The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “Spooked” was originally published in the March 1999 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; it was first published in book form in Murder on Route 66, edited by Carolyn Wheat (New York, Berkley, 1999).

  Spooked

  CAROLYN G. HART

  THE DUST FROM THE CONVOY rose in plumes. Gretchen stood on tiptoe waving, waving.

  A soldier leaned over the tailgate of the olive drab troop carrier. The blazing July sun touched his crew cut with gold. He grinned as he tossed her a bubble gum. “Chew it for me, kid.”

  Gretchen wished she could run alongside, give him some of Grandmother Lotte’s biscuits and honey. But his truck was twenty feet away and another one rumbled in front of her. She ran a few steps, called out, “Good luck. Good luck!” The knobby piece of gum was a precious lump in her hand.

  She stood on the edge of the highway until the last truck passed. Grandmother said Highway 66 went all the way to California and the soldiers were on their way to big ships to sail across the ocean to fight the Japs. Gretchen wished she could do something for the war. Her brother Jimmy was a Marine, somewhere in the South Pacific. He’d survived Iwo Jima. Every month they sent him cookies, peanut butter and oatmeal raisin and spice, packed in popcorn. When they had enough precious sugar, they made Aunt Bill’s candy but Mom had to find the sugar in Tulsa. Mr. Hudson’s general store here in town almost never had sacks of sugar. Every morning she and Grandmother sat in a front pew of the little frame church in the willows and prayed for Jimmy and for all the boys overseas and for Gretchen’s mom working so hard at the defense plant in Tulsa. Her mom only came home about one weekend a month. Grandmother tried to save a piece of meat when she could. Grandmother said her mom was thin as a rail and working too hard, but Gretchen knew it was important for her mom to work. They needed everybody to help and Mom was proud that she put radio parts in the big B-24 Liberators.

  Gretchen took a deep breath of the hot heavy air, still laced with dust, and walked across the street to the café. Ever since the war started, they’d been busy from early morning until they ran out of food, sometimes around five o’clock, never later than seven. Of course, they had special ration books for the café, but Grandmother said they couldn’t use those points to get sugar for Jimmy. That wouldn’t be right.

  Gretchen shaded her eyes and looked at the plate glass window. She still felt a kind of thrill when she saw the name painted in bright blue: Victory Café. A thrill but also a tightness in her chest, the kind of feeling she once had when she climbed the big sycamore to get the calico kitten and a branch snapped beneath her feet. For an instant that seemed to last forever, she was falling. She whopped against a thick limb and held on tight. She remembered the sense of strangeness as she fell. And disbelief, the thought that this couldn’t be happening to her. There was a strangeness in the café’s new name. It had been Pfizer’s Café for almost twenty years, but now it didn’t do to be proud of being German. Now Grandmother didn’t say much in the café because her accent was thick. She was careful not to say ja and she let Gretchen do most of the talking. Grandmother prayed for Jimmy and for her sister’s family in Hamburg.

  Gretchen tucked the bubble gum in the pocket of her pedal pushers. Grandmother wouldn’t let her wear shorts even though it was so hot the cotton stuck to her legs. She glanced at the big thermometer hanging by the door. Ninety-eight degrees and just past one o’clock. They’d sure hit over a hundred today, just like every day for the past few weeks. They kept the front door propped, hoping for a little breeze through the screen.

  The café was almost as much her home as the boxy three-bedroom frame house a half mile away down a dirt road. Her earliest memories were playing with paper dolls in a corner of the kitchen as her mother and grandmother worked hard and fast, fixing country breakfasts for truck drivers in a hurry to get to Tulsa and on to Oklahoma City and Amarillo with their big rigs. Every morning grizzled old men from around the county gathered at Pfizer’s for their newspapers and gossip as well as rashers of bacon, a short stack and scrambled eggs. But everything changed with the war. Camp Crowder just over the line in Missouri brought in thousands of soldiers. Of course, they were busy training, but khaki uniforms were no stranger to the Victory Café even though the menu wasn’t what it had been before the war. Now they had meatless Tuesdays and Grandmother fixed huge batches of macaroni and cheese. Sometimes there wasn’t any bacon but they had scrambled eggs and grits and fried potatoes. Instead of roast beef, they had hash, the potatoes and meat bubbly in a vinegary sauce. But Grandmother never fixed red cabbage or sauerkraut anymore.

  It was up to Gretchen to help her grandmother when her mom moved to Tulsa. She might only be twelve, but she was wiry and strong and she promised herself she’d never complain, not once, not ever, not for the duration. That’s what everybody talked about, the duration until someday the war was over. On summer evenings she was too tired to play kick the can and it seemed a long-ago memory when she used to climb up into the maple tree, carrying a stack of movie magazines, and nestle with her back to the trunk and legs dangling.

  She gave a swift professional glance around the square room. The counter with red leatherette stools was to the left. The mirror behind the counter sparkled. She’d stood on a stool to polish it after lunch. Now it reflected her: black pig-tails, a skinny face with blue eyes that often looked tired and worried, and a pink Ship ’n Shore blouse and green pedal pushers. Her blouse had started the day crisp and starched, but now it was limp and spattered with bacon grease.

  Four tables sat in the center. Three wooden booths ran along the back wall and two booths to the right. The jukebox was tucked between the back booths and the swinging door to the kitchen. It was almost always playing. She loved “Stardust” and “Chattanooga Choo Choo” but the most often played song was “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” A poster on the wall beside the jukebox pictured a sinking ship and a somber Uncle Sam with a finger to his lips and the slogan: LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS. Grandmother told her it meant no one should talk about the troop convoys that went through on Highway 66 or where they were going or talk about soldiers’ letters that sometimes carried information that got past the censors. Grandmother said that’s why they had to be so careful about the food to make sure there was enough for Jimmy and all the other boys. And that’s why they couldn’t drive to Tulsa to see Mom. There wasn’t enough gas. Grandmother said even a cupful of gas might make a difference one day whether some boy—like Jimmy—lived or died.

  Two of the front tables needed clearing. But she made a circuit of the occupied places first.

  Deputy Sheriff Carter flicked his cigar and ash dribbled onto his paunch which started just under his chin and pouched against the edge of the table. He frowned at black and white squares on the newspaper page. He looked at Mr. Hudson across the table. “You know a word for mountain ridge? Five letters.” He chewed on his pencil. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. He marked the letters, closed the paper, leaned back in the booth. “Heard they been grading a road out near the McLemore place.”

  Mr. Hudson clanked his spoon against the thick white coffee mug. “Got some more java, Gretchen?”

  She nodded.

  Mr. Hudson pursed his thin mouth. “Bud McLemore’s son-in-law’s a county commissioner, Euel. What do you expect?”

  Gretchen hurried to the hot plates behind the counter, brought the steaming coffee pot, refilled both men’s mugs.

  The deputy sheriff’s face looked like an old ham, crusted and pink. “Never no flies on Bud. Maybe my youngest girl’ll get herself a county commissioner. ’Course, she spends most of her time at the USO in Tulsa. But she’s makin’ good money at the Douglas plant. Forty dollars a week.” Then he frowned. “But it’s sure givin’ her big ideas.”

  Gretchen moved on to the next booth, refilled the cups for some Army officers who had a map spread out on the table.

  The younger officer looked just like
Alan Ladd. “I’ve got it marked in a grid, Sir. Here’s the last five places they spotted the Spooklight.”

  The bigger man fingered his little black mustache. “Lieutenant, I want men out in the field every night. We’re damn all going to get to the bottom of this business.”

  Gretchen took her time moving away. The Spooklight. Everybody in town knew the army had set up a special camp about six miles out of town just to look for the Spooklight, those balls of orange or white that rose from nowhere and flowed up and down hills, hung like fiery globes in the scrawny bois d’arc trees, sometimes ran right up on porches or over barns. Some people said the bouncing globes of light were a reflection from the headlights on Highway 66. Other folks scoffed because the lights had been talked about for a hundred years, long before cars moved on the twisting road.

  Gretchen put the coffee on the hotplate, picked up a damp cloth and a tray. She set to work on the table closest to the Army officers.

  “…Sergeant Ferris swore this light was big as a locomotive and it came rolling and bouncing down the road, went right over the truck like seltzer water bouncing in a soda glass. Now, you can’t tell me,” the black mustache bristled, “that burning gas acts like that.”

  “No, Sir.” The lieutenant sounded just like Cornel Wilde saluting a general in that movie about the fall of Corregidor.

  The kitchen door squeaked open. Her grandmother’s red face, naturally ruddy skin flushed with heat from the stove, brightened and she smiled. But she didn’t say a word. When Gretchen was little, she would have caroled, “Komm her, mein Schatz.” Now she waved her floury hands.

  Gretchen carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen. The last words she heard were like an Abbott and Costello radio show, a nonsensical mixture, “…soon as the war’s over…set up search parties…I’m gonna see if I can patch those tires…good training for night…”

  Four pies sat on the corner table, steam still rising from the latticed crust. The smell of apples and cinnamon and a hint of nutmeg overlay the onions and liver and fried okra cooked for lunch.

  “Oh, Grandmother.” Gretchen’s eyes shone. Apple pie was her most favorite food in all the world. Then, without warning, she felt the hot prick of tears. Jimmy loved apple pie, too.

  Grandmother’s big blue eyes were suddenly soft. She was heavy and moved slowly, but her arms soon enveloped Gretchen. “No tears. Tomorrow ve send Jimmy a stollen rich with our own pecans. Now, let’s take our pies to the counter. But first,” she used a sharp knife, cut a generous wedge, scooped it out and placed it on a plate, “I haf saved one piece—ein—for you.”

  The pie plates were still warm. Gretchen held the door for her grandmother. It was almost like a festive procession as they carried the pies to the counter.

  The officers watched. Mr. Hudson’s nose wrinkled in pleasure. Deputy Carter pointed at the pie plate. “Hey, Lotte, I’ll sure take one of those.” There was a chorus of calls.

  Grandmother dished up the pieces, handing the plates to Gretchen, then stood at the end of the counter, sprigs of silver-streaked blond hair loose from her coronet braids, her blue eyes happy, her plump hands folded on her floury apron. Gretchen refilled all the coffee cups.

  Grandmother was behind the cash register when Mr. Hudson paid his check. “Lotte, the deputy may have to put you in jail you make any more pies like that.”

  Grandmother’s face was suddenly still. She looked at him in bewilderment.

  Mr. Hudson cackled. “You sure don’t have enough sugar to make that many pies. You been dealing in the black market?”

  Grandmother’s hands shook as she held them up, as if to stop a careening horse. “Oh, nein, ne—no, no. Not black market. Never. I use honey, honey my cousin Ernst makes himself.”

  The officers were waiting with their checks. The younger blond man, the one who looked like Alan Ladd, smiled warmly. “Sprechen Sie deutsch? Dies ist der beste Apfelkuchen den ich je gegessen habe.”

  The deputy tossed down a quarter, a dime, and a nickel for macaroni and cheese, cole slaw, pie, and coffee. He glowered at Grandmother. “No Heine talk needed around here. That right, Lotte?” He glared at the soldier. “How come you speak it so good?”

  The blond officer was a much smaller man, but Gretchen loved the way he looked at the deputy like he was a piece of banana peel. “Too bad you don’t have a German Grossmutter like she and I do.” He nodded toward Gretchen. “We’re lucky, you know,” and he gave Grandmother a gentle smile. “Danke schön.”

  But Grandmother’s shoulders were drawn tight. She made the change without another word, not looking at any of the men, and when they turned toward the front door, she scuttled to the kitchen.

  Gretchen waited a moment, then darted after her.

  Grandmother stood against the back wall, her apron to her face, her shoulders shaking.

  “Don’t cry, Grandmother.” Now it was Gretchen who stood on tiptoe to hug the big woman.

  Her grandmother wiped her face and said, her accent even more pronounced than usual, “Ve haf vork to do. Enough now.”

  As her grandmother stacked the dirty dishes in the sink, Gretchen took a clean recipe card. She searched through the file, then printed in large block letters:

  LOTTE’S APPLE HONEY VICTORY PIE

  6 tart apples

  1 cup honey

  2 T. flour

  1 tsp. cinnamon

  dash nutmeg

  dash salt

  pastry

  She took the card and propped it by the cash register.

  Back in the kitchen, Grandmother scrubbed the dishes in hot soapy water, then hefted a teakettle to pour boiling water over them as they drained. Gretchen mopped the floor. Every so often, the bell jangled from the front and Gretchen hurried out to take an order.

  The pie and all the food were gone before five. Grandmother turned the sign in the front window to CLOSED. Then she walked wearily to the counter and picked up the recipe Gretchen had scrawled.

  “Let’s leave it there, Grandmother.” Gretchen was surprised at how stern she sounded.

  Her grandmother almost put it down, then shook her head. “Ve don’t vant to make the deputy mad, Gretchen.”

  Gretchen hated hearing the fear in Grandmother’s voice. She wanted to insist that the recipe remain. She wanted to say that they hadn’t done anything wrong and they shouldn’t have to be afraid. But she didn’t say anything else as her grandmother held the card tight to her chest and turned away.

  “You go on home, Grandmother. I’ll close up.” Gretchen held up her hands as her grandmother started to protest. “You know I like to close up.” She’d made a game of it months ago because she knew Grandmother was so tired by closing time that she almost couldn’t walk the half mile to the house and there was still the garbage to haul down to the incinerator and the menus to stack and silverware to roll up in the clean gingham napkins and potatoes to scrub for tomorrow and the jam and jelly jars to be wiped with a hot rag.

  Gretchen made three trips to the incinerator, hauling the trash in a wheelbarrow. She liked the creak of the wheel and the caw of the crows and even though it was so hot she felt like an egg on a sizzling griddle, it was fun to use a big kitchen match and set the garbage on fire. She had to stay until she could stir the ashes, be sure the fire was out. She tipped the wheelbarrow over and stood on it to reach up and catch a limb and climb the big cottonwood. She climbed high enough to look out over the town, at the café and at McGrory’s gas station and at the flag hanging limp on the pole outside the post office.

  If it hadn’t been for the ugly way the deputy had acted toward Grandmother, Gretchen probably would never have paid any attention to him. But he’d been mean and she glowered at him through the shifting leaves of the cottonwood.

  He didn’t see her, of course. He wa
s walking along the highway. A big truck zoomed over the hill. When the driver spotted the deputy’s high crowned black hat and khaki uniform, he abruptly slowed. But the deputy wasn’t paying any attention, he was just strolling along, his hands in his pockets, almost underneath Gretchen’s tree.

  A hot day for a walk. Too hot a day for a walk. Gretchen wiped her sticky face against the collar of her blouse. She craned for a better look. Oh, the deputy was turning into the graveyard nestled on the side of the hill near the church. The graveyard was screened from most of the town by a stand of enormous evergreens so only Gretchen and the crows could see past the mossy stone pillars and the metal arch.

  Gretchen frowned and remembered the time when Mrs. Whittle caught Sammy Cooper out in the hall without a pass. She’d never forgotten the chagrin on Sammy’s face when Mrs. Whittle said, “Samuel, the next time you plan to cut class, don’t walk like you have the Hope diamond in your pocket and there’s a policeman on every corner.” Gretchen wasn’t sure what the Hope diamond was, but every time any of the kids saw Sammy for the next year, they’d whistle and shout, “Got the Hope diamond, Sammy?”

  The deputy stopped in a huge swath of shade from an evergreen. He peered around the graveyard. What did he expect to see? Nobody there could look at him.

  Gretchen forgot how hot she was. She even forgot to be mad. She leaned forward, and grabbed the closest limb, moved it so she could see better.

  The deputy made a full circle of the graveyard which was maybe half as big as a football field, no more than forty or fifty headstones. He passed by the stone angel at Grandpa Pfizer’s grave and her dad’s stone that had a weeping willow on it. That was the old part of the cemetery. A mossy stone, half fallen on one side, marked the grave of a Confederate soldier. Mrs. Peters took Gretchen’s social studies class there last year and showed them how to do a rubbing of a stone even though the inscription was scarcely legible. Gretchen shivered when she saw the wobbly indistinct gray letters: Hiram Kelly, Age 19, wounded July 17, 1863, in the Battle of Honey Springs, died July 29, 1863. Beloved Son of Robert and Effie Kelly, Cherished Brother of Corinne Kelly. Some of the graves still had little American flags, placed there for the Fourth. A half dozen big sprays marked the most recent grave.