The two of them were always glad to see me. I guess I did have a kind of entertainment value, what with all the murders and near murders, and Medea, the Musical updates, and reports of the people who’d come to town. Which was what we were talking about now as I blew on my cocoa and they blew on their coffee.
“Morris Slade! I can’t believe it,” said Miss Flagler.
Miss Flyte said, “Now, why do you suppose he’s back? And in the Woodruff house?”
They both looked at me, thinking I had the answer. “I guess because it’s their house,” I said. “Did you know him well?”
“Yes. Back as far as when he was a boy and later when he was a teenager and pretty wild.”
“Isn’t it hard to be wild around here?”
Miss Flyte laughed. “There were girls around here, after all. And he went away several times; he went to work in Philadelphia, didn’t he?”
I knew all of this.
Miss Flagler nodded. “He worked in a bank. Something happened there, but it was never clear what. To do with bank money, I think.”
“Embezzlement,” said Miss Flyte, “is what I understood.”
“It was never proven,” I said. When they both looked surprised, I said, “It’s just that I was doing research for my story and I came across an old newspaper.” I took a drink of my marshmallowy cocoa.
Miss Flagler said, “Then there was that scandal with the girl.”
I stopped chewing my marshmallow. “What scandal?”
“Well, while Morris was engaged to Imogen Woodruff, they discovered that Morris had another girlfriend.” They glanced at each other and both dropped their eyes.
They were afraid of talking about sex, I guess. I would have been more curious but I didn’t have time. I had too many things on my mind. Breezily, I said, “Don’t worry, I know all about that. What girl?”
Miss Flagler had retrieved the coffeepot from the stove and now filled the cups. She picked up the enamel pan of cocoa and poured me some more. “All we know is that Imogen’s father paid someone”—here her eyebrows danced wickedly for Miss Flagler—“to break it up.”
I was all over this bit of news. “Paid Morris, you mean?”
“Or the girl.”
I don’t know how he had any money left, Mr. Woodruff was so busy paying off people. I wondered why I hadn’t heard about this other girl and said so.
“She wasn’t a local girl. It happened in Philadelphia, I think, where she was from. The only reason we know about it is Betty Sue Crouch—you know, she lives over on Red Bird Road—”
I didn’t but I nodded, so as not to get off the track with Betty Sue Crouch.
“Well, Imogen asked Betty Sue to take some wedding presents to Morris’s apartment in Philadelphia—Betty Sue was going there to do some shopping. She did it, showed up at the apartment, and there was Morris with this girl.”
“In his apartment?”
“Most definitely in his apartment.”
Another swift sex-glance was exchanged. But I didn’t care about the details, only about him having this other girlfriend. “So they broke up?”
Miss Flagler nodded hard.
“And Imogen stood for this?”
“I think she just had to have Morris Slade. He was quite a catch: the looks, the charm, the talk.” She sighed. “I think Morris could talk his way into or out of anything. He was never a faithful boy, Morris.”
Sadly Miss Flyte said this, as if Morris Slade had broken faith with her too. “Morris could really draw one in. I think it was the way he seemed so interested. That’s a rare quality.”
I knew what she meant, but I didn’t like thinking he hadn’t really meant his interest.
I went to scratch my head, but the cat Albertine did it for me. She was up there lounging on the shelf. “I think he’s here because of his kidnapped baby, really.”
As I had done with Dr. McComb, I told them the theory involving Imogen and her father.
“I just don’t see how that’s possible, Emma! To put your own child through all of that? But that’s—depraved.” Miss Flagler shook her head.
As did Miss Flyte, generally better able to accept unpleasant news, but I guess not in this case. Then I told them my idea for my newspaper piece.
“‘Tragedy Town’? La Porte?” Miss Flagler nervously spooned extra sugar into her coffee and stirred.
Miss Flyte had her cup raised and smiled at me over it. “Not a nice sobriquet, I think.”
Whatever that meant, she didn’t mean the smile. I said, “I didn’t mean it to be nice.” I looked from the one to the other, wondering why this upset them, and could only think that I was ruffling waters they were used to seeing as smooth, even glassy.
“But, look, it’s not La Porte only,” I added. “There’s Spirit Lake and Cold Flat Junction and Lake Noir and Soldiers Park, where the Belle Ruin was. See, it’s all of those places together.” I grew excited by this as I spoke and spooned what was left of a marshmallow out of my cup. “It’s like all of those places are one place—no, all of those places are . . . what’s the word?” Was there a word? “You know, the way you make moonshine liquor.”
“In a still, you mean? Oh, you mean distilled.”
I nodded. “All distilled into one place. One town.”
“It’s just so unpleasant.” Miss Flagler shivered a little.
More unpleasant than what happened to Mary-Evelyn Devereau? “It’s just a theory.”
“The thing is, Emma, when you work with things like wax”—for Miss Flyte not only sold candles, but also made them—“that is, when you get creative and start, well, re-inventing something, the wax sticks to you, gets under your fingers, you know.”
What was she saying? What were they saying? It was almost as if they thought I was some kind of danger to them.
Me. Emma Graham. Age twelve and dangerous.
It was seven-forty-five when I left Miss Flagler’s, so the movie had already started, but I didn’t mind that. You could always lose the first fifteen minutes of any movie and still understand what was going on.
Even though I was missing the movie’s beginning, I stood before the poster of James Cagney looking squint-eyed and grim, as he always did with a machine gun in his hands; it was like a wild thing he couldn’t control. I wondered if the movie would make things more dangerous for me or less. Would James Cagney’s snarl wear off on me? I could see why Dillinger was dangerous, but why was I?
I must have taken on some of James Cagney’s grimness as I stepped into the lobby, for Mr. McComas, who owned the theater and often sold tickets from a big roll, looked concerned.
“You okay, Emma?” he asked as he tore off a ticket.
I guess I unclenched my teeth satisfactorily, for he smiled. “I’m fine. I just need some popcorn.” I handed him a dollar, or tried to.
“You missed over fifteen minutes of the feature. Be my guest.”
He was a very nice man; he and Mr. Gumbrel were good friends, and I could see why.
Popcorn was overflowing its metal kettle, and Cora Rooney caught it in a red and white box. I insisted on paying for that, and Cora gave me back change. I could hear loud and brittle rat-tat-tatting machine-gun fire and the whipcrack of bullets from hand-guns. Then a scream, a call, more gunfire. Heard from out in the lobby, it was quite a symphony.
I took my popcorn through the swing doors and stood for a moment in the weighty dark that felt like a hand against my chest, holding me back. Everything was silver up there on the screen, from the gun barrels, to the slick dresses on the actresses, to their hair and jewelry. No wonder they called it the silver screen.
I liked standing in the dark, munching popcorn, waiting for my eyes to adapt and I could see the empty seats. I stood longer than I needed to. Sometimes I wondered if I really came for the movies themselves; I believe I came for the comfort.
For it was nice to be in a crowd of people who were still as stones. When I sat down, I could steal glances across an aisle and see their
faces, all looking up toward the screen in a wondering way that made me think of rows and rows of little children. They seemed to have entered their own secret garden, which in this case happened to be Chicago.
I didn’t really care what the story was; I just liked looking at James Cagney, with his rapid, jerky movements, looking as hard and fast as a bullet himself. Yes, they were mowing each other down, left and right, but not aiming at me.
I found their company comforting; I felt, almost, as if we shared something, Jimmy up there on the screen blistering the air with bullets, and me, Emma, down here, unarmed, undangerous.
37
The next morning, I took Aurora’s breakfast tray to her: a fried egg, bacon, toast, and tomato juice.
“ ’Bout time. I’m famished!” she said, getting up her temper for the day ahead.
I stood beneath a faded photo of the Hotel Paradise and said, “Morris Slade’s back.”
She stopped cutting off a small section of egg white and looked at me. “What? That young devil? What’s he back for?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I didn’t tell her I’d talked to him, because she’d ask too many questions.
She broke her egg yolk with a corner of toast. “Uh-huh. He’s back to destroy evidence. A little gin in this tomato juice would sure get it up and going.”
That wasn’t even a real request, and I ignored it. One thing I’ll say for her, Great-Aunt Aurora was never afraid of a wild guess. “What evidence could there possibly be after over twenty years? And after the place it happened burned down?” I said.
“Oh, there’s some evidence stays around forever, even in burnt places, even in embers. You get a private detective on him, see what he’s up to.”
Did she know how absurd this sounded? Probably not. She always had this way of pretending I had the money to do things I didn’t. “I don’t know any private detectives, much less can afford to pay one.”
She was nibbling her bacon and didn’t choose to answer.
“Did you know Morris Slade well?” This was a dumb question, for she knew everyone well, or claimed to.
She was dabbing her mouth with the linen napkin that accompanied all room-service food, food carried, of course, by me. “Well of course I knew him. He was a rascal, that one.”
If Morris Slade struck me as anything, it was not rascally. Of course, rascals are younger than he was now. Maybe his rascally ways had left him when he discovered life was hard. Anyway, he was much too dignified now to be called a rascal.
“He ain’t still married to that dust bunny, is he?”
“Imogen Woodruff? I guess so.” That had not come up.
“They never divorced?” She paused. “Scene of the crime.”
“What?”
“Scene of the crime’s where he’ll go.”
“The Belle Ruin? But he might go there anyway if it’s where he last saw his daughter.” It kind of pained me to imagine him standing there, in what was left of the hotel, maybe trying to search out the room from which she was taken.
Aurora barked out a laugh. “You mean it’d be like a sentimental journey?”
“I still don’t see what would be around that he could find after twenty years.”
“It doesn’t have to be a speck of blood or a fingerprint. Maybe it’s not at the Belle Ruin. Maybe it’s a person. Maybe it’s information.” She picked up a half slice of toast and said with distaste, “Burnt.”
No it wasn’t. “Did you ever know my mother to serve burned anything?”
Her eyebrows danced around as if that were an answer as she set the perfectly browned toast back on her plate and folded her hands (in their lavender lace mittens) across her belly. “I used to know one name of Oates.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. “What?”
“Private detective. Ain’t you been listening? Yes, Larry or Barry, no, Harry Oates. We went dancing together under the stars.”
Pushing away from the wall, I decided to leave before she remembered that scene too well and got out of her chair.
38
The best choice probably wasn’t the Woods and Mr. Root, although they were plenty glad to see me.
As if he hadn’t even sat down since I last saw them, Ulub had the same poetry book in his hand and was declaiming what sounded like the same poem. That is, as well as I could make out. It was the same process—Ulub getting out a line—“Ah owe ah nace er”—and Mr. Root slicing the air with his fingers, and Ubub tapping his foot like a metronome.
I arrived at the bench, saying, “Ulub needs a break, Mr. Root. Let’s go in and get sodas. Then I have something to talk about.”
All three looked happier as we trooped into Britten’s store to look at the candy counter and the big dispensers of cookies while Ulub went to the cold-drink bin. This all made Mr. Britten unhappy. Or unhappier, for he always looked unhappy.
“You all be careful now,” he called out the moment we were through the door.
“God’s sake, man,” said Mr. Root, “we only just come in for a cold drink.”
Mr. Britten mumbled some reply. Or maybe curse. There was something about all of us together that looked to Mr. Britten as if we were John Dillinger, Al Capone, and Pretty Boy Floyd all bunched together, and his was the last club in Chicago still standing. I wished we had been; I could think of nothing better than clearing out a dim-lit, smoky Chicago club.
Ulub called out the drink choices: “E-hi gape, E-hi ownge, Co-cola, E-hi oot eer.”
I wondered why he put himself to the trouble of repeating “Nehi” before each flavor instead of just saying them all at once. Do people who have a special difficulty keep calling your attention to it, though they don’t mean to? Ubub and Mr. Root wanted Nehi grape and I asked for a Coke.
Mr. Britten stood watching us with his hands clasped under his apron as if he might at any moment whip out a gun. I offered to pay, but Mr. Root and Ubub said no, no, it was their treat, and as we were standing directly in front of Mr. Britten, I insisted again on paying just to let him know what good manners and concern for others looked like. But he just took Mr. Root’s money with a twisted lip.
Then I purchased two packets of Sno Balls, which came two in a packet, and we left to take over the bench again.
Each of us had one Sno Ball and a drink. I told them my plan (which wasn’t a plan at all). I mentioned Great-Aunt Aurora’s suggestion I hire a private detective, knowing they would pooh-pooh the need to hire one, Mr. Root in particular.
“Why’d you have to go pay a private detective when we can do it?”
Ulub and Ubub appeared kind of doubtful, but after consulting each other with a look, they nodded. I really admired this quality in them—all three of them—how they were willing to take on a project without rhyme or reason just because we were all friends. For a moment I wanted us all to hold out our hands and make a deck of fists in that all-for-one gesture.
“Now,” said Mr. Root, “you two got your trucks and I got my old Ford, if you’re thinkin’ along them lines.”
I wasn’t thinking along any lines; I was just hoping we could come up with a private detective. Since I didn’t know what Morris Slade was looking for, I didn’t know how he’d look for it.
To Mr. Root, I said, “We’ll see.” I thought and ate my Sno Ball. I loved these cakes because they were deep chocolate on the inside and marshmallow white with coconut on the outside. They were nice and mushy.
My mind could not come clear about following Morris Slade, and I thought I would go into La Porte and see the Sheriff and find out if he knew of anything that would account for Morris Slade suddenly turning up. I did not expect much, though.
Just then, down the highway I saw a cab coming. As it got closer, I saw it was the one Axel drove, the maroon Chevy. I shaded my eyes and peered from under my hand. The cab was empty except for the driver, and it was indeed Axel. Axel! I ran down the embankment toward the highway, waving wildly, gesturing in what I thought clearly meant “Stop!�
��
Axel tooted his horn. I jumped around. Axel waved and drove by me, tapping his horn again. He must have thought I was just giving him a friendly wave hello. I couldn’t believe it. It was as close as I’d ever gotten and would no doubt ever get to riding in Axel’s cab.
I said good-bye to my three friends and set off walking the two miles into town.
I felt beleaguered; I felt a lot was riding on my shoulders. But what? There was nothing riding on my shoulders except my head and what was in it, and what was in it was Morris Slade.
39
On my way back into town, I passed Arturo’s with its faulty neon sign. The dead letters didn’t make any difference in the daytime, since the lights didn’t blink then. ART—EAT—ART—EAT I liked the message and hoped he would never fix it.
It took me another fifteen minutes to get to the courthouse. I trudged up the steps. It was after noon and the Sheriff might be at the Rainbow, but I seemed to remember he said he didn’t eat lunch; he didn’t like it. I wondered how a person could not like a mealtime.
I tried to see through the pebbled-glass door of the Sheriff’s office, but couldn’t make out the figures in there. If the Sheriff wasn’t there, that was all right, for I’d actually come to see Donny. For once.
I wanted to know where his uncle lived. The Sheriff hadn’t said, and I hadn’t asked. If I had asked him, he would have figured out the reason I wanted to know and would’ve told me not to.
There were a lot of Moomas in the phone directory, but no Carls. There were two C’s, and I called both numbers. I pretended to be selling magazine subscriptions, and one said his name was Charles, and he nearly talked my ear off, and the other hung up. I couldn’t find out from the operator, because she didn’t see a listing for a Carl Mooma.
Donny, of course, wouldn’t tell me on general principles.
I stood thinking for another moment, then went in. “Hi.”
Fadeaway Girl Page 17
