Pecos Valley Rainbow

by Alice Duncan

  “It’s criminal, all right. The problem is what to do about it. Pa went to Mr. O’Dell and talked to him about how he might get satisfaction out of Calhoun, but after Mr. O’Dell looked at the paperwork, he said it would take a herd of lawyers to straighten it all out, and the only men in town who could afford to hire a lawyer were—”

  “Mr. Calhoun and a couple of others,” I finished for her. Boy, it was beginning to look as though Mr. Calhoun truly was a dirty snake in the grass and a son of a buck.

  “I’ll take five yards of this, Annabelle,” Mrs. Dabney said from the fabric aisles.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tipping Virginia a wink, I lifted the counter panel and walked over to Mrs. Dabney. Ma was generally the person who handled the fabrics, but I knew how to measure and cut as well as she did.

  Which reminded me of the covered dish Ma was preparing for the grieving widow. It seemed to be taking her an awfully long time.

  The fabric Mrs. Dabney had chosen was pretty, in an old-ladyish sort of way. It was dark green with lighter green stripes. Mrs. Dabney wasn’t known for her flashy duds, so I suspected the fabric was meant for her. “Will you be having Mrs. Wilson stitch up something for you, Mrs. Dabney?” I asked politely as I measured out fabric on our cutting board.

  Mrs. Wilson was the local seamstress. Well, Miss Petty was also a seamstress, but according to everyone I talked to, Mrs. Wilson was the better of the two. Besides that, most of Miss Petty’s wares were ready-made dresses she probably ordered from the Sears-Roebuck catalog. Anyhow, poor Mrs. Wilson was a widow, her husband having died two days after their last child was born, and she supported herself and her five children as a seamstress. I think lots of the women in town went to her because she not only did a good job, but she desperately needed the work. A noble soul, Mrs. Wilson, and a good, solid Methodist, according to my mother. As we Blues, too, were Methodists, this was meant as a compliment. I thought if God were truly appreciative of Mrs. Wilson’s goodness, He’d toss some money her way and make her kids behave. A month or so ago my idiot brother Jack and one of Mrs. Wilson’s kids had decided it would be fun to play baseball when they were supposed to be attending a tent revival service. The consequences of that rash act had been terrible.

  “Yes. I need a good frock for church, and I ordered a cunning hat from Sears and Roebuck that will go perfectly with it.”

  “I told Ma we should carry some hats, but so far we only stock work hats for farmers and ranchers.”

  “Does your mother have an interest in millinery, dear?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. But she’s really good with her Singer sewing machine, and she’s got the nimblest fingers in town.”

  “It might be worth her while to try her hand at hat making,” said Mrs. Dabney.

  Virginia, who had been twitching beside us as we carried on this conversation, finally interrupted. “Oh, Mrs. Dabney, did Annabelle tell you what happened to Mr. Calhoun?”

  Mrs. Dabney stiffened. “Mr. Calhoun? Whatever happened to the man?”

  Virginia lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Somebody shot him in the back. Annabelle found him floating in the floodwaters right outside of Gunderson’s Hardware this morning.”

  Pressing a hand to her heart, Mrs. Dabney said, “Merciful heaven! Whatever next? I tell you, this town is going to rack and ruin!”

  Hmm. Maybe. There wasn’t so much to Rosedale that you could tell what was happening to it if you asked me, not that anybody ever did.

  “Do they know who did it?” Mrs. Dabney wasn’t so shocked about Mr. Calhoun’s ghastly death that she wasn’t as interested as anyone else.

  “No. All they know so far—at least, as far as I know after talking to Chief Vickers—is that he was shot in the back and shoved off the boardwalk into the water on Second Street. I . . .” I gulped, remembering. “I found him this morning when I had to row to Gunderson’s for some shingles.”

  “Good heavens. Whatever next?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Although I’ve heard that quite a few people in town weren’t all that fond of Mr. Calhoun. Mr. Tindall told me he’d cheated him out of his ranch.” I decided that if Virginia wanted to tell her employer about her father’s run-in with the banker, she could do it herself. I didn’t want to butt in or anything.

  “Hmm.”

  Whatever did that mean? I carried the folded fabric to the counter, ducked under the counter flap and made my way to our beautiful old-fashioned Nelson cash register, which had been bought by my own Grandpa Blue late in the last century. It was a golden color, had swirly designs on it and you had to crank it to get it open. I really liked the way it chinked. Placing the fabric on the counter and the spool of thread on top of it, I asked, “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Dabney?”

  “Hmm? Oh. No, I don’t believe so, dear. Thank you.” She lifted her handbag onto the counter while I wrapped her purchases in brown paper and tied them with string. As she shuffled through her bag, looking, I suppose, for her change purse, she muttered, “Mr. Calhoun murdered. Imagine that. Reminds me of that line from A Christmas Carol.”

  I looked up from the string I’d just tied in a neat bow. “Which line is that, ma’am?”

  “ ‘So, old Scratch has got his own at last.’ But it’s unkind to speak ill of the dead, so just forget I said that, Annabelle. Thank you for your help, dear.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Virginia and I exchanged a significant couple of glances as Mrs. Dabney bustled off and Virginia followed after her.

  So. That made Mr. Tindall, Mr. Feather, maybe Mr. Contreras and perhaps even Mr. O’Dell who’d disliked Mr. Calhoun. And I’d give anything to know what made Mrs. Dabney think of Mr. Calhoun as the devil himself. But if I asked a question like that of a customer, my mother would have my hide.

  Speaking of my mother . . .

  “Annabelle, thank God the electric’s on again. Is Jack through cleaning the windows? He can watch the counter while you row me to the Calhouns’ house. I want to get there while the covered dish is still hot.”

  More to the point, was Jack still anywhere around, or had he done a bunk? It would be just like him to take off when there was work to be done. But no. For once I’d wronged my rotten brother. Mind you, he wasn’t doing anything useful, having finished with the windows, but I spotted him in a far corner of the store reading the latest Zane Grey novel he’d checked out of the library. I well remember the day he told me that when he grew up, he wanted to move west. Where the heck did he think we lived, anyway? Valhalla? But it was no good reasoning with Jack. Maybe in a year or two when and if he turned human, although I had my doubts.

  At any rate, I let Ma order him around. If I told him to do something, he for sure wouldn’t do it.

  “Jack, come and mind the counter for your sister. She needs to row me to Mrs. Calhoun’s house.”

  “Aw, Ma,” said Jack. But he shut his book, using a finger as a bookmark, and shuffled his way to the counter. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you have to,” came our father’s stern voice from the front door. I guess he’d finished fixing the roof. “And don’t ever question your mother again when she tells you to do a chore, young man.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack, who knew when to give up an argument, looked less than pleased about it.

  Being the big sister and knowing I should set an example for him, I said, “Thanks, Jack. We’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

  “Huh.”

  Which goes to show how much twelve-year-old boys can learn by example. My mother had told me once that it might take years for the lessons of childhood to penetrate a thick skull, and if there was a thicker skull than the one belonging to Jack Blue anywhere near Rosedale, I didn’t know whose it was.

  I held the hot covered dish, which Ma had wrapped in a towel, while she got herself into the rowboat. The dish smelled wonderful, and I got the feeling our chicken coop had lost a member of its flock. At least Pa had built our coop more s
turdily than Mr. O’Dell had built his. Ma wasn’t as experienced as I when it came to boats, so she was kind of shaky at first, but she finally got settled and I handed her the dish. Then I made my own careful way into the boat, again wishing we either had paved roads or, better, dams to keep the town from flooding every blasted time it rained hard.

  I took the oars in my two sturdy hands and set off rowing east on Second Street to Lee Avenue, where the Calhouns lived in a big white house that was the envy of many a Rosedale resident. Except me. I liked our little house and our little store, and I thought the Calhouns’ place was kind of pretentious, given the overall state of the town, which was . . . well, ugly. Mind you, the sky was magnificent, but if you glanced at the earth under your feet, you’d find dusty clay soil (except on days like that one), prickly plants, scorpions, huge red millipedes, centipedes, vinegaroons, tarantulas, spiders, rattlesnakes and, in the summertime when the real rains came, toads. Oh, and coyotes every now and then, and the occasional antelope. Wild burros. What else? Heck, I don’t know. It seemed to me that every plant had prickles and every animal was dangerous, however.

  Lots of other people must have thought about food for the grieving family, because when I rowed the boat up to the Calhouns’ place, there were several other rowboats tethered to the front porch railing. I got out of the boat, took the covered dish from Ma, set it on the porch and then helped Ma out of the rowboat.

  “You’re a lot braver than I am, Annabelle,” said Ma, straightening her skirt.

  My mother was still a pretty woman, even though she’d had five children and must have been middle-aged, whatever that is. She had light-brown hair she’d passed down to me, and blue eyes, which I’d also inherited. I’m not sure, but I think Ma and Pa were still fond of each other, even though they’d been married for donkeys’ years. I thought that was sweet, although I never said so, it not being my place to comment on my parents’ marriage. Pa himself was a fine-looking man. Tall, trim, strong and fit, I could almost understand what Ma must have seen in him when they’d married so long ago.

  At any rate, I handed Ma the covered dish, and she held it while I marched to the door and twisted the bell. Although the walls of the home were thick, I could hear voices inside. I guess everyone who could get out and row had come to offer condolences and, if I surmised correctly, try to dig up gossip from the remaining Calhouns. I was only slightly surprised that the news had spread so fast. Rosedale’s a small town, and interesting information gets around kind of like last night’s lightning.

  Another friend of mine, Betty Lou Jarvis, worked for the Calhouns as their maid. She stayed there all week, sleeping in a room on the top story of the house. It was Betty Lou who opened the door to Ma and me.

  “Oh, hey, Annabelle. How-do, Mrs. Blue.”

  “Good day to you, Betty Lou,” said Ma with a smile.

  “Hey, Betty Lou. I guess it’s kind of a zoo inside today, isn’t it?”

  “Annabelle,” said my mother in her shame-on-you voice. Maybe I’d sounded a trifle callous. “How is poor Mrs. Calhoun today, Betty Lou?”

  “She’s doing all right, Mrs. Blue. Thank you.” Ma thrust the covered dish at her, and Betty Lou said, “Thank you for this, too. I’m sure the family will appreciate it. Everyone’s been very kind so far.”

  Boy, I’d like to get Betty Lou alone so I could ask her about the Calhouns and how they got along and that sort of thing.

  “We won’t stay long, Betty Lou. I only wanted to come by with my dish and offer my condolences to the family.”

  “Go right on in to the parlor, Mrs. Blue and Annabelle. I’ll take this to the kitchen.”

  “Mind if I follow Betty Lou, Ma? I’ll be right back again.”

  “Very well, Annabelle.” Ma looked at me as though she knew I aimed to dig into affairs not my own, but at least she didn’t argue or prevent me from accompanying Betty Lou to the kitchen.

  And wouldn’t you know it? When we got to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house down a hall from the parlor, it was full of people! So much for my grand scheme. Nevertheless, I did manage to get one question asked.

  “Are Mrs. Calhoun and Herschel and Gladys awfully cut up about Mr. Calhoun’s passing? It must have come as a terrible shock. The way he died, and everything.”

  To my surprise, Betty Lou rolled her eyes. “Lordy, Annabelle, I’ve never met such a family. You’d think they were all glad the old man got plugged.”

  I blinked in astonishment. “Really?”

  “Really. But I can’t talk right now.”

  She was right about that. To my horror, Libby Powell bore down upon us. How in the name of Glory had she got from Aunt Minnie’s old ranch house twelve miles west of town to Mrs. Calhoun’s house in the middle of Rosedale?

  “Is that you, Annabelle Blue?” snapped Miss Libby. “Snooping again, I’ll warrant. Some folks have no decency whatever.”

  “That’s not true!” cried I in my own defense. “Ma and I brought the Calhouns a covered dish, for your information.”

  “Huh. I hear it was you found the body,” snarled Miss Libby.

  “Oh, Annabelle, did you really?” Betty Lou stared at me in shocked fascination.

  With another snort, Miss Libby said, “Like as not she shot the man herself, just so she could find him and create another stir in town.”

  “Of all the . . .” But it was no use trying to defend oneself against Libby Powell. Such tactics never worked, and she remained as mean as a rabid dog. “Never mind. I’ll talk to you later, Betty Lou. Take care.”

  “Thanks, Annabelle.”

  I lammed it out of the kitchen as fast as I could, fearful lest one of Miss Libby’s powerful paws land on my shoulder to stop me. I still couldn’t figure out how she’d managed to get herself into town, what with everything flooded and all.

  Then I saw Aunt Minnie conferring with Ma in the parlor. Oh, goody gumdrops.

  Minnie Blue is about five feet tall, approximately half the height of Miss Libby, and used to have bright red hair. Her hair had turned white when she was quite young, but she still had vivid hazel eyes and was shaped kind of like a pumpkin. Also, there’s no getting around the fact that she was . . . well, perhaps the least little bit fey. I’ve always liked that word. For instance, she keeps in constant touch with my uncle Joe, even though Uncle Joe passed beyond this mortal coil years ago. Uncle Joe was my father’s oldest brother and a perfectly normal individual save for his unaccountable affection for Minnie, who’s always been odd, and I don’t care who hears me say it—although I’d prefer it not be my mother or father, who’d scold me for telling the truth. That doesn’t seem fair somehow, but there you go. Anyhow, Pa once said he thought Joe died to get away from Minnie, but Ma told him to hush his mouth.

  I’d had to spend several weeks with Aunt Minnie and Miss Libby the prior summer, and those few weeks had been hell for me. Not only had Miss Libby made me peel about seven bushels of onions so that she could pickle them, thereby rendering my eyes red and swollen for days and days, but there had been a murder right smack next to Minnie’s chicken coop—and I, Annabelle Blue, who seem to discover corpses a lot, dang it, had found the body when I went out to gather eggs.

  Minnie also wore clothes that had been fashionable in her youth, which means they were about forty years out of date by 1923. She looked like an old-time settler—which I guess she and Uncle Joe had been. Still and all, how many people do you know who claim to keep up with their relations who’ve been dead for decades? Not too many, I’ll warrant. And this one belonged to me. How lucky could one girl get?

  However, I knew where my duty lay. Pasting a smile on my face, I walked up to Minnie and Ma. “Good morning, Minnie,” said I brightly.

  She shook her head. “For you, perhaps, Annabelle, but poor Hortense isn’t young and healthy and happy as you are.”

  Hortense was the widowed Mrs. Calhoun. And there was no denying I wasn’t she, or that I was young, healthy and relatively happy most of the tim
e. I only smiled some more. Anyhow, according to Betty Lou, Hortense probably wasn’t as upset about her husband’s passing as she possibly should have been, although if he was the rat I was beginning to believe he was, perhaps she was better off with him dead.

  “Well, Minnie dear, we’d best relay our respects to Hortense and get back to the store. Lots of folks are coming in for supplies today, thanks to that dreadful storm last night.” Ma kissed Minnie on the cheek and turned to make her way through the throng to Mrs. Calhoun, who sat in state on a big overstuffed chair next to the window.

  “By the way, Minnie,” I said before I tagged along after Ma, “how’d you get here all the way from the ranch?”

  “Libby harnessed the mules to the wagon and drove us,” Minnie said, as if taking a wagon ride across a flooded, muddy and possibly quicksandy desert from a ranch twelve miles outside the city limits was all in a day’s work. Which it might have been for the powerful Miss Libby. I felt sorry for the mules.

  “My goodness. What made you drive all that way through the mud and the floodwaters? You couldn’t have heard about Mr. Calhoun, because the telephone wires were down.”

  Minnie tapped her head. “I have my ways, as you well know, Annabelle. Your uncle Joe told me there was tragedy afoot at the Calhoun home.”

  Good heavens. Could it be true? Only Minnie and, I presume, God knew. Maybe Uncle Joe. “Oh. Yes, I see. Well, it’s good to see you, Minnie.”

  All right, I don’t believe a person can be faulted for a little white lie if it is used to make another person feel better.

  “Take good care of your mother and father, Annabelle,” Minnie said, her hazel eyes pinning me with an intensity I found unsettling. “There’s evil in the air. Mr. Calhoun isn’t the only one who will be affected. I can feel it.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, and scrammed after Ma.

  Chapter Four