The Drop Edge of Yonder - An Alafair Tucker Mystery

by Donis Casey

  Alafair sidled up to the corner, careful not to expose herself too much. “Psst, Trent,” she called. His head turned toward her and he eyed her curiously.

  “You’d better step back in, Miz Tucker. Don’t know who’s watching.”

  “I could say the same to all of y’all out there,” Alafair chided. “Being men don’t make you bullet proof.”

  Trent tried to look stern, but his mouth twitched. “Now, Miz Tucker…”

  “Oh, hush up, boy, and come on over here. I want to talk to you.”

  Trent blinked at her. He glanced back at his boss, Scott, who was still conferring with the others, apparently in no hurry to leave. Trent looked back toward Alafair, his decision made, and came around the corner. He spread his arms and shooed her back from her exposed position as though she were a recalcitrant duck. “Let’s move on back, now, ma’am.”

  “I ain’t a fool, Trent,” she said, short, but not really offended. “Now stand here with me a minute and tell me what’s going on.”

  Trent shook his head. “Ain’t much to tell. We got folks searching the silos and looking for a trail. He’s long gone, I expect, but it would be foolish not to be careful. We got a lot more searching to do.”

  “When did you get back from Tishomingo?”

  “This morning.”

  “What did you find out?”

  Trent pondered a moment before he answered her. “I’d rather not say just yet, Miz Tucker. Wouldn’t do for anybody to go to forming opinions at this early date.”

  “Now, if you’ve found out something, son,” Alafair urged, “I want to know. I want to know who’s shooting at my girl.”

  “Miz Tucker,” Trent soothed, “Mary is my friend. So was Bill. I want to get the man who killed him as bad as anybody. But I want to be dead sure we got the right man. Please be patient, ma’am.”

  Silence fell for one uncomfortable minute before Alafair nodded. “I swear, you’re the most close-mouthed youngster I ever saw. But I understand, I guess.” She found herself admiring the deputy for his fairness and discretion, but at the same time, she was plotting ways to get him to spill some information that she could use.

  “Well, answer me this, then. At Bill’s funeral the other day, Mary was talking to Johnny Turner and he told her that Art and Bill had words the morning Bill was killed. Johnny didn’t want to tell Mary what the fight was about. I was wondering if you had heard anything about that.”

  Trent’s eyes widened. This was not the first time in his life that Alafair had surprised him with how much confidential information she knew. He considered a long time before he answered. “I’ll tell you, Miz Tucker, to set your mind at ease, but only if you’ll give me your solemn promise not to spread it around. Art don’t need to be tried by gossip before he’s ever charged with a crime. Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “All right then. But first I’ll tell you that it wasn’t Art who told me this, it was Bill himself. He come by the office to visit with me the afternoon of the very day he got shot. He told me that he had just had a big dust up with Art right on the sidewalk in front of the drug store. He didn’t seem upset about it. In fact, he was laughing about it when he told me the story. Said that him and Art and Johnny had been on their way to get a soda pop when they spotted Shirley Kellerman coming down the street toward them. He told me that he wasn’t sure whether Shirley was stubborn as a mule or just not very smart, but it seemed to him that she just refused to get the idea that he was going to wed Laura Ross. He wasn’t in the mood to go around with her about it, so he was fixing to duck into the drug store and hide when Art called out to Shirley to come over. Bill was spitting mad that Art would do something like that to him, but he figured that the likelihood of fireworks was just too tempting for Art to resist.

  “Well, it fell out just as Bill feared. Shirley lit right into him about breaking her heart, and Bill got all exasperated and told her that he’d never said anything that any sane girl would take to mean love, and that Shirley had broke her own heart. So Shirley went to crying, told Bill that she hoped Laura would leave him at the altar, and ran off. Bill felt mighty bad about this, as you can guess, but Art thought it all great fun and started to laugh. Then Bill really did get mad, and told Art that was a dirty thing to do. But Art said that Shirley was just a silly cow and deserved to be made sport of, and the next thing you know somebody took a swing and Johnny flung himself betwixt them, trying to keep them from pummeling each other right in the middle of Main Street. Art stalked off in a huff, all bent out of joint, but by the time Bill told me about the incident a couple of hours later, he was chuckling about it.”

  Trent paused when his tale was finished and smiled at Alafair. “Don’t sound like a killing kind of fight, does it?”

  “Not the way you tell it,” Alafair admitted. “What did Johnny Turner think about all this?”

  “At the time, he was perturbed that he didn’t get his soda pop.” The sheriff called his name, and Trent cast a glance over his shoulder. “Got to go now, Miz Tucker. Remember, don’t be telling that tale around, now.”

  “But what about Art?” Alafair asked, as the deputy turned to go. “What did Art say about the fight?”

  “Just be patient, Miz Tucker,” Trent called back to her before he rounded the corner.

  ***

  An enormous meal was sitting under covers on the kitchen table and cabinets, ready to be transported, when the last of the light finally faded from the sky, and Shaw, James, and Sheriff Scott Tucker came into the house.

  “Whoever it was got plumb away,” Scott told his attentive audience. “We dug a 7 by 57 slug out of the side of the house, like the one killed Bill. Looks like it was near to spent by the time it hit the wall, so the shooter fired it from a ways. We’re thinking it was from that westernmost silo beside the barn yonder. The dust and chaff had been disturbed under the window in the upper loft. Probably laid his rifle on the sill to steady it. He was on horseback. Must have taken his shot, shinnied down the ladder, jumped on his mount and took off. We tracked him to the road, but he skewed off and went to the creek again. He did the same thing after the fire at the Ross place. We lost the trail. I’ve got Trent riding up past the gin to see if he can pick it up, and Skimmingmoon and his hounds are following the creek bank.”

  “So it wasn’t a stray shot,” Alafair said.

  “Afraid not,” Scott confirmed. “Seems our murderer is still around.”

  A cold, shrinking feeling came over Mary’s heart. It wasn’t over. “What have you found out, Cousin Scott?” she asked, sounding infinitely more sane and reasonable than she felt. “Do you have any idea yet who is doing this, or why?”

  “Not yet, darlin’. I have a notion or two, but nothing I’d want to be spreading about just yet.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to be outside?” Howard’s wife, Vera, asked anxiously. “Can we go home?”

  “I think he’s long gone, Vera,” Scott reassured. “If you want to be careful, though, hang your wagon light way forward, so nobody can see from a distance who’s in the wagon. And now, if you ladies will excuse me, I’ve got to catch up to Trent.” He touched his hat brim with his fingers. “Irene,” he said to the mistress of the house, by way of leave-taking. “Josie, Alafair, Sarah, Vera,” he acknowledged the matriarchs. “Mary, Ruth,” he added, his blue eyes twinkling as he began to enjoy blowing his good-bye all out of proportion. “Blanche, Fronie, Miss Katie.” The young girls giggled and blushed at being included. Scott looked down at the two-year-old clutching his pants leg with a honey-sticky hand. “And good evening to you, young lady.”

  Alafair shook her head, amused. Scott was an excellent lawman, but he could make a joke out of anything and often did. Shaw followed Scott outside, and Alafair slipped out behind him.

  “I think he was shooting at Mary,” Shaw was saying to Scott as Alafair came up to them.

  Scott’s gaze switched to Alafair, and Shaw turned his head to look at her. “Don’t be
delicate on my account,” Alafair said. “Do you think we should be keeping her hid for the time being?”

  “I don’t know what he was shooting at,” Scott told them, as he untied his horse from the porch railing. “But it does look suspicious, like maybe he was trying to get rid of a witness. You might want to get her out of town for a spell, like Calvin Ross did with Laura, or at least keep her inside until we catch this man.”

  Alafair nodded. She had already decided on her own to do just that.

  “Speaking of getting out of town, when did Trent get back from Tishomingo?” Shaw wondered.

  Scott grabbed up the reins and stepped up into the saddle. “This morning.”

  “Did he talk to Art Turner?” Alafair asked.

  Scott looked down at them from the back of his horse. Alafair could tell from the pale light coming from the kitchen door that the look in his eyes had sharpened. He was pondering whether or not to tell them.

  “Did he?” Shaw urged, and Scott acquiesced.

  “Art ain’t in Tishomingo,” Scott said. “Seems the only time anybody in town saw him was for a little while on the day after Bill was shot, and not since. He never made it to his grandma’s.”

  ***

  The black dress was back in the clothes press. Sally McBride had dealt with her tragedy the same way she always did. She took action.

  What was the point, after all, of giving in to the ennui that had threatened to overwhelm her since Bill had died? Nothing was going to soothe the bloody gash of grief but time. This she had learned from hard experience. She knew she couldn’t run away from it, or pretend it wasn’t there, either. Therefore, she might as well do something productive.

  When Sally had first broached to Peter the idea of taking Laura in, he had resisted. Bill’s death had hit him hard. When their little daughter had died at birth thirty years before, that had been bad, but not like this. When you spend a quarter-century of your life loving someone, it’s nigh on impossible to let him go.

  Sally had persevered, however, and convinced her husband that keeping Laura safe would please Bill. And it did, too, she was sure of it, because Bill himself had whispered the idea in her ear.

  Calvin Ross had accepted Sally’s offer with alacrity. It was the answer to a prayer, he told her, and Sally believed it. They had concocted a clandestine scheme, moving the girl to the McBrides’ before the first hint of dawn, where they had ensconced her in a small but bright and airy attic bedroom.

  As for what Laura herself thought about the arrangement, well, that was anybody’s guess.

  She slept at night, woke in the morning, ate when fed. She used the chamber pot when led to it, but otherwise had to be diapered like a baby. If taken to a chair, she sat. If taken to the bed, she lay. She would stand and stare at the wallpaper for hours. Yet Sally had to keep the bedroom door locked, for if left alone too long, Laura would wander aimlessly, and was as like as not to end up walking clean to Muskogee.

  But Sally was more than content to tend the girl who was to have been her daughter-in-law, for Laura’s own sake as well as Bill’s. Sally loved the once shy and clever girl who had brought such happiness to her murdered boy.

  They kept Laura’s presence in the attic a close secret, to foil her would-be killer. Sally expected she would eventually have to tell her eldest daughter, Josie, but no one else. Sally and Peter were still receiving daily well-wishers, and with Josie’s help, they could take turns entertaining their visitors and caring for Laura.

  Early in the afternoon, Sally brought a tray of soup upstairs—the only nourishment she could manage to spoon down Laura’s throat—and found Laura sitting on the side of the bed, staring out the window. Peter was in a chair opposite, reading Irish poetry aloud to the girl.

  Peter paused and looked up at Sally as she closed the door behind her. “I think the lass is enjoying the Yeats, Sally dear.”

  Sally’s heart lifted at the rare smile on Peter’s face. Thank you for giving us the chance to help, she thought. We may save each other.

  The merest sigh of a breeze stirred the curtains at the window. Or was it Bill whispering comfort to his mother?

  Chapter Fifteen

  What those boys saw when they walked into the livery stopped them in their tracks. The blacksmith was on the ground, all beat up to a fare-thee-well, and standing over him was a man with an iron poker from the forge. Bill said the smith was about half dead already, but when they came in, he looked up at them from the dirt with such despair in his eyes that Bill’s blood turned to ice. Nix hollered, but that iron poker was already in motion, and those three boys stood there and watched as the smith got his head stove in.

  ***

  Mary was not happy with her parents’ decision to intern her. She and Alafair did not go back to Uncle James’ the next day. She was kept inside the house under Alafair’s watchful eye. Shaw took Ruth, Charlie, and Kurt with him for the second day of the cotton harvest, and dropped Blanche and Sophronia at Phoebe’s with dire admonitions to be of help to Alice and stay inside as much as possible. He instructed Micah to stay out in the back forty with the mules and horses. To Gee Dub he gave the mission of watching the house under cover of doing yard chores.

  Because the harvest had thrown her off her schedule, Alafair had paid her occasional helper Georgie Welsh a half dollar to do the family’s entire wash on Tuesday. And since Martha had to work, Alafair, Grace, and Mary found themselves alone in a very hot house that Wednesday morning, facing bushels of ironing. Mary and Grace drew pictures in a foolscap tablet, and sang together, more or less the same song.

  “For there is no knowing what people are doing

  who carry things off in a sack.

  So swift do they hurry, and never do tarry,

  and always they come empty back…”

  Alafair traded a cooling iron for a hot one on the stove, then attacked the work shirt on the ironing board. “I was just noticing that the block of ice is nearly gone,” she said to Mary. “A hundred pound block don’t last a week in this heat. Daddy or Gee Dub will have to take the wagon into town and buy some more tomorrow. Reckon we’d better make a stew tonight, use up all the leftovers in the ice box.”

  “I’m thinking I may go back to helping Miss Trompler at the school this fall,” Mary said to her mother offhandedly, as she guided Grace’s hand in drawing something resembling a dog.

  “I hear there’s some talk of adding a class this year.” Alafair flicked water with her fingers from a jar onto the shirt, and picked up the iron again. “The grammar school’s got so big that they may divide out the third and fourth graders. You should talk to the principal, see if he’ll hire you to teach. You have your high school diploma, and you have experience. Don’t see how they could expect to get anyone better.”

  “I know you don’t think there could be anyone better, Mama,” Mary acknowledged wryly, “but Mr. Voight may have other ideas. Still…I’ll go see him tomorrow, see if they’ll hire me on. School will be starting pretty soon.”

  “I don’t know about tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Ma,” Mary burst out, irritated. “I can’t stay cooped up in the house forever. I’ve got to get on with living.”

  Alafair was taken aback. “I didn’t say anything about forever. Just stay out of sight until this murderer is caught. He obviously ain’t giving up. He’s already killed Bill and shot at you and tried to kill Laura twice. I’m afraid he’s trying to get rid of anybody who might have seen him.”

  “Why aren’t you worried about Ruth, then? She was there, too.”

  Alafair paled. In her mind, she had exempted Ruth, because Ruth had taken off on horseback after the first shot. “Ruth didn’t see anything,” Alafair said, voicing her reasoning aloud to see if it held up in the light of day. “I expect the shooter never got a good look at her, either, before she took out of there.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. But we don’t know for sure.”

  Mary was sorry for her comment when she saw the look on her mother�
�s face. She was both gratified and annoyed at once at Alafair’s constant hovering. Even if the annoyance had won out briefly, she hadn’t really meant to add to her mother’s anxiety.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Ma,” she backtracked. “Ruth was gone like a shot. I doubt if the killer even paid any attention to her, or maybe didn’t even see her.”

  But that horse was out of the barn. Alafair studied Mary’s face for a long minute while she considered what to do about Ruth, now. Should she send Micah to James’ to warn Shaw? She pushed her hair back from her sweaty brow and eyed Mary speculatively. “Ain’t you afraid?” Ever since this thing had happened, Mary had seemed singularly unconcerned for her own safety.

  The question gave Mary pause. If she really considered it, she had to admit to herself that she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t anything. She didn’t really care one way or the other if she got shot or if she didn’t. It was as if the bullet that had creased her temple had knocked every strong emotion out of her, except for a dull, aching sadness. “I’m too tired to be afraid. I can’t think about it. I just want to get on with it, whatever it is.”

  Throughout this exchange, Grace had been drawing busily from her perch in Mary’s lap. She seemed unaware of her elders’ conversation, but in the way of small children she was also perfectly attuned to the mood in the room and preternaturally attentive. She looked up from her drawing. “Company,” she announced, and scrambled down from Mary’s lap to head for the front door.

  Alafair put the iron back on the stove and followed Grace. Mary started to rise, but Alafair waved her down, and Mary plopped back into her chair, resigned.

  Grace was just pushing the screen open with both hands when Alafair came up behind her and saw Gee Dub walking up the porch steps. He had been cutting the grass in the side yard with a scythe, and was flushed and covered with sweat. He halted on the porch and looked down at his mother through the screen. “Johnny Turner is riding up and down the road in front of the front gate.”