by Alice Duncan
“Yeah, but we don’t generally get snow until December.”
“Huh. It snowed in October last year, or did you forget?”
“Oh, boy. Yes, I did forget about that. The weather around here is freakish, isn’t it?”
Myrtle heaved a sigh as she climbed onto the soda-fountain stool. Jimmy Bartles, who served behind the soda counter as well as clerking in the store, spotted us and came over. “What’ll it be, ladies?”
“I want a chocolate ice-cream soda,” I said, my delicious lunch now only a fond memory.
“Same for me,” said Myrtle.
So Jimmy mixed ice cream with chocolate syrup and soda water, and plopped two ice-cream sodas in front of us, with straws for sipping.
“Have you heard any more about Mr. Calhoun’s murder?” Myrtle asked as she stirred her soda with her straw.
“Only that there are lots of people in town who hated him. That and the fact that Chief Vickers told me to my face that my brother-in-law is a suspect.”
“No!”
I grimaced. “Yes. Can you imagine it? Richard MacDougall, who can’t even stick a worm on a hook? It’s insane, but there it is. But as I said, there are lots of people in town who are probably better suspects.”
“How do you know that? Besides Mr. Tindall, I mean.” Myrtle took a sip of her soda and added, “Mmmm.”
“Because people have talked to me and said so.”
“Oh, my. Who?” Myrtle was appropriately avid to hear the dirt.
So I gave her the few names I had at my disposal, then frowned. The list wasn’t long and Richard’s name might still top the one from which Chief Vickers was working.
“That’s all?” Myrtle asked, probably feeling, as I did, that my list was pathetic in its brevity and dearth of details.
“So far. But Phil’s going to the bank to ask around and see if there aren’t other people who had it in for Mr. Calhoun. I mean . . . I don’t mean other people as though I think Richard might have done it. In fact, I know he didn’t.”
“How come?”
I glared at my best friend. “Because I know Richard, and I know he’s not a murderer.”
“Of course,” said Myrtle, who, unlike me, had a pliable and agreeable personality. She didn’t care to argue. Well, I didn’t either, but I’d sure argue that Richard was no killer if I had to.
And then I espied Betty Lou Jarvis, our friend who worked for the Calhouns, entering Pruitt’s. Oh, boy! I fingered the change in my pocket, decided I had enough of it to offer Betty Lou an ice-cream soda, and hailed her from my stool. “Betty Lou! Come and join us!”
Startled, probably because my hail had been quite hearty, Betty Lou whirled around, pressed a hand to her bosom, and saw Myrtle and me on our stools. She walked over to us.
“You scared me out of a year’s growth, Annabelle,” she said as she neared.
“I’m sorry. But I’d like to treat you to an ice-cream soda if you have time for one.”
Betty Lou glanced about, worried, I presume, lest a Calhoun or one of the Calhoun friends see her frittering away working hours. Then she shrugged. “Why not? This day has been horrible. I deserve a soda. Thanks, Annabelle.” And she took a stool next to me.
After annoying Jimmy Bartles, who’d been straightening items on a shelf, into coming over and serving us once more, I asked, “How’d you get here, anyway, Betty Lou? Is the water still high?”
“No. Now it’s just mud and full of trash.” She frowned, the expression marring what was otherwise a very pretty face. “I had to slog through a mile of mud. Good thing I had my rubber boots.” She gestured to the door of Pruitt’s. “I left ’em outside. Thank God skirts are shorter these days than they used to be. Can you imagine marching through all that mud with a dress down to your feet?”
I could, but that’s only because I have an excellent imagination. “I’m sorry you had to walk here. It must have been hard going.”
“It was. When I wasn’t clinging for dear life to the sides of buildings so I wouldn’t slip and fall on my face, I was slopping through ankle-deep mud and water. She shook her head. “But Mrs. Calhoun had to have her nerve tonic, and naturally I’m the one who has to get it for her.” Her voice carried both disdain and bitterness.
Myrtle shook her head in sympathy. “It’s no fun to have to work for selfish people. Not that Mr. Pruitt is selfish, but I know lots of folks are, and they never think about the people who work for them except as paid slaves.”
“I’m glad I work at the family business. We’re all in it together.” Except for Jack, of course. “So how are things at the Calhoun place? Are people still pouring in to offer condolences and stuff like that?”
Betty Lou took a sip of her soda—she’d chosen strawberry—and said, “Lord, yes. I’ve never opened the door to so many people in my life. And Mrs. Calhoun is in a perfect state because there’s no room in the Frigidaire for all the food everyone’s been bringing.”
“Yes. I can see that might be a problem,” I said, thinking that Mrs. Calhoun might consider giving the overflow to some deserving poor folks in town. Mrs. Wilson the seamstress sprang to mind.
“Is she terribly upset about her husband’s murder?” asked Myrtle. “Well, I’m sure she must be. I can’t imagine losing a loved one like that.” She shuddered delicately. She’d recently begun seeing Sonny Clyde, whose family owned the Handlebar Ranch near Tatum, and she was very much in love.
But Betty Lou snorted, taking some of the glow from the moment. “Are you kidding? They all hated the old man. Anyhow—” Betty Lou stopped speaking suddenly and peered around the interior of Pruitt’s as if looking for possible eavesdroppers. Myrtle and I hunched closer to her, and she lowered her voice when she continued. “Anyhow,” she whispered, “the man was a rat and a philanderer.”
Myrtle and I gasped to encourage her.
She didn’t need much encouragement. She’d probably been longing to get these revelations off her chest for a long time, but it wasn’t considered honorable to gossip about the family one worked for. This must have been a particularly rough day for Betty Lou if it was making her blab like this. She nodded with vigor. “He not only cheated people for a living at his bank, but he’s been carrying on an affair with Sadie Dobbs.”
Another gasp must have given Betty Lou cause for pleasure. It’s always nice to have an attentive and appreciative audience.
Myrtle only spoiled the moment a little bit when she asked, “Who’s Sadie Dobbs?”
It was a good question, especially since I didn’t know who the woman was, either.
“She’s a waitress at the Cowboy Café,” said Betty Lou. “But she’s not the first one of his dollies, believe me. Why, that man even tried to have his way with me!”
“Good heavens!” cried Myrtle. I was sipping my soda, or I’d probably have said something similar. “What did you do to discourage him?”
“Told him I’d tell my brother if he ever did anything like that again, and that Gabe was the best shot in Rosedale.” Her smile faded when she realized what she’d said. “But I never told Gabe, and he didn’t shoot Mr. Calhoun. Honest. I need that stupid job, even if I hate the Calhouns. But if Mr. Calhoun had tried getting at me again, I would have told Gabe, and then Gabe would at least have shoved that old buzzard’s face in the dirt,” she ended defiantly.
“Mercy sakes,” I whispered, thinking how nice it would be to have an older brother to protect one.
If he still lived in Rosedale, I suspect George would have protected me if an old pig like Mr. Calhoun had attempted to seduce me. Jack wouldn’t care. Pa would, though. Good thing I never got near enough to Mr. Calhoun for him to try anything.
“That’s appalling, Betty Lou,” said Myrtle, whose face had paled considerably. A sensitive soul, Myrtle.
“So Mr. Calhoun was a two-timing hound,” I said, musing and fiddling with my soda straw and thinking I’d just maligned an entire breed of dogs. “What about Herschel and Gladys? When Ma and I were at their
house earlier today, I saw Herschel laughing with some friends in the dining room. To me, his behavior didn’t seem at all respectful.”
“Respectful? Huh. The only thing Herschel and his snotty sister respect is money. They’ll probably get a lot of it, too, now that the old man’s kicked the bucket.”
“I suppose that’s so,” said I.
“But I’d better fetch Mrs. Calhoun’s nerve tonic and get back to the house,” said Betty Lou, slipping off her stool. “Mrs. Lovelady was manning the door when I left, and she’s probably worn her poor little feet to nubs.” She snorted at the thought of Mrs. Lovelady doing actual work. “Thanks again for the soda, Annabelle.”
“You’re more than welcome. I hope things smooth out at the Calhouns’ soon.”
Betty Lou gave another snort and walked off toward the pharmacy.
Myrtle and I gazed at each other, and I said, “Sadie Dobbs.”
With a nod, Myrtle said, “Yes, indeed.”
Chapter Five
Fortunately for me, the telephone was working again by the time I got back to Blue’s. Although I knew it was inappropriate—after all, the man is supposed to do the inviting in a romantic relationship, not that Phil and I had much romance going on—I decided to telephone Phil at the hardware store.
My luck was good. Phil himself answered the ’phone. “Gunderson’s Hardware,” he said in a harassed-sounding voice.
“You sound busy, Phil. Everything okay?”
“Annabelle?” He perked up some when he said my name. “It’s just busy again. The folks who waited for the water to subside are coming in now. Personally, I think it would have been easier to row in the water than wade through the mud.”
“It’s still awful out there. The mud’s feet thick.”
“I know,” he said with a sigh. “But most of ’em are riding horses.”
“Poor horses.”
“Yeah. Anything I can do for you, Annabelle?”
“Well . . . I want to know what you find out at the bank when you have a chance to go there, actually, but thought maybe we could chat about it at supper.”
“Supper?” Phil sounded blank.
I didn’t want to tell him I aimed to do some investigating of Miss—I guess she was a Miss—Sadie Dobbs, supposed mistress of the late Mr. Edgar Calhoun. “I thought maybe it would be nice to take supper together at the Cowboy Café. You know, get out and around a little bit.” The words sounded lame to my own ears, and I guess Phil concurred.
“You’ve got some kind of bee in your bonnet about this Calhoun murder, don’t you, Annabelle?”
“Why do you say that?” I tried to sound offended.
“Because I know you. Anyhow, I can’t take you to supper tonight. I’ve got to help Pete get this place organized again. It’s a wreck after the rush of business today, and Pete invited me to his house for supper. Maggie’s fixing us something special. That’s what Pete said. So you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for our little discussion.”
“You can’t tell me anything over the ’phone?” I pleaded.
“Cripes, Annabelle, sometimes I think the only reason you see me at all is so you can get me to help you in your damned schemes.”
Oh, dear. It wasn’t like Phil to swear. He was clearly mad at me. “I’m sorry, Phil. That’s not the only reason I see you. I’m terribly fond of you, and you know that.”
“Fond of me,” he said, as if being fond of someone was about as low on the scale of romance as a person could get.
“For heaven’s sake, I aim to marry you!” I cried indignantly. “Just because I don’t want to do it right this minute doesn’t mean I don’t love you!”
Oh, dear. Had I ever told him I loved him before? I couldn’t remember. All I knew at the time was that I’d put my foot in it, and that Phil was the only person on earth I could imagine ever marrying.
However, my words seemed to have a calming effect on Phil himself. “Well . . . thanks, Annabelle. You, too.”
From that, I presumed he meant that he loved me, too, only he couldn’t say so because the store was full of customers, or maybe Pete was looming behind him.
“Can we get together tomorrow?” I asked, not having the sense to leave well enough alone. But this investigation affected my family, dang it!
“Tomorrow would be all right. How about lunch at the Cowboy Café?”
“Sounds good to me. Thanks, Phil. And I’m sorry if you think I’m using you for my own purposes. But . . . well, darn it, Richard might be blamed for Mr. Calhoun’s murder if we don’t find out who really did the crime.”
Phil sighed heavily and said, “You really don’t think Chief Vickers and his crew are able to do the job? They’re trained for this sort of thing, you know.”
“I know, I know. But I also know the chief flat out told me Richard is a suspect, and that scares me, Phil. Surely you can understand that.”
“I understand, Annabelle.” A pause ensued, then he said, “Come over here about eleven-thirty, and I’ll treat you to lunch at the café. Is that all right with you? Then we can talk all about what I learn at the bank, if anything.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
“You’re welcome.”
He didn’t wait for me to say anything else, but hung the receiver back on the hook with what might have been a slam had the receiver been a door. Poor Phil. Was I really an awful person for using him in this way? I honestly did intend to marry him. Someday.
“Annabelle, Hannah and Richard are coming over for supper Friday night.”
I turned to find my mother standing at the counter, her face wreathed in smiles. “Really? I’m surpr— Um, that’s nice.”
“Hannah called as soon as the telephone line was restored to service. She said Richard had a rough day at the bank because of Mr. Calhoun’s death, of course, but that she thinks there will be a nice surprise to tell us about.”
“Oh, my. I wonder if she’s pregnant, too.”
“Annabelle!”
“Sorry, Ma.” Jeepers, I forgot how old-fashioned my parents were sometimes. Babies were assumed to be blessed events, but you weren’t supposed to talk about having them except via euphemism. Sometimes I didn’t think I belonged in my own world.
“I’m going to cook a ham. We’ve got two left in the smokehouse. What else should we have?”
Ham, eh? Ham wasn’t my all-time favorite meat, but it beat pickled pigs’ feet all hollow. “How about some of those potatoes Miss Libby makes. You know, she slices them thin and layers them with cheese and butter and thinly sliced onions and then pours milk over them and bakes them for a long time. I love those.”
“Wonderful idea, Annabelle. I’ll fix some pinto beans, and we can have the last of the corn and some fried okra. Maybe I’ll make a squash pie for dessert.”
“Boy, I wish it was Friday already. That sounds wonderful.”
By the way, squash pie tastes exactly like pumpkin pie in case you felt a tremble in your tummy at the thought. Pumpkins are, after all, squash, you know? Only we grew tons of squash in the autumn in our back garden—which hadn’t even been visible through the floodwaters this morning as we made our careful way to the store from the house. Butternut squash and acorn squash make the best pies. I mean, you probably wouldn’t want a zucchini pie. At least I wouldn’t.
“How’d the garden survive the flood?” I asked, my attention having been called to it thanks to Ma’s speaking of squash pie.
“It took quite a beating, but the squash seems to be all right. I’m afraid the last of the tomatoes got battered to death.”
I’d never tell my mother that I was glad to hear it, but I was. I was so sick of helping her preserve tomatoes and other garden vegetables, I could hardly stand it. Huh. And Jack got mad when he had to wash the store windows and shovel mud. At least he didn’t have to stand for hours and hours in a hot kitchen sweating over peeling tomatoes, snapping beans, and chopping everything you can think of for the various relishes Ma fixed. I liked the pickled okra better
than anything else she pickled, preferring my cucumbers fresh off the vine, thank you very much. Although I must say that I liked a good dill pickle every once in a while. Anyhow, from what Ma said, there wouldn’t be much preserving left to do, thank God.
“Did Hannah tell you anything about what’s going on at the bank?”
“Nothing other than that Richard said it had been a hard day and he expects a worse one tomorrow, which I’m sure we can all understand.”
“I’m surprised the bank even opened today,” said I.
“Oh, it didn’t, but the employees who could get there through the floodwaters all arrived, and I guess the board of directors straggled in this afternoon. I expect there will be a lot of reorganizing of staff and that sort of thing.”
“What will it all mean to Richard, do you suppose?”
“Mercy sakes, I have no idea.” Ma eyed me hard for a moment. “Were you telling me the truth when you said Chief Vickers suspects Richard in Mr. Calhoun’s murder?”
“Of course I was!” Indignant didn’t half describe my state. Here was my own mother, virtually accusing me of lying to her, and I’d never do that . . . well, not much, anyway. “For heaven’s sake, Ma, why would I fib about something that terrible?”
“I’m sorry, Annabelle. It’s just so . . . awful that Richard might be suspected of doing something so dreadful. And you do tend to like to get involved in these convoluted problems, you know.”
“I don’t, either. Not on purpose, anyhow. It isn’t my fault if things happen around me. I’d rather not have discovered Mr. Calhoun’s body, believe me.”
Ma came over to where I stood beside the telephone hanging on the wall and gave me a hug. “I know, dear. I know. I just hope the whole thing is cleared up soon.”
“Me, too.” Still feeling abused, I didn’t soften until about five seconds into her hug, then I hugged her back. I really do love my mother, who’s a sweetheart. Small wonder Pa married her.
We ate leftover creamed chicken and peas for supper that night, which was all right by me. It had been an eventful day, and we were all exhausted.
“I’ve got blisters,” announced Jack, sorely aggrieved by having to do manly labor all day long.
