The Winter Widow

by Charlene Weir

  “Tell me about Helen Wren,” she said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “She wants to sell Daniel’s farm.”

  “It’s her farm, too.”

  Susan sighed. “I guess now it’s partly mine.” It was an unwanted responsibility, this feeling she must do right by Daniel’s farm.

  “Legally,” George said mildly.

  She darted a quick look at him, wondering if he were implying that morally the issue wasn’t so clear.

  The chair squeaked as George leaned back, rested his elbows on the arms and clasped his fingers across his chest. “Her dreams never came true, and one frustration piled on top of another from the time she was thirteen.”

  “What happened?”

  “Till then she was an only child with a doting father; then Dan was born and Arthur had a son. All that attention went to him. The mother was never strong. City girl from Atlanta. Kansas and farming just seemed too much for her.”

  Susan grinned. “That I understand.”

  “Allura needed parties and fancy dresses and people taking care of her. She had a hard time when Dan was born and never seemed to get her strength back. Running the house fell on Helen and every time she tried to get away something happened to keep her here. Usually her mother took sick. One time, bad time, it was Arthur. Tractor ran over him and darn near killed him. Then Helen had to run the farm, too.”

  “Uh-huh.” Susan sneezed and grabbed a tissue from the box on the desk. That explained a lot about Helen. She was fifty-eight years old, and for forty-five of those years she’d had one disappointment after another. She would feel the years going by one by one as she stayed, dutifully accepting the responsibilities that fell on her shoulders, and with each year seeing her opportunities get fewer and slipping away to none, anger and frustration and bitterness growing greater. She must have resented Daniel from the day he was born. He usurped her place in the family and then grew up able to lead his own life while she was forced to give up hers.

  Susan felt sorry for her. Sell the farm, let Helen have her dream. But not till I’m damn sure her hands weren’t on the rifle. “Did she kill Daniel?”

  George leaned forward with a squeak, folded his hands on the desk and looked at them for a moment, then realigned the framed photos of his three grandchildren. “She shot a man once.”

  “Who?”

  “When her father was laid up, she was doing the farming, plus looking after him, plus taking care of Allura who wasn’t ever much use. Dan was in the army then and had a wife of his own. Lot of things were going wrong around the Wren place. Livestock injured one way and another. Fences down. Cattle getting at the crops and causing damage. Machinery breaking down.”

  “Who did she shoot?”

  “Late one night, Arthur’s dog was missing and she went looking. She caught Billy Don Kimmell setting fire to the wheat field.”

  “Kimmell?” Susan said. “There’s a Floyd Kimmell who works at the hardware store. Big man with red hair and the smell of a bully.”

  “Billy Don’s son. It’s not been easy for Floyd around here. Country people have long memories. He feels he’s been cheated some way and like he was owed. Comes out of all this past. Back then it didn’t look like Arthur was ever going to get well. Billy Don wanted to get the land cheap and was causing all that misery hoping they would sell out.”

  “Helen killed him?”

  “She did.”

  “What happened?”

  “This was all over thirty years ago. There was an investigation and talk of bringing charges. Folks all felt sorry for her, felt she had no choice but to do what she did. Most everyone of them would have done the same. Crops are their livelihood. Can’t survive without ’em. What it came down to was, authorities decided not to charge her.”

  So Floyd Kimmell had a grudge against the Wrens, a thirty-year-old grudge. After all that time, had he decided on revenge? It was Helen who had shot his father, not Daniel. If he was out for revenge, why not shoot Helen?

  He might have a motive that had nothing to do with all this past history. She recalled the smirk on his face yesterday morning, and somebody in the crowd teasing him about Lucille. “What kind of relationship does Floyd have with Lucille?”

  “If you mean romantic, none that I know of. They know each other, but that’s the extent of it.”

  “Any word on Lucille?”

  “Not yet,” George said with a worried sigh.

  “Has anybody questioned Floyd about her?”

  “Not specially.” George eyed her, waiting for her to explain.

  “Just a feeling,” she admitted.

  He nodded, as though that was reason enough.

  “Would you send somebody—Parkhurst—to lean on him a little?”

  “Osey’d be better. Floyd’d clam up when he saw Ben coming. Osey has a way of just easing information along like a lazy current moving a duckling.”

  “Well—” She wasn’t sure Osey would recognize information if it was handed to him with a label.

  “I’m going to see Lucille’s editor. What do you know about him?”

  * * *

  THE Hampstead Herald, according to a brass plaque on the front of the building, had been founded in 1886. It was a square brick structure, painted white, directly across the railroad tracks from the depot.

  Henry Royce had bought the paper five years ago after a heart attack at age forty-two forced him to retire from one of the Chicago papers. He was an outsider, too, but according to George, more readily accepted than most because nobody wanted to do without the Herald. His office was at the rear of the building, and he sat writing copy behind an old oak desk cluttered with file folders, magazines, notes and old newspapers.

  White shirtsleeves rolled up, garish red-striped tie loosened, he looked up at her and scowled. It was a scene straight out of The Front Page. She wondered why he didn’t wear a green eyeshade. The heart attack probably accounted for the absence of a haze of smoke.

  He had a heavy face—jowly—sharp black eyes and black hair, mottled with gray, that was overdue for a haircut. Thirty pounds overweight, with an ulcer, he was a short-tempered man who quickly reached a hot rage when things went wrong, which happened with great regularity on a small-town daily.

  Tossing down the pencil, he leaned back in the chair. “Well, you must be Chief Wren.” He spoke with a soft Southern accent.

  She was getting a little tired of the sarcasm everybody loaded onto Chief Wren. “Where is Lucille?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this drivel. I’d haul her in and have her doing it.”

  “Drivel?”

  “My readers are more interested in who got married and what the bride wore than hard news.”

  “Surely you knew that before you came.”

  “Yeah, well, knowing and experiencing are two different things.”

  He crossed his arms, tipped back his head and peered at her with cynical amusement in his beady eyes. “Maybe you know about that. Want to give me an exclusive interview?”

  “No.”

  “Human interest,” he drawled. “Romantic dreams, biological clock—career woman gives up all, then lands knee-deep in reality.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked Henry Royce; he seemed to carry antennae that zeroed in on the weak spots. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a supercilious nod in acknowledgment of his accuracy.

  Since he made no attempt to provide her a place to sit, she scooped a tottery pile of papers and files from the only chair, swung it around in front of the desk and planted herself on it. “Where do you think she is?”

  “Ah, honey, she’s young. You know how it goes, most likely a hot-and-heavy love affair with some sweetheart.”

  Susan looked at him, wondering if he believed that. She couldn’t tell; his face was bland, eyes opaque. “Is she a good reporter?”

  “She might be in a few years.” His voice held a fond wistful quality. Nostalgia for his own reporting days
? Or fondness for his pretty young reporter?

  “She’s green and what she’s doing isn’t what you’d call reporting, but she works hard and she’s ambitious. Her instincts are right. That all-important nose for news all us good reporters have,” he said sarcastically.

  Reporters weren’t the only ones with instincts. Cops had them too, and Susan’s instincts told her Lucille was into something “hot and heavy” related to Daniel’s death. Victim? Perpetrator? She didn’t know, but she was sure Lucille wasn’t in the arms of a lover. “For instance?”

  He lowered his chin to his chest, narrowed his eyes and said ominously, “Cattle rustling.”

  “Lucille thinks that’s going on?”

  He nodded.

  “Is she right?”

  He shrugged. “On a big scale, no. On a small scale, she’s convinced, yes. Anywhere you have a lot of cattle, the odd bovine can be stolen and slaughtered by somebody who likes beef and doesn’t want to pay for it, or likes to make a little money selling it for less than market price.”

  “I see. Anything else she was interested in?”

  “Toxic waste.”

  “What about it?”

  He shrugged again. “Lucille has this flea in her ear that somebody is dumping it somewhere in the county.”

  “She right about that?”

  “I doubt it. On the other hand, there’s a lot of that going around lately.”

  “Did she talk about Daniel’s murder?”

  “Of course.” He picked up a pencil, held one end in each hand and rotated it.

  “Does she suspect anyone?”

  “If she does, she hasn’t said so.”

  Susan eyed him steadily and waited. When he didn’t volunteer anything further, she said, “I assume you’re concerned about her, that you’d rather no harm came to her. I’m trying to find her, see she’s not in any danger, and I need a little help here.”

  He expanded his chest with a large breath and let it out with a gusty sigh. “I think she did suspect somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. She denied it flatly.”

  Again Susan waited.

  “Honest truth,” he said. “I don’t have any idea.”

  “What makes you think she suspects somebody?”

  His mouth twisted in a crooked smile. “Old firehorse hearing the distant clang of bells.” He tapped the pencil against the back of his hand. “This was her first real crime. A lot different from covering 4-H exhibits. She’s never seen a murder victim before.”

  She stared at him. “Lucille saw the body?”

  His black eyes stared back. “She was there almost as soon as Ben was.”

  She hadn’t known Lucille had been present at the crime scene. Had Lucille spotted something Parkhurst missed? Picked up something? Thursday night after Susan had seen Daniel’s body on an autopsy table, Lucille, agitated, tried to find out what Parkhurst knew. She had stuck her hand in her pocket and very quickly jerked it back.

  What was in that pocket? Something that identified the killer? Why not turn it over to Parkhurst? Protecting the killer? Why? Unless she had killed Daniel, was protecting herself and now had lit out for parts unknown.

  “Where is Lucille’s office?” she asked.

  Henry pointed with the pencil. “Across the hall, second door.”

  When he made no move to stop her or come with her, she realized he must have searched already and expected her to find nothing.

  Lucille’s office was a smaller, neater version of Henry’s: battered desk, filing cabinet and bookcases. The one grimy window looked out on an alley with tire tracks cut into the snow and across to the rear of Pickett’s Service Station and Garage. She watched one of Osey’s older brothers stop to light a cigarette before going inside. She didn’t know which one; Osey had four older brothers and they all looked alike.

  Turning from the window, she blew her nose and then slid open file drawers: paper supplies, folders of notes and expenses, clipped articles attached to typed copy. She pulled one, dated two months ago, and read about Joe Calvin, salesman for a car dealer, moving permanently to Kansas City. Henry had edited it heavily before printing and rightly so, she thought, shoving the drawer shut with a clunk.

  The top of the desk was clear except for a computer, a coffee mug bristling with pens and pencils (the mug read, “NEWS MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH”), and a telephone with an answering machine. She rewound the tape for incoming messages and pushed the PLAY button. There were two hang-ups, then Ella’s voice. “This is your mother. Lucille, are you there? I wish you’d call.”

  The fourth was a woman with a birth announcement, then another woman, with particulars about an anniversary party hosted by the family of the Marsdens. Fifty years of marriage. Not bad. An unidentified male voice, “Returning your call again. We keep missing.” A repeat call from a more distraught Ella.

  Then, “It’s Doug.” Very angry. “What the hell’s going on? You said the Drake. I’ve called five times. You’re never in, you never return messages. Call me.”

  Who was this Doug person? She reset the machine for incoming calls. The Drake. A hotel? She looked around for the phone book, found it on the bottom shelf of the bookcase and turned to the listing for hotels. No Drake. She tried restaurants. Still no Drake.

  She wasted some time slipping disks into the computer and scanning the contents. In the center drawer, along with paper clips, rubber bands and Scotch tape, she found a small spiral notebook with five entries. October 27, 2:10. November 12, 1:50. November 29, 1:30. December 27, 12:13. January 5, 12:32, Floyd’s truck (underlined, with a question mark).

  The two dates and times on the cassette in Lucille’s bedroom weren’t included. She probably used the tape recorder in the car and later wrote the information in the notebook.

  Okay, Susan thought, Lucille took late-night excursions and on these dates she found indications to support her theory. What that theory was, Susan didn’t know, but she was willing to bet Lucille was avidly on the trail of cattle rustlers or dumpers of toxic waste.

  A tie-in with Daniel’s murder was another thing she didn’t have, unless he had run across evidence of one or the other. He had seen something that troubled him, that he wanted to talk over with Parkhurst.

  She copied down the dates and times, included Floyd’s name with the question mark and assumed Lucille had seen Floyd that night but wasn’t certain whether he was involved in whatever she was trying to find. So far Floyd was all Susan had that even resembled a lead.

  She put her own notebook in her shoulder bag and Lucille’s back in the drawer. When she tried to close the drawer, it caught half way and she stuck a hand in to level the jumble. It still wouldn’t close. She pulled it out all the way and a crumpled envelope fell to the floor. Crawling under the desk, she retrieved a phone bill, glanced at it, started to drop it on the desk, then sat down and copied the numbers Lucille had called in December.

  On her way out, she stopped in the doorway of Henry’s office. “You know anybody named Doug? Friend or acquaintance of Lucille’s?”

  “Nope.”

  When she left the newspaper building, an ice-cold wind tore the door from her grasp, and she had to lean hard into it to get it closed. The sky was a dreary gray and rippled like a washboard. Shivering, Susan jammed her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  I hate this weather, she thought as she got into the pickup. Why would anyone live here? She wondered what the temperature was at home. Sixty degrees probably, rain maybe, at the very worst hard rain, but not nine hundred degrees below zero.

  Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten yet today. Food had never been high on her list of important things. On the job, she’d grabbed a quick meal as she could. At home, she’d gone with the frozen dinner, cheese and bread routine. Cooking took up a lot of time that could be used for something interesting. Since Daniel’s death, even though she felt hungr
y, she found it hard to eat. It was two-thirty and so far today she’d had only coffee. From Main Street, she turned left at Second and pulled up at the Coffee Cup Cafe. The sign above the door pictured a gigantic gold cup with mud-colored contents sending up billowing clouds of steam on which bounced happy doughnuts and sandwiches.

  Inside was blessedly warm. A row of booths ran along the fogged-over front windows, and opposite was a counter with stools. Except for a couple in the end booth and a man hunched over the counter brooding at a plate of french fries drowned in catsup, the cafe was empty.

  She slid into a gold vinyl booth, and a young woman with short brown hair and a snubbed nose, “Phyllis” stitched on her gold uniform, came up with a smile and a menu.

  Susan asked for coffee and lit a cigarette while she studied the menu. Once she’d met Daniel here for lunch; he claimed this place served the best barbecued beef ever made.

  When Phyllis brought the coffee, Susan ordered a barbecued-beef sandwich, then wriggled out of her coat. The heat, so welcome when she came in, was now overwhelming and made her nose drip more. Rubbing a clear spot on the fogged glass, she watched the people going by, heads down, bent into the wind. A small boy, submerged in a red parka, grinned at her and stuck his tongue out. She smiled back and gave him a hideous grimace. His mother, with a yank on his arm, towed him away and she was left making gargoyle faces at an affronted matron.

  Phyllis slid a plate in front of her, asked if she needed anything else, then left her responsible for a barbecued beef sandwich. She stared at it. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. She cut it into quarters and remembered she didn’t like barbecued beef. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Phyllis and the other waitress murmuring to each other, with now and then a glance in her direction.

  She set her teeth. Talk away, she thought grimly, picked up a piece of the sandwich and took a bite. She chewed, then had a panicky moment when she was afraid she couldn’t swallow. She gulped hot coffee, pushed the plate aside.

  A few minutes later Phyllis brought the check and laid it on the table. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wren,” she said hesitantly. “But Pam and I were talking. About Lucille? We heard, you know, that you were looking for her, and ever since Bess broke her leg she hasn’t been coming in to work. My Aunt Bess? She owns the cafe?”