Pecos Valley Rainbow

by Alice Duncan

  Bother. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as my mother was fond of saying whenever she tried a new recipe. This was much more ominous than a new recipe, but still . . .

  With my back to the door, I found the doorknob and twisted it. It turned and I let go of it instantly. I wasn’t going to chance Firman Meeks discovering me up and about. So, my back still pressed against the wall, I slithered along it until I bumped into a shelf. I kept my back to the shelf, which felt as though it was loaded with shoe boxes, and slid along some more until I got to a wall. More slithering until, wonder of wonders, I came to another door. Now what?

  Without much hope, I twisted the knob. No luck. Locked. Praying like mad that it wasn’t getting close to closing time, I felt all around the door, wishing to heaven that Firman Meeks had belted my hands in front of me and not in back. No key hung on a handy hook near the door; at least none that I could reach. Blast!

  So I slithered some more, this time for only a couple of feet before I nearly fell on top of what might well have been a desk. A desk? Of course! Mr. Chewling had to reckon his accounts somewhere, didn’t he? What better place than a desk in the back room?

  Again I prayed, this time that Mr. Chewling kept the key to his back door in the top drawer of his desk, and that I could find it with my back turned to it and in the dark. I discovered right off that he was a tidy man. Pens. Pencils. Account book. Well, I only guessed at that, since I couldn’t see it. A ruler. A revolver.

  A revolver? Good Lord. Well, we did live in Rosedale. I expect every man in town had a revolver or a shotgun in his store or his house. Pa kept a shotgun under the counter, just in case. He’d even taught Jack and me how to shoot it, although I prayed neither of us would ever have to. For only a split second, I thought about picking up the revolver, refinding the door leading into the store and shooting my way out.

  But that was an incredibly stupid idea, and it didn’t last long. Heck, if anyone was in the store besides Mr. Meeks, I might shoot him or her. Besides, I was no Annie Oakley. No way could I peer over my shoulder and shoot anything with a revolver held in hands belted together behind me.

  I continued feeling around in the drawer as best I could until—could it be?—by gum, it could be! A key! I fumbled it up in fingers that were just about numb by that time after having been belted so tightly for so long. Then I slithered my way back to the door.

  Boy, if you want to set yourself a difficult task, have someone tie your hands behind your back and try to find a keyhole in a doorknob in a dark room someday. I was practically crying with frustration by the time I finally got key and keyhole together. Then I darned near dropped the key in my joy. But I held firm and twisted.

  The key worked! And the door opened! And I hopped out into the alley behind Chewling’s Shoes as fast as I could, considering my ankles were belted as tightly as my hands, and my balance wasn’t the greatest. I did take time to push the gag down from my mouth, using the outside wall of the store and scraping my cheek pretty badly in the process. But I wanted at least one advantage, darn it, and it looked as if my mouth and lungs were it as far as advantages went.

  I hopped like a bunny—or perhaps a drunken toad—to Second Street, and then I hopped right out into the middle of the street, hollering for all I was worth, and to heck with any automobiles, buggies, horses or wagons in my way. I must say, I did stop traffic that day.

  Mr. O’Dell was the first person on the scene. His big old Hudson screeched to a stop, sending up a comet’s tail of dust behind it, within perhaps a foot of my own personal body. It then occurred to me that perhaps I’d been a trifle precipitate in rushing out onto Second, the busiest street in town. But I’d been so darned happy to get out of that storeroom I guess I wasn’t thinking properly.

  “Annabelle Blue, what the devil are you doing? Why are you tied up like that? Your cheek’s bleeding!” Mr. O’Dell hurried over to me, and it looked to me as if he didn’t know whether to scold me or hug me.

  “Curse my cheek! It’s Firman Meeks! He’s the one who murdered Mr. Calhoun and Herschel! He was going to kill me!” And then I burst into tears, thereby humiliating myself in front of not merely Mr. O’Dell, but half of the rest of the residents in Rosedale, all of whom came running to see what the kerfuffle was about. Sniffling miserably, I said, “Please take me to the police department.”

  Mr. O’Dell’s mouth had dropped open. “Firman Meeks?”

  “Yes. Oh, please, don’t waste time!”

  “Right. Right.”

  He began hurrying back to his machine, but I hollered after him. “Wait! Unbuckle me first!”

  Whirling around, agog—as well he might be—he said, “Oh. Certainly. Sorry, Miss Annabelle.”

  A dozen or so other people had gathered around me by that time, all babbling. I heard queries and exclamations and lots of curse words. The only thing I could think of to say was, “Be sure Mr. Meeks can’t get out of the shoe store. He’s a killer, and he’s aiming to run away. Somebody watch the alley, and somebody else watch the front of the store.”

  They all stood there, gawping at me, and I got mad. I mean, I got really, really mad. I guess my rage was due to pent-up anxiety coming to a boil. “Damn it! Do as I say, you fools, or he’ll get away!”

  “Better do what she says, folks,” said Mr. O’Dell, unbuckling my ankles and then my wrists. “It sure does look like something weird happened here.”

  Weird. That was one word for it.

  I whispered, “Thank you, Mr. O’Dell.” To everyone else—those who remained; the rest of them had rushed to do my bidding—I said, “Sorry I swore at you.”

  Murmurs and coos followed me to Mr. O’Dell’s automobile, into which I climbed, feeling as though I’d just been rescued from certain death. Which was the truth.

  Chief Vickers wasn’t a happy man, but after I told him my tale, he couldn’t very well not act upon it. As I waited in the police station, shaking from leftover terror, Firman Meeks was arrested very shortly after my escape. He tried to shoot his way out of the shoe store, but either Deputy Parker or one of the other men in town shot him in the thigh, and I guess he went down like a gored ox. Deputy Parker took the credit, but nobody knows for sure whose bullet felled him.

  Neither Ma nor Pa was happy with me, either. Jeez, you’d think they’d be proud of their daughter for discovering a vicious murderer, but no. They were angry that I’d managed to get myself into another pickle.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” I cried in indignation.

  “I don’t know, Annabelle,” said Pa, handing me a damp cloth to hold against my cheek. “You’re the only person I know who gets into messes like this.”

  “That’s not fair, Pa.” I regret to say the words came out on a sob.

  “And where, pray, are the—” Ma glanced at Pa and decided not to say the word slippers, I reckon. “Where’s the thing I sent you out after?”

  Aw, shoot. “Um, I guess they’re still on the counter. But I paid for them, so I’m sure Mr.—um, I’m sure we’ll be able to get them back. Mr. Meeks wrote a receipt for them. In fact . . .” I gulped. “In fact, it was his writing on the receipt that clued me in that he was the one.”

  “Oh? And why is that, young woman? What exactly have you been up to these past few days, Annabelle Blue?” asked Ma.

  Curse my too-ready tongue! “I mean . . . aw, nuts.” And I gave up and told on myself.

  Ma and Pa stared at me with patent incredulity mixed with anger. Jack was jealous; I could tell.

  But it turned out all right in the end. Firman Meeks was bandaged by one of the many doctors in town, and then locked in one of the two jail cells the town boasted. Chief Vickers sent telegraph wires to Chicago, and in return received I don’t know how many return wires, claiming police interest in Mr. Meeks. Turned out Meeks was wanted for murder not merely in Chicago, but in Cincinnati and New York City, as well. Firman Meeks, a fellow who looked like a little gray mouse. You figure it out; it’s beyond me.

  Word
got around the town fast. Phil Gunderson ran all the way—well, it wasn’t really very far—from his brother’s hardware store to Blue’s. Ma and Pa had sent Jack out to man the counter. Naturally, Jack griped about that, but he went, while Ma tended to my scraped cheek and Pa talked to Chief Vickers, who came to our house as soon as he’d locked up Mr. Meeks. I guess Deputy Parker had been left to guard him. I figured even Deputy Parker wouldn’t have too much trouble with the weasely Firman Meeks, since he had a gunshot leg. I wouldn’t necessarily have left Parker to guard a whole man, even one who was locked up behind bars. Not that the deputy isn’t a nice guy, but . . . well, never mind that.

  “Come in, Phil,” Ma said when she answered his knock at the door.

  Ripping his hat from his head like the gent he was, Phil said, “Thank you, Mrs. Blue,” but he was looking at me as he said it. “Criminy, Annabelle. Is it true, then? You captured Firman Meeks, and he’s the killer?”

  After giving the chief a quick gander, I told Phil, “I didn’t capture anyone. Firman Meeks captured me, but I managed to escape. Poor Mr. O’Dell almost ran me down, but that wasn’t his fault. He unbelted me and drove me to the police station while everybody else who was there at the time kept Meeks holed up in the shoe store.”

  Phil goggled at me. “He unbelted you? What the . . . I mean, what do you mean, Mr. O’Dell unbelted you?”

  So I told my story again. In a way, it was good that Phil was there, because he could back up my story about how we both got into the Calhoun house. Neither the chief nor my parents were happy with either of us.

  “It wasn’t Phil’s fault,” I said stoutly, both because it was true and because I hated to see the hangdog look on Phil’s face. “In fact, the last time I went over there, I went alone but Phil second-guessed me and came to rescue me. He’s a hero.”

  Phil rolled his eyes, which I think was pretty poor payment for so grand a commendation.

  “It would have been nice if either of you had thought to inform the police department,” grumbled the chief.

  “I did inform you!” I said. “Only I left out the part about how I came by the papers. And you can’t blame me for that,” I said because it looked as if the chief wanted to argue about the matter. “I couldn’t very well implicate Phil or Betty Lou in my crazy scheme, could I? That wouldn’t have been fair to them.”

  “I suppose I should admire your loyalty to your friends,” the chief said as if he didn’t mean it.

  “And you’d probably better look more closely at that hole in the ceiling. There may be more stuff up there. Maybe even some money Mr. Calhoun hid there. I think he was saving so he could run away with Sadie Dobbs.”

  “We’ll be sure to do that, Miss Annabelle.” Still, the chief looked sour. But it wasn’t my fault his men didn’t properly search the Calhoun home office, was it?

  Pa shut his eyes and shook his head. Ma grabbed his hand, and they stood there, gazing at me as if they’d only now realized they’d loosed a monster into the world. Their joint expression of disapproval and disappointment made me want to cry. I was really glad Jack wasn’t there.

  Pushing himself to his feet with a grunt—Chief Vickers’s tummy seemed to grow bigger daily—the chief said, “Well, I don’t approve of how you did it, young woman. But if you hadn’t done it, we wouldn’t have Firman Meeks in custody, so I guess everything worked out in the end.”

  Everyone in the room who wasn’t me said something that sounded like “Huh.”

  I said, “Thank you,” in an extremely small voice.

  “I hope to God Micah Tindall doesn’t hate us all now,” muttered Pa. “He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve what Calhoun or you, Annabelle Blue, did to him.”

  “I didn’t arrest him!” I said indignantly, which was only moderately better than feeling two inches tall. “By the way, Chief, Mr. Meeks said he planted the gun in Richard’s house, since it looked as if you were going to arrest Richard for Mr. Calhoun’s murder that first day or two.”

  The chief sighed.

  Pa’s face set hard, like it did when he smacked Jack upside the head, and I decided it would be better if I stopped defending myself. It was my fault, in a way, that the coppers had gone after Mr. Tindall, and I felt bad about that. But I’d only been trying to clear Richard. Was that such a bad thing? I had the good sense, for once, not to ask the question aloud.

  But the police eventually found a huge stash of money in the ceiling hideaway Mr. Calhoun had kept, along with enough information to show that he’d been blackmailing men in town for everything from running around on their wives to making illegal liquor. So everything worked out all right eventually.

  Well, except that Betty Lou Jarvis wasn’t awfully happy with me when she stormed into the store the next morning. I’d just got to the most exciting part of The Green Mummy, and wasn’t pleased to hear the bells on the door chime. When I glanced up to see who’d entered Blue’s, I became even less happy.

  Betty Lou stormed over to the counter. “Annabelle Blue, what in the name of God possessed you to go after my special gentleman friend? They have him in jail!”

  My mouth hung open for a second or two before I found wit enough to say, “But he murdered two men.”

  “Huh! Neither of the two men he killed was worth spitting on!”

  Good heavens. And that made murdering them all right? “Well, he also killed people in Chicago and Cincinnati and New York City.”

  “They probably weren’t worth spitting on, either.”

  I stared at Betty Lou, who stood in front of the counter, her fists on her hips, her cheeks blazing with fury, and I didn’t know what to say. If you used Betty Lou’s criterion, I expect you could find all sorts of people to kill. Heck, Miss Libby would have been an ogre of the past years earlier, if everyone thought like Betty Lou did.

  “He was going to kill me, too,” I reminded her.

  She said, “Huh.”

  I guess she didn’t think I was worth spitting on, either. Melancholy thought.

  “But . . . but, Betty Lou, you can’t just take the law into your hands the way Mr. Meeks did. It’s not right.”

  She gave me one of the hottest glares I’ve ever received. “You took the law into your hands that night you sneaked into the Calhoun house.” She sniffed. “And I even helped you. Lord.”

  “Um, speaking of the Calhouns, don’t you still work there?” I hoped and prayed news of my idiotic acts hadn’t got my friend fired from her job.

  “I quit,” Betty Lou said. “I hate those people. Anyhow, I’m going to work at the shoe store. Mr. Chewling says he needs another sales person now, so he gave me the job.”

  There went my jaw again, dropping until it darned near hit my chest. “You’re going to take Firman Meeks’s place?” I stammered when I could manage to get tongue and teeth to cooperate.

  “Don’t mention that man’s name to me,” growled Betty Lou. “Killing people, of all things!” She gave me another good glower. “Do you know that Mr. Chewling is going to have to replace that carpet? He said blood never comes clean out of carpets. That’s your fault, Annabelle, and I hope you know it.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose it was Firman’s fault for being a murderer, but still.”

  She spun on her heel and stormed out of the store very much as she’d stormed into it. Sometimes I think I’ll never understand people for as long as I live.

  We Rosedale-ites never did get to see Firman Meeks tried and convicted of the Calhoun murders, because Chicago, Cincinnati and New York City got first dibs on him. That was all right, because he signed a full confession before the coppers from the other three cities took him, handcuffed and looking smaller than ever, onto the train that would take him eastwards.

  If he hadn’t done what he’d done to me in the back room of Chewling’s Shoes, I never would have guessed such a weedy, insignificant fellow could be a real, honest-to-God cold-blooded killer. Then again, I suppose his appearance had help
ed him in his craft, because he sure as anything didn’t look like a thug.

  I told Phil that very thing the night Myrtle, Sonny Clyde, Phil and I all went to the flickers together. We were sipping sodas at Joyce Pruitt’s at the time.

  “Annabelle Blue, I swear, something’s wrong with you,” said Phil, frowning at me.

  “Why?” I asked, honestly surprised by his reaction. “It’s the truth. If he’d looked like a criminal, he’d never be able to get close enough to another criminal to shoot him dead, now would he?”

  Sonny and Myrtle started laughing. I didn’t understand that, either.

  Phil only heaved a huge sigh. Then he took my hand under the table and cradled it in his, so I guess he didn’t hold against me what he considered to be my odd opinion.

  All in all, I suppose the Calhoun murders and my involvement in solving them might be considered an adventure, but, as I mentioned earlier, it’s not the kind I was thinking about when I said I wanted to experience an adventure or two before I married Phil and settled down. I was thinking more along the lines of an African safari or a trip to England or something. Heck, even a trip to Alhambra, California, would be an adventure to me.

  Still, I reckon it’s true what Pa said to me when he gave me extra chores to do: beggars can’t be choosers.

  Being the obedient daughter that I am—most of the time—I didn’t call him a spoilsport to his face.

  By the way, it rained again a couple of days after my misadventure in the shoe store. Only, this time, the rain came softly, in the afternoon, and we got to see a lovely double rainbow in the sky through the front windows of Blue’s. No floods followed. Sometimes rain is a good thing.

  About the Author

  Alice Duncan has written many novels under her own name. She’s also written as Emma Craig, Rachel Wilson, Anne Robins, and twice as Jon Sharpe (the fictitious author of the “Trailsman” series).

  She was born and reared in Pasadena, California. When she was three months old, the family moved to a farm between Kezar Falls and Cornish, Maine. The only thing Alice remembers from her life back east is her mother telling her never to eat yellow snow.