by Alice Duncan
But we hadn’t. We’d found him at his home, which meant that Phil and I had deliberately walked up Lee Avenue, and there was only one reason to do that, and it was to visit the Calhoun place. Oh, boy. I was really in for it this time.
Moodily, I rose from my bed, took off my coat, which still had leaves and muck clinging to it, and hung it in the closet, then climbed out of the rest of my clothes and into my nightgown. When I flopped back on the bed and pulled the covers over my head, I wished I’d never have to wake up and face what was sure to come at me in the morning.
I almost didn’t. Wake up in the morning, I mean. I overslept. This seldom happened, because my mother would wake me up so that I could work in the store. I don’t know why she didn’t wake me up that morning . . . well, I didn’t know why until she stormed into my room around tennish, and then I learned the reason for her prior forbearance.
“Annabelle Blue, you get out of that bed this instant!”
I blinked and tried to focus my gummy eyes on her. “What? What?”
“I was going to wake you up earlier but you looked peaked, and I thought you might not be feeling well. I’d heard you get up a couple of times last night. But now Chief Vickers is in the kitchen, and I know why you were up and about, and I’m ashamed to call you my daughter! Get up and put your robe on and get to the kitchen right this minute!”
Oh, Lordy. Offhand, I couldn’t recall ever seeing my mother so angry, not even with Jack when he was behaving his worst. Generally speaking, when Ma was upset with her children she’d get all sorrowful and unhappy, and we’d behave ourselves in order not to put that expression on her face again. And never before, in all my nineteen years, had she ever told me she was ashamed of me.
“Ma, I’m really—”
“Don’t you go telling me how sorry you are, either, Annabelle Blue. You were nosing into somebody else’s business, and look what’s come of it! That a daughter of mine should discover not one, but two bodies in my own town in a matter of a few days is . . . is . . . well, I just don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine what your father is going to say!”
Oh, Lordy again. “Pa doesn’t know?” I croaked, thinking I really did feel rather unwell. But Ma would never believe me if I told her I was sick. Anyhow, even being sick wouldn’t get me out of the trouble I’d got myself into.
“Not yet,” she snapped. “He’s gone to Dexter on business. But when he gets back, you’d best prepare yourself, young woman.”
I wanted to cry again. “Did Jack go to school this morning?” I asked with hope sagging somewhere around my ankles.
“Yes, although you don’t deserve to get off so easily.”
My good fortune wouldn’t last, and we both knew it. “I’ll be right there, Ma,” I told her, keeping my voice steady with a major effort.
“See that you are.” Darned if she didn’t slam my door on her way back to the kitchen. My mother. Slamming doors. Oh, boy, this was bad.
If I was in bed, Ma was in the kitchen, Pa was in Dexter, and Jack was at school, who was minding the store? That thought kept my mind away from uglier matters as I arose and shuffled into some clothes. I rushed as fast as I could, because Ma had told me to merely put on a robe, but I simply couldn’t face the chief and the wrath of my mother in a robe and nightgown. So I flung on a skirt and shirtwaist, brushed my hair and knotted it on top of my head, and headed to the kitchen in my slippers. I felt like pure hell.
Ma was still angry with me when I tiptoed into the kitchen. She glared at me and said, “Sit yourself down, young lady.”
I sat. I could have used a cup of coffee, but I didn’t dare ask or get myself one. I did nod to the chief.
Fortunately for me, Chief Vickers was a gentleman of the old school, and I could tell he felt sorry for me. “Don’t be too hard on her, Susanna. She had a rough night, and she and Mr. Gunderson were only being curious.”
“Curious! Well, I guess she was curious! And she managed to fall over another body. I can’t believe this nonsense!”
Odd how she’d fixed on the precise verb to describe how I’d discovered Herschel Calhoun. I didn’t say so.
“Why don’t you get Annabelle a cup of coffee, Susanna? She looks like she needs it.”
“She doesn’t deserve your kindness, Chief Vickers,” said Ma, crushing me to the heart. But she did as he’d suggested and plunked a mug in front of me.
“Thanks, Ma,” I whispered, almost not daring to say that much with her in this mood.
“You’re welcome.” Then she stood there, her fists on her hips, and frowned at me. “I swear, Annabelle Blue.” Her voice was nominally gentler, and I took some courage from that. “Of all our children, you were the one who never gave Will or me a moment’s trouble. But look at you now! Snooping around in the middle of the night. Finding bodies everywhere you go. I just don’t understand it.”
“I don’t either,” I said softly. “And I never wanted to upset you or Pa. Honest, Ma. But I couldn’t sleep, and I called Phil, and we walked and . . . well, and we found Herschel’s body.”
“And that’s another thing, young lady. Calling boys in the middle of the night! Why, I never heard of such a thing! What do you think people are going to say when they learn you’ve been walking around Rosedale with Phil Gunderson in the middle of the night?”
Straightening, I said with more firmness in my voice than I’d heretofore been able to summon, “Anyone who knows Phil and me will know we’d never do anything to bring shame on our families.” That was a powerful statement, and I was proud of myself for thinking of it—even if it wasn’t exactly true.
“She’s got a point there, Susanna,” said the chief, bless him. “I don’t suspect the two of them of doing anything worse than poking around where they don’t belong. They weren’t up to anything else.”
“That’s right,” I said. I longed to ask Ma who was minding the store but didn’t dare, since minding the store was my job.
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” grumbled Ma. “But I need to get back to the store, Chief. I left everything unlocked when you came in. I was that upset.” She turned to me again. “When you finish talking with the chief and eat something for breakfast, you get yourself to the store, Annabelle Blue. You’re shirking your duty.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I told her. “I thought you’d wake me up in time to get to work.”
She snorted. “And here I thought you might be sick.” She shook her head. “But you’d been out prowling in the middle of the night. No wonder you looked so sickly when I went in to wake you up earlier.” And then, to add thorns to my crown, she said, “I’d expect such antics from Jack, Annabelle, but I never thought you’d do anything so addlebrained.” And off she went, leaving me with the chief, feeling every bit as sickly as she’d thought I was.
Chapter Thirteen
The chief didn’t stay long. I couldn’t tell him anything more than I’d told him the night before, and I maintained the lie about telephoning Phil. I didn’t dare admit I’d been going to sneak into the Calhouns’ house and look through papers that didn’t belong to me. I hoped Phil would stand firm on that issue too. I expected he would, since he didn’t want to look like an idiot any more than I did.
Because I still considered my interest in the investigation relevant, even though no one else did, I asked, “You said you spoke to Micah Tindall, Chief Vickers.”
The chief heaved a bigger-than-ordinary sigh, but he answered me. “Yes, I spoke to him. What he said is none of your business, young lady.”
“I suppose not. But I feel sorry for him.”
“I do, too. But it looks as if he’s going to be all right. His cousin, Jerry Murdoch, is going to give him a job in his tinsmithing business.”
“I didn’t know Mr. Tindall was a tinsmith.”
“Jerry’s offered to teach him.”
“It’s nice of Mr. Murdoch to teach him a new trade and give him a position.”
“You know us folks in Rosedale, Miss
Annabelle. We look after our own.”
“Yes. I guess we do.” Most of the time. “Anyhow, Mr. Tindall going into the tinsmithing business doesn’t explain who might have killed Herschel Calhoun.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“And Mr. Feather?”
“Yes, Miss Annabelle.”
I could tell he was getting irked. My shoulders slumped. “And you’ve talked to Sadie Dobbs?” I asked, even though I knew he had.
“Young lady, this investigation has nothing to do with you. I don’t know how many times I’ve already told you that.”
“But—”
The chief held up a hand, and I shut my mouth. “I know. You’re worried about your brother-in-law. I’ll talk to Miss Dobbs again today, but you don’t really think she had anything to do with killing the goose that laid the golden egg, so to speak, do you?”
“No. Probably not. And I guess Herschel being killed sort of lets him off the hook for killing his father.” Boy, Richard couldn’t catch a break for love nor money. “But who could have killed Herschel?”
“At this point, I have no idea. One thing’s for certain, though, and it’s that you need to stay out of the business. If what happened last night didn’t teach you that much, you’re not as bright as everyone says.”
People thought I was bright? That was a new one on me. All I’d been hearing lately was how stupid I was. I said, “Thanks, Chief,” because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Then I fixed some toast and bacon, although my tummy hurt from humiliation and anguish. The notion I’d riled my mother so much that she’d told me she was ashamed of me curdled my innards. While I felt justified—sort of—in what I’d aimed to do the night before, I also didn’t believe she’d wronged me. The thing I did wrong was to get caught. I’d never have been caught if somebody hadn’t murdered Herschel Calhoun. And I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who might have done that evil deed.
At any rate, it wasn’t more than about a half hour after Ma had roused me from my bed that I entered the store, full of fear and trepidation and still tired from my overnight experiences.
She eyed me with disfavor when I appeared. I’d braided my hair, washed my face, and given myself a quick sponge bath, not wanting to keep her waiting any longer than necessary. My hands still hurt from where they’d scraped over leaves and dirt the night before. “Well? What did you and the chief talk about?”
“Only about what happened last night. And I asked him—” Uh-oh. It occurred to me I ought not tell her I’d asked about the ongoing investigation. “I asked him who he thought might have killed Herschel.”
Ma sniffed. “And what did he say?”
Shaking my head, I said, “Not much. It’s difficult to imagine someone killing both father and son. I mean, the father I can understand—”
“Annabelle!”
“Well, darn it, Ma, I can. Mr. Calhoun was a crook. Even Richard thinks so. Heck, I thought Herschel might have killed Mr. Calhoun, actually, but it sure doesn’t look like that now.”
“Why would a son kill his own father?”
“From what Gladys told me and from what Herschel told Phil, Mr. Calhoun was a tyrant at home. Plus, he was running around on his wife.”
“Annabelle Blue!”
I lifted my hands in a gesture of defeat. “I can’t help the truth, Ma. He was seeing Sadie Dobbs. That’s not my fault. It’s his. Or it was.”
Her eyes narrowing and, I think, in spite of her better nature, she asked, “Who’s Sadie Dobbs?”
“She’s a waitress at the Cowboy Café. I spoke to her a little bit the other day—”
“Annabelle . . .”
“I wasn’t interfering with the police! I only talked to her.” Lifting my bib apron from its hook, I pulled it over my head and tied it behind my back. “As far as I can tell, she’s the only one who’s sorry the older Mr. Calhoun is dead. I don’t think she even knew Herschel.”
“It’s a puzzling problem,” said Ma, sounding as if she were almost ready to forgive me for being interested in what was, after all, at least a fascinating mystery and one, moreover, that directly affected her own family. “Um, Annabelle . . .” Her sentence trickled out before she’d finished it, from which I gathered she wanted to ask me something about the investigation but didn’t want to let go of her anger quite yet.
I waited her out, only lifting an eyebrow in query.
Finally she just up and said, “Does the chief still suspect Richard? Even after the death of Herschel?”
“Well, I’m afraid he might still suspect him, Ma, although he’s interviewing lots of people who had more reason to kill Mr. Calhoun than Richard ever did. Besides, even Chief Vickers must believe the same person killed both men, and why would Richard kill Herschel?” Dang it, I had to get into the Calhoun house and go through that office!
“I have no idea.” Ma appeared genuinely upset. “Poor Hannah. She’s in a state, Annabelle, and I don’t blame her. Even if Richard is completely exonerated—and I’m sure he will be—all this attention from the police can’t be good for his career.”
“I know. That’s another thing that worries me.”
“How horrible to have your own husband suspected of murder,” Ma muttered.
I’m assuming Ma didn’t know this from personal experience, Pa having been a pillar of the community without a blot against his name from the moment of his birth or thereabouts. “Yes. I’m sure it must be. I’m sorry for Hannah and Richard both. And,” I added to be fair, “the Tindalls and Mr. Contreras and Mr. Feather and whoever else the police are looking at.”
“Yes, indeed.” Ma heaved one of the huger sighs I’d ever heard and said, “I’ve been preparing orders folks have telephoned in, Annabelle. Will you please deliver them?”
Would I? Oh, boy! I loved delivering things, because that meant I got to drive the Model T and chat with friends. I hoped the Calhouns would be on the delivery schedule.
“Sure. Who gets what?”
“Mr. Farley needs you to take six yards of white linen and some white embroidery thread to the church.”
Mr. Farley was the minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, North, which we Blues attended faithfully every Sunday.
“How come he needs fabric and embroidery thread? He’s not taking up sewing, is he?”
I felt a tiny bit encouraged when Ma laughed. “No. The altar guild is planning to make and embroider new altar cloths for the Easter season.”
“Oh. That’s nice. All white, eh?”
“Well, we have those nice purple ones Mrs. Wilson made for the Lenten season. When Easter Day arrives, the white ones will replace those old yellowish ones they’ve been using since the last century.”
“I see.” I hadn’t quite figured out which colors went with which seasons, although I did then recollect that the preacher always covered the cross with purple cloth from Lent up until Easter Sunday, when the cross was revealed in all its emptiness and white replaced purple on the altar and dais. But Ma was right: the white altar cloths had turned yellow several years prior, and it would be nice to have shiny white altar cloths to replace the old ones.
“Mr. Chewling needs a package of receipt pads delivered to the shoe store.”
Hmm. The shoe store and Firman Meeks again. “Do you want me to pick up those slippers for Pa?” I’d told her about the open-backed slippers for two dollars and the fleece-lined ones for three dollars, and she’d frowned.
She did so again now. “I haven’t made up my mind. They’re awfully expensive.”
“True. But I’ll be at the shoe store today.”
She waved a hand in the air. “I’m still deciding about the slippers. Mrs. Calhoun wants another five yards of black poplin and more thread.”
“Huh. I’m surprised she didn’t send Betty Lou to fetch them.”
“I understand that Betty Lou is needed at the Calhoun home to take in covered dishes. I made a squash pie before I opened the store this morning, so you c
an take that along with you when you deliver the fabric. We need to keep up the proprieties.” Ma shook her head and frowned. “That poor family. I should go with you to offer my condolences, but there’d be no one left to watch the store if I did, so please convey my sympathy.”
“I certainly will.” Boy, I didn’t think I’d be able to get back to the Calhoun place so easily. This must be a blessing from heaven! Or maybe from the other place. At any rate, I’d be able to talk to Betty Lou and ask her to stand watch when I went through Mr. Calhoun’s desk.
“While I was making pies, I fixed one for Pete and his family, so you can drop that one off on your way.” She eyed me keenly. “But don’t linger with your young man, Annabelle. I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about you two.” She shook her head. “Imagine telephoning Phil Gunderson in the middle of the night. People are going to talk, you know.”
Fudge. I didn’t want people to talk about Phil and me, mainly because we hadn’t done a single, solitary thing that was worth talking about. Well, except for finding another body. “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, feeling abused and mistreated.
“That’s as may be. Appearances tend to belie your words, however, so hold your head high and behave yourself. If you do, the talk will die down.”
“I sure hope so. Poor Phil. He doesn’t deserve to be talked about.”
“I suggest you think about that before you make another midnight telephone call, young lady.”
“I will,” I said humbly. Heck, I hadn’t called him in the first place. We’d made arrangements ahead of time. But I couldn’t say that, either. Talk about talk! If folks knew we’d arranged to meet at midnight, the gossip would last forever.
“And please stop by the butcher and get a pound of round steak from Mr. Deutsch on your way back home. I’m making Swiss steak for supper tonight.”
“Yum. I love Swiss steak.”
“So does your father.” She tapped her cheek. “Let me see. Is there anything else we need?”
