by Carolyn Hart
Cooley typed and talked at the same time: “‘Well-known artist Faye Tatum was strangled in her home Tuesday night after dancing the evening away at a local nightclub, according to Police Chief Harold ‘Buck’ Fraser. Chief Fraser said police are seeking the victim’s soldier husband, Sgt. Clyde Tatum, for questioning.
“How’s that? I’d say it looks bad for the husband. . . .” Cooley talked, typed, talked, typed, his words coming almost as fast as the staccato bursts of his typewriter keys. His cigarette smouldered in a butt-filled ashtray. “The cops can’t find the poor bastard anywhere. Tatum’s car is parked in the lot at the Blue Light. Has the keys in it. That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense, but nothing ever makes much sense with murder.” Cooley yanked out a sheet of copy paper, rolled another into the typewriter. “And, hold on to your hat, Walt, I had a ringside seat last night. See, you got to be part of the community to know what’s going on.” There was a sardonic edge to his voice and he slid a taunting glance toward the editor.
Gretchen recognized the refrain. That was what Mr. Dennis always told them. But he wasn’t talking about spending time at the Blue Light. The editor ignored the gibe, held his pencil poised to write.
“Anyway”—Cooley’s voice still had an edge—“when I got to the Blue Light, Tatum was drinking at the far end of the bar. I didn’t know who he was then, but I knew he was trouble. He was surly as hell and everybody gave him a wide berth. He’s a big man. Six feet, two hundred pounds. Seemed like he was waiting for somebody. Faye showed up about six-thirty, looking like a million dollars with her hair in a pompadour and a fancy dress and . . .”
Gretchen frowned. She remembered the green print. The shirtfrock dress was perfect for work or going shopping. It wasn’t fancy. It was nice.
“. . . she and Tatum had a shouting match. The chief says somebody at the barbershop told Tatum yesterday afternoon that his wife was having gentlemen friends over at the house since he’d been gone. . . .”
Gentlemen friends . . . That was awful. If Clyde Tatum had been angry that Faye was dancing at the Blue Light, how had he felt when he heard this? Gretchen worked out the time in her mind. If he was at the barbershop late in the afternoon and somebody told him about his wife, he could have gone to the house and been waiting for her when she got home from work. If he asked her about men coming to the house, well, that was sure a reason why they might have yelled at each other loud enough for Mrs. Crane to call the police.
“Well . . .” Cooley leaned back in his chair. “Faye screamed that it was a lie. She told Tatum he had a nasty mind and as far as she was concerned he couldn’t get out of town soon enough and she was going to have a good time, no matter what. That’s when Lou Hopper came around the bar and took Tatum by the arm. Before you could snap your fingers, Lou had him out the door. You know her. She runs the Blue Light like a drill sergeant.”
Gretchen knew all about the Blue Light. It was the biggest beer joint in the county with a live band every night. Of course, she’d never been inside, but Millard had played in the band, sneaking out of his room at night and not telling his folks. That’s how he got crossways with them and ran off to join the navy. Millard had liked Mrs. Hopper. Gretchen had spoken to her after Millard left, asked her to let Millard know he could come home, his parents weren’t mad anymore. Mrs. Hopper hadn’t made any promises but it wasn’t too long after Gretchen had gone to the Blue Light that Millard wrote, sending a picture of himself in his white navy uniform. The Thompsons had that picture of Millard and a picture of Mike in his army uniform at the drugstore, up on the wall behind the cash register. Millard had told Gretchen that Mrs. Hopper was strict with the band but fair. Gretchen wasn’t surprised Mr. Tatum had done what Mrs. Hopper told him to.
“Lou doesn’t want any trouble out there.” Mr. Dennis made some notes. “Okay, Lou shoos him out. What time was that?”
“Maybe seven. Anyway, everything settled down. Everybody was jitterbugging, having a hell of a time.” Cooley scooted his chair closer to the desk. The Remington keys rattled. “Including Faye Tatum. She danced every dance. But with everybody. You know what I mean, no particular guy.” He took a drag from his cigarette, frowned at the words on the sheet. “She danced with a bunch of guys.” He gave a wolfish smile, whistled. “I couldn’t miss her. Nobody could. Then or later. She put on quite a show. Jitterbug. Tango. Foxtrot. Good gams.”
Gretchen had a snapshot-quick memory of the body sprawled in the untidy living room, legs agape. If Mr. Cooley had seen that, he wouldn’t sound like he was talking in a movie about somebody who wasn’t real.
“She lived up the street from me.” Gretchen was surprised she’d spoken. Mr. Cooley blinked, like it was the first time he’d noticed she was there. He gave her a funny look, almost a sneer. Gretchen ripped off more wire copy. “She was exciting to be around. All the kids liked her. She used to fix homemade strawberry ice cream for Barb. That’s Barb’s favorite.” She stopped at a story about the fighting in Italy. Any news about the Forty-fifth Division was important. The Forty-fifth came from Oklahoma.
Cooley gave a husky rasp of laughter. “Just a dandy American mom—when she wasn’t being a barfly.”
Gretchen spiked the story. She whirled toward the reporter, her face burning. “Mrs. Tatum wasn’t like that. Barb said her mom just loved to dance. That’s all. Barb said her mom told her dad all she wanted to do was dance.”
“Oh, sure. And there are leprechauns in my desk drawer.” Cooley’s mouth curved in a mocking grin. “Anyway, I can tell you that Faye was higher than a kite last night. Then she got loud and weepy and pretty soon she was at the bar, going up and down, asking people what they’d do if somebody said they were running around on their wife or husband. Then she got belligerent, asking if anybody knew who’d said those things about her. That’s when Lou talked to her. Faye quieted down. The last time I saw her, she was in that hallway back by the bathrooms and she was leaning against the wall, holding on to the receiver at the pay phone. The chief wants to know who she talked to. He says that could be the key to the whole thing. The county attorney isn’t impressed. Durwood says it looks pretty clear that the Tatums were having trouble. Seems there was a disturbing the peace call from the next-door neighbor late in the afternoon. Durwood said the chief needs to check that out. The chief said he goddam well knows how to run his own investigation and when he needs help from the county attorney, he’ll call on him. The sheriff’s already been out to see Lou Hopper. I called the Crane house, but I didn’t get any answer.”
“Faye didn’t get killed yesterday afternoon.” Mr. Dennis’s voice was mild. “Hey, Gretchen, check the morgue for mug shots of Chief Fraser, Sheriff Moore, and Donny Durwood, the county attorney. I’ll run a sidebar: Lawmen Seeking Killer.”
Gretchen walked to the big wooden filing cabinets in the corner near the Teletype. She pulled out the drawer marked D-E-F.
Cooley yanked the last sheet from his typewriter. “She sure as hell croaked last night—and that happened after she and Tatum had their dustup at the Blue Light.” Cooley scribbled a slug on the sheets, pushed back from his desk, and rolled his chair the two feet to the editor’s desk.
Gretchen picked two photographs out of the files in D-E-F, found the sheriff’s file in M-N-O. Chief Fraser looked like an old bulldog, but not as tired as he had last night. Sheriff Paul Moore’s long face reminded her of a sheriff in the westerns, maybe because his eyes had a flat, cold stare and he wore a string tie, real old-fashioned. Donald Durwood, the county attorney, gazed straight at the camera, stalwart as an Eagle Scout, short blond hair, regular features, firm chin.
Mr. Dennis reached out for Cooley’s copy. “Did Faye leave the Blue Light by herself?”
Gretchen placed the photos on his desk.
“She went out the door alone. Who knows?” Cooley rubbed his nose, gave a big yawn. “Anyway, she went home and got herself strangled. If you ask me, she was asking for it.”
“Nobody asked you.” Gretchen’s
voice was wobbly, but she glared at him, her gaze furious, and his eyes dropped first. “She was nice.”
Cooley laughed. “She was an easy—”
The editor rattled the sheets. “That’s enough, Ralph. Gretchen knew the woman. Let it go.”
Cooley rolled his chair back to his desk, his glance at Gretchen sardonic. “The facts speak for themselves, kid.”
“She loved to dance. But the way you say it . . .” Gretchen felt sick inside for Barb. Barb would read the paper. Of course she would. She would read in the Gazette that her mother was strangled after dancing the evening away in a local nightclub. . . . It sounded bad. Gretchen took a step toward Cooley. “Did you put anything in the story about Mrs. Tatum? About what kind of person she was?”
Cooley raised an eyebrow. His hands were poised above the keys. “What did her kid say? That she loved to dance?”
She loved to dance. That’s what Barb had said. But that wasn’t everything. If that was all he wrote . . . “She was an artist.” There was a painting right now on the screened-in porch that Gretchen couldn’t describe, not really, not the way it made her feel to look at it. As much as she loved words, sometimes there were things words couldn’t capture. But the painting made her feel like she was looking at a heartbeat or a song, things you couldn’t see but you felt inside.
Cooley picked up his suit coat, slipped into it. He yawned. “I’m going to get some lunch, then I’ll nose around the courthouse, see what else they’ve found out. Maybe they’ve got a line on her boyfriend.” He shook out a cigarette. “Though I don’t suppose that matters now.”
The Teletype began to rattle. Gretchen ignored the paper coming out. She spoke loud and fast so she could get it all out. “Mr. Cooley, you could talk to some people who knew her. Some of the people who took art from her. Or somebody at the five-and-dime. They’d tell you what she was really like.” About the way her laughter sounded light and free as a silver spoon striking a crystal glass. Or the way she would rush out into the yard on a summer night and catch hands with Barb and the other girls playing in the yard and swing in a happy dance, singing that silly song, “Mairzy Doats.”
Cooley poked his hat to the back of his head. He gave her a hard stare. “Who, me? I’m no sob sister, kid. That kind of story belongs to Jewell. Or maybe you’d like to do it. Make everybody get their hankies out.”
When the front door slammed behind him, Gretchen slowly turned toward Mr. Dennis. “He’s going to make her sound cheap. Like she should have died.” The pictures were back in her mind: Mrs. Tatum sprawled on the floor, Barb with her face puffy, her eyes stricken.
Mr. Dennis leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands behind his head, frowned at her. “There’s nothing in his story but the facts.”
“The facts . . .” Gretchen stopped. She didn’t know how to make him understand. Then she looked into bleak green eyes and knew that he understood everything.
Dennis nodded slowly. “That’s right, kid. You’re getting there faster than most. Depends upon which facts, doesn’t it?” He poked at Cooley’s copy. “Every fact in here is true. Ralph may have a smart mouth, but he gets it right. But you don’t think the Blue Light and alcohol and people mad at each other tell the whole story about Faye Tatum. I’ll tell you what, you go get a story about Faye. Only one thing you have to promise me.”
“Yes, sir?” She stared into his mournful, skeptical, somber eyes.
“You got to promise that your facts will be true, too.” The chair squeaked as he turned back to his desk.
“WON ’ T YOU HAVE another glass of lemonade, Gretchen?” Mrs. Forrester’s brown hair puffed in thick rolls, framing a gentle face. She had milk white skin and light blue eyes. Her pink shirtwaist dress was crisp with starch. It might have been any summer day on a screened-in porch, bright with white wicker and navy cushions, except for the misery in her eyes and the young man in a wheelchair, a pale green spread draped to hide his missing legs.
Gretchen’s stomach ached. She didn’t know whether the ache came from the tart lemonade or from the pain and heartbreak and courage at the Forrester house. Or from the nagging worry that she’d promised to find out the truth about Faye Tatum and she didn’t know where to start. “No, ma’am. Thank you. Do you know when you will be able to go to school, Billy?”
His hair, cut short, was a golden brown too and his freckled face thin. Too thin. His short-sleeve cotton shirt was too big for him. “They haven’t told me when they’re going to operate again.” He frowned. “There’s this place that doesn’t heal. Once I get past that, I know exactly what I want to do. I’ve got it all planned.” His voice lifted with eagerness. “They say it’s a sure thing that the president’s going to sign that bill for veterans to go to college. I’m going to go to A&M and be a vet.”
Gretchen’s uncle Sylvester was a veterinarian and he was always being called out in the middle of the night when a cow was having trouble delivering a calf or a quarter horse came down with colic. Gretchen thought about the rough uneven ground out on farms and ranches, the ruts that criss-crossed a barnyard.
Mrs. Forrester pressed a crumpled handkerchief to her eyes. Her shoulders shook.
Billy gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “I’m going to get artificial legs. I’m going to walk.” He didn’t look at his mother.
Gretchen glanced down at her notes. She mustn’t cry. She wrote quickly: artificial legs. “Why do you want to be a vet?”
Billy’s hands relaxed. “Animals don’t . . .” His voice trailed off.
Gretchen waited.
He took a deep breath. “I want to help things live.”
“Animals don’t . . .” she repeated.
His mouth twisted. He stared at the throw which lay in a revealing drape, no bulges for legs, nothing to mar the smooth cotton. “Animals don’t toss grenades. Animals fight.” He nodded, his face wrinkling. “Sometimes they kill. But they don’t set out to destroy everything in their path. I like animals. All kinds. So, that’s what I’m going to do . . .”
Gretchen wrote fast. She scarcely heard his final words, he spoke so softly: “. . . or die.” She looked up quickly. She didn’t write those words down. He hadn’t spoken them to her. Or to his mother. He’d spoken to himself.
He clapped his hands together, grinned at her. “How do you like working for the Gazette, Gretchen?”
“I want to be a reporter”—she met his gaze directly—“as much as you want to be a vet.”
He reached out and they shook hands.
Mrs. Forrester exclaimed, “A reporter? Oh, Gretchen, I hope not. I thought you were just working there for the summer and writing some nice stories about people like Rose Drew. You don’t want to be a real reporter, do you? There are so many terrible things in the papers. Why, we heard on the radio this morning about Faye Tatum.” Her face tightened in disapproval, sharp lines cutting from her nose to her mouth. “You shouldn’t have to know about things like that. Or women like her.”
“Oh, Ma.” Billy’s voice was sharp. “Mrs. Tatum was nice. Whenever I used to go see Barb, she was as nice as could be.”
“Nice women don’t go to taverns by themselves.” Mrs. Forrester’s mouth folded into a thin, tight line.
Gretchen gripped her pencil so hard her hand hurt. “She loved to dance. That’s all. Barb said she just loved to dance.” She stood, folded her sheets of yellow copy paper.
Mrs. Forrester stood, too, her face as cold as a frozen pond in January. “She was a married woman. She shouldn’t have run around like she was single.”
Billy slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “Ma, there’s nothing wrong with dancing.”
“Dancing’s just an excuse, Billy.” Her pale eyes glittered.
He fingered the hem of the throw. “I used to dance. I went to the USO all the time.” He ignored his mother’s muffled cry. They didn’t dance or drink in the Forrester family. “Maybe Mrs. Tatum was scared. Or lonely. Or feeling blue. When they play the music loud and fast, ever
ything else goes away, at least for a while. If all she did was dance, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“She wouldn’t be dead if that’s all she did.” Mrs. Forrester tossed her head like a horse scenting a snake.
Gretchen paused at the door. “Nobody knows for sure what happened. The police don’t know. They’re trying to find out. I’m going to write a story about Mrs. Tatum. I’m going to talk to the people who knew her best.”
“Least said, soonest mended, I should think.” Mrs. Forrester’s tone was snippy.
Billy rolled his chair forward. “Gretchen’s got a job to do. I think it’s swell. Barb can help. She’ll know who her mom’s friends were. Gretchen, please say hi to Barb for me. Tell her I’m sorry about her mom. Real sorry.” His eyes held memories of death.
“I’ll tell her.” Gretchen hoped she could make Barb know that Billy understood. But Gretchen wouldn’t say a word about Mrs. Forrester, who stood like a stone in her pretty pink dress as Gretchen pushed through the screen door. Mrs. Forrester had made up her mind. She believed that Faye Tatum was a bad woman and that was why she came to a bad end. Gretchen could imagine Mrs. Forrester talking to her friends, their voices low and secretive, and the knowing looks they would exchange.
Gretchen walked fast despite the heat. She was in a hurry. Maybe nothing would change Mrs. Forrester’s attitude. Everybody in town would be talking about Faye Tatum and the Blue Light and Faye’s quarrel with Clyde. But Gretchen was determined that there would be something more to remember about Barb’s mother. Thanks to Billy Forrester, Gretchen knew where to begin. Barb knew her mother’s friends. That was the place to start. With Barb.