Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

  “Thanks for dinner. Let me know what you decide about Meg.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be in touch.”

  Bruce turned, walked out the door, and then stopped. “You think you’re safe down here, but I’m not so sure.”

  17

  Darla sat in her car on the street in front of Landers’ house and remembered better days. She cracked the window so any errant breeze could float in if it felt like it. There was a warmth in the air they hadn’t known in months. Spring had settled on the town. She looked over at Landers’ garden. Daffodils and tulips were pushing up. He did love his plants. They were pretty, and if you gave them the right amount of water and sun, they grew the way you wanted them to.

  Landers had always loved pretty things.

  Darla remembered when she had been pretty. Twenty-five and finally come into her own. She had grown up the sixth child in a large farm family. When she was little, her mother had had no time for her. She had always worn hand-me-downs. But that year she had moved away from the small Wisconsin town she had grown up in and gone to live in Wabasha. She lived in a boardinghouse and worked at the dime store. She sewed most of her clothes, copying the patterns from the magazines she bought at work. That had been the one gift she had received from her mother—learning to sew.

  One night she went to a dance—the Joe Plummers Orchestra was in town—and she had done her hair in waves and was wearing a new dress she had made. She was dancing with some guy, and Landers cut in. He was a swell dancer. With him, she felt like Ginger Rogers. His hands maneuvered her any way he wanted her to go. A few dates later, his hands had had their way with her in the back seat of his old Ford, parked on a country road. The year was 1941.

  Then he invited her home to meet his family. She felt certain that things were getting serious between them. But when he picked her up, he told her he had enlisted in the army. He was shipping out in a week. He drove her to his folks’ house and introduced her to his brother, Fred. Asked Fred to keep an eye on her for him while he was gone.

  Fred was five years younger than both Darla and Landers. He was cute in his own slow way. Thoughtful. He had really looked up to her and respected her. Fred’s devotion became more and more important to Darla when she didn’t hear from Landers. He wrote his mother dutifully once a week; Mrs. Anderson would show her the letter. He hadn’t even gone overseas yet but was still stationed at Camp Adair in Oregon. Darla wrote him dozens of letters, but never got one back from him.

  Once, after he had come back, when she was already married to Fred, she brought it up, asked him why he had never answered her letters. He looked at her kindly and said, “I thought it was better for you if we had a clean break. That way you could get on with your life.”

  Darla hated him when he said that. She wanted to describe to him what her life had been like at that time, but she decided never to let him know. That would be her revenge.

  She persuaded Fred to move away from Fort St. Antoine after that conversation. But after fifteen years of traveling from town to town, Fred unable to keep a job, she gave in when he asked if they could finally go back home. He had written to Landers, who had then offered him a job working at his clothing store. The two brothers had inherited an uncle’s farm, so Fred and Darla and their son finally had a place to live. Darla was forced to come back to Lake Pepin and to live near Landers Anderson the rest of his life.

  She rubbed her forehead. Eighty-one wasn’t bad if you didn’t look in a mirror, if you didn’t push yourself too hard, if you had a drink or two every night. Fred had just gotten the news from the lawyer that they were inheriting everything that Landers owned. A wave of relief flushed over her. At last, it would all be hers. She and Fred would have money. Maybe Fred would have time to spend some of it. She felt like she didn’t have much life left in her, but maybe she was wrong.

  Darla had decided that for fun, she would come over here and rummage around in her new house. Look through everything. See what she would see. Who knows what she might find? After all, it was hers now. She could do whatever she wanted to with it. Make a huge bonfire of the photograph albums that documented Landers and his wife’s life together.

  The two of them had seemed so happy, but it hadn’t lasted long after she and Fred moved back to town. Darla had seen to that. Landers never knew what had hit him. She had had a long talk with his wife, Eva, revealing how Landers had deserted her. She laid it on thick, as they used to say. After that, relations had been strained between Landers and Dorothea. Dorothea had died five years later of emphysema, and Darla had been glad to see her go.

  She should be gloating, she should be doing a jig with glee. Instead she just felt tired. The sun warmed her where she sat behind the wheel of her car. She’d go into the house in a few minutes. She had been so careful about her secret and now she sat and wondered if that might not ruin everything.

  WHEN CLAIRE WALKED out of her house to go to work, she looked over and saw Darla Anderson climbing out of her car. Claire had never seen Darla move so slowly. What was the matter with her? A few days ago when Claire had gone to see her, Darla had been bustling around, cleaning her house. Maybe her arthritis was acting up, or maybe she knew she shouldn’t be heading toward Landers’ house, and so she was trying to act nonchalant. Whatever it was, Claire ran over to stop her.

  She caught up with Darla right at the garden gate. “You can’t go in there.”

  Darla tossed her head up and said, “Oh, yes, I can. I own this place.”

  That surprised Claire enough that she let Darla get through the gate, but then she pushed after her. “What do you mean by that?”

  “We checked with Landers’ lawyer. He left no will, so everything is ours. We’re the closest of kin.” Darla pointed at herself. “We own this house and all the land. So, who knows, we might be neighbors.”

  “Well, that may be, but this property is still off-limits.”

  “Until when?” Darla asked.

  Claire shook her head. “That’s hard to say. I will ask the sheriff what he thinks when I go into work today.” Claire knew that she could let Darla into the house if she wanted to, but the idea of this little old lady digging around in Landers’ possessions disturbed her. Besides which, she would have to stand there and watch as Darla rifled through the place. She didn’t have time to do that this morning. Claire made a note to herself to leave work early today and do some final digging around before she turned the house over to Fred and Darla.

  “What if I told you I had to get something in the house?” Darla cocked her head like a robin.

  “Then I’d tell you it would have to wait.” Claire took a good look at Darla. Something was crooked about her—literally crooked. Then Claire saw that Darla’s hair wasn’t on straight. Darla must be wearing a wig. Not so surprising; many older women weren’t happy with the quantity of hair that grew off their head and supplemented it. Claire had to resist the impulse to reach over and tug the wig straight, but she knew from experience that any patronizing motion would not be appreciated.

  “There’s none of that yellow police ribbon around here saying stay out.” Darla waved at the house.

  “We don’t always use that. With me living right across the street, it’s pretty easy to keep an eye on the place.”

  “Have you had your eye on the place?”

  Claire looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a nice piece of land, isn’t it? You were getting awful chummy with Landers.”

  “We were friends, but I have more than enough land to keep myself busy, thank you anyway.” Darla came off sounding jealous. Claire wondered if she had been drinking, but Darla didn’t seem tipsy and it was not even nine o’clock. Then Claire remembered what Mrs. Langston had told her about Darla and Landers. “I just learned that you and Landers dated before you married Fred.”

  Darla grew rigid. She wouldn’t look at Claire. “Who told you that?”

  “A neighbor.”

  “Gossip. That’s all it is.
I did meet Fred through Landers, but that’s all.”

  Claire stood there, waiting for Darla to head back to her car, but Darla stood still, staring at the house. Finally, Claire touched her arm and said, “I need to get to work. I’ll walk you back to your car.”

  Darla’s head spun around, and she laughed at Claire. “Boy, you really don’t trust me, do you?”

  “Just doing my job.”

  Darla pulled away from Claire’s touch and continued to head up the walk. Claire watched as she stepped off the path and then bent down and picked a bright yellow daffodil. She spunit around in her fingers and then came back toward Claire.

  Darla held the daffodil up high, like it was a queen’s scepter, and as she walked past Claire, she said quietly, “Mine.”

  HER DAY OFF. That was why she was still sleeping in bed and felt swallowed up by it. Bridget had woken up briefly when Chuck had left early this morning; his soft kiss on her cheek felt like permission to keep sleeping, and she had gone under again. She rolled her head on the pillow and cracked an eye open. Even without her contacts in, she could see the clock fece. The little hand was on the ten, and the big one pointed at the six. She blinked. Ten-thirty. The shock of it made her sit up in bed. What was the matter with her? She felt her own forehead. Cool and dry. She hadn’t slept this late since before pharmacy school. Usually by this time of day, she had eaten and gone for a ride.

  Bridget lifted up the front of her nightgown and looked down. Her breasts seemed bigger already. Was that possible? She had studied drugs for over four years of her life, and never had she heard that the hormones of a pregnant woman took on the characteristics of Valium, aspirin, and baking soda all rolled into one.

  After a rather long shower, she pulled herself together. She tied her hair up on top of her head, put some makeup on, and dressed. Leaning over to tie the laces of her shoes, she decided she had to tell Chuck. He needed to know. She would walk into the shop and invite him out for coffee. Before she told him, she would first cover his lips with her fingertips and say, “Don’t talk now. I want you to have time to think about this. So go back to work, and we’ll discuss what we’re going to do tonight.”

  She slipped on the stud pearl earrings he had given her for their anniversary. He loved her. She loved him. They would figure it out. It seemed impossible to her now that he shouldn’t know something that so completely concerned him. But then he hadn’t noticed when she wasn’t hungry last night, or how listless she had been lately, not having the energy to stay up past the evening news.

  When she climbed in her car, she gave a longing look to the barn. She would ride Jester this afternoon. She would whisper in his ear that she was pregnant, that she might have a baby, see what he would think of that. If this were the day to tell everyone, she would even give Claire a call. Get it all over with at once. Let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Her stomach jolted inside of her as she drove down the road.

  By the time she got to the service station, Bridget was having second thoughts. Maybe she should wait and tell Chuck at dinner. She could even try to cook dinner, something simple like pork chops and potatoes. Oooh, her stomach turned at the thought of food.

  When she walked into the shop, Chuck scooted out from under a car on a piece of plywood on wheels. She waved, and he gave her two fingers up, which meant give me two seconds. He went back under the car. She wondered what he was doing down there and how he could stand digging around in the underbellies of vehicles day after day. He was like a doctor, only in surgery a doctor stood above the patient and was very pristine and got paid enormous amounts of money. When Bridget went to pharmacy school, she thought there was a good chance she’d end up married to a doctor. And she had—a car doctor.

  Suddenly, she didn’t feel so good. The floor wobbled in front of her, and then her stomach turned over. She clutched her belly, swallowed hard, and ran to the bathroom. Pushing the door open, she bolted to the nearest stall, not even bothering to close the door behind her. There was not time. She vomited as soon as she was standing in front of the toilet bowl.

  An older woman leaning over the bathroom sink, applying makeup, gave a loud groan. Without even turning around, she said, “I’ve had five kids, and I threw up through every pregnancy. Good luck, kid. It’s only the beginning.” Then she walked out.

  Bridget dragged herself away from the toilet and cleaned herself up. She decided against putting on any more lipstick. Didn’t seem like a good idea. She didn’t feel like going out to coffee with Chuck right now.

  She would walk out and tell him she stopped by to say hi and go back home. She would tell Chuck tonight, in the privacy of their own home. If she felt good enough this afternoon, she would drive over to talk to Claire, ask her what she was in for the next eight months of her life.

  “HOW’S THE MOREL season shaping up?” Stuart asked Rich as they both sidled up to the bar at the Fort. The Fort St. Antoine Café was open seven days a week, sixteen hours a day.

  You could buy a box of Band-Aids, rent a video, play a game of pool, or order a shot of whiskey. At least a couple of days a week, Stuart and Rich would meet there for a late-afternoon brew, after Stuart was done baking.

  “Pretty good. I made the mistake of dropping off a basket of morels for Ms. Claire Watkins,” Rich said.

  “How could that be a mistake?” Stuart thought for a second and then answered his own question. “Oh, I bet she doesn’t like morels. Not everyone likes them. My mom has never cared for them.”

  “No, I think she liked the morels fine. But it appears she also likes someone else.”

  This stopped Stuart for a moment, then he asked incredulously, “Who? Someone from around here?”

  “No. This guy named Bruce. Her old partner. He was over for dinner. Looked at my morels like they were a bunch of old condoms.”

  Stuart threw his head back and laughed. “There is a resemblance.”

  “You know anything about this guy? Bruce something, didn’t get his last name?”

  “No, and that should tell us something. You know, I’ve got my ear to the grapevine, and I haven’t heard a peep about Claire seeing anybody.”

  “Maybe she goes up to town.”

  “No, she doesn’t. I’d know that too.”

  “God, what have you heard about me?”

  “I don’t need the grapevine for that. You just come and spill the beans yourself.”

  “That’s true.” Rich waved over the bartender. “She sure has got a cute little girl. She answered the door last night.”

  “Meg?”

  “Yes. Insisted her name was Felicity.”

  “Yeah, she’s a sweetheart. I think Claire’d do just about anything for her. You should get to know her.”

  “Meg?”

  “Sure. You know—get an in to the mother through the daughter.”

  “Not my style.”

  The bartender took their order. When he delivered their two beers, he asked, “So you heard who’s going to get all of Landers Anderson’s land?”

  “Nope. Haven’t heard a peep,” Rich told him.

  “No big surprise. Fred gets it all, because Landers died intestate.”

  Stuart looked at the bartender in surprise, then protested, “I heard he died of a heart attack.”

  “In-test-ate. It’s not a disease. Haven’t you ever heard that before? It simply means you died without making a will.”

  Stuart laughed at the bartender’s lecture, saying, “I get it. I get it. How do they determine who gets what?”

  “Each state has a system to figure that out, some kind of game plan,” the bartender explained. “I think first it goes to your spouse; if you have no spouse, it goes to your kids; no kids, goes to your parents; then siblings, then aunts and uncles. Down the line of your relatives. You get the picture.

  “All Landers has got is Fred and Darla. Kinda too bad, because they’ll just sell it to that development.” The bartender pointed to a poster that was pinned to the bulletin board. Beneath
an announcement of a tractor pull and a farm auction was an old notice for the town meeting about the new development.

  Rich stood up and swigged the last of his beer. “I gotta go. Pheasants to feed.”

  When he got to the door, Rich reached over, pulled the poster about the development down, and stuffed it in his pocket. He would certainly make an attempt to get that land so it couldn’t be developed. He’d have to give it a try. Maybe Claire could help him out.

  18

  Claire thought of the morel mushrooms while she stared at the floor of the county jail. It was her day on jail rotation, but she only had to stay another hour. A drunk driver was sobering up in the back cell. She could heard him snoring, and the noise sounded like he was grinding through the brick wall. As soon as the next officer relieved her at the jail, she planned to go over to Landers’ house and look through it more thoroughly. Having finished her paperwork, read the two daily papers, even completed the crossword puzzle, she was staring at the floor and thinking.