Letter From Home (7 page)

Mrs. Taylor brushed back a loose tendril of her snowy hair. “Have I got room today for that mug of the garden club president?”

Dennis glanced toward the page layouts spread across his desk. “Nope. Too much jump from the Tatum story.”

“All right.” Mrs. Taylor was always good-humored. In her world, if a story didn't run one day, it would the next. As far as she was concerned, big stories came and went but weddings and funerals and club meetings were the heart and soul of the
Gazette
. As she'd earnestly said when she handed Gretchen the list of this year's graduating class, “What matters are people's names. That's what they look for in the paper.”

But Gretchen knew that everyone would read about Faye Tatum in this afternoon's
Gazette
. And, as Mr. Dennis observed, Gretchen had been there.

Gretchen took a step toward the editor. “Mr. Dennis, maybe if I wrote it all down. About last night.”

He said quietly, “I'm not asking you to do that.”

She rubbed tired eyes. “I know. I want to.” If she put the fear and horror into words, the words would be separate and distinct from her, leeching the harsh images out of her mind and onto paper.

“Sure. Then see about the wire.” He swung his chair around, faced his typewriter.

Gretchen slowly walked to her desk, sat down. For awhile, there was no sound except for the rattle of typewriter keys. Occasionally, Mr. Dennis grabbed the phone, barked out a number to the operator, asked quick, short, crisp questions. Gretchen heard his gruff voice in the background and felt safe. Mrs. Taylor talked to herself as she worked. Her cheerful chirp had become a familiar background noise to Gretchen.

Gretchen stared at the yellow copy paper. She started, stopped, started again. It took almost an hour. Finally she had three double-spaced pages. At four lines to an inch, it ran sixteen and a half column inches. She pasted the sheets together, laid them in the incoming copy tray. Mr. Dennis nodded his head in acknowledgment. Mrs. Taylor reached out to pat Gretchen on the arm as she walked back to her desk. Gretchen felt drained, but there was a sense of relief and release. She reached for the slender phone book with a picture of the First National Bank on the cover. She looked up the number of the Forrester house, and picked up the phone. When the operator answered, she said, “Three-two-nine, please.”

A woman answered. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Forrester? This is Gretchen Gilman for the
Gazette.
” She always emphasized the name of the newspaper. She was still amazed at the effect of her words, how nice most people were, how eager they were to be helpful and answer her questions. “Would it be okay for me to come over and talk to Billy? I'd like to do a story about him.” No legs. Never to be able to walk or run or climb. But he was home. What if Jimmy got hurt like that?

“A story about Billy?” Mrs. Forrester's voice quivered. “There used to be a lot of stories when he was the quarterback. They won state. It was three years ago. Only three years . . . Oh, God.” The phone was fumbled, dropped.

Gretchen felt the hot prick of tears in her eyes.

“Hello?” The voice was thin, but loud. Manly. “Billy here. Mr. Dennis?”

“No, this is Gretchen Gilman. I'm working for the
Gazette
this summer and—”

“Jimmy's little sister, right?” A laugh. A nice laugh that sounded like Jimmy when he read about Archie in the comic strip, Archie and Jughead and Veronica. “I remember Jimmy. Best punter I ever saw. Where's he now?”

“In the South Pacific. We had a letter from him last week.” Such a short letter, mostly about how much he missed Grandmother's hamburgers. “Billy, can I come over and talk to you?”

There was silence on the line.

Gretchen thought she understood, hoped she understood. “About your plans for going to college?”

“College.” The little sound over the telephone wire could have been a cough or a sigh or a sob. “Yeah. Sure. Come anytime. I'm here.”

Gretchen heard his pain and frustration in those two small words.
“I'm here.”
Where else would he be unless someone took him, the fast quarterback who'd fallen back behind the line once, so deep, then outrun them all past the goal line.

“I'll be there in a little while. Thank you.” As Gretchen was putting the phone down, she heard his thin voice, “Oh, Ma, don't cry. Please, Ma . . .”

The
Gazette
front door banged. Ralph Cooley strolled in, hat tilted to the back of his head, cigarette in his mouth, hand clutching a fistful of copy paper. He flapped the sheets. “Read all about it. Cops Hunt Killer. Dogs Called In.”

Mr. Dennis's chair squeaked as he faced the door, leaned back. His face had a look Gretchen recognized. Whenever Mr. Cooley ambled across the newsroom cocky as a rooster, Mr. Dennis's face turned sour, like he'd eaten bad barbecue or maybe smelled a skunk. “Christ, Ralph, what's kept you? You went over there at nine.” Mr. Dennis glared at the clock. It was just past noon.

Mrs. Taylor fluttered across the room. “Here's the story on the Colman triplets. Did you know they named them Franklin, Winston, and Charles? Oh, I've got to hurry. It's the Ladies of the Leaf luncheon. Gladys Rogers is going to review Pearl Buck's new book.” Her high heels tapped as she hurried out.

Gretchen checked the clock. Not quite noon. She grabbed her pica pole, the thin metal ruler with type sizes marked on the left and inches on the right, and hurried to the Teletype. Using her pica pole, she ripped the stories free, sorted them by origin. Each story had to be spiked. There were four spikes, one each for local, state, national, and international. The spikes were long, sharp nails that had been pounded through metal jar lids, then hot lead was poured in. When the lead cooled, the nails stood upright to serve as spikes for copy.

Cooley grinned as he strolled past Mr. Dennis's desk. He slouched into his chair, tossed some crumpled notes by the typewriter. “Patience, Walt. Nobody wanted to talk to me and finally I told the chief's secretary I was going to run a story that law enforcement in the county had no news about Faye Tatum's murder. That got me into his office. There are currents, Walt. Tricky currents. Lots of door banging. The stalwart chief and the ambitious prosecuting attorney are toe-to-toe, ready to fight. Lurking on the sidelines, ready to jump in the ring, is the sheriff. This is going to be one hell of a battle and I'm just the man to ferret out the real story. Did I ever tell you how goddam lucky you are to have me? Nobody ever got better stories for INS than I did. I ought to be the bureau chief in Dallas. I ought to have got the job in Washington. If I had, I'd be in London now or the Far East. Somewhere.”

“Yeah.” That was all Mr. Dennis said, his face still sour.

Cooley's pleased look slid into a frown. He puffed his cigarette, shot the editor a brooding glance. “I can handle my whisky.”

Mr. Dennis picked up a pencil, grabbed a sheet of paper. “What's the chief got, Ralph?”

Cooley shrugged out of his suit coat, draped it over the back of his chair. He spread out his notes, rolled a sheet into the Remington. “The chief is going to feel a lot of heat if he doesn't find the husband pronto. The county attorney's been on the phone already and he's pushing the chief hard. No love lost between Durwood and Fraser. No trace yet of the husband. The sheriff's got some men out with dogs. Anyway, I've got a hell of a lead.”

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.”