by Alice Duncan
Phil heaved a huge sigh. “Yeah. And the trains aren’t running yet. Pete put in an order weeks ago, but God alone knows when it’ll get here. In the meantime, folks are steamed. What with the condition of the roads, you can’t even get to the mountains to chop your own wood.”
“Face it, Phil. We live in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets after making sure he was on the outside of the boardwalk as a gentleman should be, “we do.”
“I’d like to visit my brother in California one day.”
“That would be nice.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. When I glanced at him, he appeared a little gloomy. “What’s the matter, Phil? You can’t be all that upset about the lumber. That’s nobody’s fault but God’s.”
“I’m not gloomy. Not about the lumber, anyhow.”
“What’s the matter, then?”
He scuffed his foot on the boardwalk. “Aw, Annabelle, sometimes I don’t think you care for me at all.”
Nuts. I didn’t want to have to go reassuring Phil of my love and loyalty. Not when I wanted to concentrate on finding Mr. Calhoun’s murderer. Therefore, I took his arm and gave it a squeeze. “You know that’s not true, Phil. I aim to marry you one day. I’d never marry anyone I didn’t care for. A lot.”
Very well, so it was a weak reassurance. Besides, I had to be really careful or he’d give me up and go on to more fruitful pastures. So to speak. I’d had a scare not a month ago when I’d thought he was falling for a gorgeous woman who was in town for a tent revival. I’d been jealous, and the feeling wasn’t one I cared to experience again.
Fortunately for me, we were already at the café, so Phil opened the door for me. Told you he was a gentleman. The place was full of folks we knew from town and others who were only passing through and had been caught by the floodwaters.
Blanche Wheeler, who owned and ran the place with her husband Jerome, met us at the door. A large, robust woman with bushy red hair, she was as friendly and kind as anybody. She served as an interesting contrast to her husband, who did the cooking. Jerome was so thin, you wouldn’t even notice him if you saw him standing sideways, and he always frowned. Not that he was mean or anything. He just let his wife do the talking, which she did with gusto. She had a laugh that would make the grumpiest of people grin, if only behind their hands if they didn’t want anyone to see. “Howdy, Phil. Hey, Miss Annabelle.”
“Hey, Mrs. Wheeler. It looks like business is booming.”
She grimaced. “It surely is. I’m glad to take the extra money, but I’ll be gladder still when the drummers can get out of town. I’m sick of hearing them whine.”
“Well,” I said, feeling a stab of sympathy for the poor drummers, “you have to admit there’s not a lot to do in Rosedale after you’ve conducted your business in town.”
“You’re right about that,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “Looks like there’s a free table over there. We’re short of supplies like everybody else after that awful flood, but we have good barbecued ribs and pickled cabbage salad and potato salad.” Good old cabbages and potatoes. Even during perilous times, folks had plenty of those two commodities.
By the way, the ribs of which Mrs. Wheeler spoke, and of which I aimed to partake, were good old beef ribs. I understand in other parts of the country folks barbecued pork ribs, and I’m sure they’re tasty, too, but we ate beef. I guess it was out of some sort of loyalty to the reason the town was here in the first place. Or maybe not. All’s I know is that they were absolutely delicious, and my mouth was already watering.
I glanced around the place. It was full of diners, but the person I wanted to see and talk to was Sadie Dobbs. I asked Mrs. Wheeler, “Is Sadie Dobbs working today?”
“She’s working her fingers to the bone, poor thing. We’ve never been this busy. Well, not since rodeo season, anyhow.” Then she gave one of her big bellowing laughs, rodeo season having been a mere month earlier.
So we sat at the only free table in the place, and pretty soon Sadie Dobbs sidled up to us, pad and pencil in hand. The Cowboy Café didn’t go in for fancy things like menus. If you didn’t like ribs, steaks, sandwiches or potato salad, you had to take yourself and your dining tastes elsewhere; elsewhere being one of the hotels in town, and their restaurants were too expensive for the likes of Phil and me.
“Morning,” said Sadie, not sounding at all interested in us, the morning or anything else.
I studied her face and noticed that she appeared a little puffy around the eyes. Hmm. What did that mean? Had she been crying for her dead lover? For that matter, had she truly loved Mr. Calhoun, whom most folks found quite unlovable? Or was she only sad because she’d lost her sugar daddy, a vulgar term my mother would slap my face for saying. But I was only thinking it, so it didn’t count.
Phil glanced at me and I nodded. He told Sadie, “We’ll take the ribs, cabbage and potato salad. And I’ll take coffee.” He tilted his head toward me, and I nodded again.
“Right,” said Sadie, and she sashayed off.
Dang it, how was I going to interrogate the woman if she was working all the time? I didn’t know her. I couldn’t just bark a bunch of questions at her as she served our lunch, could I? Puzzled, I fiddled with the flatware on the table, which was covered with an oilcloth that either Mrs. Wheeler or Sadie had wiped off after the last diner at the table had vacated the premises. Although the Cowboy Café was a busy place, Mrs. Wheeler made sure it was clean and tidy.
“So, tell me, Annabelle, why’d you really want to come here today?” asked Phil.
His words startled me, and I nearly broke my neck lifting my head to stare at him. “What do you mean?”
“I meant what I said. How come you really wanted to come here today? Don’t bother telling me because you crave my company. I know you too well for that. And it’s not just so I could tell you about what I learned at the bank, either, because I could have come to your house to do that when I pick you up to go to the pictures tomorrow night.”
Blast. I’d been caught. Well, since Phil had already agreed to help in my . . . I mean the investigation, I figured I might as well tell him the truth. “Betty Lou Jarvis told me Mr. Calhoun and Sadie Dobbs had been having a . . . a love affair. She’s the waitress who just took our order. I was hoping to get to talk to her, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. At least not now.”
After glancing around the jam-packed café, Phil said, “Sure doesn’t. Boy, Annabelle, you sure know how to make a guy feel special, you know that?”
I took his hand across the table. “I’m sorry, Phil. I know it seems like I’m only interested in solving the Calhoun murder, and I know you don’t think I have any business butting into the case at all, but you have to understand that we Blues have a huge stake in the matter. Chief Vickers might actually arrest my brother-in-law if nobody better shows up. Surely you can understand why I need to . . . to . . .” Darn. I hated the word that popped into my head. But I said it anyway. “. . . meddle.”
“I don’t believe the chief would arrest Richard unless he had a darned good reason, Annabelle.”
“When he talked to me, he sounded as if he thinks he has a good reason, Phil. Don’t you see that? According to what Chief Vickers told me, Richard and Mr. Calhoun were forever having arguments at the bank, which means they disagreed about something, and it must have been important because Richard wouldn’t fight with his boss unless he had a good reason. He’s too much of a stuffed shirt to jeopardize his job without whatever it was about being really important.”
“You really have a way with words. You know that?”
I could feel my cheeks heat. Or maybe the heat came from the crowded café. Naw. I was blushing. “Well, he is a stuffed shirt, Phil. Even you must know that.”
“All right, all right. Your brother-in-law is boring, but he’s in peril so we have to rescue him. Do I have that right?”
“Exactly,” I said, happy that Phil s
eemed to be on my side at last.
“But what I’m going to tell you doesn’t look good for him.”
My bubble burst with a soggy pop. “What do you mean?”
“According to the fellows at the bank, Mr. Calhoun and Richard didn’t merely argue, they yelled at each other. Everyone could hear them hollering even through Calhoun’s closed office door. This had been going on for a couple of weeks before Calhoun was killed, and nobody knows why, although—this will make you happy—they’re all on Richard’s side. The bank’s trustees are meeting to go over the books right now. If they find Mr. Calhoun’s been fiddling with the books, that’ll still look bad for Richard, because it’ll give him a motive to have killed him, although he’d probably just have reported him to the trustees. But if Mr. Calhoun threatened him with anything, I guess Richard might have . . . well, you know.”
“What could he have threatened Richard with?”
“How should I know? That’s all I could find out. Nobody knew any specifics or they’d have told me. They don’t want Richard to get into trouble. They all hated Calhoun and are hoping Richard will step in to fill his shoes.”
“Crumb.”
“The only other piece of information I came away with probably doesn’t mean anything.”
“What is it? Anything at all might help.”
“The man who works at the shoe store? Firman Meeks? He spent a long time talking with Mr. Calhoun in his office a couple of weeks ago. That’s just about the same time Richard and Mr. Calhoun started being on such bad terms.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Firman Meeks? Is he that ferret-faced guy who’s kind of stooped and wears those ugly checked suits?”
Phil clearly didn’t care for my description of Mr. Meeks because he rolled his eyes. “Yes, although what his face and his clothes have to do with anything, I don’t know.”
“I was only trying to place him,” said I, feeling defensive.
“He was probably only applying for a loan or something. I think he’s seeing your friend Betty Lou. Maybe he wants to buy a house and set up housekeeping with her.”
“Betty Lou is seeing a drip like him?”
“Annabelle.” Phil had on his most disapproving expression, and I guess I hadn’t been very polite. Besides, a girl in Rosedale didn’t have much to choose from. If Betty Lou found Mr. Meeks amiable, who was I to quibble?
“Sorry.” Boy, what a discouraging investigation this had been so far.
Our lunches came then, and my stomach took the opportunity to growl. Fortunately, there was so much noise from chitchat in the café, no one noticed. At least I hope they didn’t.
Lunch was delicious, and bless Phil’s heart, he paid for it, which made me feel guilty again since I’d all but forced him into taking me to the café that day. On the way out, I passed by Sadie Dobbs. Since she wasn’t holding any dishes in her arms or anything, I did something impulsive. Phil would tell you I’m always doing impulsive stuff, but that’s not true. Anyhow, I stopped and spoke to her.
She turned and stared at me as if I had two heads, I guess because she wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to by people she didn’t know. She was a pretty girl, not much older than me, which gave me pause, since Mr. Calhoun had been an old coot. The notion of him and her doing intimate things together was . . . unpleasant to say the least.
“Miss Dobbs?”
I heard Phil grumble, “Annabelle . . .”
I ignored him.
“Yes?”
Sadie Dobbs wore more makeup than most of the girls I knew, but I aimed to withhold judgment until I knew her better. If she’d let me, that is. “Would it be all right if I came by after you get off work and have a few words with you?”
“A few words? Why?”
“It’s about an important matter I can’t go into here and now. What time do you get off work?”
Still gaping at me as if she thought I was insane, or maybe some religious zealot who aimed to witness to her, she hesitated. “Well . . . I don’t know.”
“I promise I won’t take much of your time.”
“Oh, all right. But right now I have work to do. As you can see.” She swept her arm out in a gesture meant to encompass the packed café and darned near clobbered a customer.
“Right. What time do you get off work?”
“Today I’ll probably have to work late. Maybe seven? Are you the girl who works at the grocery store up the street?”
“That’s me, all right.” I gave her a big smile and stuck out my hand. “Annabelle Blue.”
“Huh.” She gave me a limp handshake. “Sadie Dobbs.”
“Thank you very much for agreeing to see me, Miss Dobbs. I’ll come by at seven.”
“All right.” And she walked off, looking as dubious about a proposed meeting as anyone could.
“Jeez, Annabelle, you just bull your way in, don’t you?” grumbled Phil as we exited the restaurant and walked back toward Gunderson’s.
“Darn it, Phil, I need to find out who killed Mr. Calhoun. Even you say it looks bad for Richard. I need to gather all the information I can.”
“Because you don’t trust the police to do their job.”
I felt like stamping my foot, but I was an adult so I didn’t. “Listen, unless Chief Vickers is a whole lot smarter than I think he is, the murder might very well be pinned on Richard. Even you found evidence against him.”
With a shrug, Phil said, “I wouldn’t exactly call what I heard evidence. Anyhow, maybe he did do it.”
“Phil Gunderson! He didn’t!”
“Don’t have a fit, Annabelle.”
“Richard would never kill anyone.”
Phil held his hands up as if he were surrendering to a bandit. “All right. I don’t want to argue with you. Will you still go to the pictures with me tomorrow, or are you mad at me now?”
“No, I’m not mad at you,” I told him, lying through my teeth. I was not only mad at Phil but scared to death. If Phil considered Richard even a remote candidate as murderer, things looked really bad for my brother-in-law. “And I’ll . . . oh, wait a minute.”
“Here it comes,” muttered Phil.
“No it doesn’t,” I snapped. “I forgot that Ma told me Richard and Hannah are coming to supper tomorrow night. Maybe Saturday would be better. Would that be all right with you?”
“I guess so. When’s the funeral? Do you know?”
“I haven’t looked at the obits in the paper yet today. Heck, the arrangements probably aren’t in today’s paper anyway. I sure read a whole lot of lies about Mr. Calhoun, though.”
“Lies?”
“Yeah. According to the Record, Mr. Calhoun had a heart of gold and never did a bad thing in his life.”
“And you know better?”
“The man’s been dead for a day, and already I’ve met three people who’ve accused him of cheating them or people they know and one who equated him with Satan. I’ve told you this before now, Phil. Why are you being so obstreperous?”
“I don’t even know what that means, but if it means I think you’re nuts to pursue a criminal investigation on your own—especially one that involves murder—then I’m being whatever that word is because I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. For the good Lord’s sake, Annabelle, use the brain God gave you!”
“Blast you, Phil Gunderson, I am using my brain! That’s why I’m not going to quit until I’ve cleared Richard of any implication in that horrible man’s death. Even if the police never arrest him, unless the true killer is found, people will always look at Richard with suspicion, and that’s not fair!”
“Right.”
And Phil opened the door to his brother’s hardware store without a glance back at me and disappeared inside, leaving me standing there on the boardwalk and feeling as if my last friend on earth had deserted me.
Chapter Seven
I felt pretty gloomy for the rest of that day, but I did manage to slip on my coat and sneak out of the house after supper a little before s
even o’clock and hurry to the Cowboy Café to speak with Sadie Dobbs. I hoped she’d meant it when she’d told me to come by at that time.
During November in Rosedale, New Mexico—well, I guess in most places—night comes early. Unfortunately for us residents of Rosedale, streetlights were a thing of the future. Talk about your basic pitch-black night. I took one of those battery-powered flashlight things with me, but my footing was still iffy, and the boardwalk, which had swollen in spots during the recent downpour, tried to trip me up several times. Shady lumps showed up on the periphery of my sight, and I jumped every now and then, thinking someone was looking at me. The moon was almost gone, and what little there was of it was clouded over. No stars twinkled down upon yours truly. It was dark. Black-dark. Scary-dark.
However, I finally got to the bridge, crossed it, and made my way to the Cowboy Café at approximately the correct time. A single light still burned in the café’s window, and I was surprised but very happy when I saw Sadie Dobbs, wrapped in what looked like a very old coat, leaning against the building and smoking a cigarette. Don’t ask me why, but her smoking shocked me almost as much as the notion of her having an affair with Mr. Calhoun. According to the newspapers and magazines, the decade in which we lived was supposed to be roaring, what with illegal liquor and short skirts (and short hair) and gang warfare and stuff like that in other parts of the country. But Rosedale was a backwater, most folks took Prohibition seriously, and ladies didn’t smoke. Anyhow, Sadie had short dark hair, bobbed into the latest style, and I’d noticed earlier in the day that she had pretty brown eyes, enhanced by heavy makeup.
Not that I’d allow being shocked to stop me. “Thank you so much for meeting me, Miss Dobbs,” said I as I approached her.
