Deep in the Heart of Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  Oil leases, tax records, and licensing documents littered the left side of the scarred wooden desk, rings of black ink stained the other. A hollowed-out groove cradled her uncle’s Easterbrook pen.

  Accidentally brushing his papers, she recoiled at the discovery of a postcard with the corpse of a badly beaten man in shredded clothes hanging from a rope while onlookers gawked. She flipped the offending card over, but its image still branded itself in her mind.

  She scanned the printed inscription, Wichita, Texas. A note scribbled in coarse letters slashed the expanse above it.

  Melvin,

  If this can happen in my town, it can happen in yours. When my deputies interrupted the proceedings, they were imprisoned by the mob. Something’s got to be done.

  Herbert

  Covering the note back up, she tried to quell the sickness in her stomach. She’d heard of lynchings in neighboring counties, but nothing like that would ever happen in Corsicana. And the local merchants certainly wouldn’t sell postcards glorifying them.

  Her gaze moved to a delicate china figurine tucked beside an unlit kerosene lamp, the sight of it bringing a touch of normalcy and comfort. The six-inch woman was lifting her porcelain face to the sun while hugging a basket of wild flowers to her waist with one hand. The other hand was plastered to her head in an attempt to keep a hold on her wide-brimmed straw bonnet. Her back was arched, her laughing face enchanted.

  Essie remembered the first time she’d seen it prominently displayed in the window of the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. The figurine had captured her imagination and she’d saved up her money for weeks. Not for herself, but for one of the most important persons in her young life. She’d never forget Uncle Melvin’s surprise when she proudly presented the little statuette to him on his birthday.

  The following morning, she’d all but burst from pride upon entering the jailhouse to see her gift prominently displayed on his desk. And it had been there ever since.

  She smiled at the memory, then started as the town stray, Cat, jumped up onto the wooden surface, scattering a stack of oil leases to and fro.

  Picking up the tabby, she curled it against her chest and rubbed her nose against its head. “Where is everybody, hmmmm?”

  Cat raised her chin, and Essie obligingly scratched it. “What’s the matter? You looking for Uncle Melvin, too?”

  The words had hardly left her mouth before she sensed someone else in the room. She glanced behind her.

  Deputy Billy John Howard leaned against the open doorframe of the storage room where all weapons and supplies were kept under lock and key. She wondered how long he’d been standing there.

  His petite frame never failed to surprise her, especially considering how quick he was with his fists—too quick. In the six months he’d been deputy, those fists had made many enemies and actually killed a man who’d challenged his authority. All in the name of maintaining law and order.

  “Have you finally come to your senses, Essie?” he asked. “Come to accept my suit?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I promise not to disappoint.”

  “All the same, no thank you.”

  “As you wish,” he said, his eyes hooded.

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “We got us a leak and had to move all the spare rifles to your uncle’s house. So he’s been pestering me to fix the ceiling.”

  Pushing away from the doorframe, he locked the storage room, sauntered to her and reached for her arm. She jumped back, dropping Cat between them. Howling, the animal streaked out the front door.

  Deputy Howard’s hand veered to Uncle Melvin’s top drawer—as if that had always been his destination—and dropped the key inside. “A bit jumpy, aren’t we?”

  “Where’s Uncle Melvin?”

  “Here and there.”

  She edged back, keeping the desk between them, but he followed her step for step.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “I have a message for my uncle.”

  Howard hooked one hip on the edge of the sheriff’s desk. “You can leave the message with me. I’ll be sure he gets it.”

  She began backing toward the door. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just check back later.”

  “The Fourth of July celebration is next week,” he said, standing, then hitching up his trousers. “I figured I’d pick you up around ten.”

  “My bicycle club sponsors a group ride that morning. And even if it didn’t, I’m afraid I would have to decline. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  She didn’t have time to so much as turn around before he’d closed the distance between them and grabbed her arm.

  “You goin’ with somebody else?”

  “No,” she said, trying to pull away. “Now, let me go. You’re hurting me.”

  He increased the pressure on her arm ever so slightly before releasing her. “My apologies. I’m just gettin’ a little tired of your excuses.”

  “They aren’t excuses, Mr. Howard. They are outright refusals. I am not going to the celebration with you or anyone else. Is that clear?”

  His eyes flickered. “Clear as a bell, Miss Spreckelmeyer. I guess if you won’t let me escort you, then I’ll just have to settle fer seein’ you there.”

  Tony pushed away a plate piled with chicken bones, then pulled the napkin from his neck. He caught Castle’s eye and laid a nickel on the counter. The proprietor strolled over, wiping his hands on his apron, and snatched the coin up with a nod of thanks.

  A boomer two stools down from him pointed a drumstick at the man sitting beside him. “I’m tellin’ ya, pulling all this oil from the ground ain’t gonna do a lick o’ good lessen we have a refinery of our own. Just ain’t right the way we send all our slick up to them Yanks.”

  “It’d take a lot o’ cartwheels to do it ourselves,” his partner responded. “Why, we’d need to build a refinery first, along with gatherin’ lines, pipin’, heavy steel, and I don’t know what all.”

  The door jingled, signaling the entrance of two young women. The men draped along the counter straightened, tracking the ladies’ progress. Those wandering about the drugstore removed their hats.

  Tony didn’t recognize the girls, but he smiled politely, then slipped out the door. Harley had promised to return Tony’s pocketknife to him at the Slap Out in exchange for a game of checkers, and he didn’t want to be late.

  The sun had long since set, and oilmen filled the walkways and road, jostling Tony and kicking up dirt. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, Tony sneezed and wiped his nose. The dirt never settled in this town, coating him with a film of grime every time he stepped outside.

  Like a trout moving upstream, he wove through the press of men and crossed Main Street, then over to Collin Street. A man in overalls and a straw hat strode into the store while another man stepped out of the mercantile, swung up onto his horse and headed in the opposite direction.

  Tony climbed the steps and made his way back to where the stove was. Harley leaned against the chair of an old man whittling on a piece of wood, a pile of shavings between his feet. Two other gaffers divided their attention between the game of checkers they played and the man whittling. The carver held up his piece of wood and said something Tony couldn’t quite catch, causing the group to guffaw.

  “Howdy, Mr. Tony,” Harley hollered, noticing him. “Come look here at what Pa’s a-whittlin’. ”

  The man stopped working and greeted Tony. His nose was as wide as it was long and the texture of tree bark. Bushy gray eyebrows shaded little bitty blue eyes.

  “I’m Ludwig Vandervoort. Harley’s pa. That there is Owen and Jenkins.” He looked Tony up and down. “You the feller what left his knife exposed to the elements?”

  Tony flushed at the censure in his tone.

  “I done told ya, Pa,” Harley said, “we was helping the womenfolk after Bri got bit. And womenfolk is way more important than
knives. Ain’t that so, Mr. Tony?”

  The three old-timers waited for Tony’s response.

  “A knife is an important tool, Harley,” Tony said, “and a man shouldn’t be leaving it behind like that.”

  The men nodded.

  “But what about the women?” Harley asked.

  Tony put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “In my book, the women are definitely more important than a pocketknife.”

  Harley gave his father a triumphant look, but the man had propped his elbows on his knees and continued to whittle … with Tony’s knife.

  “You keep ’er good and sharp,” Vandervoort said, making no apologies for testing it out. “I’ll give ya that.”

  From what Tony could tell, the carving was almost finished.

  Vandervoort shaved very small pieces around the figure’s shoulders, then blew on it. “Well, that just about does it.”

  Pressing the back of the blade against his trouser leg, Vandervoort snapped the knife closed and handed it to Tony. “Much obliged.”

  Tony ran his fingers along the stag handle, then slipped it into his pocket. He wanted to inspect it for damage from the previous night but decided to do that without an audience.

  Harley held out his hands and his father placed the figure into them. The boy turned the carving over, a smile splitting across his face.

  “Lookit,” he said, handing it to Tony.

  The real-life features of the three-inch figure impressed him. A hat hid the eyes of the statue and rested on an oversized nose. Thin lips formed a smile that looked more like a leer.

  “Turn it over,” Harley said, delight in his voice.

  Tony flipped the figure over, expecting to find its back but instead discovered it was another man. The eyes on this one, though, were visible with eyebrows drawn into an angry V. The lips were curled and the hands formed exaggerated fists.

  “It’s the deputy!” Harley exclaimed. “See?” He took the carving from Tony, holding up the smiling side. “This is how he acts in front of the sheriff and the ladies.” He flipped it over. “But this is what he’s really like. Ain’t he, Pa?”

  Vandervoort shot a stream of tobacco into a spittoon. “It’s just a carving, son. Not meant to be anybody in particular.”

  Harley’s face registered shock. He started to say something, then must have thought better about contradicting his father.

  “Where’d ya get a knife like that?” Vandervoort asked.

  “My father gave it to me.”

  “How come the top of it’s shaped like a dog bone?”

  Tony hesitated, recalling the long-ago day a mean-looking dog had chased him home from school. After outrunning the beast, he’d burst into his father’s study with tears streaming down his face.

  “Come ’ere,” his father had said, laughing at the tale and motioning Tony forward. He rummaged through his desk and produced the oddly shaped knife. “Here’s a weapon fit for you, Dogbone.” He chuckled at the nickname, amused at his own joke. “If that dog comes looking for you again, you can throw this at him.”

  Tony fingered the memento in his pocket. “My dad liked unusual things, I guess.”

  Vandervoort spit again. “Well, I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”

  Tony nodded. “Me neither, sir. Me neither.”

  “Guess what I did, Mr. Tony?” Harley asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “I got to watch Miss Essie train Mr. Sharpley.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Sure is. And you should see ’im. He takes off like the first rattle outta the box. Everybody’s saying we’re gonna win the race this year, ain’t they, Pa?”

  Vandervoort cracked his knuckles one at a time. “If what the peddler man says is true, then we just might have a shot.”

  “The peddler man said the fella over at Alamo Oil is purty fast,” Harley explained, “but he thinks Sharpley might have the edge on him.”

  Owen jumped his opponent’s checker, then looked up from his game. “The boys have a kitty going if you want in on it, Bryant.”

  Tony smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

  Jenkins rubbed his bald head and slumped back in his chair, having lost his last checker. “Well, that’s it fer me.”

  He and Owen stood.

  “Y’all leavin’?” Vandervoort asked.

  “Reckon so.”

  Vandervoort pushed himself into a standing position. “We’ll go with ya.” He looked at Harley. “You ready?”

  “I was hopin’ to play a game with Mr. Tony first. Can I stay a little longer?”

  “I dunno, son,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Yer ma’s gonna want ya home soon.”

  “I won’t go easy on him this time, Pa, so it won’t be a long game.”

  Tony frowned.

  “Well, all right, then,” Vandervoort said, patting Harley’s back. “But come straight home when yer finished.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  The men shuffled out and Harley began setting up the game.

  “How’s Brianna?” Tony asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “Madder ’n a hornet.”

  “Mad? What about?”

  “Her pa ain’t gonna let her go to the Fourth of July celebration.”

  Tony settled into the ladder-back chair. “That’s a pity. How’s she doing otherwise?”

  “Okay, I guess. She doesn’t have to do no chores.”

  “Ah. A silver lining.” Tony took a sip of coffee.

  Harley moved first. “I still feel bad for her. The whole town will be there and we’re gonna have sack races, a marble contest, and everything.”

  “Brianna plays marbles?” Tony asked, pushing his piece forward.

  “Naw. She’s all upset about that dumb box-supper auction. You know, where the fellers buy up food they could get fer free if they’d just eat with their ma instead o’ some girl?”

  Tony chuckled. “Isn’t Brianna a bit young to be putting her box up?”

  “Oh, she don’t do it yet, but she wants to somethin’ fierce. She still likes to see who buys whose, though. It’s all her and her sisters been talkin’ about.” He jumped two of Tony’s pieces.

  “Maybe you could bring a bit of the celebration to her.”

  “How do you figure that?” Harley asked, moving onto Tony’s king row.

  “Well, you could ask your mother to help you make a box tied up with some little gewgaw of Brianna’s. Then, when the auction starts, you could take it to her house, pretend like it was hers, bid on it, and then share it with her.”

  Harley smiled, positioning his king so that it threatened three of Tony’s pieces. “She’d like that fer shore. And I bet my ma would like makin’ a box, too.”

  Tony refocused on the checkerboard, dismayed to see any move he made would put him in harm’s way. He looked at Harley.

  The boy shrugged. “You gotta learn to talk and play at the same time.”

  In the next few minutes of silence, Harley claimed all of Tony’s pieces.

  chapter TEN

  WITH A telegram from driller M.C. Baker in his pocket, Tony headed to the Corsicana Velocipede Club. He’d sent a message to Russ and received a reply from Baker himself. The brothers were still in Beaumont and free to come to Corsicana in a couple of weeks.

  He lengthened his stride, wondering what kind of paces Essie was putting Sharpley through this time and if he could coax her into letting him participate.

  He’d thought of her often over the last few days and had tried to glean a bit of information by covertly pumping the boys in the patch.

  But he hadn’t learned anything new, other than a few specifics that confirmed what he already suspected. If the judge was head of the company, then Essie was its hands and feet.

  Reaching the club, he knocked, then pushed open the door. Instead of Sharpley, though, he found a group of about twenty-five women gossiping around a table with cookies and punch. Some were young and in their twenties, but
most were matrons. Essie was not among them.

  He scanned the building and spotted her up on the bandstand, flipping through a sheaf of papers. She wore a blue gown with poofy sleeves that narrowed sharply to a skin-tight fit outlining elbows and lower arms. An extremely wide sash hugged her tiny waist, emphasizing curves both above and below. The brim of her hat protruded well past her forehead, while the back was pinched up, her blond hair piled underneath with a collection of curls at its center.

  With her head bent over her papers, he noted for the first time the length of her long, lovely neck.

  “Well, now, who have we here?” a petite, elderly woman asked, approaching with a cane.

  He stifled his surprise at the woman’s attire. She was wearing bloomers rather than a gown. Her trousers were baggy at the knees, abnormally full about the pockets, and considerably loose where one strikes a match.

  He doffed his hat. “I was wanting to speak with Miss Spreckelmeyer, ma’am.”

  “Were you, now?” Through wire-rimmed spectacles, she looked him up and down with frank appreciation.

  He felt his cheeks warm. “I can see she’s busy, though. I’ll just come back another time.”

  “Are you a member, Mr… . ?”

  “Bryant.” He nodded. “Tony Bryant. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Penelope Lockhart.”

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Lockhart. And, no, I’m not a member.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  He hesitated. “I’m … Is it … Are visitors allowed?”

  Her skin folded like an accordion as she smiled. “Indeed they are. But in order to attend a meeting, you must come as a guest of one of the members.”

  “Well, I didn’t really come to attend the meeting.”

  “Of course you did.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder. “But we’re supposed to register our guests ahead of time,” she whispered. “We could just pretend I forgot all about that. Would you like to attend as my guest?” Her eyes were alight with appeal.

  Despite his better judgment, he found himself responding to her less-than-subtle petition. “Won’t your husband mind?” he asked in mock undertone.