by Alice Duncan
She turned and looked me up and down for a moment before saying, “How do you do, Miss Blue?” It didn’t sound to me as if she cared a whole lot.
Because her attitude irritated me, I decided to ruffle her feathers a little. Traipsing over to the new bolts of cloth, I fingered a lovely blue-and-white flowered calico. “This is pretty, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm,” said she.
“How’s the doc?”
She eyed me as if I were some sort of despicable rodent. “Dr. Longstreet is well, thank you, Miss Blue.”
Oh, my, weren’t we the queen of Rosedale? “Did you find a house yet?”
I was pretty sure she wanted to tell me it wasn’t any of my business, in which case I’d have said that new people in town were everyone’s business, but I didn’t get a chance. She’d just stiffened up like Phil’s old pointer Buddy after he’d spotted a duck, when Minnie called my name.
“Annabelle, Libby says we need to leave soon. Say hello to your mother and brother, and let’s be on our way.”
Darn it! There was no way out that I could think of, though, so I grinned broadly at Mrs. Longstreet. “Well?”
“No. We’re still looking.” The words were as cold as if she’d chipped them from ice.
“Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll find something soon. ‘Bye.”
“Good day to you.” Frosty. Very frosty.
So I left her there, sneering at the yard goods, gave Ma a too-short hug, ruffled my brother’s hair (he hates when I do that), and we headed off back to Minnie’s place. Libby said she was in a hurry because she had so much work to do during the busy summer season of pickling and preserving. I suspected she only wanted to ruin any pleasure I might have taken in being set free from my indentured servitude. Maybe I was being a little hard on her, but I don’t think so.
As we bumped along in the buggy, I considered Mrs. Longstreet. She seemed sinister to me. Phil would probably laugh, but I thought there was something extremely odd about her. Nobody was that snooty unless she was putting on an act. And why would anyone want to put on an act unless she had something to hide?
The Longstreets had showed up the day after a dastardly murder had been committed, claiming they wanted to buy the property upon which the deed had been done. Was that a mere coincidence? I brooded and pondered and considered the matter as I handled the reins and came to the only logical conclusion. It was not. A mere coincidence, I mean.
But what could the Longstreets be up to? And why would they (or either one of them individually) want to kill a man next to Aunt Minnie’s chicken coop?
Could the Longstreets, Mr. O’Dell, and Olin Burgess be in cahoots with each other?
The notion was so preposterous, I actually laughed. Minnie, who had dozed off, started and said, “Wha–”
Libby said, “Hush up, girl. Don’t you know your auntie is trying to rest?”
Nuts.
That night Minnie hauled out the Ouija board again. “To see if we can get in touch with Mr. Copeland’s spirit.”
The idea held no appeal for me. I used an argument I’d heard Minnie herself use once or twice. “Isn’t it too soon for that?” According to what Minnie had told me before, the spirit of a newly deceased person has to adjust to being on the Other Side (I’m sure mine would) and sometimes that adjustment takes a while.
“You never know,” Minnie said mysteriously. “His spirit might be eager to tell us who murdered him.”
Oh, goody. I know it sounds stupid, but I really hated these Ouija-board sessions with Minnie. Even though I didn’t believe in ghosts any more than I believed in the tooth fairy or Cinderella’s fairy godmother, it still bothered me when that planchette moved around the board, seemingly of its own accord. I knew somebody must be moving it, and I also knew it wasn’t me. Minnie claimed it wasn’t her. So how did the silly thing move?
Minnie must have moved it. But she was so sincere in her denials, and the darned planchette spelled out the most crazy things, that . . . well, let’s just say those sessions bothered me considerably.
That night, however, Minnie had no luck at all in luring Mr. Copeland’s spirit into her parlor. And thank God for it, I might add.
The only person I wanted to see, and he was still alive (and thank God for that, too) was Phil. I wanted to tell him all about my adventure at the cave and discuss Mr. Copeland’s murder with him. He, however, had wounded me deeply when he called me a harebrained idiot, or words to that effect, and I decided I’d just let him suffer for a while. I’d have felt better about my decision if I’d know for sure he was suffering. All I did know for sure was that I suffered–and a good deal, too–from not being able to talk to him.
That state of affairs lasted until Wednesday, when Aunt Minnie, Libby, and I again got into the buggy and drove to town, this time for Mr. Copeland’s funeral and the general gathering that took place after such dismal affairs. Even better, we had to go to town early, so that I could visit my house and fetch my black funeral dress. Back in those days, every female I knew had a dress set aside for funerals and mourning.
“If you’d allowed me to spend more time in town on Monday, we wouldn’t have to leave early today,” I pointed out when Libby groused about it.
“I had work to do on Monday, young lady,” she snapped.
I only sniffed, knowing I was in the right.
As we filed into the Lutheran church, which was called St. John’s (I hadn’t known until then that the Copelands were Lutheran), we met up with the Gundersons. Phil smiled and appeared to be pleased to see me, so I guess he’d forgiven me. I considered whether I should pretend I hadn’t forgiven him, but decided against it. He probably wouldn’t even admit he’d done anything wrong.
He sat next to me in the church, too, and patted my hand when I sniffled during the eulogy. I always cry at funerals. Weddings, too. Don’t ask me why.
After the funeral, we all drove down Main Street to the South Park Cemetery, where Rosedale’s deceased residents have been laid to rest since the town first sputtered to life in the late 1860's. It was a nice place, for a cemetery, and the ladies in town kept it well tended. The winds around there, as I’ve mentioned before, can be hideous and powerful, so you didn’t see flowers on the graves–at least not after the first hour or two after they’d been placed there–but it was a tidy place. The grass was mown weekly by Mr. Attebury, a retired butcher with what I considered an appropriate name for working in a cemetery.
After Reverend Van Dyke, the Lutheran preacher, said the last prayer over poor Mr. Copeland’s grave, we all trooped back to the row of buggies and automobiles and pony carts that lined the drive, in which most of us would drive to Mrs. Copeland’s house on North Pennsylvania Avenue, where there would be lots of food and drink and low-voiced conversation, and we could offer our condolences to the widow. As we walked, I heard clods of dirt striking Mr. Copeland’s coffin and felt a little sick.
The ladies in town had done a very good job of spiffing up the Copeland place. All the mirrors had been draped with black, of course, and black bunting hung on the door and from the stair railing. It was all very appropriate and very melancholy.
Mrs. Copeland graciously greeted visitors, dressed all in black, which was also appropriate, although her black was prettier than anybody else’s, being a wool jersey number with raglan sleeves, a dropped waist, and a good deal of shiny black embroidery. If she lived in a big city, she could probably have worn it to a fancy restaurant or something. I envied her the dress, even though I knew that bespoke a frivolous nature.
I’d never taken much notice of Mrs. Copeland before her husband’s murder thrust her into the forefront of everyone’s thoughts, but she was a handsome woman. Pale as a snowdrift–not that we had many of those in Rosedale, even in the winter–she looked kind of fragile and lost. I felt sorry for her.
She met us with a sweet smile. “So kind of you all to come,” she said softly.
Aunt Minnie gave her a hug. “We’re just so sorry, Addie.”
“Thank you, Minnie.”
“Terrible,” grunted Libby, who looked kind of like a black rhinoceros in her black dress and hat, which had a black feather sticking out of it at an odd angle.
I wore a hat, too, naturally, but mine was a smart black felt cloche. I shook Mrs. Copeland’s hand gravely. “I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.” You always had to say things like that at funerals, even if you’d already said them when you delivered your hot dishes.
“Thank you, Annabelle.”
“Do they have any idea who did it?”
“Annabelle!”
Darn it, wouldn’t you know my mother would show up just as I asked an indiscreet question? Darting a glance at Ma and knowing what she expected of me, I felt my cheeks heat up and said, “Sorry, ma’am. I just wondered if there was a connection between Mr. Copeland’s death and the death of the man at Minnie’s house.” It seemed logical to me that there would be. I mean, people didn’t get murdered around there all the time, you know? Not since the Billy-the-Kid days, anyhow.
“I shouldn’t think there is, dear,” Mrs. Copeland said sweetly. “Do you think there is?”
“Well, I guess there might be.”
“Really?”
“Annabelle,” said my mother sternly, “will you please stop this morbid talk?”
I gave up. “Sorry, Ma. Sorry, Mrs. Copeland.”
Mrs. Copeland turned to my mother. “She’s only a curious young woman, Mrs. Blue. It’s perfectly understandable.”
“Her manners are perfectly shameful,” said my mother, who was usually more supportive than that.
With a sigh and a sad, farewell smile for Mrs. Copeland, I moseyed away toward the food table. I really wanted to ask her some questions, but I guess I’d have to wait until neither Libby nor my mother were around to do so. And when that would be, God alone knew, since after this, I’d have to go back out to Minnie’s place, and that might as well have been on the moon for all the company we got there.
I picked up a sandwich and a class of punch and headed for a corner, feeling alone and sad and wishing something good would happen for a change. Two murders in as many weeks, both of them unsolved, were too much for a small town. I think everyone felt it.
“Hey, Annabelle,” came a soft voice.
I’d been staring into my punch glass, feeling sorry for myself and everybody else. When I looked up, Phil was smiling at me. It was a tentative smile, as if he, too, were suffering unpleasant pangs from the general gloom of the occasion. He motioned for me to join him, so I moved toward him.
There was a lot of low-voiced conversation going on around me. I didn’t pay much attention at first, but slowly, bits of chatter slid into my ears and settled into my brain. I listened harder.
“. . . heard he’d suffered severe financial losses recently.”
“Really? That’s a shame.”
“Say, you don’t think he killed himself, do you?”
“You mean he might have committed suicide?” The whisper was avid.
It also caught my attention. I stopped walking, pretending I had to do so in order to take a sip of punch.
“If he did, poor Addie won’t be getting any of that insurance money from the policy Mr. Copeland just took out.”
“Oh, my!” The speaker shook her head mournfully. “Suicide. How sad.”
Suicide? Money? Insurance policy? I didn’t know what they were talking about. But I aimed to find out.
Chapter Twelve
“Hey, Phil.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Annabelle? There are a couple of chairs.” He indicated the entry way, which was empty of people at the moment.
“All right.” Feeling rather as if the weight of the world rested on my shoulders, I followed Phil through the throng.
Phil stood behind one of the chairs, frowning slightly, when I caught up with him. “What’s the matter, Annabelle?” He eyed me suspiciously, as if he feared I was up to no good.
“Nothing’s the matter. Thanks, Phil.” He held my plate and glass while I sat and adjusted my modest skirt. Funeral garb was always modest. I bet even Flappers were modest at funerals.
“Nuts. You’re thinking something. Probably about the stupid case.”
“Please don’t start an argument here. I already feel bad enough.”
“I’m not starting an argument,” he muttered. Then he took a bite of cake. I’m sure he did it so he wouldn’t be able to add an inflammatory comment about my lack of common sense.
“Huh.” I nibbled at my sandwich, wishing now that I’d taken a piece of cake, too.
We sat there, eating and not talking, for another couple of minutes. I was absolutely bursting to tell Phil everything that had happened and that I’d heard, and I finally couldn’t contain myself any longer. After mulling over a few opening lines, I began with, “I had an adventure the other day.”
“Another one?”
I squinted at him, because he’d sounded kind of critical. He looked merely interested, however, so I continued. “Yes. I took Horace–you know, Minnie’s burro–”
”I know.”
“Well, I took Horace and rode him out to the caves in Black Water Draw.”
“You went out there alone?” He sounded not merely astonished, but accusatory as well.
Naturally, I bridled. “Of course, I did! You wouldn’t go with me!”
“Annabelle, you’re nuts, you know that?”
“Oh, yeah? Well, what do you expect me to do, anyhow? I found a body, remember?”
“How could I forget? As for what I expect you to do, you’re supposed to let the sheriff handle it!”
“But he’s not handling it. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know the name of the man I found.”
“They’re working on it.”
“Bother!”
“Bother, nothing! Anyhow, if you thought a murdering monster was hiding out in one of those caves, you were a blamed fool to go out there all by yourself, Annabelle Blue.”
Put like that, it did sound like kind of a stupid stunt. I’d never admit it. “I didn’t think anybody was hiding there,” I mumbled. “I thought I might find out why everybody is so darned eager to buy Aunt Minnie’s house. And I did. So there.”
That stopped him in mid-rant. His pretty brown eyes opened wide, and he stared at me. “You did?”
“I did.”
“Well. For Pete’s sake tell me!”
Darn it. I hadn’t planned my explanation as completely as I should have. “Well, I don’t know the exact reason yet, but I know something’s going on in one of the caves.”
“Oh.” He rolled his eyes, a gesture I resented a good deal.
I continued, and fairly hotly. “What’s more, Phillip Anthony Gunderson, I know who the villain is. It’s Mr. Burgess, just as I figured.” I wished then that I’d continued thinking about how Mrs. Longstreet fit into the equation. And Mr. O’Dell.
Oh, nuts.
“Nonsense. He couldn’t have killed Mr. Copeland.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll bet he’s in cahoots with whoever did do it, probably Mr. O’Dell.”
“Pshaw!”
“Pshaw, nothing. You know there’s no good reason for Mr. O’Dell to want Minnie’s house.”
“I don’t know that, and neither do you.”
He had me there, darn him. “Oh, just forget Mr. O’Dell for a minute, will you?”
“Gladly.”
I frowned at him, but wasn’t ready to give up on him yet since there wasn’t anybody else to discuss things with. “Anyhow, Mr. Burgess is involved in the crime somehow, and I know it. He was there with a shotgun when I got to the cave, and he told me it wasn’t safe for me to be out there.” I shivered involuntarily, remembering the fright he’d given me.
“Hmm. Maybe he was only trying to protect you.”
I goggled at him. “Protect me? By scaring me to death? Are you out of your mind?”
He shrugged, and I wished we were alone so I could whack him one.
Since physical restraint of him was denied me, Phil went on. “Not only that, but he was right. You were stupid to go out there alone.”
I fumed for a moment or two, considering whether I should get up and storm away from Phil or stay there and tell him the rest of my news. I opted for the latter, since I really sort of needed him if I ever wanted to explore that cave. Darned if I’d ever go out there alone again, although I’d never acknowledge as much to Phil, darn him.
“Well, I found out that there’s something going on there, anyway. There’s a clear path where wagons loaded with something heavy have skirted Minnie’s house–and gone a long way, too, in order to do it–and driven to the cave. I’m sure that’s why everybody wants to buy Minnie’s place, because of whatever is going on in the cave.”
I guess I’d finally managed to get his mind off my personal lapses and onto the important stuff. He actually appeared interested. “Yeah?”
“Yes. So many wagons have gone that way that they’ve almost carved out another road. It goes wide around Aunt Minnie’s house and north, and then they cross Pine Lodge Road and make a circle back to Black Water Draw and the big cave there. It would be a lot easier if whoever’s driving the wagons could cut through Minnie’s property.”
“If they asked her, Minnie’d probably let them.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Phil, whatever they’re doing must be illegal or they would have asked her. Don’t you see?”
“Hmm.”
Since I couldn’t smack him or shake him, I went on. “So far, Mr. O’Dell, Dr. Longstreet, and Mr. Copeland have asked Minnie to sell them her house, and Mr. Burgess keeps hanging around the place. I swear, Phil, I see him everywhere! Plus, he was at the cave. They all must be in it together,” I finished triumphantly.
“Hmm. I don’t know, Annabelle.”
“You’re the most skeptical human being on earth, Phil Gunderson.”
“Phooey.”
I glanced around at the assembly in order to make sure I couldn’t be overheard. Lowering my voice, I said, “Not only that, but I just heard that Mr. Copeland has suffered financial losses and might have committed suicide.”
