A hint of a smile touched his mouth, and his eyes wandered downward. “That’s what I wanted you to think. You work better that way.” He gave her a wink, then turned and left, his thick shoulders grazing the sides of the door frame once more.
Edith stepped up beside Bertie. “Well, what do you know? That slave driver might have a heart, after all.”
Bertie allowed herself to be distracted. “Don’t count on it. He just knows good help when he mistreats it.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
A quick swallow, a deep breath, and Bertie regained control of her emotions. There were things to do. “All I need is a train ticket to Missouri.”
Edith nodded. “We’ll make that two tickets. I’m not letting you go by yourself.”
“You have a job to do,” Bertie said.
“I have a friend to sustain, and that is more important to me than my job right now.”
“You have a war effort to support,” Bertie repeated. “I’m going alone. Don’t you argue with me, Edith Frost.”
She had to make arrangements to get home to Hideaway.
Chapter Nine
Red stared at the telephone receiver, then replaced it in its holder on the wall of the dining room. Curious paying guests returned their attention to their noontime meals at the long table. He’d tried to keep his voice down, but it hadn’t worked very well.
Most of the guests were lodgers for a day or two, maybe a week at most. Two he recognized from years past, four of them he’d never seen.
Then there was John Martin, a good friend who’d been lodging at the Meyer Guesthouse for years, ever since he’d started teaching school in town. On weekends he went to the family farm several miles out, to help his father and fifteen-year-old brother work the fields while his older brother, Cecil, fought in the Pacific Theater. With school out, John continued to work in town during the week, helping build new classrooms.
Ivan Potts was also at the table. He and John had both been so shocked to see Red’s cane and his limp, their reactions would have been almost comical if Red was in the mood to laugh. He wasn’t.
After a couple of short words from him, both John and Ivan knew better than to ask about his injury in front of the guests.
It was awkward trying to take care of business with strangers hearing everything he’d said to Bertie over the telephone.
Ma was working in the kitchen, pulling dessert out of the oven. She hardly ever sat and ate with the lodgers and other customers. No time. No help. As soon as she got all the food on the table, it was time to start cleaning up.
The guests showed a sudden interest in their chicken and dumplings. They were almost convincing. This meal was Ma’s specialty, with thick chunks of chicken in the creamiest gravy and lightest dumplings this world had ever tasted.
These people didn’t fool Red, though. They were hungry for more details of his conversation with Bertie, in spite of the fact that their meal was late in coming because of all the awful activity after finding Joseph’s body.
“Bertie’s coming back home, isn’t she?” asked John from his seat halfway down the table.
Red nodded. “I don’t know how I could’ve made it more clear that she needs to stay away.”
“Me, neither,” John said. “But you know Bertie. She’s going to do what she wants to do, and you’d better not get in her way. I bet you made her cry, didn’t you?”
Red cast his friend a glare. “No.”
“You aren’t that great with women, are you, Charles Frederick?” asked Ivan, who sat at the far end of the table.
Red glowered at him. “You’re not making this any easier.” Ivan never hesitated to speak his mind, but he might be in danger of a tongue lashing if he didn’t mind his manners, war hero or not.
The six other lodgers kept their heads down and ate in silence. Red might’ve been gone a long time, but he sure didn’t remember ever having a quiet dining table before.
Ma bustled out through the kitchen door and gave Red a warning look. She never liked airing private matters in front of paying guests, and though his call to Bertie within hearing of everyone had been unavoidable, further talk was not.
Red got the message. He took a few bites of his food, but could barely swallow. He didn’t have much of an appetite, even though his ma’s chicken and dumplings were his favorite food, and she had prepared it special, just for him.
He couldn’t get his mind off Joseph. Who could have done something like this to him? Those lifeless eyes…Bertie had her father’s eyes.
A widower, all alone on the farm. Everybody knew there was no truer man in Hideaway. Joseph had helped his neighbors when they needed help, and he worked hard to keep his farm going.
He had been the first person in the county to learn that this soil was ideal for raising tomatoes, and so he had planted fields of tomatoes, and encouraged others to do the same. Could be his wisdom had saved the community from a lot more loss during the depression.
His death didn’t make sense, and Red felt especially helpless—particularly since he’d been told by the sheriff to stay out from underfoot.
Underfoot! Old Butch Coggins was the one underfoot. He wouldn’t know a crime scene if he stumbled over a murder weapon and saw the victim bleeding to death in front of him.
Red grabbed his plate in one hand, his cane in the other, and left the table. If he stayed, he’d for sure shoot off his mouth about something he shouldn’t. Ma would forgive him for his rudeness in leaving the table. Eventually.
Right now he couldn’t force a smile, couldn’t make friendly conversation.
He hobbled through the large living room, past the fireplace, and turned into the front parlor. He used the cane to close the door behind him, then stood for a moment, still holding his plate of dumplings as he stared out the big picture window toward the river. He had a bad feeling that life in Hideaway was about to change even more drastically than it already had. He hated the thought.
A fella was bound to expect the worst after seeing the things he’d seen in Italy.
He’d heard too many tales about the way Japanese Americans had been treated here in America during the past few years. They’d been driven from their homes and forced into detention centers, often losing their property, their friends, their jobs. Men had been separated from their wives and children, and sometimes had been forced to return to their native country—where they were now considered the enemy.
He’d also heard rumors about Germans being treated the same way, though he wasn’t sure if there was any truth to it. Wild stories flew through the Army as fast as bullets.
“Wasn’t this war enough, God?” he whispered, half angry, half pleading. “Does it have to be brought right here to our own doorstep?”
Edith Frost turned from the telephone ten minutes after she’d picked up the receiver, her dark gaze lingering on Bertie’s face, concern evident. “Well, sweetie, we’ve got tickets for early tomorrow morning unless we get bumped by servicemen coming home or being called out for duty.”
Bertie nodded her thanks. “I could’ve made the arrangements myself.”
“Hush, now, and let me pamper you a little. It’s not much, considering how much you’ve done for me the past months. I told the clerk this was a funeral trip, but she wouldn’t budge. We’ll still have to wait to know for sure until the last minute.”
Bertie put her hands on her hips. “You mean she wouldn’t let both of us travel for bereavement. I bet she’d let me go by myself, unlike a certain person who doesn’t think I’m capable of traveling alone across five states.”
“Six.”
“Missouri doesn’t count. We’re barely inside the state line by fifty miles.”
“Seventy.”
“Not in a straight line.”
“From what I hear tell, there aren’t any straight roads in your part of Missouri.”
“Edith, you need to stay here. How long have you waited to work on this new project?”
Bertie shot a glance around at the secretaries, who had returned to their typing. “You shouldn’t talk about him that way. He’s dedicated to the war effort.”
“This war effort is making him plenty of money.”
“Edith, what’s changed your mind? Last I heard, you were gung ho for that project. You begged for weeks to be transferred, and now that you are, you—”
Edith took Bertie’s arm and glanced at the others, then the two of them walked out the front door. The bright Southern California sunlight touched their faces and seemed to settle beneath the surface of Bertie’s skin. She closed her eyes, wondering if she would ever feel this west coast warmth again, smell the air, enjoy this clearness that she had only experienced in California.
It was like honey to the soul.
Edith waited until they were out of earshot of the office, then said, “What’s changed my mind is you, Roberta Moennig. You don’t need to be alone right now.”
“What makes you think I’ll ever be alone? The trains will be packed with servicemen coming home, and Hideaway is filled with friends. I know I’ll be in your daily prayers.”
“How will I know how to pray for you if I don’t know what kind of mischief you’re into?” Edith asked.
“I don’t get into mischief, and if I ever do, I’ll be sure to call you,” Bertie said dryly.
Edith shook her head, resolute. “I spent too much time alone after Harper got killed at Pearl Harbor. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
In spite of herself, Bertie was touched by the admission. Edith hadn’t spoken much about losing her husband, and at times it seemed she stayed especially busy for the sole purpose of avoiding thoughts of her loss.
“You heard what I told Franklin,” Bertie said softly. “I may not be back. In fact, the more I think about it, I know I probably won’t be, not with Red back home.” Hearing the tremor in her own voice, she realized again how much she’d come to love this place in such a few months.
And yet…Hideaway was home.
“It’s too early to know what you’re going to do,” Edith said. “So don’t go making plans.”
“Don’t lecture me,” Bertie said. “My brother, Lloyd, is working for his in-laws on a huge ranch in Kansas. He can’t leave them and move back home to take care of things. There’s no one but me.”
“Farming’s no life for a single woman,” Edith said.
“But the farm’s still there, and it can’t be left to manage itself.”
“You aren’t the only person in the world who can run a farm.”
“I can’t sell off what Dad worked so hard to build.”
Edith shook her head. “Nobody’s asking you to. Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought this up. You’re already overwhelmed. Give yourself a chance to grieve your father’s passing. I had a pastor tell me not to make any big decisions for at least six months after Harper died.” She shrugged. “Thing is, it’s been three and a half years, and I still don’t have any plans.”
Bertie closed her eyes. “If I’d only known, when I came out here, that I’d never see Dad alive again…I wouldn’t’ve left Hideaway.”
Edith put her arms around Bertie and drew her close. Bertie hugged her back, but still she refused to cry. If she did—if she started thinking about how much she’d lost—she’d be stuck in despair.
Chapter Ten
The parlor door swung open and Red turned to find Ivan Potts and John Martin filing in, both solemn, heads bowed.
Ivan sank into the wingback chair beside Red and gazed outside. John sat on the sofa. None of the men spoke for a few moments. They didn’t need to. The three of them had known each other well-nigh all their lives.
“I can’t believe Joseph’s gone,” John said.
“Me neither,” Ivan agreed. “Bertie’s got to be hurting bad.”
“Especially after Red yelled at her,” John said.
Red scowled out the window. “I might as well have called from the coffee shop, so’s half the town could’ve gotten into the conversation.”
“For pity’s sake, Red, she’s just lost her father,” John said. “You’re not going to keep that little gal long if you can’t learn to treat her any better than that.”
Ivan frowned at John. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my friend, Bertie’s been loyal to Red for three years. I was in the service for barely six months when your sister decided she wanted to up and marry Eugene Arthur.”
John scowled. “Dixie never promised to wait for you.”
“I never asked her to.” Ivan turned to Red. “Did you ask Bertie to wait for you while you were off fighting for our freedom?”
Red shook his head, suddenly uncomfortable. They needed to change the subject.
Ivan nodded to John, as if Red’s answer had proved a point. “There you go. Right now Red’s the only man here who’s even got a girlfriend.”
“That could be due to his not being around to run her off,” John shot back.
John Martin had a full head of dark brown hair and the tanned skin of a farmer, deep now with summer’s glow. He’d tried three times to enlist in any branch of the service that would have him, but he had flat feet and a partial deafness in one ear. He’d been told to help out on the home front.
John was an elementary school teacher in Hideaway. His brother, Cecil, had been a high-school science teacher before joining the Marines.
“How’d Bertie seem to be holding up when you talked to her?” Ivan asked Red.
“Good as can be, I s’pose.” Red had never been sorrier for the way he’d spoken. Bertie’d lost her father, and, like John said, he’d practically yelled at her, and for sure scared her half out of her wits, hinting about ugly deeds afoot in Hideaway.
What had gotten into him?
Of course, he knew. It was the same thing that had gotten into everybody—this awful war.
But he’d needed to make Bertie listen, and what he’d said hadn’t been a lie. Joseph’s death looked suspicious to him. Bertie didn’t need to worry about that on top of everything that’d happened to her.
Red had been surprised by the depth of his own grief for Joseph, so he could imagine how Bertie was faring right now.
“Something’s wrong,” Red said. “It’s just wrong. I don’t think this was any accident.”
“The sheriff’s checking things out,” John said.
“Dad’s out there with him,” Ivan reminded him. “As mayor he’ll make sure everything’s done right. They’re looking over the house to see if they can come up with any clues. Maybe they’ll find something.”
Red gave him a sideways glance. “Butch is not going to get by with brushing this death under the rug just because he doesn’t know how to investigate it, or because Joseph had a German heritage.”
“Might not have anything to do with Joseph’s heritage,” John said. “The whole town’s filled with Germans and even a few Italians somewhere in the mix, I’d suspect.”
“But Joseph hailed from the old country,” Red said. “He wasn’t born here. You know about the brick through Ma’s window.”
“I’d say I do.” John brushed his hair back, demonstrating how close the brick had come to his head. There was a small gash on his forehead from the flying glass.
“And Ma’s German,” Red said. “To me, that smacks of prejudice.”
“Old Butch has never had a murder in these parts,” John said. “He doesn’t know what one looks like.”
“That’s because he turns a blind eye to most meanness,” Ivan said.
Red thought about that a minute, then looked at his friends, leaning forward, glancing toward the door. He kept his voice low. “Think this time Butch might be part of the meanness?”
Ivan and John looked at each other, and the sile
nce in the room filled Red’s ears before talk and laughter reached him from the dining room. Chairs scraped across the wooden floor, and voices drifted into the living room.
“I know you’ve never been too crazy about the sheriff,” Ivan told Red. “But do you really think he could be behind this?”
“Well, now, just wait a minute,” John said. “Butch and Joseph never have seen eye to eye about anything. And I overheard Butch a few weeks ago telling a bunch of the men down at the coffee shop that there weren’t enough detention centers in this country to place all the folks who don’t belong here.”
Red sighed. “I don’t mean to accuse the sheriff of something like that, but it seems to me Butch has always been less interested in keeping the peace than in using his position to con favors from the citizens.” Hideaway didn’t have a police force. The town wasn’t big enough. He’d heard tell that some churches in big cities were larger than Hideaway.
That was hard to imagine.
“Well,” Ivan said, “at best we have to say the sheriff doesn’t know what he’s doing. He could use some help, whether he asks for it or not.”
“Red, you’re the tracker,” John said. “What your daddy didn’t teach you, the Army did.”
“You saying a crippled man oughta run for sheriff?” Red asked.
“You oughta take the lead on this investigation,” John said.
“We ought to take the lead,” Ivan said. “We’ve been in Hideaway longer than Butch has. We know the people. Red and I know how to hunt for the enemy.”
“I can do my share,” John said.
Lilly Meyer bustled through the French doors, deftly holding a tray with three dishes of blackberry cobbler straight from the oven. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, fellas, but you can start right out there in our backyard, Charles Frederick. Whoever threw that brick at John might well be the criminal we’re looking for.”
“That’s where I aim to start,” Red told her. “You got a room for Bertie? I guess you heard she’s comin’ to town, and she sure oughtn’t be staying out on the farm.”
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