The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story

by Robert Weverka

  VII

  The Biloxi Theater didn’t look like much. The bricks were crumbling, and half the lightbulbs around the big marquee had been shattered a long time ago. Even the letters, which had been recently put in place, were a variety of sizes. They said: GIANT AMATEUR CONTEST.

  John-Boy and Jason had looked at them for a while and then moved closer to read the printed poster mounted in the glass-covered case.

  GIANT AMATEUR CONTEST

  Saturday, March 24

  Starring Radio’s Greatest Talent Discoverer

  OSGOOD TENNYSON

  Exceptional Prizes!

  First Prize:

  Professional Guitar

  Second Prize:

  Complete Set of Fine China

  Third Prize:

  Miniature Golf Set

  AUDITIONS NOW BEING HELD

  Jason looked apprehensively past the empty box office to the darkened glass doors inside. “I don’t know, John-Boy.”

  “You’ll do fine. What’re you worried about?”

  “I’m not worried. It’s just that—I mean it doesn’t even look like anybody’s here.”

  “They’re probably around back, through the stage door.”

  Jason’s nervousness had begun the minute they climbed into the truck and headed for Charlottesville. It had been a struggle getting him to go at all.

  At first their father had intended going only as far as Ike’s to do the shopping. Grandma needed some stew-beef, and Mary Ellen wanted ribbon for the finishing touches of her dress. Then Jim-Bob and Elizabeth asked to go along so they could get something for their mother, and John decided to go on to Charlottesville. He knew a place were they could buy a perfect present for Olivia.

  Then John-Boy had joined them, and with a great deal of prodding they convinced Jason that he should bring his guitar along and try out for the amateur contest.

  Jason thought it was too soon—that they probably weren’t even having tryouts yet. And he really hadn’t worked out the song he was going to play.

  “John-Boy,” he said now, “you know, playin’ for the family is one thing. But playin’ for somebody like Osgood Tennyson—well, you know he’s used to hearin’ the best.”

  “You’re one of the best. Come on.”

  “There’s probably a hundred guitar players already tryin’ out. They’re probably twice as good as I am.”

  “Don’t you want to go in and find out?”

  “Well, sure I do. Sort of. But I sort of don’t, too.”

  John-Boy knew exactly how he felt. Standing up in front of a professional entertainer who broadcast a radio show to millions of people every week was likely to make anyone nervous. But he also knew Jason was very good. John-Boy shrugged. “Well, I reckon we can just wait out here for Daddy to pick us up again. Probably be a good idea not to mention all this to Mama, though.”

  John-Boy moved out to the curb and looked up the street as if searching for their father. He knew it was a little unfair mentioning their mother. But it was for her that Jason had started practicing the guitar in the first place.

  “John-Boy?”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Listen. As long as we’re here—I reckon we might as well go on in.”

  “You sure you want to?”

  “Yeah—well, yes. Yes, I want to do it, John-Boy.”

  John-Boy expected the stage to be all lit up, with dozens of hopeful contestants waiting to audition. But the place was deathly silent—as dark and cold as a tomb. Once their eyes adjusted, they made their way to the empty stage.

  “Guess nobody’s here,” Jason said and turned back.

  “Wait a minute. Let’s try the other side.”

  When they reached the far side of the stage, Jason suddenly disappeared in the darkness. His guitar clattered to the floor.

  “You all right?”

  “I reckon.” Jason picked himself up and retrieved the instrument. “Guess I tripped over some ropes.”

  “Hey! What’re you kids doing back here?”

  The voice was gruff and came from somewhere in the dim light ahead. They moved cautiously forward. An office door was open and a stocky little man was standing in front of it.

  “Mr. Tennyson?”

  “No. Whadya want?”

  The man had garters on his shirtsleeves and the stump of an unlighted cigar was clamped in the corner of his mouth.

  “We were lookin’ for the place to audition for the amateur show.”

  The man looked them over and gestured irritably toward the office. “OK. In here.”

  The office looked worse than the rest of the building. Faded posters were tacked crookedly on the walls. Newspapers were scattered around, and a paper plate full of half eaten spareribs rested on a desk. Everything except the ribs was thick with dust.

  “Where’s Mr. Tennyson?” Jason asked.

  The man sat down and took a bite from a rib. “He ain’t here. Won’t hit town till the day of the show.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m Snyder, his advance man. What’s your specialty?”

  “Specialty?”

  “Yeah.” The man waved the rib impatiently. “You juggle—tap-dance—imitate Laurel and Hardy? What’s your gimmick?”

  John-Boy stepped aside so the man could see Jason’s instrument. “My brother plays the guitar.”

  “Sensational,” the man grunted, and concentrated on his sparerib.

  “His name is Jason Walton.”

  The man pulled a copy of a newspaper closer so he could read it. “OK. Let’s hear it.”

  Jason looked at John-Boy and back at the man. “Right now? In here?”

  “You’re gonna audition—so audition.”

  Jason looked around and found a place where he could lean on a chair and prop his foot up.

  The man suddenly looked up. “Hold it. First let’s have the entry fee.”

  “Entry fee?”

  The man took another bite of rib and gazed at them through lidded eyes. “That’s right.”

  “The poster didn’t say anythin’ about an entrance fee,” John-Boy protested.

  “One buck—in advance. Everybody pays an entrance fee.”

  Jason looked at John-Boy, then shrugged. “Well, then, I reckon I can’t audition. I don’t have a dollar.”

  The man wiped his chin with a dirty handkerchief and looked at John-Boy. “How about you?”

  “No, I don’t either.”

  “Too bad, kid. That’s show business.” He took another bite and went back to his newspaper reading.

  John-Boy was a little suspicious about the whole thing. But there wasn’t much they could do. Jason moved past him to the door.

  “Hold it,” the man suddenly said. “Listen, kid, for you I’ll make it fifty cents. Everybody’s got fifty cents.”

  “We don’t.”

  The man seemed to be more disappointed than they were. John-Boy turned. “C’mon, Jason. We’ll just wait and audition for Mr. Tennyson.”

  “Program’ll be all set when he gets to town,” the man said quickly.

  John-Boy smiled. “Then maybe the manager of this theater—or the newspaper. Maybe they’d like to listen to us.”

  It was an ambiguous threat that the man could take any way he chose. He understood it clearly enough. He gazed narrowly at John-Boy for a minute. “Aw, what the hell. Go ahead and play.”

  The song Jason had been practicing was one he had written himself after watching Grandma do her ironing. He called it “The Ironing Board Blues.” Jason played and the man sat back and gazed at him as if wishing he was in New York City, or Miami—any place in the world except Charlottesville, Virginia. John-Boy had a feeling there would be the same reaction if Jason were playing a comb and tissue paper, or a fancy thousand-dollar violin. When Jason finished, the man picked up another rib and squinted at his newspaper.

  “You’re great, kid. Be here half an hour before show time.”

  Sheriff Ep Bridges didn’t work any set hours. T
here wasn’t a whole lot of crime in Walton’s Mountain. But when anything did happen it was usually at night or during the early morning hours. So Ep had no guilt feelings about spending time at Ike Godsey’s pool table during the day. If no one called by nine in the morning, he generally figured nothing had happened during the night, and he wouldn’t have any call to do much until darkness came again. This was particularly true on weekends. If anyone got drunk or disorderly, it would most likely be on a Friday or Saturday night, and those were his busiest times. Therefore, in spite of the fact that he had no fixed days off, Ep tended to look on the daylight hours of the weekends as periods of rest.

  Thus he had a little feeling of resentment when, on a Saturday morning, he found himself in his patrol car heading out toward Claybourne Hall. Beside him was Dewey Hamilton, who seemed so agitated he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense about what the complaint was.

  “You said there’s some silver missing, Dewey. Now just how much silver are you talkin’ about? Is it just a couple pieces, or a whole lot?”

  “Far as I know, Sheriff, it’s just them two pieces. Least that’s all Miz Claybourne talked about this mornin’.”

  “When did she first miss it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, when did you first hear about it?”

  “I first heard this mornin’. Miz Claybourne asked me to polish up them two goblets and put ’em out on the sideboard, and I went to get ’em out of the cupboard and they wasn’t there.”

  “Did you look anyplace else for ’em?”

  “Oh, yes sir. We looked in every cupboard and shelf in the whole kitchen and the dinin’ room and everywhere.”

  “Does Mrs. Claybourne have any idea who might have taken them?”

  This question seemed to disturb Dewey more than anything else. He looked scared to death and he shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t know nothin’ about that. Miz Claybourne, she just told me to come down and get the sheriff and I come. That’s all I know.”

  Ep Bridges had his doubts about the silver pieces being lost. He had been in the Claybourne house only two or three times in his life, but he had seen enough silver, crystal, and knickknacks and china to know they probably didn’t have the slightest idea how much of it there was. And two silver goblets could have gotten thrown out in the trash without anybody noticing.

  Dewey had been almost apologetic in his request for Ep to come out to the Claybournes’. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Sheriff, Miz Claybourne’d like you to come talk to her. She says if you can come real soon, she’d appreciate it.”

  It had taken five minutes of questioning before Dewey revealed that the silver was missing and that Mrs. Claybourne suspected that it might have been stolen.

  Ep Bridges smiled wryly to himself as they drove the rest of the way in silence. If anyone were going to burglarize a house in Walton’s Mountain, the Claybournes’ would certainly be the place to pick. But it wouldn’t make much sense for a burglar to take only a couple of silver goblets.

  Ep parked his patrol car at the top of the curving driveway, just behind young Stuart Lee’s Packard roadster. He was glad to see that Stuart Lee was home. The boy wasn’t half the man his father had been, but he still might be easier to deal with than Mrs. Claybourne.

  The family was gathered in the drawing room, sitting on the two sofas in front of the fireplace. Dewey escorted Ep through the door and then discreetly disappeared.

  Mrs. Claybourne smiled, but it was tense. “I’m so glad you could come, Sheriff Bridges. You know my son and daughter, of course.”

  “Sure. How are you?”

  “This is terribly embarrassing, Sheriff. And most awkward, I’m afraid.”

  “Now, mother—” Stuart Lee said.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but we must face facts. And I think we can just let Sheriff Bridges draw his own conclusions.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Dewey told me there are a couple of silver goblets missing.”

  Amelia Claybourne looked like she was bored with the whole thing and would rather be someplace else. Stuart Lee fidgeted impatiently.

  “That’s correct, Sheriff,” Mrs. Claybourne said, “And they’re not ordinary silver goblets by any means. They are Paul Revere silver that my grandmother owned and passed on to my mother. They’re two of the finest pieces we own, Sheriff, and the only matching pair in the world is in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.”

  “When did you first miss ’em?”

  “Dewey searched all the cupboards this morning, and they simply aren’t here, Sheriff. And there’s no question in my mind but that they’ve been stolen. I saw them here only two weeks ago, and Dewey remembers polishing them just last week.”

  “Mother,” Stuart Lee said, “it’s quite possible they’ve been misplaced.”

  “But we’ve searched everywhere.”

  “Maybe they’re in the attic,” Amelia suggested.

  “Darling, nobody has been in the attic for months. Now how in the world could they get up there?”

  “Mrs. Claybourne, is there any evidence to indicate the house was broken into? Or have any strangers been here? Salesmen, or someone you don’t know very well?”

  “Nobody has broken in, Sheriff. But there has been someone here.”

  “Mother, I don’t think—”

  “Who do you mean, Mrs. Claybourne?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone. Please understand that. But in the past week and a half the only person who’s been in this house, aside from ourselves and Dewey, is John Walton.”

  For a minute Ep wasn’t sure he had heard right. Or if he had, Mrs. Claybourne was certainly joking.

  “John Walton?” Sheriff Bridges laughed. “Now, you’re not really suggestin’ John Walton would take anythin, are you, Miz Claybourne?”

  “I’m simply stating the facts, Sheriff. John Walton was here last week fixing the refrigerator. It just happens that Dewey was polishing the silver and had it all set out on the kitchen sink at the same time. And now two silver goblets are missing.”

  Ep sat back and rubbed his forehead. “Mrs. Claybourne, John Walton may have been in your house, and Dewey may have had all the silver out on the sink at the same time. But I ain’t even goin’ to talk about the possibility of him havin’ stolen those goblets.”

  “I agree, Sheriff, it’s a terrible thought. But are you aware that Olivia Walton is terribly sick?”

  Ep checked the anger that suddenly rose inside him. “I’m aware of it.”

  “The poor man—I’m sure he needs money desperately. And if he had asked, I would have gladly helped him with his doctor bills, or whatever he needs. But surely you can appreciate the temptation that valuable silver must have been for him.”

  “No, Mrs. Claybourne, I can’t.”

  “Mama,” Stuart Lee said, “just because John Walton was here does not mean we have conclusive evidence that he took the goblets.”

  Ep Bridges was glad Stuart Lee spoke up. He wasn’t sure what would have come out of his own mouth if he had continued talking.

  “I didn’t say it was conclusive evidence. As distasteful as it is, I simply say there is no other explanation for their disappearance.”

  “Mrs. Claybourne,” Ep said, “I think there are probably ten other possible explanations—including the possibility that they got thrown out in the trash by mistake.”

  “Are you saying Dewey is responsible?”

  “No, I ain’t sayin’ that. I’m just sayin’ somebody might have made a mistake.”

  Amelia laughed and made a statement that surprised Ep. “I think it’s all very simple. I think Mr. Walton took the goblets on an impulse. I think he probably took them, and then regretted it ten minutes later. But then he couldn’t very easily return them. So he probably took them to a pawn shop somewhere.”

  Mrs. Claybourne nodded. “I think that’s a very plausible explanation, Sheriff.”

  Ep didn’t know whether to tell them all to go to hell, or try to reason with them.
But maybe people in their position never met or got to know men like John Walton.

  Mrs. Claybourne smiled stiffly. “Sheriff, as I said, I can understand Mr. Walton’s distress, and I sympathize with him deeply. I think it’s quite possible that in this terrible ordeal of his wife’s illness he simply isn’t himself, and is not really responsible for his actions. I know how devastating polio can be. Mr. Claybourne’s second cousin in Savannah had it. I know the terrible effect it had on the family. In light of that, Sheriff Bridges, it is not my wish that Mr. Walton be sent to jail, nor that he even be subjected to the humiliation of arrest. I simply want the goblets returned. Now, if you will inform him of that, and explain the consequences of his failure to return them, I am sure we can get all this settled with a minimum of fuss.”

  Ep took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The high and mighty Mrs. Carter Claybourne was so dead certain John Walton stole the goblets she was dictating the terms for their recovery. To his credit, Stuart Lee seemed to be embarrassed about what was going on.

  Ep pulled himself slowly to his feet. “Mrs. Claybourne, I want you to think this over very carefully. Accusin’ a man of theft without knowin’ for sure he stole somethin’ is a very serious offense called defamation of character. So I’d caution you to be pretty sure about what you’re sayin’ before you go on sayin’ it. And while you’re thinkin’ about everythin’, I’d advise you to search this house from stem to stern. Then I’d also do some searchin’ in the trash and around the yard. . . .”

  Mrs. Claybourne didn’t look like she was accustomed to taking advice from small town sheriffs. “I have reported the loss of the goblets, Sheriff Bridges, and I have informed you of all the facts in the situation. Thus I think I have fulfilled my obligations. I will go further and remind you that I have been more than generous in outlining the conditions for the return of the goblets. All that remains, it seems to me, is for you to do your duty as a public servant and pursue your investigation in a direction that appears quite obvious.” She gave him an icy smile and turned to her son. “Stuart Lee, will you please see Sheriff Bridges to the door?”

  Ep didn’t bother saying good-bye. Mrs. Claybourne lifted her chin and turned away, and didn’t seem to expect it. He followed Stuart Lee to the front door.