The Persian Pickle Club

by Dallas, Sandra

  “I’m betting you don’t have any idea at all.” Rita put the pencil down and stared at the sheriff. In a minute, he looked away. “Am I right?” Rita asked.

  “No, you are not right,” the sheriff mimicked, his chair squeaking as he leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.

  “Then who killed him?”

  “Sis, I’m not telling you anything. If you ask me, it ain’t your business.”

  “It’s my business if there’s a killer loose in Wabaunsee County. After all, I live here, too. It’s as much my business as it is yours—or Queenie’s. I’m going to write that you don’t know who killed Mr. Crook.”

  “That so? Well, I guess if you want to write lies, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

  The two of them looked at each other for a full minute without saying a word, while I thought Rita would be better off if she knew that she could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. She should have learned that from talking to the Judds.

  “What about Hiawatha?” she asked, yanking off her earrings and dropping them into her pocketbook.

  “Hiawatha Jackson?”

  “How many Hiawathas are there in Harveyville?” She’d picked up that line from Nettie, the day she’d called Lizzy Olive, and I wanted to laugh, but I kept my mouth shut because the sheriff didn’t think Rita was funny.

  “What about him? Nice fellow, ain’t he, and he don’t fight like some of your coloreds.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “Why would Hiawatha Jackson kill Ben? Was they acquainted? Hiawatha came down from Blue Hill after Ben disappeared.”

  “How did you know that?” Rita asked, but the sheriff only looked smug. I could have told Rita why the sheriff knew, but she’d made it clear that she didn’t want my interference, so I didn’t speak up.

  The two of them kept at it like that, each trying to trip the other one up but not getting anywhere, and I stopped listening to look out the window. Being a newspaper reporter was a boring way to earn your living, not interesting like farming. I wondered if I should tell the sheriff about Velma’s married boyfriend Charley having a run-in with Ben Crook. After all, I hadn’t promised Velma I wouldn’t let the sheriff know Charley had threatened Ben. Still, if I told, I’d have to explain how I knew about him, and that would make things even worse for Velma. I kept Charley to myself.

  I turned back to Rita and Sheriff Eagles when he yanked at a desk drawer that was stuck and wiggled it open. He removed a sheet of paper and handed it to Rita, who turned it around and read it.

  She cocked her pretty head and smiled at the sheriff. “You went over that site quite thoroughly, it seems to me. This list looks like it’s got everything on it. It’s as good a murder report as I ever read.”

  That didn’t mean anything, because Rita had told me this was the first crime she’d ever written about, but the sheriff didn’t know that. He looked pleased with himself and said, “I know a thing or two, I guess.”

  “I can see that all right.” Maybe Rita knew about flies and honey, after all.

  “How about tramps? Grover said back-door moochers started showing up about the time Ben was killed. Do you think one of them did it?” I asked, avoiding Rita’s eyes just in case she was mad that I’d butted in.

  Sheriff Eagles nodded his head up and down, which meant he was thinking, not agreeing with me. “Grover ain’t as dumb as he looks, is he, Queenie? The fact is, Ella said there was a tramp who went through her place the day Ben disappeared. She thought it was odd, the way he showed up in the middle of the morning instead of at mealtime, when most of those fellows come looking for handouts.”

  Rita’s eyes lit up, and I guess she was glad I’d asked, because she said, “Do you think he did it?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Ella said he had one leg gone and a hand that was all drawed up, so he couldn’t have been the responsible party. It took a strong man to kill Ben, to bash him in the head like that, then haul him over to that grave. Ben was a big man.”

  “Big like Skillet,” I said.

  The sheriff looked up at me quickly, then rubbed his chin with his hand. There were stubble patches on his face where the razor had missed his whiskers. “I already thought of that,” he said.

  “Who’s Skillet?” Rita asked.

  The sheriff and I looked at each other. Then he nodded at me to answer, and I replied, “Ben’s hired man.”

  “Skillet who?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I never knew his last name. Did you, Sheriff?”

  “Nope. Ella never asked. A man who goes by one name don’t want you to know the other one. If Ella’d pressed him for it, he’d have made one up. I’ll bet you a nickel his first name wasn’t Skillet, either.” The sheriff stuck out his chin as if he was waiting for one of us to tell him how smart he was.

  “Do you think Skillet did it?” Rita asked.

  Sheriff Eagles leaned back in his chair and put his fingers together. Then he stuck out his lower lip as if he was thinking. Rita fidgeted, which seem to tickle the sheriff, and he looked around the room, dragging out his answer. “Maybe so. Skillet was strong. I know he had a hot temper, ‘cause he worked for a farmer over to Snokomo until a pig riled him and he killed it with a pitchfork. Skillet hightailed it over here and hired on with Ben. The farmer wanted me to get Skillet to pay for the pig, but I told him if Skillet had that kind of money, he wouldn’t be a hired hand for Ben Crook. Hell, I wouldn’t want to tangle with Skillet any more than I would with Ben. Each one of ‘em was nastier than the other. All you had to do was look at Skillet to know you’d best keep your distance. He had a face ugly enough to clabber milk.”

  “Well, did he do it?” Rita asked one more time.

  “Clabber milk?” The sheriff was enjoying himself.

  Rita wasn’t, however. She stared flint-eyed at the sheriff, waiting for him to answer.

  “Probably not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he took off before Ben disappeared, is how I know for sure.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Now, how would I know that? I got better things to do than stop every drifter that goes through Harveyville and ask for his traveling plans.” The sheriff stood up. “1 guess that’s about all I’ve got to say. I don’t get paid for talking.”

  “Can I say Skillet is a suspect?” Rita asked as she and I stood up.

  “You can say everybody in Wabaunsee County’s a suspect— including Queenie.” He sent me a sideways look and rolled his tongue under his upper lip to show he was joking.

  Rita and I went back to the car and got in. When I glanced over at Rita, she had a smug expression on her face. “You think Skillet did it, don’t you?” I asked. I hoped if she put Skillet into her story, Rita would remember he was my idea.

  But Rita shook her head, catching the feather of her hat on the car roof. She removed the hat to examine the feather, which was broken in half. “He just threw in that Skillet person to fool me, but I’m too smart to fall for it.”

  I was confused. “You mean you don’t think Skillet did it?”

  “I don’t think he did it at all, but I’ve got a pretty good idea who did do it.”

  “Who?” I gasped.

  “It’s a secret. If I told you, you’ll tell somebody.” Instead of looking at me, Rita held up her right hand, the fingers spread wide, and examined her nails, which were freshly polished.

  I turned my head away without a word and started the car. Rita had no call to insult me. I could keep a secret as well as anybody. Shoot, I could keep a secret from Grover if I had to. I knew I could even keep one from Rita.

  We didn’t talk as I drove Rita back to the Ritter place. I suppose I was pouting while she was thinking about whoever killed Ben Crook. Neither of us opened our mouths until we came to the edge of Forest Ann’s farm, and Rita grabbed my arm. “Isn’t that Dr. Sipes’s car parked there? I’d like to talk to him.”

  I laughed. “Of course not. I
t isn’t five o’clock yet.”

  Rita turned to me with a puzzled look on her face. “What does the time have to do with it?”

  I wished I hadn’t been so quick. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on, Queenie. What do you mean about five o’clock?” Rita still held the broken feather in her hand, and she reached over and touched the tip of it to my cheek. “Tell me.”

  I shrugged.

  “Queenie Bean, are you saying that Doc Sipes calls on Forest Ann every evening at five o’clock?” Rita patted her lips with the feather. She sure was smart at figuring out things—maybe not Ben Crook’s murder, but other things.

  “Not every day. After all, he’s got sick people to see to.”

  “Well, I think that’s kind of romantic, even at their age. We’ve had one birth and two funerals since I came here. Maybe next we’ll have a wedding.”

  “No such a thing! Doc Sipes is married—” I stopped myself too late. I might just as well have dug a big hole and jumped into it.

  Rita leaned back in the seat and giggled. “In Harveyville, Kansas, no less. Well, I’ll be damned. This town’s getting to be a regular Tobacco Road.”

  I didn’t understand. “This is the Auburn Road.”

  “Oh, Queenie.” Rita laughed again, as if I’d said something funny. “Maybe we ought to pay Forest Ann a friendly visit. We could say we were driving by and just stopped to chat. People around here are always stopping by without an invitation, whether you want them to or not.”

  “Forest Ann and Doc Sipes isn’t something we interfere with. We pretend it’s not going on,” I said. “She’s a member of the Persian Pickle Club, so we stand by her, even if we don’t approve, which I’m not saying we do or don’t. Forest Ann deserves a little kindness, and so does Doc. Mrs. Sipes is meaner than Ma Barker, and Doc is a saint … just a saint. Nobody could blame him for taking up with Forest Ann.”

  I stepped on the gas just in case Rita was serious about stopping, but I wasn’t fast enough. She leaned over and tooted the horn, and Doc stuck his head out from the porch and waved for us to turn in.

  “Darn it. I guess we’re calling on Forest Ann, after all,” I muttered.

  “We’re not spying on them,” Rita said. “This is kind of like a professional call. I want to ask Doc about Ben Crook’s body. He’s the coronor, isn’t he?”

  “The what?”

  “You know, the man who cuts up the bodies to find out what people died of.”

  I shuddered. “I’d rather pick cotton.”

  Rita laughed, and although I was down on her for saying I couldn’t keep a secret and then for honking at Dr. Sipes, when I heard the pretty sound that her voice made, I thought how much I liked her, after all. I loved Ruby, but being with her was like looking into a mirror. Ruby and I did things exactly alike, and sometimes I knew what she was going to say before she did. Rita was a surprise, and she made life interesting. Rita was what she would have called a real “live wire,” and it was exciting to be around her.

  When I turned off the motor, I saw Forest Ann in the shade of the porch, next to Dr. Sipes. She moved away from him as we came up. She didn’t look glad to see us, and I tried to think of a way to let her know I wasn’t the one who’d honked.

  Dr. Sipes nodded as we got out of the car. Rita already had out her notepad and the pencil I’d given her. She only glanced at Forest Ann before she turned to Doc with the smile she’d used on the others she’d interviewed that day.

  Before she could ask a single question, however, Doc said, “I’m glad you girls came along. I’d just stopped to tell Forest Ann about Tyrone.”

  I’d walked up next to the porch, and when I turned to Forest Ann to see what he meant, I saw tears on her cheeks.

  “Doc thinks Tyrone’s got the polio.” Forest Ann sobbed.

  “Oh no!” I said.

  “Just like the President?” Rita asked.

  “Albert told me just now. He left Tyrone only ten minutes ago.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Dr. Sipes. Dr. Albert Sipes,” Forest Ann said. I’d never thought about a doctor having a first name.

  “It might not be polio. I don’t know what it is for sure, so I’m not going to quarantine him just yet.” Doc knew how hard a quarantine was on people. When her middle girl was quarantined with scarlet fever, Ada June said she thought she’d go crazy with no one to comfort her. Some people wouldn’t even talk to her on the telephone, and when the Persian Pickles came with their cakes and potato salads, they had to leave them on a stump outside the house and yell at Ada June at the top of their lungs to come and get them.

  “It might be just one of those sicknesses Tyrone gets this time of year,” Doc said, glancing at Forest Ann. What he meant was that Tyrone always took to his bed at harvesttime. Doc removed his hat and used the back of his hand to rub the sweat off his forehead.

  “Tyrone’s never been a well person,” Forest Ann said. Since he was her brother, Forest Ann had to defend him, but the rest of us knew Tyrone wasn’t as sickly as he was lazy.

  “I stopped to tell Forest Ann because Velma’s off some-wheres,” Doc said. “Nettie’s taking care of him by herself. Tyrone’s not an easy man to deal with in a sickbed.”

  “Or anyplace else,” I muttered, and Doc turned away so Forest Ann wouldn’t see him smile.

  “We’ll all help,” I told him. “I’ll go home and call Opalina and Ceres and Ada June. Rita can let the Ritters know. We’ll have to make do without Ella and Mrs. Judd.” I tried to remember what I had at home that I could take over for the Burgetts’ supper.

  “Ella would want to help,” Rita said suddenly, and Forest Ann and I looked at each other.

  “She’s right,” Forest Ann said. “Ella’d never forgive us if somebody was in need and she didn’t know about it. Helping Nettie will take her mind off her own troubles.”

  “It’s just the ticket for her,” Rita said. She looked pleased.

  I was pleased, as well. Rita was thinking like a Pickle. Then I wondered if her real reason for the suggestion was she wanted another chance to question Ella. “Come on, Rita. Let’s get going.”

  We were out on the highway by the time Rita remembered she had a pencil in her hand. “Oh, damn it! I forgot to ask Doc about Ben Crook.” I thought that was about the only thing Rita had done right that day.

  So there we all were at the Burgett place, just like we’d been at the Ritters’ when Rita had the baby and at Opalina’s after Ella’s husband was dug up. It seemed as if we’d had more sorrow this year than sewing.

  Tyrone was in bed in the parlor, which was where we gathered when Nettie was the hostess of Persian Pickle. With the lights turned off and the shades pulled down, it was the coolest room in the house, much nicer than the hot kitchen, where we sat. The parlor door was closed, but we heard Tyrone thrashing around in there. Every few minutes, he cussed from the pain or from feeling sorry for himself. Who knew which? He’d yell for Nettie to come in there, and when she did, he’d yell at her to get out.

  “The only smart thing Tyrone ever did was marry Nettie. I wouldn’t walk across the front porch for Tyrone Burgett, but there’s not much a body wouldn’t do for Nettie,” Mrs. Judd said, taking the waxed paper from around her perfection salad, which sat on one of the Haviland plates she used at Pickle. “It’s a pity we don’t have a pesthouse anymore. That’s the place for Tyrone.” Nettie was in the parlor with Tyrone, but Mrs. Judd might have said that even if Nettie had been in the room. I was sure she’d have said it if Tyrone was there, especially after the dustup they’d had over Hiawatha moving to Harveyville.

  Ella was right behind Mrs. Judd, the color back in her face. Helping people perked her up. She carried a mason jar filled with purple asters, set them down in the dry sink, and then dipped water out of a bucket into the jar.

  “Tyrone doesn’t care about flowers. They’re for Nettie,” Mrs. Judd explained. “We stopped at Ella’s place on the way so she could pick them.”

&nb
sp; Tyrone let out a swearword, and Opalina frowned. “There’s no need for him to blaspheme the Lord. Nettie ought to smack him when he talks like that. A good smack’d help his disposition.”

  “This is one time I wish Foster Olive would show up. We could send him right in to see Tyrone. It would serve both those men right,” Ceres said. Even Ceres, who got along with everybody, found little to like about Tyrone Burgett.

  Nettie came into the kitchen, looking tired and sweaty and smelling like a sickroom. She was startled to see that so many of the Pickles were there. Tears came to her eyes as she smiled at each one of us and glanced at the food we’d set out. The perfection salad sat in the place of honor in the center of the table, the celery and carrots sparkling like five-and-dime jewels, and when I moved aside, a beam of sunshine shot through the window, causing the clear gelatin to shimmer. It was so pretty that Nettie drew in her breath, then threw her arms around Mrs. Judd. “Oh, Septima, I never saw a thing as lovely as that.”

  Mrs. Judd looked surprised and a little embarrassed at the compliment as she patted Nettie’s back. I’d never seen anybody hug Mrs. Judd before.

  Just then, the screen squeaked, and the Ritter women came in. Mrs. Judd pulled away from Nettie, to nod at Mrs. Ritter and Agnes T. Ritter. When she came to Rita, she looked her in the eye but didn’t nod or say hello. Rita met her stare and swallowed a couple of times. She was uncomfortable, and so was I as I wondered if Mrs. Judd was about to start something. Instead, she blew out her breath and said, “It’s good you came, Rita. We always help one another.” If Mrs. Judd was going to have words with Rita, it wouldn’t be in Nettie’s kitchen in front of the other Pickles.

  We visited as we set out food and made coffee. Agnes T. Ritter drew water from the pump outside. Opalina built up the fire in the cookstove to heat the water, and she and Ceres washed the dishes that were sitting in the sink. Forest Ann fed the chickens for Nettie while I carried out the garbage pail for the pigs. When we’d finished what there was to do, Mrs. Judd took charge and shooed out most of the Persian Pickles. She told Forest Ann to go home and rest, since she and Nettie would be taking turns sitting up with Tyrone. Velma, too, “if she got home,” Mrs. Judd said, then corrected herself—“when she gets home.” The rest of us sighed with relief, since we didn’t want to tend Tyrone in a sickroom.