Pecos Valley Rainbow

by Alice Duncan

  Sniffling and grabbing a handkerchief from an apron pocket, Ma said, “Hannah tried to put up a brave front, but I could tell she was worried to death, Annabelle. I can’t believe this! Surely there are others who are more likely suspects than Richard to have killed that man. Why, from what you’ve told me, he cheated nearly everyone in town. Why are they still looking at Richard?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure.” But I thought I understood. Richard was right there at the bank, visible, and was known to have been in conflict with Calhoun. He was easy. They’d have to dig harder and farther to find other suspects with other motives and, while I don’t mean to disparage the man, Chief Vickers wasn’t much of a digger. He kind of focused on the obvious, if you know what I mean. I’d seen him in action before—or perhaps I mean inaction—and I knew these things.

  “Try not to worry, Ma. I’m going to visit Chief Vickers and see if I can prod him some.”

  “No, you will not!” my mother cried.

  “Why not? I know lots of stuff now that I didn’t know before about Mr. Calhoun, and maybe if the chief knew about them, too, he might just start looking harder at other people.”

  “You are not going to involve yourself in a police investigation, Annabelle Blue,” my mother told me, her eyes, formerly full of tears, now snapping fire.

  It was difficult, but I held on to my own temper. Because I couldn’t help myself, I did ask her, “Do you want to see Richard hanged for a murder he didn’t commit, Ma?”

  I think she had a hard time of it not to smack me upside the head as Pa was forever doing to Jack. After a tense moment, her shoulders drooped. “Of course I don’t. But I don’t want you prying into this mess either.”

  “It won’t be prying to ask the police chief to please look at other suspects! Heck, I’ll even give him some names and some reasons they could have hated Mr. Calhoun.”

  “Annabelle, sometimes I think you’re impossible.”

  Likewise, although I’d never say so. One doesn’t say stuff like that to one’s mother, although the reverse of that rule clearly doesn’t apply. Nobody ever said life was fair. “So you won’t scream and holler at me if I have a little chat with the chief?”

  After a pause and a heavy sigh, Ma finally said, “No. I won’t scream and holler. But please don’t antagonize the man. That wouldn’t do any of us any good, and especially not Richard.”

  “Honest, Ma, I do have a couple of grains of common sense and more than two brain cells to rub together. I definitely won’t antagonize Chief Vickers. All I want to do is ask him some questions and give him some names and reasons.”

  “And just how did you come by this information you aim to impart to the chief, Annabelle?” Ma appeared suspicious. “You’ve been prying, haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t been prying! All I’ve done is ask a few people a few questions, and I’ve discovered lots of folks who had reason to hate Mr. Calhoun. Heck, I didn’t even have to ask most of them. They just came out and told me.”

  After squinting at me for another moment or two, Ma said, “Very well. When do you aim to do this interrogation of the police chief?”

  “Are you through canning stuff? I could go now if you don’t need to go back to the house for anything.”

  She heaved another sigh. “Very well.” She thought of something. “And while you’re out, will you stop by the shoe store and see if they have any leather slippers in your father’s size? His slippers are a disgrace, and I want to get him new ones for Christmas. Might as well look now and find out if I’ll have to order from the Sears and Roebuck catalog.” She shook her head. “If I have to order them, they’ll never arrive in time for Christmas.”

  Oh, boy! Another opportunity to snoop, and my own mother had instigated it. I really and truly wanted to get a good look at Firman Meeks and see what Betty Lou Jarvis saw in the man. Maybe he had charms I hadn’t noticed. I hid my joy.

  “Sure. What size does he wear?”

  “Eleven.”

  “I’ll be happy to look for slippers for Pa. Want my apron?”

  “Why not?”

  So I took off my apron and handed it to my drooping mother. I felt sorry for her because I know this latest news had hit her hard. As it had me, although I’d anticipated something of the sort. Blast Chief Vickers, anyhow! It’s too bad the crime had taken place in town, because Sheriff Greene, who handled matters in the county but outside the city limits, was a much better—or perhaps merely a more enthusiastic—investigator.

  A crisp wind blew the dirt around outside, clouds hovered in the sky—although they didn’t look like the thunderhead variety—and I put a sweater on over my blue skirt and white shirtwaist before I left.

  The shoe store, which was called Chewling’s because it was owned by Mr. Otis Chewling, came before the police department, so I dipped inside and ran smack into Mae Shenkel, the high school principal’s daughter, along with her friend, Ruby Bond. Ruby had been best friends with a girl named Hazel Fish, who’d been killed the month before, and I was glad to see she’d found a new friend. Both of them were nice girls, and Mae was very pretty and looked kind of like Mary Pickford, although I think her head was stuffed with cotton wool. Mae’s head, not Mary’s. Talk about not being the sharpest tack in the box; sometimes I thought Mae had been left out of the box entirely. But she was pretty, and that mattered more than brains. Unfair, but true.

  I understood that she was seeing Bruce Lovelady, whose father owned an investment firm in Rosedale, and who was poised to step into his father’s shoes any old time now. So they’d probably be set for life if they married. I couldn’t repress a small shudder. Not that I disliked Bruce or anything, but the thought of marriage affected me almost as much as thinking about Mr. Calhoun’s body bobbing in those floodwaters. I didn’t know any interesting gossip about Ruby or I’d pass that along, too. She mainly lingered in Mae’s shadow.

  “Hey, Mae. Hey, Ruby. How are things going for the two of you?”

  “Oh, Annabelle, it’s so nice to see you,” Mae gushed. “Look what I just got from Bruce.” She flashed her left hand in front of me, and nearly blinded me with the rock on her finger.

  “Wow, Mae, that’s beautiful!” I thought it was gaudy, but I was a polite person. “So he’s popped the question, has he?”

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands to her bosom as if she considered Bruce her own personal knight in shining armor. “How about you and Phil? Are you engaged yet?”

  Aw, jeez. “Nope. Not yet. I don’t want to marry for a while.” I didn’t tell her why.

  “You’d better not let him dangle for too long, Annabelle,” Mae said with a mischievous grin. “He’s a good-looking fellow and might just get away from you.”

  I smiled. The notion of Phil falling madly in love with someone else and marrying her did give me a pang—a big one. Nevertheless, a girl has to abide by her principles, and my guiding principle at that time was getting out of Rosedale at least once before I married Phil and stopped living. “I’ll try not to let that happen,” I told Mae. Which reminded me that I’d do well to enlist Phil’s services that night to stand guard whilst I rifled through Mr. Calhoun’s home office. I turned to Ruby. “How are you doing, Ruby?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’m sorry you had to find that body, Annabelle. That must have been awful for you.”

  “Yes. It was.” There went that shiver, kind of like ants crawling up my spine. “Are you getting married, too?” That was probably a stupid question under the circumstances—I’m sure she’d have told me instantly if she was engaged—but I wanted to change the subject.

  “No wedding on the horizon for me,” she said sadly. “But I’m going to be Mae’s maid of honor.”

  “Good for you.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Are you looking for shoes today?” Yet another stupid question. After all, we now stood together in a shoe store.

  “I’m looking for things for my trousseau,” said Mae, her smile lighting up the place.

  W
hatever a trousseau was. I’m sure Hannah or Zilpha could tell me. Or even Ma, probably. “That’s nice.”

  “We’re going to be getting the invitations back from the engraver soon, and you’ll get one, Annabelle. In fact, your whole family will be invited.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I said, meaning it. There was always lots of food after a wedding, at the reception, and I enjoyed food, especially if neither Ma nor I had to cook it.

  “May I help you?” came a quiet voice from behind me.

  Firman Meeks. I turned and smiled at the man. “Thank you. I need to look for some slippers for my father. Leather slippers.”

  “Well, we’ll see you later, Annabelle,” Mae said, as she and Ruby headed for the door. I noticed they were both carrying several brown-paper parcels. Stuff for Mae’s trousseau, undoubtedly.

  “See you,” I called after them. Then I fixed my attention on Firman Meeks. Pointed chin and nose, small eyes, nondescript hair greased back and parted in the middle, he was rubbing his hands together in a manner that reminded me of Uriah Heep. What in the world did Betty Lou Jarvis see in this man?

  “Leather slippers?” he said. “I’m sure we can find something for you. Do you know your father’s shoe size?”

  “Eleven, my mother told me. She wants to give him new slippers for Christmas.” Why was I babbling to this man? I supposed it was because I wanted to examine him closely, and I couldn’t just come out and ask him why in the world Betty Lou Jarvis would want to go out with him, much less marry him.

  “Your father has a large foot.”

  “Does he? Well, he’s a big man.” I glanced down at Mr. Meeks’s feet, which were shod in small shoes that were pointy like his nose and chin.

  “I see. Here is our selection of slippers. If we don’t have the one you need in his size, I’m sure I can order some for you.”

  “Thank you.” Huh. We could order them for ourselves, but I guess he wanted the store to get its commission. As a merchant myself—or at least the daughter of one—I could understand that.

  Mr. Meeks led me over to a shelf holding a variety of men’s slippers. They were mostly leather, unlike the ladies’ slippers, which sat right underneath them on a lower shelf. The ladies’ slippers were made of anything from leather to fluffy pink stuff that I didn’t know how to classify. I picked up a man’s slipper. These were really slippers, in that you’d slip your feet into them and then they’d slap the floor behind you when you walked in them because they didn’t have backs. Pa’d hate them.

  “How much are these?” I asked, feeling I should.

  “Two dollars.”

  Shoot. That was a lot of money for a couple of backless slippers. “I see.” I put those back on the shelf and picked up a pair that seemed more likely. They were lined with sheepskin and were enclosed so that a guy’s heels wouldn’t be left to flap in the cold.

  “These seem nice,” I said. Then I dropped a snooping comment into the conversation. “I understand you applied for a loan at the bank and didn’t much care for Mr. Calhoun. Betty Lou Jarvis told me.” I added that last part because he seemed to be stiffening. I guess it was a nosy question.

  “Yes, I did. And yes, I didn’t care for Mr. Calhoun.” Mr. Meeks’s voice seemed a little chillier than it had been.

  “Lots of people didn’t like him, although I don’t know why anyone would shoot him in the back like that.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

  Oh, dear. I was clearly getting on the man’s nerves. “I’m sorry if I sound nosy. I guess it’s because I’m the person who found the body. It was . . . not a pleasant experience. And I can’t seem to get Mr. Calhoun and his activities out of my mind.” I feared out of my mind might be a little too apropos to my present stumbling attempts to draw Mr. Meeks out.

  “I regret you had such a terrible experience. Miss Jarvis and I haven’t really discussed Mr. Calhoun, however, although I did mention to her that I didn’t care for the man after I spoke with him at the bank.”

  Oh, boy, I’d definitely ruffled his feathers this time. Or his fur. Both ferrets and weasels had fur. Not that it matters what he looked like, although I still questioned Betty Lou’s choice. What mattered was that I was a truly an abysmal interrogator, and I hadn’t even been bent on interrogating this specimen. I’d only wanted to discover what Betty Lou found to love in him. However, in my defense, I was a rank amateur. I’m sure the police were more suave in their questioning practices—well, some police. “How much are these?” I asked, a sense of failure making me feel inept and silly.

  “Three dollars. They’re lined with fleece, as you can see, and this is top-grade leather.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, I’ll tell my mother. I don’t know if she wants to spend that much, but they’re nice slippers. Do you have them in size eleven?”

  “I’ll be happy to check the back room for you.”

  He sure didn’t look happy as he took off for the back room to look for fleece-lined slippers in a size eleven. Nuts. I honestly hadn’t meant to annoy the fellow.

  I poked around the store while he was gone. There were some really pretty shoes there, but I didn’t need new shoes, more’s the pity. Not that I could have afforded them if did need them. What money I earned at the store, I saved. For future adventures. Anyhow, I had shoes for work and shoes for church, and that’s all I really needed. I was fingering a pair of beautiful black patent-leather evening shoes with cross-strapping when Mr. Meeks rejoined me. Where in the world, do you suppose, would a person wear shoes like that in a place like Rosedale? A wedding, maybe? Well, never mind.

  “Yes, we do have those slippers in a size eleven,” he said to me, his smile not doing much for his face.

  Usually when people smile, their expressions soften, but his didn’t. I hoped to heck he was nicer around Betty Lou than he was in the store. Cripes, I might just have to go out and get another man for her if she couldn’t find anyone better than this one on her own.

  “Thank you very much for looking. I appreciate it. I’ll let my mother know. They’re really nice slippers.”

  “My pleasure.” It wasn’t, though. I could tell.

  Then, because it just occurred to me and I figured I couldn’t irritate him any more than I already had, I sucked in my breath and asked a bold question. “Say, Mr. Meeks, you aren’t from around here, are you?”

  He stiffened slightly. “I moved to Rosedale from the Midwest about a year and a half ago, although I don’t know why my former residence is of interest to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It just puzzles me when people move to Rosedale, I guess. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to.”

  That comment seemed to relax him. He even chuckled for about half a second. “I see. Yes. Rosedale is rather out of the way, but I came to dislike the city. Too much hustle and bustle for me.”

  “We don’t get much hustle and bustle here, that’s for sure. Well, except when they drive the cattle down Second Street.”

  “Yes, and I enjoy the wide open spaces. So different from Chicago.”

  Chicago, eh? Where all the bootleggers lived? Well, Chicago and New York. But I doubted Mr. Meeks was a bootlegger. Weren’t they all Italians? Meeks didn’t sound like an Italian name to me, and he didn’t look like any of the gangsters whose pictures ended up in the newspapers.

  Because it was almost true, and because our conversation seemed to have turned a corner, I sighed and said, “I’d love to visit Chicago someday. Or any other big city, for that matter. Just to see what it’s like, you know?”

  “I’m sure that’s a common wish if one is born and reared in so small a place as Rosedale. Rosedale is so out of the way. Isolated, as it were.”

  He sounded as if he considered our isolation to be a good thing. He was sure right about it, too. Even if you traveled two hundred miles, you’d end up in El Paso or Albuquerque or Santa Fe, and they weren’t exactly Chicago, you know?

  “My brother lives in Alhambra, California. That’
s near Los Angeles. If I ever get to travel, it’ll probably be there.”

  “I’m sure California is nicer than Illinois,” said Mr. Meeks. “At least the weather is better.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Well, thank you very much.”

  “Certainly. I trust your mother will like the slippers.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure she will. Say,” I added, inspiration—or something—having struck, “would you mind measuring my feet? I was looking at that lovely pair of patent-leather shoes over there”—I pointed to the ones I meant—“and thinking they might be nice for church.” Actually, they looked as if they’d be right at home at a ladies’ tea at Mrs. Calhoun’s house. Or maybe a dance hall.

  “Of course. Please have a seat.”

  So I did, and Mr. Meeks got out the foot-measuring device all shoe salesmen use, I took off my right work shoe and stuck my stockinged foot onto the measurer. As Mr. Meeks took measurements of my right and then my left foot, I said, “My name is Annabelle Blue, by the way. My parents own Blue’s Dry Goods and Mercantile Emporium a couple of blocks west of here on Second.”

  “I see. As you may have learned from Miss Jarvis, my name is Meeks. Firman Meeks.”

  “Yes. Betty Lou told me.”

  “You have a great interest in the business of others, Miss Blue.”

  Oh, my. Chilly. Very chilly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

  I thought the comment was kind of funny, but Mr. Meeks only gave it a strained smile and said, “Let me see if I can find a pair of those shoes in your size.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lord. You’d think I didn’t have the sense God gave a goose, the way I was going about this questioning stuff. As I waited for Mr. Meeks to come back with or without the shoes, I wished I could talk to Micah Tindall. At least he was a local man, and easy to talk to. Or Armando again. He had a hot temper, and I hoped to goodness he wasn’t the killer, but at least he liked to converse. Firman Meeks . . . well, let me just repeat that I didn’t see what Betty Lou liked about him.