Letter From Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “Oh, Gretchen.” It was a wail. “I’m sorry. Reverend Byars is mad about that story on Mrs. Tatum. He told everybody it was just like consorting with the devil, to write things that make her sound like she was a good person. Wilma’s dad—you know he’s a deacon—he said she couldn’t have you over again and she had to call and tell you. Oh, Gretchen, I’m sorry.” Tonya hung up.

  Gretchen replaced the receiver. Last year everybody said Jolene Carter had spent the night in the barn with Will Toomey. After that, nobody had anything to do with Jolene and she walked through the halls by herself, sat alone in the cafeteria. One day she didn’t come to school anymore. A man fishing at Placid Lake found her body. Everybody said it was an accident.

  THE LOT BEHIND the courthouse was full and every parking place was taken on both sides of Cimarron Street. People milled around outside city hall. Lights burned in all the ground-floor windows of the long red brick building.

  Gretchen, trying to squeeze past a clot of men near the shallow front steps, caught bits of their conversations. “. . . can’t get in . . . packed . . . sheriff said no progress . . . carry out a table . . .”

  “Excuse me, please,” she said. “Excuse me . . .”

  Mr. Kraft, the banker, shook his head, his thick silver mustache quivering. “You can’t get through.” His silvery brows drew down over his pale green eyes. “Why are you here, Gretchen? This isn’t a place for girls.”

  She lifted her voice to be heard over the crowd, a deep rumble like cows mooing in a feedlot. “I’m here for the Gazette, Mr. Kraft.”

  His face was unsmiling. “Gilman . . .” He tugged at his mustache. “I saw the paper tonight. You wrote that story about Faye Tatum, didn’t you?” His lips poked out like a man who’d tasted vinegar.

  Gretchen lifted her chin, met his sharp gaze. “I did.” It was a good story. Mr. Dennis put it on the wire. She wanted to tell Mr. Kraft, but she didn’t dare.

  “You shouldn’t be talking to people like Lou Hopper.” The banker’s voice made the name sound ugly. “I can tell you my daughter wouldn’t go near a place like the Blue Light.”

  Gretchen’s hands balled into fists. “Mrs. Hopper said—”

  His face pinched like he was looking at shiftless Mort Baker who never could hold a job. “Girl, I don’t care what Mrs. Hopper said.” He turned away.

  “Make way!” The deep shout parted the crowd jammed on the walk in front of city hall. Mayor Burkett bustled importantly down the steps, his plump face flushed and excited. He was followed by Sheriff Moore, who swept the onlookers with a sardonic gaze. County Attorney Durwood, his face beaded with sweat, shook hands in passing, slapped friends on the shoulder. Behind them, Chief Fraser and Sergeant Holliman carried a rectangular oak table. Chief Fraser’s face bulged in a grim frown. A lumpy white bandage swathed the left side of Sergeant Holliman’s head. His uniform cap was perched on the back of his head.

  Mayor Burkett gestured toward the gazebo in the city square. “There will be plenty of room for everybody on the square. We’ll set up in the gazebo.”

  Those who had come early and squeezed inside city hall came streaming out. A knot of men fanned out to make way for Sheila Durwood, slim and elegant in a white shantung dress with turquoise sleeves. Her hat was a froth of white feathers on her dark hair. She smiled graciously and walked with easy confidence across the street. There was always space for her. She was a Winslow. Gretchen spotted Mr. Dennis and Ralph Cooley and hurried to join them. They wormed their way right up to the steps of the gazebo. The crowd pressed close. Gretchen made notes as a Boy Scout troop put chairs behind the table. The four council members took their places.

  Gretchen knew all the council members: Mr. Thompson, the druggist; Mr. Evans, the town’s richest lawyer; Mr. Wilkins, who owned Wilkins Plumbing; and Mr. Randall, Best Department Store. Mr. Thompson’s suit was too large. Since Mike and Millard were killed in action, he’d lost weight and his face was always grooved in sadness. Mr. Evans wore pince-nez perched on a thin nose above pursed lips. A few strands of lank gray hair lay over a balding crown. Burly Mr. Wilkins loved baseball and coached a semipro team. He knew everybody in town and spoke in a booming shout. Mr. Randall’s white summer suit didn’t have a wrinkle and his panama hat sported a feather in the band. He sat stiffly, as if he wished he were somewhere else.

  Mr. Dennis bent down, whispered, “Keep your ears open for comments from the crowd, Gretchen.”

  Ralph Cooley rubbed his nose. “Durwood’s brought out the heavy artillery.”

  Gretchen looked up at him. “Artillery?”

  “The little woman. Or in his case, maybe he’s the little man.” Cooley’s voice was derisive. “Everybody says she runs him pretty good. Wants to be the governor’s wife—and he damn sure better make the grade.”

  The police chief and his sergeant stood to the left of the council members. The chief looked as grim and tired as he had the night Gretchen and Barb found Faye Tatum’s body. Sergeant Holliman occasionally touched his bandage as if his head hurt.

  Sheriff Moore and County Attorney Durwood were on the other side of the gazebo. Sheriff Moore, his expression impassive, leaned against a pillar, as tall and thin and somber as a white-faced Abe Lincoln in a daguerreotype. Donald Durwood lifted a hand in greeting, nodded hellos, managing to appear both serious and friendly, determined yet relaxed. Occasionally he glanced toward his wife, who looked as comfortable as though she were pouring tea at a women’s club meeting. But Durwood lacked his usual sheen; his face was sweaty, his blue suit wrinkled. Every so often, he wiped the sweat from his face, jammed the handkerchief back into his coat pocket.

  The mayor bustled importantly to the front of the gazebo.

  Ralph Cooley muttered, “Don’t hold your breath waiting for somebody else to get a word in.” But he folded copy paper over his hand, held his pencil ready.

  Gretchen thought about the man in the dirty khaki uniform hiding in the ramshackle cabin. These people wanted him run down and caught.

  Mayor Burkett boomed, “Fellow citizens, welcome. As your mayor, I am determined that public concerns shall always be promptly addressed. My fellow council members”—he waved a plump hand at the men sitting behind the table—“share that commitment. The safety of our families—”

  A shout came from the back of the crowd. “How come you ain’t caught Tatum yet?” Gretchen turned, stood on tiptoe. A rangy farmer’s leathery face twisted in a scowl. He shifted a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.

  A skinny man in a seersucker suit and white boater waved a copy of the Gazette. “Yeah. Where’s he got to? The paper says he’s got a gun. I don’t want to leave my wife and kids home alone. But she’s ready for him. I got the shotgun waiting.”

  “Stupid,” Mr. Dennis muttered. “Do they think Clyde’s gone nuts?”

  Voices rose. The crowd moved toward the gazebo. Mayor Burkett cried, “Wait a minute here. We’re here to—”

  Chief Fraser strode forward. He snatched off his big tan cowboy hat, thrust it out in front, like he was at a victory rally and everybody was pledging to buy war bonds. He glared at the crowd, stern as the Purdys’ bulldog, all bulging eyes and cheeks and blunt chin. “If Clyde Tatum’s out there, we’re going to find him. Nobody’s seen him since he left the Blue Light Tuesday night just after seven o’clock. Faye Tatum left at midnight. Clyde’s car is still in the Blue Light parking lot. We got dogs out there Wednesday morning. They ran around the lot, to and from the door, and then they sat on their butts. Now what does that tell us?” He jammed his hat on his head and his pugnacious gaze swept the crowd. Nobody spoke. Nobody stirred. “Clyde left in a car. We don’t know who took him. We don’t know where he went. We’ve checked the buses and the trains, got word out on the Teletype. Search parties have been all over the county.” Chief Fraser turned his big, callused hands palms up. “Not a trace. Nobody saw him near Archer Street. Nobody saw him with Faye. And Faye didn’t have a car to come and get him. Yet all of you”—he swept that
big hand toward the crowd, swung to look at the mayor and county attorney and each council member—“are positive that Clyde strangled Faye.”

  Sheriff Moore shrugged, but his face was cold and hard, determined. Mayor Burkett’s eyes fell away. Mr. Thompson tugged on an earlobe. Mr. Evans’s thin nose wriggled. Mr. Wilkins shifted uncomfortably in the too small chair. Mr. Randall smoothed the lapels of his white suit. The county attorney jammed his handkerchief in his pocket. He glanced at his wife. Her head tilted in an almost imperceptible nod. Durwood took a step forward.

  The chief spit out the words. “There’s no evidence. Sure, Faye and Clyde quarreled, but nobody saw him with her when she left the Blue Light. We’ve been checking out everybody who was there Tuesday night—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Durwood’s voice was mellifluous and it flowed out into the evening cool and certain as a river. The county attorney moved to the center of the platform, shaking his head a little. He suddenly seemed in his element, his smile deprecating, patient. “Let’s look at the facts.” Durwood sounded as though he were in court, addressing a jury, a man sure of his ground. Judge Miller once described him as a modern-day Wyatt Earp. “Donny always gets his man.” On that gazebo platform, he was in command even though his face was still sweaty.

  “Got his hands stuck in his pockets.” Ralph Cooley’s raspy whisper was amused. He cocked a cynical eyebrow. “Bet they’re shaking. Durwood knows he better sound good tonight or forget politics. He’s scared shitless this case is going to wreck him.”

  Durwood rocked forward on his feet. His voice dropped. “Faye Tatum and her husband quarreled Tuesday afternoon. They quarreled again at the Blue Light. Faye was strangled in her living room just after midnight. The police were on the scene within minutes.” Durwood walked to the edge of the steps, looked out at the crowd. “Did the police find Clyde Tatum there? No.” His hands came out of his pockets. “Did Clyde Tatum return to his home that night? No.” Each question and answer was louder. “What would an innocent man do if his wife was murdered? I’ll tell you.” Now it was a shout and he pounded a fist into his palm. “An innocent man would rush to the police, demand they find his wife’s killer. Instead, Tatum goes to earth, like a fox. Tatum didn’t come to the police or to the sheriff or to me. But Wednesday night, he goes to his house and even though there are officers there, he gets inside, gets his gun. And he gets away.” Durwood swung toward the chief. “Where’s Clyde Tatum?”

  The crowd roared. “Where is he? Where is he?”

  “That’s what we all want to know.” Mayor Burkett frowned and his pink face looked like a querulous Kewpie doll. He waggled a plump finger at Chief Fraser. “How come you let him slip through your fingers Wednesday night?”

  Chief Fraser said sharply, “The man who broke in wasn’t seen—”

  “Broke in?” The county attorney sounded shocked. He flung his arms wide. “There was no evidence of a break-in when Sheriff Moore and I examined the house on Thursday. Maybe you found something we didn’t.” He folded his arms, bent his head in a listening attitude. Sheriff Moore slowly nodded.

  Chief Fraser’s rough skin flushed a dull red.

  Ralph Cooley smothered a cough. “Durwood’s got him on the ropes.”

  The chief walked slowly across the planks, stood face-to-face with the county attorney, too close for comfort, but Durwood didn’t give an inch. Fraser was a much bigger man. Massive hands clenched, the chief leaned toward Durwood. “We don’t know how the intruder got in. The house was locked up but—”

  “So it looks like he had a key. Right?” Durwood’s voice was silky.

  “Maybe. But you know what, Donny?” The chief’s voice was hard. “Clyde Tatum left his keys—including the key to the front door—in his car.” Fraser reached in his pocket, pulled out a big shiny metal key ring with a half dozen keys dangling from it. “Here they are. Clyde Tatum didn’t have a key to his house.”

  Durwood frowned. “He could have had another key.”

  “Sure he could. So could somebody else. But you want to talk about facts.” The chief glared at Durwood. “The fact is we don’t know who got in the house or how he did it.”

  A chair scraped. Mr. Evans stood. “Gentlemen, please.”

  Cooley poked a cigarette in his mouth, lit it. “Oh, God, another lawyer. We’ll be here all night.” He heaved a sigh.

  Gretchen thought the lawyer looked as cool and gray as a dead fish belly up in the water.

  Councilman Evans cleared his throat. His voice was high, precise, and sharp, his narrow face sour. “Chief Fraser, what is the status of the investigation?”

  “The search for Clyde Tatum continues. We are seeking leads to Faye Tatum’s actions the night she died. We know she used the pay phone at the Blue Light. Who did she talk to? Did she make plans to meet somebody? Or did somebody follow her home from the Blue Light? We know she was surprised by the person who killed her. Her daughter overheard Faye say, ‘You’ve got a nerve coming here—’”

  Sheriff Moore ambled forward, his cowboy boots clumping on the wooden planks. “Many a husband’s heard his wife yell something like that when he comes home after they’ve had trouble. For my money, Clyde Tatum killed his wife and there’s only two possible reasons he’s not in jail.”

  Everybody quieted down. It was like the thick heavy quiet of a summer night when a storm was coming.

  Sheriff Moore’s cold gaze swung slowly over the crowd, his face somber. “Tatum’s dead—or somebody’s hiding him. Because we’ve hunted.” He jerked his big head toward Chief Fraser. “The chief and his men, me and my men. We’ve looked. So if Clyde’s not dead, he’s still hiding and the only way he can hide”—the sheriff’s voice rose—“is with help. I’m telling you people that when we find him, we’re going to find out who helped him. Make no mistake, whoever helped Clyde is going to rot in jail. That’s a promise.”

  . . . You remember Buddy Wilson? He wasn’t much to look at but he sure could dance. He was crazy about me. He was so kind to me the day they buried Mama. I almost told Buddy when I finally figured out what happened to Mama. But I don’t think even Buddy would have believed me. I knew nobody else would believe me. They’d have thought I was making it up. I was scared, so scared. I had to get away. Buddy wanted to marry me and his leave was almost up. We ran away to Tulsa and got married by a justice of the peace. Nobody looked too hard at how old you were in those days, not when the guy had on a uniform. I was sixteen. I went out to the coast with him. He shipped out in September. . . .

  CHAPTER 8

  . . . ABOUT THAT SUMMER. All these years, I’d refused to remember that Saturday. But age is a merciless companion. There is something within us when we are old that accepts reality. It’s like climbing up a rugged gorge, every foot a desperate scramble, fending off debris from above, knocking loose rocks that rain down upon others. Reaching the precipice, clinging with bloodied, bruised hands, we look back at the tortuous path, gazing in wonder at occasional moments in the sun but seeing the darkness and shadows, understanding how near we came to destruction, counting the missed opportunities, the botched efforts, the unintended consequences of our struggles. The unintended consequences . . .

  CIMARRON STREET BLAZED with light and movement. People greeted neighbors as they walked toward their cars. Some people stood in clumps, talking, looking over their shoulders as the chief and the sheriff and the county attorney strode past. Mr. Dennis nodded toward her. “I’ll give you a ride home. I’m parked in the alley behind the Gazette.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice could scarcely be heard over the rumble of the crowd, almost as loud as people streaming away from a high school football game after a victory. But this crowd’s mutter was harsh and angry, worried and fearful.

  The farther they walked from the town square, the quieter it was. When Gretchen climbed into the editor’s dusty black coupe and the engine rumbled, they drove away from the ugly murmurs, but over and over Gretchen remembered the sheriff’s bleak voic
e: . . . rot in jail . . . rot in jail . . . If the sheriff found out about Grandmother, what would happen? Would he put Grandmother in jail? Make her go into one of those concrete cells and slam shut the iron bars? She’d seen the cells when she went to the sheriff’s office. The words ballooned in her mind, pressing until she felt her head would burst.

  “. . . Gretchen?” In the light from the dashboard, Mr. Dennis looked gray and tired.

  She jerked toward him. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?” His face furrowed in concern as he braked in front of her house.

  “Yes, sir.” But she wasn’t. She could scarcely keep from flinging open the door and running to the Purdy cabin. She had to hurry. . . .

  “You’re tired. You worked all day. And there was the funeral.” He pulled his pipe from his pocket, poked it in his tobacco pouch. “Don’t come in tomorrow. Enjoy your mom’s visit. I’ll do the story on the crowd.”

  As she opened the door, Gretchen held tight to her sheaf of copy paper. She had good notes: Reverend Byars jostling his way through the crowd with a petition calling for the padlocking of the Blue Light; the grocer, Mr. Hudson, telling about Clyde working for him when he was in high school and how Clyde found a bald eagle chick whose mother had been shot and Clyde raised the chick with scraps of fish and how he set the eagle free when it was able to fly; Mr. Salk, who lived eight miles out of town, claiming he saw Clyde in the early morning mist Friday near Hunter Lake; Mrs. Gordon saying somebody broke into her barn and took fishing tackle; the Whittle sisters on Colson Road demanding police protection, saying old women living alone shouldn’t be at the mercy of fugitives; the high school football players volunteering to make up a search party. . . .

  Gretchen shut the car door, leaned in the open window. “I’m okay.” She could write a good story. The lead was coming clear in her mind:

  Sergeant Clyde Tatum wasn’t at the city council meeting Friday night but nobody talked about anyone else.