Letter From Home (5 page)

Dr. Jamison drank the rest of his coffee, nodded. “All right, Buck.” His mouth folded into a grim line. He placed the cup on the table, picked up his satchel. As he passed the police chief, he muttered, “Clyde anywhere around?”

“Nope.” The chief's bushy eyebrows bunched in a tight frown.

The door banged behind Dr. Jamison.

Barb's head jerked up. She stared at Chief Fraser. “You have to find my daddy. He doesn't know. Oh, poor Daddy.” She pulled up the sheet, buried her face in its folds.

Grandmother's voice was low. “Some coffee, Chief?”

“If it's not too much trouble, Lotte, that'd be real good.” The heels of Chief Fraser's dusty black cowboy boots thudded as he walked slowly across the room. He settled into the imitation brown leather Morris chair that had been Grandpa Pfizer's favorite. He dropped his cowboy hat on the floor. “Miss Barb, I reckon you know how sorry I am about your mama.”

Slowly the sheet fell. Barb's pale, tear-stained face crumpled. She pressed her hands to her face.

The chief cleared his throat. “Miss Barb, if I thought it would be easier, I'd talk to you another time.” The big man leaned back, kneaded his cheek with his knuckles. “But it isn't going to be easier.” His deep voice was low and quiet. “Not tomorrow. Not the next day. You got to climb a hard mountain and nothing I can do will help. Except maybe I can ease some pain by finding out who did this thing.”

Gretchen tried to banish her last memory of Mrs. Tatum's face. But the image throbbed in her mind. If she couldn't forget, how bad was it for Barb?

Barb's hands fell. “Who . . .” Barb shivered. She looked down as if suddenly feeling exposed and pulled the sheet up to her throat. “I don't know who came. I heard Mama's voice and the door banged and I ran away.”

The chief pulled a little notebook from the pocket of his tan shirt, flipped it open. “Let's go back a little bit, Miss Barb. What did your mama do today?” The chief rubbed his nose, his eyes intent. “Start with breakfast.”

Barb frowned. “I don't see what difference that makes.”

He propped the notebook on the knee of his khaki trousers. “Don't do no harm to say. I want to know what your mama and daddy did today.”

Barb was suddenly very still. “My daddy—he wasn't home tonight.”

“We'll get to that.” His tone was patient. “Now, be a good girl and tell me about this morning. Start with breakfast. You got up. . . .”

Barb wrapped her arms around the big red brocade throw pillow, propped her chin against the fringed edge. Her bandaged foot poked from beneath the wrinkled sheet. “We always get up at six-thirty. Mama's been working at the five-and-dime. Jewelry and clocks and cosmetics. She had to be there at eight. She'd come home for lunch at eleven, be back by quarter to twelve. She'd get home a little after four.”

The chief pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his shirt pocket, rasped a big kitchen match on the sole of his boot. He held the cigarette in nicotine-stained fingers, drew a lungful of smoke. “Is that what happened today?”

Grandmother hurried to the kitchen, returned with a big brass ashtray. She placed it on the floor next to his cowboy hat.

Barb twined her fingers in the fringe of the pillow. “I guess so. I didn't get home 'til after five.”

The chief settled back in the chair, looked like a big stone mountain. “So your mama wasn't taking any time off even though your daddy was home on furlough?” Cigarette ash dribbled on his shirt.

“Mama had to go to work.” Barb's tone was earnest. “We needed the money. Ever since Daddy was drafted, we haven't had enough money and it made Mama nervous. That's why she got the job at Jessop's. She used to be at Millie's Gifts. She taught art classes in that little room at the back. But when Daddy was drafted, she got a job at Jessop's.”

Bluish smoke hung in a haze near the chief. “Was your mama pretty sharp with your daddy about money?”

Barb stared at him, her eyes wide and frightened.

The chief reached down, tapped the cigarette against the rim of the ashtray, but he never took his eyes off of Barb. “What did they talk about at breakfast?”

Barb relaxed against the arm of the sofa. Although her narrow face was drawn and tired, she looked almost pretty, her auburn hair curling, the smooth skin of her arms pale against the red cushion. “Mama got up late and Daddy was still asleep. She had to hurry to get to work on time.”

The chief slowly nodded. “What time did your daddy get up?”

Gretchen glanced at Grandmother, saw the frown furrowing her round face. It didn't sound right, a man lying in bed into the morning. Nobody did that. Of course, Mr. Tatum was home on leave. Maybe he was tired from the army.

“I don't know.” Barb's fingers plucked at the golden tassels. “I left too. I've been working at Mr. Durwood's office this summer. I just barely got there in time. I didn't see Mama again until supper.”

“How about your daddy?” The chief's voice was as smooth as a cottonmouth gliding through dark summer water.

Barb clasped her hands tightly together. “He didn't come home for supper.” She spoke so softly it was hard to hear.

The chair creaked as the chief leaned forward. “Since he's been back, did he usually come home for supper?”

Barb stared at the floor. “Yes.”

The chief ground out the cigarette. “So you didn't see your mama until you got home from work.” He pulled at an earlobe. “I thought you said she came home for lunch every day?”

Barb brushed back a strand of auburn hair. “Yes. She did. But I didn't have lunch at home today. I went to Victory Café. I went with Mrs. Holcomb from the office.”

The chief squinted at her. “But you were home for supper.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. Tears edged from beneath her dark eyelashes.

The chief leaned forward, frowning. “Miss Barb, you got to tell me what was happening at your house. Girl, I'm sorry, but I got to know what your mama did today. You say your daddy didn't come. What happened at supper?”

“When I got home, Mama was in the kitchen.” Barb plucked at the sheet. Her words came haltingly. “Mama was banging the pots and pans. I asked her what was wrong and she slammed down a plate and it broke. She threw the pieces in the trash and said she didn't care. Then she took the pork chops, she'd got them special, used up all our stamps to have a good dinner for Daddy. She looked at them and then she threw them back in the icebox. She started to cry.” Barb held tight to the red brocade pillow.

“How come she was so mad?” The chief squinted at Barb.

She huddled on the couch, her head bent.

The chief planted his big hands on his knees. “Miss Barb, if you don't tell me, somebody will.”

Barb pressed her fingers against her cheeks. “I guess it was because of the Blue Light.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “Last night Mama and Daddy went to the Blue Light. While they were there, somebody said how Mama was the best dancer in town and everybody loved to dance with her. Daddy got mad. He didn't know she'd been going to the Blue Light while he was gone. They came home and had a fight. It woke me up. Daddy said she shouldn't have been going there by herself. It wasn't nice. Mama said there was nothing wrong with the Blue Light. People could go there and have fun and everybody ought to get to have some fun. Mama can—Mama could dance better than anybody, and she loved to dance. That's all it was. She wanted to dance. She told Daddy she didn't think much of him that he'd want her to sit around and never go anywhere and he said she had no call to be dancing with other men and she said what was she supposed to do, just stay at home night after night with no music and no one ever to talk to? She told him that's all it was, she loved to dance and there wasn't anything more to it. And she slammed off to their room. Daddy made a bed on the couch. He didn't get up this morning before we left. But Mama wasn't mad this morning.” Barb's voice was eager.

“She wasn't?” The chief rubbed his red nose. “What did she say?”

“She didn't say much. But she wrote Daddy a note, left it at his breakfast place. She told me she shouldn't have gotten mad at Daddy, that he didn't understand, but it would all work out and we'd have a nice supper for him.” Barb's face creased. “But when I got home for supper, she was mad again. I don't know why.”

“Hmm.” The chief glanced toward the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall over the mantel. There wasn't a fireplace, but a small gas heater they lit in the winter. “I guess she must have talked to your daddy.” He stared at Barb, waited.

She held tight to the sheet. “I don't know,” but her eyes wouldn't meet his.

The chief's eyes never left her face. “You say he wasn't there when you got home?”

“He wasn't.” Barb's voice was definite. “It was just Mama and me.”

“Then you and your mama had supper?” The chief hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders and gently tugged.

Barb didn't answer. She stared down at the crumpled sheet.

“Miss Barb?” The dark green suspenders wriggled over his shoulders.

Barb didn't look at the chief. “You had to know Mama to understand—whenever she got mad she talked real fast and moved real fast. She ran into her room and put on a pretty dress, her green rayon with the white flower print. She was carrying her compact when she came through the kitchen, putting on her powder, trying to make her face look like she hadn't been crying. But she was talking out loud to herself and she ran out the door.” Barb took a ragged breath. “And she was mad because Daddy had the car. She'd got used to having it all to herself while he was gone. But he must have taken it.”

“So your mama didn't have the car. Where do you suppose she went?” The chief loosened his suspenders.

Tears welled in Barb's eyes. “She had on her dancing shoes. I worried because it's a long way to the Blue Light. Almost a mile, but I guess she walked.”

“Or maybe somebody gave her a ride. Well, we'll find out.” The chief folded his arms over his chest. “And you, Miss Barb?”

“I cleaned up the kitchen, then I went over to Amelia's. Amelia Brady. She's a friend of mine. I didn't want to stay home by myself.” She looked down at her hands. “I chipped the polish on my nails. Anyway, I went over to Amelia's and we did our nails and played records until real late. When I got home nobody was there. I guess it must have been almost midnight. I went to my room and went to bed.”

“Did you see your mama when she got home?” The chief shook out another cigarette, lit it, but his brown eyes watched Barb.

“No.” Barb slumped against the armrest.

A car door slammed outside. Steps pounded across the yard. The screen door rattled. “Chief, you in there?” The door opened and Ralph Cooley, his faded brown hat perched on the back of his head, peered inside. His skinny face was flushed, his necktie askew, his blue suit wrinkled. “There you are. H'lo, Gretchen, Mrs. Pfizer.”

Gretchen had never seen Ralph Cooley when he didn't look like he'd slept in his clothes. He always reeked of whisky and cigarettes. Gretchen hadn't known what that smell, sweetish and musky, was until one day in the newsroom when Mrs. Taylor wrinkled her nose and asked him where he was getting his bourbon and Cooley laughed and said he knew the best bootlegger in town. Oklahoma was a dry state allowing 3.2 beer only and the only way to get whisky was to drive to a wet state or go to a bootlegger. Gretchen didn't know any bootleggers. No one in her family drank whisky. The Tatums drank, which Grandmother didn't like. She didn't like whisky and she didn't like people breaking the law. Sometimes there were stories in the paper about the sheriff arresting somebody for bootlegging.

The reporter stepped inside. “Mike Mackey called”—the funeral home director always let the
Gazette
know about accidents—“so I came right over. The doc says somebody strangled Faye Tatum and her daughter ran up here for help.” Cooley's bleary eyes settled on Barb. “Doc said the girl cut her foot. Okay, Chief, what's—”

Chief Fraser held up one hand. “I don't have time for you, Ralph.”

The reporter peered around the room. “Where's Clyde Tatum?”

Chief Fraser heaved to his feet. “Git.”

Cooley backed toward the door, his gait just a little unsteady. “I'll wait outside, Chief.”

“You deaf, man?” The chief's heavy face furrowed in ridges deep as sun-cracked dirt. He drew deeply on his cigarette. “I'll talk to you in the morning.” Under his breath, he added, “Maybe.”

Cooley moved a little faster, but his slurred words were a taunt. “I saw Faye Tatum tonight at the Blue Light. Me and a lot of men.” The door swung out. “Maybe I should talk to the county attorney.”

Barb reached out a shaking hand. “You saw Mama?”

“Wait out front, Ralph.” The chief spit out the words. “I'll be out in a minute.”

Cooley tipped his hat, then banged outside.

The chief swung around, clumped back to the chair. It creaked as he sat. He took his time, smoked. He still looked mad, but he spoke quietly enough. “All right, Miss Barb. You been working upstairs in the county attorney's office this summer?”

Barb nodded.

“Thought I'd seen you there. Don't know how much you've learned about the law yet, but Mr. Durwood's the man who'll prosecute the case when we find out who killed your mama.” He took a deep breath. “Now, Miss Barb, you're telling me you never saw your mama all day until you came home for supper and you didn't talk to her after she got back from the Blue Light. How about your daddy?” The chief took a deep puff. “What time did he get home?”