by Wes Brummer
Jason nodded. “It’s the spiffy Chevrolet at the end of the block.”
They sauntered past an alley, hands in pockets. Michael whistled. “Very snazzy.” Ahead sat a Roadster with a silver paint job.
Jason walked around the front appraising the flashy car. The windshield had several fine cracks on the passenger-side corner. All came together to form a lopsided Y. “Michael, look at this.” His brother peered into the driver’s window. “Something cracked the windshield.”
A car door clicked shut.
Michael sat looking about inside the clean looking Roadster.
Did anybody notice them? If so, they’d have to leave in a hurry. But the few passersby paid them no heed. Michael didn’t seem like he was finding anything. Hurry it up. They couldn’t stay here much longer.
Jason tapped on the driver’s window.
Michael cranked open the glass. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Found anything?”
“Nothing yet. The car’s clean. No trash. It smells like soap in here.”
“We need to get out of here.”
“Give me a chance…” His brother scrambled to the passenger side, peering at the upholstery by the window—even sniffing at it. Then he bent over, gazing at the seats, especially on the driver’s side. Finally she sat up, a dazed look on his face. He emerged from the car, a bit pale, but his jaw set. He looked back inside.
What gives? He acts like he seen a ghost. “Any luck?” Jason asked.
Michael nodded. “We have to find her.” His voice was low and intense.
Jason arched an eyebrow. “Do I detect a change in attitude?”
“You could say that.”
“Tell me about it on the bus.”
“I’m walking home. I have to think—to believe.”
Jason faced him, putting both arms on Michael’s shoulders. “Believe in what?”
Michael’s worried eyes met his. “There’s blood in the car. Sara’s blood.”
“You think she’s hurt?”
Michael swallowed. “Hurt…I just hope she’s alive.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sara, Bea, and Patrick came to the last room. Sara read the name from her sheet, “Cyrus Eugene Evans.” His room sat across the hall from Mr. Byers. Gloria called him a wife and child beater. He had lost his family. Now he was alone with dementia stealing the last thing he had left. His memories. Who could be more alone than that?
After knocking, the three entered. Sara saw the old man feigning sleep, watching them through cracked lids. She gave him her warmest smile. Both eyes scrunched shut.
“Good morning, Mr. Evans. I know you’re awake. We’ve brought you some breakfast. But first, Patrick will help you to the wooden throne.” Sara gestured to the potty chair.
Cyrus scowled, opening his eyes.
Beatrice retrieved the used basin, dumping its contents in the big enamel pot. Patrick stood by to help Cyrus out of bed. Sara placed a new pitcher of water on the nightstand, then faced Mr. Evans with her hands on her hips. “Time to get up, Mr. Evans. As soon as you’re finished with your business, we’ll serve you a nice bowl of milk toast.”
“Don’t touch nothin’.” His raucous voice screeched like an angry blue jay.
Sara stepped back. “What would you like us to do?”
He poked his head forward and thrust a quivering finger at her. “Get out. I know who you are. You said you hated me. You never wanted to see me again. Now, you come back.”
Beatrice took a quiet step toward the door. Sara stared at the fuming old man with the cantankerous moods. “We’re here to help you.”
Hiking himself to a sitting position, Evans pulled the rolling table close to form a barrier. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. Have you come for me? Is that why you’re here?”
“You have me mistaken, Mr. Evans. I’ve just been given this job yesterday.”
“Stop it!” he screeched. “Quit calling me Mr. Evans. You know who I am!”
Beatrice had one hand on the doorknob and shrugged when Sara glanced at her.
“Tell me. Who are you?” asked Sara.
Evans snorted in disgust. “Oh, I get it. Pretending not to know me. You’ve grown uppity, just like your mother. And you act as if I don’t exist, yet here you are. I’m your blood, you ungrateful runt. Christ in a bucket,” he growled. “Look at me!” He shoved the rolling table, sending it rattling across the floor.
Sara gazed at him. “Who?”
“I’m your father.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday, April 10, 1935
“We shouldn’t wait any longer,” Jason McGurk said, his eyes steely under pinched brows. “Let’s lure Larry to a secluded spot and beat the truth out of him.”
During yesterday’s trip home, Michael filled him in on the faint signs of blood on the seat and upholstery. Sara had received a beating, and somehow Larry got bloodied as well. So much for his story about cutting himself shaving. From the scent of soap in the too-clean Roadster, Larry did his best to hide what had happened. But what did happen? That was their task: to find out.
Michael set his glass of milk on the breakfast table. “Name the last time you’ve been in a fight. Grade school? For all we know Larry may be a boxer. Stick to the plan: trace Sara’s footsteps and see where they lead us. I’m sure they lead to Larry, but knowing how gives us an edge. We need to go back to the café and find out if Sis was there.”
Katherine cracked the last two eggs into a hot skilled and stirred the mixture. “Michael’s right. You can’t go off half-cocked, looking for a fight.”
Michael couldn’t quite hide his smug grin. “The waitress may give us a lead.”
Jason imagined Larry flat on his back with a broken nose. “I still think he would cave in with a little persuasion.”
“Then again, he could play dumb,” Michael said. “The clues in the Roadster mean nothing unless we can get him to talk. And to do that, we need to know when and where they met on Sunday.”
Jason held a hand up in submission. “We’ll play it your way. But if we come up empty-handed, I’m going after him.”
A door down the hallway opened and closed. Sam entered the kitchen, all smiles. “Boys, I’ve got an errand for you this morning.” He sat down at the table. Katherine set a plate of scrambled eggs and potato cakes before him.
Jason glanced at his father. “What are we doing, Pop?”
Sam explained between mouthfuls. “Go to Ziegler’s car lot. It’s at Douglas and Grove. I’ve struck a deal with the owner and will settle with him later today. You and Michael are to arrive by nine o’clock. He’ll show you the vehicle I bought, a Mercedes cabriolet. Beautiful car, quite a step up from that assembly-line Model A. You’re to drive it straight home and give it a good washing. I can’t get the car myself because I’m in meetings all day.”
“Sounds great,” Jason muttered.
“Swell!” Michael clapped his hands.
Jason balled his hands into fists. Talking about a new car with his sister missing seemed callous. “Sara still hasn’t called home, Pop. I’m worried about her. She might be in trouble.”
His father’s voice was a low rumble. “Sara has brought shame upon this family. She must face the consequences.”
“She’s my sister.” Jason bit his lip. “You can be upset with her, but no matter what she did, she’s still your daughter.”
Sam McGurk sipped some coffee. “The subject is closed. I’ve given you an errand to do. Get my automobile. Or you can leave as well. It might do you some good to get a taste of the world. You decide.”
“I’ll get your car,” Jason said. “After that, I want nothing to do with it.”
Sam McGurk studied Jason over the rim of his cup. “You’ve grown a backbone these last few days, son. And you look a helluva lot like your mother when you get your dander up.” His voice was conversational, but his eyes held a cold light. “You’ve forced the topic far enough. Now drop it.”
Jason slumped in his seat. To continue would be dangerous.
Five minutes later, Sam left for work. Jason slipped on his sister’s apron and washed the breakfast dishes while Michael dried.
Katherine wiped her hands on a towel. “Before you leave, there’s a picture I think you should have.” She left the kitchen for a minute, coming back with a crinkly, square envelope. She handed Jason a towel. “Dry your hands. Here’s a photograph you can show to the waitress.”
Jason slid out a snapshot of Sara smiling into the camera. “This was taken eighteen months ago when your father first gave Sara the job of supervising the Mailroom. There was even a write-up in the paper about the new office. This picture went with that article.”
“Let me see.” Michael gazed at the photograph. “She looks really happy.”
Jason studied the picture. “That job suited her well.” He placed the snapshot in his wallet. “This will help.” He turned to Michael. “We’d better catch our bus. If we hurry, we can talk to the waitress and still get to the car lot by nine.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Maxine Hiebert laid her Bible on the nightstand as Sara, Patrick, and Bea entered her room. Sara opened the windows to let in fresh air. Patrick brought in a small bowl of gelatin, and Bea switched out containers from the nightstand. Concerned that Maxine’s book might get wet, Sara moved the Bible to the chair in the corner. It lay open to a family history page. Maxine had filled out names and dates sometime in the past. The flowing script centered at the top of the page read
“Deaths”
Below was an entry:
“Pearson L. Hiebert
Birth Place: Sacramento, California
Birth Date: September 14, 1884
Death: April 10, 1929
Age: 45
Burial: Monument Hill Cemetery, Denver, Colorado”
Oh, my. Maxine’s husband died six years ago today.
Sara returned to the bed to wash Maxine’s hands. A minute later, she arranged a bowl of gelatin and drinking cup on the table. Patrick rolled it in front of the delicate woman. Bea cranked the bed to a sitting position. Maxine could choose not to eat if she wished, but how could she survive much longer without food? It was prudent not to force the issue.
Maxine nudged the gelatin away. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry. You could give me three of those orange pills, though. Two barely dims the pain.”
Sara removed the pills from a shelf over the headboard. “I’d like to, but I need to check with Mrs. Eisner. The doctor has you down for two pills, four times a day. I need permission to change that.” She gave the sick woman a tiny paper cup containing the small, round tablets. Maxine tipped her head back, took the pills, then sipped some water through a straw.
Sara replaced the bottle. “Can we can get you anything?”
“Bring Patrick closer.” Mrs. Hiebert held out a thin arm. “I want to hold his hand before he goes.”
Patrick shuffled forward while Sara returned the Bible. “I saw the entry about your husband.”
Maxine bowed her head. “I’ve been musing about Pearce all morning, reflecting on our life together. We were married nearly twenty-four wonderful years.”
“How did you meet?” Sara asked.
“We met at a dance hall in Austin. I was singing on stage with two other girls. We were part of a vaudeville show that traveled the South. It was November 1904. Vaudeville season was over until March, so we found work at a honky-tonk. One Saturday night, this bear of a man in red flannel and dungarees entered with his crew of boomers.”
“Boomers?” Sara asked.
“Telegraph linemen. A dangerous job, and the men could be boisterous when looking for fun. Soon, this man came stomping on stage and asked me to dance. I said no, but the other girls pushed me off, and I landed in his arms. I danced the rest of that night, and I don’t remember touching the floor. The two of us became inseparable. I learned to take the joshing from his crew and trade good-natured insults with the best of them.” Maxine beamed. For a moment, Sara glimpsed the lively, youthful woman within the withered husk. “Seven months later, we were married.”
“I imagine your husband’s work kept him away from home.”
“No. I traveled the country with his crew while they planted poles and strung wire for the railroad. Later, they moved to building long-lines for Ma Bell. Peace was a careful foreman. I never worried about him getting hurt. Not until Colorado Power hired his crew.” The aged singer closed her eyes.
Sara sensed a turn in the story. “Maybe we should let you rest.”
“No, please.” Maxine held out her free hand, seeking Sara’s. “It feels good to talk about the old days.”
“You were in vaudeville?”
“For several years before I met Pearce. Two other girls and I developed a singing act with trained birds. We called ourselves The Canary Sisters. Onstage, we wore huge flowerpot hats. Each had a live canary perched on top. The audience gave us song requests, and we’d take turns singing the lyrics. The canaries would hop onto the hat of the person singing, except my canary always returned to my hat. It never failed to get titters from the crowd. The girls would fake irritation, and the anger would build until we’d staged a big argument late in the act. In the end, we made up and sang our finale.”
“It sounds fun. I’ve seen acts in theaters between movies, but I’ve never seen a full vaudeville show.”
Maxine sighed. “Times have changed. Movies have taken over. But if you follow radio, you can still catch the best of vaudeville on some of the variety shows. Ed Wynn, Gracie Allen, and Frank Morgan all got their start on the little stage.”
“That was a good story.”
“It was an exciting time.” Maxine turned to gaze at Sara. “But I want to tell you about Pearce. What happened to him.”
“I don’t want to stir up bad memories for you, Mrs. Hiebert.”
Maxine laid her palm on the Bible. “I cherish every memory of Pearce. Even his passing. When I die, no one but you will know his story.”
Sara gave a solemn nod. “I would be honored to keep alive his memory.”
Maxine sipped water from her cup. “Pearce and I wanted children, but it never happened. We lived like nomads, going wherever the next job beckoned. He and his crew were a can-do outfit, picking their own jobs and loyal only to themselves. Colorado Power sought them out for a big, dangerous job: rebuilding the electrical transmission lines from the Colorado River to Denver. I begged him to stick with the long-lines. But this was a challenge Pearce couldn’t walk away from.”
Sara sucked in a breath. “I know so little about electricity, let alone how it gets moved around.”
Maxine gave an impish smile. “We know so little about our world, don’t we? Pearce and his crew needed to replace fifteen hundred miles of high voltage wire as well as sections of the towers over three mountain passes. Pearce was attaching wire to an insulator when the wooden strut he stood on broke.” Maxine covered her eyes with shaking fingers.
Sara leaned over, touching the older woman’s brow. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hiebert.”
Maxine took a breath before continuing. “After the funeral, there was some trouble with the settlement. Pearce’s crew threatened to strike unless the power company compensated me. I did get a handsome sum, but I’d have returned it all and more to have my husband back.”
“It must have been hard moving on.”
Maxine nodded. “My plan was to move to Texas and look up old friends. I got as far as Salina taking a job selling tickets at the new movie theater there. It wasn’t long before I met Patrick. He came to the show twice a week, plus the Saturday matinee. We often sat together, and I’d explain some of the scenes he didn’t understand. We watched movies together for close to three years. Didn’t we Patrick?”
“Lots of movies.” Patrick stroked Maxine’s arm.
“Last summer, I felt sick much of the time. The doctor and said I had leukemia. With all the days I missed at work
, my boss let me go. Treatments and tests drained my savings. Five months later, I became destitute. Saline County closed their poor farm in 1932, so they sent me here. Now I see why. God has reunited Patrick and me. It’s a wonder to see His sovereign plan at work.”
Sara gazed at this marvelous woman. How could she remain so steadfast in her faith? Sara placed the open Bible on her lap. “Pearce must have been a good man.”
“He was the best.” Maxine closed her eyes. “I can’t wait to see him again.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The breakfast rush was in full swing as Jason and Michael entered the Farmland Café. Jason scanned the eatery to find a booth. The place is packed. He settled for a cramped table for two in the middle of the hubbub. He and Michael took their seats and flipped their coffee cups over as the waitress approached. She filled the cups, set down water glasses, and produced menus tucked under her arm. There were deepening lines around the eyes and mouth and lipstick that could stop traffic. Probably Mom’s age. The name stitched on her collar read CARRIE. Jason smiled. They hadn’t even ordered yet, and they’d already found their source.
Carrie retrieved a pad from her apron and a small stub of a pencil from behind her ear. “You boys know what you want? We’ve got a breakfast special with eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee for forty-nine cents. Or you can order off the menu.”
Michael returned the menu. “I’ll have the special with an extra side of scrambled eggs.”
She turned to Jason. “And what about you, champ?”
“I’ll take an order of toast.” He took a breath, hanging onto the menu. “I was wondering. Did you work here last Sunday?”
Carrie’s eyes sharpened. “Who’s asking?”
“We’re looking for our sister.” Jason fished Sara’s photograph from his wallet. “She may have been here at that morning.”
The waitress peered at the snapshot. “Nice hair.” She pointed with her pencil to the front of the diner. “The lady sat at the counter. Two seats from the register.”