Cold Flat Junction

by Martha Grimes

  The tin box was a more elaborate version of my Whitman’s candy box. It reminded me of other things too: the box that Mrs. Louderback sorted through to get her tarot cards, and the cigar box in the back office where Lola Davidow kept small things like erasers and lipsticks. I wondered if everyone had such a box at least once in her lifetime.

  “Some of it’s old, some looks new.”

  For evidence of this he showed me an old photograph, speckled brown with age, of a young man. He recalled to me someone I thought I knew, but who? “Let me see. Hold your lantern up.” He did and in the dark room it cast a sickly, bleached light across the contents of the box. There were all sorts of things: a twenty-dollar bill, coins, costume jewelry. Besides the blue stone, there was an amethyst ring surrounded by seed pearls. There were letters and cards, a valentine, its lacy doily stiff with age.

  “Maybe they’re love letters,” I said, excited and breathless.

  “Could be.” Dwayne picked one up and held it close to the light. “‘Darlin’, I slaughtered a hog this morning ...’ ” He shook his head. “I hope no lady ever writes me that.”

  “It does not say that! You’re making it all up.” I yanked the page from his hand and read: “ ‘Wonderful to see you; I can scarcely wait until the summer.’ See? He’s writing how much he misses her.”

  Dwayne grunted. “How’d you know it’s a he?”

  As he turned away to put the tin box back atop the chiffonier, I made a face at him by pulling back the comers of my mouth. Making faces was something I’d pretty much given up as I got older, but he deserved it, being such a smart aleck.

  “While you’re getting all teary over that mail,” he said,

  “whoever’s living here might come back. And I don’t want to be here when she does.”

  “How do you know it’s a she?” I asked, smartly.

  In answer, Dwayne held out a bottle he’d picked up from a cluttered piecrust table and held it out to me.

  I sniffed it. It was a pleasant, green scent, the scent of grass and new leaves. “That could’ve been here from long ago.”

  “It’s a half-full bottle. It would have dried up by now. The top’s not even on tight.”

  “Should we take it for fingerprints?”

  He gave me a lopsided look. “Whose fingerprints? Mine or yours? Anybody else‘s, what the hell would they match ’em up with? Unless whoever it is has a record.”

  That made me think again of Ben Queen.

  I heard a haunting cooing sound like the hoot of an owl. I took a few steps toward the other room, as it seemed to come from that direction, but then just stood where I was. I was overcome with such a feeling of oppression that I hadn’t the heart to move farther. A memory came back to me of ice and snow and a sloping bank somewhere, and me going down it on my sled, whooping. Then the landscape broadened and, except it was winter, it looked just like the view across the tracks from the railroad station in Cold Flat Junction that had left me feeling empty like this—a far horizon studded with trees that looked like a solid line of navy blue, and the blue trees became that white line of trees, snow-shrouded, branches packed with snow so that they made, like the dark blue trees of Cold Flat Junction, a solid line. And above both landscapes, that sky hung, grayish-white, blank, and heavy as slate.

  How had I got to that slope with my sled? No one else was about and no trail led to or away from it—no tracks, no footprints. I seemed to be whooping with joy in this memory, but I knew I wasn’t happy. The truth was, I didn’t feel anything. I think I must have been like the indifferent landscape. I fit right in.

  “Emma.”

  Dwayne’s voice jarred me out of my thoughts. I was still holding the doll with the buttonless eye.

  “You’re standing there like you’re hypnotized or something.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “God help us all.”

  Then he picked up his gun, which had been leaning against the chiffonier. Suddenly, as he did this, the hairs on the back of my neck felt electric, and tiny currents of alarm traveled over them to my insides. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hear that noise?”

  “You mean that owl sound?” Had it only just sounded? Did all of that landscape happen in my mind in only a second or two?

  “Ain’t no owl.”

  “What then?”

  He was already walking out, taking the rifle and the light with him. Only the candle kept me from a plunge into darkness. Then came a light outside in the window. Ulub’s and Mr. Root’s faces showed on the other side.

  “ ’Ru ne’r, ’ru ne’r!” Ulub said, when I went to the window. He was motioning wildly to the woods on one side of the house. I left through the side door to see what the trouble was.

  Mr. Root and Mr. Butternut had come around from the rear of the house. “ ’Hell’s he saying?” Mr. Butternut frowned at Ulub.

  Mr. Root said, “You just mind your own talk.” Then to Ulub, he directed, “Now, Bub, say that again.”

  “ ’Ru ne’r. A ent ’ru ne’r.” But poor Ulub sounded like all the starch had gone out of him, just trying to get this across.

  Mr. Root said, “You’re saying ‘They went through there’?”

  Ulub nodded, starchy again and pointing off to that part of the woods.

  “More’n one person, Ulub?” asked Dwayne.

  Ulub shook his head. “O’ney un. U ub en af er um.”

  “Only one,” said Mr. Root. “You’re sayin Ubub took off after them?”

  Ulub nodded again.

  There was that beaten path through the trees which came out on White’s Bridge Road, the path we had taken when the police were outside Mr. Butternut’s. So my story to Mr. Butternut before as to how I had missed him was perfectly plausible. It’s nice to have a lie confirmed.

  “Never mind,” I said. “You were really brave to run after him in the first place. You don’t even have a gun or any weapon at all.” I hoped Dwayne would not take this personally—that I thought he should have gone after this person himself.

  He didn’t. He probably was not even paying attention to what I said. He was squinting off into the dark as if taking the night’s measure. His jaw was quietly working; he was chewing gum and concentrating.

  Mr. Butternut decided to build on my compliment to Ulub, saying, “That’s absolutely right—what’d you say your name was?”

  “’ On-no.”

  “Alonzo,” said Mr. Root. “Nickname’s ‘Ulub.’ ”

  Dwayne said, “I’m having a look.” Off he went, on the narrow path into the trees, and I felt something like what I’d felt when Ben Queen walked away from Crystal Spring. We all stood around silently, waiting for him to come back. I think we were all really tired. Yet, it was pleasant in its way, this waiting sleepily among friends.

  But Dwayne came back in a couple of minutes with nothing to report, “Except I picked this off the ground.”

  He held out a small tube. Atop it was the little painted head of Niece Rhoda. I caught my breath. “Mr. Ree,” I said. “Where’d you find it?”

  “On the path.” He hitched his thumb back over his shoulder. “Who’s Mr. Ree?”

  “A detective. It’s a game.” I was rapt. It was a game and someone was playing it with me.

  29

  My florida vacation II

  If anyone ever needed a vacation it was me.

  The next morning, I was checking into the Rony Plaza, wishing I’d brought more than one suitcase, as there were plenty of bellhops.

  I gave my name to the desk clerk, informing him I was one of a party of four, and gave their names, too: Davidow and Graham. He asked where they were, and I was vague. “Held up,” “Around,” “They’ll be here.”

  I was annoyed with myself for not having planned where they’d be, but last night I was too tired, and this morning I’d had to deal with Miss Bertha, who was trying to make an egg sandwich with her soft-boiled egg. She threw her toast on the floor after she’d got the egg all over everythin
g. I told her for an egg sandwich she needed a fried egg, and I would fry her one. I helped Mrs. Fulbright clean the front of Miss Bertha’s gray silk dress and then went out to the kitchen.

  As he dried a roasting pan, Walter watched the egg fry. I stood with the spatula, waiting to turn it over. “That there egg’s tough as shoe leather, it looks like.” Walter smiled as he said this.

  “After it fries on the other side, we can take it to the roof and use it for a shingle.”

  Walter laughed his gasping, braying laugh.

  I did not wait around to see Miss Bertha’s reaction to her shingle sandwich but instead whipped up to my room and got my bathing suit on again.

  Down in the Pink Elephant, the first thing I did was turn on the fan aimed at my palm tree, and once I got the crepe paper fronds fluttering in the wind, I sat down and (as I said) walked into the Rony Plaza.

  It really made me gasp, the lobby, as it was even more opulent than I had imagined. The ceiling was domed and inlaid with bits of gold and lapis lazuli and other semiprecious stones and looked something like the ceiling of St. Michael’s in La Porte. I didn’t want to linger on the ceiling as I didn’t want to add any kind of religious stamp to the lobby. Between the high windows on either side of the long, long lobby were frescoes of flowers and fruit, sand and sea. Potted palms sat everywhere. Their fronds made lacy patterns on the faces of some of the guests who sat around on champagne- and cocoa-colored leather sofas and chairs, sipping vodka martinis or pastel-colored drinks from fluted glasses. I noticed (for Lola Davidow’s sake) that the martini glasses were as big as skating rinks.

  The desk person handed over my key to the bellhop—or he might have been the bell captain, as he was rather snooty—and inquired again about “the others.” Oh, they’ll be along, they’ll be along, I said breezily, deciding as it was my vacation I didn’t see why I should take up mental space figuring out what they were doing. (Though I would, of course, reserve plenty of space for Ree-Jane later on, as she nearly drowned, got bitten by a coral snake, or drank too many of those pastel-colored drinks and got arrested for being drunk and disorderly.)

  Yes, my mother and Mrs. Davidow might remain vague presences at the Rony Plaza, wispy figures swirling here and there, but Ree-Jane would be rock solid in every detail of her soon-to-be-exposed modeless-ness. Ree-Jane was in for it.

  But right now I was more interested in my room, and its balcony, and the filmy white curtains billowing in the open casement window, and the sea air coming through, and the wonderful view of the wrinkled sea. I stood on the balcony astonished by a blue that I had never seen before except in stained-glass windows. It was a blue that farther out turned to amethyst and purple. Royal palms lined the beach for what must have been a mile, for I could not, even leaning over the balcony balustrade, come to the end of them. They had no end, at least not in my Miami Beach.

  I came in from the balcony. While I was unpacking my suitcase, I noticed a square envelope leaning against the mirror of the bureau. It was addressed in an elegant hand to me: Miss EmmaGraham. I slipped the card from the envelope. There was to be a private dance, by invitation only, in the ballroom the next evening. How wonderful! I turned and regarded the closet with a sigh of relief. I was so glad I’d brought my white tulle dress with the sequins. From somewhere in the distance, the sounds of “Tangerine” came floating toward me—(Here, I jumped up and put the record on and poured my bucket of sand across the floor.)—and I practiced my dance steps, sliding across my room’s champagne-colored carpet until it was time to change and go to the beach. I collected my suntan lotion, my big towel, and a copy of Vogue. I was wearing my wraparound sunglasses. Downstairs, I sailed out the door (a bellhop behind me, lugging my beach chair) onto the hot, white, Florida sand.

  At this point my mind was too tired to actually go swimming, but I gave myself a kind of preview—like the “coming attractions” before the feature movie—hitting the high spots I’d see later, like when Ree-Jane goes in swimming (in her old black bathing suit), and the people on the beach see a big fin cutting through the water. I think it’s called a “dorsal fin”; anyway, it’s the one in movies you always see knifing the water and aimed right at you or, in this case, at Ree-Jane. But it was time to stop for the day. Ree-Jane’s fate could be decided later. I planned also on giving my mother many new colorful dresses. Lola Davidow would wear nothing but brown.

  30

  Rainbow

  I told Walter I had to go into town and would he please give Miss Bertha and Mrs. Fulbright and Aurora their Welsh rarebit for lunch. He said he sure would, and asked me how my vacation was going. I said I was going to a dance tomorrow evening and he said that was nice, and would I like him to wait tables at that hotel in Miami Beach? Or did they have enough help? Walter could really fall right into things.

  Forgetting I was still in my bathing suit, I called Axel’s Taxis and ordered up a cab. His dispatcher said Axel was right there. Then she must have turned around, for her voice got farther away. “Ain’t doing nothing, are ya, Axel?” There was laughter. He’d be to the hotel right away.

  I rushed up to get into my jeans and T-shirt.

  When Delbert showed up, I told him to drive me to the Rainbow. I sat in the back and chewed my thumbnail, wondering how I could talk to the Sheriff without actually talking to him. My life was too complicated, and I was glad in between times I could rest up in Miami Beach.

  The Rainbow was full as usual during lunchtime. Maud was in the act of setting their hot roast beef sandwiches before Ulub and Ubub. But I was surprised to see Mr. Root, who generally took his meals up at Greg’s, which was across the highway from Britten’s. The Woods must have brought him to the Rainbow; I was pleased to see his social life was expanding. Mr. Root was having a hot roast beef sandwich, too, and calling Maud “young lady,” which made Maud smile.

  They all said hello to me with real enthusiasm. Others at the counter also greeted me—Dodge Haines and Mayor Sims and Dr. Baum. It was nice to have all of these people happy to see me around.

  Maud motioned me to the back booth as she filled a Coke glass. I sat down and she came along with my Coke and her cup of coffee. “Sam says your mother and Lola Davidow went off to Florida.” She took out her cigarettes.

  “And Ree-Jane, don’t forget her.” I told her they’d all gone to Miami and Will and I were supposed to take care of things at the hotel. I blushed; I felt oddly ashamed, but did not know why. Did I feel it was a judgment on me, having to stay behind? Did I feel I wasn’t worthy of this trip?

  “Well, that’s—too bad that you couldn’t go.”

  But her look was angry, and her clipped tone suggested she’d been going to say something else entirely.

  Maud lived in a little cottage on Lake Noir. I thought she must know the White’s Bridge area. “You wouldn’t happen to know Dwayne Hayden?” I asked her. “The master mechanic?”

  “Sounds like a magic act to me.”

  “He lives out your way is all.”

  She frowned in concentration. “The name sounds kind of familiar. Where’s he mechanic at?”

  “Slaw’s Garage.”

  “Ah! Yes. I think he worked on my car once.”

  “But you don’t have a car.”

  “Once I did. It was really old, but he did get it going for me. Told me it needed a new—something—and I couldn’t afford it, so ever since it’s been sitting at my house up on blocks. I kind of miss the poor thing.”

  Maud could even sympathize with inanimate things. She was really sensitive. But we were off the subject. “He lives somewhere near White’s Bridge.”

  “Dwayne does? I didn’t know that.”

  “No reason you should.” I thought for a moment. “Mrs. Davidow and I stopped and ate at the Silver Pear once. It’s really fancy, I mean the way they decorate their dishes, especially desserts.”

  “That’s for sure. Decoration is most of the dinner. Leaves me hungry. Your mom’s a better cook.”

  I didn’t
respond to that because I could see us getting off the subject again. “Well, while Mrs. Davidow was talking to some friends out on the porch there, I kind of wandered on across the bridge to have a look at Mirror Pond.”

  “You did?”

  “I recall there was this old man there, and I wonder if it’s the one the Sheriff was talking about. Anyway, he said he’d lived in this same house all his life, and his parents before him. His name’s—” I pretended to be searching my memory.

  “Butternut.”

  The Sheriff was standing right there. I hadn’t heard him come up to the booth. Nor had we seen him approach because we were both sitting facing the wall and he’d come up behind us. “Asa Butternut. He’s the one who called in about that lost girl,” the Sheriff said, still wearing his black sunglasses, so I couldn’t read meaning in his eyes.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I forgot he was the one.”

  “But you didn’t know him when I asked before. You’d never heard of him.”

  He removed his sunglasses and the blue of his eyes scorched me like the hot sands of Miami Beach. “So what about this Butternut?”

  “Nobody but him, he says, lives along White’s Bridge Road anymore, at least not up at his end. But of course it goes for miles, I think all the way to Spirit Lake. So he was telling me all about his family and how long they’d lived there, and of course we started in talking about the murder. This Mr. Butternut doesn’t have a lot to do with his time, I guess, and so the murder was all he talked about. He talked to the police he said, but he didn’t know anything much; I mean he’d never seen this Fern Queen before in his life.”

  The Sheriff only looked at me. I bet this was his way of dealing with suspects. You just look at them glassily and it makes them so nervous they finally give up information they want to keep. I wondered if his dark glasses were some protection for him. It was hard to think of the Sheriff needing any, but maybe we all did. I went on: