Art touched her hand where it rested on the cold cart. “I needed something to read while I was in Jamaica with my folks.”
His low voice or the warmth of his hand, seduced Sally into the opposite of her intention. “It’s okay,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t be the last woman to forgive Art’s continuing infractions.
“Yes!” He whispered, pounding the cart in triumph.
Sally couldn’t stop draw her attention away from him as he left. Dressed in dark browns, his body seemed to lag behind his busy mind. She imagined a panther’s limbs following its hunting gaze. At the door, Art turned and gave her a little wave of thanks. Boy! Her heart was racing, her breasts tingled under the sweater, and her face wasn’t the only part of her body capable of a hot blush and sweat. She would pay the book fine herself. She picked up a copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ from the stack of books on the cart and tried to concentrate as she randomly flipped through the pages. Forcing herself to relax, she melded into the words of another century. “(When) Heathcliff appeared on the door stones,...(she felt) as scared as if (she) had raised a goblin,...(she resolved) further on mounting vigilant guard, and doing (her) utmost to check the spread of such bad influence ...” Closing the book, Sally placed it on the correct shelf next to ‘Jane Eyre.’
No wonder her classmates laughed at her inane, archaic remarks. Whenever she raised her head from the fictive dreams in books, the unpredictable people surrounding her in reality jarred her sensibilities. She read too many books. Everyone in town thought so, except her mother.
Volunteering as an assistant librarian allowed Sally to hide out in the bright, book-lined room close to the endless possibilities of the written word and away from troublesome people. However, not one syllable prepared her for Art Woods. He probably wouldn’t approach her again. He dated every pretty senior girl and most of those in her own junior class, except for Jill Wisnewski; because Art’s closest friend, Tony Montgomery, went steady with Jill.
When the library cart was empty, Sally chose three more books to read at home; one on mythology, one named ‘Lilith,’ and one on how to construct a log cabin. Reading felt like an addiction at times. She needed to know each word hidden between the covers of any book. How much could she remember from all these books? Maybe words filtered out after stimulating the brain. The brain fluid contained the same chemical make-up as tears. Perhaps the words were wept away. She’d suffered enough to cry for the rest of her life. Ugliest daughters needed to weep, frequently. She gathered her schoolbooks from her main-floor locker for the last time in the school year.
As Sally was leaving the school building, Jill hailed her, reminding her to call. And report what? Nothing ever happened to Sally. Jill, on the other hand, bragged about enough intimate encounters to fill a football stadium. Prone to embellish, Jill’s lurid stories nagged at Sally. Books weighed down her arms. Written accounts of Greek gods, Jewish wisdom, and hatchet-made interlocking logs didn’t stay in her brain as long as Jill’s fictive dreams. Of course, even in ‘Lilith’ God was described as male and female entwined to ensure an all-knowing being. Gods from India displayed four arms, too. And in Tahiti, under the encouraging cheers of female priests, the holy-of-holies included the pure act of creation between altar-prone teenagers.
Sally shook her head. In her birth religion, the consecration of the flat Host at Mass certainly held less excitement. All these sterile descriptions of intercourse, even Jill’s tales, failed to mention the intensity of her body’s reaction to touch -- Art’s touch. Could she ever return to her serene world of books?
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
First Wednesday in January
In John’s home the bedside telephone rang, waking first John and then Sally from their naps. “Sheriff Woods.” John handed the phone to Sally.
“Tim’s been telling me some interesting stories,” Sheriff Woods said.
“About Matilda?” Sally guessed.
“No. Is there something more I should ask Tim about Mrs. Armstrong? Tim’s told me who Bret was having an affair with.”
“This, I need to hear in person.” Sally looked at her watch. Eight o’clock.
“Wait until morning.” John advised.
“How about if I bring Tim out to your house?” Sheriff Woods asked. He must have heard John’s opinion on the urgency issue. Art Woods understood her too well.
She couldn’t wait through the night for crucial news about the arson. “Bring Kentucky Fried Chicken for all of us and come right over.”
“You just think you can boss me around because you used to love me.” Sheriff Woods laughed as he hung up his end. Sally looked at John. Had he overheard Art’s flippant remark?
“You used to date Sheriff Woods?”.
Sally fled into the dining room keeping busy with setting the table for four. “Oh, back in high-school, John.”
“But did you love him?” John stuffed linen napkins into napkin rings.
“He was the first boy I loved.”
“The first you kissed?”
“No. No he wasn’t.” Sally stopped John’s domestic activities and kissed him soundly. “And you, Sirrah, are the last man I am ever going to kiss.”
“You’ve got that straight.” John held her, returning the kiss. When he let go, he was still entranced with the idea. “Who was the first boy you kissed?”
“Samuel Immanuel Tucker. On board a moonlit cruise on the Potomac River on our junior class trip. The boy was from South Carolina. He wrote to me for about a month. He owned a white stallion, he said.”
“You’ve got a story for everything.”
“Mark Twain said some of his best stories about himself were probably not even the truth.”
“But you’re telling me the truth?”
Sally turned the oven up to 450 degrees, found a jar of honey and a large rectangular glass-baking dish. Skylights let the moonlight dance on the black slate kitchen counters. Cobalt blue walls caused the stainless steel appliances to reflect a cerulean glow to the white Amish cabinetry. Sally found no reason to redecorate the well-designed room in which she planned to spend less than any time.
When Tim and Sheriff Woods arrived with the Kentucky Fried Chicken, Sally directed them to bring the food into the kitchen. “Set those down.” She pointed to the island sink. “Just let me jazz this chicken up a bit.”
She started to shoo them back into the dining room, but John blocked the doorway. “You don’t want to miss anything they tell me, do you?”
Sally agreed, thankful John understood her priorities. She placed the chicken pieces into the glass pan and drenched them entirely with honey before popping the heaping pan into the preheated oven.
“Give me your coats, gents. And we’ll observe a national phenomenon, Sally Bianco…Nelson actually cooking.”
“Gabby loves to cook.” Art said.
Tim rubbed a non-existent stomach. “I can attest to that.”
“Don’t you usually cook for your husband?” Sheriff Woods asked Sally.
John returned. “All the time I’ve known Sally, we’ve been chasing criminals or sitting in court rooms.”
“Surely, not all the time.” Sheriff Woods winked at Sally.
“You’re an animal.” Sally swatted at him with a handy dishtowel. She deposited a package of frozen corn into a bowl, sprinkled salt and a tablespoon of sugar over the square lump, topped it with a healthy dab of fake butter and jammed the bowl into the microwave, pushing the buttons for five minutes. She dumped the mashed potatoes and gravy from the Kentucky Colonel into separate oven-safe bake ware and slid them into the hot oven. “John, set those biscuits in the toaster oven, on warm.”
“Hey,” Sheriff Woods said. “I thought you said we would see her cook.”
“This is as close as you’re going to get.” Sally laughed. “Tim, take a few minutes and tell me about your affair with Matilda.”
Tim checked the face of Sheriff Woods to see if the news shocked him. “Since you already know we’re
in love, what can I tell you?”
Sally stepped closer to Tim so as not to miss any flickering reaction in his eyes. “Don’t tell us you’re involved because you know Matilda’s husband is fooling around. Anyone who has spent a minute with Bret knows he doesn’t own an ounce of philandering blood in him. Besides you knew Matilda, in the biblical sense, before she married.”
Sheriff Woods elbowed John. “No wonder she doesn’t cook.”
“Sally,” John said. “Why don’t you three sit down at the table and I’ll bring in the food.”
“I could use a drink,” Tim said.
“Not in this house.” John informed him.
“There was liquor yesterday,” Sheriff Woods argued.
“My new sister-in-law, Betty Nelson’s party.” Sally explained. “Booze yesterday, booze tomorrow, but no alcohol today. I need to thank her for inviting you both.”
Tim rubbed his handsome chin. “Bret only loves Matilda’s money.”
Sheriff Woods looked at Sally. “We always think our love is of the highest order. Nevertheless, Bret comes from a rich family.”
John brought in the hot dishes from the kitchen. “Bret told me Matilda’s father paid for the castle renovations.”
“Wedding present.” Sheriff Woods said, and then sheepishly asked, “Could I have a bowl for the potatoes and another dish for the corn?” The three other people in the room stared at him. “I don’t like my food to touch,” Sheriff Woods said.
“It all …” John began.
“Never mind,” Sally said. “I understand. My brother, Dick, has the same obsession.”
“It’s not an obsession.” Sheriff Woods received the extra bowls from Sally.
Tim poked at his honey-baked chicken. “Do you glaze the chicken because you don’t like the taste?”
“I love the Colonel’s chicken,” Sally said. “Did you know their secret is they pressure cook the raw chicken before they bread and fry it?”
“Dig in, boy,” John said.
“Not really hungry.” Tim broke off a piece of biscuit. “I feel you three have me under a pressure cooker.”
“What part of the truth is difficult to spit out?” Sally asked.
Tim laughed. “Well,” he sipped at his glass of water. “How about the fact I think I followed the dead woman. I lost her at the corner of Dunham and Territorial Road. When I reached route 31 on the way to Elgin, I turned around. I could have turned east when I got back to Territorial Road, but I turned towards Matilda’s folk’s house.”
“Any reason?” Sheriff Woods asked.
“Matilda, I guess.”
“He meant why were you following the dead woman.” Sally turned to Sheriff Woods. “I suspect you know her name by now.”
“Not yet. Tim thinks Enid Krimm might be the woman.”
“She’s a member of the country club,” Tim said. “Everyone in Wayne knows her.” The table grew silent. Sally was hungry and did the feast justice. Sheriff Woods delicately forked food from the separate plates into his mouth. John was busy with his food, too. “Why sugar on the corn?” Tim asked.
“They call it sweet corn, don’t they?” Sally defended her attempt at cooking. “Tim, why were you following Enid? Is she married?”
“Divorced.” Sheriff Woods provided between bites.
Tim studied his filled plate. “I followed her from her apartment. She’s been blackmailing people for a long time.”
Sheriff Woods laid his fork down. “For what?”
“Infidelity.”
“Do you have any proof anyone was Enid’s lover?” John asked.
Sally changed the subject. “Mrs. Masters hinted you harmed Bret.”
Tim abruptly stood up, knocking over his chair. “Sorry.” He righted the chair. “It was an accident.”
“What happened?” Sheriff Woods asked his junior officer.
“Bret came home unexpectedly.” Tim rubbed the hint of a blond beard on his chin. “I was rushing out the servant entrance of the castle, thinking Bret would be coming in the front door from the garages. Instead, he took the garbage bins back behind the house and used the back entrance. I knocked him over when I bolted out the door.”
“Did he ask why you were there?” John asked.
“I don’t even remember what I told him,” Tim unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. “We took him to the hospital for stitches. The butler drove the three of us in Matilda’s car. I kept saying how sorry I was. Bret just let it go. It was an accident.”
“Why do you put up with Matilda?” Sally asked.
“Always loved her,” Tim said. “I can’t seem to tell her no.”
“Did you actually see Matilda’s husband with Enid?” John asked.
“Never. That’s why I was following her. I didn’t tell Matilda.”
Sally asked, again. “Why did you think Enid was blackmailing people for infidelity? With her, I assume?”
“You thought it would make a difference to Matilda,” John said.
Sally tried another tactic. “What time did the fire start?”
“Six o’clock.”
“How do you know that?” John asked.
“I was driving up the lane of the Master’s home, when I saw the flames in the back of the house shooting over the roof. The horses were racing around the front pasture in a panic. I found Enid’s car parked on the lane. I suspect she walked to the house to surprise us.” Tim raised a fork of mashed potatoes to his mouth, but then laid the fork back in his plate. “I might as well tell you. Matilda said both her parents were in Dallas and we could use their house to meet. But Matilda’s car wasn’t there.”
“Where was Enid’s car?” Sheriff Woods asked.
“About half-way down the lane. The fire trucks drove part-way in the ditch to get around it.”
“So,” John mulled over Tim’s story. “You were following Enid from her apartment. But you were also hoping Matilda’s car would be at her parents’ house to signal she would be available for a rendezvous?”
“Didn’t you consider Enid could already be blackmailing Matilda?” Sally asked. “Did you think she knew you and Matilda were having an affair?”
“No, because Enid told me Bret was involved with her.”
John shook his head. “The only reason she came up with the lie was because she understood you were linked with Matilda.”
“You could be right,” Tim said. “Maybe Bret is innocent.”
Sheriff Woods interjected. “Matilda and Bret may not know who the dead woman was.”
“I would like to see their faces.” Tim coughed with embarrassment at his obvious vindictiveness.
“How long have you known Enid?” Sally asked Sheriff Woods.
“Loose woman?” John asked.
“Loose tongue,” Sheriff Woods said. “Do you want to see Enid’s apartment or go out to the castle to harass those folks?”
“Mrs. Masters might be back from Dallas tomorrow,” Sally said. “Let’s go look at Enid’s digs.”
“Tomorrow morning.” John proceeded to the front closet and brought back Sheriff Woods and Tim’s coats.
“Hint, hint,” Sheriff Woods winked at Sally.
“Will you be all right, Tim,” Sally asked. The young man seemed lost.
“Right,” Sheriff Woods said. “Tim, you’re going to be my house guest tonight.”
“I’m okay.” Tim said, almost as a question.
“That’s an order.” Sheriff Woods slapped the young man’s back.
“Tim?” Sally recalled another question. “Did the butler know Matilda and you were lovers?”
Tim shook his head. “I could never figure it out. Matilda didn’t seem to care. I know I never laid eyes on the butler, didn’t even know his name, until Bret was injured.”
“So he was in the house while you were with Matilda.” Sally surmised.
“I guess so,” Tim said, and then as if dawn had risen, “That’s why Bret wasn’t suspicious.”
“And why I n
eed to talk to the butler,” Sheriff Woods said. “Thanks, Sally … and John, thanks.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“I’ll clean up.” John pushed Sally down the hall towards their bedroom. “Go start the fireplace in the bedroom and take a shower.”
“I feel as if smoke and dirt seeped into every pore of my body.” Sally gladly headed for the shower. Once under the warm water, Sally couldn’t keep from traveling the memory lanes as a young girl in St. Charles.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
May, 1957
Sauntering down the grassy hill from school the day Art Woods first touched her hand, Sally wanted to throw her books to the ground and run all the way to Route 47. The rush of energy from Art’s minute of attention tempted her to walk the forty miles instead of the four blocks to the house on Dean Street. Forty miles would take her straight out west on route 64, the main street of St. Charles; all the way to Route 47, the road her family took south to visit her grandmother Kerner in Bloomington.
Turning right onto Dean Street, Sally changed arms for her usual load of library and school books. Too bad, she couldn’t stylishly use her little brother’s red wagon to pull the tomes home. The family abandoned the wagon on the Rossmoor farm.
Her brother, Dick, owned a bike, too. But, Sally learned to ride on her sisters’ bikes. Back then, Madelyn was temporarily at the convent in Indiana, and Loretta wasn’t athletic. Not owning a bike mattered to Sally. Funny how things turned out. Sally lived with her folks all by herself for five years. Both sisters married their first year out of high school and Dick entered the seminary right out of grade school, at fourteen, for religious training to become a priest.
A warm breeze swirled dust up from the shoulder of the road as Art’s car passed. She closed her eyes as the mini-whirlwind crossed the sidewalk. She replayed her worst nightmare, which involved taking care of her dying parents. They weren’t dying. They were hale and hearty; but the thought of being responsible for their care was frightening. She was, after all, the remaining inmate of the Dean Street house. Neither of her parents loved her. Too ugly in comparison, their favorite, Madelyn, was blonde and blue eyed like Mother. Loretta’s dark eyes and thick, black hair resembled Daddy’s. Maybe longing to flee parents caused kids to link up with a mate. Art Woods was the only target, at the time.
Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 02 - The Appropriate Way Page 3
