by Alice Duncan
He shook his head. “Not a prayer of that, but Mrs. O’Dell is out in her rubber boots trying to find as many of them as she can.”
I always treated Mr. O’Dell with special politeness, mainly because I’d suspected him of murder not too long ago and was heartily ashamed of myself for it. Not that he knew of my suspicions, but I have a tender conscience. Sometimes.
“I’ll take a shovel, Pete,” said Mr. Lovelady. “I only have the one, and there’s nobody else I can borrow from since they’re all using theirs to shovel out their sheds and barns. My kid’s home now working on the stable, and I aim to help as soon as I row myself home. Blasted storm.”
By the way, while Rosedale boasted a few automobiles, including our own Model T Ford, lots of folks still got around via mule or horse and wagon. Those of us who owned automobiles kept them in what used to be our stables.
I heard other folks call for nails, hammers, roofing shingles, window glass, paint, plaster, handsaws, and all sorts of materials required to make repairs after last night’s disastrous downpour. I waited patiently for my turn to come, listening to all the comments. It seemed to me that we Blues didn’t suffer as much damage as a lot of folks in town, and I decided I’d tell Pa so. Might make him feel a little better about the roof.
“What can I help you with, Annabelle?” said Phil, smiling shyly at me. He was such a sweetheart.
“I need a bundle of shingles, some roofing nails and some tar. Do you have tar?”
“For the roof? Storm blew it away, did it?”
“Parts of it.”
“Sure. I can sell you some tar. You’ll have to heat it up.”
“Damned flood,” muttered Mr. O’Dell as he stomped to the door with wood, wire and nails for rebuilding his chicken coop.
“We do seem to have wicked weather in these parts sometimes,” I said to Phil.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I tried calling the ranch to see how Ma and Pa made out, but the phone lines are down.”
“So’s the electric,” I said. “Wonder when everything will be back up again.”
“Don’t have a clue. Probably not for a few hours for the telephone, at least. We’re not exactly the center of the universe.”
“No. We sure aren’t. It’s funny in a way, though,” I said. “I mean, five years ago we didn’t have electricity, and telephones were scarce as hens’ teeth. Now we can’t live without them.”
“True. I guess they call that progress.”
Phil had been rummaging around behind the counter of his brother’s store. He plunked a banded bundle of roofing shingles on the counter along with a box of nails. I peered at them suspiciously. “Are you sure those are the right kind?”
With a sigh, Phil said, “Yes, Annabelle. Those are roofing nails. Jeez, don’t you think I know what I’m doing in my own brother’s store? I’ve been working here for years, you know.”
“Sorry, Phil. Of course you know what you’re doing. I was just asking, was all.”
“Huh.” He took off through a door behind the counter and came back a moment later with a bucket of tar. “Want me to put this on your father’s account?”
“No, thanks. He gave me the money.”
Phil added everything up, gave me the total, and I handed over the loot. He was kind enough to carry my purchases out to the boat for me. Well, I carried the nails. He carried the heavy stuff.
“Thanks, Phil,” I said after he’d held the boat steady for me to climb back into.
“You’re welcome. Say, Annabelle, want to go to the pictures with me on Friday?” He blushed a little, which I thought was sweet. Phil was a bashful fellow.
“Sure. If the waters have gone down by then.” This was Wednesday, and you never knew about these things.
“Good. I’ll come by to get you at six. That all right? We can get some ice cream afterwards at Pruitt’s.” Pruitt’s Drug Store sat right next door to Blue’s, and my best friend Myrtle Howell worked there at the cosmetics counter. The soda fountain remained open after six o’clock on Friday nights, unlike the rest of the store, because going to a movie and having an ice-cream soda was about the only amusement available to us young people.
“Sure. Do you know what’s playing?”
“I think there’s a Harold Lloyd picture there now.”
“Oh, yes. I read about it in the paper. I think it’s called Grandma’s Boy. Should be fun.”
“Good.”
Phil had a satisfied smile on his face when he turned to go back into the store.
As for me, I smiled at his back and reached to untie the boat from its makeshift mooring.
Then I screamed bloody murder.
Chapter Two
Phil came running back to me, his expression a combination of anxiety and exasperation. “Cripes, Annabelle, what’s wrong?”
Others who’d heard my shriek had come running, too. I was so horrified, I could only gesture at the muddy water, where I’d just seen the face of the president of the Rosedale Farmer’s and Rancher’s Bank bobbing in the muck.
“It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s Mr. Calhoun,” I stammered, pointing, praying I was wrong and knowing I was right.
“What?” Phil, sounding more annoyed than worried, leaned over the horse rail. I saw his eyes go round as saucers. “Cripes, it is Mr. Calhoun!”
Several other people now leaned over the rail, too, and I heard exclamations of alarm and distress from all and sundry.
Pete, Phil’s brother, hotfooted it out of the store and looked, too. “Shoot. We’d better fish him out of there,” said the ever-practical Pete. “Can you go in and get a grappling hook, Phil? He’s probably full of mud and bogged down.”
“Dios mio, I wonder what happened,” said Armando Contreras, proprietor of Rosedale’s only gas station and of what was going to be Rosedale’s very first automobile dealership come January. He, too, leaned over the railing to get a good gander at the dead banker.
Feeling shaken and shaky, I said, “I don’t know. Maybe he stumbled over something and fell in and couldn’t swim? It was raining cats and dogs last night.”
“But what was he doing here?” asked Armando, a question I couldn’t answer.
I glanced at the businesses surrounding Gunderson’s Hardware. The local plumber’s shop. Mr. O’Dell’s real-estate office. Miss Petty’s Fancy Dresses. The office of the Rosedale Daily Record. Armando’s dealership was nowhere near here, so what was he doing here, for that matter? Then I noticed the Cowboy Café. Of course. Lots and lots of folks ate breakfast, lunch and sometimes even supper at the Cowboy Café. But would he be doing that after a torrential rain? Oh, who knew?
So as not to think about the head of Mr. Calhoun, which kept bumping against the boat, I said, “Must have taken supper at the Cowboy Café.”
Armando looked at me oddly for a moment and said, “Yeah. That’s probably it.”
What did that odd look mean?
I didn’t have time to think about it because Phil came back with the grappling hook just then. “Annabelle, I’m going to untie your boat so we can get at Mr. Calhoun more easily.”
“Right,” I said, happy to be getting away from the corpse, although, of course, I aimed to stick around nearby until they got him out of the drink. Not for Annabelle Blue to run away from an interesting event, even if it was the death of a prominent citizen. My mother would probably say especially if it concerned a death, but that’s only because she thinks it’s unladylike to watch icky stuff. But, heck, this was Rosedale, New Mexico, where nothing interesting ever happened except every now and then; like today, for instance.
I rowed the boat a few feet away from the action, but stayed where I could see Pete and Phil lower the grappling hook into the muddy water and try to snag a piece of Mr. Calhoun with it. The job wasn’t an easy one, especially from up on the boardwalk. After watching them fumble around for a few minutes, I said, “Want me to hook him for you?” Gee, that looks kind of bloodthirsty when written down, but I didn’t mean it to be.
“
Oh, Annabelle, you don’t want to . . .” Phil let the sentence die out, since I’d lectured him before on the equality of womankind. Actually, I think I’d lectured him on the superiority of females versus males, but I don’t really remember.
“You can’t do it from up there,” I pointed out. “And I’m sure you don’t want to go swimming in all your clothes. I’m right here, and I can put the hook where it can snag his clothes or something.”
I saw Phil and Pete exchange a glance. Then Pete shrugged. He said, “All right. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Truth to tell, I did mind, but not as much as I’d have minded not doing anything at all under the circumstances.
So I rowed back over to the body, tried to determine if he was snagged on anything, decided he’d just come to rest between two pillars holding up the boardwalk, and took the heavy grappling hook in my hands. By that time, of course, it was all muddy and slimy, but I persevered.
“Maybe you can hook him under the legs or something,” Phil suggested from the peanut gallery.
“I think I’ll hook his belt,” I said, picturing the tines of the hook piercing Mr. Calhoun’s flesh and shuddering inwardly.
“Well, all right, I guess, though the belt might break.”
“I doubt it. Mr. Calhoun always wears . . . wore the sturdiest of duds,” said I, sounding perhaps a trifle snide.
It was true, though. Mr. Calhoun the banker was not universally liked in town, mainly because he was hard and mean and was reputed to practice dirty tactics when he could get away with them. He was definitely the richest man in town, and he always looked as though he’d just stepped out from the pages of a Sears and Roebuck catalog—although I’m sure he bought all his clothes in Chicago or New York, where he went on frequent business trips. And I couldn’t even get to Alhambra, California.
Anyhow, it was no fun maneuvering Mr. Calhoun’s body so that I could get at his belt, but I finally managed and stuck two of the hook’s tines underneath it.
“Okay,” I said. “Haul away.”
I think I heard Phil mutter, “Criminy, Annabelle,” but I’m not sure. Phil didn’t share my daring spirit. Which only points out one more reason I aimed to have an adventure or two before I married him. When we were well and truly knotted together, we’d never have any adventures at all if he could help it.
The body was heavy from having absorbed a whole lot of water and probably pounds and pounds of mud for however long it had been in the water, and it took a good deal of effort and several grunts and swearwords before Pete, Phil, Armando and a couple of other men succeeded in getting it up on the boardwalk where it fell with a sloppy whump that made me shudder. I rowed closer to the boardwalk in order to view the corpse more clearly. I know that was unladylike, but how often does one get to see the body of a drowned man in one’s lifetime?
Bracing myself on the boardwalk so I wouldn’t flip the boat over and land in the drink myself, I took a good gander at Mr. Calhoun, who now lay face up on the soaked boards. He looked awful. I guess that’s shouldn’t have surprised me any, but jeepers, the man was my brother-in-law Richard’s boss, and I’d never seen him looking anything but dapper and . . . well, rich. Not any longer. Now he looked like a lump of muddy meat.
“Are you going to stand there in that boat and gawk all day, Annabelle, or will you maybe do something useful and get Chief Vickers from the police department?” Phil again, unappreciative of my natural curiosity.
However, he was right. “I’ll go there right now,” said I, and shoved the boat away from the boardwalk. It only took a few minutes to row myself to the police station, where I hit a snag. Literally. Fortunately for me, Deputy Sheriff Earl Wilcox happened to be walking into the police department—don’t ask me why because the sheriff’s office was in another location—and helped me out.
“Thanks, Earl,” said I when he’d maneuvered the huge clump of vegetation away from the boat.
“What are you doing here, Annabelle? Anything wrong at Blue’s?”
“Oh, no, but there’s something wrong at Gunderson’s. They just fished Mr. Calhoun’s body out of the floodwaters in front of Pete Gunderson’s hardware store.”
Earl’s eyes, which were generally half-closed—I don’t think he was a very energetic fellow at the best of times—opened wide at that news. “Holy cow. The banker Calhoun? That one? Really?”
“I wouldn’t fib about something like that, Earl. Pete and Phil just hauled his body up onto the boardwalk, and they asked me to fetch Chief Vickers.”
“I’ll do that for you, Annabelle. Wonder what happened to the man that drowned?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Thanks, Earl.” Then I turned the boat around. I knew I should have gone directly home, but I didn’t. I was sure Pa would understand. I was also sure he’d be mad as fire, because he wanted to get the roof repairs done pronto, but I wanted to see what the police chief had to say about Mr. Calhoun’s demise, if anything.
Therefore, I rowed myself back to Gunderson’s, where the crowd had grown substantially.
“Is Chief Vickers coming?” asked Phil as he helped me tie the boat to the railing.
“Yes. I ran into Earl . . . well, I didn’t actually run into him, but—”
“For God’s sake, Annabelle, I know what you mean. Is the chief coming?”
Touchy, touchy. “Yes. He’s coming. Have you determined how Mr. Calhoun could have ended up in the floodwaters?”
Phil’s face set hard. “Yes.”
Yes? Just yes? Darn Phil anyhow! He was always trying to “protect” me from stuff I didn’t need to be protected from. “Well?” I demanded. “What happened?”
“Annabelle, you don’t need to—”
“Somebody shot him in the back,” said Armando Contreras, bless him. He had a tremendous temper himself and a similarly feisty wife, Josephine, and I guess she’d taught him some important lessons about not excluding the fair sex from the significant details of life.
“Oh, my!” I cried, surprised, yet . . . well, not all that surprised, if you know what I mean. As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Calhoun wasn’t a popular man. But, really. Shooting people in the back wasn’t very nice, even if the person you’re shooting is a crummy, cheating banker. It occurred to me to wonder what this would mean for Richard. “Who could have done such a thing?” I said, more to myself than to any one person in particular.
“Just about anybody,” grumbled a voice. I looked up to see Micah Tindall, a local rancher. I’d heard he’d been having financial troubles in recent months. “The man was a son of a bitch and a crook.” He glanced quickly at me. “Sorry, Miss Annabelle.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said politely.
“Snake in the grass took my ranch,” muttered Mr. Tindall. “Dirty rotten bas—uh, crook.”
“He took your ranch?” I said, shocked.
“Tricked me into a loan I couldn’t repay.” Mr. Tindall glared down at the body of the murdered banker as if he wished he could kick it. “And I’m not the only one, either.”
“How’d he do that?” I asked, honestly curious.
Mr. Tindall, still glaring, shuffled his feet. “Probably my own damned—uh, darned fault. I didn’t read the fine print, I reckon, and when Calhoun came to me demanding I repay the loan in full, I couldn’t do it, and he took my ranch.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Yeah. I think so, too.”
“I wonder if my brother-in-law Richard could do anything for you. Have you talked to him?”
“Naw. Probably won’t make no difference now.”
“But . . . if this happened recently, perhaps Richard can help you.”
“I doubt it. But I’ll tell you this. It’d be easier to find folks with a motive to kill Calhoun than folks without one. The fellow was a low-down crook. Ask anybody.”
“You really should talk to Richard, Mr. Tindall,” I pleaded, shocked at his bald statement and pondering its merit. Was Mr. Tindall only bit
ter because he’d made a bad business decision, or had Mr. Calhoun truly cheated him out of his ranch? And were there, as Mr. Tindall intimated, others in the same boat as he? So to speak.
Mr. Tindall only shrugged and stumped off down the soggy boardwalk as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders—which I guess he did. It was his personal world, but it would be a heavy burden, laden as it was with a wife and four children. Poor man. I resolved to talk to Richard about Mr. Tindall’s problem, even if Mr. Tindall wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t hurt. Might help.
“He’s not the only one,” said Armando Contreras, who had been listening avidly to our conversation. “Calhoun was a filthy, rotten snake.”
“Really? Did he cheat you, too?”
“He cheated everybody,” Armando said, sounding grumpy. “I’m glad he’s dead, the son of a bitch.”
Goodness. That was a bald statement if I’d ever heard one.
“All right, all right!” a booming voice I recognized as that of Chief of Police Willard Vickers called out.
I turned in my boat to see him and one of his policemen, a fellow named Raymond Packard, rowing up to the scene.
“Let’s everybody who’s not a Gunderson clear out,” hollered Chief Vickers. He eyed me in particular. “That includes you, Miss Annabelle.”
“But I fished him out of the water. I discovered the body,” I said, defending my right to be there and watch what went on.
“You discovered the body, you say?” Chief Vickers’s voice had softened now that he was closer to the action.
“Yes, sir. I did. His head bumped against my boat.” I shuddered, remembering.
“Well, I think you’d best get along home now anyway, Miss Annabelle. I’ll come by and talk to you and take a statement later.”
Darn it. I wanted to see whatever action was to take place now. But as a law-abiding citizen, I couldn’t very well argue with the chief of police, so I bowed to forces greater than I and said, “All right. See you soon.”
Pa was boiling mad when I finally got back home with the supplies he’d sent me off to get. His temper cooled when I explained what had delayed my return.