See Also Deception
Page 23
The house was full of people and funeral food, more kinds of hamburger hot dishes and fried chicken than I could ever eat. Something told me that the winter pig was about to put on some quick weight, since I hated to think I was wasting the kindness of folks. One thing fed another, I supposed.
The only person missing from the house and the funeral was Herbert Frakes. I’d heard he was holed up in his room in the basement of the library, and I couldn’t say that I blamed him for not wanting to come out in public just yet. To my surprise, Delia Finch had told him he could stay there as long as he wanted.
The house was too full for me, honestly, so I’d sneaked out to the back side of the garage to take a quick puff off a Salem. Luckily, it’d been a fine October day when we’d buried Hank, one day’s worth of Indian summer. It had been the first moment I’d been able to steal for myself since I’d landed at the house.
“I thought I saw you head back here.” The voice startled me but didn’t surprise me. I had seen the police car pull into the drive shortly after I’d arrived at home. “You mind if I join you?” Guy said.
“Not at all.” I exhaled smoke as I spoke.
Guy dug into his breast pocket, just opposite his badge, and pulled out a cigarette of his own. He lit it and stared at me for a long moment. “You all right?”
“As all right as I can be.”
“I suppose so.”
More silence. At least between us. Voices filled the air, rode the wind, and convinced me that I was alive and not in another nightmare, even though it felt like it. I kept looking at the house worrying after Hank, even though he wasn’t there. I wondered how long I would do that.
“Well, I suppose you heard that I’m gonna run against Duke in the election.”
“I think that’s a fine thing, Guy. I really do. People will make the right choice. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope so,” he said, taking a long draw off his cigarette. “Duke’ll fire me first thing if he wins.”
“I suppose he will. Jaeger could probably use another good hand come spring.”
Guy smiled, then kicked the ground with his boot. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, Marjorie, but Betty Walsh claims she didn’t do nothin’ to Hank. Claims she’s innocent of it all.”
I really hadn’t wanted to hear that, but I was glad it had come from Guy. “Thanks. There’ll be more of that to deal with in the coming days. I don’t see how she can be innocent of killing Calla and Nina, but I hope she’s telling the truth about Hank. I sure do hope that’s true.”
“I wish it wasn’t that way for ya, Marjorie.”
I shrugged, took the last puff off the Salem, and dropped it on the ground. “You see that weed over there?” I said, pointing to a tall, withering thistle growing at the corner of the garage.
“Yeah, sure.” He looked at me curiously.
“It’s called musk thistle. Carduus nutans. It’s not supposed to be here. Isn’t native to this land, but it looks just like all of the other weeds. I wish there was a guide book for evil people, but there isn’t. They blend in with the rest of us, just like that weed.”
“A book like that sure would make things easier, Marjorie.”
I tried to smile, but I couldn’t find it in myself. “I better get back. People will be wondering where I am and come looking for me.”
Guy flashed a smile. “I suppose they will.”
I turned to walk away.
“Marjorie,” Guy said.
I stopped. “Yes?”
“You call me if you need anything, you hear. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
“That’s nice, Guy; I appreciate it. Jaeger’s close. We’ll be just fine. No need to worry about me,” I said, then walked away.
The day after a funeral was even lonelier than the day of one. I woke in the middle of the night and found my way to my desk. I had a lot of work to do, and the morning passed even quicker than I hoped it would.
It was just before noon, and I was putting the finishing touches on the Common Plants index, when the phone rang. I was tempted to let it ring, but it kept on going insistently, leaving me little choice.
“Trumaines,” I said, like I always did when I answered the phone.
“Ah, good, Miss Trumaine.”
My heart sank. It was Richard Rothstein.
“I know I was wrong the last time,” he went on, not bothering, of course, to say hello. “But there is no mistake this time. Your index is late.”
I knew that. In all of the turmoil and necessity of things after Hank had died, the last thing on my mind, that I had had time for, was working on the index. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But my husband passed away, and his funeral was just yesterday.”
“That’s no . . .” And then he stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Silence between a thousand miles. The wires crackled, the wind whipped the lines, but business still churned on. Five seconds passed as a condolence.
“I’m finishing it now,” I said. “I will take it to the post office by the end of the day.”
“That is unacceptable. I need the index today.”
“I’m sorry. That’s just not possible.”
“Well, then, I suppose I will have to adjust the schedule.”
“You will.”
“This does not bode well, Miss Trumaine.”
“Missus,” I said. “It’s Mrs. Trumaine.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” He paused. “I’ll expect the index by the end of the week, then.”
“That should be enough time for it to get there. I’ll start on the Zhanzheng: Five Hundred Years of Chinese War Strategy book right away. It won’t be late; I promise you that.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Trumaine. Goodbye.” And he hung up. It was the first time Richard Rothstein had ever said goodbye to me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although the suicides portrayed in this book were staged, suicide is a topic that I take very seriously. If you find yourself in need of someone to talk to (24/7/365), please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
Also, the town of Dickinson, North Dakota, portrayed in this book is real. Streets, names, history, and specific locations have been changed to serve the narrative of the story. Any mistakes are my own.
Information about indexing as a profession may be found on the American Society for Indexing (ASI) website (asindexing.org).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Indexing, like writing, is a job best done in isolation. The strict deadlines portrayed in this book are not an exaggeration and, in reality, most professional indexers juggle multiple projects at one time. That said, I’ve had to miss a lot of activities with friends and family, pleasurable and otherwise, since taking up indexing and writing as a profession. Apologies for my absences are probably past due.
A special thank you goes to Cheryl Lenser, who has always been there with a quick answer for the most difficult indexing question. You’ve been there every step of the way, and you’ve been a great mentor as well as a great friend. Thank you.
Thanks also goes to Dan Mayer and the entire Seventh Street Books staff for the passion that they all put into every book. You’ve given Marjorie a great home. And, as always, thanks to my agent, Cherry Weiner. You believed in Marjorie from the start.
Again, thanks to Rose for riding along and working harder than you ever get credit for. I couldn’t do what I do without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Larry D. Sweazy (www.larrydsweazy.com) has been a freelance indexer for eighteen years. In that time, he has written over 825 back-of-the-book indexes for major trade publishers and university presses such as Addison-Wesley, Cengage, American University at Cairo Press, Cisco Press, Pearson Education, Pearson Technology, University of Nebraska Press, Weldon Owen, and many more. He continues to work in the indexing field on a daily basis.
As a writer, Larry is a two-time WWA (Western Writers of America) Spur Award winner, a two-time, back-to-back, winner of the Will R
ogers Medallion Award, a Best Books of Indiana award winner, and the inaugural winner of the 2013 Elmer Kelton Book Award. He was also nominated for a Short Mystery Fiction Society (SMFS) Derringer Award in 2007 (for the short story, “See Also Murder”). Larry has published over sixty nonfiction articles and short stories and is the author of ten novels, including books in the Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger western series (Berkley); the Lucas Fume western series (Berkley); a thriller set in Indiana, The Devil’s Bones (Five Star); a mystery novel set in the dust bowl of Texas, A Thousand Falling Crows (Seventh Street Books); and the Marjorie Trumaine Mystery series (Seventh Street Books). He currently lives in Indiana with his wife, Rose.