Letter From Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “Gretchen, I heard a shot. You must not go out.” Grandmother hurried across the room and her soft hand clutched at Gretchen.

  “Just one shot. And no more.” Gretchen was impatient. “I heard Chief Fraser. I think he’s with Sergeant Petty and they’re looking for Sergeant Holliman.” She pointed up Archer Street. “Look, there’s the chief, running toward the backyard.” He was clearly outlined by the wash of light from the Kaufman front porch, a flashlight wavering in one hand, a gun held steady in the other. “I’ve got to find out what’s going on. Grandmother, please call Mr. Dennis. Tell him something’s happened at the Tatum house.”

  “And wake him up?” Her tone was scandalized. “At this hour?” Gretchen’s Big Ben alarm clock showed the time: 3:40.

  Gretchen swung her leg over the sill. “He won’t mind.” She was sure of it. She dropped to the ground. She wished she had a pencil and paper. She would have to pay close attention to remember everything right. She heard Grandmother’s protest, but Gretchen kept on going. The Crane house had lights at the back, but the front door was closed. The Tatum house was still dark. The Kaufman house was lit from front to back and Mrs. Kaufman, in a pink night-dress, her hair rolled in curlers, peered out the front door. “Larry, you come back here.”

  A flashlight bobbed toward the back of the Tatum house. Another shout, this one excited and shrill. “Chief, I’ve found Kenny. He’s hurt. We’ve got to get help.”

  Gretchen ran faster. She caught up with Chief Fraser as he strode along the side of the Tatum house. “Chief, has someone been shot?”

  The chief flapped a long arm at her and the flashlight beam speared into the night sky. “Get back, girl. I don’t know what’s happened.”

  Mr. Kaufman slammed the gate of his backyard. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Call an ambulance, Larry.” The chief’s voice was brusque. “I’ve got a man hurt. Sergeant Holliman.”

  Kaufman craned to see. “Jesus!” He swung heavily about and ran toward his house.

  The chief called after him, “Stay inside until we’ve looked around. Rosa, where are you?”

  “Back here. By the porch steps. I think it’s okay.” Her tone was careful. “I don’t see or hear anybody.”

  The chief disappeared behind the house. Gretchen hurried to the end of the wall, peeked around. A flashlight lay on the first tread of the wooden back steps. The light flooded over Sergeant Petty, who was kneeling by a still figure. Sergeant Holliman lay on one side, an arm outstretched, legs bent at the knees. A revolver was within inches of his lax fingers.

  Sergeant Petty held a gun in her right hand. Her eyes rapidly scanned the night, checking the yard, the woods, the houses next door. She used her left hand to explore the face and head of the downed man. Her fingers moved along the shoulders, across the chest, around the back. “I don’t find any blood. There’s some swelling on the side of his head. He’s unconscious, but he’s breathing steady.” She pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket, gripped the barrel of Holliman’s gun, lifted it to her nose. “Kenny didn’t shoot this gun. That shot . . .” She put the gun down and turned toward the dark woods. “Chief, I don’t know what happened. I was over there.” She gestured toward the weeping willows that marked the property line between the Tatum and Kaufman yards. “I didn’t see a thing, but I thought I heard something funny. I called out real low for Kenny and there wasn’t any answer. I didn’t like that so I started over this way. All of a sudden there was a bunch of noise all at once, a kind of banging and scrambling and a thunk like somebody got hit and the shot. It all came at once. I got out my gun and started running this way. I didn’t see anybody.” She gestured at the trees and their thick tangle of undergrowth. “If anybody got in there, we won’t find them now.”

  “Nope. Not now.” The chief’s voice was dour and angry.

  “Gretchen!” Grandmother came around the side of the house. “Where are—oh, there you are. Please, I called Mr. Dennis and then I got dressed.” She stopped, pressed her hand against her chest, tried to catch her breath.

  “It’s all right, Grandmother. I’ll come home in a little while. Mr. Dennis might need me. Please.”

  Grandmother looked about. “Is it safe to be here?”

  A car screeched around the corner onto Archer Street, jolted to a stop. Mr. Dennis slammed out of a black Ford. He left the headlights on and ran across the lawn. “What’s going on, Chief?”

  “Sergeant Holliman’s hurt.” He jerked his head toward the Kaufman house. “They’ve called an ambulance. We had the house surrounded, Holliman in the shrubs by the back door, Petty over in the willows, me in the oak tree in the front yard.”

  A siren rose and fell.

  Chief Fraser hurried to the side yard. He swung his flashlight in an arc.

  The ambulance bumped over the curb, came along the side of the house, stopped within a foot of the chief. The driver poked his head out the open window. “Gunshot?”

  Sergeant Petty pushed up from the ground. “Don’t think so, Timmy. Think he’s just knocked out. He’s over here.”

  The driver and his assistant, both middle aged, moved stiffly but quickly. They carefully eased Sergeant Holliman onto a stretcher, lodged him in the ambulance, and roared off down Archer Street on their way to the hospital.

  Mr. Kaufman came up beside Gretchen and her grandmother. He was still shirtless, but he had pulled on a pair of dark pants. “You all hear the shot, too?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “What happened to Kenny? Did he get shot? What was he doing?”

  “They were watching the Tatum house.” Gretchen spoke softly. She didn’t want to attract the chief’s attention.

  “Oh, waiting for Clyde to come, I guess. Did he?” Mr. Kaufman craned to look past the chief and Sergeant Petty.

  Gretchen didn’t answer. Why would Clyde Tatum come to his house? He’d told Grandmother he had some ideas. But what would he hope to find out here? Or to do here?

  “Clyde?” Grandmother’s face was stricken. “Was it Clyde? And a gunshot?”

  “Nobody saw him.” Gretchen wanted to take that scared look away from Grandmother’s face. “That’s just a guess.”

  “I’d say it has to be a pretty good guess,” Kaufman snapped. “Who else would want in there? After a murder and all?”

  Gretchen patted her grandmother’s shoulder, whispered, “It’s all right. Go on home. I’ll be there in a little while.”

  Mr. Dennis was right behind the chief and Sergeant Petty as they moved the beams of their flashlights across the ground. The springy grass was crumpled where Holliman had fallen. His revolver glistened in the light.

  “No blood,” Kaufman whispered. “That’s good.”

  “Get the gun, Rosa.” The chief swung his flashlight toward the back porch. Faye Tatum’s painting glistened, the oil fresh and bright. The beam moved, revealing the open door into the kitchen. “Looks like somebody got into the house. Holliman heard something, came up this way, and somebody knocked him down.”

  “The gunshot?” Sergeant Petty tucked her gun into its holster, held Holliman’s by the barrel.

  The chief lifted his big shoulders, let them fall. “When Kenny comes to, maybe we’ll find out. Come on, Rosa, let’s take a look inside.” He stopped on the bottom step, turned his flashlight on Mr. Dennis. “Police investigation. Nobody else can come in.” The beam moved, lighted Gretchen, danced around her, touched on Grandmother and Mr. Kaufman. “Lotte, you’re here.” His face creased in a frown. “And Miss Gretchen.”

  Grandmother took a step back.

  The chief looked around the yard. “Where’s Miss Barb? She can help us check out the house, see if anything’s missing.”

  Gretchen stepped forward. “She didn’t stay with us tonight. She’s at Amelia Brady’s. Do you want me to call and ask her to come?”

  He thought about it, yawned, shook his head. “No reason to wake her up, haul her out at night. I’ll talk to her in the morning.” He rubbed at his eyes. “If anyt
hing’s gone, we can’t do anything about it now. Come on, Rosa.” He paused on the steps. “You folks can go home now. Appreciate your help.” He glanced at Mr. Dennis, held up his hand. “I’ll talk to you in the morning, Walt. Ten o’clock.”

  “Aren’t you going to call the sheriff? Get some deputies out here to look through the woods?” Mr. Dennis waved his hand at the dark mass of trees.

  The chief scowled. “Don’t need any help.” He turned, stumped up the steps. Sergeant Petty followed. They moved across the porch. In a moment, lights flowed from every window of the little house.

  Mr. Kaufman scratched his chest. “Too little, too late if you ask me. Guess we won’t know what happened until Kenny comes to. If he does. Well, I think I’ll get back to bed.’Night.” He turned away.

  Grandmother took Gretchen’s arm. “Let’s go home now. It is very late.”

  Mr. Dennis trotted to them. “Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Pfizer.”

  Grandmother pushed back a tendril of loose hair. “I would not have done so but Gretchen insisted.”

  The editor nodded at Gretchen. “Good job. And Gretchen, here’s what I want you to do in the morning. . . .”

  GRETCHEN KEPT HER eye on the clock. She worked fast, turning the bacon as it sizzled, grating potatoes for the hash browns, beating eggs to scramble. Even though she and Grandmother had only had a little over an hour’s sleep when they got up at five, Gretchen wasn’t tired. She looked across the café kitchen. Grandmother’s shoulders sagged and she moved as if she had weights tied to her legs. Gretchen made up her mind. She had to get some help for Grandmother.

  “Be right back,” she called softly.

  Grandmother scarcely noticed as Gretchen pushed through the swinging door into the front of the café. The lights were off but sunlight slanted through the plate glass, pooling on the wooden floor in a lake of gold. Gretchen hurried behind the counter. She picked up the phone, gave the operator a familiar number.

  “Hello.” Alarm lifted the high, strong voice.

  “Cousin Hilda, this is Gretchen. I’m sorry to call so early, but I wondered if you could help Grandmother at the café today.” Gretchen picked up a cloth, wiped a smear from the counter. “She’s hardly had any sleep the last two nights. There was more trouble at the Tatum house last night.”

  A quick indrawn breath. “More trouble? Lord have mercy. What’s happened now?”

  “Somebody broke into the house and there was a shot and Sergeant Holliman’s in the hospital. But he wasn’t shot so nobody knows exactly what happened. But it woke us up and—”

  “Ach, and I suppose you and Lotte had to go see what happened? It would have been better to stay in your house and be safe. I saw the story in the newspaper with your name.” There was no approval in the heavily accented words. “A young girl should not know about such things. That woman—going to a tavern and dancing with men. No wonder her husband was angry. It said in the newspaper someone told him there had been men at their house while he was gone. That will drive a man to drink and when men drink and lose their tempers, these kinds of things happen.”

  “But he—” Gretchen snapped her lips shut. She’d come so near letting out the truth. She must never tell anyone of Grandmother’s visit to the Purdy cabin, no matter what anyone said about Clyde Tatum. Abruptly, she understood Grandmother’s insistence that he come home. He must return and tell people he was innocent. If he didn’t, everyone would be sure of his guilt. Gretchen said quickly, “They don’t know what happened to Mrs. Tatum. They think a man may have followed her home—”

  “If she had not been at a tavern without her husband, she would not have been in danger, would she? Now what is this you are calling about?” Suddenly the hardness fled. Cousin Hilda’s voice was full of concern. “Is Lotte sick?”

  “She’s tired and her chest hurts.” Gretchen looked toward the kitchen door. “She doesn’t know I’ve called, but I have to go to work—”

  “To that newspaper office? I tell you, Gretchen, I do not think that is a good place for you.” Cousin Hilda gave a decided cluck, just the way she always preceded any pronouncement with which she expected everyone in the family to agree. “Family comes first. That is what you must tell them. It is not a place for a nice girl. Or for any woman. I’ve heard about newspapermen and how they act. I’ve seen that Ralph Cooley walking around town with a swagger as though he is so big a man. And he smells always of whisky. So, it is your duty to stay with your grandmother. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise—”

  Faye Tatum’s murder? Clyde Tatum’s running away? Grandmother’s hurting chest? Sergeant Holliman’s injury? Gretchen gripped the receiver, felt a wash of panic. Give up her job? She had a quick painful memory of Grandmother’s tired face and the slow way she walked. But Grandmother had been so proud of her story with the byline. Grandmother wouldn’t ask her to quit. She wouldn’t ask . . . Gretchen drew her breath in sharply. “Cousin Hilda, I’ve got to go. But Grandmother needs to go home and go to bed. I hope you can help us.” She hung up. Her hands were hot and sweaty. Give up her job . . .

  She walked into the kitchen and checked the clock. Almost six. Almost time to open and Mrs. Perkins wasn’t here. Gretchen couldn’t leave her grandmother alone to manage the cooking and the serving. But Mr. Dennis was counting on Gretchen finding Barb this morning before the chief saw her. And Gretchen wanted to get started on the story about Faye Tatum so everybody wouldn’t be like Cousin Hilda and think Faye was a bad woman because she went to a tavern without her husband. Almost six . . . they would be up for breakfast now at the Brady house. Gretchen was determined to call and talk to Barb.

  The back door opened and Mrs. Perkins, her long face drooping, scuttled inside. “Sorry I’m late. Morning, Lotte, Gretchen. I’ll get out front and get the lights on and the door open.” She ducked away, not looking toward either.

  Gretchen would have spoken up, reminded Mrs. Perkins that she had been late three days running, but Grandmother shook her head. As the door swung shut behind Mrs. Perkins, Grandmother said quickly, “Everyone does their best, mein Schatz.”

  At least Mrs. Perkins had come. Quickly, Gretchen untied her apron, pulled it off. “Grandmother, I need to go now.” She crumpled the apron in her hands. “Will you be all right?” Should she stay?

  Grandmother turned from the stove. Her face was still gray though tinged with pink from the heat of cooking and her exertion. “I will be fine. You go now. You have much to do.” Her tone was proud. “And we will have such a happy time when your mama comes home.”

  Gretchen darted across the kitchen and hugged Grandmother. She hung her apron on its hook and hurried out the door.

  Gretchen rode her bike to the Gazette office, but didn’t stop when she saw the windows were still dark. She’d thought perhaps Mr. Dennis might have come in really early, but he was probably tired this morning. He would likely be there by seven. She turned onto Archer Street. She would use the phone at home to call the Brady house. She sure didn’t want to miss Barb.

  She eased her bike to a stop in front of the Tatum house. She didn’t see any trace of police. Did the chief still have someone watching the house? Maybe, maybe not. Everyone last night believed the unseen intruder was Clyde Tatum, coming home for something he needed. If that was true, there wouldn’t be any point in a police watch now.

  Gretchen stared at the dark windows. The house already had the abandoned air of a boarded-up shanty on a country road. If she were Barb, she would never spend a night there. How could Barb bear to go inside that house, knowing what had happened there?

  Gretchen pushed up on the bike seat, began to pedal, careful to keep her skirt away from the chain. She glanced at the Crane house. Mrs. Crane must have heard the uproar last night, but she hadn’t come outside.

  Gretchen turned into her driveway. A slim figure rose from the swing on the front porch. Barb wore a striped cotton blouse and blue shorts. Her russet hair looked mussed and wilted.

  Gretchen put on a b
urst of speed. What luck that Barb had come. It wouldn’t be necessary to call the Brady house after all. “Barb . . .” Gretchen dropped the bike beside the steps, hurried onto the porch. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was going to call you at Amelia’s. Listen, somebody broke into your house last night and Chief Fraser wants you to go through the house with him and see if anything’s missing.”

  Barb frowned, looked down the street. “Broke into our house? Why? Who did it?”

  “Nobody knows. Come on, let’s call the chief.” Gretchen opened the front door. “You didn’t need to wait on the porch.”

  Barb stepped inside. “I didn’t want to go in when nobody was home. I was thinking about coming to the café, but I decided to rest for awhile.” Her voice was dull. She lifted the canvas bag. “I brought my stuff. I thought maybe I could stay here during the day. Amelia’s mother—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.

  Gretchen grabbed the bag. “Why don’t you spend the night, too? You can stay with us as long as you want to.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll go back to Amelia’s tonight. But last night Mrs. Brady talked and talked and talked and her voice was just so soft and sweet”—Barb’s tone was mincing and saccharine then hard with bitterness—“and she’s just like Reverend Byars. She’s saying Mama—” Barb broke off, pressed her hand against her mouth.

  “Oh, Barb, I’m sorry.” Gretchen almost told Barb not to pay any attention to Mrs. Brady. But how could Barb ignore ugly words about her mother? If Barb knew what Cousin Hilda had said . . .

  “I don’t care.” Barb’s eyes blazed. “I know better. Mama was—oh, Gretchen, you know how Mama was. You’re going to write that story about her, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Gretchen wished she could go to the Gazette office right this minute and start calling. Would Faye’s friends be willing to talk about her? Could she get the story done in time for tomorrow evening’s paper? But first . . . “Barb, we have to call the chief and see—”

  Barb lifted a trembling hand to her face. “Would it be okay if I had something to eat?” Her voice was small.