by Carolyn Hart
When she passed Victory Café, she frowned at the streaks of dust on the plate glass. Tonight she’d scrub the front window. The café was crowded, all the seats at the counter taken, most of the booths full. It had been that way ever since the war started, even though many days they didn’t have any meat. But Grandmother’s spaghetti and homemade tomato sauce and her macaroni and cheese were big favorites. Funny, she didn’t even know what the special was today. This must be the first morning in forever that she’d not opened up with Grandmother. Right now her achy stomach felt hollow, but she kept right on walking. She’d eat later.
At the courthouse, Gretchen went straight to the third floor, which housed the offices for the court clerk and the county attorney and the judge. Past the courtroom at the far end of the broad marble hallway, a clump of young men clustered near the closed door to the draft board. Three big ceiling fans stirred the hot air. The windows at either end of the hall were pushed high.
On the wall opposite the frosted glass door of the county attorney’s office, there were big photographs of the county judge and the county attorney. Judge Alonzo Miller was old with a wrinkled face, thick glasses, and a weedy mustache. Donald Durwood looked young and handsome and kind of noble, like Alan Ladd in that movie where he’d been a soldier for money and then he knew he had to do the right thing. There’d been a lot of pictures in the county attorney’s file at the Gazette from the days when he played high school football and later at A&M. He looked more stern in this picture, steely gaze, jaw set. She opened the door, stepped into a small anteroom. The door to the county attorney’s office was to the left. It was closed. Wooden filing cabinets ranged against the opposite wall. The anteroom held three desks, the largest a brown walnut. On the big desk were a typewriter, a telephone, in and out boxes, a brown leather desk pad, and neat stacks of correspondence. A Coke bottle sat next to a blue pottery plate with a sandwich, potato chips, and a dill pickle. A long golden oak table stacked with brown manila folders was pushed next to the wall beneath the three big windows, open to catch any breeze. Mrs. Holcomb, a buxom woman with shiny brown hair bunched in sausage-thick curls, held a fly swatter high above her head, poised to strike.
As the door clicked shut, she whispered, “Wait, Gretchen. Hush. Oh”—a sigh of frustration—“it’s moved. If you hadn’t come in just now . . . I hate wasps. What a morning.” Abruptly, she lurched forward, swung. The wasp tumbled to the shiny wooden floor. She bustled to the walnut desk, plucked a tissue from a drawer, gingerly picked up the insect, flung it into a green metal wastebasket. “There.” She paused, pushed back a tendril of loose hair. “Come in, my dear. I’d close the windows, but then it’s worse than a sweat-shop in here. There must be a nest of them right under the eaves. I was just having my lunch. Do you suppose wasps smell food? What can I do for you? Mr. Durwood isn’t here. If you’re here about Mrs. Tatum’s murder—oh”—her voice dropped—“it’s so awful. Poor little Barb. But Mr. Durwood did the right thing, hard as it was.” She dropped into her chair, but made no move to pick up her sandwich. “The look on her face when she came out of his office just broke my heart. I wanted to grab her up in my arms, but she just walked past me like I wasn’t even here. She went over to her desk and grabbed her purse from the drawer. I understand she’s staying at your house. Will you tell her I wish I could help?” She picked up the Coke bottle, took a deep swallow. “I don’t know if anything can help with the police looking for her father. It seems pretty clear he was the one that did it. I’ll tell you, Gretchen, drinking leads a man straight to hell.”
“Why was Barb in Mr. Durwood’s office?” Gretchen glanced at the closed door. “What happened?”
The secretary scooted her chair closer to her desk, took a bite of her sandwich. “He had to let her go.” Mrs. Holcomb’s tone was mournful. “I mean, he has to do the right thing. That’s what he told me when he came out. If ever a man looked unhappy, it was him. But like he said, there can’t be any appearance of favoritism before the law and if Barb worked at his office, why, people might think he wasn’t going to do his job and make sure the police arrest Mr. Tatum if he turns out to be the guilty party.”
Gretchen heard the buzz of a wasp. She waved it away with her handful of copy paper.
“Another one!” Mrs. Holcomb came to her feet. She squealed as the wasp came near her, tried to make herself small as she darted toward the swatter atop a filing cabinet.
“What if Mr. Tatum is innocent?” Gretchen raised her voice. “Barb heard someone knock on the front door. Her dad wouldn’t knock.”
The swatter slapped against the table, killing the wasp. Mrs. Holcomb edged the head of the swatter beneath the wasp, scooped it up, dropped it in the wastebasket.
“Her dad wouldn’t knock,” Gretchen repeated, remembering the certainty in Barb’s voice.
Mrs. Holcomb dropped the swatter on a cabinet. She shrugged. “Oh, my dear, there’s all kinds of reasons he might knock. Maybe Faye locked the door. You know, they had a big fight at the Blue Light. Everybody heard her yelling at him. And there she is, dead not much later. Of course the police think Clyde’s the one. Mr. Durwood says Barb didn’t understand how her daddy’s the main suspect. He hated having to tell her. She was real upset.”
OUT ON THE sidewalk, Gretchen heard the jukebox, Judy Garland singing “The Last Time I Saw Paris.” Mrs. Jacobs had told the class that she’d never been to Paris but she cried every time she heard the song. Gretchen opened the screen door, stepped into a tumult of noise, people talking as they ate, the clatter of dishes, a rumble of laughter from a booth at the back. Gretchen squeezed behind the counter, heading for the phone beside the cash register. Mrs. Perkins gave her a harried look. “Gretchen, listen, can you take some orders? We’re swamped.”
Gretchen hesitated. She hadn’t had lunch yet, and it was past one o’clock. Mr. Dennis wouldn’t mind if she took a few minutes to help out. She reached under the counter, found an apron, slipped it on. But she kept her eye on the clock. She wouldn’t take more than half an hour. She tried the Tatum house twice. Each time the operator said there was no answer. Was Barb there and refusing to pick up the phone? No, she wouldn’t do that. She’d answer in case it might be her dad.
In one of her trips to the kitchen, Gretchen fixed herself a bowl of the special—stewed okra and tomatoes with corn bread—and called hello to her grandmother. Grandmother smiled but she was too busy to talk, moving swiftly from stove to counter, ladling up the special, cutting more corn bread just out of the oven, pausing to flip grilled cheese sandwiches. There were no hamburgers today, but big red franks split wide sizzled on the griddle. Gretchen ate a few bites from her bowl each time she darted in to pick up orders.
She checked the clock. Half past one. She reached back to untie her apron, then let her hand fall. The screen door banged and the county attorney and the sheriff came in. Gretchen bent her head to look past them. Chief Fraser wasn’t with them. Maybe that was to be expected considering how Ralph Cooley said the prosecutor and the chief weren’t getting along. Durwood was talking fast and gesturing energetically to Sheriff Moore. She looked up and up to see the crown of the sheriff’s hat. Durwood was looking up too. As the men crossed the floor, they stopped at almost every table. Durwood’s curly blond hair was damp with sweat. His white dress shirt clung to him. As he reached out to shake hands or clap friends on the back, heavy gold cuff links glistened. The county attorney looked tense and worried, the sheriff grim. Gretchen had often seen them here at the café. Durwood always had a friendly word for everybody. Sometimes his wife, Sheila, met him here for lunch and that was exciting because she was a Winslow. Every town has its aristocracy. The Winslows lived on Hickory Hill. Everyone stood a little straighter when Sheila Durwood came by, gracious and always elegant. Grandmother said Mr. Durwood and his wife were one of the town’s finest young couples. Durwood almost always had a smile on his face. There was talk of him running for the state senate. Everybody said he was a natural. Gretchen wasn’t s
ure exactly what that meant, but the men admired his athletic physique and women smiled over his curly blond hair and blue eyes and ready grin. He wasn’t smiling today.
Sheriff Moore swept off his Stetson. His face was all points and angles, the bones jutting from his cheeks, his chin sharp as a V. His gaze swept the café. He hulked behind the younger man, dark brown eyes peering out from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. The curving mustache that ended near the jawline was gray, too. His bony face was tanned the color of mahogany except for a thin white band near the hairline marking the fit of his cowboy hat.
“Hidey, Donny, Sheriff.” A voice rose above the greetings. “What’s the latest on the murder?” Mayor Burkett came to his feet. He tossed his napkin onto the table, reached out to shake Durwood’s hand, then the sheriff’s. “This has been a shock to all of us. Are you making progress?” His plump face creased in concern. Mayor Burkett always wore a white suit and a straw boater in the summertime.
Gretchen edged nearer. She held the order pad.
Durwood’s cheeks puffed in exasperation. “Some of us are.” His tone was sour. “I can’t get a straight answer out of the chief. Looks to me like he’s wasting a lot of time out at the Blue Light. Wants to know the name of every man Faye Tatum talked to or danced with. But Paul and I”—the county attorney jerked his head toward the sheriff—“are doing everything we can. We’ve driven a lot of back roads. The sheriff’s got two search teams with dogs out. Nobody’s seen Tatum since he left the Blue Light last night. His car’s still in the parking lot so we think he’s on foot.”
The mayor rocked back on his heels. His frown deepened. “Don’t like the sound of it, a dangerous fugitive at large. What if he comes up to a farmhouse with only womenfolk there?”
The sheriff shifted the lump of chewing tobacco in one cheek. “Radio’s telling everybody to keep their doors locked, not answer to a stranger. I don’t think people need to be scared. He isn’t armed, so far as we know. Nobody saw a gun at the Blue Light and he was in his uniform. No place to carry a gun. Now that would be a horse of a different color—”
J. B. Miles, the cattle auctioneer, boomed, “The posse would be shooting at the twitch of a bush if Clyde had a gun.”
Sheriff Moore smiled but his eyes were as hard as agates. “We’ll pick him up pretty soon. We’re checking the bus and train stations in Tulsa. We’ll find him if he’s still around here.” The sheriff flung a knobby hand toward the door of the café. “But he may have thumbed a ride on 66.”
Mayor Burkett reached into his hip pocket for his wallet. “One thing seems mighty clear. An innocent man would have come home, no doubt about it. I sure don’t like the idea of Tatum running around loose. I told Chief Fraser how I felt about it and I’m telling you. I’ve called a special meeting of the city council for Friday night if we don’t have this thing cleared up by then.” The mayor’s bulbous eyes challenged the county attorney and sheriff. “The council expects to hear from both of you.”
“You can count on us.” Durwood met the mayor’s gaze. “We’ll be at the meeting. And we’ll have plenty to report.” It was the mayor who looked away, began to count out his change.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “I expect it will all be over by Friday night. See you, gentlemen.” He jerked his head toward the booths. “Come on, Donny.”
Gretchen followed them.
Durwood slid into the booth. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, swiped at his face.
The seat squeaked as the sheriff sat down. He gave a little bark of laughter. “Getting to you, Donny? You gotta get a thicker skin if you’re going to stay in politics.”
Durwood jammed the handkerchief into his pocket. “The mayor doesn’t worry me. It’s damn hot today, Paul.” He looked up at Gretchen, smiled. “What’s good today?”
The sheriff picked up the menu. “Get yourself some summer shirts. Those long sleeves would make anybody sweat.”
The county attorney reached for the ice water, took a big gulp. “Hey, I got to wear these shirts.” He held out his arm. “Look at that.” He moved his wrist and the gold cuff link was bright as a piece of sunshine. “Birthday present from Sheila. Lion heads.”
The sheriff glanced at the links. “I’d save ’em for winter.” His short-sleeve khaki shirt was open at the throat. “Let’s see, young lady. Got any fried baloney today?”
Gretchen took their orders. When she brought their lunches, fried baloney and turnips for Sheriff Moore and the special for Durwood and two iced teas, she put the glasses, each with lemon wedges and fresh mint, and plates on the table. She looked at the county attorney. His face was somber. He picked up his tea and drank it halfway down.
“Mr. Durwood.” Gretchen’s fingers curled around the edges of the serving tray. “Do you know where Barb is?”
“Barb?” He looked at Gretchen sharply.
The sheriff turned cold, inquiring eyes on Gretchen.
“Barb Tatum. I went to your office looking for her this morning. Barb said she was going to tell you about hearing a knock on the front door last night.” Gretchen balanced the tray on one hip.
“Barb Tatum?” The sheriff raised a bushy eyebrow. “I hadn’t heard about this.”
Durwood fingered one of his cuff links, his face drawn in a tired frown. “The knock on the door? That’s what she told me.” His voice was skeptical. “But what else could she say? Poor kid. Of course she claims somebody knocked on the door. She’s trying to protect her dad. But the minute she told me, I knew I had to let her go.” Though he sounded hard and determined, his face was sad. “She didn’t take it very well. I tried to explain, but I don’t think she ever got it. She’s been working in the office this summer and so far as I know, she did a good job but”—he spread out his hands palms up—“here she was, trying to give evidence in a case I’ll be handling. Obviously, we couldn’t have her in the office. There’s plenty of confidential material when I prepare a case and right now it looks like Clyde Tatum’s going to be arrested for the murder of his wife and I’ll prosecute. Still, I hated to tell her that.” He massaged the side of his face. “She was crying when she left. I asked my secretary to call around, see if she can line something up for the girl. Of course, a job’s probably the last thing she’s worried about right now. I don’t know if there’s any family here. Maybe she’ll be leaving town.” He dipped his spoon into the bowl.
The sheriff cut his bologna into quarters, speared a piece. “My son-in-law’s been looking for help. Colonial Insurance. They got a lot of papers to handle at his office.”
“I’ll tell Barb.” Gretchen hesitated, then said quickly, “Last night Barb came to my house for help. She told me then that she’d heard a knock on the door. And later Barb told the chief her mother answered the door and said, ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ and then there was a struggle and Barb ran away.”
“‘You’ve got a nerve,’” the sheriff repeated. “Hmm. Could be somebody Faye didn’t know well. Or didn’t expect to see. On the other hand, after the fight she and Clyde had, maybe that’s exactly what she’d say to him.”
Durwood spread the orangey oleo on his corn bread, stared up at Gretchen. He took a bite, spoke indistinctly. “So you were with Barb? Did you see anybody near the house?”
Mrs. Perkins clattered from behind the counter. “Gretchen, can you come help? We need you.”
Gretchen turned and saw her grandmother with her back to the dining area, holding the telephone and talking and Mrs. Perkins fluttering her hands toward the kitchen.
Gretchen glanced at the clock. Almost two. She needed to check in with Mr. Dennis, tell him she’d talked to Billy Forrester and she was getting started on the story about Faye Tatum. She would stay late this evening to make up for the time here at the café. So, if Grandmother needed help for a few more minutes, that was okay.
Behind her, she heard the sheriff’s gruff voice saying, “I suspect she died pretty quick. Tatum’s a big, strong man. I’d guess he was long gone when the girls got
to the house. He probably blundered out of the house and into the woods. That’s where we’ll find him, huddled in a thicket somewhere. Won’t surprise me if he’s dead.”
Gretchen stopped at the kitchen door, turned her head to listen.
The county attorney had lifted his iced tea, but stopped without drinking. “Dead?” He sounded startled.
The sheriff speared another piece of bologna. “Remorse. Clyde’s no killer. I’ve known him since he was a boy. A woman can drive a man a long way down a dark path. I reckon right now there’s no one sadder than Clyde.” He chewed, swallowed. “Except his little girl.”
. . . remembering. You were nice to me, Gretchen. You tried to make me feel better about Mama. But you didn’t know how awful it was, how bad I felt. That first day after she died, the whole world caved in on me. Daddy was missing. I didn’t know then that everybody thought he’d killed Mama. I went to the county attorney’s office to tell him about the knock on the door. He didn’t believe me. He told me it looked like he was going to have to try and send my daddy to jail. He told me the police were looking for Daddy. But he didn’t tell me why. I didn’t find out until the chief came to your house that evening. Donny Durwood only said he was sorry and I couldn’t work for him anymore. I walked out of his office and I couldn’t feel a thing. It was like nothing was real, not him or the streets or the cars or the people. . . .
CHAPTER 4
A CARDINAL FLASHED through the air, red as a dancing flame. He and I and a chittering squirrel were the only living creatures in the cemetery, but familiar figures moved in my memory, as real as the bright bird and the darting squirrel. Grandmother smiled at me, blue eyes shining, as she swiped floury hands on a blue apron with white scalloped edges. Mr. Dennis bent over yellow copy paper, marking, changing, correcting, then looked up with his sardonic, disbelieving, hopeful face. Donald Durwood sighed and I heard his sad murmur, “Poor kid.” Chief Fraser stood on the platform of the gazebo on the town square, big head thrust forward, eyes blazing, chin jutting, defying them all. I stood amid the graves, surrounded by ghosts. . . .
