Mr. John Bowden smiled, because what does a stupid young boy know about such smiles? But I knew that the man was up to no good, I did.
“Sir,” I said to him. “A man of your means must be of keener intelligence than other folk. Could I enlist your services, sir, to assist in hunting down the culprit who attacked Miz Myrtle?” He looked at me with surprise, and I looked back at him direct—like a challenge.
“Why, Donnie, you may not be as slow as you believe yourself to be.” The arrogant man paused before swallowing the bait. “But, I’d be glad to offer you any guidance and assistance you might need. Just what is your plan, Son?”
“Well now, sir, I’m thinking that Sister Sally Sees would be a good place to start, being a fortune teller, and all. I intend to call on her this Sunday next, and would be proud for your company.”
Bowden tipped his hat as he stood up. “Boy, me and you might make good partners after all. I been giving quite a lot a thought to Sister Sally. Yes sir, she’s been occupying all the free space in my mind. Sunday it is.”
I clung tight to the broom as if it could keep me from shivering. But it had no such power.
Chapter 9
Old Red Hound, almost recovered from the beating he’d suffered, did not object to me bedding down with him every night. He stood at the kitchen door each evening waiting for Lucinda May to complete the nightly ritual. She had taken to kissing me good night, before she suggested me to my prayers. On the cheek, of course. Still, it sent shivers up my spine, her not knowing me to be a girl. I admit as well, that I thought Lucinda May might want to address the Lord on her own behalf. Her “good night” kiss seemed a bit too earnest, and I strongly believed that Lucinda May used me as practice to develop her kissing skills. She relied upon my youth and Miz Myrtle’s tragic circumstances to protect her from suspected impropriety.
Her brother, on the other hand, seemed not to give “propriety” any thought. He sought me out specifically to speak to me about Bertha Scroggins, a young woman whom he thought a “true beauty.” Banker Clyde accosted me with talk of Bertha Scroggins, as if the woman came up with the rising moon. The shine he had for her disturbed my peace.
“Do you know of Bertha Scroggins?” asked Banker Clyde to begin our discussion. His manner gave nothing away. No blush, no stammer, no love-sick daze. I responded in all truthfulness.
“I do, if she’s the blonde with the whiney giggle.”
“You don’t think her comely as a ripe peach?” he asked.
Banker Clyde couldn’t have hit me with his fist and surprised me more. I had believed him attracted to me, which all in all was thoroughly disturbing, since I knew he thought me to be a boy. But still, the heat of his presence was not like any other man I’d ever been around, so that although painful, it was the best pain I’d ever felt. In fact, whenever Banker Clyde approached me, I nearly swooned for pain like some great lady exposed to a naughty word. Was I most mistaken about his affection? Just in case, I lowered my honest face to hide it from his inspection.
I did not want to be Banker Clyde’s love confidant. I kept my head down and barely whispered my response as I rubbed Old Red Hound’s head, which he had placed upon my leg in that beseeching beggar sort of way.
“Well, I guess I’ll take me another look, if you are so taken with her,” I said to him.
“Don’t you be looking too hard. I don’t need the competition.” Banker Clyde laughed. “And I beg to differ with you, Donnie. I heard Bertha from my office when she came in the bank today. I’d swear that giggle sounded to me like church bells.” After this morsel of information, Banker Clyde appeared to go into what I reckoned to be dream silence, given his look of ease and tranquility.
What a stupid conversation, I thought. Although I had admired Banker Clyde more and more each day, I wanted to warn him that my high esteem was on the brink of a giant fall if he found that giggle resembled in any way the melodious chiming of the church bells. Bertha Scroggins giggled off key and in a decided whine. Today when I had run into her, there had been nothing but silence, the most becoming dress I’d ever seen her in. The only reason Bertha had been silent was because it was the first time she had seen me since Miz Myrtle had been assaulted, and Bertha didn’t know what to say about our troubles.
“Can’t say as I’ve ever thought of church bells around Bertha Scroggins,” I told the Banker. I did not add that a pig’s squeal had come to mind.
“Well, I’m to escort her to the pie supper, and I’m glad of it.” Banker Clyde sounded defiant. “I’ve told you of my deep admiration for Bertha. Now, I’m prepared to hear about the young woman who has taken your eye.” Banker Clyde looked at me with a queer smile on his face that I had not seen before. In this manly chats of ours, I felt at a total loss of what to say. Having no father, no brothers, and no male in Miz Myrtle’s home, had left me sadly lacking. Moreover, the tingle of Banker Clyde’s presence had hit me hard. My mind, blank as tomorrow, grasped for more time.
“I’ve been too busy with Miz Myrtle to give thought to courtship and such,” I stammered. Still, I did realize that a boy my age would be taken with some girl, and that her name wouldn’t be so difficult to conjure. Banker Clyde looked at me. His anticipation of my answer had him practically licking his lips.
Nothing for it but to admit I’m plumb dimwitted around the Banker. In an act of pitiful desperation, I blurted out that no girl had taken my fancy because my heart was still with the girl I’d left behind.
“Boy,” Banker Clyde leaned back in the chair and cut the tip of one of those cigars that he allowed himself of the evening. I liked the ritual of it, his strong hands, the way he took a match to it, the smell of sulfur and smoke. I felt a man who could handle a cigar like Banker Clyde did, could handle a woman just right too. But that was pure speculation. In any event, it wouldn’t be me that ever knew. It would be Bertha Scroggins who’d get to know the just whats of him. The very thought felt like a whine inside me as loud as any whine I’d ever heard out of Bertha.
“Son, I’ve got time. Nothing I’d like better than to hear about where you came from and all the particulars of your life before you joined us here in Hugo.”
I ran it by Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith cause this felt so urgent, and because I’d found such wisdom in his guidance. But he would not say a word. I had the feeling it was because this was a matter involving the heart, and not the law. I resorted to, Please Lord Jesus, Almighty God, Holy Ghost, Angel Gabriel. Before I’d worked my way down to Satan, Lucinda May screamed at the top of her lungs, a scream of utter fear.
Banker Clyde liked to have swallowed his cigar. And me, I’m not at liberty to say what happened to me. Both of us ran to the open door of Miz Myrtle’s room. Terror shot through me like the yellow fever.
See Lucinda pointed toward the bed. Miz Myrtle laid perfectly still, the only movement, tears that streamed down her cheeks. A dead crow lay on the floor beneath her open window.
Chapter 10
Banker Clyde directed me and Lucinda May to take care of Miz Myrtle. He ran out the door in pursuit of the person who had committed this outrage. Lucinda May sat on the edge of the bed wiping Miz Myrtle’s tears, her stroke as delicate as the handkerchief she used. Me, I pitched the crow out the window and pulled the glass shut. Unfortunately, blood from the crow had smeared the floor. I ran to the rag bucket in the kitchen, got me some water, then went back to clean up the mess. After seeing that Lucinda May had matters well under control, I ran upstairs to Banker Clyde’s room. To my shame, I had to change my wet britches for dry ones. Lucinda May’s scream had released a river which had flowed right down my legs. I could only hope, that in the panic, no one had noticed.
Respectable again, I grabbed my coat and went outside to retrieve the crow. I put it in the shed behind the house where Miz Myrtle kept her wood. I intended to give the crow closer inspection with the arrival of daylight. Could be that something about it would help me identify the suspect. That done, I decided to head on out to Sister
Sally Sees’ despite the nighttime. One of the three suspects, Sister Sally was the one I could locate the quickest. I didn’t have any idea how to find Mr. John Bowden, and I suspected that Deputy Suggs would be back snug in his office, all innocence. He’d be waiting for one us to come and report the evil of the night. How could I tell what he’d been up to before I arrived? I couldn’t ask Sheriff James Winston Baxter concerning his Deputy’s whereabouts without something more tangible than my intuition. Besides, I didn’t even know when the crime actually occurred. No one had been in Miz Myrtle’s room from supper until the time when Lucinda May went to check on her, about two hours later. Suggs had had plenty of time to throw the crow through the window and get back to his office without anyone knowing the better of it.
So as to Deputy Suggs, I knew he’d be nothing but helpful. I had no belief that I could find out anything from him this night. That left Sister Sally. She might feel so safe and secure in her home that she’d let her guard down. If guilty of the night’s mischief, there was every reason to believe that I might learn something important simply by peering through her window undetected.
* * *
Walking in the woods of a half-moon night is not so bad I told myself. But every rustle of the wind caused me to turn and stare as if I could see noise. I had me as bad a case of the what ifs as I’ve ever had, but I didn’t let it stop me. I’m not a quitter, no sir. I looked up at that moon and asked her if she had any advice for me on a night like this, as I was too tired to try and conjure up either Sheriff Smith or Jesus. She hid herself behind a cloud, as if taking time for thought, and then she advised me that if she were me she’d answer every what if as it came up. Who could’ve known that a lady so pretty as the moon could have so many smarts?
And so I did. What if someone is following you Rebecca Donna Summersdale with intent to do you plumb in? Well, the worst that could happen to you girl, is that you would go join the very people you most love in this here world. Nothing but rejoicing seems to me if you meet up with your Ma and Pa. From there, my mind took to thinking how sad it would be for everyone else, me leaving this old world. I knew it would be most sad for Miz Myrtle. That riled me up hot as bacon grease to think of Miz Myrtle grieving for me. So I up and decided that if anyone had followed me I’d fight like a mountain lion, and there wouldn’t be anything for it except that I’d live one more day to take tender care of Miz Myrtle. My steps lightened and the what ifs went to plague someone else for awhile. My thoughts were better spent on getting to Sister Sally Sees as fast as possible. I didn’t want to miss a thing.
* * *
The light from Sister Sally’s house came out to meet me on the trail, and I was encouraged enough to quicken my pace. I crept up to the wooden circus pony that looked as if it wanted to gallop away. The horse was of a height that allowed me to peer over it, mostly hidden from anyone that might look out from the house. I rested my chin on the cold wooden saddle, and what did I see? There sat Sister Sally in front of her window all lit by the light from her coal oil lamp. She sat there brushing that hair of hers. A night shirt had slipped off one shoulder and a black pouch hid her cloudy eye. Watching her took on the feel of watching a tardy river, so slow and rhythmic were her brush strokes. Mesmerized, I did not move for the longest, and neither did she, except to continue the deliberate brushstrokes of her hair, all the while looking out the window straight at the circus pony as if she knew I was there.
When she placed the hairbrush down, I grew alert once again, but all she did was to stand tall, pull up the nightshirt to cover her exposed shoulder, and then reach down to extinguish the lantern. I sagged against the circus pony. She braced up fine against both my weight and disappointment. What had I expected?
A bank of clouds had moved in and the night was dark without lady moon. I dreaded the walk back to Miz Myrtle’s, yet knew I should be off, else folks would come to discover my absence. But of a sudden, I felt so drowsy that I decided to rest my eyes, just for a spell, sure that once refreshed, I could make better time. My unfaithful eyes stayed shut, and I could feel myself slipping into sleep despite all good sense.
Chapter 11
My scream of terror lasted so long it almost split my head in two, or else it was Sister’s Sally’s slap across my face. I had awakened when a firm hand had gripped my shoulder and attempted to pull me up from the perch I had made of the circus pony’s saddle. It took that long for the terror to register and for my scream to curdle the night like sour milk.
“Hush up, Donnie. Do you want to wake the dead?” Sister Sally grabbed my arm and pulled me into the darkened house with her. I did not feel too tired to summon Jesus in that moment, but despite a stamp-my-foot insistence, he remained quiet as sunset. Sister Sally pushed me into a chair. I felt myself to be a goner and sad with regrets about my life. First, I had not revealed myself to Banker Clyde and availed myself of his wicked looking lips. Secondly, God forgive me, I had failed to discover Sister Sally’s guilt before this tragic conclusion. Finally, I had not sufficiently explored the world so inviting of adventure. These were not the thoughts I’d imagined for myself on death’s door. Still, I felt so deeply sorry that I vowed if I were granted a reprieve I would correct the last two omissions, and despite the prospect of hell, I’d grant myself the first wish, if Banker Clyde could be persuaded to accommodate me.
The light from the coal oil lamp blinded me for an instant, but when I came to, I laughed so hard that once again I’d have to change my britches when given the chance. Sister Sally Sees had on red pantaloons, one knee torn out, a man’s work boots that looked to be two or three sizes too big, a clown tattooed on her right shoulder, and a nightshirt that had a fat needlework elephant sewn in such a way as to cover the whole of Sally Sees belly.
“Donnie, don’t get over confident. I’m a woman that can box your ears until they ring like Sunday morning.” Sister Sally, however, did not look a smidgen bit meaner than usual. It seemed as if she read that very thought as if written on the page, for in the instant she realized what I was thinking, she pulled down her black eye patch and gave me the full power of her cloudy eye. That eye shut me up right quick. I must have looked so stricken that she had the sorrys, because amid much grumbling, she pulled the patch back up over her eye.
I tried to regain my composure so that I could properly accuse her, however, I could not do it. It was impossible for me to believe her the culprit of Miz Myrtle’s misfortunate. A woman with a clown on her shoulder and an elephant on her belly did not seem the type to injure and abuse—but, with no basis for comparison, I could not be absolutely sure. Still, I was sure enough to proceed on that hunch.
“I’m sorry for my spying. I thought you might be the one who almost did Miz Myrtle in.” I said this as I wrapped my coat tighter around my cold body.
“I know.” Sister Sally went to the fireplace and threw on some wood to build it up, perhaps in response to my shivering.
I waited for her to say something else, but she did not. I decided to hold out. So I watched her take out a huge wooden bowl into which she began to mix up biscuit dough. She poured flour and such into the bowl, dug out a hole in the middle before she added some milk. She used her hands to work the dough then sprinkled flour onto the cabinet and rolled out the dough. She took a small snuff glass, dipped the mouth of it in flour, and then used the mouth to cut out biscuits. She melted some lard in a black pan, then took each biscuit and touched the topside to the lard, before placing the biscuit in the pan. She repeated this step, putting each biscuit right up next to the other one, like they was hugging. Once the pan was in the oven, she asked me, “Donnie, you like sorghum molasses or burnt sugar syrup?”
I could legitimately break my silence at last. So much quiet felt hard to me. “Burnt sugar syrup,” I said. Sister Sally grunted a response of assent and reached for the bag of sugar inside a wooden box, the kind to keep out mice.
As I watched Sister Sally cook the syrup, the thought came to mind, that folks was apt to be lo
oking for me. But I was too tired to care. The sun came out about the same time as the biscuits. There was no more talking until our bellies were full. Only then did I ask her. “You any ideas on who beat up on Miz Myrtle?” I felt compelled to add, “Since you’re the fortune teller.”
“Should I call you, Donna?” I could not keep the shock off my face. “I assure you, Banker Clyde’s apparent interest in Bertha Scroggins is simply his attempt to hide from the fact that he is irresistibly drawn to a person he fully believes to be a boy.”
With those comments, I no longer had to suppress my great inclination to talk too much. I had nothing at all to say, and much to wonder about. Sister Sally, however, was bent on proving her gift.
“Your Ma and Pa died of a fever, and you have a more worshipful relationship to some Sheriff from wherever you came than you do with Jesus.” She took out papers and began to roll a cigarette, which I’d never before seen a woman do. “You might want to work on that. After much searching myself, I’ve come to believe that Jesus is completely trustworthy.”
I could tell that Sister Sally meant her words in earnest.
“Yes, ma’am, I will take your opinion to heart. But in my defense, I’ve known the Sheriff longer. I expect with time, I’ll come around.” I took another sip of coffee from a chipped cup.
“I do have my own suspicions,” Sister Sally said as she got up from the table, cigarette dangling from her lips, so she could use both hands to gather the dishes. She put the dishes in a pan then poured scalding water over them before she went to a back room with me following her.
“Have a seat on that bed and we’ll see if you and I are of the same mind.”
I watched Sister Sally take off her black eye patch and wash her face in water that she poured from a pitcher into a metal pan. Next she removed her oversized boots and the red pantaloons. I suppressed the urge to inquire as to whether she’d forgotten to put on clean pantaloons since the length of her nightshirt may have shown her to have been wearing two pair. In any event, I watched her tug on britches so tight they might have been a second skin. Despite an inclination for clean thoughts, I could not stop the red in my face when I thought of a woman without any pantaloons at all. Snug in her britches, she began to remove her nightshirt. I was too scared to look at what I would have loved to see. I had a hankering to know if my own bosoms were acceptable ones, or if they were malformed, but I dared not get caught staring. When I heard footsteps, I looked up. I saw that Sister Sally had achieved a miracle. She had managed to tuck the tail of her man’s shirt inside a pair of britches that had no breathing room. Sitting at a makeshift dressing table with a cracked mirror, Sally gathered her fine red hair over one shoulder. I noticed that she now wore boots that fit well enough to show her feet to great advantage. Once again Sister Sally treated me to a sight I’d never before seen—a woman painting her face. I knew that only women of a certain kind would resort to such artifice, and yet the more time I spent with Sister Sally, the more I felt her to be a woman of extraordinary quality.
Foxy Statehood Hens and Murder Most Fowl (The Foxy Hens) Page 13