Authors: Charlotte Hinger
The next morning, when I opened the office, Margaret Atkinson, my favorite volunteer came in right behind me.
“Good morning, Lottie.”
A tiny woman with a tightly permed cap of Hereford red hair and skin like a withered marshmallow, she could have stayed out in the sun for the rest of her life and never tanned a whit. Her family has been in this county since it was formed and she knew everything about everybody.
She was our conscience.
About five persons in a county, any county, are the key to projects being successful. The board would never have hired me without Margaret’s approval.
Her clout came from her integrity and the contribution she and her family had made to the community. She created the first library in the county, manned it herself, and persuaded people to donate books. She wrote the grant for our hospice organization. She started our county museum.
She liked me. What a wonder. Even though her function in the historical society was something between that of a spy and a guardian angel and I was her boss, we both knew she could ruin me anytime she wanted.
Margaret had been out of town for a week and missed out on the worst tragedy our community had faced in years.
“You’ve heard everything?” I headed toward my desk.
“Heard nothing but,” she said tiredly. “From everybody. My phone started ringing the moment I got back.”
“Something’s wrong.” The hair on my neck prickled. “Someone’s been in here.” My paper clip holder was on the wrong side of my desk pad. My family photos were grouped differently.
“Were you the last to leave yesterday?”
I shook my head. “William Webster was. He got here about two.”
“Well then, maybe he moved something.”
“Maybe, but it’s not like him to touch anything of mine. He sits over there.” I waved at a corner. My desk drawer was locked, as it should have been, so I clamped down on my uneasiness. “No big deal, Margaret. If someone came in needing something, William had a perfect right to rummage around.” I had too much to do to be fretting over trivia.
“First off, I want you to read the Rubidoux Family Story. Maybe you can see something I’ve missed. Then I’m going to finish laying out pages.”
If I had been going to tell anyone Judy had accused Fiona of murder, it would have been Margaret. So far, the only ones in the loop were the Hadleys and Keith and Bettina.
“I’ll run off a working copy,” I said, not mentioning the one I’d already made was now in Manhattan Kansas. That wouldn’t set well with Margaret. I unlocked the master file cabinet and fingered through the R folders.
The Rubidoux story wasn’t there.
Thinking I had misfiled the original under St. John, I went to the Ss. My jaw tightened so hard my teeth ached. It wasn’t there. I looked again, willing it to materialize. I opened the last drawer, hoping I had witlessly put it under Z for Zelda. It wasn’t there either.
“Margaret.”
“What?”
“It’s not here.”
“Let me look,” she said. “I’m sure it’s slipped down behind a folder or something.”
From the beginning we’d agreed that neither was to be insulted if the other insisted on double-checking material. There’s something about fresh eyes looking. At least, I
think
that’s what it is. Sometimes I could swear Margaret
made
things appear. As though she were a conjurer.
“It has to be here,” she said. Her wrinkles quivered.
I sank into a chair and watched anxiously. She finished checking all the obvious files, walked to the supply cabinet and put on rubber fingertips. Beginning with the As she carefully opened each individual folder and stroked through the pages, making sure Zelda’s story hadn’t slipped inside another. She laid each file in neat staggered rows on the desk, so she could tell if there were papers at the bottom of the drawer. Finally she removed the entire drawer, making sure papers had not become flattened against the back wall of the cabinet. She went through all the other drawers, using the same method.
It took her hours to go through every scrap of paper in that file cabinet. My heart beat like a trip hammer as I watched.
“It’s not here, Lottie,” she said finally. “It’s not in this cabinet.”
“Okay,” I said. I blinked back tears and tried to look professional. It was no use. Margaret knew me too well. I had never lost a story. Now an original hand-written story by a dead woman had vanished.
I splayed my hands across my face and tried to think while Margaret sorted through miscellaneous piles of paper on desks.
“It’s not here, either, Lottie. I’ve looked everywhere.” Her face was a shade whiter, her gaze reproachful, dull red circles burned on her cheeks.
“Are there others missing? We need to check.”
“I don’t know. Please, no. Oh please, please don’t let it be true.” I jumped up and hurried to the master file cabinet and riffled a special folder containing old letters. There were five missing.
One had been signed by George Armstrong Custer.
Kansas was rich with original documentation. The Kansas State Historical Society in Topeka housed one of the largest collections of newspapers in the world and the state’s county courthouses were full of hidden treasures.
Documents signed by Wyatt Earp and Matt Dillion had disappeared from Dodge City and been sold for a small fortune to unscrupulous collectors. Fossils disappeared from museums. In Carlton County, we were just beginning to identify and catalogue everything that came into the vault. I was the guardian of these documents.
Someone had just trashed my reputation for reliability. Anger throbbed so deeply, my whole body was suffused with heat. I had forgotten what it felt like to be this furious. Beneath the heat was the beginning of a cold rage. Cold and calculating.
“We have to call the sheriff, Lottie. The Custer letter was very valuable. It will be in all the papers,” Margaret said sadly. “And people were just starting to trust us with their old photos.”
I drove home that evening oblivious to the onset of autumn. Although I still missed the glorious Eastern Kansas panorama of fall leaves, out here air quickened. Geese flew overhead and shadows sharpened. I’d come to appreciate the year-round dark green of sheltering cedar windbreaks.
On a farm, winter is a time of rest and deep healing. Years ago work animals needed slack time. Now families whacked by the zaniness of farm programs and the perversity of Mother Nature needed the lull. In winter we pull ourselves together, organize our so-called finances, and plan spring crops.
At home, still seething, I sipped chamomile tea while I talked to Josie. I told her about the theft and asked her to keep her mouth shut about the copy of Zelda’s story she had taken with her for handwriting analysis. It didn’t eliminate my despair over the Custer letter, however.
Relaxing a little, I lighted the fire, collapsed into my overstuffed tan leather chair, put my feet up on the matching hassock, and huddled under an afghan Bettina had made for me. Surrounded by creature comforts, I began to unwind and tried to make sense of what was going on. Finally I reached for the pad lying on the table next to my chair and turned on the lamp.
I listed the sequence of events: Zelda had turned in a story. Fiona had tried to get it back. Zelda died. Judy had accused Fiona of murder and later asked me to investigate. I had agreed for Brian’s sake, then the story disappeared along with old letters. One of which was very valuable.
I listed what everyone knew and what only certain people knew. A number of people now knew Zelda had turned in a story accusing Brian of bigotry.
Judy and I were the only ones who knew Fiona had been at the St. John’s house the night Zelda died.
Outside of the Hadleys and my own family, I was the only one who knew Judy had accused Fiona of murder.
Only Margaret and I had keys to the office and master file. No one else had access to our room. In theory. But what about the janitor? Were his always in a safe place? For that matter, when I was there, Margaret usually left her keys in her desk when she went to the bathroom or during short breaks. Did she leave her keys when I wasn’t there? And the office had been unlocked for about ten minutes last Friday while I watched the storm.
Keith came through the back door in a gust of fresh air.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” I began.
He hung his jean jacket on the peg, turned, and listened.
“Any idea who it could have been?”
“None. Until this happened I would have thought it impossible.” Dizzy with gratitude for his easy acceptance of my account, I walked over and hugged him. He hadn’t said, “Are you sure you didn’t put it someplace?”
“Thanks,” I whispered against his chest.
“For what?” Then he pressed for more details.
Responding to his loyal matter-of-fact questions, knowing he respected my judgment, helped assuage the guilt I had felt under Margaret’s disapproving looks.
The phone rang. Keith answered.
“Hi, Elizabeth.”
I walked to the pantry, grabbed a box of Hamburger Helper, flashed the label in front of him and mouthed, “okay?” He nodded and as I browned the beef, I listened absently until his tone changed. Then I was all ears. He had been telling her about the theft.
“No, I’m sure she didn’t, Elizabeth. She doesn’t do that kind of thing.”
Abruptly, I turned off the stove, went to the living room, picked up the extension.
“I’m on now too, Elizabeth,” I said.
“Well,
hi
. Dad just told me about your terrible day and I was telling him about this wonderful subliminal tape that improves memory and it’s full of techniques…”
“Elizabeth, a valuable letter was stolen from our courthouse. Got that? Stolen. I did not misplace it.”
Silence on her end. I had never spoken sharply to any of Keith’s children before. I was overdue.
Then she came back with sweet reason. Handling me. Voice low and pleasant. “I just thought, Lottie, with all your work focusing on the past, not requiring a high degree of alertness, it would be easy for you to slip into abstracted ways without realizing it. We’ve all heard the cliché about the absent-minded professor.”
“That’s what it is, Elizabeth. A cliché.”
I hung up, leaving Keith to finish the conversation with his darling daughter. Furiously, I stormed past him and concentrated on the hamburger.
“Talk to you later, Elizabeth,” said Keith, glancing at me sharply.
I slapped the plates onto the table, nuked some vegetables, and slid a loaf of bread, still in the sack, by Keith’s place.
“Supper’s on,” I said coldly.
“Lottie!”
Angry that he would address me like a parent trying to reprimand a child, I stood with my arms crossed and glared.
“There’s something you two women need to know. I don’t do cat fights.”
“You could have stuck up for me.”
“I did,” he said solemnly. “If you’ll think back to before you got on the phone, I told her you didn’t lose that letter.”
“Why did you bring it up at all?”
“You know it’ll be all over town by tomorrow. And in the paper Thursday, since you reported it to the sheriff. So I thought she should hear it from us. Me. Besides, she had just lost a custody case and was feeling rotten. Inadequate.”
“So knowing I had been knocked flat too was going to make her feel better somehow?”
He looked stricken. “You’re right, I was wrong. I know Elizabeth never misses a chance to give you a hard time. And I give you the credit for not fanning the flames. I hate this kind of thing, but you’re my
wife
, Lottie. I’m going to stick up for you. Unless you’re dead wrong. Don’t you know that by now?”
“Oh, Keith, I’m sorry.” I ran over to him and he kissed my trembling mouth. “I’m sorry I took this out on you.”
He hugged me hard. “It was weird to see you lose control. Maturity doesn’t have much to do with age, sweetheart. You’re old beyond your years,” he said. “Hate to put the burden on you, but if you can find it in your heart to cut Elizabeth a little slack, I’d appreciate it. She’s under more stress than usual right now because a number of her cases have involved abused children.”
I didn’t lose control
, I thought.
The lady needed to be told off. I did it on purpose.
“I’ll make every effort to keep the peace with Elizabeth.”
***
That night when I curled up against his broad back, I could not sleep. I stiffened whenever I recalled Elizabeth’s jab that my work didn’t require a high degree of alertness. What utter nonsense! I felt like grabbing her by the hair and forcing her to watch me for a day.
When I did manage to put her words from my mind and was about to doze off, I jerked awake, still tormented by the theft and burdened by my promise to Judy to look into her mother’s death.
I had to be in a position to ask better questions. And fast. The way came to me after two restless hours. A way about as real-time, real-life as it gets. It would show Elizabeth, too. I knew at once it would be better not to inform Keith until after it was a done deal.
I smiled before I drifted into the deep soundless sleep of the innocent and the ignorant. The sleep of a woman who thinks God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world. The sleep of a woman who in her heart of hearts doesn’t really believe bad things happen to good people.
“Can I help you, Lottie?”
“I’m here about the ad.”
Sam Abbott looked at me blankly.
“Ad?”
“In the paper. The one asking for volunteers to become deputies?”
“Yes?”
Sam was not a stupid person, but he really did not understand.
“I want to become a deputy.”
He blinked slowly. He reached toward an ash tray for his pipe. He opened his desk drawer, took out a little zippered pouch, got up, walked over to a roll of paper towels, and ripped one off the holder.
I could feel my cheeks growing hot and red. If he thought a little bit of silence was enough to scare me off, he had another thing coming.
He came back to the desk. He smoothed the paper towel, steadied the pipe on the paper, shook tobacco into the bowl, and tamped it down firmly. He creased the paper and shook the leftover tobacco back into the pouch. He took his time putting it back into the drawer. He puffed patiently and steadily on the stem.
He blew a series of rings into the air. I out-waited him.
“Keith know you’re here?”
“No,” I said, keeping my voice neutral, stung by his faint, patient smile.
“I think you should talk this over with him first.”
“No need, Sam. He understands women making their own decisions.”
There was a flash of quick amusement in his eyes. He was plenty smart enough to pick up on the implied rebuke.
“Okay,” he said mildly. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you want such a miserable stinking job?”
“You need me, I know you do. If I may speak frankly?”
He nodded, waved his pipe.
“I heard about some of questions Betty Central asked the night Zelda was killed. It’s not going to do you any good to have an officer of the law talk to anyone like that.”
He gave me a look. There was more than acknowledgment in his eyes. Something closer to despair. I had hit upon a sore point indeed, but he did not give me the satisfaction of agreeing with me.
“There’s got to be things that come up. Crimes against women. Rape, incest, where you need all the good help you can get.”
With a bitter glance, his head bobbed in curt agreement. His pipe had gone out: he reached for his supply of matches, patiently coaxed it back to life.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said again. “Why you would want to do this? It’s a dirty little job, and you’ll know more about the people in this town than you’ve ever wanted to know, far more than what’s good for you.”
He waited.
“No, the question is, do you want to hire me? That’s the question I’m interested in.”
He paused and looked at me hard. “Got a hidden agenda, Lottie?”
I swallowed hard. “All right. Maybe I do have a special reason. It has to do with Zelda St. John’s death.”
“What about it?”
Sam would have to know. I told him about Judy asking me to look into it.
“And you know you need decent help with this, Sam. Why not me? I know more about research than anyone else you could hope to find. I’m an historian. Dead people are my specialty. That’s what you’ve got here. A dead person. I need the authority to ask questions I would have a hard time asking as the director of the historical society.”
He let out a long sigh, touched his hand to his forehead.
“You’ll get excellent reports,” I coaxed.
He almost smiled.
“Now it’s your turn, Sam.”
He quirked an eyebrow.
“I answered a question for you, now you answer a question for me. Why would you not want to hire me? As you’ve pointed out, people aren’t exactly beating down the door for this job.”
“No, they’re not,” he said flatly. “The truth, Lottie?”
“What else?”
“You’re too elite. You don’t belong out here. You belong in an ivory tower. You don’t fit in. You’re an outsider. Law enforcement is a dirty business, and you’re not the kind to get your hands dirty.”
So that was how they saw me, the people in this town. I looked at him wide-eyed. Stoic. If he expected tears, he would be disappointed. Then it dawned on me I had just passed my first test with flying colors.
He was a cunning old bastard. I wouldn’t underestimate him again.
“I do belong out here. I’m quite capable of getting my hands dirty. Sometimes people will talk more to an outsider than they will to someone they’ve known all their lives. The stranger on the bus thing. I’m not asking for a full-time job, Sam. I’m asking for a part-time deputy job so I can help find out who murdered Zelda St. John.”
“Do you plan to just pop in and out?”
“Yes, of course. Why not? Part-time. That’s all I want. I come with skills. You would have to train someone else in report writing, interview techniques. Stuff I already know how to do.”
There was an interested glint in his eyes.
“The county has no money, right?”
He nodded wearily. I was clearly wearing him down.
“This investigation is going to put a terrible strain on the county’s resources. You need all the cheap help you can get.”
“You still have to have training, Lottie, and we’re broke. Police departments are being sued over inadequate training.”
“No problem. I’ll pay my own way to seminars and teach other people when I get back.”
There was a glint of interest in his eyes.
“I’m physically fit,” I said quickly. “I work out. I’ll take classes in self-defense.”
He drew a deep breath, leaned back in his rickety swivel chair, put his locked arms behind his head.
I waited.
Abruptly he swung into a full upright position and fixed me with his sad, old eyes.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
“Kill?”
“Yes, kill someone, woman. You’ve thought everything through but that, haven’t you? It would be your duty, your obligation, to use deadly force if necessary.”
“I think so,” I stammered.
“Can’t be
think so.
Gotta be
know so.”
I gave him a look and left.