. She had long nails. He said Faye must have marked him up pretty good.”

 
“WELL, I'LL BE damned.” Ralph Cooley thumped his desk with his fist. “Now it makes sense. I thought the chief had lost his mind. Last night he showed up at the Blue Light, made every man jack hold out his arms for a look-see. Nobody could figure out what the hell. But he was looking for scratches. He didn't find any. That pretty much shoots a hole in his theory that somebody followed Faye home Tuesday night 'Course, it could have been somebody who isn't a regular. But I'd think the chief would know pretty much who was there Tuesday night and probably checked on all of them.” Cooley's eyes narrowed. “Maybe he'll trade off. Give me some good stuff if I don't use this. Thanks, Gretchen.” He lit a cigarette, looked pleased.

Gretchen turned away. She didn't like Ralph Cooley. She didn't like the way he talked, the way he looked, the way he thought. Faye Tatum's murder was a game to him. His words hung in her mind; all he cared about was the story he could write. She walked slowly to her desk, sat down. She needed to make some calls. But the cold, quiet question slid into her mind. What did she care about? The story she would write . . .

 
 
BETTY STEELE BUSTLED onto the screened-in porch, placed the tray on the wooden table next to the swing. “It's sweetened tea, Gretchen. With fresh mint.” Soft curls framed a sweet, eager face with mild blue eyes and pink cheeks.

“Thank you, Mrs. Steele.” Gretchen accepted the big glass. She liked tea better without sugar but she took a sip, then another, and the sweet cold drink poured energy into her body. “Barb said you took a lot of her mom's classes at the gift shop.” She put down the glass, picked up her pencil and the fan of yellow copy paper.

Sudden tears glistened in Mrs. Steele's eyes. “Faye was the most alive person I ever knew. She loved painting and teaching people how to do it. I never knew anybody who loved painting as much as she did. . . .”

GRETCHEN RESTED HER bike against the trunk of the big cottonwood that shaded the back steps of the Blue Light. The back door was open. A radio played Glenn Miller's “Mood Indigo.” A half dozen cars were parked in front on the beaten-up ground that served as a parking lot. Gretchen didn't have a clear picture of what went on in a tavern. People drank beer and listened to music and danced, and lots of people in town, like Reverend Byars, wrinkled their faces like prunes when anybody talked about the Blue Light. Gretchen wasn't sure why she'd come. She'd talked to Mrs. Hopper last fall when she'd tried to get word to Millard that his folks weren't mad at him anymore. Gretchen remembered a big woman in a purple dress with a dead white face and bushy red hair and tired eyes. She'd brushed Gretchen off, but a few weeks later Millard had written his folks. Maybe . . .