Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  Michael snapped his fingers. “Was anything missing or out of place when you ladies arrived this morning? Did Sara leave a note?”

  Sylvia gave a bird-like nod. “I shows Miz Sara a letter I got that day.” The black girl’s hands appeared rough and calloused. Not the hands of an office worker. “The letter’s gone. She’s always lookin’ for a letter to show her Pa.”

  Marilyn put down her letter-fan. “We had a talk that day, the four of us. One thing we said was Pastor McGurk didn’t seem to know how his show affected the listeners. After today, I’m positive he doesn’t care.”

  Gladys blew out a breath. “We pushed Sara pretty hard. If she talked to him about what we said, it could’ve sparked an argument.” She lowered her head. “I’m truly sorry. None of us expected that to happen.”

  Jason rubbed his temple. The pieces weren’t adding up. “Sis’s trouble with Pop still doesn’t explain why she disappeared. Michael, you’re the detective. What have we missed?”

  Michael shrugged. “Let’s go over again what we got. Other than your talk, was the day any different than usual?”

  Gladys gestured to the big table. “We came in at the usual time and answered letters until the first mail delivery at ten. We sort letters into different stacks. The volume of letters was enormous that day because of the newspaper article about KSKN joining Alliance. We were still sorting when Sara arrived.”

  “What time was this?” Michael asked.

  Gladys considered. “About eleven.”

  “Did she say where she’d been?”

  Marilyn ambled to her desk, sat, and grabbed more letters to fan herself. “Sara came from the Mercantile on Emporia where she gave Larry Bigger the news. Sara often talked about the places they went to when Larry came calling.”

  Michael snapped his fingers. “I remember that guy. He ate dinner with us last Christmas. Fancy dresser.”

  “Sara told us he was the father,” Gladys added. “She said their conversation didn’t go well.”

  Jason widened his eyes. “You talk about stuff like that?”

  Gladys smiled. “It passes the time.”

  Michael rubbed his chin. “I wonder if Sara talked to Larry on Sunday.”

  “I guess we’ll ask the man himself.” We’d better get some answers. Jason held his hand out to Gladys. “Thank you. All of you’ve been a big help.”

  “We hope you find her,” Marilyn said. “Things have taken a turn for the worse.”

  “I just hope she’s okay,” said Gladys.

  “Miz Sara’s a good person,” said Sylvia. “Bring her back to us.”

  Jason nodded. “We’ll do that.”

  Back on the street, Jason looked northward. “It’s a good day for a walk. We can head up Broadway, cut over to Emporia, and be at the Mercantile in forty minutes. Then we’ll have a talk with Mr. Larry Bigger.”

  Michael sniffed the air. “Maybe we should check someplace a lot closer.” He pointed across the street. “I smell bacon. It’s making me hungry.”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “You’re always hungry.”

  Michael wasn’t listening. He’d already crossed the avenue, making for the Farmland Café. Jason followed, watching for traffic.

  “Come on, slowpoke.” Michael held the screen door for him. The door banged shut as they entered the diner.

  The joint buzzed with activity. A hand-scrawled chalkboard read:

  Breakfast Served All Day

  Waitresses in blue dresses and red aprons with white polka dots breezed up and down narrow aisles, bordered by booths and tables packed with locals. Behind the counter, a baldheaded cook hunched over a cast iron stove, cracking eggs into a sizzling skillet. The air sizzled with an intoxicating blend of bacon, fried onions, and coffee.

  “Let’s get a seat,” Michael called. “We may be here a while.”

  Jason followed his brother, wary of the bustling servers zipping past them. Michael stopped at a booth in the back and the two sat. Jason leaned forward to keep from yelling. “What do you mean, we’ll be here a while?”

  “Nobody will have time to talk until the rush dies down.” He picked a menu from a holder, glanced at it, and passed it to Jason.

  He wasn’t hungry but studied the sandwich choices. “What are you having?”

  “I’m thinking about the barbecued beef sandwich, fries, pop, and a slice of peach pie.”

  “You pig! That’s sixty cents worth of food.”

  “More like a dollar with tip. Especially if the waitress can give us a lead.”

  Incredulous, Jason tossed down the menu. “I’m getting the ten cent ham sandwich.”

  Michael shrugged. “It’s not what you order. It’s how well you tip that matters.”

  “Is this how your magazine P.I.’s do it?”

  “Smirk if you must. P.I.’s may be broke, but they get leads by being good to their waitresses.”

  “What kinds of leads are we looking for?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “We need to know if Sara came here yesterday. Did she leave alone or with someone? Maybe she took a cab? When did she leave? And did she tell anyone where she was going?”

  “This could be a wild goose chase.”

  “Possibly. But I think she came here—to get away from that empty office.”

  Michael had a point.

  Minutes later, the waitress took their order. Despite the crowd, the food arrived quickly, and Jason nibbled on his sandwich while Michael tore into his food. Fifteen minutes later, the server left a ticket. Jason drank ice water as the diner’s noon rush thinned out. By one o’clock, the front counter was empty except for one lone patron nursing his coffee. The cook took a broom and swept the aisles. Finally, their waitress returned. “I’m going off duty. Anything else I can get you, boys?”

  “We’re leaving.” Michael held up a dollar. “But we have a favor to ask. Our sister may have been here yesterday morning. Is there anyone who would’ve worked that shift?”

  The waitress stared at the bill. “Sundays are slow. The person you want would be Carrie. She would have been the only one waiting tables.”

  “When does she come on duty again?” Michael asked.

  “She’s scheduled for Wednesday.”

  Michael pressed his lips together. “Is there any way we can talk to her before then?” He placed the dollar on the table, sliding it forward a few inches.

  The waitress snatched the bill and tucked it in her apron. “The boss doesn’t like us giving out our numbers. But I’ll tell her that you want to talk. She’s scheduled for six to three Wednesday. Better come early. The boss cuts our hours if business is slow.”

  “Thank you,” Jason said. He rose to leave. They needed to find a new path forward to find Sara.

  “Hold it.” The server retrieved their ticket and slapped it in Jason’s hand. “Pay up front.” She sashayed away, and disappeared into a door marked:

  Employees Only

  Chapter Twelve

  Sara threw the scrubbing brush back in the cleaning bucket. The room reeked of cleaning solution, but all was clean. She examined her chapped fingers. Too much bleach. Did she pack her skin ointment? An examination revealed lipstick and makeup. Her stationery kit spilled from its crumpled box onto the bed. She gathered the flimsy pastel sheets of writing paper and scented envelopes. No stamps. Was writing letters permissible here? She’d have to ask Mrs. Eisner.

  The matron’s footsteps drew near. Seconds later she appeared in the doorway, surveying the room. “Ah, I see you have some writing material. There’s a drawer in the dining room where you can keep it. Are you ready for our tour?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Follow me. We’ll start in the common room.”

  Mrs. Eisner led Sara to the front of the house. On the left, an oak staircase descended to a landing by the front entry. On the right, the hallway opened into a large living area. She swept her arm in a wide gesture. “This is the common room.”

  The thirty by sixty foot s
pace contained a jumble of mismatched furniture along the walls: worn armchairs, sagging sofas, and a loveseat sitting on bricks. Three wicker baskets stacked with newspapers and magazines sat between the chairs. In the room’s center was a mishmash of rockers, card tables, and folding chairs. An abandoned game of checkers covered one folding table—red was winning. Four tall windows spanned the western wall with three across the front. Amid the clutter, the arm-flapping Mr. Wunch dozed in a rocker, his toothless mouth gaping.

  A warped sign hung between two of the windows with large archaic-style letters running across the top: NOTICE.

  “I want to show you a bit of history.”

  Sara followed the matron as she traversed the big room. Gloria pointed to the old sign. “These were the original house rules for the residents. Back then, the county called them inmates.”

  NOTICE

  Rules for Inmates:

  All persons shall be clean, respectful, courteous, sober, and act in a civil manner.

  All persons shall faithfully and diligently perform all tasks given to them by the Keeper or Matron.

  Any person guilty of drunkenness, disobedience, immorality, laziness, disorderly conduct, theft, wasteful behavior, or absence without permission from the Keeper may be punished, expelled, or placed in solitary confinement.

  “The first matron of this house posted those rules in 1893. They are still a good set of rules to go by.”

  Sara pursed her lips. “The rules seem a bit vague.”

  “The meaning is clear enough. Get along or get out.”

  Dusty magazines and board games—were they the only choices for diversion? “This room needs something. A piano. Or maybe a radio.”

  Mrs. Eisner laughed. “Child, we have more pressing needs than noisemakers. Indoor plumbing comes to mind.”

  Sara rubbed her dry hands. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  The matron left the front room with Sara trying to keep pace. She bustled to the dining area, stopping before a tall bureau. The homemade cabinet held at least twelve small drawers. Taped to the front of each compartment was a hand-lettered name:

  Arnesdorff, Chapman, Emerson

  The last drawer on the bottom right read:

  Wunch

  “Many of the residents like to keep personal items nearby. That’s what these drawers are for. You can keep your stationery here.”

  “Then I can send out letters?”

  “We allow residents to send letters. One stamp a week on Tuesdays, plus some paper and envelopes and any mail received is placed in your drawer.”

  “May I be included in receiving stamps?”

  The matron nodded. “Our address is Joshua County Farm, RFD 2, Joshua, Kansas. The mailbox is at the road intersection east of the house.” She tapped a drawer. “What is your surname, young lady? I’ll place it on one of the unused drawers. You plan to stay here?”

  Sara swallowed. “It’s McGuire. And I wish to stay.”

  The matron took pad and pencil from her apron, jotting down the name. “Very good.” She turned to the pantry. “Now, I want to introduce you to our cook.”

  They passed through a well-stocked pantry set behind chicken wire on lath framing. Hasps and padlocks joined the makeshift doors. The pantry was nothing more than racks separating the dining room from the kitchen. Wooden shelves held sacks of flour, cornmeal, sugar, and beans. Hand-lettered labels covered canning jars containing fruit, vegetables, pork, and chicken. It was heartening to know there were plenty of staple ingredients.

  The kitchen was a narrow space with a six-burner kerosene stove on the back wall, a sink and hand pump on the opposite side, and a large worktable with an overhead pan rack in the middle.

  “Stay here while I look for Mr. Wheatley.”

  Mrs. Eisner disappeared through a passageway around the stove, leaving Sara alone. Now was her chance to examine the kitchen.

  Someone left a stove burner unattended. The stockpot over the fire had boiled nearly dry. Frowning, Sara flicked the knob off.

  To the left, a door opened to the back porch. To the right, past the stove, a taut rope held a shelved box suspended in a chute. The rope could raise the box upstairs or lower it to the floor below. Past the box was the open doorway to the main corridor that led to the front.

  Sara examined the stove. How well did the cook clean? The stove looked scrubbed. Sara brushed her fingers over the black surface; they came away oily. She opened the oven door, glancing inside—baked-on food covered the bottom. She lifted a pan off the overhead hanging rack. Grease coated the outside and a ring of burnt on food rimmed the inside. Disgusting. How could she take over these kitchen duties? Her side stabbed her with every move. Lifting and stooping were out of the question. Still, in time, she could do the job.

  The matron’s quickened footsteps returned. “Mr. Wheatley is washing pots. I’ll introduce you to him.”

  Sara pointed to the wall compartment. “What is that?”

  “It’s a dumbwaiter. We use it to move food and water to the infirmary. Now come along.”

  Sara trailed Mrs. Eisner through the passageway into a steamy washroom with galvanized laundry tubs propped on railroad ties.

  Wheatley sat on a folding chair, rinsing an iron skillet. He was a big man with tousled black hair that merged with a bushy, unkempt coal-black beard. A small white cap seemed lost amid the shrubbery. With a metallic clatter, he dropped the skillet onto an unstable pile of rinsed pots and pans. Without looking up, he reached into the oily water for another pan.

  “Mr. Wheatley, this is Miss McGuire. She will be with us for a time. Mr. Wheatley used to cook for the Rock Island Railroad.”

  Sara did not hold out her hand. Clenching her teeth, she made a half-feigned curtsey. “I’ve tasted your food, sir. It could stand improvement.”

  Wheatley scratched his beard, looking at Mrs. Eisner. “What?”

  Sara placed her hands on her hips. This man had no business cooking. “What do you have planned for dinner? It’s bound to be better than the slop you served for breakfast.”

  Wheatley’s brows furrowed. “I usually make soup.”

  “You have a fully stocked pantry. You should use it.” Sara tried not to look at the dishwater. The smell of grease made her stomach queasy.

  “I’m supposed to stretch supplies.”

  “You must be joking. Use your stock while it’s still good. Or do we have to wait for the food to turn bad before we eat it?”

  Wheatley stared at her without expression.

  Mrs. Eisner gripped Sara’s arm above the elbow. “Thank you for your time. We’ll leave you to your duties. Come along Miss McGuire.” Sara found herself pulled along as the matron hurried out of the kitchen.

  I’m in trouble. A talking-to for sure. A cold chill shot down her spine. What if she had gone too far? Mrs. Eisner couldn’t turn her out. There was nowhere else to go.

  In the dining room, she pointed to a chair at the end of a table. Sara sat, head bowed, as the matron pulled a chair beside her. She gazed at Sara with narrowed eyes. “You’re quite the pepper pot, Miss McGuire.”

  Sara sighed. “I know, I shouldn’t have said those things—”

  She waved her off. “We’ll talk about that presently. First, I’d like to tell you about how this farm got started. The county built this house in 1888. It originally housed twelve inmates and has changed little, except for the removal of the bell from the steeple in front. There are three aboveground levels with the men in the basement. We are on the main floor, and the infirmary occupies the third story. The unfinished attic is largely empty. In times past, the county expected inmates to work for their bed and board and make the farm self-sufficient.

  “Since the Great War, the population has grown older due, no doubt, to improvements in medicine. Now, we rely on the county for our existence. A new truck and tractor has helped with the labor shortage. But this came with a price; the house is lagging behind in repairs.”

  “The county can’t chip in a l
ittle?”

  The matron shook her head. “That’s not my biggest concern. Recently, we lost our chaplain due to illness a month ago. I’m looking for a leader who can take his place. Are you a Believer, Miss McGuire?”

  Sara crossed her arms. “It isn’t that I don’t believe. I do, but I fail to see the good it does. People who claim to have God’s ear tend to be judgmental.”

  She let out a breath. “Pity.”

  Sara pushed herself from the table. “Mrs. Eisner, I have no interest in saving souls, but I think I can do a better job cooking than the person you have now.”

  The matron leaned back. “I see. A bold suggestion. It’s good to lead with our strengths, but we must also accept with grace the limitations of others. In either case, showing respect is important in both word and action.”

  Sara’s eyes darkened. “I understand the need to be patient with others. I was taught to be respectful. But your cook puts no effort into preparing a meal or cleaning the dishes. The man cannot do his job.”

  The older woman’s eyes flashed. “I suspect you’ve lived an easy life and haven’t felt the hardships others have endured. Millions in this country have lost their jobs and homes. Many families live huddled in tent cities—dangerous conditions for both women and children. For many, the choice is eating garbage or starving. Here, we have food and shelter. Order and security. For that, we must remain civil. You were wrong to disrespect Mr. Wheatley.”

  Sara jumped to her feet, gritting her teeth against the stabbing pain. “Your cook left a dry pot burning on the kitchen stove!” She pressed an arm against her ribs. “I’ve cooked since I was a child. If you want a lift in spirits around here, I can provide it by preparing a meal people will enjoy. I know how to stretch a dollar, but I’m not about to serve slop.”

  The matron raised her head. “Sit down, child.” Her quiet voice belied the pinpricks of fire in her eyes. “If you raise your voice again, you’ll be looking for a new place to sleep.”

  Cold fear shot down her back. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. She was the outsider. It was silly—no, stupid—to fight a losing battle. Accept the rules, Sara. She sank to the chair. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.”