Pickett. Ida Pickett.
Imogene startled as she realized she knew another Pickett. The potential connection had never dawned on her. After meeting Ida on the bus to the powder plant, Imogene had all but forgotten her. She stared up at Sam. “Do you have a family?” One more test of his credibility to ease her overly suspicious state of mind.
At first, Sam seemed a bit taken aback. Then he gave a nod and said, “Sure. Got a sister. And a brother too, but he’s buried somewhere in France.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” She ignored the twinge of empathy for the loss of his brother.
“Ida, and my brother was Ralph.” He rattled them off without hesitation.
“I know Ida.”
“You do?” He raised an eyebrow. There was still humor in his eyes.
“I do. Where does Ida work?” This would tell if he was who he said he was.
“The plant, of course, like I do. Like half of Mill Creek does.”
With that answer, Imogene stiffened her shoulders and gave him a pert nod. “Very nice to meet you.” And she kept walking.
Imogene snuck another look at Sam. The idea of thinking so suspiciously about those she met was foreign to her. She was a small-town girl, and small-town girls were supposed to be able to trust people. Everyone knew everyone for the most part, and if you didn’t, only one or two relations separated you from commonality.
“If it helps,” Sam offered with a sly wink as the truck rolled beside her at a snail’s pace, “I go to the Baptist church every Sunday too.”
“Well . . .” Imogene straightened her back and ran her hands down her dress. “There’s the problem. I’m a Methodist.”
The truck pulled up in front of the station with a rattle and a puff of exhaust. Sam had been the perfect gentleman—so far—and remarkably annoying but funny as he’d rolled alongside her the entire length of the trip to town.
“This was the most ridiculous escort,” she muttered under her breath to him and gave him a snippy smile that should have left him cold. Instead, Sam held up a hand, indicating she should wait, and he shoved open his door, hopping down onto the sidewalk next to her.
“Can’t have you thinkin’ I’m no gentleman, now, can I?” A wink. A flicker in his eyes, and Imogene narrowed hers.
Not able to restrain herself, she leaned forward and tapped the end of his nose with a customary boldness her parents used to lecture her about but Imogene rather enjoyed. She pulled her finger back as Sam cocked his head to the right and smiled, which communicated he was enjoying the exchange. “You may be a hunk of heartbreak, cookie, but I’ve gotta keep my date.”
“With the police?” His broadening grin indicated he found her shallow flirtation intriguing.
“Never say a woman can’t be trouble.” Imogene tossed him a saucy smile and flounced past.
“I better keep my distance, then.” Sam winked as she breezed away, leaving him behind.
Pulling open the station door, Imogene waltzed inside, then leaned against the door as it closed behind her. Her increased heart rate told her all she needed to know about how she felt regarding Ida Pickett’s brother. He made her both nervous and warm inside at the same time. His brooding good looks and the way he could dish it back to her . . . well, she’d never met anyone like him.
Imogene finally allowed herself a dreamy smile.
“What’re you doin’ with Sam Pickett?”
Ollie Schneider’s voice came out of nowhere and echoed across the linoleum floor, bouncing off the ceiling. Imogene yelped and clutched her neck.
“Holy Joe, Oliver Schneider, you scared the wits out of me!”
Ollie observed her with his sad eyes. He reminded her a bit of a lost dog. One that had once been a strong, vibrant pup but now was so beat, he might whimper if someone moved at him wrong.
“Sam—um, escorted me to town,” Imogene answered belatedly. She adjusted the belt at the waist of her dress and patted her bandanna hair band with an absent gesture.
Ollie shrugged and glanced out the window that skirted the door. “Oh.”
“None of your business anyway.” Imogene couldn’t help being coy as she brushed past her neighbor. It was in her blood and was the perfect deflection for anyone asking her how she really was. What would she say if she had to be honest?
Heartbroken.
Hearing her dead sister’s voice in her head.
Having conversations with her sister . . .
Spinning, she planted a fingertip on the bib of Ollie’s overalls. He looked down at it and then back into her eyes.
Imogene opened her mouth, poised to say something witty, charming, or sassy. Instead, the depth and sadness in Ollie’s expression was like a bullet piercing her soul. Somehow he knew—he knew it all. The pain, the horror, the agony, the tears that were filling up a hidden well inside that she could only pray were held back by the wall she was carefully building.
CHAPTER 15
She knew who killed her.” Perhaps she should have worked on easing into her theory, but Imogene hadn’t the patience and her nerves were a tad raw after meeting Sam Pickett and then running into Ollie. Why he had been at the police station was probably something she’d never know, though it did raise a curious question mark in her mind.
“Genie.” Chet’s voice held a hint of warning. He extended his arm toward the hall and the room he’d taken her into the first time she’d charged into his station.
One of the officers passed them as they wove through the desks, a low whistle emanating from his lips. Imogene was vaguely affirmed that her appearance hadn’t taken too much of a hit on her hike into town.
“Knock it off, Ed.” Chet’s command made his point. He opened the door to the room, and Imogene slipped past him. She could already feel her confidence waning now that she was here. What seemed so obvious back in the barn at home, standing there in front of Hazel’s miniature house, was now . . . well, it would have to stand up not only to the scrutiny of the law but also to that of her brother. Chet was the master at playing the opposing point of view and finding all the angles one might have overlooked. Withstanding his critical assessment was sure to prove difficult.
But when Imogene sat in the straight-backed wooden chair Chet pulled out for her, she met his eyes as he sat down opposite her, the table between them. There was concern there, weariness etched into his face, and a resignation that made her breath hitch for a doubtful moment.
“What is it, Chet?”
He drummed his fingers on the table as if debating whether or not to tell her. “It’s bad business all around, Genie. What happened to Hazel is—well, let me hear your thoughts. Now that we’re not in the middle of the station.”
On another day, in a different topic of conversation, Imogene might have chuckled at her brother’s passive admonition. Today, though, she tilted up her chin with what she hoped was a look that expressed certainty and even a bit of defiance. “She knew her killer, Chet. She had to have known him.”
“Him?” Chet’s eyebrows rose.
“Honestly!” Imogene rolled her eyes. “Let me explain without you interrogating me before I get to my point.”
He managed a smile. He’d always had infinite patience with her, even though Imogene knew she could come across as headstrong and even spoiled at times. She tempered her expression and allowed her genuine fondness for Chet to come through.
He nodded. “Carry on.”
Imogene leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Hazel always locked the screen door. Always. She wasn’t a fan of traveling salesmen and the like, and you remember that time Mother was cooking that awful meat loaf of hers and she turned around and that salesman had just walked right into the kitchen? She hadn’t even heard him knock? I doubt he even did.”
“And?” Chet pressed for Imogene to gather her thoughts more definitively.
“And, so, Hazel said it was downright creepy, especially with our place being out in the boondocks. So she started locking the screen door ju
st for her own peace of mind when she was home alone. And you know as well as I do that she got home from the plant before Mother and Daddy.”
“A screen door doesn’t tell us much, Genie.” Chet’s sigh matched the agitated rake of his fingers through his already-cropped hair. “I don’t get why you think she’d know a person based on that.”
“Must I spell it out?” Imogene’s mouth tilted in a small tease. “Was it kicked in? The screen cut? No. Even you said so. Did anyone bother to look to see how the hook dangled? It was unlatched. Unlatched. Hazel must have walked over and greeted the person, smiling, and she probably . . .” Her words faded as the implications of what she was so glibly spouting out chopped off her energy like an ax to a tree branch. “You know what I’m getting at, don’t you, Chet?”
Chet nodded, his nostrils flaring a bit as he took another deep breath. Releasing it, he seemed to expel every ounce of oxygen before looking to the ceiling as if beseeching God for help—or wisdom. “I’ll go over the photographs again. I’m sure we can attest to your theory being correct—the door was not tampered with. But, Genie, that doesn’t mean anything. Hazel may not have locked it. She also may have forgotten to, okay? And even if she had, it’s not hard to slip a thin card through the door seam and flip the hook to unlock the screen door. I’ve done it myself a time or two.”
Imogene’s hope deflated like a popped balloon.
“Now,” Chet continued, “I need you to listen close.” His words seemed squeezed, as though he was choking up and trying to hide his emotion. He looked down at the table for a moment, collected himself, then returned his gaze to Imogene. “Our sister was—she was murdered. I need you to let that sink in. I need you to realize that whoever did this, whether they knew her or not, is bad news. Dangerous.”
“Of course they are!” Imogene nodded, playing with the necklace around her neck.
“Also, Mother rang me last night. She told me you’d taken a job at the powder plant.”
Imogene blinked. “Well, yes. I did.”
Chet tilted his head and looked down his nose at her. He had a bit of a superior air to him, probably not unlike the one she often bandied about. “Genie, I can think of only one reason why you’d go and do that.”
She stubbornly tapped her finger on Chet’s shoulder. “The beauty parlor isn’t paying near what I need to make if I ever want to move out and live on my own. Let alone move to Hollywood, where I might make something of myself. Ladies just don’t have the money for that sort of thing yet.”
Chet thinned his lips. The look he gave her indicated he wasn’t falling for her manipulative skirting of the truth. He pushed her hand away. “Workers at the plant are paid less than two years ago when the war was full on. How come you didn’t work there then? I hear tell the plant may soon have to lay some of the workers off. I think folks around here are done with war and making ammunition, at least for a while.”
“Maybe.” Imogene shrugged. “But truly, Chet, the extra money will do me good. And you know how Hazel helped Mother and Daddy with her wages? She’s not—well, that won’t happen anymore and—”
“Genie, some people may fall for your attempt at benevolence, and while I love ya and think your intentions are good and you’re a true pistol of a woman, your snooping around trying to figure out what happened to Hazel is only gonna put yourself at risk of the same thing.”
Imogene studied her brother, her eyes narrowing. He was one of the few people who saw through her façade and could read her intense loyalty and her always-analyzing brain. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, acquiescing to the fact that nothing but scrupulousness would work with her brother.
“Honestly, Chet, you’d think I was a criminal.”
“Hardly.” His smile was sad but still good to see. “You’re just willy-nilly with your emotions, and while I know you’re trying to piece it all together, just like I am, you can’t charge headlong into battle like a soldier with no rifle.”
“So you do think it was someone Hazel worked with?” Imogene raised an eyebrow, ignoring her brother’s warning.
“Imogene.” He dragged out her name, lowering his voice in a scolding manner.
“Well? You’re not telling us anything, Chet. What am I supposed to think? Far as I’m concerned, it’s as though Hazel’s case is already cold and your investigation got buried alongside of her!” Imogene knew her eyes shone with tears, and she successfully blinked them away. “Hazel never talked of anyone at the powder plant. Not one soul. Why was that? But she had friends. Ida Pickett for one, who I met just yesterday. Did you know that? Have you talked to Ida? Or her brother, Sam, who also works at the plant?”
Chet’s jaw set as Imogene exploded the full of her pent-up angst on him. She couldn’t stop now, though something inside of her said it was better if she did.
“Hazel never, never forgot to lock the screen door. And she couldn’t have been home for long either, because she hadn’t even started making dinner, which would’ve been her first priority. Did you realize that? Did that even catch your attention? And these photographs your men took of the scene—of our house—where are they? Why haven’t I seen them?”
“Genie!” Chet broke into her rant that had fast grown watery as tears welled in her eyes again, this time spilling over. “I can’t let you see them.”
“Why?” The severe wobble in Imogene’s voice annoyed her—betrayed her. “I already saw her, Chet. I stepped in her blood, and I screamed her name. There isn’t anything a picture is going to show me that I haven’t already seen—except maybe important details missed.”
“Like the screen door,” Chet finished lamely.
“Yes.” Imogene swiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand and rolled her lips together to even out her lipstick.
Chet looked away from her, toward the wall, staring at the gray paint with an empty expression. When he turned back to her, his eyes were resigned. They told her that her brother would tell her nothing. Nothing noteworthy, and certainly nothing that would jeopardize the confidentiality of his position.
All she could envision was the musty, straw-scented stall and Hazel’s unfinished dollhouse. The details. The details would have to come from Imogene’s memory if Chet wouldn’t let her see the pictures.
Imogene might be accused of many things, such as being too bold and brassy, with an edge of stubborn beauty that was enough to catch her a man. Yet no one had ever noticed that she saw things too, like Hazel did. The tiniest things that others missed, stepped over, walked by, and disregarded. She might not build dollhouses for a hobby, but she was good at the beauty parlor because she was an artist.
The horrible idea that her sister’s murder would now become the focal point of Imogene’s artistic concentration both unsettled and motivated her. She would draw her own blood if necessary to re-create that dreadful day.
Sunlight blinded Imogene the instant the police station door opened and she stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was the last thing she remembered clearly before an explosion jolted her, tossing her back into the building as if she were a bale of hay being tossed onto the hay wagon. She recalled a fierce cloud of dust and debris from just across the street, all of it catapulting toward her. Maybe it was a brick, or a fragment of a brick, perhaps wood, but it slammed into her head just above where her bandanna tie skirted her hair.
Genie, wake up.
Hazel bent over her, eyes filled with concern.
Genie, you must pull it together now. Honestly, you walk into trouble worse than I did!
Hazel’s face went out of focus. Imogene blinked several times as her sister’s silhouette shifted from her wispy frame to that of a man’s solid one. Then she was back again, and Imogene tried not to blink for fear Hazel would disappear.
Genie, now stop this nonsense. The post office just got blown helter-skelter, and you lying here isn’t going to help anyone. Least of all Chet.
Hazel patted Imogene’s cheek. Her hand was rough, callused
, large. Her figure distorted as Imogene blinked again, and this time a different face came into view.
“. . . Chet.” The male voice was finishing a sentence.
Chet returned, his words carrying an urgent tone. “But my sister!”
“I got her. Now go and figure out what in tarnation happened!” The man was talking fiercer than Imogene ever remembered hearing him. She recognized his voice but not the commanding nature of it. It didn’t suit him. Not the shy soldier who jumped when a car backfired or a cow mooed.
“Thanks, Ollie.” Chet’s hand folded around Ollie’s narrow shoulder, and then Imogene saw her brother charge into the fray. The chaos was becoming clearer.
A baby crying, and a young child.
A mother was consoling them, but the wail in her own voice betrayed her fear.
Men were shouting.
In the distance, the scream of the fire truck from the firehouse.
A few policemen were waving, directing folks about.
There was a car with its wide hubs perched halfway onto the sidewalk, its windshield cracked like a spider web.
Ollie’s hand patted Imogene’s cheek again. He came into focus now. Light blue eyes narrowed not in concern but in concentration as he studied her. His finger lowered and gently lifted her eyelid. Imogene whimpered and tried to pull away.
“Shhh.” Ollie did the same to her other eyelid. He clicked his tongue and gave his head a quick shake. “All bets you’ve smashed your head in good enough to make you a bit loony.”
She had no idea what he was talking about.
Imogene struggled against his hand that now pressed some cloth to her head. She tried to sit up. The world spun, making her stomach nauseated.
“Don’t try an’ move yet,” Ollie instructed, but Imogene gave him a feisty smirk. She wasn’t dead, and she wasn’t some blown-up GI in a foxhole.
“I need to get back to Hazel.”
Echoes among the Stones Page 12