by Amy Brashear
“We talked for an hour,” she finishes, sounding giddy. “Guess!”
“I hate guessing,” I say.
“Please—”
“Just tell me who.” She rolls her eyes and turns to her lunch, but she’s smiling. “Mr. Capote,” she says. “He came to our farm and ate a piece of cake that I made, and we sat at the kitchen table.”
“Why did he want to talk to you?” I ask, shocked. Maybe I’m a little envious. I’m the one who’s been investigating, after all.
“He asked me if I wanted to tell my story,” she says.
“Your story?” The words pop out of my mouth before I even have a chance to consider them.
Mary Claire’s smile falls away. She shifts in her chair. “I’ve known Nancy my whole life,” she tells me.
“I know—”
“You’re not special, Carly.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You’re acting like a spoiled little brat,” she says, picking up her hot dog.
“I don’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” She eats for a while in silence.
I don’t have an appetite. I am also dying of curiosity. “So, how did it go with Truman Capote?”
“Okay, I think. He talked, mostly. I just sat there. Hardly said a word. And when I did say something, I had a feeling he didn’t exactly care what I had to say.”
“So what is he like? I’ve asked my aunt, but all she says is he’s fabulous and knows the right people.”
Mary Claire sips her milk and shrugs. “He’s weird, very weird.”
“What do you mean by weird?”
“He’s just different,” she says. She cracks a grin and shakes her head. “This one question he asked . . .”
“What?” I whisper.
She glances around the cafeteria and leans close. “He wanted to know if Nancy’s cherry was popped.”
“No he did not,” I gasp. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.” I turn this information around in my head. I shouldn’t be surprised. Breakfast at Tiffany’s features a nameless narrator who’s a teenage . . . “party girl.” Those are my dad’s words. Truman Capote’s are different. My dad has defended girls like that in court—girls who are hired for a very specific reason by men who have money and think they have class.
Mary Claire looks at me. “If you want my advice, just say his name right. Don’t call him Mr. Cappuchi. He gets pretty annoyed. He’ll correct you like he did with me: ‘it’s Ca-po-TEE.’”
Later that night, my family sits at the country club, pretending to look at Monday’s menu, pretending to celebrate Asher’s win on Friday night. I’m thinking of Sue’s words again. “A part to play.” That’s what we’re doing here right now. Saturday or Sunday would have been the right time to celebrate. But Dad was working. On what, he wouldn’t say. He didn’t have to tell us. What else could he be working on in Holcomb—here and now? I wonder if Sheriff Robertson and those KBI agents, Dewey and Nye and Church, talked to him about Bobby and me.
“I’m thinking a steak and a twice-baked potato,” Dad says.
If I talked to Mr. Capote, what would I say? I also wonder.
“Dad, did you read that article in Time magazine everyone is talking about?” Asher asks, as if reading my mind.
“I did,” Dad says, not looking up.
“Honestly, I wish they would leave us alone,” Mom says.
“Well, he wants to talk to me,” Asher says.
I stare at him. First Asher talked to the sheriff without my knowing, and now this famous writer wants to talk to him, before talking to me.
“Why does he want to talk to you?” I demand.
Asher stares right back at me with a look of disbelief. “Kenyon was my best friend,” he says coldly.
“Right,” I say, remembering the truth. I wish I could melt into my seat and disappear. Asher is actually worth talking to. He had a close relationship with a Clutter. One that didn’t consist of trying to get someone to understand that x+y=z. He and Kenyon were friends.
“Well, it’s out of the question,” Mom says.
“Don’t you think people need to hear what they were truly like?” Dad asks.
“Like Frank Beggett?” Mom asks.
Dad’s face clouds. “We made a promise,” he says.
She looks down. “I know,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
When Dad talks like this, in absolutes, his words are a gavel: case closed. He doesn’t need to elaborate. We all know what he means. The entire family swore an oath never to mention that particular name ever again.
Several years ago in New York City, nineteen-year-old Frank Beggett allegedly murdered thirteen-year-old Angela Susanne Dunn.
According to the police, the newspapers, the prosecution—everyone—Frank asked Angela if she needed a ride home from school. She accepted. The next day she was found in an alley two blocks from her home, strangled with a leather belt. All evidence pointed to Frank’s guilt, including eye-witness testimony: people had seen Angela get into his car.
But Dad defended Frank in court, because that is Dad’s job. And he is very good at his job. Frank Beggett was found not guilty. He did not get death by electrocution. He was released with a clean record. Apparently the police had mishandled some evidence. Dad made the case about that, about how Frank Beggett was a victim, too. It was enough to sway the jury.
“Why do you want to talk to that writer, anyway?” Asher asks in the heavy silence. “He’s weird.”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I don’t have an answer.
“Didn’t you tutor the girl in math?” Dad chimes in.
I nod. And that’s it, really. Dad just answered the question for me.
I’m always going to be known as Carly Fleming, the math tutor, and I don’t want that, because I don’t want to accept that.
“Well, you can talk about tutoring,” Dad says, closing his menu. “If the situation arises.”
Mom shakes her head. “He’ll twist her words.”
“Becca—”
“Honestly,” Mom says, stirring her martini with a skewer of two olives. Collecting herself, she flashes Asher a brittle smile and lifts her glass. “Cheers to your victory.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The invitation doesn’t even come from Mr. Capote. It comes from his friend, the polite lady with the musical Southern accent. Maybe she followed me after school. I nearly slam right into her on Main Street as I’m hurrying to meet Mary Claire at the diner, my head down in the frigid wind. She’s wearing a long dark blue wool coat and holding a cigarette in her right hand.
“Beg your pardon, Miss Fleming; I’m Miss Lee. I believe we spoke at the courthouse? I wondered if you had a moment this afternoon for Mr. Truman Capote.”
Did she and I speak? I can’t remember. But in the rush of excitement at finally having the opportunity to tell my story, I nod. I also forget all about Mary Claire. I follow Miss Lee several wintry blocks to the Wheat Lands Motel, which is really just another coffee shop. She puffs on her cigarette the whole time, then daintily drops it to the curb as she holds the door for me.
“Truman will be right down. But you can have a seat.” She gestures to a round table by the window, piled high with papers. There are three empty chairs. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, sitting across from her. “Thank you, though.”
She laughs and orders me a Coke anyway, then starts fumbling through the stack of papers. “The Clutters had so much religious crap in their house,” she says under her breath. “Not to speak ill of the dead . . .”
I’m suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, they were Methodists,” I say, but she pays no attention.
The Coke arrives. The waitress doesn’t look particularly happy about havi
ng to bring it to me. I take a sip, wondering how long Miss Lee has been camped out here. I keep stealing glances at the empty chair. Soon I’m guzzling my pop, just to have something to do. I stare out the window at the street, drinking slowly as the last of the sunlight fades quickly. The lamps flicker on. The minutes tick by in silence.
“I swear he’ll be right down,” she says, looking at her watch.
“It’s okay,” I say.
I’m done with my bottle of pop, and I’m just about to suggest we do this another time, when Mr. Capote swoops down from the staircase, wearing what looks to be a woman’s western coat and cowboy hat. He holds a tin can toward me as he flops down in the empty chair. At first—honestly—I think it’s cat food.
“Little girl, would you love some of this delicious beluga caviar?” he asks in that odd high-pitched voice. It cuts through the room. He turns to Miss Lee. “It came straight to room 202 in a care package from Babe.”
“Well, wasn’t that thoughtful,” Miss Lee says without looking up from the papers.
“Well?” Mr. Capote says to me.
“No, thank you,” I say, crinkling my nose.
Mr. Capote snaps at the waitress with his free hand. She arrives with a basket of saltines. He spoons some of the caviar onto one of the crackers. “Trust me, it’s good.” He holds it out for me to take.
Minding my manners, I cringe and gulp it down. It tastes like cat food, or what I imagine cat food to taste like.
“Salty,” I croak. “Thank you.”
“It’s better with vodka.” He smiles.
“I guess I’ll take your word for it,” I say. I wish I hadn’t finished my Coke.
He shakes his head. “Prohibition lasted for thirteen years, ten months, nineteen days, and thirty-two point five minutes. Most of our great nation came to its senses, but apparently, the law is still alive and well in this backward state,” he says.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.
“Miss Fleming, you’re allowed to have the initial reaction of wanting to punch him in the face,” Miss Lee adds in a dry voice.
Mr. Capote narrows his eyes at her. “I’m too humble a person, really. On the other hand, I’m actually much greater than I think I am.” He turns back to me. “So, who do you think killed them?”
I stare at him, taken aback by the suddenness of his question. “I don’t know,” I say.
“You must have an inkling.”
“Are you a sleuth or just a creeper?”
He laughs and exchanges another glance with Miss Lee. “Well, maybe a little bit of both.”
“We’re here to do a piece on the town, the citizens, and also the family,” she says.
“It’s not going to be an exposé,” he adds, eyes on me as he hands Miss Lee the tin of caviar and the saltines. “It’s more of a human interest piece.”
“So you’re interviewing everyone in town?” I ask.
He nods.
“So, I guess that’s why you want to talk to me,” I say.
“Precisely,” he says, nodding.
I can tell Mr. Capote’s sizing me up, deciding how he’s going to handle me, the direct approach or the underhanded kind.
“So, you’ve talked to a lot of people?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I don’t want him to know how miffed I am at being one of the last. I want to size him up, too.
“A lot,” he concurs. “But I’m horrible with names.”
“We’ve talked to the editor of the newspaper,” Miss Lee says.
“Oh, Mr. Brown,” I say. “He’s my Sunday school teacher.”
“Well, I don’t care for him very much. I found him impolite and belligerent. He’s as plain as his name,” Mr. Capote says with a sour face.
“Not many people have warmed up to my friend Truman quite yet,” Miss Lee says with a smile, eyeing Mr. Capote. “He’s like a hormonal teenage girl when he gets his feelings hurt.”
He bursts out in a fit of laughter. “What sophisticated man from New York City isn’t?”
She laughs, too. “Honestly.”
“I’m from New York City,” I say.
“Oh really?” he asks, obviously not impressed at all.
“Yes, sir. I’ve lived here since the ninth grade, but I have family that still lives there. Do you know my aunt Trudy? She says she knows you. Her full name is—”
“What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?” he interrupts. Then he shrugs. “As I said, I’m horrible with names.” An impish smile plays on his lips. “I remember faces, though, and I remember yours. We’re just going to talk here, like old friends, right?”
“I . . . guess?” I say hesitantly.
“Well, you knew the girl?” Mr. Capote asks.
“Nancy.”
“Nancy,” he stresses. “Nancy Clutter, yes. Her name, I know.”
“I tutored her in math.” Mr. Capote leans back in his chair. He looks disappointed. “Tutored?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was she a dimwit?”
“Truman,” Miss Lee scolds, still buried in the papers. She’s taken out a pen and has started jotting words down on a blank sheet in a leather-bound journal.
“Forgive me, but isn’t the dead girl the town darling and the dead boy the little prince?” Mr. Capote asks. “Isn’t that the truth about Nancy and Kenyon Clutter?” It’s a question, but it sounds like it’s a statement—and one not needing a reply.
I watch his friend. All of a sudden I realize she’s taking notes on our conversation. “You don’t write anything down yourself?” I ask.
“Everyone has a photographic memory; some just don’t have any film,” he says with a wink. “Tell me about Nancy Clutter’s mom.”
“Are you writing a book?” I ask him.
“Not with the information you’re giving me.”
“So, is that a yes?”
He fixes me with a beady stare from under the brim of his hat. “Do you think the boyfriend did it?”
“No,” I say, folding my arms close to my chest.
“I need to talk to the boyfriend. You know the boyfriend?”
I nod.
Mr. Capote pouts. “He won’t speak to me. Foxy said he would help but what does he know? Apparently he has no contact with the boy.”
“Foxy?” I ask, confused.
“Agent Dewey,” Miss Lee clarifies.
I’m still baffled. Foxy? But I keep silent, not wanting to look like a “dimwit.”
“So, do you think you can talk to him?” Mr. Capote asks.
“Talk to Bobby?” I ask, unfolding my arms and sitting straight. “You want me to talk to Bobby?”
“Was I not clear?”
“Truman,” Miss Lee warns again.
I slump in my chair, deflated. I see now what this interview was all about. They don’t want to hear my story at all. They just want to get as close as possible to whoever killed the Clutters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-one
Wednesday night, Dad has to run another mysterious errand at the courthouse, and I go with him. Mom is picking up Asher at basketball practice.
Dad tells me to wait in the car while he goes inside. Maybe he believes that I actually will. The same way he believes that I met Mary Claire at the diner yesterday instead of meeting Miss Lee and Mr. Capote at the Wheat Lands Motel. I wait a good two minutes before I hop out of the car, into the cold night. I tiptoe inside, closing the heavy doors quietly behind me. The knobs are like icicles in my hands. I can hear Dad’s voice from the second floor. The place is quiet and dimly lit; it’s after hours, closed for business. I creep down the shadowy hall and up the staircase.
The same office, the one that the agents were using last time, is open. The lights are on. But Dad’s voice is coming from a room farther down the hall. Holding my breath, I
duck inside the closer door. The evidence is spread out across one long table. Looking behind me, to make sure no one’s in the hall, I creep slowly in. Careful not to touch anything, I look over all the evidence. My legs turn to jelly. So many photographs. Pictures of death. Bodies.
Mr. Clutter’s slashed throat, his wounded head, his duct-taped mouth, and his rope-bound feet.
Kenyon’s head on a pillow, a gunshot to the head, his feet bound with rope.
Mrs. Clutter in her bed, her hands over her chest, bound with rope as if she were praying.
Nancy turned on her side, facing the wall.
They knew that they were going to die.
Rope in plastic bags.
A photo of a bloody boot print.
That’s all the KBI has to go on. A bloody boot print and some rope?
My head swims. This is all too much. It’s too . . . I can’t think of a word. I have no thoughts at all. I’ve been reduced to pure feeling: sickness, dread, horror. It’s real. Right here. In my face. I rub my hands on my thighs to calm my nerves and to keep from vomiting all over the little evidence the KBI has.
A man coughs.
With a start, I look up to see Agent Church standing in the doorway.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he whispers. He jerks his head down the hall. “Your father is talking to the sheriff right now. He know you’re here?”
I shake my head. My heart pounds. He shakes his head and someone grabs his arm, pulling him away. I can’t see who it is. I crouch low, holding my breath, listening. There’s hushed talk. I can catch only snippets. “Promising lead . . . Lansing . . . Kansas State Penitentiary . . . Alvin’s sending Agent Owens . . .”
“Who are they interviewing?” someone asks loudly.
“A man named Floyd Wells,” Agent Church replies. His voice fades as he moves down the hall, away from the stairwell. “He worked for the Clutters back in ’49. Did some time, shared a cell with a fella named Hickock. We understand he might have told Hickock about a safe that Herb supposedly had. It’s a lead and a damn good one at that.” There’s an angry grunt. “Alvin told that Capote character? Why in the hell . . . ?”