Letter From Home (27 page)

“Nobody's shot anybody, Paul.” The chief started forward.

The sheriff lifted his hand. The gun, big and black, pointed at the door. And at the chief's back.

“Clyde, Buck here.” The steps creaked as the chief climbed. He stopped on the porch. “Listen, it's time to come out. We need to talk.” One step, another. He reached the doorway. “Clyde . . .” The chief's big shoulders slumped. Slowly, he poked the gun in its holster. He reached out, held to the door frame. “Oh, God.” The chief's voice was low and deep.

The sheriff shouted, “Careful, Buck, careful!” The county attorney's handsome face creased in a tight frown. Sergeant Holliman ran toward the porch. Sergeant Petty lowered her gun, took a tentative step, her eyes fearful.

Chief Fraser looked at them, big face drooping. “It's over. Put your guns up. Clyde's dead.” His voice was ragged. “He's blown his head to hell and gone.” He kneaded his cheek with his fist. “I thought he was innocent.” He took a deep breath. “I was wrong.”

Donald Durwood stretched out his hands. The lion head cuff links in his starched white shirt glistened in the sunlight. He looked out of place in the weed-choked clearing, natty in his slacks and shirt. “If we'd found the note earlier, we might have got here in time.”

Sergeant Petty's face crumpled. “God, I'm sorry I was late. My bike had a flat tire. That's why I was late to work. If I'd been on time, I'd have found the note first thing this morning.”

“It doesn't matter, Rosa.” Chief Fraser walked heavily across the porch. “It wouldn't have made any difference if you'd got to work on time. Clyde's been dead for hours. The blood's all dried. Now”—his big shoulders lifted, fell—“if we'd found the note last night, maybe we would have got here in time. We'll never know. But whoever stuck it under the wiper of the cruiser must have put it there after the rain. Somebody knew Clyde was here.” He nodded his head toward the sheriff. “It's just like Paul said last night. I expect that person was at the town square and went home and thought about it and decided to turn him in. But Clyde was already dead by then.”

Gretchen leaned against the magnolia branch. Last night, before the rain, that's when she was here in the woods and she'd felt surrounded by danger. Was it death she'd sensed? Had Clyde Tatum hidden in the trees, watched her, holding the gun that was going to end his life, waiting for her to leave so that he could return to that cramped cabin and greet death?

Sheriff Moore thumped up the steps. “Think he's been hiding out here ever since he killed Faye?”

The chief massaged the side of his face. “Probably. I don't guess it matters now. Clyde killed Faye and he couldn't live with it. All right”—the chief's voice was tired—“let's wrap it up. Rosa, get back to town. I want you to call Doc Jamison.”

Gretchen eased toward the path. She hurried up the trail. When she reached the road, she stopped and stared. So many cars . . . the chief's old Packard, a police cruiser, a black Ford, a black Cadillac. If she'd come along here, walking home from the lake, a few minutes ago, she would have seen the cars and recognized the Packard and the police car.

She heard the rumble of a car coming. She could walk on home. No, she couldn't. She couldn't go inside her house and see Grandmother and Mother and pretend that she didn't know. All right, if she'd been walking home from the lake and seen the cars, she would have gone down the path to see what was happening. She plunged back into the woods. She was halfway to the clearing when she came face-to-face with Sergeant Petty.

The police officer jolted to a stop, her long face startled. She held out her hands. “Mercy, girl, what are you doing here?”

“I saw the cars in the road and I wondered why. I came to see.” She tried to look past the sergeant.

“This is no place for you. Go home.” The sergeant's voice was sharp.

Gretchen stood her ground. “Have you found Mr. Tatum?”

“What makes you think that?” Sergeant Petty's eyes narrowed.

“The cars.” Gretchen waved her hand back toward the road. “Why else would everybody be here?” She tried to peer down the path. “Isn't the Purdy cabin around here?”

Rosa Petty's face hardened. “Police business, Gretchen. This is off limits for now. Move along now.”

Gretchen didn't budge. “I'm here for the
Gazette
.”

Twigs snapped. Chief Fraser loomed up behind Sergeant Petty. “Go on, Sergeant. I'll deal with this.”

The police sergeant brushed past Gretchen, leaving a sweet scent of perfume, an odd counterpoint to the blistered dry smell of the woods.

Gretchen forced herself to look straight at the chief, hoping he wouldn't see her guilt and fear. If she'd told someone sooner, if she and Grandmother had gone to the chief and told him about the Purdy cabin, Clyde Tatum might now be in jail—and alive.

Chief Fraser's eyes were remote.

Gretchen's stiff face muscles relaxed. He looked at her, but he wasn't seeing. “I was walking home from the lake—”

He didn't care. “You know where Barb Tatum is?”

“I'm not sure.” It wouldn't do for the chief to know—for anyone to know—that Barb was staying at the house with the soldier. “I can find her. Is it”—she couldn't keep the wobble out of her voice—“about her dad?” Gretchen had only briefly glimpsed the slumped figure before she'd bolted from the porch. But now—she shuddered, remembering that still body, the huddled shoulders in wrinkled khaki, that stiff arm, the smooth skin gray, dangling beside the chair.

The chief's face creased. He took a deep breath. “Clyde's dead. Shot himself. See if you can find Barb. Take her to your house. I'll come there”—he glanced at his watch—“about two o'clock.”

Gretchen folded her arms across her front, hard and tight, felt the uncomfortable ridge of her swimsuit. “What do I tell her?”

Chief Fraser slammed a fist into one hand. “God almighty, tell her the truth.” His voice trembled with anger and hurt. “I never believed Clyde killed Faye, but he did. And now he's gone off and left his girl. Tell her”—he rubbed his cheek hard—“that sometimes people we love do bad things. Maybe he had too much to drink. Maybe he got mad and his mind was roaring and he didn't realize what he'd done to Faye until it was too late. Tell her he was a good man at heart and he loved her and she should remember him that way.” His defiant voice cracked. “Tell her that her daddy's dead and he's past suffering now. And he's sorry.”

A cardinal cut through the air, bright as the evening sun. “Sorry?” How did the chief know?

“He wrote a note. I'll bring it with me when I come.” The big man turned away, walked heavily up the trail toward the cabin.

 
THE SCREEN DOOR slammed open. Lorraine's eyes flashed. Her thin face twisted in a scowl. She stood on the top step, hands planted on her hips, a pink cotton blouse loose over her swimsuit, teetering a little on high wedge sandals. “Gretchen, where have you been? You scared us to death. We couldn't find you anywhere. I didn't know what to think. And then we ran to the car and found that note. I don't know when I've been so upset. And we came home and you weren't here. We were just getting ready to go back to the lake. We've waited dinner and you've made Mother sick—”

Gretchen pressed her hand against her lips. She wanted to cry or shout. She wanted to run away, but there was no place to go. She was hot and cold, her stomach a hard knot, her chest and legs sweaty, and she had to find Barb. She had to tell Barb. . . . Beneath the thoughts that squirmed through her mind like eels sliding in dark places was the memory, that slumped figure resting immovable on the scarred table.

Her mother's face changed. She plunged down the steps, took Gretchen in her arms. “Gretchen, baby, what's wrong? What happened?” There was no anger in Lorraine's voice now, but there was fear.

Gretchen clung to her mother. “I was on the lake road. . . .” It hurt to talk. “I was coming home to help Grandmother”—the first lie—“and I saw the chief's car and I went into the woods. They found Clyde Tatum.” This was the second lie that she must forever keep. No one must know she'd walked that path first, seen him dead. “He killed himself.”

“Gretchen!” Grandmother's voice was high and faint from the doorway. “What is it that you say?” She leaned against the door frame, her plump face ashen, one hand pressed against her chest.

Gretchen pulled free, hurried to her grandmother. “It's over.” Chief Fraser's words gave her strength. “Please, Grandmother, no one can do anything now for Mr. Tatum. The chief said he's past suffering now.”

“Clyde . . .” Grandmother's face crumpled.

“Come inside, Mother.” Lorraine's voice quivered. She jerked her head toward Sam. Together they helped Grandmother, who sagged against them.

Gretchen followed, but she stopped just inside the door. “Mother, I've got to find Barb. I promised Chief Fraser.”

Her mother knelt by Grandmother's chair, tightly holding one limp hand. Lorraine turned toward Gretchen. “No. You shouldn't have to do that. The chief should tell her.”

“He has to see to things.” Gretchen clasped her hands tightly together. “In the woods.” She looked at the grandfather clock. Almost noon. They should be sitting at the table with crisp fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green peas and Grandmother's perfect cream gravy. Almost noon. The
Gazette
went to press early on Saturday afternoons for the Sunday paper. The
Gazette
. . . “Excuse me.” She turned toward the kitchen.

Her mother looked startled.

“I have to call Mr. Dennis.” She brushed past Sam as she entered the kitchen. He was carrying a cup of steaming tea, almost as dark as strong coffee.

Gretchen grabbed the receiver. She gave the operator the
Gazette
number. She looked away from her mother's questioning face. Sam held out the cup to Grandmother.

“Here you are, Mrs. Pfizer. Please drink it. You've had a shock . . . try to breathe deeply. . . .”

Mr. Dennis answered on the first ring, brusque, quick, intent. “City desk.”

“Mr. Dennis, this is Gretchen. They've found Clyde Tatum dead at the old Purdy cabin. He shot himself.” And he's all stiff and still, like a starched shirt hanging on a line at the laundry.

In the living room, her mother said sharply, “Who's Gretchen talking to?”

Grandmother's voice was faint. “Her editor at the newspaper.”

“The newspaper.” Lorraine sounded strange.

“Oh, but she must.” Grandmother's defense was swift. “It is her job, you see. Mr. Dennis has to know. For tomorrow's paper.”

On the phone line, there was a perceptible pause. Mr. Dennis cleared his throat. “When?”

“They think sometime last night.” In the deep darkness of the frightening woods. “A little while ago I was on my way home from the lake and I saw the cars on the road. I went to see.”

“The Purdy cabin.” His tone was thoughtful. “How'd they find him?”

“Somebody left a note on one of the police cars saying he was there. Sergeant Petty didn't find it until this morning. And she almost cried because she thought her being late made a difference. But the chief said it didn't. The chief said he died last night.”

“Clyde's gun?” Mr. Dennis barked.

Gretchen pictured the editor at his desk, green eyeshade with tufts of hair curling beneath, his round face creased in thought, light eyes intent, smoke wreathing up from the pipe in his teeth.

“I don't know.” She hadn't seen a gun.

“Ralph'll get all that. Who's there?” He half covered the receiver, shouted out, “Jewell, get on the phone. Find Ralph. Pronto.” The staccato words mixed with the background clatter of a typewriter.

Five people and a dead man. She was precise. “The chief, Sergeant Holliman, Sergeant Petty, the sheriff, Mr. Durwood.” In the hot, still clearing, the grasses waist high, they'd looked at the old cabin and the sheriff moved his gun back and forth, ready to kill. But he didn't have to.

“Good work, kid.” Mr. Dennis's voice was crisp. “Look, you don't have to go to the cabin, but go to that spot in the road and wait for Ralph and show him the way.”

“I can't go back now. The chief asked me to find Barb.” Nobody must know about Barb alone in her house with the soldier. “Mr. Cooley won't have any trouble finding the place. The cars are parked every which way. The path's overgrown but it's pretty beaten down now.”

“Sure, Gretchen. I understand.” A door slammed and a distant voice called out: “Ralph's on his way, Walt. Want me to get over to the hospital?” Mr. Dennis said quickly, “Yeah, do that.” Then sharp in her ear, “Gretchen, you okay?”

“Yes.” Another lie.

There was a pause. “I'm sorry, girl. Try not to think about it.”

“Yes, sir.” She hung up the receiver and wished she could stay where she was, safe in Grandmother's kitchen. The ruffled curtains at the kitchen window were shiny white in the sunlight. Waxed paper covered the platter full of fried chicken. The house smelled like Sunday dinner, familiar and comforting as church bells. A fly buzzed near the sliced watermelon. She ought to get the swatter—

A gentle hand touched her arm. “Gretchen.”

She looked at her mother. Their eyes met, held, Lorraine's uncertain, worried, sad.

“Baby . . .”

Gretchen wanted to fling herself into her mother's arms and cry.

Footsteps sounded. Sam came up behind Lorraine, slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Don't be scared, Lorry.”