In Wyattsville the first week in September traditionally belongs to the Pioneer Society. Everyone dons a costume reminiscent of the early days when the town was the last wagon-train stop on the way to the gold fields, the men grow beards, and there is a kangaroo court held on the lawn in front of the courthouse. The real feature, though, is the rodeo. It draws such a big crowd that any one visitor goes unnoticed. No one paid any attention to a Mrs. John Metcalf who registered at the Californian on September third and checked out on the seventh, the day that Andy Wyatt put a gun in his mouth and blew off the top of his head.
Had he been questioned (which he wasn’t) the desk clerk at the hotel might have remembered Mrs. Metcalf as a soft-spoken middle-aged woman who asked a lot of questions about the town’s history. It is possible that old Mr. Pruitt, owner of the variety store, and Miss Tait, an elderly saleswoman in the Emporium, also would have recalled her. Both had given her a great deal of information about the leading citizens of the community, especially those who bore the Wyatt name. These seemingly casual conversations were forgotten in light of the shocking news of Andy Wyatt’s suicide. No one — then, or later — associated her presence in Wyattsville with his death.
My first knowledge of Mrs. Metcalf came on the morning of September sixth when Velma put through a call to my desk. I heard her say, “Mr. Wyatt is out, ma’am. I will connect you with his secretary.” A pleasant voice said, “Hello? Will Mr. Wyatt be in his office later today? I would like to make an appointment to see him.”
Wyattsville isn’t really “small town” any more, but most of us act as though it were, so it was quite natural for me to volunteer the information that Friday was Kid’s Day at the rodeo and Mr. Wyatt would be staying for the whole program because he had two sons and five nephews entered in the various events. To make up for lost time, I said, he would be in his office Saturday and could see her at five o’clock. She had to be content with this, and I noted the time of her appointment on my desk pad and on Andy’s.
Those Wyatt boys took a total of eight firsts, three seconds, and five thirds, and the biggest barbecue in town that night was at Andy and Laura Lee’s home where there were more than forty men, women, and children, not one of whom wasn’t a Wyatt by birth or marriage.
In spite of all the celebrating, Andy was in his office at nine o’clock on Saturday morning and worked straight through until one, when John Bartlett came by to take him to the club for lunch and nine holes of golf. My standing appointment at the Delta Beauty Salon always has been for three o’clock on Saturday, so before I left the bank I went in and turned on Andy’s tape recorder. This is used at my discretion: when I’m not able to be there to take notes, or when my presence in the room would be an embarrassment. I listen to it later and decide what needs to be transcribed. The recorder is in a lower desk drawer and the pickup is in the desk lamp which always stands just about halfway between Andy’s chair and the one occupied by the person who has come to see him.
On this occasion, quite frankly, I wanted to know what Emil Sondergard would have to say about the route of the new freeway because of a piece of property I own. His appointment was for four thirty and I was afraid I wouldn’t be back in time. As a matter of fact, my roots needed a touchup and it was nearly five when I let myself into the bank. Emil’s car was in the parking lot and Andy’s door was closed so I sat down and typed a letter to the Chamber of Commerce saying Andy would be glad to pay for three trees on the east side of Sacramento Avenue, “same to be spaced evenly in the 150-foot strip north of Cabrillo Street and parallel with the property owned by the Wyattsville Farmers and Merchants Bank.”
The big clock over the entrance said exactly five o’clock when Mrs. Metcalf tapped on the glass door and I went through the bank to admit her. She was a trim, well-cared-for fifty or fifty-five; smartly, but not expensively, dressed in a lavender linen sheath, with matching pumps and handbag, and a bandeau of violets which fitted snugly over her short grey hair. What impressed me most was the fact that she looked cool, which is quite a feat in Wyattsville in September. She seemed well at ease.
“Mrs. Metcalf?” I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m Sylvia Sommers, Mr. Wyatt’s secretary. You’re new in town, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been here a few days.”
“One of our new teachers,” I guessed.
“Yes. Is Mr. Wyatt ready to see me?” she asked.
“Not quite.” I locked the door. “Come back where you can sit down. He shouldn’t be long.” In my office we talked about Pioneer Week and the marvelous record set by the Wyatt boys, and then the buzzer sounded. Emil Sondergard had left by the door to the parking area, the one we referred to as Andy’s “escape hatch,” so I took Mrs. Metcalf in and introduced her. “Unless you want anything else, Mr. Wyatt,” I said, “I’ll leave now.”
“Nothing more, thank you.” Andy smiled. “Will we see you at the Rodeo Ball?”
“No. Phil’s in San Francisco this weekend.” Phil Smart is the man who usually takes me to civic affairs.
“You can go with us,” Andy suggested.
“Thanks, but no just the same. I’ll see you Monday.”
I stopped at the supermarket and bought a T-bone steak and a can of asparagus (you develop a thing about the fresh vegetable when you live where it grows and have to breathe the peat dust) and then walked on to the Delta Arms where I have lived all the years since I went to work as Andy’s secretary. There are newer apartments, with pools and other attractions, but the Arms is within walking distance of the bank and it’s air conditioned. More than anything else, it’s sweet home to me.
After fixing a gin and tonic and leaving it to chill, I went in and took a shower and put on slacks and a shirt. It must have been seven thirty when Laura Lee called to ask if I knew where Andy was. They were already past due for the Bergens’ cocktail party and had to be at the Lambertsons’ for dinner at eight thirty. She reminded me (unnecessarily) that it was important they be on time because the dinner guests were all civic leaders whose appearance in time for the Grand March was obligatory. I promised her that I would go down to the bank and see if Andy were still there. I remember saying, “Wherever he is, Laura Lee, I’ll find him and send him home.”
I found him in his office, but I couldn’t send him home. He was sprawled in his chair, staring open-mouthed at the acoustical tile ceiling. Bits of him adhered to the wall behind him and his gun lay on the carpet under his left hand.
Habits of efficiency are a great help in a crisis. The Wyattsville High School’s marching band was to assemble in our parking lot, so I drew the curtains and made sure the “escape hatch” was locked. Then I picked up Andy’s phone, which is left with an open line after Velma closes the switchboard, and dialed Chet Bergen’s number. Someone answered and kept shouting “Hello? Hello?” over the background noise of a large and lively party. The answerer either closed a door or carried the telephone to another room because when he spoke again I could hear him distinctly and recognized his voice.
“Dr. Collins?” I said. “This is Sylvia Sommers. Can you come to the bank right away? Without saying anything to anyone? It’s very important.”
“Andy?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“I’ll be there.”
“He sure as hell did it himself,” Corby Collins said. “Nobody gets a guy to open his mouth and take a slug like that.” He looked down at the gun again. “I never knew Andy was left-handed.”
“He was taught to write right-handed, but he attended so many service club luncheons that he had to learn to eat right-handed in self defense. Actually, he was a southpaw.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Collins nodded. “He played golf and tennis left-handed.” He gave a deep sigh. “You might as well call Bill,” he said.
Bill Dean is our chief of police and one of Andy’s oldest friends. I reached him at home. “Bill,” I said, “this is Sylvia. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Andy committed suicide. Dr. Collins and I are at the bank. Can you come down, alone, without saying anything to anyone?”
I hung up and fumbled in my purse for cigarettes and lighter. “You’d better talk to Laura Lee,” I told Dr. Collins. “They already have missed the Bergens’ cocktail party, and she’s afraid they’ll be late at the Lambertsons’ dinner.” Hearing my own words, I knew I was in a state of shock. “Well, somebody has to tell her something!” I said desperately.
“You have to,” he said gently. “If I call, she’ll get the wind up and think he’s had a heart attack. I wish it were only that!” He took a turn around the office and came back to stand in front of me. “Just say he isn’t here, and that you’ll phone around and see if you can locate him.”
“But this just isn’t like him!” Laura Lee wailed. “What should I do, Sylvia? Shall I go on or wait here?”
“You’d better wait,” I advised. “I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.”
When I had cradled the phone, Dr. Collins said, “Indeed she will. Poor Laura Lee. I’ve coped with some heartbroken widows in my day, Mrs. Sommers, but I have a nasty feeling that tonight is going to set some sort of ghastly record.”
“Shouldn’t you get in touch with Mr. Tuttle?” I asked.
Corby Collins gave me a quick look of appraisal. “Very good thinking,” he said dryly. “Who was it who said that behind every successful man was a clever woman, or words to that effect? Perhaps I’m just now learning what made Andy tick. I assume you know where Mr. Tuttle can be reached.”
Incredibly, my watch showed that it was not yet eight. “They will still be at the Whitmans’.” As I finished dialing the number there was a sharp, metallic rap on the front door. “That will be Bill,” I said, and handed the phone to Dr. Collins.
The street light showed the comfortable bulk of Bill Dean’s silhouette. When the door was opened he stepped inside and gripped my hands. “In heaven’s name, why did he do it, Sylvia?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “That’s what makes it so awful. I don’t know!”
He asked the same questions of Corby Collins, and the doctor said, “It wasn’t his health. You can rule that out. He had a physical every six months. So did Laura Lee. I checked them in July before they went on their vacation and they were in excellent shape.”
There was a peremptory rattling of the big front doors and I went through to admit Mayor Tuttle. “Where’s Corby?” he demanded. “What in hell is this all about? Why’d he call me away from—”
“Andrew Wyatt has committed suicide,” I cut in coldly. “Come into his office, please.” Addison Tuttle is ruthless and ambitious, qualities that make him a man to be reckoned with, but certainly endear him to no one.
Bill sat with his face in his hands, unashamedly weeping. By contrast, Ad Tuttle walked around Andy, apparently needing to assure himself that Wyattsville’s favorite son was no longer a threat to his political future. Satisfied, he turned his long, thin-lipped face toward Corby Collins. “Incurably ill?” he asked.
“No. Nothing so convenient. I just told Bill and Mrs. Sommers that I had given him a complete physical in July and his health was fine.”
The mayor’s small, pale eyes swiveled around to me. “Anything here at the bank that could be considered — irregular?”
“Nothing,” I said positively.
“Another woman?” he asked. “Anything like that?”
All of them looked toward me hopefully. “Of course not,” I said. “I’m surprised you would even ask.”
“But if there had been,” he persisted, “you would have known, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. I was responsible for his deposits and withdrawals, and there was never a transaction which couldn’t have been reported in the Sentinel.”
“An extramarital relationship doesn’t have to involve money,” Mayor Tuttle pointed out. “It could be someone we all know.”
“In Wyattsville?” Dr. Collins’ laugh was a short, derisive bark. “It would have been common gossip.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ad Tuttle conceded. He dragged at the lobe of his ear, then said, “See if there’s a bottle in the desk drawer, Mrs. Sommers. All of us could use a drink.”
Andy never would have a bar in his office, but he kept a fifth available. The bottle was about two thirds full. I got four paper cups from the dispenser beside the bottled water, and the mayor poured two or three ounces into each. There was an awkward pause after we picked them up, and then Bill Dean cleared his throat loudly and said. “To Andy. A really great guy.”
“The greatest.” Ad Tuttle took his whisky in one long swallow and dropped the empty cup into the wastebasket. “But dead. Why did he have to pick the first week in September?” He began to pace up and down the office, his long chin thrust out and up. “What we have to watch now is how this story breaks,” he said. “If we can keep it under wraps for a few hours the Rodeo Ball will go off as scheduled. Then if it is in the morning papers, our final day should be terrific! I’ll go to the Lambertsons’ and talk to Drew,” he decided. Drew owns the Sentinel. “Good thinking?” He tapped his temple and grinned at us.
“Very good,” Corby Collins said. “We’ve been long on that tonight, if somewhat short on sentiment. I’m going to talk to Laura Lee.”
“Do that,” Ad urged. “And work out some plausible explanation for them missing the ball.” He did not see the withering glance the doctor gave him because he had turned to Bill. “Ev Grant can be trusted, can’t he?” he asked. “Call the mortuary and tell him to pick up the body after ten — after ten, mind — when everybody will be in the auditorium.”
When I came back from letting Mayor Tuttle out of the building I was grateful to see that Bill had brought the bottle into my office. “You mustn’t blame Ad,” he said, filling two paper cups. “It’s that kind of clear thinking that has made him what he is in Wyattsville. Here,” he handed me my drink, “let’s you and me drink to the Andy we knew. We can include the high school class of ’42 and our first year at Cal, or we can just say the hell with it and drink to get drunk.”
Bill and I had gone through school together from kindergarten on, just as Andy and Laura Lee had. The difference was that the two schools were on different sides of the track, so to speak, and we had to go to Wyattsville High before the four of us could rub elbows. Maybe we wouldn’t have even then, except that Andy and Bill were outstanding football players and Laura Lee and I were pompom girls. Quite often we doubled after a game and went to a sock hop in the gym or had a hamburger and a malt somewhere. We became a regular foursome when we went to the University. All of us knew plenty of people on campus, but not as well as we knew each other.
Bill and I sat and talked about those days while we waited for ten o’clock and Ev Grant. “That first semester at Berkeley was really great,” he recalled. “I guess I was the one that broke us up when I took the night job at the Dixie Diner. It was nice eating regularly, but it sure cut into our dating. And to this day,” he added, “I can’t stand ham or yams or combread.”
“Your working evenings was only part of it,” I said. “Remember that Laura Lee spent Christmas vacation with that Tri-Delt from Piedmont and came back sure that she was in love with the girl’s brother. How long did that last? Two months? Three?”
“I’ve forgotten. Long enough for Andy to get into the habit of coming around and crying on your shoulder.” Bill finished his drink and stared into the empty cup. “I was jealous as hell. Did you know that? It took a lot of growing up before I could realize that you had been Andy’s salvation.”
“In what way?”
“If Andy hadn’t had a real friend to turn to,” Bill said slowly, “he could have dropped out of school, or he could have been snapped up by some smart girl who saw a chance to catch a rich rube on the rebound. You tided him over until Laura Lee came to her senses.”
It was while I was consoling Andy that Bill had started dating Rosalie, who also worked the late shift at the diner. Rosie was the daughter of a Fresno farmer and had never been out of the San Joaquin Valley until she received a scholarship to the university. Unsophisticated she may have been, but she knew a good man when she saw one, and by June she was wearing a little garnet ring that had belonged to Bill’s grandmother. By then, too, Andy and Laura Lee were pinned, and I had Sam Sommers’ two-carat diamond and a wedding band.
Sam was the finest man I ever knew. We never met on campus because he was in his last year of law when I was a freshman. It took an afternoon during Easter Week at Carmel to bring us together. Neither of us cared much for jazz or the dates who had brought us there, so we got to talking and then took off on our own. We found a little coffee house in Monterey and, after that, a seafood place. Then we drove for hours through the Carmel Valley, each telling the other all there was to tell. It was dawn before we got back to the apartment where I was staying with five other girls from Cal. Standing beside his car he took my hands in his and asked me to marry him and I said I would and he kissed me for the first time. It was a wonderful marriage, but it didn’t last long because Sam was one of the earlier casualties of the war. I stayed with his parents in San Francisco until 1948 when Father Sommers died. Mamma Sommers sold their wholesale grocery business then and went to live with a daughter in Santa Rosa. Having nothing to keep me in the city, I went back to Wyattsville on an exceptionally cold and foggy morning in February. Bill and Andy both had fine Navy records, both had been married for some years, and both had children. That was how things stood when I went to the bank and applied for a job. Luckily, the secretary Andy had inherited from his father was retiring and I took her place.
There was a discreet knock on the door that led from Andy’s office to the parking area. “That will be Ev,” Bill said heavily. “I’ll take care of this part of it.”
“Go with him, Bill,” I asked.
“Sure? What about you?”
“I have some things to do so that tomorrow won’t be too difficult for Laura Lee and the others.”
“Don’t stay here too long.” His big hand closed on my shoulder, and then he dropped his keys on my desk. “Leave these over the sunvisor,” he said. “I’ll pick the car up later at your place.”
I tried to close my ears to the macabre sound of Andy being wheeled out of the bank. Ev left by way of the alley, and then I went through to make sure Bill had locked the escape hatch. Andy wouldn’t need it again. Not ever. The room had a terrible, unearthly stillness now that he was gone. It was then that I became aware of the faint hum of the tape recorder. I turned it off, and then something — cupidity, perhaps — made me wonder what Emil Sondergard had said about the freeway. I rewound the tape, turned up the volume, and heard Andy say, “Is this attempted blackmail, Mrs. Metcalf?”
I went back to the point where he asked me if I was going to the Rodeo Ball and I told him Phil was in San Francisco. There was the sound of a door closing as I left with nothing more on my mind than trying to remember which supermarket had the special on steaks.
Now I heard the faint squeak of Andy’s swivel chair as he settled into it. “Well, Mrs. Metcalf,” he said affably, “what can I do for you?”
“For me, Mr. Wyatt, nothing.” She had a low-pitched voice and spoke in a manner which my mother would have described as “refined.”
“But for someone in whom we have a mutual interest there is a great deal you can do. What significance does this date have: November 22, 1941?”
After a long pause, Andy said, “None. Should it?”
“Yes. It is the birthdate of an illegitimate child which you fathered.”
“That’s nonsense,” Andy stated flatly. “The most charitable view I can take of your allegation is that this is a case of mistaken identity.”
She went on as though he had not spoken. “The mother’s name was Mary Skouros. Six weeks after his birth she relinquished him, and my husband and I adopted him. We chose him for several reasons: he was healthy and handsome, we had confidence in the adoption agency, and paternity had been acknowledged. At that time, Mr. Wyatt, natural parents were not permitted to know where their child had been placed but adoptive parents were given full particulars, including the names of the mother and father. That child is an adult now, and in need of advantages which only you can give him.”
“Is this attempted blackmail, Mrs. Metcalf?”
“ ‘Blackmail’ is a very ugly word. I prefer to think of this as a mother’s earnest effort to assure her son’s future. My husband and I took a child you were willing to recognize as yours, but for whom you were unwilling, or unable, to assume responsibility. We had great plans for him, but Mr. Metcalf died when Jack was seven. On a schoolteacher’s salary I could not give him many of the things my husband would have provided. I did, however, see to it that he made maximum use of his abilities and education so that he received an excellent scholarship at Berkeley. He graduated with honors and had a creditable service record.”
“I congratulate you,” Andy said, dryly. “Having done so well by this boy, why do you come to me now?”
“Because his incentive has been my promise that I had an old friend with money and prestige who would give him the kind of start which would carry him wherever he wanted to go.”
“Does he know he is adopted?”
“No. Nor does he resemble you or any of the other Wyatts. I went to some pains to establish this fact. Here is his picture.”
There was a considerable pause and then I heard Andy give a little grunt which might have been an expression of amusement. “No,” he agreed, “he certainly doesn’t resemble my family. His mother must have had the dominant genes. And now, Mrs. Metcalf...” his voice flattened and hardened “...suppose I call this blackmail, whether you like the word or not, and tell you to get the hell out of here. What would your next move be?”
“I would leave, of course,” she said quietly, “but I would be back in a few days, with Jack. I have a teaching position at Wyattsville High School and I am certain Jack could find employment. He’s very adaptable. Probably he could sell cars for your brother Conrad, or men’s furnishings for Abner Wyatt. There are many possibilities.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” Andy said.
“I hope so. If, on the other hand, you elect to take him into the bank and advance him in every way possible in this community and this state, I believe he will be a credit to both of us.”
“If... if— I give him a job in the bank, will you promise to stay out of Wyattsville, Mrs. Metcalf?” Andy’s voice was harsh.
“No. Whatever you decide, I will be here to see that my son’s best interests are served.”
“Of course. I might have expected that.” I could hear the little thud, thud, thud that meant he was letting a pen or pencil run through between thumb and finger and then reversing it. “If I do anything for this boy,” he said, “it will not constitute an admission of any sort.”
“No admission is necessary,” she reminded him. “Paternity is a matter of record in the form of a letter from the adoption agency which I have in my safe deposit box. Now, please write a letter to Jack which I have come prepared to dictate.”
A drawer was opened and slammed shut, and as she talked I could hear the angry scratching of Andy’s pen. “ ‘Dear Julia,’ ” Mrs. Metcalf said, “ ‘It was good to see you again after so many years. I was impressed with your son’s records, academically and in the service. I feel sure he can go far in Wyattsville.’ New paragraph. ‘He is a very fortunate young man to have a mother so dedicated to his advancement.’ Sign it, ‘Cordially, Andrew Wyatt.’ ”
Andy laughed. It was a curiously light-hearted laugh. “I’m glad you’ve given his mother full credit,” he said. “If he succeeds, I’m sure she will be on hand to take her bows. Now, how do I address this infamous document?”
“I resent that remark.” For the first time her voice betrayed emotion. “My life has been devoted to this boy and I see nothing wrong in letting him know he is indebted to me. I intend to be a part of the success he will enjoy, and I expect him to feel that rightly I should be.”
“The address, Mrs. Metcalf?”
“Send it to me: Mrs. John Metcalf, Box 1123, San Francisco. I’ll mail it before my bus leaves at six fifty. I have a stamp.”
“I was sure you would have.”
“This,” Mrs. Metcalf said, “I shall consider a guarantee of your good faith, and I will have no further worry about Jack’s future.”
“You need have none.” Andy’s voice had the deadly quality which he reserved for special occasions. “You have the boy’s feet planted firmly on the economic ladder and he will be booted up it as high as he is capable of going, not because of any threats you have made, but because he is a Wyatt. Now, get out!”
There was some unidentifiable sound — an outraged gasp, perhaps — and then I heard a door close. I leaned over the tape, willing it to yield something more; but there were only small noises — the creaking of his chair, muted car horns from the street, something which might have been an epithet muttered through clenched teeth, and then the opening and closing of a drawer. Ten minutes later there was a sharp report of the gun and the muffled sound as it struck the floor.
I played it all back again and then I went to my typewriter and wrote:
Dear Mr. Metcalf,
No doubt you will hear of Mr. Andrew Wyatt’s death before learning that his last act was to assure you of a position with the Wyattsville Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank. This is a commitment which the family will wish to honor. Please arrange to be here on Monday, September 14, at 3:00 P.M. for an interview.
There is an excellent opportunity for advancement in this community, and in the years to come I am sure your mother will have reason to be very proud of you.
Yours very truly,
In the San Francisco directory I found a Mrs. John B. Metcalf and a John B. Metcalf, Jr., listed at the same address on Clay. This seemed appropriate for her income so I sent the letter there. It afforded me satisfaction to imagine her wondering how I knew of her conversation with Andy; how much, in fact, I knew about Jack.
In the safe in Andy’s office there was a metal box for which he and I had the only keys. I took it out and went through the contents carefully. There was a considerable amount of cash, an exquisite diamond and emerald necklace which Laura Lee had seen and admired and which Andy had subsequently purchased as a surprise for her on her birthday in October, birth certificates for all of them, and two tape recordings which could bring Ad Tuttle’s little political empire tumbling down in ruins. I took the tapes, and the things which were mine: the baby’s identification bracelet, a larger one that read “Mary Sylvia Skouros Sommers,” a plastic envelope that held a downy feather of dark hair, and the twenty-three stock certificates which had been Andy’s penance candles.
He gave me the first seven of them on November 22, 1948. “Money’s no substitute for a child,” he said bluntly, “but it’s one hell of a nice thing to have. These cost five thousand dollars each.” He fanned them out on his desk. “They’ll appreciate. Hang on to them, Sylvia, and one day you’ll be a woman of property.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“I know that. Let’s say I do it for the same reason I give Laura Lee jewels. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, and you’re the only one I ever wholly trusted.” And then he said, “There’ll be another of these each year.”
They had appreciated, and I am a woman of property. I put all of these things into my handbag together with the carbon of my letter to Jack, the carbon paper I had used, and the recording made that afternoon. Whatever was left in Andy’s office or mine was anybody’s business, and would be tomorrow.
I posted the letter to Jack Metcalf and drove on to my apartment. The night was soft and still, and by contrast my apartment was too cool and too quiet. I turned off the air conditioner and opened a window. The band at the auditorium was playing a medley of old nostalgic tunes, and when the clock struck twelve the musicians drifted into “September Song.” I hadn’t cried in more than twenty years, but I cried now with noisy abandon. I wept for dear, good Sam who had begged me to keep Andy’s child and had given him a name which I refused to give to the adoption agency; and for Andy, who did not love me but needed me, and who paid — finally with his life — to keep the Wyatt escutcheon unblemished; and for my son, whom I could not claim, and would not again disclaim, to whom I would always be, as I had been to his father, just a trusted and loyal friend.