The Secrets of Rosa Lee (4 page)

A
few minutes past ten, Sidney Dickerson had all the members of her committee sitting around a card table. Light shone through the newly unboarded bay window that stretched as high as the twelve-foot ceiling. The wide, planked floor reflected the sun even beneath years of dust. She wanted to close her eyes and spread her hands wide like she'd seen worshippers do on television.
Feel the power!
she thought of saying.
Feel the history.
In her calm, lonely life she'd known only a few times when she'd been so excited.

Judging from the group before her, if she dared do something so foolish, they would turn and run. In fact, none of them looked all that interested in being on the committee.

Billy Hatcher crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair between Lora Whitman and Reverend Parker, who wore a smile that could have been painted on a cigar-store Indian.

Lora Whitman stared out the window looking at nothing.

One of the Rogers sisters had already taken up her crochet, while the other paused with pen and paper, waiting to write down every word spoken.

“Welcome to you all,” Sidney began. “Thank you for
agreeing to serve on this committee. We're here to study the history of a house that represents the very heart of Clifton Creek. We've been asked to make a few decisions about the future of this building and the surrounding land…decisions that will affect not only us but generations to come. We alone will decide if the legend of the fine man who founded this town lives or dies.”

Billy yawned.

Beth Ann counted stitches under her breath.

Sidney fought back tears. This house—that was so important to her—mattered to no one else. No one. Maybe they should agree to take the oil company's money and forget even talking about trying to save an old house.

The preacher checked his watch.

“According to my research—” Sidney knew she had to speed up “—this home was one of the first, if not
the
first, big ranch house built north of Dallas.” She glanced at her notes and lectured on. “Henry W. Altman must have been little more than a boy when he rode in and claimed this land. We know he paid cash for the wagon train of supplies and workers needed to build this place, but no one seems to know where his money came from. Probably an inheritance, since there's no record of any Altman family members ever visiting the ranch. He was born in 1878, died in 1950. He fathered one child, Rosa Lee Altman, who never married.”

Beth Ann counted a little louder. Her sister elbowed her gently, signaling her to turn down the volume.

Billy leaned farther back in his chair and looked as if he were staring at Lora Whitman's legs under the table. Considering the short length of her skirt, Sidney could only guess at the view.

She lifted her briefcase onto the wobbly card table. Sidney had to do something before someone interrupted
her and asked for a final vote. They all looked as if they wanted to move on with their lives. She needed to act fast. “Before we talk about what needs to be done, I want to show you all something I've found. It may be a factor we need to consider.”

Pulling a worn book from her notes, Sidney's hand shook. “This book was donated to the library when Rosa Lee died.” She beamed. “Though the book is valuable as a first edition, its true value may lie in the inscription. Which, after reading it, I think you all will agree dictates further research on our part.

“It says simply, ‘To my Rosa Lee, who promises to love no other in this lifetime. Leave with me tonight. Wait for me in the garden. I promise I'll come before midnight. Fuller, July 4, 1933.'”

Ada May stopped writing. Billy glanced out the window. Beth Ann whispered, “darn,” as she lost a stitch. The preacher leaned forward, his smile melted as his body stiffened as if preparing for a blow.

“If this was given to Rosa Lee, then maybe all the stories about her being an old maid who never had a gentleman caller aren't true.” Sidney moved around the table, as if circling a classroom. “Maybe there are secrets here to uncover. Secrets the town should know before we sell the land.”

“Who cares?” Billy questioned, slouching in his chair. “Secrets about folks long dead are of no interest to anyone.”

Lora looked as if she agreed.

Micah Parker stretched his hand toward the book. “May I see that, Dr. Dickerson?”

Sidney smiled, knowing she'd hooked one. “If birth records are right, Rosa Lee would have been twenty-three when she was given that book. My guess is Mr. Fuller
would have been from around here, but why didn't he meet her at midnight like he planned?”

“Maybe he did,” Billy answered.

Sidney turned to him. “Then why didn't she leave with him if she'd promised to love no other in this lifetime?”

“Maybe her father stopped him,” Ada May chimed in. “She was his only child. Fuller might have been a no-good drifter. If she'd left with him, she'd have been poorly married.”

Sidney raised an eyebrow. “A drifter who bought a leather-bound first edition that must have cost a month's wages during the Depression?”

No one seemed to have an answer.

Micah opened the book and ran his fingers over the words. The others in the room didn't have to ask. They all knew the reverend thought of his wife.

“Maybe Fuller didn't show up,” Sidney added. “And we have no idea if Fuller was his last name or first, since it was a relatively popular given name a hundred years ago.”

The minister studied the writing inside the book. “Why would a man who used such an expensive way to send a note, not show up as planned?”

Lora frowned. “She waited seventy years for a love who never returned?”

“What a martyr,” Ada May whispered.

“What a fool,” Lora mumbled. “No man's worth more than fifteen minutes, tops.”

Reverend Parker stood slowly. He gently pushed the book across the table and took a step toward the door.

Sidney knew the words in the book had touched him. She saw it in his eyes. The preacher wore sorrow on his sleeve. But would words written seventy years ago pull him into the mystery, or push him away?

She followed Micah to the door, having no idea how she might comfort him or if he even wanted solace. It occurred to her that she'd suffered the greater loss, for she'd never, not in forty years of life, experienced such heartache. At least he'd once had someone promise to love him for a lifetime.

Her fingers brushed his sleeve a second before she heard the sound of a car braking.

She glanced outside. Sunbeams reflected off the bay window. Sidney blinked through crystal-white light a moment before the sun shattered.

An explosion of crashing glass echoed off the walls and bounced back on itself. Sunbeams splintered.

Sidney stepped back, bumping into the preacher. Chaos ricocheted into tiny slivers bouncing and sliding across the floor. She screamed.

Billy Hatcher threw his body into Lora's as the glass blew around them like a rushing tidal wave. They hit the floor hard, sending folding chairs rattling. Ada May lifted her notebook and huddled near her sister. Glass rained across Sidney's notes, reaching the edge of the crochet square Beth Ann had been working on. Rust-covered metal, the size of a man's fist, tumbled to a stop at Lora's broken chair.

Micah rushed forward. His shoes crackled on a carpet of slivers. “Is everyone all right!”

A chorus of groans and cries answered.

“What happened?” Beth Ann said in a shaky teacher's voice. “Who threw that thing!”

Ada May's sobs grew from tiny hiccups to full volume.

“I don't know.” Micah placed a hand on Ada May's shoulder. “All I got a look at was the back of a pickup.” He turned to the others. “Is anyone hurt?”

Billy lay curled over Lora. Neither answered Micah's call.

Sydney shook as if someone had hold of every inch of her body and planned to rattle her very bones. “I'm not hurt!” she whispered. “I'm not hurt.” She tried to reach for Billy and Lora, but her legs began to give way.

She looked down at trembling hands and decided they couldn't be hers. “I'm not hurt,” she whimpered.

The room faded. She fell into a warm, calm darkness.

L
ora Whitman huddled in a corner of the old dining room, her forehead resting on her knees as she tried to calm her breathing. It had all happened so fast. The sound of a car on the street. A rusty oil-field drill bit flying through the window. Glass following the missile like the tail of a comet. Billy's body slamming into hers, knocking her to the floor. Crushing her. Protecting her.

She glanced over at the drill bit still resting on her crumpled folding chair. She'd seen ones like it all her life. The oil rigs changed bits when drilling and the used ones were often thrown in the dirt around the site, or pitched in the back of pickup trucks. This one, all rusty and dirty, seemed harmless now.

“Lora? Miss Whitman?” Sheriff Farrington knelt before her. “You calm enough to give me a statement?”

Lora shoved her mass of blond hair away from her face. “There's not much I can add to what the others have said.” Scraped knees poked through the holes in her stockings. “Except I thought it was a rock or a football or something. I didn't know it was a drill bit until later.” She stretched out her leg. “I guess it couldn't have been an accident. No one tosses around something so ugly for fun.”

The sheriff glanced over at the rusty metal with teeth on one end used to dig into the rock-hard earth in these
parts. “It wasn't an accident,” he echoed. “There was a note pushed inside the bit.”

Lora stretched the other leg. “What did it say?” she asked. She wouldn't have been surprised if it read,
Kill Lora
because the drill point had been aimed right at her.

The sheriff offered his hand to help her stand. “It said,
Let the house fall.
”

Lora managed a laugh. “I guess someone not on the committee wanted to vote. Funny thing is, I'd have given them my place if they'd only asked.”

She stumbled. The sheriff's grip was firm. “The medic said there's nothing broken, but if you want, I could drive you over to the hospital and have them check you out. You'll want to be careful. There's probably glass in your hair.” He touched her arm with a light pat as if he'd read somewhere in a manual what to do.

Lora tried to smile but couldn't manage it. “I had my head turned toward the door where Reverend Parker and the professor were standing. Billy hit me and knocked me to the floor before I even realized what happened.”

She stared out onto the porch. Billy Hatcher sat on the steps. He'd removed his jacket. Blood spotted his shirt. The medic's college helpers were cleaning cuts along his left hand and face. “When it happened, all I could think about was how angry I was that he knocked me down. I even fought him for a few seconds.”

“Don't worry about it.” The sheriff smiled. “I'm sure he's not sorry he knocked you out of harm's way.”

“How bad is he hurt?” she asked.

“I offered to take him over to the doc's, but he said butterfly bandages are all he needs. He'll have a scar on his forehead worth talking about. The leather jacket protected his arm and back. His hand is bleeding from several
scratches but he says they are no worse than what he gets at work. He's lucky.”

“No, I'm lucky. That drill bit would have hit my head if he hadn't flown into me.” For a moment, her imagination pictured the jagged iron teeth flying into the back of her head. She could almost see her mother leaning over her casket saying something like, “Thank God it hit her from behind and didn't mess up her face.”

“Did you see or hear anything that might help me out?” The sheriff broke into her daydream. “Did anyone say anything to you before the meeting? Did you see the truck pull away?”

“Nothing. I didn't even know it was a truck. I'd been watching the clouds a few minutes before. I didn't even notice the traffic.” Lora closed her eyes, wishing she could cry. Billy Hatcher had been hurt. Dr. Dickerson was on her way to Wichita Falls with chest pains. The Rogers sisters were wound up tighter than speed babies. They'd told their story to everyone and were now recounting it to each other. Only the reverend appeared calm. He paced slowly around the room as if looking for a clue everyone had missed.

In fact, he'd been calm since the beginning, like some kind of robot. He'd caught the professor when she'd passed out, dialed the sheriff on his cell, talked everyone into remaining still until help came. She couldn't help but think it strange that a brush with death didn't affect him.

After he'd called the sheriff, in what seemed like seconds the room flooded with people. Firemen from the station two blocks away, the sheriff, campus cops from the college and the hospital's only ambulance. Clifton Creek might be small, but they could move when needed. She had heard talk that the sheriff ran everyone through drills
twice a year in case a tornado hit. Their practice paid off today.

Half the town turned out to watch. Traffic was down to one lane in front of Rosa Lee's old place. If Lora knew them, and she did, most had already made up their minds about what had happened. A few were planning punishment for the villains when they were found.

Through the open door, she could hear Philip Price chanting like a cantor questioning why anyone would want to hurt this group of people. “Who'd want to hurt the Rogers sisters?” he asked, but didn't bother waiting for an answer. “Or a professor? Or the preacher? Or the poor brokenhearted Whitman girl whose husband…”

Lora ducked her head. She didn't want to go outside. Somehow, it seemed safer to stay in here. The coolness of the house felt comforting. The dusty smells settling around her seemed strangely familiar. She looked up at Sheriff Farrington. “Why?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Maybe just kids seeing the opportunity to break something. A twelve-foot window in an abandoned house would be hard to resist. Maybe someone who just wanted the house torn down and didn't really give much thought that their note might hurt someone.”

“But you don't think so?”

“But I don't think so,” he echoed. “There's no way anyone passing could have missed seeing the committee sitting in that bay window.”

“Then why?”

“Someone doesn't want one of you, or all of you, in this house.” He stared directly into her eyes. “Whoever threw this meant harm, Lora. To you or to someone at that table.”

Lora covered her eyes with her palms, pretending to be invisible as she had as a child. She couldn't think of anyone who would plan to harm her. Phil, the town crier,
had been right. Who would want to hurt any of them? The only person she could think of who hated her was Dan, and he didn't want her dead. He only wanted her to suffer. Their marriage, in and out of bed, hadn't worked from the first and he'd blamed her.

“Hey, pretty lady, you going to crumble or fight?”

Lora looked up at Billy Hatcher. He didn't seem nearly as threatening with a bandage across his forehead. “Leave me alone. I'm busy having a nervous breakdown.”

“Thought you had more grit, Whitman. Where's that ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!' cheerleader spirit?” He leaned closer and whispered, “You mad at me for slamming you to the floor?”

“What do you want? If it's a thanks, you got it.” Much as she hated admitting it, she might very well owe this thug her life.

He shook his head and winked. “Wish I'd had time to enjoy climbing on top of you, but in truth, I'll settle for one thing.”

“What's that?”

He offered his hand. “Friendship. Looks as if all the committee members may need someone to cover our backs. When my probation officer told me to do some community service, I had no idea it would be so exciting.”

Hesitantly, Lora took his hand, convinced that the kid bordered on insane. “Thanks,” she answered honestly. “For what you did.”

He pulled her away from the wall. “Friends?”

“One condition.” She smiled. “Drop the cracks about having the hots for me.”

“Mind if I still think them?”

“Not as long as you keep them to yourself.”

“Fair enough, Whitman.” He lifted his bandaged hand. “How about giving me a ride to Wichita Falls? I'd like to
check on the professor.” He picked up Sidney Dickerson's glasses. “And take her these.”

“The hospital's an hour away. It'll be afternoon before we can get back.”

“I know. I figured I'd offer to buy you lunch on the way back. Just lunch, no date or anything like that.”

“I don't have a car.” Lora watched the preacher fold up the contents of the professor's case, carefully shaking glass from each piece.

Billy dug into his right pocket. “Then you can drive my car, but that means you buy lunch.”

Lora thought about what it would mean to go home and listen to her mother, or go back to work and have to recount what happened to every customer who walked in the door. Going to Wichita Falls with Billy Hatcher suddenly seemed like a good idea. “Want to come along, Reverend Parker?” she asked over Billy's shoulder.

“No, thanks. I'll see that the sisters get home. Tell Dr. Dickerson I'll be there this evening.”

Lora lifted her purse and glanced outside. Her mother poked a manicured finger into the chest of a campus cop blocking anyone from entering the house. Lora couldn't hear what Isadore said but guessed the cop wouldn't hold the line for long under such an assault.

Turning back to Billy, Lora raised her eyebrow in question.

“My car's out back,” he said, taking the cue. “Give me a minute to talk to the sheriff and I'll be right there.”

Lora nodded and slipped out of the room. The house grew cooler as she walked into the shadows but, as she'd guessed, a hallway to the back porch lay just behind the stairs.

When she stepped outside, the wind greeted her. Leaning over the railing, Lora let her hair shake free. Tiny bits
of glass hit the broken brick walk below. She straightened, quickly wiggled out of her torn panty hose and tossed them atop a pile of windblown trash at the edge of the porch.

As she slipped back into her shoes, Lora noticed Billy standing in the shadows behind her.

When she turned on him, he raised both hands. “I didn't see a thing.”

“And?”

“And I'm not saying a word, Whitman.”

“Don't call me that.”

“You got it, only slow down on the rules, I can only remember so many.”