by Larry Karp
***
Toward four o’clock that afternoon, Brun heard a commotion at the back of the store. Isaac looked up from the register, where he had just finished ringing up some music sheets for a heavy, sweaty-faced man. A small crowd, everyone shouting at once, moved toward the front. Stark came at the run out of his office, dropped the papers in his hand onto the counter, but before he could take more than a few steps, four people burst into full view, three grownups and a little boy. Two of the adults were Mrs. Stark and Higdon; the lawyer held a large carpetbag suitcase in one hand. The third adult was a woman Brun had never seen before. With one hand, she clutched to her skirts a beautiful little boy, chunky and blond, with eyes like pools of melted emeralds. While the three grownups ran off at the mouth, the child stared from one to the other, like he was trying to make some sense out of their loud chatter.
It seemed to Brun that the woman was unhappy about something, and Higdon and Mrs. Stark were trying to calm her down. But she would have none of it. They all stood in front of the counter, words flying back and forth like bullets, arms going every which way, until Stark slammed a fist onto the counter, and shouted fit to rouse a man from a coma, “What in the name of Sam Hill is going on here?”
That shut everyone up. A girl who’d been looking through the music sheets stopped, then rushed up front, passed by on the other side of the piano, and got herself out of the store about as fast as a person could move. Higdon and Mrs. Stark both started to talk, then went quiet and glanced at the woman with the little boy like they were afraid given half a chance, she’d be off and spouting again. Finally, Mrs. Stark nodded at Higdon: go ahead. Butterfly motions at the corners of her mouth tempered her usual warm smile.
Higdon set down the carpetbag. “Mr. Stark, this is Mrs. Edward Fitzgerald—”
“Mollie Fitzgerald,” the woman barked. “Mollie McQuillan Fitzgerald.”
Stark and Brun stood shoulder-to-shoulder, agog at Mrs. Fitzgerald. The boy had seen some odd women, but never one such as this. Mr. Fitzgerald was neat, trim, and well decked out; before he got locked up, you could’ve called him a dandy. But Mrs. Fitzgerald had skin like library paste, dark circles underneath her eyes. Thin, pale lips, both corners turned down in a sour frown. Her hat was a marvel of terrible taste, big, black, and floppy, with a spray of feathers that could’ve been plucked off a giant turkey. From beneath the edges of the hat, tight frizzy black curls, starting to go gray, ran down her back, and covered her ears and forehead. She wore a plain black dress, buttoned up in front, which appeared to have been made for a woman wider in the beam and smaller in the chest. Her high-button shoes were open at the top, laces dragging. Brun looked twice to be sure he was right, and yes he was: one shoe was black, the other, brown. And on this sunny, cloudless day, she carried an umbrella over her left wrist. Not a white parasol, a big black umbrella. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Isaac, who finally walked to the back of the store and found something to do there.
The little boy pulled his thumb out of his mouth, and said, “Mama—”
“Be quiet, Frankie,” the woman snapped. “Mind your manners. Don’t talk when grownups are talking.”
Thumb back in his mouth in a hurry. He made sucking noises, and went back to studying the company.
Higdon gave it another try. “Mrs. Fitzgerald just came in by train—”
“I did not just come in,” Mrs. Fitzgerald corrected. “I have been here for more than two hours. When my husband is on the road, he always calls me, every evening, regular as your finest clock. And when I’d not heard from him between Saturday and Monday, I knew something was the matter, so I called his hotel. Neither the desk clerk nor the manager would tell me a thing—a fine bunch of mealy-mouthed weasels you have in this city. So I packed my bag, put my pistol into my purse, got myself and my child onto a train, and came down, all the way from Buffalo, New York. And where do I find my husband? In jail, accused of murdering a woman. A fine kettle of fish!”
Higdon looked as if he’d like to grab the umbrella off Mrs. Fitzgerald’s arm and clout her a good one over the ear. He forced a smile. “I’ve taken Mrs. Fitzgerald to see her husband—”
“And a splendid sight he is. Sitting in your jailhouse, unbathed and wearing the same clothing for nigh-onto a week. Do you people have no idea of sanitation out here?”
Her speech was as rum as her clothes, slow, with big rolling inflections and vowels prolonged to ridiculous lengths. Brun thought she looked and sounded like someone you’d expect to see in the Sunday funny papers. She flipped her umbrella into her free hand, and pointed it at Higdon. “And you are his lawyer. What have you done for him? Why is he still locked up in jail? If I don’t see him freed very shortly, I am going to call the governor of this misbegotten, out-of-the-way state.”
Brun thought no one could have criticized Higdon for dragging the terrible woman into Stark’s office, sitting her down in front of the telephone, and telling her to go ahead, call the gov. But Higdon kept calm. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, I’ve told you, this is going to take a little time. I’m doing everything for your husband that can be done.”
Mrs. Stark laid a hand lightly on her husband’s arm. “Johnny, dear, these last few days have been a terrible trial for poor Mrs. Fitzgerald. First, she hears nothing from her husband, then she rides here on a train, how many miles is it from Buffalo? And all the while fearing the worst. Then when she gets here—”
“I went straight to the police, that’s what I did. And what do I find, but my husband sitting in a jail cell, charged with choking a young woman to death. Ridiculous!” Mrs. Fitzgerald stamped her umbrella onto the wooden floor. “Edward, strangling a woman? What a bunch of nonsense. Edward doesn’t have the nerve to kill a housefly.”
Stark put a hand over his mouth, whether to hide a smile or hold in a word, Brun couldn’t tell. The boy figured that right then, poor Mr. Fitzgerald was likely better off in jail than out.
“The police captain took me over to Mr. Higdon’s law office.” Mrs. Fitzgerald paused long enough to give Higdon the kind of glance she might turn on a worm that had crawled up onto one of her untied, mismatched shoes. “He doesn’t look to me as if he’s been out of diapers long enough to be a lawyer.”
“Now, Mrs. Fitzgerald.” Brun heard sinew in Mrs. Stark’s voice. “You’re upset, my dear. Young, Mr. Higdon may be, but people in Sedalia hold him very high indeed in their regard. Now, let’s not dither any longer.” She looked back to Stark. “I’ve offered the hospitality of our home to Mrs. Fitzgerald and little Frankie. It would not do to have them stay in a hotel room during such a trying time. They can have the room where we put up Etilmon when he’s in town.”
Brun pictured this crazy woman in a hotel room downtown, stomping back and forth, banging on walls, rushing up and down hallways, walking up to strangers in the lobby, poking her umbrella into their chests, and he commenced to wonder whether after all, Fitzgerald really might be guilty. With such a wife at home, maybe he did have ladies on the road, and maybe something went wrong with one of them the other night, and poor Fitzgerald just went bughouse, grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. But then, he thought, how to explain Joplin’s money-clip next to the body?
John Stark bowed slightly, and said, “Mrs. Fitzgerald, you and your son are welcome to stay with us for as long as needed. We’ll do what we can to make you comfortable.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald tilted her head back a bit to take Stark in from beneath the brow of that ridiculous hat. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m grateful for your offer. But I must ask, before we stay in your house. You and your family are not Jews, are you?”
Nobody breathed except little Frankie, who took advantage of the silence to sing past his thumb, “Jews, Jews, Jews…”
His mother pulled the child closer; he leaned against her leg. “You see, I must consider the safety of my son. There is a Jewish man named Stark in Buffalo who owns a men’s clothing store, and he has a beard like yours. And I
know for a fact that he tries to get little Christian boys into his shop, especially in the spring.” She leaned forward, then continued in a hoarse whisper, “I’ve heard it from the priest himself. He tells all the mothers in the parish to keep their children safe around Easter.”
Mrs. Stark didn’t blink an eye. “Oh, now, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” she said, and Brun almost laughed out loud at the thick layer of Irish that suddenly coated each of her words. “Should Mollie McQuillan Fitzgerald have any reason to fear for her son’s safety or her own in the home of Sarah Ann Casey Stark? Let’s have no more nonsense. I’ll take you and Frankie upstairs, and by the time my husband is done with work…” She stopped just long enough to give Stark a hard look. “And finished having his beer, why you’ll be feeling as safe and comfortable as in your very own house.” She reached for Frankie’s hand. “Come along, little Irishman. I have sugar cookies, nice big ones. I baked them just this morning.”
Higdon reached for the carpetbag, but Mrs. Fitzgerald was quicker, and snapped it up. “I can carry it, thank you,” she snapped. “You can put your time and effort to better use by attending to my husband’s predicament. I trust the next time I see you, you will have some good news.”
“I’ll do my best,” Higdon said, very politely. If she heard him, she gave no sign.
Isaac quietly moved forward along the opposite side of the store from the retreating Mrs. Fitzgerald. For a minute or two, he, Higdon, Stark and Brun stood there like men surveying the scene right after a tornado had unexpectedly blown through. Finally, Isaac said, “Somehow, I don’t think that woman’s gonna cotton to havin’ a colored man sleepin’ in the same house as her.”
“Well, she’ll just have to, won’t she?” Stark was furious.
Isaac held up a hand. “Plenty of room in the shop—we can put a cot in the office.” Stark opened his mouth, but Isaac cut off whatever he might have been going to say. “Mr. Stark, some things just ain’t worth the fuss. B’sides, this particular colored man’s gonna be a lot happier not sleepin’ in the same place as that crazy woman.”
Higdon said, “I’m sorry, John. I owe you an apology.”
Stark grimaced. “I don’t think that’s necessary, but perhaps a short explanation might do. I will admit to more than a little curiosity.”
Higdon cleared his throat. “I was at the office just a few hours ago, and all of a sudden it sounded like the circus was coming through my door. It was Ed Love, with Mrs. Fitzgerald and the little boy. She’d come in on the two-sixteen, gone straight to the police, told the desk sergeant who she was, and asked him if he had any information about her husband’s whereabouts. When the sergeant said she’d have to talk to the captain, she got pretty rough with the man, and he managed to find Ed in a hurry. Ed told her the story, and you’d have thought she’d ask to be taken directly to her husband, but no. ‘That’s utterly ridiculous,’ she told Ed. ‘My husband does not consort with women when he’s away from home—I doubt he’s got the nerve, and I know he does not have that sort of need. Why, that man can’t even kill a chicken for our Sunday dinner. Now, I demand his instant release!’”
Brun, Stark and Isaac laughed that little laugh that sneaks out when you’re walking home alone late at night through a graveyard.
“Poor Ed Love tried to reason with her, but you can imagine how much good that did. Somehow, he got through to her that I was Mr. Fitzgerald’s lawyer, and she really ought to talk to me. So he brought her by and introduced her, and while she and the boy were using a toilet, he told me what had been going on. Then he got himself out of the office in quick time, which I guess I can’t really blame him for doing. I thought I’d need to call Doc Overstreet to give her a sedative, she was that worked up. She read every one of my diplomas on the wall, told me I was a gossoon and a stripling, and insisted on having a real lawyer for her husband. All the while, that little boy just hung on to her hand or her leg, didn’t say a word, just watched. He didn’t seem at all bothered.”
Stark snorted. “He must be used to it.”
Higdon looked unconvinced. “The way that kid watches, those great big eyes… I was getting nowhere in a hurry, so finally I called Bud Hastain, and bless him, he came right over, sat down in front of that woman, and gave her the most tactful what-for you can imagine. Told her she should be pleased to have my services for her husband, that I was the smartest young lawyer to come up the pike in a lot of years, and I had the time and the ambition to do full justice to her husband’s case. ‘That’s all very well,’ she said, ‘but I still think I should call Buffalo and get an experienced lawyer to come down.’ ‘That’s fine, Mrs. Fitzgerald,’ Bud told her. ‘You can call in a lawyer from New York…’ You know the way he says ‘New York,’ John. ‘And he may be a fine lawyer, but I’ll guarantee he does not know our local customs and behavior. Which means he’s going to have real trouble with a jury. My advice to you is to avail yourself of Mr. Higdon’s excellent services, with the understanding that whenever he might want to speak with a more experienced attorney, he can call on me. I’ve practiced law in Sedalia for fifteen years.’ Then, he raised the one eyebrow.”
Stark laughed. “I can just see him.”
“‘And I have served four years as mayor of this city.’ Of course, that got her attention. ‘Oh, well, then, Mr… I beg your pardon, I did not catch your name.’
“‘Hastain. P. D. Hastain.’
“‘P. D.?’ She gave him that odd look of hers, the way she peers out from under the brim of her hat. ‘I don’t think I can trust a man whose Christian name I do not know.’”
Stark took the name of the Lord in vain.
“So Bud said, ‘My Christian name is Pleasant, but most people other than my mother call me Bud.’
“‘Pleasant?’ I swear, John, that woman rolled the word around in her mouth like she was tasting it. ‘Pleasant? I must say, Mr. Hastain, that’s a most peculiar name. Is it perhaps your mother’s maiden name? Or some other family name?’
“‘No, indeed,’ Bud said. ‘That was my mother’s wish for me, and my father went along. You’ve no doubt met girls named Prudence, or Constance, or Patience, or Faith, or Hope, or Charity. Well, long before I made my appearance, it had been decided, boy or girl, I was going to be Pleasant.’”
Higdon laughed, but Brun heard an edge to his merriment. “He was pleasant with her, all right—finally had the woman eating out of his hand and saying it was delicious. But it’s not going to be pleasant for me if I foul up Fitzgerald’s defense, and Procter and Gamble pulls out of Sedalia.”
Stark turned his head to launch a direct hit on the spittoon. “Bud’s a good man, but he’s caught a big dose of Bothwell’s booster germ.”
“He’s been nothing but good to me ever since I got to town,” Higdon said. “And I’m bound in any case to make Fitzgerald a good defense, so I guess I really don’t have room for honest complaint. Anyway, after Bud left, I realized I’d better find a place for Mrs. Fitzgerald and the boy to stay, but the way that woman carries on, can you imagine her in any of our hotels? Or a boarding house, even one as nice as Leila Wallace’s? I don’t think it would take her a day to make sure I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting an impartial jury anywhere within fifty miles. I need to keep her close at hand where I can get to her, but no one else can. And I need somebody I can trust to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t go around shooting off her husband’s feet, and mine with them.”
“I guess I know who that somebody is.” Stark sounded just a bit weary.
“Can you think of anyone better? I left Mrs. Fitzgerald and the little boy with my secretary while I came and talked to Mrs. Stark. Then, I brought them over here, and took them upstairs for introductions.”
Mr. Stark chuckled. “I guess I can’t fault you, Bob, nor will I complain. As hard a row to hoe as that Fitzgerald woman may be for me, she’ll be far worse for you. And as for Sarah, I’m sure she’s just tickled. A little boy like that? We’ll be listening to
a whole new bunch of her fairy stories for a while.”
“If she’s got an extra leprechaun, ask her to please send him my way.” Brun thought Higdon sounded not at all like a man making a joke.
***
As they closed up for the day, Apple John, his basket empty, sauntered up and told Brun that Mr. Boutell would like him to play an hour or two the next night, that his regular piano man was going to be late. “But you’re gonna have to go tell him yourself, ’cause I ain’t no messenger boy.”
“I’ll tell him for you, Brun.” Stark’s face was wry, teasing. “Mrs. Stark did say I was going to have a beer after work, didn’t she?”
Stark didn’t sound at all in a hurry to get home, for which Brun owned he could hardly fault him. He thanked his boss, then fell in next to Higdon. The lawyer looked anything but happy. “I didn’t want to do that, and if I didn’t know the Starks so well, I never would have. But if anyone can keep that Fitzgerald woman under wraps, it’s Mrs. Stark. She just might give me a fighting chance to come up with a decent defense. Right now, I don’t have much to hang my hat on.”
Brun swallowed the bubble that rose into his throat as he again thought about the locket and the money-clip. If Higdon ever found out Brun had been hiding those clues all this time, it would go very badly for him. He tried not to think along those lines. He wanted never to leave Sedalia.
