Dead Letter

by Byars, Betsy

  Herculeah picked up the note to read it again. She began aloud, but Meat raised his hands as if to stop up his ears.

  “Excuse me, but once is enough,” he said quickly.

  Herculeah nodded. “I don’t want to hear it either, but I might have overlooked something.” She read the note to herself. “I’m wondering about those last two words, Look inside. Inside what?”

  Meat shook his head.

  “I feel that he did kill her. Look how the last word, inside, goes all the way off the page, as if the man opened the door and she barely had time to stuff the letter through the lining of her coat.”

  “It’s like a message from the dead.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I had one of those once.”

  Herculeah looked at him.

  “My grandmother sent me a Halloween card with a dollar in it. She did that for every holiday. But she had a heart attack after she mailed it—and by the time I got the card, the funeral and everything was over.”

  He felt tears come to his eyes at the memory. He swallowed so that he could continue. “It was a long, long time before I could spend that dollar.”

  “A card from the dead,” Herculeah said, sighing in sympathy. “Now this.”

  “And what made my card worse”—Meat gave a slight shudder—“was that it was a picture of a ghost, and you opened the ghost up and inside it said, ‘Boo from Granny Hop.’ We all called her Granny Hop. Her last name was Hopkins. My mom saved the card and sometimes I would be looking through a drawer for a pencil or something and I’d see this ghost card.”

  Herculeah nodded but she hardly heard him. She looked out the window, as if trying to see beyond the trees to a house where a woman was held captive.

  Meat continued, not realizing he had lost his audience. “And I would forget about it—I’d probably repressed it—you know, like you see on TV? Something happens too terrible for your mind to accept? Anyway, my mind would be saying, ‘Oh, look at this, a cute little ghost card. What’s it doing in the telephone drawer?’ And I’d open it up. ‘Boo from Granny Hop.’”

  He gave a slight shudder and glanced quickly at Herculeah to see if she was as moved by his story as he was. He was disappointed to see her gazing out the window.

  “I don’t know where the card is or I’d show it to you, but I know it’s in this house somewhere, just waiting till I forget about it, open it up, and—”

  Herculeah interrupted before he could get out the boo. “I am going to find out who wrote this.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but I am going to find out.”

  Herculeah had that look of determination that always made Meat feel like a child in the presence of an adult.

  He kept looking at her. He did not doubt that Herculeah would do as she said.

  Meat said, “I hope she’ll be alive.” This was actually a selfish thought. He was thinking of the inconvenience, no, the danger, that could be involved in tracking down a dead woman. Herculeah seemed to thrive on trouble and danger, but Meat got all he wanted of that in the halls at school.

  “So do I.”

  “And if she is dead?” Meat did not dare to hope that would be the end of it.

  Herculeah’s look got sterner. “If she’s dead, I’m going to find the killer.”

  4

  HIDDEN TREASURES

  “Police Department, Zone Three. This is Sergeant DiAngelo. Can I help you?”

  “Hi, Sergeant, this is Herculeah Jones, and I’d like to speak to my dad—if he’s not too busy.”

  “Chico’s out on a case. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No.” She hesitated, disappointed. “Just tell him I called.”

  Herculeah put down the phone. “I really wanted to talk to him.” She shrugged. “Though I guess it’s just as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’d make me promise not to get involved.”

  “Smart man,” Meat said. He was standing at the window. The note from Herculeah’s coat and the boo from his deceased grandmother had made him uncomfortable.

  Adding to this discomfort was a twinge of jealousy that Herculeah could phone her father anytime she liked. He couldn’t remember ever talking to his father on the phone. He didn’t even know where his father was.

  “Maybe I ought to call Mrs. Glenn,” Herculeah said, interrupting his dreary thoughts.

  “Who?”

  “At Hidden Treasures. She sold me the coat. Can I use the phone again?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Herculeah looked up the number in the phone book and dialed.

  “Hidden Treasures,” Mrs. Glenn sang into the telephone.

  “Oh, hi, it’s Herculeah Jones. I was just in there a little while ago and bought a coat. Do you remember?”

  “I do hope there was nothing wrong with the coat? Our clothing sales are final.”

  “No, there was nothing wrong. I just wanted to ask if you had any idea who brought the coat in, who it belonged to.”

  “I don’t know, but Nellie might. It was here when I took over the shop three months ago. You want me to check with her?”

  “Yes. Please. I found a note, and ...” her voice trailed off.

  “Why, I’m sure Nellie went through those pockets. She told me that sometimes what you find in the pockets is worth more than the coat or the dress.”

  “This was in the lining.”

  “Well, I guess Nellie doesn’t do linings.” She laughed at her own joke. “Oh, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a customer. Call me tomorrow or drop by.”

  “I will.”

  Herculeah put down the phone. She looked at Meat. He was still standing at the window.

  “Mrs. Glenn’s going to ask about the coat and let me know tomorrow, and my dad will probably call me tonight.” She gave a mock scream. “I want something to happen right now!”

  Meat was still standing by the window. He paused as if making a decision.

  Herculeah looked at him sharply. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Meat?”

  Meat knew it was impossible to keep anything from Herculeah. He said, “It’s nothing. It’s just that there’s a man over on Oak Street who can analyze handwriting.”

  Herculeah glanced at him, her eyes wide with surprise that Meat had come up with something even she had not thought of.

  “Meat! What a wonderful idea!”

  He gave a shrug to hide his pleasure.

  “No, it’s brilliant. It really is!”

  This time Meat didn’t bother to shrug. If Herculeah said it was brilliant, then he would just have to accept it.

  Her look sharpened. “Is he any good?”

  “I think so.”

  “How do you know? Who do you know that he analyzed ? You? Did you have your own handwriting analyzed?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then who?”

  This was why Meat had hesitated before telling Herculeah about the handwriting specialist. He knew Herculeah would draw out information that he wasn’t sure he wanted to share.

  She waited.

  He sighed. It was impossible to keep anything from Herculeah. “Oh, you might as well know. I found a letter from my dad. He had written it to me when he left home, but my mother hadn’t given it to me. She’d stuck it in a cookbook, and it was an accident that I found it at all. If I hadn’t wanted brownies bad enough to make them, I never would have found it.”

  “Was there an envelope?”

  He shook his head. “No, I think he just left it on the table. It’s not very long. I can say it by heart if you want to hear it.”

  Herculeah nodded.

  “‘Dear Albie’—That’s what my dad called me.” Meat paused. He looked down at the floor. “‘D-dear—’”

  He broke off and turned away. “I’m not going to be able to do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to,” Herculeah said.
She waited, watching his back. Finally she said, “And you took the note to this man?”

  “Yes. His name is Gimball or Gamball—starts with a G and ends with a ball-I remember that much. He told me a lot of things about my father that I didn’t know.”

  He still did not face her.

  “Of course, since I don’t know anything about my dad, I can’t say for sure that he was telling the truth.”

  “Your mom still won’t discuss him?”

  “She says only, ‘Good riddance.’” He turned around, his expression composed again. “Anyway, it was comforting to sit there and hear somebody say good things about my father for a change.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “Well, the first moment he looked at the letter, he saw that the sentences went up at the end and he said that the man who wrote this was a person who wanted to escape routine, that he was excitable and quick to take action, that he was restless.”

  Herculeah looked impressed. “He told you all that even before he read the letter?”

  “Yes. Then he started out with the first letter—D. You know, the letter started ‘Dear Albie,’ and my dad didn’t close the D at the top, and Mr. Gimball or Gamball said that meant that my father was generous and openhearted. And the way he dotted the i in Albie with a kind of straight, upward line—that meant that he was good-natured and had a good sense of humor.”

  He broke off, then added, “Everything he told me made me wish I was living with my dad instead of my mom.”

  In the silence that followed, Meat’s mother appeared in the doorway. Both Herculeah and Meat glanced up, frozen in shock.

  Herculeah said quickly, “Oh, Mrs. Meat. Hi. We didn’t hear you.”

  Meat’s mother was buttoning her red raincoat, a coat for all seasons. Apparently she had not overheard—or chose to ignore—Meat’s hurtful remark.

  “I’m off to the post office, Albert.” She held up her package. “I finished my cookbook.”

  “Cookbook?” Herculeah asked.

  “Mom’s writing one,” Meat explained. “That’s why she’s too busy to cook anymore. I have to have ...” he choked back the word Slim-Fast, “canned things.”

  When the door closed, Meat sank down on a chair, weak with relief. “Do you think she heard what I said about wanting to live with my dad?”

  “No,” Herculeah said kindly.

  “Maybe not, because my mom is not the type to let an opportunity like that pass—an opportunity to say something bad about him.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t hear. You were all the way across the room. I barely heard you myself.”

  “She’s got good ears, though, and her specialty is picking up things you don’t want her to hear.”

  Herculeah walked to Meat, her face bright with excitement.

  “Meat, I am so pleased with you. This is a really good idea.”

  “What?” Meat was still concerned about his mother’s hearing ability.

  “The handwriting analysis.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that! Where does this man live?”

  “Over on Oak Street.”

  “Did you have to have an appointment or did you just drop in?”

  “I just dropped in. He does most of his business by mail, though. He puts ads in magazines and newspapers and people send in their handwriting and he tells them about themselves.”

  “Then he can tell us about the woman who wrote this—and maybe about who killed her.”

  She drew on her coat and buttoned it quickly.

  “What are we waiting for, Meat? Hurry up and get your jacket. Let’s go!”

  5

  SHADOW

  “Pretend we’re having an argument,” Herculeah said abruptly. “Quick, Meat, quick!”

  Meat had been walking along beside Herculeah, giving more details of his father’s handwriting, when she yelled this at him.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it! Quick! Turn around! Face me! Argue with me!”

  Meat turned and glanced at Herculeah over his shoulder. “Why?”

  “Not like that. I said to face me!” She gave him a half turn.

  “Why?”

  “Now do one of those cheerleading movements with your arms. Like you do when you’re mad.”

  “What cheerleading movements?”

  “You know. You do them all the time.”

  “I do not! I have never done a cheerleading movement in my life.”

  “Like that.” Herculeah gave a sort of karate chop. “Only you do it more like this.” Herculeah gave a less lethal chop.

  “I do not. My arms aren’t even capable of doing something like that.”

  “You just did it!”

  “I did not!”

  “You did!”

  “I did not!”

  Meat breathed in and out to regain his composure.

  Herculeah grinned.

  “Well,” she said, “at least we didn’t have to pretend we were having an argument.”

  “Well, that’s true.” Meat put his hands in his pockets to keep them from making any more unwanted gestures. “So why were we doing this? I would like an explanation.”

  “I wanted us to pretend to be arguing so you could look over my shoulder.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if there was a black car there.”

  Now Meat glanced at the street. “I don’t see any cars at all.”

  “It’s too late now. I’m sure he’s gone, but when we came out of your house, a black car was parked at the corner. It had those smoky windows so I couldn’t see if anyone was inside, but the window by the driver’s side was down about that far,” she said, spreading her fingers two inches apart. “Just enough so somebody could get a good close look at us.”

  “Oh, Herculeah.”

  “I’m serious. Then when we turned down Main, I glanced back and the car was getting ready to turn, too. That’s when I realized we were being followed.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Meat said. “Why would anybody follow us?”

  “I don’t know,” Herculeah said. “But when I saw that car, my hair frizzled. Didn’t you notice?”

  Meat straightened with a sudden idea. “Maybe someone’s following the coat.”

  “The coat?” Herculeah looked down at it.

  “Well, it’s distinctive enough.”

  “Why would anybody follow a coat?”

  “Nobody would. Unless—” Meat gasped.

  “What, Meat? Unless what?”

  “Unless it was the murderer.”

  “Oh, Meat.”

  “He thought he’d gotten rid of the woman and the coat, see, and suddenly, there’s the coat.”

  “Oh, Meat.”

  “And if it was the murderer—I’m not saying it was,” Meat added quickly, “but if it was the murderer, he knows about you.”

  “Yes.”

  Meat swallowed before adding the worst part.

  “And me.”

  6

  A MATTER OF LIFE AND BREATH

  The sign in front of the house read:GREGORY GAMBALLI

  HANDWRITING CONSULTANT

  Herculeah had passed this house many times on her way to school, but she had never noticed the sign. It was half-hidden by grass, as if the man didn’t particularly want it to be noticed.

  “Gamballi,” Herculeah repeated.

  “So I forgot the i on the end,” Meat said. “Big deal.”

  Herculeah went up to the front door. Meat followed. Herculeah rang the bell and glanced at Meat, crossing her fingers in hope of an answer.

  “It’s nice to see an old-fashioned doorbell,” Meat said, “the kind you could stick a pin in on Halloween.” Meat sighed. He didn’t want to be here. The man might remember him and ask if he had heard from his dad, and Meat would have to answer no. Just thinking about it made him feel worse. He said, “Oh, he’s not home. Let’s go.”

  “He’s in there. I hear him.”

  “You hear the radio. A lot of p
eople leave the radio on so that burglars will think somebody’s home. In motels, people turn on the TV when they go out, rather than when they want to watch something. Ask your mom if you don’t believe me.”

  An elderly man in a sweater frowned at them from the side window.

  “See?” Herculeah said to Meat. Then she called, “Hello!” She gave him a wave.

  “He doesn’t look very glad to see us.”

  The man disappeared. There was another long delay and Meat said, “He just turned off the radio. That’s an encouraging sign.”

  The door opened slightly. “Yes?”

  “We’re here about a handwriting consultation,” Herculeah said, pleased at how formal she sounded.

  Meat decided to avoid unpleasant questions. He said quickly, “I was here before, remember? With a letter from my dad? You said he was outgoing and avoided routine and had a sense of humor?”

  “I charge ten dollars,” Mr. Gamballi said, still not opening the door wide enough for them to enter.

  Herculeah swirled to face Meat. “He charges! You didn’t say he charged!”

  “I thought you’d know that.”

  Herculeah said, “I’ve got ... let’s see”—she felt in her jeans pocket—“six dollars. How about you?”

  Meat checked. “Two.”

  “Any change?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  Herculeah turned back to Mr. Gamballi.

  “We only have eight dollars.” She held it out like an offering. “But it’s a small piece of paper and I am really desperate. Or—if you’ll trust me—I’ll bring the other two dollars tomorrow. Meat will tell you I’m trustworthy, won’t you, Meat.”

  “She’s trustworthy.”

  Mr. Gamballi hesitated.

  “This really is important,” Meat said.

  “Actually, Mr. Gamballi, it’s a matter of life or death,” Herculeah said, “and I’m not using that phrase lightly.”

  “Oh, come in, come in.”

  He took the money and pointed to the dining room.

  “But don’t you tell anyone I did this for eight dollars or that’s what everybody will want to pay.”

  “I won’t.”