by Amy Brashear
I hear what sounds like a muffled argument. Taking that as my moment, I bolt out the door and run for the stairs. I’m too terrified to look over my shoulder, but I don’t hear anyone yelling after me. I only slow down to open and close the courthouse doors. My lungs feel like they’re on fire by the time I slip back into the car.
I repeat the name “Floyd Wells” over and over so I won’t forget. My heart thumps and my chest heaves. Luckily it’s another ten minutes before Dad appears. I’m not relaxed, but at least I’m not sweating and panting.
I force a smile as Dad starts the engine.
“Was that about what I think it was?” I ask him.
“You know I can’t discuss it, Carly.”
“I know,” I murmur.
He glances at me. “Let me put it this way. I think I know whom I’ll be defending,” he says. “And . . . it’ll be good for the town.”
“Do you think they’re guilty?” I ask.
He laughs.
Not at the question, of course. He laughs because he knows that I know he would never answer—ever—no matter who asked. And he laughs because he knows I’ll never stop asking. I’m still smiling, too, I admit. Not because of Dad. I’m smiling because I have no reason at all anymore to introduce Mr. Capote and Miss Lee to Bobby. They wouldn’t want to talk to him now anyway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-two
At lunch the next day, Mary Claire sees my excitement before I even sit down. I guess I’m not good at hiding things or playing it cool like she is. Or like Nancy was. Maybe I’m not as good an actress as I think.
“What is it?” Mary Claire whispers. “You look like you have a secret.”
I sit and lean toward her over my tray. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she says, her eyes searching mine.
“You’ve lived in Holcomb your whole life. Would you say you know pretty much everyone?”
She shrugs. “I guess so, why?”
Biting my bottom lip, I glance around the bustling cafeteria. “Last night after school, I went with my dad to the courthouse. I snuck inside. The door to one of the offices was open—”
“And you snuck inside there, too,” she finishes for me.
I feel myself blushing. I put my napkin in my lap. “Yes. I saw the evidence.”
“Carly—”
“I know.”
She takes a sip of milk. “Was it as bad as they say?” she asks, very quietly.
I nod, looking up.
She leans back in her chair, staring at me. “You’re going to have nightmares, and then I’m going to have nightmares, too.”
“Not if I don’t tell you what I saw. But listen, here’s what I want to know. Do you remember a boy named Floyd Wells? He worked for the Clutters one summer, maybe ten years back. He’s older than we are.”
She thinks for a moment, her eyes wandering off into the past. “I think so. I’m pretty sure. He moved away when I was little. Yeah. Floyd. He was a teenager. He was kind of odd, if you ask me.”
I feel a strange tingle of excitement. I’m onto the truth; I can feel it. “What was odd about him?”
“I don’t know.” She doesn’t seem nearly as interested in this conversation as I am. She takes a bite of her hamburger and lifts her shoulders. “Nancy and I found him swirly. You know: not quite right in the head. He worked for Mr. Clutter one summer and then he was—” Suddenly she drops her food. Her eyes widen again. “Oh, no. You think . . . ?” The unfinished question hangs between us.
“I don’t know,” I say. I glance around the room again and keep my voice low.
“From what I can tell, the KBI thinks Floyd Wells planted the seed of the robbery in the head of some criminal he met in prison, a man named Hickock. They’re going up to Lansing to interview him tomorrow.”
“The man’s name is Hiccough?” she says with a frown.
I shake my head, frowning back. “Not Hiccough—”
“Who has the hiccoughs?” a smarmy voice asks.
Karen is standing beside me, smiling angelically. Her posture is perfect. Everything about her is perfect. I’m half tempted to slap the bottom of her tray and splatter her lunch all over her pristine white sweater.
“No one,” I quickly say.
She turns her smile to Mary Claire. “Why so many secrets?” she asks.
Mary Claire smiles back and rolls her eyes. “Carly’s just searching for clues,” she says.
“Of course she is. Carly’s the new Nancy Drew,” Karen replies with a giggle.
I glare at Mary Claire, but she pretends not to notice. Karen traipses away. Once Karen is out of earshot, I whisper, “Is that what you really think? That I’m trying to be some kind of Nancy Drew?”
“Maybe I do,” Mary Claire says simply. “But I have a right to. Because I know you’re going to ask me to help you sneak back into that courthouse.” She arches an eyebrow. “Right?”
Now it’s my turn to giggle, even though I try not to.
After school, Mary Claire drives me to Garden. We park under a leafless tree at the end of the courthouse block. The plan is simple: she’ll be my lookout. She’ll wait on the first floor while I go up to the second. If she thinks I’m in trouble, she’ll give me a signal.
But now that we’re here, she’s getting cold feet.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” She grips the steering wheel. “Can’t we just go get a Coke instead?”
“I’m sure,” I say, scouring the street for any sign of the sheriff or the KBI agents or my father.
“My treat,” she says. “How about we make that Coke a float?”
I turn to her with a smirk. “No.”
With a sigh, she opens the door. “If we get arrested, I get the top bunk,” she says.
“Deal.”
We walk in silence across the street and up the courthouse steps. She goes in first and I follow closely behind. I stiffen the instant the door closes. Men are coming down the stairs. I can see their shiny shoes and suit pants. In a panic we both hide behind one of the big potted plants. Mary Claire gives me a dirty look. Both of us hold our breath, waiting for the men to exit. Once I’m sure they’re outside, I let out a pent-up gasp of relief.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she whispers.
“But we already are,” I whisper back.
“How am I supposed to signal you?”
My mind is blank. I should have thought of this beforehand. “Cackle like a chicken,” I tell her.
She purses her lips. “A chicken? Yeah. That won’t be weird.”
“Well, what do you want to do? Moo like a cow?”
“I’ll whistle,” she says.
“Whistling is good,” I say, nodding.
At first, I’m cautious. I creep around the plant. But then fear overtakes me. The longer I’m here, the better the chances are I’ll get caught. Before I know it, I’m pulling off my Hush Puppies and handing them to Mary Claire.
She gapes at me in either bafflement or disbelief. Or both.
Then I sprint for the stairwell. I’m silent in my stocking feet as I race to the second floor. Every single office door is cracked open. The empty hallway is teeming with the quiet voices behind them. I make a beeline for the office I know. If the agents are there, fine. I’ll make up a story about how somebody stole my shoes. The office is deserted, thank goodness. But the desk has been cleared, too. No photos. No stacks of documents. Just a slim file folder, unmarked. With trembling fingers, I open it.
office of the kansas bureau of investigation
Eureka!
Mary Claire’s whistle is soft, but I hear it. I stand frozen at Agent Dewey’s desk, clutching the three-page report. Then I stuff it down my dress, dash for the stairwell, and nearly go flying. I have to grab the railing to catch myself. I keep slipping on the smooth marble ste
ps. But within seconds I’m out the door in my stocking feet.
Mary Claire falls in line behind me, and I don’t dare look back. She’s still whistling.
The freezing pavement is rough on my toes. It hurts, but I don’t slow down. Not until we get back into her car can I breathe.
The instant I slam the door, Mary Claire tosses my shoes in my lap. She isn’t whistling anymore. She’s laughing.
“Oh my God, I thought we were dead back there!” she cries.
I try to muster a smile. “Now, you can’t tell anyone we borrowed this,” I say, pulling the report out of my dress and scratching my neck in the process. Great. A paper cut I’ll have to explain at dinner.
“Borrowed?” Mary Claire teases. “I think you mean stole.”
“I mean borrowed.”
“With you, I don’t think there’s much difference,” she says, taking it from me.
“Ha.”
“Is it a confession?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
As Mary Claire’s eyes flash over the pages, I slide my shoes back on. I’m wincing a little. The bottoms of my feet are bruised and scraped. I should probably toss my stockings before Mom finds them in the laundry and asks more questions.
“We should get out of here,” Mary Claire mutters, handing the report back to me.
“Hold your horses,” I say.
“Well, read it out loud,” she says.
The report is dry, like a textbook. A list of facts. Floyd Wells worked for Mr. Clutter from 1948 to 1949.
Mary Claire points out that this was before the Clutters even lived at the house where they were killed.
After Wells left Holcomb, he worked a series of odd jobs and drifted into a life of petty crime. A conviction for robbing an appliance store landed him three to five years at the Kansas State Penitentiary in Lansing, where he shared a cell with Richard Hickock. Or Dick, as he is called, the report reads. Wells contacted the authorities after hearing about the murders on the radio because he had a hunch Dick was the murderer.
“Why’s that?” Mary Claire asks.
“Says here that Floyd Wells told Dick Hickock that Mr. Clutter was very rich, and that he had a safe with ten thousand dollars in it in his home.”
She shakes her head. “That’s a lie—there was no safe in that house. Mr. Clutter always pays by check,” she says. “I mean, paid. I remember he once told my dad to do the same, never to keep large amounts of cash on hand. We have a safe. My dad says cash is important in case there’s a run on the banks, like during the Depression. What if they came to our house instead?” She turns in her seat to face me. “It could have been my family instead of Nancy’s. It could have been us. We’d be dead.”
“Floyd Wells didn’t work on your farm, did he?” I ask, trying to reassure her.
“No,” she says. She still looks shaken. Melodrama is one of her specialties, especially when she’s bored. She reminds me of Aunt Trudy that way. But she’s not bored now. “What else does it say?”
I flip to the final page, skimming the text. “There’s more of his statement . . . He talks about how Dick had a friend named Perry Edward Smith . . . He knew they were dangerous, and so that’s why he alerted the prison authorities. He said that Dick would have tortured Mr. Clutter to get to that safe. It ends with ‘suspects’ possible whereabouts: Carson City, Nevada, and Edgerton, Kansas.’ Hickock’s last known residence.” I look up. “That’s it. Well, except for what Floyd Wells is getting in return for the information.”
“There was no safe,” Mary Claire murmurs, gazing out the window.
“I’m just reading what it says here. Where’s Edgerton?”
“Near Olathe,” she says absently.
“Olathe? That’s where Landry’s from,” I say. I’m not sure why that gives me a funny feeling, but it does. Girls like Sue and Karen—Nancy, too—don’t think highly of that area. It’s poor. Seedy.
“So, now we know who did it, right?” Mary Claire asks, turning toward me.
“I guess.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s too easy,” I say. “Don’t you think? Floyd Wells just happens to know exactly who did it after hearing the news on the radio? He could be making the whole thing up. You said he was swirly. Maybe there was bad blood between him and this Dick character. They were cellmates. Maybe they were enemies, too. Now Floyd Wells has a horrible crime to pin on his enemy and a get-out-of-jail-free card, all rolled up in one. Pretty convenient.”
Mary Claire’s eyes widen. “Is that what he’s getting out of this? I mean, for talking to the KBI?” she asks. “He’s getting out of jail?”
“More,” I say. “A thousand dollars. And parole.”
“Holy moly.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-three
Dad has to work late, and Mom is meeting with the Parent-Teacher Association, so I’m told to have dinner with Asher in town after basketball practice. Mom even called ahead to alert Mrs. Hartman that we’ll be at Hartman’s Café. They must suspect I haven’t been where I’ve claimed to be after school. Mary Claire dropped me off here following our excursion after school to the courthouse. I’m sitting at the counter in front of a grilled cheese sandwich and an ice-cold fountain Coke when the door flies open.
It’s not Asher. It’s Mr. Helms, our neighbor. He’s old, about Mr. Stoecklein’s age, and retired. He runs in, orders himself “a coffee, no milk and no sugar” in one breath. Then he grabs my arm and says, “I caught a man at the Clutter home. Saw him with my own two eyes.”
“Was he arrested?” I ask.
He nods slowly.
“I bet he was the one who came in here last night asking a lot of questions about the murders. They always go back to the scene of the crime,” Mrs. Hartman says, giving me a knowing scowl of disapproval.
“He had a .38 revolver in one of those snap-on belt holsters under his coat. In his car he had a .30 hunting rifle, a 12-gauge shotgun, and a hunting knife,” Mr. Helms says.
She clamps a hand over her mouth, then drops it. “A hunting knife and a shotgun? Aren’t those the same weapons used on Herb, Bonnie, and the kids?”
“Yes, ma’am, they are. They’re questioning him about the murders.”
She shakes her head. “Menacing creatures.”
“He says that he was just curious. That’s why he was out there.”
“Sure he was,” she says. “Sure he was . . .” She heads back to the kitchen.
When the door swings shut behind her, Mr. Helms leans over and tells me what he really saw. Not just the prowler. “A woman—an older woman. She was wearing a housecoat and had the same coloring as Bonnie. It was her, all right. I know what Bonnie looks like.”
I try to smile as politely as I can. “Mr. Helms, Mrs. Clutter is dead,” I say.
“Don’t believe me, fine, but it was Bonnie, all right,” he says, nodding.
Mrs. Hartman reappears. “You okay?” she asks Mr. Helms, her brow creased as she pours him another cup of coffee. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You have no idea,” he says over the rim of his mug.
A few minutes later, Asher appears. He throws his gym bag under the stool next to Mr. Helms. Mrs. Hartman places a hamburger with French fries in front of him. It’s all ready and waiting, thanks to Mom’s call. I feel like we’re being spied on. Maybe we are. Maybe my mom made up tonight’s meeting so she could catch me in the act of doing something bad.
I privately vow to lay off the sneaking around. There’s no need to poke my head into police business anymore. Mary Claire dropped me off here at Hartman’s after we finished reading what was in the file. She stayed in the truck as my lookout while I ran up the courthouse stairs and deposited the file in the mail slot. Nobody saw me. I’m done.
“You know you stink?” Mrs. Hartman says, crinkling her nose at
my brother.
He smiles. “I was at practice.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Helms tells Asher all about what he saw. Asher doesn’t believe him but indulges him anyway. He’s a model of patience and understanding, even though he’s starving. He’s not being phony, either. He takes after Dad that way. Me? Not so much. I stare down at my half-eaten sandwich, no longer hungry. Tonight I wanted to grill Asher about why he talked about me to the police and kept it secret. But I’ve lost the urge. Asher was just doing the right thing, because that’s what he does. Always. It’s why he and Kenyon were real friends.
After jabbering in my brother’s ear for what seems like hours, Mr. Helms excuses himself to go to the restroom.
“Have you seen Bobby today?” Asher asks me.
I shake my head. “No. Why?”
“He’s acting really strange. He’s still at school. He said he was going to stay late shooting.”
“I’m going to go talk to him,” I say, gathering my bag from my chair.
“Why?” he asks.
“To be there for him,” I say.
“What about what you promised Mom and Dad?” Asher says.
“I can take him home if you want,” Mr. Helms offers.
I’m annoyed that he was eavesdropping, but grateful, not to mention happy to have a witness that I’m not breaking any rules. “Thanks,” I say, grabbing my bag. “You too, Mrs. Hartman. Please tell my mother, if she asks, what happened. I went to console a friend.”
She flashes a wry smile. “I sure will, hon. You’re a good girl.”
With a reluctant nod, Asher turns back to his food.
I head out into the cold. Landry’s pickup pulls into a parking spot. Eureka!
“Hey, you going in?” he asks as he hops out.
“Just leaving, actually,” I say.