Pecos Valley Rainbow

by Alice Duncan

  She tossed her cigarette aside and said, “Oh, for God’s sake, call me Sadie. Unless you’re going to preach at me. If that’s the case, I’m walking right now.”

  “No. I’m not going to preach at you. And please call me Annabelle.” Although I’d just as soon my parents had named me something else. But they hadn’t, so I was stuck with Annabelle. “I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “About what?”

  I took a deep breath and took the plunge. “About Mr. Edgar Calhoun.”

  And darned if she didn’t break down and start crying. Right there on the boardwalk. I felt like a worm. “Oh, crumb, Sadie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  She waved away my apology, grabbed a hankie from her ancient coat pocket, and blew her nose. “It’s all right,” she said thickly. “Everyone else in this stupid town has been eyeing me as if they consider me no better than a damned whore. At least you’re willing to talk to me.”

  Shocked again—ladies not only didn’t smoke, they also didn’t swear or say words like whore—I patted her on the back and said, “I’m trying very hard to determine who could have killed Mr. Calhoun.”

  Over the handkerchief, which she still had pressed to her face, she peered at me with watery eyes. “The coppers have already talked to me. I couldn’t tell them anything except that Edgar was kind to me. And he was, damn it! It’s hard for a girl to make it on her own. I suppose you have a nice family and everything?” Her tone was bitter.

  “Yes,” I admitted. I decided she didn’t need to know about my stinky brother, since she seemed to have bigger problems even than a lousy brother to deal with. “And I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. Are you on your own in the world?” Gee, that sounded dramatic. But still, I felt a little sorry for the poor girl, especially if she’d been desperate enough to fall for a creep like Mr. Calhoun.

  “My parents are dead, and I don’t have any other relations who are worth spit.”

  Ew. “You aren’t from here, are you?”

  She glanced around, although, as I said, she couldn’t see anything because night had fallen and covered the whole town like an ebony blanket. “God, no. Why would anybody want to live here?”

  Good question. “Well, lots of cattle ranchers and farmers live in the area. It’s good for that, I guess.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because my family is here.”

  “But don’t you want to better yourself?” I think she shuddered, although I couldn’t really see well enough to tell. “I can’t imagine a young man or woman actually wanting to live in this place.”

  “Better myself? Is that what you’re doing?” I didn’t mean to sound snotty, but really. I wasn’t overly fond of my hometown, but I didn’t like it when outsiders criticized it. “Is that why you started . . . um, seeing Mr. Calhoun?”

  “Yes!” she said, sounding about as stormy as the weather a couple of nights ago. “Yes, that’s why I started seeing him. He gave me things. He gave me money. He was nice to me! I was saving money to go to California.”

  “Oh. You have plans to move to California? My brother lives there.”

  “Lucky him,” she said savagely. “I want to get into the pictures, but in order to do that you have to be in New York or California. California’s closer to where I come from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Lubbock, Texas. It’s almost as pitiful as Rosedale, New Mexico.”

  “Ah. And you’re working your way west?” Sounded to me as if she’d chosen a hard path, but I wasn’t about to judge her, even if I thought having affairs with married men wasn’t proper. As my very kindhearted mother was wont to say, one never knows what another person is going through at any given time, so it’s always best to give them the benefit of the doubt. So I tried to do that. With Miss Dobbs. Miss Libby’d already earned my distaste twenty times over.

  “Trying to,” she said, blowing her nose again and straightening up. “I was crushed when I learned of Edgar’s death. Like I said, he was good to me.”

  Yeah? What about his wife and children? Did she ever think about what he might be depriving them of when he gave her money and presents? Naturally, I didn’t ask.

  She might have been reading my mind. “And you can blame me all you want for running around with a married man. His wife treated him like dirt, and his kids are spoiled brats who don’t give two figs for him. All they ever wanted from him was his money. At least I treated him good. And he returned the favor.”

  “I see. And do you have any idea who might have shot him?”

  “No. If I did, I’d shoot him.”

  Volatile female, Sadie Dobbs. “Mr. Calhoun never talked about having any enemies or anything like that?”

  “Well, there was a guy who worked at his bank who was giving him grief. Richard something-or-other, I think his name was.”

  Egad. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “And another guy, the guy who owns the car dealership? Mr. Calhoun said he’d been giving him a hard time.”

  I hate pronouns. It was so hard to know who was giving whom a hard time in Sadie’s sentence. So I asked. “You mean Mr. Calhoun was giving Mr. Contreras a bad time, or the other way around?”

  She looked at me blankly, then said, “Oh. The car guy was giving Eddie a bad time.”

  Eddie? Shoot, it was hard for me to envision Mr. Calhoun as an Eddie. I didn’t say so. “I see. Do you know why that was?”

  “Something about a loan he didn’t want to pay.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t pay any attention when he talked about business. It was boring.”

  To her, maybe. But I wished that night, as I stood on the boardwalk with her, that she’d taken notes. “Hmm. Maybe I should go talk to Armando tomorrow.”

  “Whoever Armando is.”

  “The car guy,” I said to enlighten her. “Did Mr. Calhoun mention any other names? In any context at all?”

  Another shrug. “I can’t remember. He complained about a lot of people not liking him.”

  Big help. “Well, thanks for talking to me, Sadie. I appreciate your time. If you can think of anything else—a name, an incident, anything at all—please let me know. I work behind the counter at Blue’s six days a week.”

  “All right,” she said, sounding sorry I aimed to leave.

  I guess she didn’t have any friends in town, poor thing. “Or if you just want to come in and pass the time of day, feel free. I’m almost always there. Well, except when I go to the library or something like that.”

  “Why are you interested in Edgar’s death?” she asked at last. I was surprised she’d waited so long.

  “Because the Richard of whom you spoke is my brother-in-law, and I’m afraid the police suspect him of killing Mr. Calhoun. But I know he didn’t do it and am trying to figure out who did.”

  “How come you’re sure he didn’t do it?”

  I decided to tell her the truth. “Because my brother-in-law, Richard MacDougall, is the stuffiest, most boring man on the face of the earth. He’d faint dead away if somebody ever even handed him a gun. He’d never shoot one.”

  “Jeez, you don’t sound like you like him much. Why bother trying to clear him?”

  “Because I love my sister Hannah, who’s married to him. Besides, even though he’s uninspiring, he’s not a bad man, and it would be an egregious miscarriage of justice if the police arrested him for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “Yeah?”

  Sadie appeared a teensy bit confused. I guess she didn’t care much for ten-dollar words. Well, that didn’t matter. She could figure it out for herself. “Yes. I truly appreciate your willingness to talk to me, Sadie.” Something occurred to me. “Say, where do you live?” Rosedale wasn’t bursting with apartment buildings.

  “I’m renting a room from Mr. and Mrs. O’Dell. It’s a little apartment over their stable. It’s not much, but it’ll do me until I save enough to move on.”

  “I see.
Well, good luck to you. I hope you make it to California. And don’t forget to come and see me if you need to talk or if you remember any names or anything like that.”

  “I will.” And she turned to walk off.

  “Wait a minute,” said I, compassion compelling me. “Don’t you have a flashlight or anything?”

  I heard a huge sigh. “No. I know where the O’Dell place is. It’s dark, but I know the way. I can probably feel my way there.”

  Have I mentioned it was dark? Well, it was. Impenetrably dark. Dark as soot. Dark as a black boot.

  “Why don’t I walk with you? We can use my flashlight, and it’ll be easier to avoid mud puddles and stuff like that.”

  A silence greeted this offer. Then Sadie said, “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind. I’ve been meaning to get a flashlight or at least carry a lantern with me, but I didn’t think I’d have to work this late today. Thanks, Miss Blue.”

  “Annabelle,” I corrected her. And I flipped on my flashlight once more and led the way to the O’Dells’ home, which wasn’t too far from the café, on South Washington Avenue.

  Luckily for us, Washington, like Lee, was where the wealthier element in town lived, and it had a paved sidewalk. Stairs from the boardwalk led down to it. It was a good thing Sadie had taken me up on my offer, because there were still perilous spots where vegetation had clumped up. Whoever’d had the bright idea to import Russian thistles to the United States should have had to walk with us that gloomy night. Huge piles of tumbleweeds, looking as though they’d been woven together by a herd of spiders once we got close enough to see them, blocked the sidewalk and we had to shove them aside, covering ourselves with mud and prickles in the process, to get to the O’Dells’ place. Even without piles of tumbleweeds, the night was darker than the inside of a cow and it was difficult for us to see anything until we’d plowed into it.

  “Shoot,” I muttered after we’d manhandled one gigantic alp of tangled tumbleweeds, “how’d you manage to get to work this morning? Were these piles here then?”

  “No. I guess someone plowed the road and pushed them up onto the sidewalk.”

  “Stupid town,” I muttered.

  Sadie barked a short laugh. “Exactly my thoughts.”

  So there you go. We both thought Rosedale was a stupid place to live, even though I didn’t like hearing her opinion expressed aloud.

  I left her at the stable and did my best to light her way with my flashlight as she tiptoed through it and went to the stairs to her apartment. The O’Dell place had been hit hard by the storm, and the stable remained a mess. I guess Mr. O’Dell had been concentrating on his chicken coop and flooded basement. He’d better work on the stable next, or poor Sadie was going to have a hard time maneuvering through the muck in order to get to work on the morrow.

  During the summertime when we got floods, the water dried up pretty quickly, both because the weather was so hot and because the cyclonic winds sucked the moisture out of the ground, not to mention Rosedale’s residents, in a day or so. These freakish autumn storms took longer to dry out because the weather remained cool. I hoped that by Saturday, when Phil picked me up to go to the flickers, we wouldn’t have to avoid mud on our way. In fact, it would be pretty keen if he drove the Model T Ford he’d recently bought from his brother. Pretty soon a body would be able to buy an automobile, if he wanted one, from Armando Contreras—to whom I needed to talk soon.

  As I walked home, staring eagle-eyed into the thin beam of light leading my way and hoping I wouldn’t trip over something and fall flat on my face, I thought about Sadie Dobbs. Poor girl. I knew she’d done a bad thing by carrying on with Mr. Calhoun, but I still couldn’t help but feel for her. Heck, she probably wouldn’t even dare go to the funeral—and so far she seemed to be the only person in town who genuinely grieved Mr. Calhoun’s passing—and that included his family.

  Speaking of which . . . after I got home again, I asked Ma, “Has anyone telephoned to give you the particulars on the Calhoun funeral?” I could probably read about them in tomorrow’s newspaper, but I was curious.

  “Yes. Mrs. Howell called a while ago. The funeral’s going to be held on Monday afternoon at South Park Cemetery after a short service at the Presbyterian Church. Two o’clock. We’ll close the store for a couple of hours.”

  That was customary. Everyone who was anybody rated a store-closing so people could attend his or her funeral. I was sure Mr. Pruitt would close his store, too, so Myrtle would be able to attend the obsequies.

  “Will there be a get-together at the Calhoun home after the burial?”

  “Yes.”

  That, too, was typical. It was almost akin to holding a party for the deceased, only he wouldn’t be there to enjoy it. I wondered if his children and wife would. Enjoy the party, I mean. I aimed to look very closely at the attendees at that reception.

  “Where were you, Annabelle? All of a sudden, you were gone when I looked for you after the dishes were done.”

  “I just went out for a little walk,” I told my mother.

  “A walk? In this weather in these conditions? Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, I’m not out of my mind, and yes, I took a walk.” That wasn’t much of a lie. “I felt a little headachy, and walks generally help headaches.” That was almost true.

  “She probably went out to smooch with Phil now that he’s staying in town,” said Jack, proving once again that he was not merely obnoxious, but wrong.

  “I did not!”

  “Jack, that’s enough,” Ma said, bless her.

  “Why else would she go outside in the middle of November when it’s all cold and dark and muddy?” Jack asked, sticking his tongue out at me in the process.

  “What I do is none of your business,” I told him. “I’m going to go read in my room now, Ma. Do you need me to do anything first?” Virtue was my middle name. Actually, my middle name was Grace, but what the heck.

  “No thank you, Annabelle. I’m going to darn some socks, but you go on and read.”

  Shoot. One more example of a woman’s work never being done.

  At that moment, Pa came into the house through the back door. He scraped his boots off, grumbling as he did so. “Blasted mud. I hate autumn storms.”

  See what I mean? If you have to live in a place that floods, make sure it’s a place that’s hot and dry most of the time. And windy. The winds are really good at drying up mud and water. Say, I just thought of a good reason to live in Rosedale! When we got flooded out, the water didn’t remain around long enough, even in the fall, so that things got moldy. Very well, maybe it’s not a big virtue, but it’s a virtue nonetheless.

  “Is everything all right now, William?” Ma asked him.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “What were you doing, Pa?” I asked.

  “Putting a strip of rubber around the door to the stone cooler. Trying to make it more weather-tight so it won’t flood so easily in the future.”

  “Good idea.” I eyed my indolent brother, attempting to figure out why Pa hadn’t roped him into helping. That question was answered a moment later when Mayberry Zink, my sister Zilpha’s husband, followed Pa into the house.

  “Hey, Mayberry,” I told him, smiling. I really liked him. Not only was he a good-hearted fellow, but he had a sense of humor my other brother-in-law lacked. Also, he was helpful and knew how to do things. Witness the present circumstance.

  “Hey, Annabelle. Where’ve you been?”

  So how come my absence was such a hot topic of conversation that evening? “Just went outside for a bit.”

  “She was smooching with Phil,” said Jack, snickering.

  “Stop that right now, Jack,” Pa said. Thank God. Once Pa began giving orders, even Jack paid attention. Most of the time.

  “I only went for a walk,” I said, eyeing my brother with loathing. To change the subject, I said, “How’s Zilpha doing? She was pretty sick last time I talked to her.”

  “She’s feeling bette
r now,” said Mayberry, beaming at the prospect of becoming a papa. He’d make a good one; I felt it in my bones.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Have some cake, you men. You deserve it after all the work you’ve done on the cooler.” Ma bustled off to the kitchen, and I decided to put off my reading for a while, until I found out what kind of cake she was offering.

  This turned out to be a wise move on my part, because Ma took down the coconut cake she must have baked that very night while I was out chatting with Sadie Dobbs. I love coconut cake, but I wasn’t sure she should be giving us all slices of it. Had she baked the cake instead of a squash pie for Richard and Hannah’s dinner on Friday?

  “May I have a piece?” I asked hesitantly, not wanting to seem piggish. “I’m surprised you’re letting anyone eat this before tomorrow night.”

  Ma heaved a sigh. “I forgot Richard doesn’t like coconut until I’d already frosted the stupid thing. So we might as well eat it up, and I’ll make something else for tomorrow night.”

  “I thought you were going to make a squash pie.”

  “I was, but I’m going to be making a lot of those for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I don’t want everyone to be tired of them. I only wish I’d remembered Richard’s aversion to coconut before I made this cake.”

  God bless Richard and his pickiness—and Ma’s forgetfulness. The cake was delicious, and it went down really well with a glass of milk. Even my obnoxious brother complimented our mother on the cake’s overall delectability. If that’s a word.

  “Thank you all,” said Ma, executing a curtsey. “But now I don’t know what kind of cake to make for dessert tomorrow.”

  Jack, who was a connoisseur of all things sweet, instantly offered suggestions. “Chocolate! Or marble. Or that kind with the pineapple on the bottom.”

  “Hmm,” said Ma, musing as she chewed. “Pineapple upside-down cake isn’t sophisticated enough for Richard, I fear.”

  She was probably right. I don’t know where Ma got the recipe for it, but I loved it. However, she made it in a cast-iron skillet, and I guess that put it in a category too humble for Richard.

  “If Richard can’t eat what’s put before him in our house, he can eat somewhere else,” growled Pa, who didn’t care for people putting on airs.