He’d just gotten out of the Chrysler, pausing to stretch his back from too much time spent behind the wheel, when he heard a door open on creaky hinges.
The porch had steps going to the walk in front of the house, but also a set that led to the drive. Boone watched an older woman shuffle into sight. Her shoulders were stooped, her hair as white as freshly fallen snow, and the arms poking out from beneath her blouse were so thin and wrinkled that she looked as if she might break apart in a stiff breeze. But there was something in the way her gaze never wavered from her visitors, in the determined set of her mouth, that told Boone she was stronger than her appearance would lead one to believe.
“Are you the fellows from the magazine?” she asked.
“We are, ma’am,” Clive spoke up, then introduced them both.
“None of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense for me,” the older woman replied. “My name is Marjorie Barlow, but Mrs. Barlow will do fine.”
Slowly, carefully, she made her way down the steps to the drive, one hand holding tight to the railing for support. Neither man offered to help; Boone suspected that it wasn’t because they were being rude or didn’t think she needed it, but rather because each was convinced she’d be offended they had asked.
“Now, I’m sure young men like you two, coming from the big city, you’re probably used to lots of noise, coming and going whenever you please, but around these parts, and my place in particular, you should know up front not to carry on that way,” Marjorie explained. “You’ll be staying in a room at the back of the house that’s reached by its own door. Years ago, my husband had this harebrained idea that we should open it up and take in—” The older woman suddenly stopped midsentence and stared at the Chrysler. “You have a dog,” she said, a statement of fact, not a question.
Boone took a deep breath. He was already on edge from the crappy assignment, the long drive, and Clive’s endless talking. Now some old lady was about to tell him that his dog wasn’t welcome in her home. In a way, he couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t want to be there anyway. He and Daisy would scrounge up a place to sleep, even use the Chrysler if they had to.
For her part, Daisy seemed just as curious about the older woman. The Lab stood on the backseat, her nose close to the window, her panting fogging over the glass as her tail wagged up a storm.
“Is that a problem?” Boone asked a bit defensively.
Instead of answering, Marjorie stepped closer to the car and asked another question. “Boy or girl?”
“Female.”
“What’s her name?”
“Daisy,” Boone answered.
At that moment, Clive sneezed, as if the mere mention of the dog was enough to cause his allergies to flare up. “Pardon me,” he said apologetically.
“Can I see her?” the older woman asked, turning to Boone with an expression that surprised him; her hard exterior had softened, her eyes a bit brighter, a hint of a smile curling her thin lips.
When Boone opened the rear door of the Chrysler, Daisy bounded out and hurried around the trunk, overflowing with excitement to meet the person who was paying her so much attention. For a moment, Boone worried that the dog’s exuberance would be too much, that she might accidentally knock down Mrs. Barlow, but as soon as Daisy reached the older woman, she sat and presented her head for petting. Marjorie immediately obliged, scratching behind the animal’s ears, her smile growing wider by the second.
“I’ve always loved dogs,” Mrs. Barlow explained cheerfully, scarcely resembling the curmudgeon she’d been when they arrived. “My husband and I always had one for all the long years we were married. Some of those dogs were scamps, leaving hair on the furniture, digging holes in my garden, or snatching a freshly cooked chicken off the kitchen counter. But some were sweeter than honey, too.” By now, Daisy had closed her eyes, Marjorie’s petting a sort of paradise. “We had us a Labrador once, just like this one, only black. Maggie was my constant companion, like a shadow really. She followed me everywhere I went. When she died, almost two years to the day after my husband passed, it broke my heart all over again.”
“Why don’t you get a…a…” Clive began, then sneezed and moved a couple of steps farther away from the dog. “…another one?”
Mrs. Barlow shook her head. “I’m too old to care for a dog now,” she explained. Giving Daisy’s ears another scratch, she added, “Though I’m happy as can be at the thought of sharing this one’s company for a while.”
Marjorie showed them to their room at the back of the house. It was better than Boone had expected, with a pair of beds, a couple of other odd pieces of furniture, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. He peered into the kitchen and saw that it had been built without windows; with very little work, not much more than a blanket or two, he could have converted it into a makeshift darkroom, if he really needed one.
“It’s perfect,” Clive declared as if it was a suite at the Ritz.
“That’s good to hear since it’s yours till the end of the festival,” the older woman said as she gave Daisy’s ears another scratch. “Least that’s how long the lady at the magazine said you’d be here when she called for a reservation.”
Boone saw Clive’s good cheer falter; no doubt, he was thinking about what had been said shortly after they’d arrived in town.
“We’ll be here as long as it takes to get a story and some pictures,” Boone explained, which in a way was true.
Clive nodded, still looking uncomfortable.
Mrs. Barlow nodded, then fished a set of keys out of her pocket and handed it to Boone. “I’ll leave you fellows to unpack. If you want a suggestion about a good place to eat, I’d be happy to give it.” With a final pet of Daisy’s head, she added, “Remember what I said about the noise.” Then she left.
Boone watched Clive as he halfheartedly began to unpack the one suitcase he’d brought in from the Chrysler. He remembered what Walter had said in the editor’s office, that he should take the young writer under his wing and teach him something. An unexpected pang of guilt gnawed at Boone’s gut. “This is all gonna work out,” he said, trying to reassure the other man. “You’ll get the story you need, I’ll snap a few rolls of film, and then we’ll both move on to bigger and better assignments.”
“Yeah, sure,” Clive said, though it didn’t sound like he believed it.
Which was fine. If things went the way he’d planned, by this time tomorrow, they would already be driving back to the city.
To hell with Hoover’s Crossing! Havana, here I come!
“I need to go take another look.”
Randall Kane glanced over the top of his cards. He and Leo had been playing poker, a favorite pastime of his. There was a wadded pile of dollar bills lying on the table between them, far lower stakes than Randall was used to betting. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat beside a pair of half-full glasses. Thick cigarette smoke hung in the small cabin like a blanket. Outside, night had nearly arrived, only a faint smear of light on the horizon to mark the sun’s passage.
Leo stared back at him hard, his eyes slits. “Another look at what?” he asked.
“The bank,” he answered, then picked up his glass and drained the last of the amber liquid, the booze burning a trail down his throat. “The more I think about that safe, the more I—”
“Cut the bullshit!” Leo snapped and tossed down his hand, the cards landing faceup. Even though he now needed to deal with an angry partner, Randall couldn’t help but sneak a peek at what the other man had been holding.
Just a pair of sixes? He’s a better bluffer than I thought.
Truth was, Randall was bored half to death. Leo hadn’t wanted them to stay too near Hooper’s Crossing, so he’d chosen a cabin in Clayton, another nothing town twenty miles away. They had been there four days, provisioned with groceries they’d brought with them. So far, the only time they had left was to case the bank. Every other moment had been spent in the cabin or just outside, playing cards, smoking cigarettes, or eating crappy food out
of cans. They were so far out in the sticks that Randall couldn’t even pull up a ball game on the radio.
He was going stir crazy.
“Look, you’re the one who’s always carrying on about things being done right,” Randall said. “The last thing we want is a screwup.”
In all the while Randall had been committing crimes, he’d never met someone as meticulous as Leo Burke. Every single detail was accounted for. Nothing was left to chance. He wrote out time lines and drew up crude maps. He talked about maybes, what-ifs, and who-knows at all hours of the day and night. Randall had listened to him talk about their plan so much that it sometimes felt as if they’d already robbed the joint.
“You’re right about that,” Leo agreed, then frowned deeper. “And that’s why we ain’t goin’ back until it’s time to do the job.”
“Remember when I told you the safe was a York?” Randall asked.
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Well, I forgot to look to see if it had a bracer’s cap on the gate hinge. Some of the newer models have those.”
“And that makes a difference?”
Randall nodded. “If it has one, I’ll have to take a whole different set of tools,” he explained. It was a lie, of course. York safes were all about the same with only the smallest of things separating each model. Also, there was no such thing as a bracer’s cap on the gate hinge, but he felt pretty sure that Leo didn’t know that.
The older thief’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you think about this before?”
“Honest mistake,” he answered, setting down his cards since the game was clearly over. “But they leave the safe door open during the day so it’s easier to get more coins or bills, so I’ll be able to see it easy enough.”
“We go back, someone could see us.”
“It’ll be the same rubes as before,” Randall argued. “’Sides, we’re just another couple of strangers come to town for their damn festival.”
“It’s still a risk.”
“The way I see it, it’s less of one than us bustin’ our way in only to find out I can’t open the safe.”
Leo’s frown grew even deeper, but it was clear that he was chewing over what Randall had said. “All right,” he finally agreed. “We go in and out quick, no more time in town than we need. We do it tomorrow, not too early, when there are enough people millin’ around that no one pays us any mind. You go back in the bank, look closer at the safe, like you should’ve already done,” Leo said, adding an accusation, “then we don’t go back until it’s time to do the job.”
“Sounds good to me,” Randall said. “Now, how about we play another hand of—” But before he could scoop up more than a couple of cards, Leo’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard.
“Listen close, boy,” the older man said, his voice a low growl. “If this is bullshit, if you’re just bored of bein’ cooped up here and want to stretch your legs, if you end up screwin’ us outta all the money in that bank, I will kill you. Do you understand me?” When Randall didn’t immediately answer, Leo gave his wrist a yank, pulling him closer. “I asked if you got that.”
“Sure, sure thing. I heard you,” the younger man quickly replied, figuring that placating the older man was the way to play things, at least for now.
“Good.” Leo abruptly let go, rose from his seat, and made to leave.
“Ain’t we gonna play more poker?” Randall asked, but the other man was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
Randall rubbed his wrist. So what if he was lying? And even though there was a tiny risk that someone in Hooper’s Crossing might remember them, who cared? Leo was being paranoid. This way, they’d get out of the cabin for a day, have some fun, and then they could start preparing to rob the bank in earnest. Who knew, maybe if he was lucky, he would get another look at the cute blonde he’d met on the sidewalk.
Lily…that was her name…pretty, pretty Lily…
Chapter Nine
…BUT I’M THE HAPPIEST OF ALL to see so many smiling faces here today. When I think of all the hard work that has gone into getting our festival ready, all the banners made, the booths built and painted, the delicious pies baked, I see a community coming together, joined in the celebration of Hooper’s Crossing and everyone in it. And because of that, I say…”
Lily stood off to the side of the crowd that had gathered to hear her father’s speech opening the fall festival, doing her best not to look bored. It wasn’t that she didn’t find his words exciting, not necessarily, but rather that she’d been forced to listen to him practice it a dozen times the night before; truth was, Lily knew the speech so well she felt fairly confident she could give it herself.
“…and that spirit goes all the way back to when the first settlers arrived, struggling through their first winter but managing to survive, demonstrating a fighting spirit that can still be seen here today. Why, only yesterday…”
That morning at the library, Ethel had again snapped at Lily, claiming that she wasn’t paying enough attention to her work. But unlike most days, this time, the older woman’s criticism was likely spot-on. The truth was, she’d been preoccupied thinking about her conversation with Garrett, how much fun and mischief Jane was getting up to in the city, as well as the start of the festival. What she hadn’t been focused on was the proper shelving of returned books.
“All day with her head in the clouds,” Ethel had grumbled.
When Lily grabbed her coat and headed for the door—as the mayor’s daughter she was expected to attend the opening ceremonies—Ethel had made a show, whining that she couldn’t possibly be expected to do an afternoon’s work all by herself. She was likely worrying about nothing. Almost everyone in Hooper’s Crossing would be at the festival; even Sherman Banks hadn’t come to work on his crossword puzzle. But Ethel wasn’t the sort of person who would let the truth get in the way of some quality complaining.
“…and so I’m confident that this year’s Hooper’s Crossing Fall Festival will be the best one yet! Let the good times begin!”
With a hearty round of applause from the crowd, and some celebratory music from a small brass band, Morris’s speech ended. Lily lingered off to the side as her father moved from one person to the next, smiling, shaking hands, and laughing loudly. When he finally reached her, taking her by the elbow, he asked, “So? What did you think?”
“Fantastic. The best version of it yet,” she said, although she would have had a hard time telling it apart from the other renditions she’d heard.
“I thought so, too!” he enthusiastically agreed, congratulating himself in the process. “But it was hard to concentrate, what with knowing that I have an interview with Life magazine this afternoon! Did I tell you?”
Only about a dozen times…
“You might have mentioned it,” Lily said instead.
“What a golden opportunity this is, for me, for the whole town,” Morris began, pausing to shake a few more hands. “If word gets out about the festival, think of all the people who will come to Hooper’s Crossing. Why, families will travel from Boston, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, heck, all over, just to see us, and not just in autumn but all year round! Isn’t it great?”
Lily smiled and nodded, though she didn’t feel all that happy about it on the inside. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to leave here to go there; it made her feel conflicted, torn in two different directions at the same time. If her father was right, and she suspected he was, the closest she might ever get to city life would be by mingling with the tourists who came to next year’s festival.
I’m never going to leave…
I can’t wait to leave…
Boone picked his way through the crowd as Clive hurried along behind him. There were more people then he’d expected, everyone smiling, laughing, having a much better time than he was. Vendors hawked their homemade goods and peddled fine-smelling food and drink. From somewhere ahead, the tinny sound of a man’s voice c
ould be heard on a loudspeaker. The autumn sunlight felt warm on his skin, a nice contrast with the crisp breeze.
“Take a look at that!” Clive gushed over something or other. That declaration was followed seconds later with another. “I’ve always wanted to try one of those!” Boone bit his tongue. It was like he was dragging a kid through a department store a week before Christmas, the greedy tyke pointing at all of the shiny presents he hoped Santa Claus would put under the tree. Finally away from Daisy, Clive’s sneezing had subsided, making him more talkative than ever. “Oh, my goodness! I can’t believe it! They even have a—”
“You’re acting like a rube,” Boone interrupted.
Clive stared, looking a bit taken aback. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you most certainly are.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” the young writer replied. “Why are you so grumpy? What’s not to like about this place?”
For starters, it sure as hell isn’t Havana.
Every once in a while, Boone lifted his camera and halfheartedly snapped a picture. He caught a couple of kids carving a pumpkin, two older ladies as they admired a garishly painted birdhouse, a young police officer giving directions to a group of out-of-towners, and a handful of other mundane photos. Any one of them would look fine in the puff piece Clive would write, tucked in at the back of the magazine, forgotten a week after publication, destined to line the bottom of countless birdcages and litter boxes another month down the road.
“When are you supposed to meet with the mayor?” Boone asked over his shoulder as he eased between a pair of parked cars.
Clive looked at his watch. “About thirty minutes.” He paused, then asked, “You’re coming with me, right?”
“What for? It’s not like Walter’s going to run a picture of some small-town mayor with the piece.”
The writer frowned. “I was just hoping that you’d be there to help, you know, if I started asking the wrong kind of questions.”
“You want me to hold your hand?”
The Nearness of You Page 9