Authors: Elaine Coffman
“She’s lying again,” Aunt Violette said. Then she handed her small brown dog of dubious lineage a treat. Buckwheat looked at the treat and left it lying on the floor, because at about that time, Aunt Dahlia’s cat, Parsnip, sashayed into the room. With true dog fervor, Buckwheat gave chase. He went after Parsnip in a barking fury, which made Parsnip arch her back, hiss, and turn tail and run.
Susannah looked at them and shook her head. Parsnip was a finicky Persian. She and Buckwheat had been going at it like this for more than six years. One would think they’d have learned to coexist by now.
As if reading Susannah’s thoughts, Aunt Violette said, “They will never get along.”
True to her nature, Dahlia said, “They might have, if that hound of yours had any breeding. What can you expect from a mutt?”
“Nothing much, except the knowledge that he will get the best of a pedigreed cat every time.”
Violette Bradford Wakefield was Susannah’s sixty-six-year-old great-aunt, the widow of John Jacob Wakefield, who was killed in the Civil War. Her sister, Dahlia Bradford, was a sixty-four-year-old spinster who recently had developed a fondness for fibbing, even, as Violette said, “when the truth would sound better.”
Violette looked at Dahlia as if she were trying to remember something, then said, “What were we talking about before we got onto dogs and cats?”
Dahlia shrugged.
“I remember,” Susannah said. “Aunt Dahlia said Reverend Pettigrew winked at her on Sunday and you said—”
“She was telling a fib,” Violette finished.
Aunt Dahlia clasped her hands behind her and straightened her back. “The Lord knows—”
“You are telling a fib,” Violette insisted.
Dahlia ignored her and went on. “The Lord knows I am telling the truth. I may be old, but I’m not blind. I know when a man winks at me, and I’m telling you the Reverend Pettigrew winked at me when he ate dinner with us last Sunday, shame on him. And that is the gospel.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks! Reverend Pettigrew has one glass eye, and the other one had something in it. If you call all that blinking he did a wink, then he winked at all of us,” Violette said. “He blinked constantly for a good half-hour.”
“I could see sin in his eye,” Dahlia said.
“Heaven forbid! What you saw was hunger. The poor man undoubtedly was ravenous.”
“Say what you will. He may have only one eye, but it’s a fast one. I know he winked at me.”
“How do you know?” Aunt Vi asked, her face glowing with amusement.
Dahlia’s mouth thinned slightly. “I know those kinds of things.”
“What kinds of things?” Violette asked.
“The kinds of things that go on between men and women.”
Violette glanced at Susannah, who fought back a smile. “And how, pray tell, would you know? You have never been married.”
Aunt Dahlia looked as if she was trying to settle on an expression. “I have good ears.”
“Good ears? Dally, have you taken complete leave of your senses? The things that go on between a man and a woman involve quite a few parts of the body, but believe me, the ears aren’t among them.”
“I may have never married, but I spent twenty-five years sleeping in the room next to you and John. As far as men and women are concerned, that makes me some sort of an expert.”
“An expert? Rubbish. That makes you an eavesdropper and nothing more.”
Buckwheat and Parsnip made another dash through the parlor on their way to the staircase. A free-for-all erupted when they reached the second floor.
Aunt Dahlia rose, made a faint twittering sound, cast her sister a sour look, and departed, calling her cat as she went.
“Here, Parsnip… Here kitty, kitty, kitty… Here, Parsnip…”
Parsnip let out a loud shriek. Seconds later, a few tufts of white fur came floating into the parlor.
Aunt Vi looked up and smiled. “Maybe we should start collecting cat fur instead of goose down. We could stuff it in a pillow and give it to Dally for Christmas.”
Susannah laughed. “I think that’s a perfect idea, Aunt Vi.”
“It’s a beautiful day for our ride into town,” Violette said with genuine delight.
“It’s going to rain,” said Dahlia.
“Rain? Why, there isn’t a cloud in the sky,” Violette said.
Dahlia raised limpid eyes and sighed forlornly. “It’s going to rain, just the same. I can tell by the way my hip’s been hurting. Mark my word, it’s going to rain.”
“Then let’s worry about the rain when it starts. I say there is no need to put a damper on such a fine day.”
Dahlia gave a grunt of disagreement but said nothing more.
Susannah looked at her aunts. It was obvious they were sisters, but where Violette was all softness and curves, Dahlia was all sinew and sharp angles. It was as if the contours of their bodies had dictated their dispositions.
“I hear Mr. Poindexter has received a shipment of fine linen cloth,” Susannah said.
“That last length of broadcloth we bought from Poindexter’s store wasn’t fit for flour sacks,” Dahlia reminded them, since she took it as her duty to never let anyone forget an unfortunate situation. “Remember that bolt of calico from the year before?” she asked with her jaw thrust out. “Wore out in six months. I told you we shouldn’t have bought it.”
“Yes, I remember, Aunt,” Susannah said.
“Speaking of which, I just remembered something,” Violette said. “I need new knitting needles.”
“We don’t need frivolities, we need staples. Tea, oats, baking powder, and flour come to mind,” Dahlia said.
“I have all that written down,” Susannah said. She brought the reins down with a gentle slap on the mare’s broad back and urged her into a trot.
The sun was beginning to burn down upon them by the time they drove into Bluebonnet. Seeing a heavily loaded wagon taking the corner too fast, Susannah had to yank the reins to keep from being hit. The mercantile was just a couple of blocks away, but a shifting crowd of people, their attention riveted on something she could not see, began spilling into the street. It looked as if every person in the county had come to town this morning with the sole purpose of standing in the street.
“What on earth is going on?” Dahlia asked. “It looks like the Fourth of July.”
“I have no idea, Aunt,” Susannah said. “Perhaps we will find out what’s happening if we can make it to the mercantile.”
They drove past the long, sagging porch of the Peach Orchard Hotel, the blacksmith’s shop, the funeral parlor, and the mail hack parked in front of Western Union. They were passing by the druggist when Susannah realized the crowd had grown and moved out so much that it truly blocked the street now.
“Looks like this is as far as we can go,” she said. She could not believe the number of people milling around in front of them.
“What do you make of it?” Violette asked.
“I don’t know.” Really curious, Susannah stood on tiptoe to see if she could get a better view. She couldn’t, so she climbed up on the wagon seat. But she still wasn’t tall enough to see what was going on. Whatever it was, the crowd seemed emotionally charged as if they were waiting for something to happen.
“Can you see anything?” Dahlia asked.
Susannah climbed down. “Nothing to give a clue as to what’s holding their attention. They are gathered in front of the sheriff’s office, but that’s about it.”
“Well, move closer!” Dahlia said, exasperation evident in her voice.
“I can’t, Aunt, unless you want me to run someone down.”
Obviously trying to ease things a bit, Violette asked no one in particular, “Has there been a murder? Was someone shot?”
Susannah shrugged. “I don’t know, but it looks like the whole county has turned out.” She glanced across the street. “Well, almost the whole county,” she amended, seeing Otis Crowder and Lee Roy Harper passed out on their backs in front of the Roadrunner Saloon, their snores sounding remarkably like the organ at the First Methodist Church.
Dahlia scooted forward in her seat. “Maybe there’s been a bank robbery.”
Violette shook her head and gave a snort. “I doubt there’s enough money left in the bank to buy a lollipop, let alone tempt a serious bank robber. That drought we had last summer nearly did everyone in.”
“See if you can get a little closer,” Dahlia urged, “so we can find what the ruckus is all about.”
Susannah eased the mare forward; they inched their way past a row of horses, tails switching, tied to a hitching post. She drew the mare up next to the crowd.
Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Susannah could see the sheriff trying to establish order. He didn’t seem to be having much luck. Sheriff Jonah Carter had been a colonel in the Confederate army and he liked everything to be orderly, even crowds. Suddenly, he drew his pistol and fired three shots in the air.
“Dab-nab it! When I say I want a little peace and quiet, I mean I want a little peace and quiet. The next man who so much as mumbles will find himself locked up for a week. Do I make myself clear?”
The talking died away and Jonah turned and looked at Hiram Bixby, who stood between his wife, Mabel, and a man who looked as if he’d been through plenty. “All right now. Tell me what went on,” he said.
“I caught this here man stealing.”
As Hiram started speaking, there was a sudden break in the gathering and Susannah could see at last what was going on. Her glance swept the crowd and lighted upon the stranger. She inhaled sharply. At first, she didn’t recognize him, for his clothes were showing the effects of being dragged through the brush and his face was bruised and scratched.
Susannah held her breath, remembering the strange accent, the casual elegance of his appearance, the air of refinement that marked him as different. She wondered what he had done, and the thought that she had been alone out in the cornfield with him sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Jonah held up his hand to gain everyone’s attention. “Tell me your name, mister.”
“Reed Garrett.”
“And where do you hail from, Mr. Garrett?” the sheriff asked.
Reed drew the back of his hand across his bleeding lip. “Different places. Nowhere in particular.”
“You’re a drifter, then?”
“When the work plays out, I move on. If that’s what you mean by drifter, then I suppose I am one.”
The crowd began to whisper among themselves. Things of interest didn’t come to Bluebonnet very often, and when they did, the spectacle drew a lot of curious bystanders. Susannah and her aunts remained in their buggy, their attention focused on what was happening.
The crowd seemed to be getting a little more on edge, ready to be both judge and jury. Someone threw a rock. Susannah knew how unpredictable crowds were. She had heard stories about a couple of lynchings right here in Bluebonnet. Of course, that had been during the war and the men they lynched were suspected of being Union spies—which, it was discovered later, they were not. The possibility that it could happen again hit her squarely. She felt nothing for this stranger, true, but the thought of anyone being hanged by an unruly crowd sickened her. Quivers of anxiety rushed over her.
Jonah turned to Hiram and asked, “Just what crime did Mr. Garrett commit?”
“I told you I caught him stealing,” Hiram said with much exasperation in his voice.
“Well, what in tarnation did he steal?”
“I caught him stealing my milk cow. That was after he stole a pie.”
“He stole a pie?” Jonah asked.
“Yes sir, a cow and a pie my wife baked. Mabel had just put it on the windowsill to cool when this man came along and took it.”
A rumble of laughter erupted from the townsfolk.
“Well now, what do you have to say to those charges, Mr. Garrett?”
“I didn’t steal a pie.”
“You didn’t?” Jonah scratched his head. “Hiram says you stole a pie. You say you didn’t. Now, one of you is lying and it’s my job to find out which one.”
“Perhaps we are both telling the truth. I didn’t steal a pie, but I did take one slice.”
“You ate one slice?”
“No, I only took a bite; then I put it back.”
“You took a bite and put the slice back with the rest of the pie?”
“Yes.”
“That’s mighty strange, don’t you think? I mean, why did you steal the pie in the first place?” Jonah asked.
“I was hungry.”
“You were hungry, so you took a piece of pie?”
“Yes.”
“Then you took a bite and put it back?”
“That’s right.”
“You couldn’t have been too hungry if it took only a bite to fill you up. That is mighty strange behavior for a hungry man, don’t you think?”
“I said I was hungry. I was not desperate. Only a desperate man could eat a pie that tasted that bad.”
This time the crowd loudly erupted with laughter. Men were guffawing and slapping one another on the back. Women were laughing and shaking their heads in agreement, as if they knew exactly what point Reed Garrett was making, and they did, for everyone in the county knew that Mabel Bixby couldn’t boil an egg. It was reported that licking your fingers after touching something Mabel had cooked could lay you up for a week.