Early's Fall

by Jerry Peterson

  “Don't you always?”

  A highway patrol black-and-white, a Ford still with its new-car shine, rolled in, around the house, and stopped in the backyard. The trooper flicked off his bubble light. He stepped out and reached back inside for his campaign hat.

  “Cactus,” Daniel Plemmons said as he planted his hat regulation square on his head, “understand you got a murder.”

  Early continued his walk over the grass, his head down. “Yeah. Body's inside—Judith Smitts. You want to take a look? Hutch is in there.”

  “Right.”

  “Go in the front door, if you would.”

  “Right.”

  Plemmons, a shade taller than Early, moved with the ease of an Old West gunfighter as he ambled off. The long-barreled Colt Forty-Four revolver he carried in an open holster low on his hip added to the effect.

  Early, intent on his search, stopped at the side of the garden, near a raggy stand of weeds. He moved the toe of his boot through pigweed and lambs quarter until it struck something. Early bent down.

  A weed hook, a hand scythe. He picked it up and examined it.

  Bits of rust on a blade otherwise sharp enough to cleave a one-by-two.

  Bad place to leave this when you got a child around.

  Early carried the weed hook with him as he moved out into the garden, to a melon patch rich with vines and leaves the size of serving trays, the melons giving off a musky, ripe aroma. He used the hook to lift leaves back. Someone sure could grow these big boys.

  He rapped on one, and a black snake near it slithered away.

  The movement startled Early. He jumped back.

  “Melons biting?” Plemmons called out as he came back around the house.

  Early grabbed at his chest, as if his heart pained him. “Snake, and I didn't see him.”

  “Cool place for him out there under all those leaves, I expect. You wouldn't be thinking of stealing a melon from the dear deceased?”

  “Hardly. I was hoping to find an axe.” Early held up the weed hook. “So far only this. . . . Got any thoughts based on what you saw?”

  Plemmons waited on the sheriff high-stepping across the rows of rutabagas and parsnips. “Probably about the same thoughts as you. Helluva lot of damage, in the house and to the woman, someone with a sorry lot of mean in him. You thinking the husband?”

  “Most people murdered are killed by family, but Mose says the husband's off traveling for the U-P.”

  “So you think that takes him out?”

  “I didn't say that. Until we find out where he was this morning, he's in.”

  “Still, I can't see a husband doing all that,” Plemmons said. He grubbed a pouch of Red Man tobacco from his pocket and held it open to Early. The sheriff waved it away. Plemmons took a wad. He shoved it in his mouth. “You consider that one of the soldiers may have slipped off the reservation? They got some real hell-raisers there.”

  “Fort Riley? It's possible.”

  “Well, as many drunks as I've had to arrest, driving back to the post from Junction City—some of them real nasty—I got a pipe into the post. You want me to shake the bushes? If one of those mutts did it, he's gonna brag to his buddies.”

  “Mutts? You talk like a drill sergeant.”

  “I was.”

  A smile spread across Early's face. He noodled the turf with his boot toe. “Knew there was a reason I didn't like you.”

  “Buck private?”

  “Two-striper.”

  “Then why'd you ever pick up a badge?”

  The sheriff glanced up sideways. “Same reason you did. It pays the bills.”

  Plemmons spit a stream of amber juice at a potato vine. The splat sent a potato bug tumbling. “They say the stuff in tobacco makes a terrific insect killer,” he said, and turned again to Early. “Supposing it was just a stranger passing through, some ghoul with an itch to kill. We had one of those down in Lyons County, down by Bushong.”

  “Heard about that. Killed three before you got him.”

  “Then it was by damn luck.”

  “I got my deputies and we got the town constables. Hardly a stranger comes through we don't hear about. I'll have Hutch call around.”

  “One other possibility you've got to check out,” Plemmons said, settling in for a contemplative chew.

  “What's that?”

  “She was seeing someone on the sly.” Plemmons handed over an object the size of a dime. “Found it in the toe area, under one of the kitchen cabinets. A uniform button.”

  “Army,” Early said as he turned it over.

  “Maybe the woman decided not to leave her husband and the whole thing went bad.”

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  August 16—Tuesday Evening

  Taking the News Home

  Early cut the engine of his Jeep. When he stepped out, he saw his wife in the twilight, sitting on a tree stump down by the creek, her back to him, her hair breeze-blown. Early strolled toward her. He picked up a stick and slapped at milkweed along the path, sending great clouds of gossamer parachutes into the air, to drift on the evening currents.

  He tossed the stick aside when he came up behind Thelma. After some hesitation, Early put his hand on her shoulder. “You heard, huh?”

  “The Friendly Neighbor—the radio—yes . . . Was it bad?”

  How truthful dare he be? Some moments passed before Early said yes.

  “Where's Judy's son?” Thelma asked.

  “Etta Gibbs has him.”

  “That's good,” she said, staring off into distance. “Be hard on him if strangers had to take him in. Does he know?”

  “How do you tell a three-year-old?”

  “I suppose.”

  “So how long you been out here?”

  “I don't know. Late afternoon, I guess.”

  “Mind if I sit a spell?”

  She didn't reply, so Early eased himself down on the stubbly grass. He hugged his knees until a hand, so warm, filled with care, touched his shoulder. Early reached for the hand and leaned back, coming to rest against the stump and Thelma's hip.

  “It's a hard world to bring a child into, isn't it?” she said.

  “Some days seem like.”

  “You think anybody would ever come after me?”

  “No.”

  “You seem awful sure of that.”

  This time Early didn't reply.

  “Come on, Jimmy, talk to me.”

  “Look, I'm the sheriff. If people get mad at me, they're going to come after me.”

  “And leave me a widow.”

  “That's not going to happen.”

  “Can you guarantee it?”

  “Of course not. You want me to quit?”

  “No, but I've been scared, thinking about Judy. Who do you think killed her?”

  “Thel, I've got no idea.”

  “Did you find her diary?”

  “I didn't know she kept one.”

  “Every day at school, at lunch, and sometimes after school, she'd be writing in her diary. I asked her why, and she said it was a way to keep her mind organized, a way she wouldn't forget the things of the day.”

  “No, there wasn't a diary at the house.”

  “Strange.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “You think someone could have taken it?”

  “Thel, you ask questions that don't have answers.”

  “That's what wives do.”

  “So I'm coming to learn.”

  “You hungry?”

  Lunch at The Brass Nickel was an awfully long time back, yet Early sensed a “yes” would be the wrong answer. “Not particularly,” he said.

  “I wouldn't mind sitting here, watching the stars come out.”

  Early felt a tiny sting on the side of his face. He slapped at the sting and, when he brought his hand away, there on his fingers laid a crumpled mosquito and a splash of red.

  “They don't bother me,” Thelma said.

  “Apparently, you don
't taste good.”

  A hand swatted Early's hat forward, over his eyes. “Envious, I know,” he said.

  “You can be the devil. . . . You think Bill killed Judy?”

  “I can't picture that. Besides, he's off traveling for the railroad. We've got calls in, trying to locate him.”

  “This is going to be hard for him.”

  “I expect it is.”

  “If he's away, who's arranging for the . . . you know.”

  “These things take care of themselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, after Doc Grafton does what he has to do—”

  “An autopsy, yes.”

  “—Sherm Brown and his boy get the body. They prepare it for the ground.”

  She rubbed Early's shoulder. “Well, with Bill away, I'd better go over to the house and pick a dress for Judy to be buried in. You wouldn't think of that.”

  “The house, it's not pretty.”

  “I can deal with that. She was my friend.”

  “And I'll bet you want to go now.”

  “Cowboy, you said you weren't hungry.”

  Early turned the steering wheel of his Jeep. He guided the machine off the county road and onto the drive that led up to the Smittses' house, the tires crunching gravel.

  “Doesn't look right, the house all dark,” Thelma said from the passenger seat.

  “Well, nobody's there. Not even the dog. Mose Dickerson took him home rather than leave him here alone.”

  Early stopped the Jeep near the front door. He recovered his heavy Eveready flashlight, the kind with the long barrel filled with double-D cells, and came around the front of the Jeep to find Thelma waiting for him. “Well,” he said, flicking on the light, “I suppose.”

  He offered his arm to his wife. She took it, and they went on, up the steps to the door and inside. Early flashed his light to where the wall switch should be and turned on the light in the front room.

  “Ohmylord.”

  “We're thinking robbery,” he said. “Until we get Bill back here, we don't know what's missing. You have any idea?”

  “I can't be sure.”

  They went on through the dining room to the kitchen, Thelma's shoes lightly touching the floor as they walked, Early's boots coming down with a firmness that suggested there was nothing new here to him.

  Early turned on the room's light. He felt Thelma's hand tighten on his arm and, when he turned to her, saw horror in her eyes. “Hon,” he said, “there's going to be a whole lot more blood, all of it dried. You don't have to do this.”

  She whispered, “I have to.”

  “All right, then.” Early led on down the side hallway. At the first bedroom, he reached inside and turned on the light.

  Early went on in, his wife close behind. He heard her gag and run from the room, toward the kitchen. “You all right?” he called out as he trotted after her.

  The sounds of retching echoing from the sides of a porcelain sink provided the answer.

  Thelma gasped for air. “Think I'd be used to throwing up.”

  Early filled a glass with water, handed it to his wife. While she spat and spat, and spat again, he soaked a towel under the faucet and wrung out the excess. “Come on, let's get you sat down,” he said, guiding Thelma to a chair.

  “I can't go back in there.”

  “You don't have to.” He gave her the towel. “Here, clean up some. I'll go see what I can find.”

  Early watched as his wife put the towel to her face, chalk white. “You be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  He backed away. Two steps and he turned and went down the hall to the bedroom. Early pawed through the contents of a closet. He pulled out a couple summer-type dresses on hangers that looked good to him and a dark blue suitdress that struck Early as the woman's Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit. He held them out for Thelma when he walked back into the kitchen.

  “The suitdress,” she said. “She made that for her college graduation, then wore it at her wedding.”

  “No white or lace?”

  “Said that wasn't the kind of person she was.” Thelma wiped the towel down her face and pressed it against the back of her neck. “She was proud she could still fit in that dress. Now you need to find some jewelry.”

  “And a blouse?” Early asked as he laid the suitdress across the table.

  “Hon, didn't your momma teach you anything? A suitdress is a dress with a jacket. It doesn't need a blouse.”

  Early's face took on the look of a small boy who'd just had his hands slapped by a ruler-wielding teacher. He mumbled a sorry as he went back to the bedroom.

  “And shoes,” Thelma called out. “Should be blue heels somewhere that match the dress.”

  “Jewelry and shoes, jewelry and shoes, jewelry and shoes,” Early muttered as he played his flashlight over the floor of the closet. Two pairs of men's shoes—work shoes and polished shoes that appeared to be almost new—then three pairs of women's shoes, one pair of dark blue heels. These he carried over to a mirrored dresser.

  “If I were a woman and I had jewelry,” Early said, opening drawers, shining his light in . . . men's shorts and socks, women's underthings. One more drawer on the right. There among hair brushes and combs, a velvet box. Early brought the box out. He smiled when he opened it.

  A voice came from the kitchen. “Finding everything?”

  “Oh yes.” Early stuffed the box under his arm. He picked up the shoes and left the room, turning out the light as he went.

  “How are these?” he asked, holding out the shoes.

  Thelma motioned for them to be placed with the suitdress.

  He then slid the velvet box in front of his wife. “I don't know nuthin' about jewelry.”

  “I can believe that. You gave me a cigar band for an engagement ring.”

  “Well, I didn't have any money.”

  Thelma sorted through the contents. “Was Judy wearing her wedding ring when you found her?”

  “I don't think so. . . . No. Come to think of it, Doc thought that was odd, he being an old married man.”

  “Well, it's not here in her jewelry box.”

  “So?”

  “What kind of sheriff are you?”

  “Apparently not the best.”

  “Well, look around the sink. Sometimes we take off our rings when we're washing dishes.”

  Early found an SOS pad in a dish, but nothing more. He came back to the table, holding his hands out in an exaggerated shrug.

  Thelma again sorted through the velvet box. This time she stopped on what appeared to Early to be a modest piece of costume jewelry, the type one would pin to a blouse or a jacket. He took it and turned it over. “A Star of David?”

  “Didn't you know she was Jewish?”

  “My God, I'm beginning to think there's a helluva lot of things I don't know.”

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  August 17—Wednesday Morning

  David and Bill

  Early strolled into Weichselbaum's Clothing Store in Leonardville. When he didn't find anyone tending the stock, he called out, “Granny, you here?”

  “Back in the kitchen, Jimmy. You look for yourself a new suit, I'll be with you in a minute.”

  Herschel Granville Weichselbaum, second generation in Leonardville. His father, a tailor, had come within three years of the founding of the town, and had made and sold men's clothing well into his eighties. Granny had been at it himself for four decades.

  This was the second location for Weichselbaum's, a long, narrow store with the standard pressed-tin ceiling. Granny had paneled the walls with chestnut oak after the old man died, an extravagance he would not have approved. Granny had also gone to stocking ready-made suits and shirts, heresy to the old man. Tailoring was going the way of the buggy-whip trade, Granny had told Early when the first shipment arrived.

  A short man bustled in from the back, an apron tied up under his arms. He held out a plate. “Jimmy, you gotta try this. A
mbrosia. Best candy I've made yet.”

  Early took a chocolate cup from the plate—one of six on it—the cup filled with a gooey white something. Melted marshmallow?

  He bit in, and the cup crumbled. And Early scrambled his hands beneath his chin to catch the pieces and the goo, half smiling as he chewed. “Bit messy.”

  “Yes, I haven't got the thickness right, but what do you think?”

  “Cherry in there.”

  “Syrup, that's right.”

  “Marshmallow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Really good chocolate.”

  “Milk chocolate, that's why it's so sweet. With the craze in this country for candy, if I can get this all worked out, I could be the next Mister Hershey. Be a millionaire.”

  Early licked the last from his fingers. “Would you settle maybe for a thousandaire?”

  Granny's jowls drooped. “You wouldn't buy it?”

  “I didn't say that. I'm just not much of a candy man. You try this out on the kids.”

  Granny popped one of the cups into his mouth. He set the plate aside and, while he ate, gave Early a wet rag.

  The sheriff worked it around his fingers, then wiped his mouth. “It is good. Got a name for it?”

  “How about Weichselbaum's Superior Gooey-Good Chocolate Cups?”

  “That's a lot to get on a package.”

  “Well, maybe,” Granny said, taking back the rag. He again held out the plate, but Early refused it. “You find you a new suit?”

  “No.”

  “Then why'd you come by, just because I'm such a sweet fella?” Granny ate another chocolate cup.

  “Information.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You heard about Judith Smitts?”

  Granny pushed his glasses up on top of his bald head. “Tragic. Simply tragic.”

  Early took the Star of David from his pocket. The tailor-cum-candymaker pulled his glasses back down. He examined the jewelry. “Yes, this is Judith's. You didn't know, did you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Most of us Jews, we keep our heads down.”

  Puzzlement crept across Early's face.

  “Jimmy, we aren't all that popular amongst you Gentiles. If you've got a name like Weichselbaum, you can't hide. But if you are a Silverberg and you marry a Smitts, and you don't have a hooked nose, you can pass. Mm-hmm.”